becoming home

Late night revelations & DIY Self-acceptance

I have never felt at home in my body.

I have always felt distant and removed from this aspect of myself. It has felt like a cage. I have been trapped inside a body I do not know, I do not like and definitely do not love. I have always been chubby, or at times fat. And I have always been acutely aware of this fact.

So, I have waged a war with my physical form for as long as I can remember. I have poisoned it with drugs and alcohol and bad men. I have starved it, and mutilated it, and hurt it in profound ways. I have despaired that I am cursed to live here, to make residence in a body that disgusts me, that is clumsy and too big.

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The apartment I live in now is my first home. It is the first time that I have ever lived by myself, in a space that is entirely my own. Up until the time I signed the lease I had lived with my parents, an ex partner, my brother, and in various share houses. Notably everywhere I have lived previously had been spaces that often had their own identities when I arrived. I would move my few possessions and many books into the room I would inhabit and the rest of the house would be a carefully (or chaotically) curated space that was not mine.

So I packed myself up again, for the seventh time in two years, and I embarked on this new solo living adventure. Well, not completely solo, I brought my tiny little black rescue kitten with me. It was a new beginning, a fresh start, and a clean slate. When I finally got this apartment it felt special in so many ways. It meant I had some stability in my living arrangement, no more crazy housemates or precarious circumstances. It was a signifier that (finally) I was growing into my adulthood, a kind of victory in the face of all the chaos of my twenties.

I had a blank canvas. The apartment was real estate white; Even the floors. The place was cold, not just due to the winter chill. It was austere and severe. It lacked colour and warmth and life. And this is where the fun really began. I spent months scouring Facebook marketplace for furniture. I didn’t have much money (I still don’t), but I found some great pieces. I hung up art. Bought a massive mid-century desk to write at. A rug for the floor of my bedroom (rugs are outrageously expensive so I settled on wearing socks in the rest of house). And an ambitious amount of plants. I filled the space with books, and colours that clashed, and lush fabrics, and art. I collected knick-knacks, and strung up fairy lights. I made this house my home.

I was not easy, or quick though. It was a slow process. I moved things around constantly to get the perfect flow and use of space. I even bought a couch (for $50) to replace the vintage wooden one I started with. This newer one was bigger and more ‘comfortable’. However, after two days I decided I hated it. It just didn't work in the space so I got the old one back and apologised for so quickly casting it aside. I killed many plants. It took me a while to work out how to keep them alive. My bed has been in every conceivable corner of my room. I have acquired a fair amount of furniture over time. My ever-growing book collection has a correlated ever-growing need for storage. I have been in my place for almost two years and only last week did I finally sort out the side balcony. As I suffer the same fate as any apartment dweller, no storage, the side balcony had become a kind of dumping ground for all the crap I couldn’t be bothered dealing with. Now it is a lovely retreat of sorts.

What I’m getting at here is that it took time. It was a slow evolving of a space, the building of a nest. These things take time. And now I sit back on my couch, or curled up in my armchair, or perch myself on the balcony, or lie in bed and survey my little kingdom with an immense sense of pride and of safety and of love. Here is my home; here I am at home. 

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It struck me the other night, whilst I was lying on my yoga mat stretching and sighing out the day before bed, that I might already have the blueprint to healing. I lay there contemplating my body, shifting it and moving it, breathing long and deep. I rocked myself in happy baby and was struck by a simple revelation (if you do not know what happy baby is I encourage you to Google it, it is a rather absurd posture to be in when having a breakthrough of any kind). Immersed in my bedtime rituals I realized that if I wanted to feel at home in my body, then I had to make it my home.

I know I can do it, as I’ve already done it before. I have already transformed a space like this. I have taken the bare walls empty rooms and made them something completely my own. My home is a home only I could make. And I have found some kind of peace there. Now the task that lies before me is to take the lessons of nesting in a space and make a nest out of myself. I have a guide, so to speak.

This new space, this me space, this body, it is not empty. It is not a clean slate. It is as cluttered and unloved. There are some signs of neglect. I have accumulated all these ideas and opinions about my body. I will not repeat them here, for they are a familiar chant for many women. They are hurtful and unhelpful lies that have been fed to me over years (sometimes by myself). So, first we spring clean. I will roll up my sleeves and dust the cobwebs from the corner with kind words and gentle praise of my imperfect body. I will hold it and whisper sweet nothings to it in the dark, like I am my own lover, infatuated with my own form.

I have already covered myself in art. I have hung lovely art on the canvas of my skin. And on the days when I cannot love myself I will love that art. I will marvel at its intricate beauty and the collage of self it represents. On days when asking to love my body is too tall an order I will love the art instead.

I will adorn my body in lush fabrics. I will dress in soft linens, and wool. I will wear bright colours or dark. There will be joy in the way I dress. I will cocoon my body in a celebration of fashion. Fashion is often the enemy for women. It is a minefield fraught with danger. But, no longer will I let my wardrobe terrorize me. I will only wear the things that make me feel beautiful and joyful.

I will do the maintenance on myself. I will fix the leaking tap, and keep the place clean. I will move my body, and eat well, and groom myself, but only because I am worth the effort. I have to live in this body for a long time, the rest of my life actually. I love cleaning my house, well more accurately I love sitting back and seeing my beautifully cleaned house and my body is no different. I will take joy and pride in keeping it healthy and beautiful.

And I will remember that this takes time. Building a home always takes time. Sometimes you buy the wrong couch, or have to keep rearranging the place. And it’ll just take time to settle in, ‘cause home is a feeling. It’s the feeling of safety and sanctuary and peace. You cannot rush that feeling. So as I endeavour to become my own home, I will take it slowly. However much time it takes to build the sanctuary in me I will be patient.

Standing naked in front of the mirror today I began to cry. Tears pricked at my eyes. I cried, hard. But not for the body I have, but for all the harm I have done it. I have treated my body so cruelly, when really it’s been a very good body. It is healthy, and able, and it very seldom causes problems. I am curvy and womanly in a divinely soft sort of way.

I take my little hands and hold the roll of my bell pouch delicately. I do not grab it, or pinch it, or curse it. I just touch myself, hold myself gently. I see myself with new eyes. And these kinder eyes reveal a rather lovely creature. Here is my home; I am my home.