I miss hanging up my clothes. I open my cupboard to my 1930s dresses, folded haphazardly on top of silks and cashmeres and cottons. Antiques do not belong folded in a Mitre-10 cupboard.
My brain has been strange lately. I need to declutter, but haven’t found the will. Or the time, but perhaps that’s my own fault for stretching myself thin. Don’t tell the sane slivers of my brain, but the stretch makes the avoiding easier.
I miss reading books. The piles are growing larger as I get lucky again and again in secondhand stores. The only place my mind will be calm is navigating shelves piled with books stretching to the ceiling. My mind may calm, but my bank account shrieks. My floor cannot take any more.
One of the only things I can cook lately is salmon. Drench it in Moroccan seasoning and cook it for three minutes in the toastie machine. Simplicity is luxury when your brain is strange.
I miss writing. All I have known is the artistry of stringing words together, yet it has been lost on me. The fear of judgement, of laughter, of backhanded comments sit in front of any art. I thought I’d left that insecure little girl behind on the last day of high school.
My music taste is chaotic by default, but it’s been even more so lately. Sour has been on repeat for the past couple days, and my Spice Girl phase has been greatly reignited the last few months. Leonard Bernstein would not care that some redhead from Tāmaki Makaurau feels comforted by West Side Story.
I miss my old body. I should not be saying this. Acknowledging the changes has been more difficult than making them over the past few years. But my state would not get me back into the room with the gross cream walls and new carpet. Where I’m told that once I’ve met a number I was recovered, and a heavy dose of medication was the only long-term solution. It was ugly carpet, anyway.
In time, I will once again be the person I love. There are glimmers of promise, when making plans and hugging friends and trying on a piece of clothing that doesn’t shoot fear and loathing through me.
I miss myself. It’s funny how much you do when you’ve realised you’ve lost her.
Perhaps cutting my hair off is the catalyst I need. Lopping off my locks has helped me through undiagnosed anxiety, breakups and desperate need to change. In three years, the curls tumbled down my back and seemingly beyond my control. I’ve heard the bixie is back in style. Thoughts?