Tuesday, 13 November 2012

Bye bye 'things'!

I'm trying to let go of material things, and it's flippin' hard!

Oliver riding the HMAS Imagination. 
I like things. I like to look like we have lots of money. Why? I don't even care if others do, so why do I care what others think of me? It's ridiculous.

We don't have lots of money. We don't have no money. Who even cares? What's important is that we are happy. And we are, so happy. We are the richest of the rich, we have the most important currency; love.

But then I turn on the television and I'm told what car to drive, what clothes to wear, what place to live, what goddam fridge to keep my food cold.
Fuck.
Why do I care so much?

I've studied this stuff. I know how it works. They pry on our weaknesses. They tailor the products to our wants, not even our needs. They tell us who to be.

But I know who I am. I am not my clothes, my car, my fridge.

I am Cassandra J, Oliver's mother and James' wife.

But I think I am my clothes, my car, my fridge. Sadly. I am. Sometimes I just want to throw all my things away, or maybe i could just own them, but mostly I feel like they own me.

I am trying to buy a new car. I just wanted a four door car. I've been told by every one what to buy, what to spend, to get a loan, to avoid a loan. I just want transport for me and my child, maybe one day my children. Now I want a statement. What a crock of shit. Why does it matter? For some reason it does, and it makes me so depressed.

Seriously just now a car ad came on, it suggested this car gave you a life time of good times. I had just as many good times in my husbands old '88 Celica as I have in his new Holden Ute. It's not the car, it was never the car, it's him; it's us.

I haven't purchased new clothes in two months (okay I purchased one $10 dress of ASOS) and I have more clothes to wear than ever before. It's not a huge step, but it's a step in the right direction.

It's the moments, not the things. My wonderful friend continues to remind me of the importance of experiences over things. I know of the importance of experiences over things. I want to be stable, I want to be secure, but mostly I want to be happy.

Oliver doesn't care what car I drive, what fridge cools his food, what suburb he lives in. Old furniture and boxes make him just as happy as his high end pricey toys. He doesn't notice when we buy things first hand or second hand. He doesn't care what people think of us, or how people judge us due to our things and I don't want him to care. He shouldn't care, and neither should I.

But I care, and I need to stop.

I'm trying to let go of things. It's not easy but it's better than being owned by all this shit.

Wish me luck, I'm certainly going to need it.

Mama J.


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