𝙾𝚌𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝙴𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜

𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢-𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎

The last item to pack is my birth certificate. From the home office cupboard, I pull my birth certificate. It's easily identifiable in its cardboard cylinder, the one sent here shortly after I was born. Also in this cupboard, in year order, are all of my school reports. It's too tempting not to flip one open. I pull the first one – my pre-primary year.

My grades aren't bad.

All the times Mum has taken a jab at my intelligence. It wasn't fair. It wasn't accurate. Sure, I had subjects I was better at than others. But that's normal. It doesn't make me stupid. I do remember much of primary school crying when I didn't understand the task set or an answer was wrong. I would think about how my mother would react. I would be worried she would scold me if she found out. Her approval meant so much to me.

I read the paragraph of comments from my pre-primary teacher, Mrs James. She writes, "Eden is a conscientious worker but becomes upset when her completed tasks are anything less than exemplary. Eden is a perfectionist."

At the bottom of the page, in handwriting I presume to be that of Mrs James, states, "Perfectionism spoken about at the parent-teacher meeting. Mum states that Eden's perfectionist tendencies occur in the home. Strategies to combat discussed."

Unsettling, the word that comes to mind.

Why has Mum always been so hard on me if she knows I'm hard on myself? Maybe the latter was taught by the first...

I remember asking Mrs James for sheets of extra homework, particularly that of the handwriting kind. I had an obsession with perfecting my handwriting; perfect loops, accurate sizing... Sitting at the dining table, I remember asking Mum for help with various homeworks. Mum would always bark back that she was busy. Sometimes she was; cooking in the kitchen. Sometimes she thought she was; playing solitaire on her computer.

Between Mum leaving for work and her returning. I felt it was best to not tell her. I do believe she'd try to stop me. Physically. And so to avoid an altercation, I've said nothing.

I've packed all my belongings into my suitcase and duffel bag. The only item unable to fit is my art final. I originally painted myself sitting on the floor, arms curled around my knees. In the nude, I look directly at the viewer. I initially took inspiration not from myself but those willowy girls who walk the catwalk. The epitomes of beauty. I had my face but their body. I now have my face and my body. Breasts sag; loose of the weight that was once there. Stomach hallow; rid of the food I've deprived myself of. I achieved my initial vision. But it wasn't an honest portrayal of myself. Not when I started it – when I had the body of an athlete. But not even at my lowest weight. My final additions were the devil horns emerging from her skull and the smudged black around her frame.

Honest.

Finished.

I hear the motor of Billie's Kombi in the driveway. Dragging my suitcase behind me with one hand and hauling my duffel bag with the other, I cannot carry the oil painting. I leave it in this house where the walls have stories. I leave it in this house where the home never was.