Yesterday as I got into bed all packed up ready for my mini farewell trip, I realised that I didn’t know where my razor is. From city to town, country to country, across an ocean I had lost track of my little safety (yet not safe) device to help me cope, to calm me down, to release my anger, to express my anger. On the plus side, the fact that it took me three days to realise it was missing shows that at the moment I am not as reliant on it as I have been in the past (and may well be again). On the negative side, I couldn’t let it go. I couldn’t come away without it. The last time I did that, I ended up sitting on the floor in a bathroom tightening a scarf around my neck in an attempt to stop the crying and the panic. And then I made one of the biggest mistakes I’ve made since this whole thing began and told the person I was travelling with whilst having a huge breakdown. She doesn’t contact me anymore.
So I couldn’t let it go. At 11 o’clock at night, my early night went out the window and I rummaged around through bags and drawers until I found it. It didn’t take long. It’s sitting safely in my bag now. Hopefully it will stay there. At least this time there’s no one to tell if it doesn’t.