Unveiling - Part Four

Seeking Autopia in a Neurotypical World

Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to give away everything you own? To sell it piece by piece? Gift it to those who would appreciate it more. Or call in a house clearance service and stand waving goodbye to all the memories without so much as an ounce of regret? Have you ever wondered who you would be if the ties that bind weren’t table-shaped or stuffed in boxes so full you can’t lift them without rupturing something? Or how it would feel to simply walk out of your old life and start completely fresh without so much as a whisk or a armchair to your name?

I have. It is in fact my number one fantasy. While other women dream about Tom Hardy, I spend a silly amount of time fantasising about shaking off the responsibility of objects with stories to tell. Imagining a blank canvas I can hang one or two of my favourite pictures up in, but otherwise living as deliciously minimal as possible. Laptop on the table. Kindle in one hand. Smoothie in another. It has in fact become a obsession that has gathered pace since Ben and I spent much of the first two months of this year in a tiny jewel of a gorgeous lodge. The whole space so perfectly designed to provide a life unencumbered by the unnecessary that I began to understand why the tiny house movement has become so wildly popular. Why life is so much easier when you don’t have to spend too much of it organising this and polishing that. When you can just get on with writing, and living, and walking, and snuggling and cooking and dreaming. When the work that is your life can take quiet priority and your wellbeing and relationships can improve exponentially.

Of course I know not everybody feels like this. I know other people value things. And space. And the ordinary daily stuff of life. And I know most people’s heads aren’t quite as muddly as mine so aesthetic noise doesn’t jangle their brain like a marching band, bills don’t make them feel like the police might be on their way and the need to pull the wheelie bin out isn’t experienced as something akin to them being asked to poke hot needles in their eyes on a weekly basis - not because they don’t want a nice clean, empty bin but because umm… if the lid is closed they have probably forgotten and if they remember then a sort of domestic pathological demand avoidance takes hold and damnit, it feels impossible.

I know not everybody feels like this. But I do, and in reflection I always have. It is the reason Brocantehome exists: because creating routine saved me from my natural instincts for many, many years. Because without it, life has always felt like the most Herculean of tasks and I spend many a bewildered hour looking at other people’s lives and wondering how they do it. Not so much wondering how they create pretty rooms, (I can do that) as wondering instead, how on earth do they do all the things they need to make owning them and maintaining them not feel like something so terribly in the way of all that really matters, like nature and books and theatre and delicious, nutritious food. Not understanding that to them, the owning and maintaining of houses and money and life in general is simply the foundation for everything else and they find pleasure in it, in a way I have always felt so completely overwhelmed and exhausted by.

I am different. I know that now. Not less. Just differerent. And my task now is to stop trying to fit the square peg that I am, into the round hole that is the life I have long convinced myself I should have and instead give everything I’ve got to creating a life that works for who I am and what I need. And perhaps more pertinently, what I don’t need.

Having been here for a while without much of anything I own, I have realised that aside from a few paintings, books and truly sentimental things, I don’t much miss any of it, because without it I am free of the history it was constantly whispering at me. A history I so very much want to leave behind so I can move into the next chapter of my life totally unencumbered by it. I don’t want a garden, or old armchairs. I don’t want the bed I slept in with my former partner, or the many, many boxes of books I have hoarded as I tried to find myself. I don’t need lots of bedrooms, stacks of old plates or three huge old sideboards I barely ever opened, let alone knew and used what was inside of them. I don’t need any of it. And yet I have lugged it all from house to house and now it is stacked floor to ceiling in Ben’s former family home and I am ready to let it all go. To be free of it. Of all the associated trauma and sadness now that I have a life I can shape for myself. For my all grown up boy when he wants to be a part of it. And for Ben. For it is he, who has shown me that there is liberation in letting go.

Perhaps this is in itself a trauma response. A moment of madness like Britney Spears chopping her hair off. But somewhere in my gut it feels right: the first real decision I have ever made truly for myself, because if we do not respond to trauma, neither do we address it and it is so necessary to face life head on. To not stay so completely static we start to gather dust. And to be honest with ourselves about what is or isn’t within our personal remit. What is or isn’t good for or detrimental to our mental health. And so together Ben and I have looked at what our lives have been and tried to imagine what they could be now and slowly but surely we have edged our way towards a decision that makes sense to us not just as a couple, but for us as individuals in our own right. For me that means the type of city centre apartment where almost everything that overwhelms me is taken out of the equation. A space with all the mod-cons: co-working, wellbeing, a gym and yoga classes, an apartment fully (and beautifully) furnished, outdoor space, bars and social spaces, all bills included and weekly housekeeping. A space I do not have to think about. Only one bill to worry about! And for Ben, the narrowboat that speaks to him of freedom. So we will be both together in the best of all worlds and when we need it, alone, living between the two, creating a neurodivergent friendly life and wholly committed relationship we can tweak as the years go by. As life reveals itself and our hearts and bodies relax after too many years of terrible things.

But there is work to be done before any of this can happen. Two whole houses filled with things we need to say goodbye to. One of those houses to be sold as quickly as possible so life can begin again. Memories to process and file and blow away like so many cobwebs. Physical work and emotional work. Work we cannot shirk from because it is a means to an end we both so very much want and need. And of course it is all so terribly scary and it is happening regardless, because life is an adventure and it is short, so we owe it to ourselves to do big and mad and wild things while we can.

So ummm, yes, all this to say I’m letting it all go, and giving away everything I own. So I can create a life in which to live as wholly and as truly me, as I possibly can. With or without a whisk.