It’s still dark as I walk through the park towards the water. I don’t need to see, my feet have muscle memory. They quicken as I pass the children’s playground, where the swings seem to oscillate no matter how still the weather.
When I reach the locked gate there are already two women waiting. We half-smile, in silent agreement that it’s too early for chats.
I’m still new to this dawn business. A few months ago, I would have found the thought of getting up at fuck-off am to swim in the ocean laughable. I’ve always been a night person.
‘You joining us, Miss Yael?’
A broad Australian accent. Cropped black hair and a red tracksuit.
Lynne, one of the volunteers, is standing at the gate waiting for me to come through.
‘Sorry, Lynne.’
‘Have a good dip!’
She’s way too chirpy for this hour.
I walk along the concrete path and past the change rooms towards the ocean. I dump my bag on a patch of grass and peel off my shorts and t-shirt. I’m wearing one of my million black swimsuits, a gravity-defying one-piece with a low back. As I look down, it strikes me as ill-suited for a sunrise swim at a women’s-only ocean pool.
In the crevices of the rock wall that buttresses the pool, a cast of crabs go about their crab business.
‘Good morning, friends,’ I whisper, before hopping in.
The other women do proper laps while I splash around like a child. My sunrise swims involve less actual swimming than the phrase implies.
‘Here it comes!’ Lynne shouts from her post and I look out to sea.
A rush of oranges and yellows roars up from beneath the ocean and slowly turns on the sky. Immersed in water as the sun announces its arrival, I feel weightless. I feel free.
Immersed in water as the sun announces its arrival, I feel weightless. I feel free.
It’s how I imagine other people feel all the time.
And then it’s over.
January
‘So, what are our options?’ Liora asks.
It’s late. We’re in my psychiatrist’s office.
‘There are three options,’ Priya says. ‘She can go to a private rehab clinic, she can move in with you or she can stay at home. I’m not sectioning her, so legally it’s her decision.’
‘Sectioning?’
‘Remanding her to a public ward, or any ward, without her consent. I don’t think it’s in her best interests.’
I don’t remember coming here.
‘What are the pros and cons of a rehab clinic?’ Liora asks, ever the pragmatist.
‘The next week or so is going to be brutal. I’m stopping all her medications and starting her on new ones tomorrow. No weaning, we don’t have time. This will probably make her quite sick physically as her body adjusts. At a clinic, she’d be cared for 24/7. She has private insurance, yes?’
‘Yes.’
Usually, I hate being talked about like the cat’s mother, but right now I’m hoping they don’t talk to me at all.
I don’t want to talk. I don’t know if I can talk.
‘The clinic is about an hour from here, but it’s the best.’
Liora nods slowly, daunted.
‘And what are the negatives?’ she asks.
‘Once she checks in, I can’t have contact with her. The treating doctors can change her medication as they see fit. They generally don’t, but it’s a possibility. And there are people there for all sorts of reasons, many in far worse states than this.’
There are far worse states than this?
Priya tightens the shawl around her shoulders. She’s always cold.
‘I’m not sure it would be the best environment for her,’ she says. ‘It can make it hard to come back.’
‘What about staying at my house?’
I close my eyes.
‘That’s an option. She wouldn’t be leaving her normal surroundings, so she wouldn’t have to reintegrate. But it would be a big strain on you and your family. I know you have small children. It would be confronting for them—for you and your husband, too.’
‘And if she stays in her apartment alone?’
‘I don’t think she should.’
I open my eyes.
‘What about Julia Louis-Dreyfus?’
They both look at me like they’ve forgotten I’m here.
I guess I can speak.
‘Remind me again, who is Julia Louis-Dreyfus?’ Priya asks gently.
‘My cat.’
This is an edited extract from Everyone and Everything by Nadine J. Cohen (Pantera Press), available now at your local independent bookseller.
