The last month has thrown me, I’ll be the first to admit that – in fact the last three months have thrown me so far out of kilter that if I was a train I would be crashing through lounge rooms on my way to my destination…
I have become this invisible, lost wallflower of a girl.
And I can’t find clothes.
If you know me you know I live my life by my clothes – in a ‘remember that day when we…” “Oh yes, I was wearing that red singlet top and you were wearing that black dress” kind of way – or in a “I remember my fifth birthday party because i was wearing that dress my great grandma made for me and i loved it so much” kind of girl – I use them to define me in a more understandable way, in an outside world that in general doesn’t ‘get’ me, makes it simpler for them…so this really means something. Not in a ‘i have nothing to wear’ way but ‘I have NOTHING that looks like me” way…
I look through my wardrobe and nothing says me…
I wander through shops and nothing says me…
And yesterday I realised why – because the me I am trying to be is not me…
I am black, always, all the time.
I am cafe’s in alleyways and arcades in between streets in the city.
I am doing something that makes me believe in my talent not tear it down.
I am tartan and fishnet tights.
I am doc martens and converse. I am jeans and havianas.
I am the beach.
I am living impractically so i can live somewhere that feels like home.
I am me most when I am truely loved.
I am coffee at degraves,
I am wooly scarves and winter coats,
I am being loved and loving fully back,
I am feeling so so much and not questioning it but using it,
I am looking forward without dread which causes illness,
oddly enough I still expect respect (go figure – this one really makes no sense)
I am summer and beach and byron bay,
I am not shattered and broken hearted,
I am not discovering that what I moved for may be too much for me, as it drains my emotions to the point of near breakdown,
I am not four hour long arguments nearly every day of the week,
I am not children who blame each other for their unhappiness and being unable to help them see things true,
I am not this seventies flat in this overcrowded suburb that feels so unlike home, that even my children don’t want to bring their friends to,
I am not suburban malls on the weekend,
I am not dressing like everyone else,
I am not hiding what I feel,
I am not soldiering on while being destroyed,
I am not a backpack.
I am not here,
And this is just the start of finding myself again,
But it begins now.