Is there such a thing as knowing for sure in one's bones? It it possible to right wrongs, change course, shut a door almost closed, throw it back open?
Everything happens because of expectations. Beliefs in how things are and should be. Stories that get told and retold and lost and discovered.
There are many versions of Carrie, or maybe so many component parts with different functions. The personality embodied, capable of overcoming temporary amputation, but not without hardship.
Maybe wit's end is where you end up when you are molting, shedding a skin that no longer fits.