postcards to a healing woman, #1.

You have been really tired lately. Maybe it’s the months of early starts and late-night adventures. You have been reminded that going to bed intoxicated results in either a sleep paralysis demon or pain coursing through every limb. You still haven’t hesitated when the opportunity to drink arises. You like wine too much now. You can sleep when you’re dead.

It’s been hot on the days you aren’t able to fully enjoy it. The layers of sweat stick to your uniform, the same navy shorts you have worn for four summers in a row. They make you look like a Year Nine boy. Your first summer your hair was the longest and thickest it’s ever been. People came to recognise you by the way the mass of ginger swung as you walked. Now your hair is long again, but stays clipped up high. Reviving your bangs was a smart decision.

Sometimes you miss it. The swirling head, the pleading stomach. Watching the protrusion of bone with a sick glee. But then the moment passes, and you get reminded of how good it feels to eat. To enjoy food, to crave and be satisfied. To feel hungry and eat a pack of donuts guilt-free on a three hour drive. Life is better when you stop starving yourself.

You seem to have forgotten how to read. It’s annoying you, as the stack of books grows with no signs of stopping. You’re moving out in a week, and won’t have the space for the already overflowing bookcases. Piles of paperbacks on hardwood floor sounds like it will look cool, but you don’t know if you’ll even have enough space left to walk in a straight line. This time next week you’ll know.

Change seems to be happening all at once. This is new for you, but you don’t look nervous. Maybe you’ll cry on the last night in your family home. You probably won’t; the bus you haunted throughout undergrad is just around the corner. But you won’t be a nervous first year, sitting on the bus for an hour in head-to-toe Dotti. You’ll be a Masters student, decked out in some vintage ensemble and unafraid to drift off in the very back seat. You’ll smell like Chanel perfume, and will wear the N95 mask you guard with your life. Oh, how times have changed.

Good luck,

b x

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