Barnard - Fierce Fragile Hearts

For Tom, my co-pilot

There is freedom waiting for you,

On the breezes of the sky,

And you ask, What if I fall?

Oh, but my darling,

What if you fly?

Erin Hanson

I have lost my necklace, and it feels like a sign.

What are you doing? Josh asks, voice sleepy and muffled.

Nothing, I say. Im actually crawling around under the covers, my hands sliding over the sheets, searching. I brush his leg and he yelps. Sorry. Did you see my necklace earlier? I was wearing it, right?

What necklace?

I shouldnt be offended, but I am. Youre so observant Yes! My fingers close around the thin chain and I sigh with relief. I climb out from under the covers and lean over to switch on the light.

Josh yelps again. Christ, Suze, what are you doing now?

I have to go, I say, pulling on my jeans with one hand and shaking out my necklace with the other. Oh, shit. Its broken, the chain split a few links down from the clasp. I stare at it for a moment, half into my jeans, half out of them. The dove looks so lonely, set adrift on a broken chain.

Should I get up? Josh asks.

I roll my eyes. Dont put yourself out or anything. Its not like Im leaving tomorrow. Or I pull my phone out of the pocket of my jeans and check the time. Today. Its later than I thought. Or earlier, depending on your point of view. It had felt like a good idea to see Josh rather than spend my last night in Southampton not sleeping in my own bed, but now its after 4 a.m. and Ive got a broken necklace and what might be the beginnings of a headache pressing at the base of my skull. Well done, me. Solid decision-making skills, as usual.

I wrap my necklace around my wrist so it hangs as a loose, tangled bracelet and dress quickly, glancing back at Josh as I open the door to leave.

Ill see you, Josh says.

Sure, I say.

He grins. Take care of yourself, yeah?

I dont reply, just smile back and lift my hand in a wave goodbye. I head out of the building, taking the steps at a jog. The outside air is cool and I pull up the hood of my jacket, breathing it in. Its going to be a beautiful day in Southampton.

Its about a mile from Joshs to mine and I take it slowly, hands in my pockets. The streets are deserted, which is how I like it best. I take a detour along the harbour and allow myself a few minutes, pulling myself up on to the railing to sit and watch the dawn break in pink streaks across the sky. Its quiet except for the seagulls and the soft, calming swish of the sea against the boats.

I know that when I get home, or whats passed for home for the last eighteen months or so, therell be boxes in my room and packing to do and goodbyes to say. My foster parents, Christie and Don, will make French toast and well go through my transition plan for the thousandth time while we wait for Sarah, my aunt, to arrive to take me back to Brighton.

I close my eyes and listen to the seagulls, which sound exactly the same in Southampton as they ever did in Brighton. Maybe theyre even the same seagulls, travelling from one coastal city to another when they get bored or restless. It must be nice not to be tied down like that.

Im the queen of fresh starts, which is another way of saying Ive lived a lot of failures. Ive thought things will be different this time more than once, but this time its actually true, for good or bad, whether I want it or not. This time, Im eighteen. Im an adult. Im legally independent.

This time, Im on my own.

Good morning, sunshine. Don greets me when I come through the back door. Hes sitting at the kitchen table, paper spread in front of him.

Hey, I say. I lock the door behind me and hang the key on its hook. Youre up early.

Don smiles. Look whos talking.

I shrug. If I dont sleep, does it still count as my last night?

That is an interesting question, Don says, pointing at me. Is sleep an essential component of the night? What, in fact, is night? Perhaps it is an illusion?

I smile. Ill nap, OK? I pause on my way out of the kitchen. You werent waiting for me, were you?

Don busies himself with the paper. They think it might get up to twenty-five degrees today.

I rest my head against the door frame. Im fine.

You should put that on a T-shirt, Don says, glancing at me to smile. Save yourself some time.

Hes worried about me; they all are. All the people whove guided me through the last two years to get me to this place, my shot at independence. Outwardly, theyre keeping positive, but I know what theyre really thinking. Theyre thinking that I wont be able to handle this, that Im going to fall apart.

Im much more stable than I used to be, which is a lot to do with my medication and also, you know, actual stability, but thats the problem now; the ending of the stability part. Me moving on from Christie and Don leaving the care system to live on my own is pretty unstable. And Ive got previous on falling apart. Theyve got good reason to worry. But I cant stay in this Southampton limbo forever, and Ive waited what feels like such a long time to have some kind of control over my own life. However scary this is, and however badly it might go, I have to believe that its worth it. Otherwise, whats the point?

Heres where I should explain why theyre worried; why I fell apart before, what that even means. This is the bit I hate the most, the bit where I give up any control over how people see me. I want them to look at me and see just that: me. If I say that I was abused, that Im prone to severe depression, that Ive tried to kill myself more than once, all of that falls away. When someone knows youve been broken, all they see is the cracks. The knowledge colours everything, an extra filter between me and the world. People look at me differently, and maybe I look out at the world a little differently, too.

Thats the thing about trauma, the thing people on the other side of it dont understand. It isnt a bump on the road of your life, a jolt thatll take your breath away, but only for a moment. Its the double yellow lines snaking on either side of everything you do, trapping you on a track down a one-way street. You cant stop. You cant pull over and take a break. You just have to keep going.

I used to think that there must be something so, so wrong with me, that my parents didnt love me enough. Something bad, something they could see, and maybe other people could too. I dont think that anymore Im older, Ive had therapy. I understand that the wrongness is all on an abusive parent, not the child. I get that. But knowing something and feeling something are two different things. And that feeling of being wrong hasnt ever really gone away. Sometimes someone will say something, just a passing comment really, or look at me in a certain way, and my head will say, they can see it. And Ill smile bigger and dazzle harder and put on the charm until every drop of energy and light from inside of me has poured out on to them. And then when Im alone again Im always alone again Im so drained I cant do anything except cry.