Once an impossible dream, here I am lounging outside in the midday sun.

I’ve not checked the mirror today, though I’m not quite bare-faced because I’m still wearing yesterday’s makeup. I haven’t gotten so far in my recovery that I can just grin and bear it all. Day-old makeup is a step in my desensitisation process. Still, I’m acutely aware that someone could stroll up the path and see me raw.

My husband approaches and I fight the instinct to shrink away. Instead of increasing facial camouflage, I slip my glasses up to form a hairband. This is not entirely innocent, rather a reconfiguration because I’m covertly concealing my hair parting. My hands jerk to cover my face, though I keep them on my book until the sensation fades.

Seven years ago, four layers of window-dressing shrouded me in perpetual darkness. Facing daylight demanded days of preparation, fighting through rituals, as I struggled to make my face publicly acceptable. I would wash and reapply makeup until my skin burned, rendering me housebound and without groceries for yet another day.

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