what the inside of a beat-up cardboard box says about you
I have moved 3 times over the past 18 months, each move bringing about the same renowned ritual: I open a beat-up cardboard box, stare at the worst of my pre-loved possessions and wonder to myself why I have yet to expose of a year 9 science test on chemical energy and a knock-knock book with 1001 of the funniest jokes.
At 17 years old, I have a whole lot of crap. Ugly crap. Expensive crap. Treasured crap, and crap that I realise I probably should have dumped a long time ago. Yet with each move, this crap, even the worst of it, ends up packed away neatly in a beat-up cardboard box and being shipped off to its new, and hopefully last home.
You see, I’m the kind of difficult person that makes a point of keeping birthday cards, any and all participation certificates and clothing that I haven’t fit for years, but can’t stand the thought of letting go. I’m the worst kind of mover in the history of movers, in fact the least likely person to ever be designated ‘the kind of person fit for moving’.
You would think, after 3 successful moves, that the more I do it, the better I get. But that’s not the case. The first time was easy. All of the crap I would consider ‘unnecessary’ at the time went at the bottom of the bin, however my ability to let go did not. The second time around, I began to realise just how important all of that unnecessary crap was beginning to become. Unfortunately, my mum was the opposite, and demanded that only the essential crap be thrown in boxes and taped up. Fast forward to the third and final move, and the unnecessary crap still managed to sneak into each box, accompanied by “but it’s all essential crap” on repeat to my mum.
Each time I go to clean out my cupboards, the whys and wherefores of all the crap becomes clear. I wore that top to my Dad’s 50th. That book was my favourite book between February 2014 and April 2014. I don’t play netball anymore but I like that my uniform reminds me that I once did.
It’s getting out of hand, and I’m worried my small problem of not being able to let go of the unnecessary crap is the beginning of my downhill spiral in becoming a famous hoarder. In 5 years, I’ll be on the news, bags of rubbish making up the floors and each room packed high to the ceiling in beat-up cardboard boxes filled with the unnecessary crap.
It’s not that these items are connected to me through an unexplainable chemical force and is what's preventing me from letting them go. Instead, I really just have a terrible memory and need the comfort of these items to remind me of who I once was during these 17 years. Who was this girl who ceaselessly wore striped stockings and a pink bandana? She definitely enjoyed keeping old candle boxes with the smells still lingering in the lining. What a psychopath.
I’m not a psychopath. Just a bad mover.
Along with moving comes the awaited ‘new me’ feeling; a feeling I have not yet learnt how to respond to, nor deal with. It always begins the same, ‘new room, new me, new do’. Except find me weeks later and my room is set up just how it once was previously and my new mindset on becoming a better person has completely faded. Next time. Because there has always been a next time.
I’ve always had the chance to mentally run away when it comes time to pack up again and leave a part of myself behind that made me anxious. I tended to not dwell on it, just think of it as finally listening to my mum and leaving behind the unnecessary crap - but I was still running away. One version of running away is packing a bag and slipping out during the night wearing just your dressing gown and fuzzy socks. Another version is taking a very long shower until you begin to forget why you have been in the shower for so long anyway. The other version – my version – is moving house every 9 months until you find a home you don’t want to run away from.
Whenever I fantasised about the ‘new me’ during the coming weeks of having to move again, it didn’t involve a new boyfriend, a new hairstyle, or a tanned and agile body. It wasn’t about finding a comfort space in the midst of the walls that made up the new house or discovering a hidden door on the inside of my cupboard. It was about escape: where we would go and what I would do if I could fold my current identity up and place it on a shelf.
I would occupy the smallest room (less room for unnecessary crap) and garnish the ceilings and window frames with hanging ferns and brightly coloured cacti. I would nail articles to my walls and tape illustrations of people’s faces anywhere that I could. I would throw pillows on the floor and write my blog posts underneath an array of green clouds. I would bury anything that had no reason to be filling my room in the backyard under the clothesline. I would finally stop having to run away.
What I am fetishizing is not something of a psychopath. Like I said earlier, I’m not a psychopath, just a bad mover. What I am fetishizing is finally being put into a situation (or a home) that I know I wouldn’t want to ever run away from. At this home, I will make a dent in the wall and not immediately wonder how to fix it. At this home, I will get out of bed to pee and my mind won’t be telling me to go back, because I will want to stay awake and discover more. At this home, I will have learned a new rule and it’s simple: don’t put myself into situations I would like to run away from.
It was tricky to keep some things packed away in boxes this time around. The things that made up Allysha. The things that used to remind me of the sports I played and the jokes I told as an annoying 8-year old. The things that made me feel like I needed to hang myself out to dry for a bit and become a new person. But I know now, that the longer I keep these things packed away, the more I will realise my reluctance to let go is not about the thing itself, but the feeling that accompanies it. Just like a home.
Becoming a minimalist is supporting this realisation. No amount of luxury items and chronologically-ordered school tests inside a beat-up cardboard box should help anyone who chooses to rummage through my room understand me. I shouldn’t need anything to remind me of who I once was. I shouldn’t need to use these items to feel new and become a better person. I know exactly what makes up Allysha. And that’s what is most important.
,ally (wishing you clear skin and happiness!!!)
(Thankyou all for sticking around this past month and a bit. With the joys of moving and amidst exams, I really had no time to even consider writing a blog post. I should be back into my old routine of regular uploads within no time! Thanks pals xxx)