I broke up with all my hobbies.
I grew up in a small town in a house stuffed with all my cousins. There was no concept of decorating my room with soft toys and items that were telling of my interests and passions. It was a childhood of hand-me-downs and leftovers. I’m not complaining, my childhood was amazing. Some of it, at least!
So when I entered the important teen years, you know, 16 and onwards, I stumbled upon many ideas and things and worlds that interested me. Things that were completely mine, not 70% still functioning and 100% my cousin’s! It was the start of this adventure called life and who I was and what that meant (why is having been younger embarrassing?). I was also finally old enough to be taken seriously, or so I thought.
Once, sat in the passenger seat of our car, looking at the outside world from in between the rain drops settled on the window, I demanded a camera. My dad was driving. I presented my demand and followed it up with a persuasive speech urging my father to think of it as an investment rather than an expenditure. As the first born, this was the official strategy to abide by. My father replied, “How about we discuss your interest in photography again, in, say, 6 months?” His calm tone sounded mocking to me. I was offended and I was hurt. I swallowed back my tears. I was furious. I felt insulted and belittled. His lack of belief in my one true passion in life made me question everything about myself. How was I to ever succeed in this cut-throat world if my parents didn’t believe in me? But I knew my one true passion would stay with me for the rest of my life. Demonstrating a continued interest for the upcoming 6 months was going to be easy breezy! My dad caved even though I never really pushed. He bought me a DSLR much sooner than 6 months.
Anyway, long story short — I now have not one but two DSLRs, two guitars, one ukulele, a 5 minute yoga book, one tarot card set, paints and brushes and colouring notebooks, like, two mostly empty diaries that were for my original songs, and at least 3 unfinished writing projects. At different points in time, I believed all of them to be the agent that would free me of my all too worldly fears and troubles. Sure, I had a passionate affair with each of these items. But that’s all they are now — items. Items sitting in my room in different corners. Items taking up way too much space. Items collecting dust. I am too detached to use them and too attached to get rid of them. I don’t use them, obviously, but I don’t put them away because that would mean I believe that I will never use them.
I think I broke up with my hobbies. This is a sad story about how a girl once filled with passion and excitement for the world built an anti-climatic life for herself devoid of regular escapes through her hobbies. Or maybe this story is actually about ‘I need to Marie Condo my house.’ I don’t know. I could be cool about this and look at this as an opportunity to re-do my space and get rid of things that sometimes feel like a burden, like a ghost haunting me. The instinct, though, is just a question — “What the hell happened to my hobbies?”
My emotional take on this is: Maybe late teens is about breaking up with all your hobbies (for whatever reason) and your early twenties..ok, mid-twenties is about getting back together with them. Coming full circle after realising 30 minutes of throwing random colours on a sheet of paper and hoping for an aesthetic enough result is more calming than a few shots of vodka.
I’m not sure what my practical take on this whole thing is, actually. I’ll be figuring out whether to Marie Kondo this b*tch or to re-connect with items that once brought me happiness! Only time, and if I remember, my next article will tell.
