To the person who stole my bag

To the person who stole my bumbag from Anytime Fitness Balaclava on Tuesday 15 April, between 8:02 pm and 9:25 pm,

My bumbag

Full disclosure: I was meant to write about Jamie Elliott this week. About his 200th game. About my undying desire to marry him. About what it means to love something or someone (like Jamie Elliott) so fully and consistently, even when it or they don't always love you back (or know that you exist).

My love

But instead, I’m writing this.

This is a letter to you, you piece of absolute scum.

You didn’t just take one bag; you took four bags. Inside the initial bag were another two reusable shopping bags from Woolworths, and a fresh, funky and fucking new bag my sister had JUST given me not 30 minutes before you thought it was ok to take it for yourself. I was really looking forward to wearing it tomorrow.

You also took my hearing aid, apartment keys, wallet, and entire sense of calm. In one swift, silent moment, you stripped me of all the small, practical scaffolding I rely on to exist in the world. You probably thought you were just grabbing a bag and hoping for a lucky tap-and-go.

My hearing aid

But what you grabbed was a part of my independence, and that’s not something you can just chuck in a bin or sell on Facebook Marketplace. I also hope that whatever you attempted to buy on eBay for $764.99 leads you to your demise.

There’s a unique kind of fury that bubbles up inside of me when something so personal is taken by someone who doesn’t even know you. It’s not just anger. It’s humiliation. It’s helplessness. It’s that sudden dip in my gut when I’ve realised someone else now has my keys, my name, and access to my bank accounts. Someone else is walking around with my hearing aid, completely unaware of how expensive, specific, and irreplaceable it is. Or worse, completely aware and just not caring.

I went straight to the police and cried. I now sit upright in my bed at 1:41 am, trying to breathe through the anger.

And I kept coming back to this one feeling: how fucking dare you.

How dare you reduce my life to a handful of things you thought were yours to take. How dare you walk into someone else’s story and decide that your need, or your boredom, or your cruelty, was more important than their safety or their dignity. You took something from me. Not just objects, but peace. Control. The invisible sense of okay-ness I think I carry.

But here’s what you didn’t take. You didn’t take my voice. You didn’t take away my ability to write, to rage, or to rebuild. You didn’t take my softness. And you didn’t take Jamie Elliott. He’s still mine (spiritually, if not legally).

I will eventually get a new wallet. It won’t be the one I bought from a leather maker in an Amsterdam market in 2018. I will replace my cards, and I will remember their numbers by heart. I will eventually save enough to buy a replacement hearing aid.

My wallet

And I promise, next week, we’re going back to Jamie. Because love, real love, like the kind you feel for a one-club, huge marking, small forward with big calves and a bigger heart, can’t be stolen.

Not even by you, you piece of absolute garbage.

Will.