Few people know if the I goes before the E
And it’s hard to give away because it’s
The last thing you gave to me.
‘THE THING ABOUT GRIEF’
(What Was Left, 2005)
Discovering and adopting The Weekes’s simple, uncomplicated approach to curing ‘nervous illness’ marked a dramatic turning point in my recovery. You will notice my use of the word ‘curing’—that’s the word The Weekes used. I liked that bit. At the same time, she was clear that there would be setbacks; that they were, in fact, an important part of learning from my recovery. I didn’t like that bit at all.
I practised FAFL every day, dozens and perhaps even hundreds of times a day. My progress from this point felt excruciatingly slow but … noticeable. Mine was most certainly not an overnight recovery. My nerves were a little too frazzled to magically unfrazzle just like that. My habits, my ways of thinking, were old. Their grooves were deep.
But I was on my way.
I still struggled to sleep. If I did manage to nod off, I’d wake almost every morning with a feeling of the dreads, with a cloudy mind (The Weekes called this Brain Fog) but now, instead of lying in bed wallowing, letting my feelings build into storms, I got up immediately (whether I felt like it or not), put on the kettle, made a cup of tea, cooked some porridge, had a shower, got dressed, put my walking shoes on, and every day I’d walk a little further than I had walked the day before. I would follow this routine—wake up, shower, eat something, go out for a walk, crush some flowers, come home—for the next few months. Although it wouldn’t have looked like much from the outside, I counted every walk as a chance to practise my FAFL. And as the days went on, I began to get glimpses of my old self. It was slow work, but I was no longer in any rush.
Sometimes, if I was feeling particularly brave, I would go on a second walk in the afternoon, and one such afternoon, instead of heading in the direction of the beach, I went the other way, in the direction of the cemetery—the one where Rowie was buried. By the time I arrived there it was getting a little late, but I was so close now I felt it would be wrong not to pay her a visit. I picked some yellow daisies that were hanging over a neighbouring fence, and entered the cemetery, careful to avoid cracks (bad luck thinking), then walked over what felt like kilometres of green grass until finally I found her.
Rowena Jane Bowditch
1973–1980
Beloved daughter of Ian and Maria
Loving sister of Anna, Lisa, James and Clare. Always close to us. Thank you, Father, for this beautiful child who showed us how to live.
By the time I reached Rowie, I was so tired that, though it sounds odd now, I figured it would be a good idea to just lie down flat on her grassy grave for a while and have a little rest. A little chat, really. I wasn’t sure what to say, but once I started talking, I just kept going. I talked and talked and talked. Then I cried and cried and cried. I told her everything in my heart—all the guilt, and all the horrible intractable feelings I still lived with, every day, in her absence. I had no idea where she’d gone, I said, but I hoped Mum was right: I hope I got to see her again. I told her I didn’t get any of this. Why were we even here? Why were we even born? What were we supposed to do here? Any clues appreciated.
And after that, I rolled off Rowie’s grave, looked up at the passing clouds, and had a little chat with God directly, telling Him or Her or It that even though I was not going to mass with Mum anymore (because—sorry to be rude—I found it a bit boring) and, even though I still really had no idea if He or She or It existed, right now, in this vulnerable state, it was probably best if I just acted as if He or She or It did exist, and stop with all the rumination.
As always, I noticed that once I’d spoken these doubts and fears aloud, a peaceful feeling came over me. Relief. The relief of speaking the truth. It made me feel more like myself.
By now some time had passed—a fair bit, actually, because all of a sudden it occurred to me that it was dusk now and well past time for me to head home. I felt the panic rising in me then. I hadn’t taken a mobile phone with me. Mum would be worried.
I walked quickly back the way I came, only to discover with a flash of horror that the gates to the cemetery were locked. The panic started fizzing in me then. I walked faster, and then started running, all the way to the other side of the cemetery, where I discovered—Jesus help me—those gates were locked too.
Are you freaking kidding me? I’m locked in a cemetery? Are you serious? Am I going to have to sleep here? I looked around but there was no one else about. Oh my God! What the hell was I going to do?
I had still been a little on the fence about whether I wanted to live or die, but this was the moment I realised that I wanted to live. I really did. I would really, really like to live, and I would really, really like to get out of there.
These were very good things to know.
But the problem remained: how the hell was I going to get out of there?
There was only one way. Yes, the wall surrounding the cemetery was tall. Yes, if I fucked this up I was probably going to break some bones. But damn it, I was going to try!
So I did—I tried. I
