How foolish I am, to place my faith, my life, in such an intransigent object, such a great unknown. It’s almost like I have a death wish and, in some ways, on certain days, I guess that I do. Yesterday, for instance…

We were walking. It was early, not yet warm. I was worried and angry and upset. Worried about my health and our current destination. Angry about the previous night and a rather serious argument in which it became apparent that the leopard is still, at every given opportunity, resisting change and endeavouring, despite copious pleas, to stand still. And upset that the bad in my life and in my relationship is still going on after so many years. When will it end? When will I be free? When will I be happy again? And will I? The more I ask, the more intensely I probe and wait, the less I believe. Maybe I am too far gone? Maybe I am broken beyond repair? Maybe all that is left is this and worse, far worse, a slow and steady decline towards a premature death? It’s pessimistic. It’s negative thinking. It’s self-destructive and self-defeating. But how am I meant to feel positive, on top, energised, when my body and my relationship are falling apart?

So the death wish – it makes sense, it stands to reason; but even so…

Anyway, yesterday it was a bus and the event my crossing the road with it heading towards me at some speed. Consciously I saw this. Consciously I was aware that the man was on red and that it was unsafe for me, or anyone, to step out. But something deeper and darker, something more desperate and needy than the present surface part of my brain, prompted my feet anyway and off I went. As the bus came careening towards me it honked in anger. At the same time my partner yelled aggressively and pulled me out of the way. Standing safe on the pavement, a little shocked, I realised that I didn’t very much care, that part of me wanted to be dead and that I wasn’t overly appalled or upset by this realisation.

Things have reached a new low, a strange one, where I am happily exploring a foreign country, where I am steadily falling in love with it, where I am enjoying myself immensely whilst doing so, far more than I have done in a very long while, and yet where all of this is simultaneously paralleled by an increase in bad – in ill-health of a new variety, in relationship problems of a more serious nature, in fears about the future and questions about the meaning of life, so that the good is compromised, infected, brought down by the bad and I am unable to remain present in the moment and relax. The bodily discomfort is so intense it dictates the course of the day. And the relationship issues and my needs and expectations, elevated at this make-or-break point detract from and spoil what would otherwise count for a nice time, a good day together.

It is hard to know what to do and I cannot deny that I am worried – about myself and about us. I don’t want to die early, to die in pain, to die alone and with a broken heart. I don’t want to depart in pieces, tormented by what if’s. But how to avoid it? How do I heal myself and orchestrate events so that we can heal us?

A visit to the hospital yesterday yielded little results, just a prescription for things that have thus far failed to work as intended and a lot of unnecessary anxiety as names were banded around and tests and possible surgeries discussed, all in a foreign language so that the majority of the information went straight over my head. It did not alleviate my anxiety and I would not willingly go back. I want to be well but I need to explore the problems, whatever they might be, in an English-speaking country where the doctors explain things in a language that I can understand and where what happens throughout is up to me.

New apartment, new start, and hopefully much better than the last one, which was a total disaster in every sense. I am due a run of good luck, of happy tidings, of things working out round about now. A woman can only take the rough for so long, especially when life is stubbornly shy on the smooth. I haven’t seen that illusive beast in over three years. I can’t even recall what it is supposed to look like. Does it have all of its hair? Does it have a full set of teeth? Does it have kind eyes and a mouth that is always smiling? Is it male or female? These are things I used to know, things I have forgotten, things I need to find out. I like to know who I am speaking to when I open my mouth. I like to know who I am searching for and waiting to find, who I am trying to remember. That way, when we meet, I have a fighting chance – of recognising them, of pining them down, of growing familiar, of forming a lasting relationship. Up until now, the only relationships that have extended beyond a brief window of time have been of the bad kind, ones that looked good from the outside but that were hollow or rotten when peering from the inside out. Septic things. Things that steal, taking from you all the life, all the energy, and then, years later, or sometimes just months, departing, leaving you bereft. Bereft is a concept I am familiar with. Nostalgia, melancholy, sadness: these I can do. Peace, happiness, contentment, joy: I seldom see, certainly never maintain. I want them now, like a beggar wants a bed, a child two parents, a flower a well-kept garden. My roots are dry, my petals brittle, my stems lack insufficient light. I am opening my arms to Palma, to Mallorca, to this country, inviting her in, willing her to do what all the King’s horses and all the King’s men tried but failed to do for Humpty. I have as many pieces, but I am easier to reassemble, being a more receptive and willing recipient. Surely then I must also be a far simpler project. And, with my help, an undertaking with considerably more appeal.

“Don’t spend time beating on a wall, hoping to transform it
into a door.” – Dr. Laura Schlessinger

Monday: A Square Peg

I am restless and I am still struggling – to settle in, to fit my square peg into Mallorca’s tight circle, to align myself to her way of thinking and being, of doing things. It’s not so much that I don’t like her – for I have grown more used to her now and my attitude has changed, softened slightly, mellowed somewhat as I have come to realise that she is a beautiful place with much to offer; the problem is not the island, it is our location upon it, our current abode, our failure to go out, to see what is around us. Being confined, feeling trapped, living in a damp environment: none of these things are healthy, none of them ideal. Once I know where I am and what is around me; once I have more of what I want and less of what I don’t: I will be better, more upbeat, more me, for I have become a stranger even to myself.

Thursday: Willing Pollyanna to Save Me

Everyday feels like Groundhog Day, even when what we do is not the same, even when it is injected with variety. Why? I am full of questions and empty of answers. I am more black than white. I am more negative than positive in terms of my mood and overall outlook. I need Pollyanna to leap out of the pages of Eleanor Porter’s book. I need a Fairy Godmother to reach out and save me. I need someone, anyone to fill me back up where I have become dry and empty. Instead, I have morose man and manic dog, and what use are they? I am more than slightly stuck.

Saturday: The Three Bears

Flat-hunting. Exhausting. Super-long day. Out from 9 am. Walking for seven hours with barely a break. No coffee. A lightening-fast lunch. Insane. My poor back is stiff. My poor soles ache. I feel like a geriatric. Yesterday’s work, a massage on my trapped nerve or whatever specific back injury it is (there was some more accurate diagnosis but I don’t recall it’s exact name or nature) is now a distant memory, all improvements seemingly lost. But it was a thoroughly productive venture and its purpose, to relocate to the city, to depart from the country, to bid farewell to our damp and rapidly deteriorating flat, was achieved. We viewed six. We shortlisted two. None perfect, but all lovely in their own unique way. Some just a little on the small side, or a touch too dark, or short on quirky features and old school character like arches and beams and bricks. Budget constraints also impede and mean we have to settle – for nearly, for almost, for “if they just did this…”, rather than just right. I feel like Goldilocks with her porridge, wanting baby bear’s but ending up with mother’s. However, the compromise doesn’t detract from the benefits: namely a city base that is a warm and dry and whole lot more comfortable than the current country one, with washing facilities and Wi-Fi and space and light. There are two Juliet balconies and a roof-terrace too. Hurray! And I get a wardrobe in which to hang things up… Novelty. My clothes have almost forgotten what that feels like. They will be jumping for joy and shouting out loud, waving cloth arms and shaking fabric legs, begging to be worn and paraded.

Monday: The Leopard and the Dog

Torrential rain this morning, again; it’s a Mallorcan thing and quite relentless. It is not my favourite form of wake-up call, I can assure you. Neither is the dampness of our current abode or the fact that there are puddles beneath all of the windows now, stains down all of the walls, and mould growing inside both of the cupboards. Yuck! It doesn’t even bear thinking about. It can’t be healthy. It certainly doesn’t feel like it. And it totally crushes one’s morale. There is little I can think of that is more mortifying, more miserable, more depressing, than being stuck inside an ailing house, a house that is slowly destroying every single one of your possessions as well as killing your body. My clothes have never been treated with so little respect. I have never seen my books in such a sorry state, all warped and wrinkled and curling up at the edges. And I ache everywhere – my stomach, my back, my head. Thank goodness we now have somewhere to move to arranged and only two days left of putting up with this. Typically, after a lovely weekend, after two days of sun and heat, of sitting outside and working, they are set to be miserable with storms and low temperatures and heavy grey skies. Still, we will be in Palma soon and have plenty of opportunities to get out, to appreciate all that is around us. I can’t wait to explore the city and to be romanced by it. Seeing it on Saturday in the sun was a totally different experience to what we had encountered before. The town is beautiful. Some parts don’t even seem real, reminding me, especially in certain light, of a stage or a film set. I wanted to live there, in the heart of the old quarter, but sadly the properties we viewed were too small and too dark and bigger required a bigger budget. Budgets determine everything, it is a sad fact of life, entirely unavoidable, although our ultimate goal is to reach a place where they are less important, where our expenses and needs are low, and where, should we need, it doesn’t cost the earth to get. Currently this is a pipe dream, but one day… who knows – there are no guarantees in life, but there are dreams.

As for the days themselves, I have spent the last two in considerable pain, suffering from the aforementioned abdominal cramps that have kept me awake and made it hard to do much of anything. Usually when I have felt like this it has passed after a couple of hours. This time it is lingering, so far lasting two weeks, and I am unsure as to the correct course of action. Perhaps I should see a doctor, a specialist? Who knows…? What I need to find out, to learn, is if it is more than just a standard stomach ache, more than just an exaggerated form of the normal that my body struggles to maintain – tolerable on good days, bearable on bad. It could well be a physical manifestation of my internal discomfort too – my inability to settle, to relax, to feel comfortable and at home. While I may not feel as lost as I did initially and am happier on the whole, I’m not grounded and I have still to fall in love with the place, with the island. It’s not like the south of France where I instantly feel at home. Even the air there smells right. The air here is different and we don’t commune. We get along begrudgingly, friends on pleasant days, enemies the rest of the time. Not that dissimilar to the UK when put like that, which, if the truth be known, I confess to prefer. Not now, in the thick of winter with temperatures around 4 degrees, but overall, as a place of residence and as a country. I am hoping that Palma will change my mind, do what Alarô and Santa Maria have failed to. It would help in more ways than I can explain. So far, the boxes that Mallorca was meant to tick, the list she was supposed to run through and the long line of broken that she was designed to put right, have all suffered from neglect. Nothing that really matters has changed. It is all the same as it was before and every day feels like a repeat of the parent that spurned it. The only difference, between now and before, between here and there, between old and new, is that everything is magnified, so that the bad is that much worse and the worse far more terrible and the good shrunk down to such an extent that it is no longer audible. In so many ways it was better before we came here: I had less expectations, lower hopes; I knew that this part was coming and that it would be the cure. Now, here, realising that this isn’t the case, that all promises, whether made in earnest or not, whether genuine, were in fact false – because the leopard cannot change its spots and the old dog has no interest in learning new tricks – I feel lost. What now? Where next? Do I part company and move on, alone, or stubbornly persist, drawing it out, staying, waiting until the last possible moment when a decision has to be made? I am so confused. I wish I felt more optimistic. I wish I still believed. I wish I trusted each fresh promise as it is uttered, as it is made. But I don’t. Experience has taught me to lower my expectations for, too high, they will only be crushed and stamped on. Maybe that’s why I am in pain now? Perhaps my stomach is just a big ball of disappointment, a ball that has grow so large, that has become so full, it is now making me feel awful.

Tuesday: The Operative Word

Halelluliah. Thank the Lord. Finally, I am feeling a little better – little being the operative word. No great improvement, but improvement enough: enough to stand upright without grimacing, enough to get out – albeit carefully and cautiously, enough to go on. Life doesn’t stop and there is lots to be done, moving especially. And anyway, I can’t stand another inside day: yesterday was so long it all but finished me off.

Why does my stomach hurt so much? Why won’t it get better? Why can’t my body adjust to its new environment and become acclimatised? My patience is exhausted. My calm and collected is running out. I am on edge and agitated.

Wednesday: Contents that is No Longer Required

The big move is upon us and I couldn’t be happier, for I am more than ready to leave this place. It has been nothing but miserable, one bad thing after another, the opposite of the holiday romance I had envisaged and, step by step, carefully planned out. A year of plotting, a year of working, a year of sacrificing and putting to one side, and for what? A resounding disappointment? But all of that is over now. And really, it couldn’t have waited a moment longer, or I couldn’t have.

Part of me wonders if my current ailments aren’t in fact connected – to living in a damp environment, to sleeping in a wet bed, to wearing clothes that are unable to dry out, to breathing mould spores and air that is humid. I check on their progress each day, these spores, these fluffy white things, and am horrified by their growth. No ill health there, that department is solely mine. They are positively flourishing and glowing with life. It concerns me. My parents are worried and have been pressing us to evacuate. They urged us to get out immediately, not to wait. But unfortunately it is not that simple. Moving takes time. Searching requires connection to the internet. Leaving before the agreed month would mean forefitting the rest of the rent and risking offence to our friends, who know the owners quite well.

But all of that is in the past now. From today we are based in Palma and, in every sense, starting over again. I intend to make the most of it, forcing other factors and parties, if slow or reluctant to comply, to pick up the pace. This is my retreat, my make it or break it, and I refuse to let what has been the case for the last three weeks and many years before that continue. Stress, discomfort, unease, are not a part of the plan. This is all about healing and helping, not hurting and lashing out, not travelling backwards and falling down and coming apart. Thus far, Mallorca has brought too much darkness, provided insufficient light. That needs to change. I need for all of that to be ended. Bygones should be bygones. Grudges should be buried. The past should be laid to rest. Demons should shut up or at least attempt to the extent of their ability to be quiet and well-behaved. And my suitcases, carried for so long that they have become a real and physical part of me, should either unpack and take up residence elsewhere – in another building, another house, another person – or remain behind, because their contents is no longer required.

At the top I admire the view, gazing out at the undulating landscape as it spreads itself out beneath me. Trees cluster around fenced-in fields. Cows chew the cud, oblivious to the goats and sheep mimicking their actions only meters away, separated by nothing more substantial than a handshake and the verbal boundaries that make up nine-tenths of the law. Roads wind around and cut through, slicing and segregating with little consideration for the beauty they carve up. The road leads where man needs to go, it is as simple as that, and man, of course, needs to go everywhere – up, down and around. If there is something to be seen, he must see it. It matters not at all what it contains or if it is worthy of his attention: if it exists, his curiosity is piqued.

I could stand here all day and observe, and some days I do just that, for it is a place of great beauty and movement with the power to take my breathe away. But today I have impatient feet and I am eager to appease them, so instead I move on, crossing over and through rather than winding back down.

I fill up the hours with quiet pursuits: attending to goals of a more personal nature, acquiring knowledge and skills, asking questions and seeking answers, digging deep and excavating the depths of my soul. I am not peaceful, though I appear to be. I know no inner peace, despite looking for it down every path, every avenue, every road travelled, hoping, against odds which it would seem are pitted against me. I am deeply envious of those who profess to lead simple lives. What I wouldn’t give for their serenity.

Instead, I press on, a soldier in a war that would appear to have no discernible enemy, save myself, a fact that has escaped me until recently when a change in circumstance brought it to the fore. It is frustrating. It is hard to accept. I will not accept it. I need more and I won’t stop until I get it. I can’t. To give up, to quit, would only result in a permanently grey sky and the lingering presence of clouds overhead. My life would be in perpetual shadow. There would be no light, no warmth, no hope, no anything: just more of the same, repeating and repeating until, eventually, too tortured to continue, I boil. No victory, just defeat.

Later, when the introspection is over and the thinking is done, I make my way back, slowly now because the light has gone and I do not wish to lose my step, adding mishap through misadventure to my long list of personal misconducts. Strangely though, after a brief blip in which I trip but catch myself promptly, things improve, and it is almost like with nightfall the shadow is cast aside, held motionless behind a transparent wall where I can see it but it cannot touch me. For a few hours there is a short respite, until the world, angered, put out, comes crashing back.

And here I pause, for what else is there to say? Each day is an upward slope, a steep hill, a repeat of that which passed before it. And there is little change, save the renewal of efforts which yield no crops.

Mornings found him at the height of his anger, tense and hot. By lunchtime, the worst of the aggression had usually receded but afternoons tended to bring a slow return of the former antisocial flaw, with it peaking each evening around nine o’clock. Because of this and despite numerous efforts to the contrary and renewed attempts made each day, he lived in a void: for how can anyone truly love a man who snaps and bites at them constantly and who endeavours, most devoutly, to push them away? How can anyone permit themselves to live around an individual who is dismissive and disrespectful and hostile in their behaviour towards them? They couldn’t, surely. Such a person would have to be insane or at least not complete of mind and fully there: say partly lost or perhaps still waiting to return or arrive? Or maybe they would just have to hate themselves enough to believe that they deserved it, that this treatment – both callous by nature and harsh by design – was their punishment for being a terrible person themselves, if not in this than in at least one of several former lives?

This was what she thought, in any case, or at least what she had been led to think. Hours of therapy and introspection, of digging into and holding up a mirror to the past, had taught her this, explaining in detail the how and the why and the wherefore and the repeated actions that had instilled the beliefs that now held her fast. Rigid, stuck, trapped like a statue: she was a creature frozen inside a cocoon, mute and unable to climb out.

“Why him?” people often asked her, confused by her resolve. “Why not get up and leave and go out and find someone else?”

She couldn’t explain: it was complicated, it didn’t make sense. It wasn’t flat and transparent like other things. It didn’t follow a line or a code of conduct that could be understood. It couldn’t be read like a book or watched like a film or viewed like a photograph. It couldn’t be climbed into and peered around. It was a foreign language with only two native speakers and it belonged to them alone.

And yet she had learned it, for she came to their relationship ignorant, with no prior knowledge, and she was fluent now. If only she weren’t. If only she had failed to piece together the words he had uttered on that very first day and on all the days that followed it in strict accordance with the rules. If only she were as ignorant now…

She closed her eyes and let her thoughts take the helm. She liked to think: it was the only real escape she had, the only respite from what was bent and broken, all twisted and crushed up; the only place where she could imagine that there was still a blue sky and sun overhead, pleasant times to be had. Otherwise, open, it was all dark and grey, with thunder and lightening and torrential rain thrown in to spice things up.

Today she returned to her favourite dream, the one with the cat and the dog and the house in the country that she shared with the stranger, a man who was now her beloved other half. Here was a man who treated her right, building her up, padding her out, polishing her tarnished exterior until it sparkled like diamonds and shone like glass. In this dream, she was always laughing and dancing around, and there was a lightness to her step that was hard to replicate and impossible to fake. Her voice rang clear and uninterrupted each time she spoke, and her words sounded true and correct whenever she uttered them. When she talked, someone sat and listened without butting in. When she wept, someone held her hand and squeezed it. She felt special. She felt important. She felt valued. She felt like it mattered if she was there, and that she was missed when she was not; that her not being there made a difference that was dramatic to the extent that she could not be done without.

Obviously, it was a cliche and a young girl’s dream, naive in the fullest sense. She was aware of its fictional nature, the sheer improbability of such a person even existing in the world, let alone existing in her own one. If there were such a person, whether a man or a woman, they would have been snapped up and taken somewhere far away as soon as they could talk. They would have married early and easily and without hesitation. They would have walked off happily into the setting sun without so much as a backwards glance, its distant glow from the horizon warming each day as it passed, blissfully unaware and ignorant of the shadows that the rest of the population had to bear.

Or would they? After all, if there was only one – just the man or the woman alone, not the man and the woman together, a unit in and of themselves – wouldn’t they be just as likely to be unhappy, just as likely to have made the wrong choice when picking and settling with another half? It stood to reason, didn’t it? Really, in all probability, there was no escape: they were all doomed to form unhappy partnerships; all destined to make the wrong choice, the same mistakes, picking the wrong person over and over again, because the right one either wasn’t out there to start with, or was but had already been taken by an incorrect someone else. The true pairs never matched up. The Queen of Hearts never found the King, she always ended up with the Nave or the Squire or the Barrow Boy instead.

Life wasn’t fair and it didn’t make sense and it didn’t matter how much you wished it or how hard you hoped it, it wasn’t about to change its behaviour for the sake of the human race. It was a like it or lump it journey, more trial than adventure, and the sooner one accepted that and just got on with it, the better off they would be. It was Eve’s fault for partaking of the apple in the Garden of Eden, Adam’s for neglecting her when he should have been by her side, and God’s for putting the wretched thing there in the first place and for creating the devious snake. But there wasn’t anything that could be done about that now, not so long after the actual event. It was what it was and that was that.

She might as well make the most of it, just like everyone else. She might as well grin and bare it and put on a brave face. So why was she struggling? Why was she striving for more? Why couldn’t she just put her unhappiness to one side and get on with her life?

She wasn’t able to answer that, not yet, but she was determined to at some point before she died, and then, successful, to share it, so that the world, grey and miserable for the most part, might finally, at long last, be filled with colour and happiness as was its initial design.

Only this morning, there was sun. It was warm and pleasant, nice to be out. I took my dog for a walk down the long drive in my pyjamas, opened the windows to air the house out. I felt elated and optimistic.I was looking forward to the opportunity to work outside and then, almost without warning, the sky clouded over and the Heavens opened up.

Retreating, I hid inside and watched as the windows, still attempting to dry out from the previous week’s storms, began to leak once more. It would appear that there is no escape for the house or its contents and that, slowly, bit by bit, every single one of my possessions will be destroyed.

I keep trying to tell myself that it’s not so bad, that letting go of treasured items is healthy and holistic, and that cherishing and coveting all things material is a misguided concept designed to breed disappointment and contempt, feelings of inadequacy and dissatisfaction and of never being quite good enough, encouraging us to want and desire and shell out on that which we can ill-afford in an attempt to fit into a space that is changing at a continuous rate so that, even running, we can never keep up. No sooner has one bought the latest computer, the latest phone, then the next model comes out and what was modern and cutting-edge, fast and reliable, is suddenly rendered old school and uncool, slow and prone to acting out. And it’s not like there is anything I can do, save piling my possessions onto the kitchen table and covering them in plastic and moving the thing in its entirety into the centre of the room, which, in all honesty, will only save them partially and temporarily rather than in the long run, for they will still be subjected to the residual damp. It is a beast from which there is no escaping, even the food fails to make a stand against it, rotting and blackening with mould. Forget keeping a cauliflower for a week, a loaf of bread for over half. Think only of each day and, if fortunate, the one that follows it, then resign yourself to said item’s premature burial in the bin, doing away with ceremony and paying your respects for fear of becoming overly sentimental and permanently delayed. Thank goodness for small pleasures and creature comforts like strong coffee and hot milk, electric heaters and extra jumpers, good books and English TV. At least there is always escapism and a temporary retreat in that.

She was living along the circumference of a circle, walking the same path over and over again, starting out with high hopes of adventure and of fresh experience only to return to that initial spot, heavy with resentment and frustration, sad that her energy had been spent.

There must be another way, a course of action that would remove her from her current position and set her down in a foreign location, significantly improved. She was tired of waiting, of wanting, of weeping enough tears to water the world. The world was damp enough already, as was she.

Once upon a time, she had believed in the words “the sun will come out tomorrow”, and “tomorrow is another day”. Now she wasn’t so sure. Tomorrow kept proving to be a disappointment, and the day after that never introduced itself.

When did she stop, resigning herself to the fact that leopards don’t change their spots and old dogs cannot, in general, learn new tricks?

I sit inside and shiver, bones aching, despite it being somewhere in the realm of 20 degrees. It can’t be healthy and I resent that it is costing money to maintain this state of misery, when that same cash could be put towards the pursuit of health and happiness and recovery from things that have broken apart.

And it isn’t just me. My partner is angry that everything he touches stops working if it ever even worked at all – the kettle, the dishwasher, the extractor fan. While my dog simply paces and barks, defending against an intruder neither one of us can see. For want of a better option, at least until the tenancy expires, we flee to a café where we can pretend that none of it ever happened, temporarily forgetting that there is no longterm escape and we are only postponing what must later be returned to until a better option is secured.

My limbs meanwhile remain heavy, weighed down with a blend of anxiety and emotions I am unable to express. I can only voice discomfort and a sensation of dis-ease. I feel tired but cannot sleep, the period between dusk and dawn endless, sounds I cannot put names to keeping me awake – water moving somewhere close by, murmurs from the house, creatures and plants shifting in the background. My partner lies motionless beside me, my dog snores loudly, both cocooned in a place I long for but cannot reach.

That said, the about turn in the weather has helped significantly, reminding me of how greatly it affects the way I feel. Light and sunshine are vital, as are blue skies. I have decided I must prioritise that wherever I end up. Like the wealthy and many of today’s more privileged pensioners, I shall move with the seasons, my destination in any given month dictated by the the temperature of the land I am in. Birds have done this for years; it is only us humans who have been slow on the uptake. We let things like vocation and responsibility and commitment ground us. Although this is often forced, more necessity than choice, it does not make it the best way to live. It will, of course, be hard to integrate, as everything that is worth having is; but, similarly, it will pay off in dividends, the little sacrifices translating into big returns.

Picturing this, padding it out in my mind’s eye, I am hit by a wave of positivity, water that allows me to breathe as opposed to encouraging me to drown. Like a fish, I open my gills and venture forth into the unknown, no longer confined by fear to the shore. Ties already cut, there is nothing stopping me beyond myself, any and all limitations located inside. Waving farewell to security and routine, will always require courage and determination. It will be necessary to make a concerted effort, upping my motivation daily. A creature of habit, I cling to what is safe and quickly become stuck. Unsticking is problematic. That is why right now is important. I have left the familiar behind. I have leapt and landed. Anything is possible.

I tell myself to focus on the horizon, to look ahead, to resist at all costs the temptation to turn around and run. I feel my body pulling against me and my stomach growling in complaint. My eyes slide to the side and tug at my head. But my body stands firm, and my feet remain stationary, and this is enough to hold me in place for now.