Forgotten Girl

by Naomi Jacobs

  Simone chuckled. ‘Never did get the dad thing, but it’s a plan and I like plans!’

  ‘And I’m going to help her sort it out, starting by going through those bloody diaries . . . The hostel one was so sad.’ I could feel the lump again.

  ‘I know, we didn’t speak for months when you were in there, but I’m here for you if you need anything, sis, and I’m really proud of you.’ Simone gave me a strong and loving hug.

  We weren’t very affectionate with each other usually – she wouldn’t stop using my hair gel – and sometimes our fights rivalled Ali and Foreman’s jungle rumble. But here, now, it felt good when she hugged me.

  I told Simone to leave that night when Leo was safe and sound in bed. She didn’t want to, but I reassured her I would be fine again until she came back the next day.

  I had had enough of TV, so sat in the bedroom and forced myself to go back to the diaries.

  28 May 2006

  The end of an era. Well, the end of me living in this house for now anyway. Moving is horrible; well, it has been this time, you know, really has, but there’s nothing to keep me here. I have to go. The tears, the sheer sadness of saying goodbye to my personal belongings. Letting go of the material things is really hard – really hard; so many memories attached to them, people, places, and things. Watching those objects of comfort, the bed, the sofa, even the Sky box, being moved elsewhere, it has been more difficult than I anticipated. I didn’t realize how attached to everything I am and for a moment I wanted to scream to the removal man to put it all back, that I have changed my mind. But I can’t go back, I know I can’t; I have no choice, no option. I have to move on. But I am allowed to be sad about it. Just need to wait now, wait for the medication to kick in and things will get better.

  This confirmed what Simone had told me earlier. Adult Naomi had moved from her last house voluntarily, but felt like she had no choice. Why? And what medication was she taking?

  I flipped backwards through the pages to three months before she left the house.

  13 February 2006

  Feeling my way through the darkness, I think I can see a light at the end of the tunnel. Not sure whether to trust it, but maybe in the end I have no choice but to surrender to it. Nothing makes sense, yet it all does at the same time; I’m living the paradox, existing somewhere in between the two realities. Simple decisions are mammoth choices, easy tasks become complex puzzles for me to figure my way through, and sad songs bring me peace, a sense of calm, and then I cry If I think too much, my brain flips to thinking crazy, manic thoughts; I imagine I can save the world, that I am a god, that nobody understands the patterns, the signs, and then I get high trying to stop the waterfalls in my mind. Can’t control those thoughts from falling, crashing, smacking, banging into my brain. Smack smack smack! Still no sleep, still cry; every day I cry, cry, cry; it feels like it will never end. Do you cry when you die?

  And that’s all I know right now, isn’t it? Death. Will I be like the caterpillar and transform into a butterfly? Or will my chrysalis, devoid of providence, wither up and die?

  Will I become a former shell of the beauty I once was? Live without the sparkle? Light? Warmth? Safety? Just be? But was I ever? Or is that just a dream? Or has it always been like this? So painful, so confusing, so scary, without love.

  Love? The meaning of this word escapes the grasp of my comprehension.

  I had a thought today while I was driving: it’s not that I hate myself; I just haven’t found a reason to love myself. I’m sure there was a time I used to at least like myself for being different, for not being like everyone else. And then I tried to be like everyone else and I ended up very unhappy, and after being around those I tried to be like, I realized they were deeply unhappy. And they didn’t have the answers I was searching for. They have just accepted it as their lot. Am I now accepting it as my lot? The concept of liking myself got lost in the fog, and I can’t seem to find it. Faraway yet so close. Somewhere deep down inside of me, I know I can find it, but there’s this great fear; I have to leave, I know I do. I need to be patient, I need to be brave and pray this week gets better and not worse, just better; better in the sense that it all makes sense again, and you know what, I think it will.

  N xxx

  Obviously, it so didn’t. I went back one week previous.

  ? February 2006 (forgot the date, thinks it’s the fifth or sixth, but who cares)

  I’m stuck, stuck fast and ain’t budging. Fear causes paralysis and right now I’m comfortably numb, telling myself I cannot for the love of God move. I’m tired, fed up, stoned and miserable. I wanna cry over everything and nothing, but mainly over the fact that I am stuck. It’s snowing outside, all white and harmless looking, except really it’s bloody freezing and can kill you with its zero below fire. I’ve had enough of the snow. I’ve had enough of this life. I AM TIRED!! And so full of hate, and anger; it has nowhere to go but right back into despair and then I’m numb again. I am comfort eating like it’s going out of fashion; even getting high is exasperating me only because I don’t know if I am or not!? Uni’s shagged; I have fallen so far behind with my work and to top it all – wahey! – I’ve been diagnosed with bipolar disorder! Is this the outcome of my mother’s love?

  Where did I go?

  Where’s my strength gone?

  WAS I EVER HERE?

  WAS IT EVER HERE?

  My determination, my will to live, to live life to the fullest, is elusive.

  I still believe somewhere I did something terribly wrong, that I deserve this, that I deserve to feel this way. All’s I want to do is hide away Hide away and never come out again. It hurts too much. It’s too painful.

  Hold up. Wait a minute! What the hell is bipolar disorder?

  I placed the diaries down and called Katie. She answered on the second ring.

  ‘Hiya, babe. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Do you know what bipolar is?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tell me it’s got something to do with ice caps, snow and chaotic bears.’

  She laughed. ‘What? No, why do you want to know, love?’

  ‘It’s okay, I’m okay. I’ve been reading the diaries.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Katie took a deep breath. ‘You’ve had a bad time of it, Nay, and you ended up having a breakdown.’

  ‘A breakdown?’

  ‘Yes, babe. You went through a lot of bad things, and at the time, you couldn’t cope. So in the end, you went to a psychiatrist and they diagnosed you with bipolar disorder.’

  ‘But what is it? What happened to me?’

  ‘It used to be called manic depression, like when people get severe mood swings. Sometimes you’d be high for days; you wouldn’t sleep or eat and you’d have loads of energy. And then sometimes you’d be low, really low, and would stay in bed for days, weeks, depressed and crying.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Yeah, it was really bad at one point, but you sorted yourself out; things got better, you went on medication, you moved to Greece, you tried a different life.’

  ‘Yeah, and ended up homeless.’ I didn’t mention the drugs; I felt too ashamed.

  ‘Oh no, babe, that was stuff that you couldn’t control. You didn’t know what would happen when you went to Greece.’

  I went quiet. I didn’t want to know.

  ‘So, what causes it then? Why did I get it?’

  ‘I’m not sure, hun. I think some people say it’s genetic; others have said it’s drug use, or stuff from your childhood looking for a way to get out. I think with you it was lots of things, all happening at once.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’ It suddenly came to me – the boo boo; was bipolar the boo boo?

  ‘So what happened then? Does she . . . I mean, do I still have it? Should I be taking medication now?’ I thought about Doctor Davies, eager to give me the sleeping tablets. Was he just trying to knock the bipolar out?

  ‘What? No,’ Katie insisted. ‘Not at all. You’ve gone a long time without them now. You
didn’t want to become dependent on them; you started to take alternative remedies, do you remember?’

  I didn’t, but felt a bit better hearing Adult Naomi was trying to control it somehow.

  ‘You’ve been really strong, Nay, you really have. You’ve been through a lot of stress, but you’re still here.’

  Except she wasn’t. Adult Naomi had left the bloody building, leaving me to find out that before she went she was in a really tapped mental tossing place. I felt ashamed at first, as this was majorly, majorly rank, and then got angry with her. How could she let things get so bad that she had to see a psychiatrist? Bipolar disorder! But there it was, just like with transient global amnesia, that frickin’ word again: STRESS!

  My head started to feel dizzy I was stepping into territory I didn’t understand and didn’t have a clue how to navigate, but I wanted to carry on. I needed to get to the bottom of this stress. A strange feeling was beginning to creep up on me, suggesting that all of this had something to do with why I had now appeared in her life at this exact point. I sighed deeply.

  ‘Are you okay, Nay? Do you want me to come round for a cuppa? i can be there in five minutes.’

  At that moment, Katie’s warm, smiling, calming energy sounded comforting, but I wanted to carry on. I needed to know more.

  ‘No, I’m okay right now; maybe tomorrow,’ I whispered, trying to sound as grateful as possible.

  ‘Okay, love, but I want you to remember something, Nay. You are really strong and brave and everything you did in life, you did because you wanted to live a better life for you and Leo.’

  ‘Okay.’ I wasn’t convinced; to me, drugs were not a way to live a better life. ‘I’m gonna go now, get a bath, go to bed.’

  ‘Right. Call me if you need me.’

  ‘I will. Thanks, Katie.’

  ‘Any time, love, bye-dee-bye,’ she sang.

  ‘Bye.’ I smiled and hung up the phone.

  I picked the diary up and continued.

  7

  Remember Me

  Forget me not

  My flower.

  Forget me not

  My dear.

  Forget me not

  My love.

  R. W.

  7 January 2006

  I can smell the stench of death beckoning me.

  Is there peace in the chaos?

  Peace in death?

  Death.

  Maybe I should give in to it, maybe it’s the only way. I look at the razor blades every time I walk into the bathroom; one slice and it’s over.

  Yes.

  Death.

  I let out a cry. Death? Why was everything so dark, and her only way out was suicide? What about Leo? What about Simone? Didn’t they matter to her? What could have possibly happened to her to get her to this place of despair? Each entry I read just seemed to get worse; she had spiralled into depression, a helter-skelter ride of sad saddo despairishness.

  I closed the diary. I had no choice but to let it out, caving into the pull of deep sorrow. It seemed to bind with the same suffering in the pages. Poor Adult Naomi, she was in a bad way, she was so full of hopelessness that even the thought of leaving Leo seemed like a better option than staying and subjecting him to her fear and sorrow.

  I couldn’t see any more words on the page for the flood of tears flowing from my eyes. I needed to cry for her. I lay my head on the pillow. Maybe, I thought, deep down she was still feeling the same way, maybe it’s why she still took cocaine and smoked weed, maybe this was why she had never decorated her bedroom, and maybe it was why I had turned up. Maybe.

  I turned over and cried myself into a deep sleep. My only thought was how terribly sorry I felt for Adult Naomi. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to be. This wasn’t a good future.

  I woke up the next day to sounds of Leo flushing the toilet. Thoughts of him and his smiling face gave me the energy to jump out of bed. I took one look in the mirror and remembered what I had read the night before. My face was swollen, my eyes puffy. I smiled anyway because I wanted Leo to see – no, feel – that everything was okay. I shouted good morning to him and made my way downstairs, stopping for a second to look again at the photos on the wall. They were full of glowing smiles. Adult Naomi looked so happy; she must have been once. Leo looked so content. Why had those smiles stopped? I still had so much to find out.

  I made Leo breakfast and while we ate he told me about a boy who used to be his friend, but since he had started skating he wasn’t his friend any more.

  ‘He said that I think I’m the best at skating and he said I’m not, but I don’t, Mum. I just practise more than him,’ he protested.

  ‘Well, what did you say to him?’ I asked, wondering what was the right thing to tell a ten-year-old boy how to handle other kids of the same age.

  ‘I told him to build a bridge and get over it.’ He bit into his pancake.

  I burst out laughing and almost spilt my herbal tea all over myself. Leo laughed as well.

  ‘You’re the bees, Leo Jacobs.’ I patted him on the back and then followed him as he grabbed his coat and bag and disappeared through the front door.

  I was grateful Adult Naomi had held on to him and held on to her life. This little boy deserved the best that life had to offer, including a loving mother. Which, judging by his wicked personality and funny bones, he had had through his little life.

  When he left, I thought about what he had said: build a bridge and get over it. Maybe that’s what I needed to do, build some sort of mental bridge from me to Adult Naomi, and get over it. Somehow get to the other side. Maybe then I would get into the house in my mind and find her.

  I ran a bath and while I waited for it to fill, I opened the diary at a random page. It was seven months before the ‘depressive downer darkness’ had descended.

  16 June 2005

  Okay, so there’s much more balance in my existence and its feels buena! Cooked a lovely dinner – another good thing about me, I am a great cook! Everyone ate their dinner; they’ve all gone to the park and the house is quiet. I’m lying on my bed writing this. Karl has just left. I saved him some dinner; he ate it all while providing me with light conversation and jokes. I’m feeling very peaceful. I’m glad he took me up on my offer to come for dinner; it was nice and I’m in a much better place concerning our relationship. I am happy and content just being friends with him. Is this contentment? Cooking for my family and friends? If so, then I’ll do it more definitely. I love that I’m clearing things out. Three things I like about myself today: I am a good friend, a good mum and a good cook. I’ve got great friends in my life, work is going well – busier than I have ever been – and, well, I think I’ll be okay for my exams also. Think I’ll read my book for a while.

  Naomi x

  So things were okay with Adult Naomi sometimes. I didn’t understand why she had needed to find things to like about herself; surely she already knew she was a good person. She was friends with her ex. She was surrounded by family and enjoyed cooking.

  My curiosity about what had happened in the time in between the okay times and the traumatic times, hung on a thin line, like a photograph slowly developing, but now I wanted to know about her spars. Where the hell were they when all this happened? Why did it only seem to be Simone and Katie? Where were Eve and Art? And where the hell was Leo’s father in all of this?

  I was beginning to feel desperate for answers.

  I spent the rest of the day reading more diary entries, mainly the ones that came after Adult Naomi was told she had bipolar and had lost the house she loved so much. From 2006 to 2008, her words in the pages gave me more of an explanation.

  It seemed that the best option for her had been to quit university, and because she had fallen into debt, move in with Simone while she was on medication and wait until Leo had finished his primary school year. It provided her with some stability and normalcy. During the summer of 2006, she had moved to Greece to live with my stepmum Marlene (Art’s ex-girlfriend) and her Gr
eek husband. Turns out Adult Naomi had gone from the frying pan into the Mediterranean fire. Marlene was a heavy drinker and after Adult Naomi confronted her over it, they had a blazing row and she and Leo left, finding themselves homeless and stranded in Greece.

  At the end of that summer, she moved back to England, tried to live with Simone – it didn’t work out as they had a blazing row (Are you frickin’ kidding me?) – and then she put herself and Leo in a hostel in the autumn whilst attempting to finish her last year at uni. Seven months later, in 2007, she was offered a house, this house.

  A year later, in April 2008, I turned up.

  This brought me up to speed, but it was what had happened in the year between her being ‘a great cook’ and being bipolar that I needed to know about.

  Reading the rest of the entries took up most of my day. I’d become curious about the people in Adult Naomi’s life and when Simone came back from work – carrying pizzas – I told her of my plans to go and see Adult Naomi’s friends at some point. She thought it was a good idea. Maybe it would help me remember.

  Wrapped in a protective bubble created by Simone and Katie, I stayed locked away in the small two-bedroom house and spent days getting lost in the world of an adult I didn’t quite understand, yet felt well sorry for. I tucked away the diary I’d nicknamed the ‘3Ds’ – downer, depressive, darkness – not yet quite ready to delve back into that world, at least not until I had met Adult Naomi’s friends.

  I slipped comfortably into a routine of seeing Leo off to school, curling up on the sofa, and reading the pre-‘3Ds’ entries. Her large collection of DVDs broke up the day, as unless it was 1990s programming, my brain couldn’t cope with regular television; it still all seemed so fake, so unreal. I survived on beans on toast, fruit, tuna fish sandwiches, and jacket potatoes zapped in the microwave and laden with cottage cheese.