In the quiet dusk of a suburban street, two neat rows of wheelie bins stand to attention. It’s the last bin night of June.

Earlier that evening, I’d consumed my third takeaway meal of the week. The TV had been tuned to a documentary about Lord Howe Island, accompanied by Marta Dusseldorp’s stern yet reassuring narration. Chewing on a mouthful rice vermicelli, I heard Marta explain that, thanks to the volume of rubbish in the ocean, native birds have begun feeding their chicks tiny pieces of plastic. I swallowed and watched footage of a flock of malnourished birds floundering in the shallows, unable to fly. In the final scene, a dead shearwater chick’s belly was cut open. Out spilled a bucketful of plastic pieces. I put down my chopsticks.

Back on the nature strip, my dinner’s plastic packaging peeked out at me from under the red lid. I thought about those shearwater chicks, and my own role in their demise. In previous times I’ve tried to live my life according to a few basic environmental convictions. However, when COVID-19 struck, those convictions rapidly disintegrated. By June 2020, I’d gotten so deep into my garbage habits, the wheelie bin was at capacity every week. I thought, perhaps instead of waiting for things to go back to normal, it was about time for a reset—to go from one extreme to another. I decided I would quit plastic… for a month.

The rules were simple. For one month, I’d refrain from purchasing any product containing single-use plastics. I’d try to control as much as I could, for example, if I wanted to drink wine (I did), I’d have to buy corked wine, because the lids of other bottles contain non-recyclable plastic inserts. Also, anything that I already had could be used. For example, I was allowed to use the plastic shampoo and conditioner bottles already in my shower caddy. But if they ran out, I’d have to find another way of replenishing them.

My biggest concern was that I eat a lot of fish. My plan was to find a place that would sell it to me in my own container, but I suspected that would be difficult/impossible because of COVID. This potentially meant no fish.

It started off well. I awoke on Day One ready for the challenge, prepared to dismiss anything that would be used once and thrown away. Then, my boyfriend decided to spend the morning chopping wood. By 10 AM, he’d managed to hack the top of his finger off. This meant a fun trip to the hospital.

Hospitals are places in which single-use plastics are kind of necessary. I did my best not to judge when I saw Luke’s nubbly finger floating in a single-use plastic beaker, but as the hours passed, I experienced my first test of self-control when I became very thirsty.

The hospital’s drink taps had been cancelled due to COVID, but a vending machine hummed conveniently in the hall. Inside it lay a tempting collection of plastic water bottles. Would I give in and vend a bottle of water? H2 NO, BABY. I went thirsty, and later, also hungry, as Luke was called back and forth into various rooms until night fell.

The best and worst thing about plastic is that it lasts. This means that most of the non-recyclable plastics you’ve encountered in your past still exist somewhere today. It’s all because of World War Two. The plastic we’ve come know and love was invented about 100 years ago, but it wasn’t until World War Two, when natural materials like steel, wood and cotton became scarce, that we began to seek out synthetic substitutes. By the 1960s, the world’s plastic production had increased by 400 percent. Plastic was revolutionary in many areas, like windshield safety in cars, but its versatility and mass production led to its inclusion in every possible product, which is why today, it’s seemingly impossible to buy anything that doesn’t contain plastic.

I learned this first-hand on day three, when the saga of Luke’s finger had me killing time at a market. I found myself looking at cheeses, or more accurately, looking through the clear plastic wrap that tightly encased each one. Next door was a deli, where all the plastic wrapped meats and olives and pickled octopi lived. Beside the deli was a butcher, and then a fishmonger and then a lolly shop, each colourful item displayed inside shiny plastic. It was like that episode of The Simpsons where Marge becomes a cop and begins to see crime everywhere. I gave up and wandered back to the car.

I take umbrage with the messaging coming out of environmental groups, suggesting that it’s just “so easy” to go without plastic. It ignores a few fundamentals, such as:

a) We live in a world where everything is systematically wrapped in plastic, and therefore,

b) The answer to a zero plastic lifestyle might just be to go without most things.

At least in my experience, during that first week, my only option seemed to be to go without. I went to a butcher to get bacon, but they were uncomfortable using my Tupperware. Fortunately, I managed to visit my local market on a day it was open, and I remembered to bring my own paper bags. So that first week, I lived on fruit and veggies, going without cheese, yogurt, meats and coffee.

Despite these heroic sacrifices, there were also multiple instances where I totally fucked up. A pattern began to emerge where during any moment I felt sorry for myself and needed comfort, like when I was standing in my third hospital waiting room in two days, or when I was told that I and everyone else in Melbourne had to go into lockdown again because of a worldwide pandemic, I said, “fuck it” and used plastic. Each time this occurred, I found myself thinking, “this thing has plastic in it…I know I shouldn’t but, maybe I deserve it.” By the end of first weekend, I realised that Plastic Free July wasn’t about plastic at all. It was about self-control.

Question: Fundamentally, what was I doing all of this for?

Answer: The planet (and obviously future humans… who have to live on the earth).

I’d seen enough documentaries to know that plastic devastates ecosystems. I knew that plastic is not only ruining the lives of shearwater chicks, it’s bad for human health too. Plastic is in our supply chains, damaging our fertility (especially in males), and putting us at high risks of cancer (especially testicular and prostate cancer). So why was I unable to get a hold of myself, look the existential threat in the face and say no to plastic?

I have two theories:

Theory One: I’m the victim of a conspiracy.

Theory Two: Most of us aren’t aware just how enormous the problem is.

Week Two

I decided to embrace the one fundamental power that exists in this economy: purchase power. There are ways to do this that vary in expense. For example, some independent supermarkets have returnable milk bottle schemes. I found one where the “hire” of a glass bottle costs $2 and the actual milk is $4.50, so one litre is $6.50 (which is very expensive, although it is really good milk from happy cows and presumably well-paid farmers).

Other times, I managed to save money. I googled “wholesaler” and found one close by, where I could fill up my detergent bottles, shampoos, soaps, olive oil, nuts and flour, which turned out cheaper because there was no packaging to pay for. I also discovered that stall holders at Footscray Market will happily weigh Tupperware containers and deposit fresh fish, chicken and bacon into them. Then, to my delight, I found a deli that sold cheese in wax packaging! So, I bought it, ate the cheese, and made a candle from the wax. I was getting the hang of things.

Melbourne Lockdown 2.0 was well underway, and I certainly had the fundamentals under control. I made stock from a leftover chicken carcass. I baked a cake from ingredients bought at the wholesaler. However, grey areas still pervaded, like when I inadvertently accepted a burger from my housemate, which included an individually wrapped slice of cheese.

I was beginning to discover that the timeline of a month gave these new habits enough space to establish themselves. At the start of July, when it all seemed too difficult, I kept telling myself, “I only have to do this a little longer, then I can go back to KFC and online shopping.” But now the end was in sight, I’d become more confident that certain behaviours might linger. Trips to the market and the wholesaler were becoming normal, wine with corks and glass milk bottle swaps were easy enough. However, I’d begun noticing what other people were doing.

Week Four

I’d transcended to the final phase of taking action: judging people.

I ran into a friend down the street. One peek inside their shopping bag exposed they’d purchased a plastic-wrapped rosemary sprig. The suburb we live in is crawling with rosemary bushes, so their acquisition was clearly ridiculously wasteful on multiple levels. However, I stopped myself from saying anything, because shaming people not only sucks, it’s often ineffectual. Also, it’s a luxury to have enough time, money, support, safety and information to consider personal plastic use. I’ve been fortunate to be able to use this time of pandemic weirdness to keep track of the plastic in my life.

On the final bin night in July, I stood on the curb and thought back to the beginning of the month, when an increased sense of self-discipline seemed unachievable. Now, looking down into the darkness of the wheelie bin, I saw there was only one very small plastic bag at the bottom. I reached in, untied the bag, and emptied out its contents. Then I took the bag inside and washed it, for reuse. Maybe that sounds insane to you. Back at the start of July it would have sounded insane to me too.

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