24th February 1997
Upon leaving her room, the door cracked letting light settle on the heaped clothes in the corner, I clutched my sides and found myself huddled under my duvet, my fingers digging into my ribs as I held onto what little solace I could grasp. Others were terrified of monsters under their beds, hiding in wardrobes or waiting in darkened corners but the monster which possessed my house followed my mother. It consumed her. It was as every much a part of her as it was not. This being turned her blue eyes into a distant grey, it clung to her shoulders with incredible weight, often preventing her from leaving her room, and it spat words into her mouth. Each time I was near her I would feel its presence, lingering, waiting to show its ugly head and ruin the few moments of joy we were scarcely lucky enough to have.
Under my duvet, protected from evil as I pretended to sleep, I would try to make sense of what was happening, I would try to put a face to the pain which haunted our home. My swollen eyes would finally give in to sleep where my nightmare manifested itself into a monstrous being, with sunken eyes, fingers stretching deep into the shadows and greying skin constricting an elongated frame. Towering over me, my breath disappearing, I would grapple against an invisible force until morning. As I got ready for school, fetched my bag, made my breakfast, my father would comment on my mother’s lacking presence by suggesting a sickness, that she was “not herself” or that she was “tired”. The monster which consumed her and created such fear that even my father, my hero, the strongest man I knew, would be terrified of its name, would only mention it in hushed tones and would never say it directly to his children. I was being protected, shielded, from something much more dangerous than monsters created in the minds of my peers and it only made me fear it more.
There’s a beauty in the way a child can be so carefree among friends. School became a sanctuary where my greatest worries fell into two categories, maths and friendship, and I’d often be ok in both. Make believe lands would spread across the playground, paving way to dragon protected castles and super villain lairs. We fought against make believe demons and received make believe bounties. Our conversations turned to playground games and TV shows and let fiction seep into our lives, shaping what we did. We played and learned and when we said goodbye my eyes would watch families embracing one another in the playground as I hauled my heaving school bag onto my shoulders and walked the streets alone. The car, catching dust, laid still on the driveway. As I twisted the key in the door, a cough or groan escaping from upstairs would be the only sign to warn me I was not alone, the monster was still within.
I still recall the feeling of dread as I made my way in that day. My father had dutifully decorated the living room with banners and balloons, a small pile of presents sat on the coffee table and the cards I’d opened that morning were propped around the bulky television. Some news program or other flicked on the screen and my mother was kind enough to glance and acknowledge me before returning to it. We played happy families, I opened my presents, smiled for photographs, and said thank-you. We had spaghetti for tea and the lights dimmed as the cake was brought out for pudding. I still can’t place how everything changed, I wished for my mother to be happy and, even before the cake was sliced, it was broken. The cake made its way back to the kitchen, that I know for sure as I can still picture it splattered against the blue lino and beige cabinets.
There was so much shouting, I couldn’t distinguish what was being said by who but I knew her words were slurred. Vicious attacks shot back and forth as my tears were used as ammunition against each other. A hand was raised and keys were taken. I watched as her dressing gown whipped around her legs and her hands pulled violently at the still locked door. I don’t think I can remember the last time I saw my mother’s car being driven before that day. It was my turn to scream and it was all I could do to scream. It was my seventh birthday. No party, no cake, no mother. As she left, I remember my father trying to comfort me, attempting to scrape together some unharmed cake, telling me it was ok and not my fault, that my mother would be home soon. She just needed to cool off first. I sat on the bottom step of the stairs for what felt like hours, edging closer to the door each time I saw lights pass by.
Eventually the door opened and I saw my mother in a way I had never seen her before. Her face was drained of all colour, her head dropped and her eyes tired. She didn’t seem capable of fighting again and, as she approached me, she lifted her arms. I ran to her embrace and cherished the rare moment of affection she offered. She didn’t blame me or my father this time. This time she blamed herself. In a cycle of words she blamed herself; for being a terrible mother, for being worthless, for being around. We cried together that night, me, my mother, and my father.
I remember this day so clearly because the day that followed was the first day, the first time, she tried to get help.
15th April 2005
I’ve become an exceptional actress; at school, you’re praised for your generosity as yet again you throw money at me so that I will leave you alone to fester. At work, I am complimented for my upbeat attitude and ability to juggle, if only they knew. Then, at home, my finest act of all, my ability to pretend your remarks don’t hurt as I am scolded yet again for loading the dishwasher wrongly, for not hanging the clothes on the line whilst I was at school and you were in a drunken coma, for being told that I am useless, unloved, and better off without you.
Today is different. I couldn’t keep up the mask this time. As the teacher talked about elements or forces or some other thing I need to know for my impending G.C.S.E.s, I broke down. I broke down and confessed to friends, peers, of your disappearance of how rubbish I must be as a child to have a mother who would leave her. I had to fight back the bile as I was led by a caring hand to the office, a sea of well-wishers behind me,
“You’ll be ok,”
“It’s not as bad as you think,”
“This isn’t like your mum, she wouldn’t abandon you,”
How could they know? How could they possibly know? Of the times you left for an hour, or two, or more? How I am unloved by my mother? How I am petrified of the night and the real-life terrors which it brings? So I just walked, in silence, nodding in agreement, as if I were counselling them, convincing them I’m ok so that they would be. Proud of their charity work looking after their broken classmate. Protecting them from the greater truth, petrified to suggest there was anything wrong because people don’t talk about your kind of sickness, this invisible death sentence.
At some point school ends, I escape through the side gate before any of my friends can see me. The walk seems longer, the clear blue sky tinged with grey. Our road stretches out in front of me, my heart sinking as our house comes into view. An empty space in the driveway serves as an unsettling reminder before I have a chance to even turn the key. A broken plate in the sink with the remnants of last night’s dinner and crimson edges. An empty hook where your keys usually hung. The empty echoes of the screams which came the night before.
Each car on the road makes my ears prick and my body shiver to an imaginary breeze. I still, catching my breath, as I long to hear your key in the lock, your footsteps in the hall, your angered voice blaming me for something else. How I wish more than anything to have you blaming me for anything else. I have become attached to knowing you are there. Being able to check on you from time to time. You left and with it you took my safety net. I can’t protect you and that hurts more than any words you have ever said. I can’t hold you and my arms feel empty. I can’t hear you and the silence is deafening. I can’t fathom closing my eyes, not knowing you are safe. I try to convince myself not to worry, to watch T.V. or do some work and you’ll be here but I know, I know it isn’t that simple, I know you won’t be.
…
Sometime later you let yourself in. A plastic bag of bottles in hand and an excuse ready to go on your lips.
“Am I not allowed out?” You ask me, “I’m 48, should I not be able to do what I want?” You spit, “I’ll never leave the house again, happy?” You retreat to your room. You’d think, after fifteen years, I’d know how to cope with your comments, your digs and your accusations, yet each one makes me feel as detested and as disgusting as the first time I saw you leave.
21st August 2016
At first you don’t notice it. It’s like the water is slowly rising around you and you just kind of get used to it. You get used to the feeling of it being there and you don’t notice it creeping up. You don’t notice it getting deeper. Until one day you find yourself drowning. It’s horrible, the realisation, because you find yourself in freezing cold water in the middle of this vast lake and you’re looking up above you and you can see the ripples of the water and you know there’s people there and you’re screaming for help. They’re not listening or they don’t care. Some of them think you’re fine, others can’t hear you and then, as you try to reach the surface, you notice your hands are tied and your legs are tied and there’s this weight. It begins dragging, slowly at first, and you descend further and further and it gets darker but there’s nothing you can do. You squint to see light on the surface as darkness engulfs you, the lake bed stretching out somewhere beneath you, refusing to break your fall. You’ve got to let it drag you down because you have no other choice. The shore is too far away, the current’s too strong and the waves are too rough. But then it becomes peaceful, the feeling of falling, the feeling of drowning, it doesn’t hurt anymore and you start to accept it. It’s so silent and calm and you’re ready. You can feel its embrace and you know that’s the only way out until suddenly something, somewhere starts dragging you upwards and at first you fight it. You fight it with everything you’ve got, it’s then you realise you’re not fighting to save yourself, you’re fighting against what is saving you because somewhere you’ve lost sight of what is right and what is wrong. You think this peace which waits for you in the murky waters is where you want to be. It’s not until you get to the shore and you’re coughing and spluttering and you open your eyes and you realise that people are there and you realise that you were so close to making this horrendous mistake, by doing something that you could never change, you could never take back.
Time goes by and you’ve dried, you’ve promised yourself that you won’t even go paddling in those thoughts, won’t tempt them, but somehow, somehow you end up back there and the icy waters. They don’t hurt this time. It’s familiar, it’s welcoming as the tide laps against your feet as you start your journey once more. You notice less people have come to the water’s edge, less people are there to safe you this time because you’ve lost them along the way. You couldn’t maintain relationships, you couldn’t keep hold of those people because to do that would mean to do something that is completely selfless, you could only think about yourself and, even though you know that’s not who you want to be, there is nothing you can do to change that. That’s what it felt like for me. That’s when I realised that this horrible monster that society doesn’t want to talk about has already sunk its claws into me and that I can’t show anyone because there are no marks, there are no signs, not on my skin anyway. It’s only now that I realise this thing that has taken me is stronger than I thought it was, or I’m weaker than I thought I was, and I can’t work out which one’s which anymore.
The first time I thought that maybe I also had depression was when I realised that this life I had dreamt of since I was younger, this place of escape that I knew I would do anything to reach, I had forgotten about. I had locked it away and not tried to reach it because trying to reach it would mean doing something more than wallowing, and sleeping, and hiding, and wasting day after day of avoiding any kind of human interaction. I knew I wasn’t strong enough to fight the battle I was waging against myself; stopping myself from dreaming was the coward’s way out. And then I started having days where I would let my emotion take me in ways that I didn’t know they could take me, I would be screaming in agony because it hurt so much to think that other people hated me that these emotions I kept so closely guarded had become physical, and it would be painful, it would be hell to let myself think. I would hate myself because I had let other people validate me, I had let other people choose my self-worth. I would try in vein to do something, anything, to stop feeling again, to prove them wrong, and it became this vicious circle of trying to prove myself to others without actually doing anything to help myself. Without realising, I started drowning again and I hadn’t yet learnt how to swim.
By Jennifer Pickering
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Jennifer Pickering 