Might Cry Later

Prologue

Melbourne, sometime in November

All was not well. Naught was well, one might even say, if one was being honest with oneself about what was transpiring within body and mind – the rapid decline of communication and cooperation between the two.

But, then again, one was prone to avoidance, and as such, one would probably actually say one was fine, thanks, and you?

Though, I suppose, if one was pushed, one might agree, yes, on the whole not great, the habitual illeism in and of itself a less-than-ideal sign.

Best to try and drop that, moving forward.

Of course there were other, more outward, objective – perhaps even irrefutable – signs of definitely-not-okayness.

The plastic hospital band, cut on an angle and discarded on the wicker coffee table, was being quite obnoxious about this.

Eventually I had to discard it, in hopes of teaching the bracelet a lesson about the lost art of subtlety, a move that bought me some short-lived peace.

When the face blinking back through the mostly de-silvered bathroom mirror was no longer my own, I probably should have conceded something was up.

As the beloved literary quote from that famed feminist author way ahead of her time went: come on, girl, get your shit together.

It was not as though it was somebody else’s face – this was far from a Freaky or even Freakier Friday situation.

It was much more mundane and only vaguely confusing: who was that person?

Rather than raising this conundrum with someone, I simply made note to avoid reflective surfaces and carried on.

The problem was twofold: having neither the capacity to understand it as conundrumical and therefore worthy of raising in the first place, nor someone to raise it with if I had.

The apartment certainly presented suggestions of another person residing there, but as day upon solitary day rolled up, over, and away again, I began to believe these were the cruel tricks of a dwelling that wished to be undwelt.

There was the bottle of curly-girl shampoo, which even in my wild and warped state I found a little on the nose, the stack of textbooks with titles I could not pronounce, let alone understand, and the jar of green olives in the fridge.

It was the olives that sank the boat. They taunted me, goading me to loosen my grip on the one remaining piece of self-identity I knew to be true: I hated olives.

In avoiding most things, I became fixated on this small fermented fruit.

To begin with, I learned olives were a fruit, and also fermented.

I learned about the different fermenting processes, about bacteria and yeast and probiotics, about climates and soils and optimum rainfall.

I read papers and followed links and watched videos and filled my mind with new information, because far better information than my own thoughts or feelings, obviously.

Once a day the woman on the computer spoke to me about the person she believed me to be – Nora – and I spoke back to her about Nora, desperate to figure out how to become her again.

This woman, two-dimensional, older but not old, fast-talking, with glasses and cropped dark hair, was so sure she knew the way, never wavering from her suspiciously simple plan to bring this ailing houseplant back to full health.

Same time every day, armed with new stories from my supposed life.

That could not have been the way to rebuild a whole self – fragments from memories of concerned family members, as told via phone or email, processed through the perception of a capable but still relatively unknown and in all likelihood overbooked psychologist did not a functioning human make.

A mess, you see. She felt at least somewhat trustworthy, perhaps on account of being the only person I was interacting with on a daily basis, though I knew my assessment of who to trust was in and of itself likely to be unsound.

And I was not a houseplant, after all, or even a human being, but a candle, burnt down to its base.

What hope did a candle have of recovery?

This was the kind of thought that made avoidance – videos about yeast – the preferable option.

Twice a day, I sat on the balcony with a cup of tea and a cigarette, to let the outside air kiss my face and remind me I did exist. The view was somewhat leafy, with two whole trees stretched across this section of the street, to make up for the inhumane, unceasing traffic noise, both human and vehicular.

Who was the person who had chosen to reside in this overripe place?

There may have been trees, but not a bird in sight.

That felt significant; apocalyptic, even.

Perhaps my flat was trying to do me a favour, sending me mad.

Up to fifteen times a day I used the toilet, on account of all the tea, and zero times a day would I shower or eat, because both had grown out of the earth like mountains on fault lines – looming, insurmountable.

The remaining hours I sat, or lay, on a bed, or couch, visiting memories both real and imagined.

Lying down: life’s greatest pleasure. Anything else was overdone, a chore that stood between me and my desire to be horizontal for as long as possible, before another thing that required doing demanded me back in my body, upright, or at least sitting.

I understood, in no uncertain terms, that I was having quite a bad time.

Being estranged from myself in such a way was not optimal, I was aware.

But being aware, putting any amount of energy towards focusing on or trying to change the situation, had the unfortunate effect of making it only more true.

I was watering these seeds and allowing them to take root.

Best not to look my particular circumstances directly in the eye.

And actually, it was not as though I was the one making the choices or doing the things, anyway.

I was watching the person making the choices and doing the things, not in a ‘floating above the room’ kind of way, more of a ‘ghost in the machine’ situation.

A tricky one to explain; olives were far more straightforward.

Did I mention they were a fruit? Fermented.

Disgusting. I hated olives. Eventually, this fact became my anchor, no longer sinking but steadying.

If I hated olives, then there had to be a salvageable person with a face that was mine, somewhere.

And I had an idea about where I might find her – not squatting alone in the top half of a malevolent terrace house in South Yarra; she would, of course, be home.