Running Away from Home

One dreary, sad winter's day I found myself at Sydney's unprepossessing international airport, two suitcases in hand, clutching my beautiful daughter Emily, struggling to breathe as I said goodbye to everything. The enormity of what I was doing was shimmering like a mirage somewhere at the back of my brain. 'Let's pretend I'm just going on holidays,' I croaked, 'I just can't say goodbye.' And weaving their way through that brain mirage in big letters were the words, 'What the fuck are you doing, Jane! You're leaving your girls! The most important thing in your life! You're leaving your family, your friends, your job and your home. Are you completely bloody crazy?'

After a final clutch I made a strangled dash into the immigration hall. A middle-aged, middle-class Australian woman in her comfy velour tracksuit pants struggling to regain her composure, basically making a run for it; a run towards a new life.

Let's backtrack, but let me caution you first. This is my story, as honest as I can make it, about what happened when I decided to create a new life for myself. The innate narcissism of telling my story confronts me at every turn, but here goes.