Untitled.

We all have stories. This is one of mine.

I recall waking up one June morning, already hearing the rain outside. How I missed the summer! Somehow it seems that all the negative thoughts – all the self-doubt, loneliness, and depression – have such ease in gaining power over the mind during the seemingly endless stretch of grey, cold, bitter-wet winter.

It is the last winter, however, that brought and still brings me the most worry. I remember the first mention of that awful diagnosis in my household.
Depression.
In those long, long months as the days lost more colour and all things turned to shades of grey, the darker and more deepening hollowness of my sister grew. It scared me so. It scares me so. Wind, rain, and hail can leave a person drenched, freezing, numb. But my sister was numb without any of these. She would spend her days in bed; my mother spent hers in tears. But what was I, the ‘baby sister’ supposed to do? I remember wishing I could fix it. Praying I could fix it. But the rain kept on falling.

As the days stretched into weeks and into months, I summoned every fibre of strength within me. This was my family, the stitches that held us together were straining and tearing, and all I could do was hold on. I don’t know whether I can say I formed a resolve, or if it was always in me, but somewhere in my childhood I appointed myself as protector. No-one would see me cry. No-one would see my sister if she was. Nothing would hurt my mother. Not while I was there. Not while I am here.

As a fifteen-year-old, this was a hard pretence to keep up. I hid my tears in the dark of my bed at night, longing for a break in the storm. Longing for spring, or summer, where all the joys of life – warmth, holidays, freedom, sunshine – seemed protected, safe and unchangeable. All unpleasantness remained forgotten in those months.

It was naïve to believe in my self-appointed role. Looking back at it now, I still feel the defence, but then I didn’t know my limits. I did not understand. Maybe I still don’t. I analyse and analyse, thinking of what I could have done, what I could do to make my sister better. But that power is not in me. It is in her. And though weather and seasons may parallel the distresses in our minds, it is not in them. For my sister, the illness is as a season of winter. It comes around, and it may feel as if it will never pass. My role is to be strong, but to remind her, as much as myself, spring will come around and again. And eventually, so will summer – days of warmth and joy. Winter can not last forever. Though it affects us deeply and heavily, shocking and surprisingly, horribly and devastatingly; it will pass.

Consumption.

A year ago I did a voluntary training course to help raise awareness for child and slave labor. It left a large impact on my life, although I didn’t know it then and I didn’t play the role of the passionate activist too well, it did help me uncover some of my morals and awakened a humanitarian spark from its slumber deep within my heart. After this course I remember the vivid feeling of wanting to leave some sort of mark, an impact, a difference in my world. I knew I didn’t have to be a revolutionary like Guevara or claim a country without violence like Gandhi. I just wanted to set an example. From then onward I dropped my dollars into rattling tins supporting various causes, bought burgers for the homeless, and also purchased wristbands and necklaces which were made by people from underdeveloped towns and villages.

I walk down Bourke St and see the collection of nine-to-fiver’s garbed in their Versace shirts and watch their D&G bags dance by their hips. I have no shame in expressing my hypocritical views, sure I’ve bought designer clothing, I have overlooked $60 jeans and bought the $90 pair because they are right shade of blue. But trivial things such as the importance of stitching and label of a garment is something I cannot understand. Why pay significantly more just to have some alloted ink aligned to make a picture that means something fashionable? Because a celebrity is wearing a jacket with a certain brand, we, as the consumers, consume that brand and believe it is worth wearing because someone who means nothing (and everything) to us is wearing it.

Why do we think things look good anyway? It is as if we are pressured to validate our appearance or else we are left behind. How much of it is influence, from everyone around us doing and purchasing the same thing, and how much of it truly comes from ourselves? We are so beyond survival all we can do is elevate and relegate the hierarchy of our social status in a place where vanity is not for ourselves but for the approval of other people. I read once that ‘vanity gives us the delusion that somebody is paying attention’, in other words, we dress with the aim of NOT being comfortable, but for making ourselves known to the world. Our labels send a certain message that shouts out how we like to spend, how proud we are to rub it in and how we like to maintain ourselves.

There is nothing we need and so much that we want, and I wouldn’t have a problem with there brands and labels if perhaps they directed a small sum of their money to something as effective as a good cause. As I said, I buy designer clothing, but after realizing I bought these items for the sake of owning an extra pair of shoes or jeans I know that I wanted to change this.