Part 1. Pipping
Pip. verb (of a young bird), cracking the shell of the egg whilst hatching.
Autumn 2000
Dawn was woken by a desperate thirst, and a creeping sense of panic — the kind only achieved after twelve hours of drinking nothing but cheap rosé wine. She opened her eyes to find herself nose-to-wall with the roughly plastered, off-white walls of her student halls bedroom. A hot, sweaty stranger was pressed against her back.
Peeling herself away from him, their skin sticky and damp, she carefully and quietly climbed out of bed so as not to wake him, padding barefoot to the kitchen. She returned carrying two glasses of water.
As she re-entered the room, pushing the door gently open with her foot, the scent of sweat, aftershave, and sex enveloped her — not repulsive, but deliciously enticing. He began to stir. She handed him a glass of water, smiling shyly. He accepted it and sat up, returning the smile as he leaned against the wall, pulling the duvet up over his tanned thighs.
His gaze drifted to a photo frame on the bedside table — Dawn’s boyfriend back home.
“Is that your boyfriend, then?” he asked.
She nodded sheepishly.
He didn’t look like he was judging her, though she suspected he probably was.
“He’s good looking,” he added.
Unsure how to respond, she shrugged, looking down at her study desk, which was showcasing the contents of this handsome stranger’s jeans pockets; a fiver, 22p in change, a lighter, a condom (well now only the tell-tale corner of a wrapper) and ID.
She had just wanted to get it out of her system. The thrill of arriving at university — a new city, new people, a new sense of freedom — stretched out before her. Combined with too much rosé and too many Marlboro Lights, it had made her impulsive.
After a three-year relationship and only eighteen years old, she simply wanted to know what sex with a complete stranger would be like. She assumed it would get it out of her system — like cutting a fringe or running a marathon.
But like in the same way you unwrap a Terry’s chocolate orange, and despite the best intentions, you know you are not eating only one segment, and you’re inevitably going to eat the whole orange. She knew she wanted to, and was, going to eat the whole fucking orange.
Part 2. Chrysalis
chrysalis (noun)
1. a quiescent insect pupa, especially of a butterfly or moth:
Autumn 2010
Dawn stares at the clock — one minute past eleven. She glances back at the brightly lit screen at the front of the room, then into her bag. The bright red packet of ready salted crisps stares back at her suggestively. She knows she needs to eat something, her mouth his beginning to water, and not in a pleasant way, but in the way that happens in the moments before you’re going to be sick. She wonders whether there’s any way to subtly eat the crisps under the desk without disturbing the presentation or drawing attention to herself. She decides there isn’t, grabs her bag, and heads towards the toilets. She pushed the door with more force than she intended, and the toilet door swings open, banging into the wall with a loud thud.
Sitting on the toilet, she opens the packet, inhaling the salty smell before stuffing a handful into her mouth. She washes it down with a lemonade she’d opened earlier. There wasn’t much else she could stomach at the moment.
The crisps and lemonade provide brief relief, but only temporarily. Seconds later she violently vomits the lot back up, barely managing to lift the toilet lid in time. It splashes onto her white fabric pumps, skinny jeans, and all over the seat. She’s sweating profusely. ‘I’m not sure, I have ever felt this unwell’ she thinks.
Dawn looks in the mirror, hardly recognising herself. She splashes cool water on her face and around her mouth, but it does little to improve her appearance.
She returns to the conference suite, makes her excuses, something about food poisoning, and heads to her car. Driving home with the windows wide open, she tries to distract herself from the debilitating nausea and crushing fatigue. When she finally arrives, she climbs straight into bed… where she spends the next seventeen weeks of her pregnancy.
Confined to a dark, cool room for months, unable to watch television or even read a book because everything seems to worsen her nausea, Dawn is left alone with her thoughts — and her own head isn’t a pleasant place to be.
This had been a wanted baby; she and her husband had tried. It was a planned, longed-for pregnancy. Yet, despite that, she feels plagued with regret. She hasn’t told anyone, but she’s longing — with every fibre of her being — to miscarry. She had briefly considered termination but is horrified by her own desire to end a pregnancy of a baby she wants. So, her only imagined escape from this suffering is to lose the baby — and so she prays, to a god she doesn’t even believe in, to end it.
Part 3. Ecdysis
Ecdysis. noun. the shedding of an outer layer of skin, as by snakes or insects
Autumn 2020
Depression, ADHD, burnout, bipolar, cyclothymia, adjustment disorder, OCD, complex PTSD, standard PTSD, trauma, a season of wintering, psychological distress, attachment issues, stress, transition, grief, a restless soul, hormonal imbalance, mood cycling, alcohol abuse, repressed childhood abuse, reincarnation, generational trauma, even a fucking spiritual awakening… whatever it was, however it had been described or interpreted over the years, she knew it was back. She recognized this side of herself now; it was familiar. No panic this time, just a quiet, “oh, it’s you again.”
Dawn’s periods and moods had been troubling her recently, and she suspected she was peri‑menopausal. Everyone continued to reassure her that at 38 she was “much too young,” that the “switch” only flicked once someone tipped into their 40s, which seemed absurd. She knew her body and could feel something physiologically shifting. She had, of course, been through these sorts of hormonal changes before.
Six months into a global pandemic hadn’t helped matters. Without work to occupy her mind, she had begun to descend into melancholy. At first, furlough had felt like a relief, even a blessing; she had revelled in baking banana bread, playing her violin again, and redecorating the entire house. But the novelty wore off, and she was bored, depressed even. Sitting in her perfectly beige, impeccably clean home, she felt numb.
On paper, Dawn had everything. By most measures, a great life: a loving husband, amazing kids, a good job, a savings account, a kitchen island topped with quartz, an annual holiday to somewhere sunny, 10,000 steps a day, yoga every morning, lazy weekends brunching with friends, and a Sunday roast for the family. She was happy.
But lately, she longed to let herself go. She had reached a stage where she was no longer sure who she was or what she wanted. Dawn was tired. Tired of the pursuit of perfection and being everything to everyone, the “glue” that held it all together. She felt an urge to shed like a snake, to wriggle out of life and be new again — to walk through another door, to discover again, a new version of herself.
The doorbell rings, and she slips on her crocks, and heads to the front door, as she opens it, and her elderly neighbour is stood there with a set of keys in her hands; “you left these in the front doors”, “oh thanks” she replies, and takes them from her. She asks “how are you?” and Dawn replies “honestly I don’t know”, there is a pause before she continues “I’m not sure if we should (gesturing with her hands to reference the pandemic), but do you want to pop in for a cuppa?” The neighbour smiles and says “sure” and follows her in, closing the front door behind them.
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