In an attempt to dodge the cartoon anvil that is my one year anniversary, I'm writing this two days early.
On 4th January last year I walked away from everything, towards nothing in particular. After having a child on my own, it was the biggest risk of my life. I'm not sure how I did it, or if I could ever do it again. But it seems I do crazy things every 25 years so if I'm riding a motorbike down the Pacific Highway when I'm 75 you'll know why.
I watched Eat Pray Love the other day. You've probably seen the poster: duck-lipped Julia Roberts spooning gelato into her gob looking pensive. In the same amount of time that I've been here she - or rather Elizabeth Gilbert - went to Italy, India, and Indonesia, met people who seemed set on her path simply to bring her some loving message, or some shit like that, and created little friend-families along the way as she sought her balance. And then she met the bloke who became her husband, naturally.
My year doesn't quite look like that. I do not think Julia Roberts would play me. She doesn't have the right mouth for a start. There have been some lovely people, but no cumulative gathering of wisdom, and no potential husbands; just young blokes looking for ancient minge. What there has been is life, and finding out what I'm able to deal with on my own. Quite a lot, it seems.
There is no back. I feel like an arrow-head, that can only go forward through stuff. Although if we are getting really fanciful, the flight of the arrow is still tickling the bow. Or something. The bow will hopefully let it fly, but only I can decide when. And I'll stop with the metaphors now.
One year. Eh? One whole fucking year.