By all accords, I had quite a busy life while I was in sitting in my little room in rehab. Not actually at the rehab centre, of course – but shit, in general, just went down. And all without me.

You may recall I was in the process of moving when the accident happened – and I wasn’t just moving ‘anywhere’ – the apartment I was moving to was stunning. It was in Elwood, and was actually beach front – on the corner of Barkly Street and Glenhuntly Road, if that means anything to you, or you wanted to look it up on Google maps or something. Though why you would is beyond me.

Probably the most emotionally-charged entry in the coma diary is the day that the family figured out that I wouldn’t be able to move into the place once I came out of my coma, so they had to sign over the lease – so some other motherfucker moved in instead. I hope they’re enjoying their walks on the beach. And the entry was so emotionally charged was because my sister knew how much I was pumped – I’d taken her on a drive by the week before, excitedly pointing out the people that were taking up space in “my” living room.

The loss of the apartment has been the hardest thing for me to deal with – and to be honest, I’m still kinda not over it. You don’t understand, it was awesome. For a while, I was dirty at the family for signing it over – but I wasn’t allowed to drive for a good couple of months, so would have been stranded at my luscious pad with nothing to do but stare out the window to the ocean. Besides the fact that I didn’t have a view to the ocean from the apartment. I wouldn’t have even been able to do my shopping, unless there was a supermarket within walking distance.

Why couldn’t you go back to the share house, you might be thinking – only problem was, when I decided to move, they all decided to move too. Even the freeloader. So they moved while I was under, and unfortunately for me, to a two-bedroom house without even a study for me to put my stuff in and quietly move in without telling a key resident.

So we come to the reason why I’m probably the most distressed about the loss of the apartment – I was moving back to my parent’s house. Apparently I had asked my Mum during the severest stage of amnesia if I could move back with her ‘where I could feel safe’, but I haven’t the faintest recollection of it. She was quite touched, apparently. So, at 27, I was back with folks. Ordinarily, the shame would be a killer, but I really had no choice.

It wasn’t just the apartment I lost – I found myself without a job, too. I was a contractor at AXA, and the project I was working on was in the process of wrapping up also. Thinking about it after the fact, I can’t remember any milestones I had to complete before I finished – not because my memory’s now a bit fucked, but because I honestly had nothing to do. I’ve since found out they were on the verge of offering me a maternity cover job in marketing, which would have been rad. But the world turned into a right piece of shit while I was in hospital with this whole recession thing, and AXA shed about 10% if its work force – so there certainly wasn’t anything for me to do there.