Shopping Depression

Yesterday I went to IKEA.
It is October, so I wasn’t surprised to encounter Scandinavian Christmas decoration, but I wasn’t prepared.

Everything you can buy there, displaying how “in” you are, and is a source of awe for the most of people is part of my very own childhood and heritage.

When I strolled through the aisles I felt lonely and nearly cried by the sight of a pair of “nisser”, little “Christmas dwarves”.
I was missing to talk my second language, which I once chose over my native tounge. When I entered Kindergarden, I nearly just talked in Danish with the other children, but of course, this wasn’t profitable.
So I started longing for the annually visits to my family in Copenhagen, dreading the day I had to return to Germany.
Back to the South, where I can’t smell the Ocean, where the storm never reaches a peak energizing me and back to the place where the sky never gets so blue or blackish.
Between all the pseudo-Scandinavian design I felt homesick.

Yet, I’m not Danish, nor am I German.
I don’t know where I feel at home.
I don’t know where my home really is.
I feel as if I had a personality disorder: divided between two countries, but not part of either of them. Not knowing where I really feel at home.
I am missing the biggest part of my family. The part, I interact with.
Here in Germany there is not much family left.

I can’t define myself upon citizenship, but also I can’t define WHO I am.
I should be myself and this is hard.
Figuring this out is a part of growing up, but this isn’t always easy.
Figuring it out between the way I THINK I should be, regarding society standards in beauty, knowledge etc. etc. etc and the way I WANT to be.
Yet, is what I WANT not only a projection of how I THINK society defines human behaviour?

Beeing myself I hard, because I don’t know who this “myself” is…this I found out during this strange IKEA-Shopping-Depression.
And I started wondering…how to find …

Myself.


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And to end the journal entry with something less depressing: the wonderful featured me in her journal entry. Which I find very kind and I am very thankful for the attention and praise she gave me. I’m very flattered and feel a little more confident in my drawings and painting.
Perfectionism is a strange illness...