Last week I decided I was tired of being tied to my possessions and decided to donate, or sell, some of my stuff. Everything sped up and in a haze of minimalist glory, I sold my Nikon camera. I took the money and used it to pay some bills and I felt quite victorious. See, I can be responsible. Actually, my actions went way beyond responsible. I’m not mentally ill, I’m a Financial Goddess! All bow!
And then my mood crashed and I realized what I had done in my manic state. I’m not bothered by the donations; that still makes me feel good because I hope it can help someone. But my camera … I sold my camera. That’s one of the few things that still has meaning for me. I’ve lost interest in many things, but not photography. Trying to get a good shot focuses me in a way few other things can. I love capturing a moment and being able to experience it again. With a camera in my hand, I feel joy, even if it’s fleeting. And I fucking sold it.
So being the absolutely responsible adult that I am, I justified taking my mother’s shopping network credit card and ordering myself a new camera. Chances are, if I had asked her, she would have told me to go ahead. But now I’ve broken her trust. Again. All I can do is say I’m sorry. Again. And of course return it, like I’ve done so many other items I’ve purchased in the name of feeding the mania.
Is it wrong that I’m desperately hoping she’ll let me keep it? (yes, I know it is but I’m still hoping.)
Another day, another fuck up. But I’m owning up the mistakes a lot faster. That’s progress … of a sort.