Bloodletting (9 page)

Emily, Dee (another friend from the past) and my mother all agreed to look at the long essay or thesis—whatever it was—and happily pointed out the spelling errors and non sequiturs, while also being very encouraging. So, buoyed briefly, I included their suggestions, while being careful not to read any complete sentences. Then I printed it out and handed in three bound copies for marking, as required.

I had expected to feel excited at finishing. After years of study I was finally free and I didn’t have to feel guilty if I wasn’t reading or taking notes or working on a chapter. I should have been delighted, but instead I felt flat and lost. I now had to get a job but couldn’t imagine who would employ me. I’d already sent off my resumé to various companies and those that had bothered to respond had said they had nothing available.All of the jobs advertised in the paper asked for experience. I had some, as I’d had a number of part-time jobs over the years, but waitressing, dressmaking, tutoring, and shopkeeping didn’t seem to be of any use, unless you wanted a job in those areas. I didn’t.

It was obvious what I had to do.

I went to the local chemist and bought a packet of razor blades.Then I sat down at the dining room table and put a towel carefully under my right wrist, feeling strangely detached. It had been a while, but I remembered the sequence. I put the blade to my flesh, bracing myself.

It was bad, though I had once again avoided doing any serious damage. What Annabel in the Acute Ward had once said was true, ‘Arteries are surprisingly slippery’. She went searching for them from time to time, so was in a position to know.

The nearest doctor’s surgery was about five minutes away by car, but fifteen on foot.As I wasn’t able to drive and hold together the cut at the same time, I walked. I felt better as I headed up the hill towards the shops, but disappointed in myself. It had been over six months since I’d last done this, and I thought I was over it.That I’d escaped.

The doctor, who I’d not seen before, made little comment. As he tended my forearm, I looked at the framed photographs of his family on the walls of the surgery, and wondered what he thought of me. Whatever it was, he didn’t think I was either insane or in danger, and he didn’t ask what the problem was. Sighing, he asked if I was seeing a psychiatrist regularly,and asked for his name.And that was it.Sixteen stitches later I was allowed to go home. Did he believe that no matter what he said, I’d just keep cutting?

When I got home there was a message for me.An academic looking for a research assistant wanted to see me. It was just the kind of work I could do; it was perfect.

Two days later, my arm neatly bandaged, I went to the interview wearing my most conservative clothes: a striped long-sleeved shirt, cream pants and navy loafers.The sort of clothes a reliable person would wear. My arm ached a little as I drove across town. Even though my mother had warned me the evening before that the job market was tough, that for every one job there were a hundred applicants and that I should be prepared not to get it, I was optimistic.

The interview was at the woman’s house, a small terrace smelling of damp. She worked from home, so that’s where the job would be based.The pay would be hourly, and she envisaged needing someone about two days a week. I should know, she said, that she’d already seen two people who’d be perfect. She wasn’t going to score the trifecta that day.Not with me,I knew that immediately.As we talked I became less and less confident in my ability to do anything at all.

As I drove home, weeks, months, of pent-up frustration began to surface. Hurting my arm hadn’t been enough; I’d known that at the time. But what else was there?

Staring straight ahead, I put my foot on the accelerator.There was a crash and my car—or rather my mother’s car—concertinaed, the front disappearing completely.The impact left me shaken and bruised, but not bleeding.

The vehicle in front of me was hardly damaged, and, as I quickly discovered, belonged to a paramedic. He rang an ambulance, and then calmly helped me out of the wreck.

Initially, I was X-rayed to check for broken ribs. The lead belt fell low around my hips.‘Not much of you,is there?’said one of the nurses cheerfully. I had hardly noticed as the kilos had dropped off. It was ironic; once I had believed that a body this size was all you needed to be happy.

When the police officers came in, I was lying on a bed in emergency. There were two of them, each asking questions. What time had the accident occurred? What kind of car did I drive? Could they see my licence? Could I describe what had happened? Had I done it on purpose?

It was possible that they’d seen my patient file, as I’d been in this hospital once before. My sleeves were rolled up though, so perhaps they’d just seen my bandaged forearm and jumped to their own conclusions.

Had I done it on purpose? It was a fair question, all things considered. I didn’t know but I certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone else that. I had to be very, very careful about what I said now. If I admitted to anything other than a lapse of concentration, I’d probably get scheduled and charged with negligent driving.As it was,both of these things were already on the cards.‘I don’t know how it happened; it was just an accident,’ I said. And apologised.

They left me alone for a few minutes and then returned. Iwas shaking. ‘We’re going over your side of town, do you want a lift home?’

I’d got away with it. Again.

Once back home, I rang Emily and told her what had happened. There was a pause, and then the sound of laughter. ‘How do you do it?’ She was right.Things were getting farcical. But she wasn’t callous and quickly added,‘Are you all right?’

There was nothing broken. My shoulder, ribs and hips were bruised from the seatbelt, my knees were bruised from hitting the bottom of the dashboard. Other than that, I was surprisingly intact.

‘How about we come over with some takeaway and a video?’

I thought of saying no, that wasn’t necessary, but then changed my mind. I began to tidy up the flat, but didn’t get further than emptying the ashtrays. Emily and her boyfriend would cope.The only person who really cared about tidiness was the owner of the car, my mother.

I rang her next.‘As long as you are all right, that’s all that matters. The car’s insured, I can get another. I’ll be in town the day after tomorrow, so we can sort out things then.’

Two days later, my mother arrived to collect me.We had to go to the wrecker’s yard to look at the damage and fill in the insurance forms. The first thing she noticed was my bandaged arm.

‘What happened there?’

I tried to sound convincing. ‘It was in the accident. There was something near the steering wheel.’ I shook my head. ‘I really don’t remember.’ I hoped that would be enough for her.

At the wrecker’s one of the mechanics showed us what remained of the car.‘Like a sardine can, these things.You might as well be on a bicycle for all the protection they give you.’ He patted the roof and smiled.

My mother was looking into the driver’s side. ‘So, which bit was it that cut your arm, dear?’

I looked in, trying to find something that might have done it.There was nothing. ‘I don’t know. Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t hurt,’ I said, trying not to show her how much my discomfort increased with each new question.

She persisted.‘If it’s bad enough to need a bandage, then we need to put it on the insurance claim form.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.’ Couldn’t she just leave it alone?

Then the mechanic piped up.‘She’s right, they like all those kinds of details. A nasty cut, was it?’

My mother finally turned away from the car and looked at me, then at my bandaged arm. Had she known all along that it was nothing to do with the accident? Her look of disgust and anger suggested that she’d suspected, but had wanted me to confirm it.

It was a look that I wanted to get away from—as far away as possible. I wanted to get away from her shame and my own guilt. I wanted to start afresh, somewhere else.

The official story was that I was taking some time out. I was tired, that was the problem. I was going to South Australia to do a bit of photography, a bit of drawing, maybe have a go at writing a book. Maybe even get a job. Adelaide wasn’t as fiercely competitive as Sydney, and I had relatives there. It would be a nice change.

The truth was that I was really scared. It wasn’t just guilt but the fear of what I might do to myself if I stayed. I didn’t believe that my psychiatrist could help me through this. It was something I had to do by myself.

Two weeks to the day after the accident, I got on a plane. My furniture was in storage and the keys to my flat had been handed in. I had only a suitcase, a small computer and a darkroom kit, the last a parting gift from Peter.

Initially I stayed with my aunt and uncle who were rattling around in a large, empty house as their four children had all left home.They let me use the back section, which had its own bathroom, bedroom and sitting room, and I got ready to settle into life in a new city. Used to people staying and doing their own thing, they left me alone.We ate meals together, and sometimes watched TV together, but that was pretty much it.They didn’t ask why I was there, and I knew that my own parents wouldn’t have told them.

At first I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do, so, to fill in time, Iwandered around the city taking photos. Perhaps, I thought, I could take portrait shots professionally. My cousin’s children, who were perky and blonde, were happy to pose for me.When I developed the shots— in the back bathroom that I’d turned into a darkroom—I was disappointed.The children were cute but that didn’t mean the photos were any good. Perhaps it wasn’t the career for me.

But I didn’t have to decide on one immediately as I was on sickness benefits, a form of social security, for three months. I had been on the dole, but that meant I had to apply for jobs regularly, and my psychiatrist had agreed that I needed a little break before going to my next job interview. In the meantime, I did want to make some more money, and to move toward supporting myself, while I wasn’t under any pressure.Waitressing and bartending seemed like the only real options, when suddenly it occurred to me that there was something else I could do.

Something that didn’t require any experience.

That was how I found myself in the front foyer of the North Adelaide School of Art, asking if they were looking for any life drawing models.

I loved life drawing myself, and it was one of the reasons I’d enrolled in art school in the first place. Of course I didn’t think it would get me a job, so I had studied something called electronic and temporal art. Or electric clockmaking, as some wit said. It was really film,TV, sound and animation, and, for my liking, too far removed from the physical creative process.What I liked was getting my hands dirty, and feeling charcoal on paper. And I could get so caught up in the geography of the human body that I’d forget myself. It was the only thing I’d ever done that I found completely absorbing—without being stressful. The models I most liked to draw were fat, very thin, or oddly shaped.They were the most interesting. Slim women were boring to draw.And that was the other reason I signed up to take my clothes off in front of a room full of students: I’d begun to hate my body again and I thought it might help.

After several years of being not just slim but often thin, I’d begun to put on weight again, and mysteriously, to develop acne on my back. The gym didn’t appear to be working, and I had lost the ability to diet. Perhaps if I showed people my body in this way, I’d feel less ashamed, and just be able to deal with how I now looked.

They offered me the Wednesday afternoon class.

The following week I arrived fifteen minutes early and introduced myself to the teacher. As I took my clothes off I took a deep breath and told myself that I was being paid for this, and they weren’t judging my body. It was just a shape to them; drawing me was an exercise.

The first pose was a standing one. Putting my hand on my hip, I tried to remember the poses of some of the other models I’d seen. The main thing was to stay still and not to look embarrassed.The effort of doing both kept me busy until the break. I was relieved when it came, as I was stiff and keen to put on my dressing gown. I also wanted to look at what they had drawn.Who they had drawn.

It was an unnerving feeling, seeing so many pictures of myself, some with different proportions, all with different styles. I was drawn to several that made my thighs look bigger, emphasising their curves and pushing down on the charcoal until they appeared heavy and solid. This attraction surprised me until I realised that it was exactly the way I would have drawn them and it turned them into the feature you wanted to hold, rather than hide.

Everyone should do life drawing I thought, as I walked home that afternoon.Then maybe they’d understand why women didn’t all need to be thin. I hoped it was a thought I’d be able to keep.

Around this time, I also decided that I should see a GP—just to check in, really. I felt fine but knew that things could change, and it was best to be prepared. The GP referred me to a local psychiatrist, Dr C. I didn’t really want to go, but, nevertheless thought our first meeting went well.