times had I checked myself from this position one last time before heading out? Although, for the past eight months I had refrained, not liking what I saw. My normally filled out heart shaped face, had become a leaner version of its former self, the shadows under my eyes, smudges that didn’t erase. For goodness sake, I was only 34.
Although I may have recently been terra incognita, when I glanced across, I noticed there was a small measure of the real me returning, and although I saw relief on my face, my middle finger went to a small frown line embedded between my brows. I could not remember that being there a year ago.
Continuing the last few steps, my eyes cast down to the harsh pigmented concrete flooring spreading across the first floor entry. I could not help but be reminded of the amount of arguments we’d had over this floor, me wanting something welcoming and homely, Davis insisting on keeping the industrial look.
I glanced back the way I had come. This was it! We had shared hopes, dreams, sorrows, thoughts and memories, and now it was over. I exhaled, waiting for something to rear up. Nothing!
The thing was my new life was not apparent yet. I had to believe it would come to me.
*
Ten long weeks ago, which now seemed like eons away, my mother Bea, handed me a small blue card. Silently, I read: Do you want to free up your body, heart and mind from years of old patterns and baggage? Are you ready to create a healthier, happier, more harmonious way of living? I remembered looking at my mother. She shrugged, dusted her hands together, climbed into her white seventies Peugeot cabriolet and roared off down the street, without a backward glance.
I recalled watching her drive away, her brightly hued scarf billowing in the wind as if waving to me. Had she been wiping her hands of me, or simply feeling it was my choice? It was the same when my sister had her wrist tattooed. Bea had handed her a card and said, ‘No doubt this will come in handy.’
The card had the name of a doctor who specialised in laser tattoo removal. Bea loathed tattoos, but she never bought the subject up again. She had done her job, much the same as handing me the card that day. I will say, she was not wrong.
I studied the blue card, turning it over, reading the therapist’s name, Emerald Green. Pleeeease! What type of name was that?
However, I guessed if my rather unconventional mother was going to recommend someone, they certainly were going to be out in left field.
Emerald Green turned out to be a small wiry woman, dressed in army fatigues and a navy singlet top. She wore her shaved head well. However, like my mother, I was unsure of the tattoos on her wrists and foot.
Although not at first, I very soon came to love her piercingly beautiful green eyes and open honest face. While we were much the same size, I felt quite diminished beside her.
Emerald Green was clear on two things. In fact they were so non-negotiable that I was asked to sign a contract to agree to them. Firstly, I had to journal three pages each morning, and secondly, I had to take myself on a date each week.
‘What are you talking about?’ I had asked, regarding the later. And then I spoke very clearly, as if the poor woman was hard of hearing. ‘I am living on own. I’m with myself all the time.’
She of the piercing green eyes nodded, pulled her tanned bare feet up and sat cross legged on the chair. ‘Did you and your husband ever attend couples therapy?’
‘Yes once… after the horse had well and truly bolted. Obviously it did not one ounce of bloody good.’ I’m not saying I did not have attitude that day, and my tone was undoubtedly direct. ‘What on earth has that got to do with it?’
‘Did the therapist ask you how much quality time you spent together?’ She joined her hands in front of her chest as if in prayer. ‘Not just being in the same house, but proper quality time?’
Puzzled, I had nodded.
‘Well it’s the same thing Peach. You have to take you on a date each week. Something that impresses you. Don’t take anyone else. Think of all the things you could do if you had the time.’
Obviously, the look of complete bafflement on my face became clear to her, because she threw her hands in the air, and began making suggestions. ‘Think Peach… walk on the beach, sit under a tree, ride the City Cats up and down the Brisbane River, attend the ballet, walk through Southbank and sit on Kodak Beach, browse art at Goma, visit the museum, the State Library,’ she rapid fired, ‘see a foreign film, volunteer at the RSPCA. These are meant to be your things… you’ll think up something. The point is find out who you are. It’s time to defrag, time to just BE.’ She gave me a determined stare. ‘Do you understand?’
I nodded and left thinking I would not return for the following appointment in three weeks. I knew eventually I did want to date someone, just not me.
To test her out though, I began to journal the three pages each morning. After all, what else did I have to do? The first week, I wrote cynical things such as: I have nothing bloody to say! Here I am again, booooring. This is wasting my time. Blah, blah, blah… bloody blah… Happy now Emerald Green?
Then something changed. I began to write about my feelings. I could not write fast enough. And the time flew. Each morning, I would write the last word on the third page, then raise my head as if only a few minutes had passed. I had bursts of tears and bursts of laughter. There were times when a certain giddiness overtook me, accompanied by a sudden loss. And I have to admit, there were ghastly moments when I felt like an accident victim walking away from a crash.
I returned for visit number two with the green eyed therapist.
‘Welcome back,’ she had said, as if she had guessed my thoughts three weeks earlier. She hugged me tightly, surprising me. ‘What did you do on your dates?’
Sheepishly, I said, ‘I saw an Italian movie at the Palace cinemas in James Street. I took a long walk along Sunshine Beach. Plus I sat in New Farm Park among the roses, with a coffee and a Dello Mano brownie and read a book for two entire hours. To be honest, I cannot remember the last time I did something as frivolous as that. It was sheer bliss.’
‘Congratulations. You are getting to know you again,’ she had said. With her once again barefooted and cross legged, and me sitting primly on my chair, legs crossed, hands in my lap, we spent the next 90 minutes speaking to a pink crystal on the floor. In the third person! No I’s or me’s allowed. Depending on how you looked at it, it was either very interesting, or very odd!
By my third visit many changes and shifts in attitude had begun. Firstly, I hugged Emerald Green as warmly as she hugged me. Secondly, I began to uncover certain likes, such as I required nature, nature, nature; and dislikes such as the sound of the television, social networking - a necessary tool for my former business life, and probably every single thing about Davis. What a relief.
I soon realised I had blurred my uniqueness with overwork, underplay and under sleep, and living someone else’s dream.
After my fourth visit with Emerald Green, (I never thought of her as just Emerald, although she did tell me she had been christened Emily Green), I had this sudden epiphany that I needed to leave the warehouse behind. It was part of my old life. As part of the settlement, I offered it back to Davis. There was tension and relief in my decision. Months of depression had eased, even though my new life was uncertain, I had thoughts I would spend time at my father’s chateau in Provence.
I
