Chapter Text
At first I honestly try to recall, and once that does not work, relearn, how to love Jeff. I feel like I owe it to him to try; but I can’t force into my heart something that just isn’t there. Moreover, we are already in a stage of relationship where I am supposed to know - feel - that. Only I don’t. The things that I suppose from a lover’s perspective would have been endearing become simply annoying. At times I find him childish, annoyingly so – he reminds me of June sometimes in that respect, and it frightens me. Possessive, too, and that is equally creepy as I, almost against myself, run parallels between the two. I find him petty, because once his patience has run its course he blames me for forgetting him - and it is all the worse for me because he is right, even if he cannot know that.
He is right, and whenever I look at him I am forced to confront my guilt; and guilt is a very fragile building block for a working relationship.
I try to be patient with his perfectly understandable ill humour. I really, really do. And while it chafes me, abiding by his unreasonable requests and bowing my head for his desires, I do so. Because he loves me, even if I do not love him. Because I owe it to him to try. But it chafes. I’ve been caged once already and I refuse, refuse to submit to anyone’s whims anymore. Didn’t I escape Thedas to avoid this fate?
I feel increasingly more claustrophobic in our relationship; as I escape to work for longer and longer hours, I realize that this illusion of peace I have had has already begun to fall apart. That it crumbles and decays around me, washed away like a sand castle - falling further and further apart with every new wave of resentment and expectations I cannot meet; no matter how many times I dirty my hands in spite of myself - of my own desires, of my pride - to rebuild it.
And when I finally notice the profound sadness in Jeff’s eyes, hidden within ever-present frustration I realize it has been incredibly selfish of me to try in the first place. It takes me shamefully long to do so, but once I do, it haunts me relentlessly. For all my goodwill, I do not feel anything more than heartfelt affection for him - and he knows it. I can - and often do - fake peace of mind; placidity; calm when everything in me flinches away and screams - but love is not something I can pretend very well. He had to notice.
That’s when I realize that he deserves better. Because he will keep searching for the girl he fell in love with; bound to me by the hope of my memories’ return; and I know the girl is long dead. I have been selfish, trying to revive a corpse of relationship long rotten. Chaining him to myself to appease my guilt for my past treatment of him has been cruel. I need to let go; stop salvaging this thing between us just because of my stubbornness.
It is unseemly - more, it is desperately pathetic. And my pride, my sole support when I feel so terribly, terribly lost - my pride can’t stand me being pathetic.
So some six months after my return - or one hundred and eighty seven days, because I have been counting - I finally have the incredibly painful and yet unavoidable conversation with my boyfriend. We part amicably, more or less. I break it in as gently as possible that with no indication of my amnesia abating I just can’t see us working. I can see he wants to protest, but ultimately, nods with resignation. He has seen the signs of this - us - falling apart as well. We settle on my staying in his flat for a while longer, at least until I find a half-decent place of my own. He reassures me that it is no trouble; and that he couldn’t just chase me out in the cold simply because we are no longer together.
The very cliche words of us remaining friends after all this die on the tip of my tongue; because ultimately, I do not see us ever overcoming this barrier. At least until Jeff moves on completely, and who knows how long it will take. And even then I suspect he will be bitter about this - me. His last words, spoken with soft reproof, tell me as much.
‘You’ve changed.’
A scream rises in my throat. Of course I’ve changed, it’s been fifty years for me! But I cannot, because it had not been, not for the others on Earth. It forced me to develop a dual perception for my actions; dividing the ones Pride would choose and those Joanne would. Still, Pride is stronger and prevails the most in my behaviour because this is who I am; and because I base Joanne on unclear hints and words of others rather than my own knowledge. It is unnatural to me; and it shows.
But I want our split to end on a good note, so I reign in my disturbance and smiling falsely reply.
‘I will have to trust your opinion on that, since I wouldn’t know.’
With fervour of strong determination, I throw myself into moving out. My finances don’t allow for extravagance, but I soon manage to find a wonderful flat at a bargain price. It’s sole disadvantage is that it is in the suburbs; and getting to my work takes almost an hour. At the same time it is an advantage, because the city smell is diluted by the closeness of a small forest nearby, breathing fresh air into the whole area. It lessens my nausea and is one of the main reasons why I adore the place so much.
With the help of my friends and Jeff I am soon settled in and unpacked. It’s just four rooms - small bathroom and tiny kitchen, a single bedroom and a living room connecting all of these together. I immediately force Tim to move my bed to the living room and dedicate the former bedroom to become my study. I do not feel the need to entertain guests; and I would much rather have a bright, clear space for my painting.
Once my friends depart, I fling myself on the bed and breathe in deeply with relief. It is liberating, not having to pretend anymore. At least in the confines of these walls, which I can now call mine, I can be free.
I would expect that things would get better - for me to feel better - but surprisingly, nothing improves. It’s as if my stubborn clinging onto Jeff was related to a much more profound problem; and now that I do not have this illusion to hold onto, the dam breaks open. And I am flooded by depression I hadn’t known I was holding at bay.
I avoid mirrors. There’s a terrifying impression of déjà vu when I am forced to confront the reflective glass and see a stranger. The hair too grey and brown, missing the white and silver tones which made it so unique, the irises not bluish enough, and my skin too bland. The lines too plump, the figure too shapeless, is this really me? Who am I, where am I, what did I become?
Shifty eyes of a person out of her element stare right back at me, and I swallow a sudden gulp in my throat, angered, finally releasing a panicked scream that has been rising within me for these past months. Growing and growing until it was impossible to ignore anymore. I turn my gaze away, and with all of my frustration punch the offending mirror - if I cannot see what I want, then I would rather not look at all.
The glass breaks under my fist, a hole that cracks the entire surface.
I stand there, ignoring the blood flowing from the cuts on my knuckles.
This is what I wanted, isn’t it?
Isn’t it?
And as I look again at the cracked, disfigured reflection in a broken mirror, I find my determination anew. Like with a cracked glass, I can just put the pieces of myself back again, glue myself together. A completely new thing, a mix of both cultures. Pieces of Pride and Joanne, all mixed together - not the same, never quite the same, but whole.
It’s just not in my nature to whine and give up. I’ll learn again, I decide. There are things on Earth that I longed for during those four decades – it is high time I found them.
With my constant practice of painting, soon my past skills return and grow even further. Soon I feel confident enough to attempt more complex pieces than theatre props; and I find a second part time job at an advertising agency to fill my time. Tim tentatively suggests that I could get back to painting my own works; instead of wasting my potential in a backdrop playhouse. But I shake my head decisively, discarding his suggestion – the only thing that I could paint if I tried to reach my creativity is Thedas. And I’m not quite ready to face it yet.
My friends both think me a bit crazy. There’s no hiding that the dynamic between us changed; and there’s no avoiding the awkwardness, still colouring the edges of our relationship. Tim and Lisa are a bit lost, trying and failing to pick up on the pieces of the girl they once knew - only once they realize that this is simply not happening, they do not fall back on anger, like Jeff. No, when I am fully prepared to drop the acquaintance at the slightest sign of reproof, they completely blindside me with their complete readiness to befriend the new me. They consciously spare me the comparisons between Joanne they have known and the one they have before their eyes, allowing me to comfortably - if a bit uncertainly - settle into my new skin.
In the end, I do not return to normal, not entirely. I sometimes speak words in a language that does not exist, before catching myself and returning back to English. And I never swear in normally anymore, the words ‘Fenedhis lasa’ springing from my lips without my realizing it. I also do not find a common tongue with them, not like I could before, and more often than not I remain quiet, listening to their words with indulgent smile.
I play my part, futilely attempting not feel so much more mature than the lot of them – because they aren’t younger than me, only I got older that much faster. So I try my damndest, even if my motivation stems mostly out of my gratitude for their easy acceptance rather than my preference.
But then there are times when I scare myself. When I realize how much of Pride has slipped into me, and how little of Joanne really remains. There is my ease with which I can turn words around. I can squirm out of any situation by playing on people’s motivations and desires, assisted by the proficiency with which I can read them, efficiency in using it against them… My years in Thedas haunt me, when I masterfully dodge uncomfortable questions, avoid some topics.
The other uncomfortable part of the equation is the fear that drives me. I take twice the dose of the medication, terrified that single one will not suffice. I jump at the shadows, and I become somewhat of a recluse, distrustful of others and unusually closed off – or that’s what my friends say. My once quite… well, I wouldn’t say optimistic, but definitely positive outlook on life has darkened, and it worries people around me. For them, it’s inexplicable – yes, I had a strange accident, but nothing really terrible happened, at least in their eyes. And even the loss of memories does not account for the major character shift I seemingly undergo in the matter of days in front of their eyes.
It’s the fear that finally does me in; because once the easy explanations no longer suffice, the people around me dig deeper; searching for a more definitive answer.
My parents are particularly stubborn; incapable to sacrifice the daughter they have raised in exchange for the stranger I have become. And finally they find the perfectly reasonable, in their eyes, scapegoat.
I am forced to hear numerous lectures on the dangers of addiction. I am dragged to physicians, psychologists and psychiatrists, who carefully explain to me the far-reaching consequences of the meds I am taking on a daily basis. I am even tricked into a complete character evaluation - and even when that doesn’t achieve anything, for my tests are inconclusive, my parents remain fixed in their convictions that the sleeping pills are to blame for everything that changed in my life for the worse.
At first I endure their actions with patience. I ought to understand their worry, I tell myself firmly, as they intrude into my carefully built, peaceful existence more and more forcefully. However, after the utter humiliation of the character evaluation - when I am forced to answer numerous invasive questions, probing into my privacy - I have had enough. I am not willing to compromise my pride for the sake of their peace of mind, it all has gone way too far. Without any remorse I manipulate my mother into promising not to attempt anything along these lines ever again.
I can tell she is not happy with me afterwards, but I am done sidestepping my own discomfort for my parents’ sake. I’ve come back home to avoid being forced into anything, and I do not intend to cater to their unreasonable demands.
With this, I believe the issue to be resolved, although I avoid family gatherings for a while, hoping my absence will dissipate their dissatisfaction with me. Their disappointment with whom I’ve become cuts into my heart like a knife; hurting me even while I pretend to be strong. Indifferent to their rejection of me, even while everything in me weeps regretfully. Suddenly I find myself desperately missing the wolf, and the way he accepted changes within me throughout the years without second-guessing them. He simply took me as I was - more, he uncovered hidden depths within me I hadn't been aware of - and the strained camaraderie I have with Tim and Lisa simply cannot compare.
I look in the awkwardly glued together mirror in my bathroom and question whether it was all worth it. Many long years spent on endless lessons; tears and sacrifices to return here. And for what? Tearful, broken up eyes stare back at me as I whisper to myself.
‘Nine hundred and eighty six days.’ Nearly three years of questionable freedom back on Earth, and my life is just as much in pieces as it was upon my return.
I can almost see a shadow of a large wolf, smirking at me derisively with a satisfied ‘I told you so’ shining in his stormy eyes.
The moment of weakness comes and goes, as I search - and find - strength to face my life again. I brace myself, and decide to confront my family again. Make them understand and accept me; because the alternative is simply unthinkable. I would not have spent forty years dreaming of return only to falter now that I have achieved it.
An occasion to mend our differences occurs two months after the unwelcome realisation of my own vulnerability - that I need others for my happiness. My father celebrates his fiftieth birthday; and my mother decides to mark it by a larger family gathering. In spite of my awkwardness in the crowd of semi-familiar faces, I strive my very best to avoid confrontations, putting on a pleasant front and chatting amicably about meaningless nothings. My mother looks at me with raised eyebrow, clearly seeing that something is amiss; but she decides to postpone questioning me until the guests’ departure.
It is only later when I see my empty face in a disturbingly pristine mirror in my parents’ house that I feel suddenly nauseated, recognizing my courtly mask from Arlathan. I wore it the whole evening without realizing it; deflecting the unwelcome attention as if surrounded by a sea of enemies - and not people I am supposed to have close ties with.
Really, what is the purpose of all this, if I cannot bring myself to open up to them?
My hands clench into fists, and only barely I stop myself from breaking yet another offending mirror. It wouldn’t do to add more to my mother’s suspicions… Throwing one last, disgusted look at myself, I quickly exit the bathroom before my impulse to destroy the reflective glass grows stronger than my restraint.
I drop onto the bed in my parents’ guest room and toss around for the whole night, troubled by nameless nightmares. The following morning does not bring forth any improvement, with me and my mother awkwardly dancing around the chasm between us; neither capable of overcoming her misgivings. However, despite the strained atmosphere I force myself to stay for the remainder of the week. Avoidance will not bring about any resolution; and I steel my spine to overcome this.
For the five days I have no success; butting my head against the wall of my their complete lack of understanding and presumptions regarding their own superior experience and knowledge. My - purely theoretical, at this point - youth is a distinct disadvantage during our countless arguments; and slowly, dejection and hopelessness of the situation begin clouding my resolve.
On the sixth morning, I wake to the sound of a car on a parking lot. Walking downstairs, I come upon the ringing doorbell. My mother stands up from the kitchen table, and calmly lets two strangers into the house – it’s clear she has been expecting them. Seeing their white coats, a shudder of inexplicable dread curses through my body. Still, I keep my voice placid, asking.
‘Guests for breakfast, mum?’
She shakes her head, and sighs.
‘I have tried talking with you, Joanne – but it all proved pointless. It is clear what you need is beyond me – you require professional help. Your father and I both agreed, and acquired the official injunction of unemancipation over you. As of now, you are officially considered as incapable of taking care of yourself – until the facility physicians declare otherwise.’ My eyes grow cold, as an unwelcome understanding of the situation creeps up on me. I knew that she was worried - and angry - but to take the situation that far because of a damn sleeping pills is stretching the intention of this particular law thin. It was only intended to protect those with self-destructive tendencies, for mercy’s sake!
As I fume in silent rage, holding back desperate screams against this injustice, my mother points in my direction with a wave of her hand. ‘This is my daughter, whom we spoke of.’
‘Your lack of understanding of the situation will make you regret this dearly.’ I spit out angrily, nearly choking as the words leave my clenched throat.
‘On the contrary, my dear’ she interrupts me impatiently, ‘I understand quite well you are addicted. Trust me, it is for your own good.’
‘I would like my daughter back’ she admits quietly, and I close my mouth with a snap. In the end, it turns out I failed miserably - they cannot comprehend the changes within me, and have rejected the person I’ve become. The feeling of defeat nearly crushes me, and Fen’Harel’s ominous words ring as clearly as if they have been spoken yesterday and not over forty years ago.
‘Or maybe there will be nothing left for you to return to.’
Seeing as the two white coats close in onto me, I lift my head high, stopping them with an extended hand.
‘I am capable of walking on my own.’ I say snappishly, unable to look at my mother anymore, lest my superficial calm leaves me. Yes, I might have lost my freedom yet again, but I refuse to be dragged out like a criminal - or worse, like an impaired animal. My right to reject this help might have been withdrawn, but I am stronger than this. Even in this circumstances I have one last thing going for me.
Pride.
I’m promptly ushered into the white car, and driven away to the rectangular building, which stinks of medicine and strong detergents. I’m numb, both from shock, and betrayal. How could she? No, how could they ? In order to procure the papers, my parents needed official witnesses of my self-destructive behaviour. They had convinced my friends to testify against me – all behind my back, without a word. I swallow a bile of bitterness, and sudden nausea.
I could see that things weren’t okay with my parents… But I had expected better of Tim and Lisa. That they did not trust me to make my own choices... That they pretended everything was fine while arranging this farce to happen… It is something I’ll never forgive - should I ever find my way back here. My faith in them was broken beyond repair.
My mood shifts, and by the time we arrive, I have to hold back the hysterical laugh, bubbling in me, as I am shown into my closely monitored room. After all my efforts, I’m still closed in a mental institution – although for all the different reasons than those I had initially feared. Not for madness but for addiction. Brilliant, Joanne. Just brilliant.
And there’s an irony of ironies, that after escaping the fate of imprisonment in one realm, I end up caged in another. So much for the so called freedom.
The well-meaning psychiatrist evaluates me during the day, and tries to reach me with her explanations of the necessity of getting over one’s dangerous addictions, being stronger than our weaknesses. I listen to her with sardonically raised eyebrow, and, without remorse, shred her to pieces with my sarcastic replies. She does not deserve my ire, or wrath, and truly wishes me well, but I am done with playing by the rules – I’ve tried, and it does not work.
Of course, there’s no way for me to escape this well-guarded facility, so I slowly reacquaint myself with the inevitability of my return to Thedas. My insides twist nervously at the very thought, as I hold onto the weak hope that my parents will somehow change their mind and call me back home. It is very weak, and dies quickly with as the second day passes and I become more and more tired by the hour.
Then I attempt to convince myself that maybe - just maybe - June has forgotten all about me. Centuries must have passed on Thedas, after all; and he was but a child when I was leaving.
And then I remember the passionate gleam in his eyes, and my hopes come crashing down, and I swallow a panicked scream. The sole thing holding me back is the offending camera in the corner, set to monitor my every move. I will not show them me falling apart under the strain - I will not show anyone this weakness of mine.
Even when everything in me quivers in fear, I bite on my lip and let the pain wash over me like a cleansing reagent. A trickle of blood drops from the corner of my lip; and for a single, blessed moment I am calm.
It’s not like I have any hopes of avoiding my fate, so I do not avoid sleeping on purpose – the nerves just keep me awake. My eyes become bloodshot, and soon I am too weak to take any action, to think.
The nurses say I’m stubborn.
I suppose, in a way, they got it right, though it is a bit of an understatement – I am far beyond stubborn. This is my pride. This is what freed me once, my iron will that upheld for four decades… and it will cage me this time back again.
Finally even fear is not enough to hold the bone-deep weariness at bay. In the final moments of lucidity, I scribble a short message to my mother.
I know it’s petty of me. I know that I should have told her more, before, that maybe she would have believed me, before she became convinced I was an addict. But still, I’m far too bitter to be understanding. I can guess they will pick it up and deliver to her, once I’m asleep again, so I focus on it with desperation, barely keeping hold on my consciousness as I write with shaking hands a single sentence – but it’s enough to convey the venom of my thoughts.
I told you so.