I did some serious danshari-ing during my move to single, apartment-living.
I’ve never been a real hoarder and I have a strong aversion to buying things that I cannot easily dispose of such as furniture (because, as some would say, I have a commitment phobia), but I have strong sentimental attachments and pretty much I’ve kept every letter/note/piece of paper I’ve ever received, every photo to come into my possession and every little thing that has meant something to me over the years.
So I took the opportunity this time and threw or gave away just about everything I could. The thank you letters I’d received from my students back in Japan, the drunken karaoke photos taken with my Japan gym buddies, my city to surf medals, my fetish outfits, my boots. The list goes on.
There was serious and I mean serious, danshari-ing involved. I was expecting it to feel refreshing like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders, but mostly I just felt sad. As if those things somehow made me who I am and throwing them away was like losing little bits of myself.
I guess it was all part of my sub-conscious want to reinvent myself. The reinvention that started with me introducing myself to new people with the name I always wanted to have. Sometimes when people call out to me, I forget to respond to it because, well, it’s not actually my name, but it’s starting to feel more comfortable.
I’m still trying to come to that zen place where not being dragged down by things from the past is freeing and allows you to live in the moment. Maybe if I just keep buying more sheets, towels and valances in suitably trendy colours I’ll pull myself into the new me.