What is the purpose of nostalgia? It’s mythmaking...the details of the Legend that is our lives...
By: Natalia Johnson
Tags: 90s, Childhood, Nostalgia, Self Compassion, Memory

One of my earliest memories is of translucent colorful beads in my hair, in a pink outfit, dancing in front of the sliding glass door of the balcony in the apartment where we lived for nearly ten years. I was four. My mother had a glossy cherry wine TV stand with two gold-handled doors on the front that opened up. The deep red cherry color always made me feel so regal looking up at it from the warm sun-soaked carpet. It made the room feel warm and sturdy with two large heavy drawers that held all our movies, CDs, and endless cords knotted so absolutely it would actually be quicker to buy new ones; instruction manuals with water stains and missing pages, and remotes to past TVs, VHS or DVD players with missing battery coverings, number markings, and even whole buttons.

When I can’t find much happiness I remember myself laying on the warm carpet watching movies, dancing, and singing. I would watch my favorite movies or listen to my favorite CDs over and over, rewinding the parts with my favorite songs and tenderest moments. I try to imagine happiness as that impulse to seek pleasure without guilt, unconcerned with arbitrary notions of dignity or pride. I try to remember ‘happy’ as an impulse.

The world seems to be imploding and I don’t know when I’ll find soft ground again. I don’t know how to move forward. I feel like a broken toy-train, constantly coming off the tracks. I feel glued down, and maybe if I can just pull hard enough and the answers will fall out like loose change, clattering to the floor.

I was a fearless five-year-old who loved color and a sad ten-year-old hiding under clothes that were too big. I remember how ugly I felt at 10. It felt like a cruel joke not to have flowing hair and perfect skin. That was what being loved looked like to me then. I find so much pity for my ten-year-old self. Or I find memories of ugly jealousy and how much I wanted to be someone else. As I reflect now I know she deserves better from me and I feel sadness, for not having more wisdom for her. Something enough to make everything good again. Young me needs my love, she needs me to fix what is broken for her. Why haven’t I fixed it yet? I feel like I’m failing her and she seems to be in every decision I make.

I kept wishing for the body I had six months ago, and a year ago, and five years ago. What I wouldn’t have given for the body I had five years ago. It’s an emotional paradox to always want what we don’t have. I know this and still, I wonder — This body, this face, these thoughts, this money, these things, and these talents — Will it run out? Am I appreciating it enough? All this time and the words have never run out, assuring me that yes, others still know what I mean. These things have changed not disappeared. But nostalgia steals. It hangs out in my childhood home, peeling paint off the walls, jiggling loose those drawers, and stirring up dust. I can’t remember exactly when happiness stopped being an instinct. I just know that one day a blue shadow fell across the carpet and I couldn’t get warm there anymore.