Hope. The colour of electric-blue.

“I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Buy it.”

“I can’t afford it.”

“What about layby?”

“What’s that?”

We’re walking through the street-food section. By the wind-chimes, crystals and Australiana souvenirs. Overwhelmed by choice. Along with the smell of patchouli. And white sage.

Freo Markets. Summer 2003. Eating gozlemes. Spinach and feta. Before I was vegan. When cheese was still on the table. As was dreaming of bigger things.

An Adidas record bag. Electric blue.

On the far wall, highest shelf. From Jim Kidd Sports on Essex Street. That no longer exists.

Like the life I was leaving behind.

Not long returned to Perth, after 262 consecutive days in two institutions. That saved. And changed my life.

Starting again meant walking away. From leadership levels and the management mentality I’d become accustomed to. Sacrificing the highs of the next summit. For the levelling of the grounding shore.

This bag represented that.

The bag I craved. For TAFE. For the Cert III in Community Services. Specialising in Alcohol and Drugs. That someone else enrolled me in. Who lived 17 hours and 30 minutes away.

Whilst in rehab.

Days before I’d sat in a Centrelink office. Facing the fear, swallowing my shame. And pride. Telling the kind-hearted-warm-smiling older woman opposite me the truth of who I was. Where I’d found myself.

That I needed help.

A break.

And government support. In the form of a disability pension. Whilst I got back on my feet.

Patiently listening. She reached across the desk and lightly touched my hand. Bracing myself for rejection she did something that changed me. Forever.

She told me she believed in me. That she was proud of me.

And that she would help me.

I took my first steps.

The ones that led me to never. Looking. Back

I lived in ways I never had before. Counting every cent. Banking on every penny. Stretching my budget in all the ways.

I’ll never forget the day my friend Annette took me to the low-cost supermarket. That only people with a pension card can access. Gratitude replacing shame, as I carefully weighed up the cost of out-of-date dried pasta. Against tins of expired baked beans.

After paying my rent and bills, I lived on what was left. $50. For the remaining 14 days.

Hungry. Humbled.

And the happiest. I have. Ever. Been.

I bought the Adidas record bag. By layby. That cost $30. It took 6 weeks to pay off. But gave years of pleasure. And pride. For 6 weeks, I’d go religiously. To pay my $5. And find myself staring up at it. Like an electric blue beacon of hope.

I treasured it. Using it until the hand-sewn seams I’d fixed multiple times wore thin. But I couldn’t bare to discard it. Or throw it away.

Never wanting to lose the feeling of how hard I worked to get it. How proud I felt owning it. How courageous I felt wearing it.

How something so small, insignificant could represent so many bigger and braver things.

The world tells us freedom is flashy. Happiness loud. Joy expensive.

But I quietly found mine on a shelf I couldn't reach. In a government office from a stranger who believed in me. In $5 weekly payments I could barely afford.

The happiest I've ever been wasn’t when I had everything.

It was when $30 bought me dignity. When $50 proudly lasted fourteen days.

And when. Enough was exactly that.

Enough.

H2BH 039/365