Epilogue
Sunshine Coast Hinterland, New Year’s Eve
It would be foolish to hang my hopes on the idea of ‘new year, new me’, but perhaps there is a greater chance for those of us without an old self to cling to.
It is less of an upgrade, and more of a gently breaking new dawn.
Becoming a person with a body and a face and a mind, all in one – it felt impossible only a week ago.
But here I am, awake and alive. Surviving Christmas with my family is in itself a feat worth celebrating.
I made it through, we all did, sanity mostly intact.
Perhaps this is why New Year’s Eve is a tradition in the first place, in recognition of the batshit antics so many humans experience over the holiday period.
And who amongst us can honestly say they have not drop-kicked a festive ham or two in their time, really?
Dr Montague quickly realised the crisis point I had found myself at, and has scheduled check-ins every day since.
She was more concerned with the flimsy sense of self than the porcine projectile, and has given me daily tasks to cultivate greater self-connection.
Moving my body, writing out my thoughts, practising my breathing, eating and showering every day, noticing what brings ease and what spikes discomfort, being with safe people, making time for rest and the creative work I enjoy – it is not exactly revolutionary when I list it like that, but then again, it kind of is.
I am painting again, observing every bird that passes my window, because joy is protective and necessary, I have learned.
We are also working on a crisis plan, in the event that I ever find myself out of orbit again.
It is a possibility, but not a given. Mum and Olivia are on board with this, and have each had their own talks with Dr Montague about what they might be able to do should such a time arise.
Dad and Luke are happy to let the women take on the emotional labour of that.
I spend the morning in the garden with Maeve, showing her the birds and the insects and the vegetables and herbs. Being here, hands thick with dirt, brings boundless ease, unprecedented joy. A ladybird lands on her hand while she is picking mint, and time stops for us.
‘That’s a common spotted ladybird,’ I tell her, my Maeve voice hushed. ‘They are really good. They eat aphids, these little green guys, so they don’t destroy the garden.’
Maeve nods, continuing to watch the small beetle until it spreads its wings and flies away.
‘Bye,’ she says, waving farewell with the hand it departs from, a broad smile across her face.
Never have I seen a truer embodiment of happiness; she knows it all. It is a moment I wish to retain as vividly as every misstep and argument I have fastidiously catalogued and stored away until now.
After lunch, Maeve goes down for a nap and I go downstairs for my own downtime.
In between completing items from my psychologist-ordered to-do list, I allow myself to rest, not as a reward, but a basic need.
And when I allow my mind to wander, it does not turn in on itself.
It has some room to play, at last. An idea takes hold, and I make an effort not to spook it with too much attention.
Best to stay as still as I can and let it be.
The sky deepens. It is a risk, standing here in my stretchy comfort dress with this two-dollar packet of sparklers in hand.
I survived the self-service check-out to acquire them, which was an achievement, regardless of whatever happens next.
And Dr Montague has drilled home the importance of allowing myself to feel emotional vulnerability, to accept uncertainty, as part of my recovery process.
I am upright, breathing the perfect air.
I am planting new seeds and watering them.
I am . . . shit, I forgot a lighter. If I go back to get one now, I might not have the courage to return.
No, I am doing this. I could be rejected, or perhaps no one is home, or I could encounter Martin and then I would have to resist the enduring urge to punch him in the throat.
That would be good practice for processing before reacting, I suppose.
It takes me a moment to go from thinking about all of this to reaching out and knocking.
Without the dead weight of self-judgement, it feels, if not automatic, then at least a more fluid transition.
The screen door is scratchy under my knuckles, and rattles as I tap.
Real life is now, and I am stepping into its light.