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I’ve finally started. Predictably, not while I’m swanning around europa or while I sit in a darkened room tending a broken heart. This is not the eve of some great triumph. There is no news. There has been no death or out – of -body experience.
I’m at home. Returning home always generates content for me. I slept in my bed last week for the first time since July 2003. Today, I felt the pain of returning home, it was as if I was just stepping off the plane into the glaring Australian sun. Everybody always says the light is different here. You don’t notice till you return and you feel the light in your eyes. But, everybody says that. Nobody could’ve prepared me for the tears that spontaneously erupted as I carried my first weeks shopping home from Woollies that first Wednesday. Or the sickening revolt that I feel now at how familiar everything is.
How I’ve let myself forget so much in six short weeks. But this is what I know:
Today it was not familiar. Today it bled with the energy of a new cut, attempting to flush clinging bacteria from its site. This is an attempt to not let myself forget. This is the first aid.
