So today I am tackling the top folder on the right hand side of this column. It is a series of handwritten journal notes from my days working in Canberra, when Jon and I were getting ready to be married. Part of me wants to toss it out. That me is gone. There is a hole in me where she used to be: this Serena who is at the centre of a debate over whether Medicare should fund IVF for “sociallly infertile people” – that is, lesbians. But my friend Belinda said to me last week = those skills, the person who was capable of acting at that high level, is still inside me. Is she? Is that why I can’t throw this out? It is still a link to the person I used to be: independently paid, able to make decisions for myself, able to do what I wanted (within the limitations of work and my own inner demons) I want to read these but then I will be stuck right here.