Onslaught of Unwanted Sentiments

It was late at night when I decided to find a specific photo that I took back in 2017.

Honestly, I actually forgot what picture it was, what prompted me to find it, and whether or not I did actually discover it among tens of thousands pictures that I have. But, I do remember scouring both my laptop’s memory drive and Google drive to find that picture. With the combination of my determination and short attention span (which no longer concerns me due to my recent ADHD diagnosis thank you very much), instead of finding that elusive memento, I uncovered quite a lot of artefacts from my past.

Trust me, I know that I need to properly categorise my folders because of how chaotic everything sounds. The name of my folders ranges from Photo, RANDOM, Pictures, VIDEO, S8, S5, iPhone, Screenshots, and other colourful titles that I even question myself as to how I came up with those. Hence, due to my abstract way of filing things (thank you very much ADHD), I had to literally open every single one of those disordered folders.

Among such colourful interesting gems, I came across this specific picture that I stored in one of the oldest folders there. A special folder that I titled 2012, referring to the most memorable year of my life.

This picture that depicts perhaps a three years old girl was taken in Cambridge’s Botanical Garden. I took it by mistake, intending to focus on the greeneries. However, I was quite happy with the result when I saw her happily skipping alongside the pond, perhaps looking at ducks and other small creatures she found there. I remember I smiled gently to my tall friend whose origin was distant and cold. I think I told him some funny anecdotes relating to the girl. After a few moments or so, the little girl went away after she called by her mum. I was left with my tall friend who was contently rubbing pitch black fur of resident cat.

After rediscovering that picture, a whirlwind of emotion ambushed me for quite awhile. The first feeling that I could identify was happiness, I suppose it came from how grateful and ecstatic I was that there was a pocket of six weeks in which I was myself. But then came melancholy, enveloping me like a n old familiar friend with tinge of jealousy as a disguise of how we much I haven’t been able to relive that feeling of being myself.

Perhaps the onslaught of unwanted sentiments were the result of looking at the picture’s respective companions within the folder. I saw so many versions of myself, laughing and smiling so hard, so pure, and so honest. The actual day-to-day memories are quite fuzzy now, but I remember how my spirit felt. It felt a relief and as if it was home.

I didn’t expect myself to fall into a bit of mini depression afterwards, though. I know I am prone to being a melancholic, nostalgic, even sad girl. But, I did not predict that I would be depressed. I thought the underlying cause was because of how I want to relive everything all over again; all the little moments of going out, eating out, watching movies in a British cinema, eating Thai food in pub, meeting my favourite actor, geeking out, or just overall living there. It wasn’t because of that.

I think I was particularly sad because of seeing that picture of little girl and how I thought “is mini Nadilla proud of me?”. If I were to see myself at every pivotal year of my life, what should I say to them? What should I say to three years old Nadilla who never understood the concept of ‘home’ since she only knew about living in relatives’ houses? What should I say to twelve years old Nadilla who already lived in her own house but she never thought it was home because of the foreign experience living in her growing body with typically cold or cruel classmates? What should I say to fourteen years old Nadilla who yearned to find her home elsewhere, convinced beyond belief that she was meant to live in Stockholm? What should I say to nineteen years old Nadilla that always came back crying never feeling secure in her own hometown or under the roof of her parents’ house? What should I say to twenty three years old Nadilla being accepted in her dream Uni—the same one that she wanted to study in back when she was fourteen—without receiving any grants or scholarship and therefor lost the chance to find her home?

What should I say to myself, this thirty years old version of Nadilla, not knowing whether she will ever come home?

Will I ever honour their wants and needs to finally be content and find their ultimate absolute home?