Exploring minimalism

I’ve been delving in to minimalism lately. It’s the most recent in a long line of attempts to find some sense of peace and purpose in daily living. As far as attempted paths go, flirting with minimalism has been a fairly positive experience so far. 

I’ve decluttered more than I ever have intentionally in my life before. With each box that leaves the house, I feel a little less wound up. There’s just a tiny bit more space to breathe. With each box gone, I feel a box load better. It’s small, but it’s enough for me to feel a difference in my anxiety levels. And, I want to see how much more I can let go. I want to see what’s essential for me, and be done with the rest. 

It started with clothes. The “skinny clothes” to be precise. I kept them stashed in various places. The “just in case” stuff that reminded me daily how much weight I’d gained over the last 5 years. Holding on to those clothes didn’t motivate me to lose weight. They just hung around, a heavy reminder of how unhappy I am to exist in my skin. And how much unhappier I should remain if I don’t get down to some arbitrary perfect size. Fun secret: even at my tiniest (a size I feel confident to say I will never see again), I still thought I was too heavy. I’ve come to understand there is a lifetime of insecurity and body image issues that will take a lot more than just weight loss to fix. In some ways, the weight loss of 5-6 years ago may have made my self-esteem worse (more on that in a different blog post, maybe).

So, with a great deal of angst, I started bagging up all those clothes. I hopped online and scheduled for a charity donation pick-up, and then went back to my closet and dresser drawers. With the “skinny clothes” gone, I started sorting for all the “laundry day clothes”. The things I didn’t enjoy wearing, but kept around in case I went too long between doing loads of laundry. I added them to the pick-up. 

And despite the high level of anxiety surrounding letting these things go, I felt lighter when it was done. When I looked at my closet, I was no longer visually assaulted by reminders of perceived failure (whether weight related or laundry related). And I wanted that reduction in anxiety in more than just one place.

I looked at my bookcases. I had always wanted a personal library, and took pride in the number of books I owned. Sure, I had books I hadn’t even looked at in 5 years. 10 years for others. But, they were my books, and I was that person with the library. It didn’t matter what the topic was, I probably had at least one book in that category. The thought of letting a single book go filled me with me dread. As if it would mean chipping away at my sense of self. So I decided to think about that later, and moved on to the random boxes. No need to derail myself while I had momentum going.

Every time I’ve moved, there’s always some number of boxes that never get unpacked. But, I’ve always had such a problem getting rid of things. What if I need them someday? I spent money on that, it would be a waste to get rid of it. That? Oh, that’s a cool collectable! That? I got that my first year in the military. Those? Oh yeah… those were from a high school JROTC ball. And that thing? Oh, that was from… the list was endless. I was hoarding souvenirs of my life, as if all those moments would vanish forever if I had nothing to coordinate with them.

Over a couple of weeks, I culled down my hoard of things (though I admit I’ve still held on to some of those souvenirs). And sometimes while sorting, I would find random books tucked away in some of those boxes. Huh—I hadn’t even realized I had that book. And that one? When did I get that? Ohhh… that’s right! That was from 15 years ago. You know, back when I had orders to Greece that I wound up turning down to get out of the military a year early. Books as life souvenirs, essentially. 

That’s how I eased into decluttering my books. After I was able to let go of two or three in the assortment of random boxes, my bookcases seemed a bit more approachable. I realized I was holding on so desperately to the collection of books, because I’d tied up the idea of owning a library to my identity. As if just the act of owning so many books made me a better, more interesting person, instead of the things I actually did. Over the course of a couple more weeks, I culled out an entire bookcase of books, and started edging my way into the bottom shelf of another bookcase. I’ve slowed down a bit, but part of that is just that I’ve slowed down on getting the books moved from the donation staging area to getting them out of the house. There’s only so much space to stage things until the next batch is out the door.

The book culling was definitely rough going at first, and I started to rationalize that I should just go buy the ebook version of everything before I got rid of them.  That way I wouldn’t miss out on any of my books. Anxiety shot up as I tried to triage the books and expense. How much for replacing these 10 books? How about 20? Ouch.. maybe just that one? I’ll hold on to the others until - No! 

I forced myself to stop the kindle store browsing, and talked myself out of that path. Ebooks are a fine idea, but maybe I could just donate books I haven’t touched in 5+ years. If I decide someday I want to read a specific book again, then I’ll go look for it on ebook. Or in a library. And if I forget about it entirely? Then all the more reason to have donated it instead of holding on to it so tightly.

I still have to remind myself about not stressing over letting go of books I haven’t opened in years. My attachment to the book collection is part of a larger issue. I have probably always struggled with tying my identity to things. Sometimes it’s a career (the military was a prime example of that), sometimes it’s a collection (personal library). There’s a lot to unpack with that, but maybe in another posting.

This is the heart of what embracing a path toward minimalism has been for me so far. I’m learning how to see things and how to figure out who I am outside of tagged labels. I’m learning to let go of things (and concepts) and explore what really matters to me, instead of what I think others think matters (how’s that for a convoluted sentence).

So what have I learned so far while exploring minimalism? 

Clutter exacerbates my anxiety. The more chaos around me, the higher my anxiety climbs. 

The higher my anxiety, the more I’m frozen in place, unable to move purposefully toward any goal. Even the ones that I’ve found really do matter deeply to me. Heck, at high points of anxiety, I’m effectively useless for everything, including basic household tasks (hence the laundry day clothes stockpile).

Impulse shopping was a very poor coping mechanism that I latched on to. It guaranteed a vicious, ever-growing clutter loop cycle. 

I’m becoming more intentional in my purchases now that I realize how much minimalism has been helping my state of mind. No need to restock the clutter when I’ve been spending all that effort to declutter!

Every tiny thing I can do to reduce clutter is a step closer to a calmer, decluttered mind. A calmer, decluttered mind is a step closer to living the way I want to live. 

Labels are harmful, except when they’re not. Through the last several months, I’ve realized a lot of the things I was tying my identity to were empty labels. They left me in despair if I suddenly didn’t have them to label myself by. Who was I if not that? I’ve been learning that my job is not who I am. I struggle emotionally with this concept, but I at least intellectually understand it now. I was devastated years ago when I left the military (even though it was my choice to leave). I was devastated when I realized I couldn’t do martial arts anymore (bum shoulder). I’ve been routinely freshly devastating myself in my job as I change work roles and lose the identity I had built in my head for who I was supposed to be in each work role. And as my work roles got murkier, so too did my sense of self. And my self-esteem. I could never answer “What do I want to do?” when it came to work. It was always “How do I become what x,y,z needs?” And then whatever that was, became my new sense of identity.

There are just two labels in all the mess of identifying labels that I’ve found I don’t mind (although there’s probably an argument for why I should ditch them as well).  Those labels: Artist. Writer. 

As far back as I have memories, there are two things I’ve consistently gravitated toward. Art and stories. 

I’ve always loved to create. Drawing, coloring, painting. Feeling sad? Let’s draw something creepy. Wistful? There’s a drawing for that. Happy? Yup, you bet it, here’s a drawing. Writing was much the same way; there’s a story or a poem for every mood.

I’ve always loved books. When I realized those stories came from people—actual real people who created stories and wrote them down, I wanted to be a writer. I started with poetry at about 7 or 8, and then moved on to short stories, and then much later in life, to book length stories. 

With art and writing, I’ve gone long periods without actively engaging in either. And those almost always coincide with elevated levels of anxiety and depression. When I stopped art and writing, it was because the world had become too overwhelming for me to see a path toward anything but basic survival. But, when the anxiety ebbs down a bit, creativity eventually returns. 

At the end of the day,  I love creating. I love the idea of bringing to life something that others might enjoy, whether it’s a painting or a story. The world can be a dark place, and it’s so easy to get lost in that darkness. For me, creativity provides a way to see the world as just a little less scary than before.  And then to give that glimpse to others. So—the two labels I’m still hanging on to for now, after spending so much time separating myself from labels? Artist and writer. 

I may struggle with both (always that inner voice telling me I’m not doing enough to warrant either label), but I’m starting to recognize it’s probably my anxiety and depression that I’m struggling with, rather than the question of whether I can consider myself a creative.

I’ve definitely rambled on a bit. But, all of this is relevant to why I’ve been exploring minimalism. For me, the minimalism isn’t a cool trend, or a weirdly addictive game of getting rid of stuff. It’s been helping me declutter my mind and discover another healthy way to manage my anxiety. It’s been about figuring out what’s really important, and learning to let go of the rest of the clutter (emotional and physical) that gets in the way of breathing and thriving in this world.