Outer space affecting the inner space

And so, I decided to build one. I would build a bedroom that reflected the kind of person I hoped to be. A bedroom that was beautiful and functional; conceptual and safe; uncluttered and sentimental.

I read books about architectural theory and looked to designers and philosophers as I gradually stripped my life of what wasn’t necessary. I considered how my outer space was affecting my inner space. I thought of Alvar Aalto and the way he built the Sanatorium in Paimio to heal tuberculosis patients with sunlight, minimal noise, natural timber finishes and curved furniture.

I rearranged the furniture until I found perfect harmony. I closed my eyes, listened to the silence and fixated on the feeling of how I wanted to wake.

In the silence, I finally heard what my body was telling me: I needed to let go completely. I needed to give my mind the same respect I’d shown my bedroom and allow it to empty, grieve, let go of negative feelings, and reassemble the parts of itself it liked.

I did this. Again, I was surprised by the space this afforded me. My mind felt like a savannah that I only I inhabited. I cared less about what people thought of me and whether they approved of my lifestyle. I felt capable and in control.

I realised my mind might believe anything I told it.This time I told myself the opposite of what I always had. I told myself I was capable of anything. I told my brain that without depression and an eating disorder I’d be capable of so much more. I told myself I could build the life I wanted and the kind of person to fit inside it. I told myself again and again until eventually, I believed it.

I wasn’t sure it would work. I wasn’t sure I would wake with less anxiety or that The Mannerheim League for Child Welfare would suggest joining them in a collaboration in Finland one year later.