Invisible

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  That’s why I’m lying on the sofa, duvet pulled over me, crying and watching bad telly. Mobile and home phone are switched off, I want nothing to do with anyone or anything any more. The world can bugger off because I want no part of it.

  Still, I can feel the two visiting orders lying on the hallway table. Their presence seems to thrum. They accuse me. Pulling the duvet closer doesn’t shut them out. Throwing them away is something I don’t seem to have the will for.

  I wish I were dead.

  Friday 14

  It’s a really blustery day outside. The wind is making the leaves in the trees sound like a hundred rattle snakes outside my window. And I can’t stop crying.

  Tears are streaming down my face but I don’t bother wiping them away. I simply sit, and stare out of the window.

  Saturday 15

  I’m at a crossroads. Do I turn right or left? Do I live or die?

  Actually, I’m sitting on the sofa with every sleeping tablet and painkiller I could find in the house spread out on the coffee table. I’ve been staring at them for the last two hours, in between crying hysterically. I mean, really hysterically. Uncontrollable moans that seem to come from the depths of my body, shaking hands, face like a snotty pig, the lot. And every time I think I’ve finally run out of tears I seem to find more. I can’t stop. I can barely see as I write, and big tear splashes wrinkle the paper here and there, but these days writing is the only thing that keeps me (barely) sane.

  Am I sane? Does contemplating suicide mean I’m sane or insane, given everything I’ve been through?

  I don’t know what to do. There are only two choices and I cannot decide whether to swallow the pills and slide into oblivion or sweep them into the bin and decide once and for all that, since I’m alive, I might as well try to actually live.

  This is my Alice in Wonderland moment. Eat me, drink me. Should I go down the rabbit hole or not?

  I definitely wish I were dead. If I could be knocked over by a bus right now it would be a relief. I want to stop hurting. I want to stop the guilt. I want to stop feeling apologetic for my existence.

  Once upon a time I used to laugh. Imagine that. Laughing until tears were in my eyes and my stomach ached. I can’t even remember the last time I smiled – not the tight, worried smile I give strangers who are looking at me and wondering why they recognise me (I smile at them hoping they’ll be fooled into believing that they’ve met me before. Anything to stop them actually putting two and two together). Not the fake smile that almost hurts my face when I give it to my parents to show them I’m fine and they shouldn’t worry. No, I mean a proper, spontaneous, smile-because-I’m-happy smile.

  Remembering being like that is like thinking of a different person, and I have no idea how to get back to being her, that woman from a year ago. Actually, I know I will never be her again. Part of me is really sad about that; she was a really nice, genuine person who saw the good in everyone and was never suspicious. Part of me is also glad though because I’m angry at her stupid naivety and never want to see her vacuous face again. I am harder now, more cynical, fuller of hatred than I ever thought possible, and that is reflected in the stare I see when I look in the mirror.

  I am full of utter despair and nothingness – and I want the nothingness to swallow me whole, to envelope me and never let me go again.

  Would people notice if I were gone? Would they care? Aside from my parents, obviously, there is no one who would shed a tear, I don’t think. To be honest though, I don’t think anyone would celebrate either. No one would even notice, which is sort of worse. Even the locals with their petition would simply shrug with relief at getting their own way then move on with their lives; continue mowing their lawns, washing their cars, cleaning their windows without a second thought for me.

  Ah, there is one person who would miss me though, I’m sure. My twisted husband. He’d have no one to taunt from his prison cell any more. Then again, it must be a boring game that he’s playing with me because I’m too easy to wind up. I think he likes more of a challenge than I can provide. So even he would barely notice my passing, and certainly wouldn’t shed any tears.

  When I think of it, I’ve spent my whole life being looked through. Mum and Dad virtually trained me to be that way from the second I was born: stoic and quiet and accepting, just like them; they are the loveliest, most un-complaining people I have ever come across. Then I met Daryl, who never called me by my real name but instead gave me pet names of Gorgeous and Babe, diminishing me further into a yes woman rather than a flesh and blood wife with actual feelings to be taken into consideration. And now? Now I don’t have a name either. Now I am bitch, scum, colluder. I am a person of many faces, none of which are actually mine.

  It will be good to disappear all together.

  I pick up a pill and stare at its pink-hued, grainy texture. Pop it into my mouth and swallow a gulp of water. I pause for a second hoping that this edge towards a decision will finally make me feel better. It doesn’t. I try another one pill, waiting, hoping.

  Right or left. Life or death. Which way should I go?

  This time I scoop up several pills at once and shove them impatiently into my mouth. Shuddering, I take a huge mouthful of water and swallow, but the tablets stick painfully in my throat. Still I take more and more, ignoring the choking feeling that’s building.

  Then I think of my parents.

  Imagine them when they hear the news of my death. See them at my funeral. Realise that they will never, ever recover from the loss of their child. They’ve been so quietly strong for me all through this, never judging, never accusing, just being there for me without question.

  I jump up, shaking my head, and run to the loo, stick my fingers down my throat. A violent heave and undigested tablets splatter into the toilet bowl. I make myself sick again and again until there’s nothing left to come up, then curl up on the bath mat, sobbing.

  I can’t even get suicide right. What’s wrong with me?!

  Anger burns through the self-pity then. I was right, I AM at a crossroads. And if I decide to live I can’t do it for someone else’s sake. It has to be for me…but I don’t have anything to live for.

  Sighing, shaking my head, I stand up and walk away, making the best decision I can for now: I won’t take an overdose. Not just yet. I’ll turn right and try to live. If things don’t improve I can always kill myself tomorrow instead.

  Sunday 16

  Maybe all that bollocks about hitting rock bottom so you can start bouncing back is actually true. I do feel a little better today, having decided to live. I’m still knackered, crying and have a shite life, but I did get out of bed at a decent hour, and showered, cleaned my teeth and brushed my hair like a proper human being, then got dress into something that doesn’t have an elasticated waistband. The jeans felt oddly heavy after all that time in pyjamas or jogging bottoms.

  I tidied the house too, and made myself a proper meal for the first time in…I can’t actually remember how long. My parents have made meals for me, and sometimes Kim has brought something over, but I’ve not bothered eating them, and as for me bothering to cook…no, that hasn’t happened since the start of the trial.

  When I tidied I came across a list of counsellors and therapists that my doctor gave me. I’m going to go, I’ve decided. I can’t actually afford to pay for private sessions but I think I kind of can’t afford not to either, otherwise I’ll go doolally or go through with Plan A to top myself.

  Besides, I’m already in so much debt that I can’t afford to pay it back, so what’s a bit more?

  So I’m feeling better. Not miraculously and suddenly jumping around the room singing with joy – I still spent quite a few hours crying. But I’m…willing to try to live again. How long this will last is anyone’s guess, and as I said last night, if I get peed off again I can always kill myself tomorrow….but if I kill myself tomorrow there definitely won’t be another chance to live, so I’d best be very certain before going down that route.


  I even dug out a yoga dvd Kim bought me, thinking it might help to calm my nerves. I did a bit tonight before coming to bed and writing, and it has made me feel a little more relaxed.

  Monday 17

  I keep looking at that bloody visiting form for Wakefield Prison – that’s where Daryl has moved to now he has been found guilty and is deemed a dangerous category A prisoner. It’s where all the highest security sex offenders in England and Wales tend to wind up, and apparently its nickname is the Monster Mansion. Nice.

  So why would my own personal monster want me to go there and have a cosy little chat? Why does he want to discuss things? I know what the discussion will consist of; him swapping between browbeating me and sweet-talking me until I would swear that up was down.

  Thursday 20

  I’ve been given a hell of a lot to think about. Today I had my first appointment with my therapist, Marsha; she actually shuffled her schedule round to accommodate me when she realised who I was. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but clearly she thought I was an urgent case.

  I’m not sure what I expected when I reached her office; maybe something like in The Sopranos, a slightly imposing room; or the classic lying on a couch thing, while the therapist sits behind you and then sneaks from the room as you talk, bored.

  Instead, I arrived at what turned out to be Marsha’s rather lovely home, and was shown into a cosy sitting room with relaxing knick-knacks scattered around: dolphins jumping from water, that kind of thing. A large window overlooked a beautiful mature garden with a lawn, impressive trees and hedges, and a kitsch little water feature, and Marsha indicated that I should sit in one of two big, squashy armchairs right beside it.

  ‘Please, make yourself comfortable. Take off your shoes even, if you want,’ she smiled. A proper, real deal smile; my first for a long time. Mum, Dad and Kim always give me uncertain smiles, as if they’re worried I might find cheerfulness painful and shatter. Maybe I will. But at that moment it felt wonderful and I found my mouth turning upwards too, hesitantly but genuinely.

  There’s something nice about Marsha. She has a good atmosphere about her, gives off a trustworthy vibe – you know what it is, she seems content; boy, do I envy that. She’s a large lady, comfortable-looking, and wears mumsy clothes, which adds to the whole Mother Earth thing she’s got going on. Her skin glows with good health and her frumpy, neck-length, mid-brown hair may not be in a cutting edge style but it is super glossy.

  I can imagine giving her a hug.

  So when she said ‘make yourself comfortable’ I took her at her word and kicked my shoes off, before plonking down on the super soft cushions of the chair and being enveloped by it, and folding my legs up beneath me.

  ‘Firstly, let me explain a little about how this will work. You can say whatever you want in here and it will be treated in the utmost confidence.’ I nodded at her, believing every word, so she continued. ‘You’re not going to feel better instantly, in fact some people feel worse with counselling before they get better because some very powerful emotions and memories can be stirred up.’

  That scared me a bit. I fidgeted in my seat and tried to cover it with a cough.

  ‘Think of yourself as carrying very heavy luggage on your back; your emotional luggage,’ she added. ‘Every time you come here you’ll leave a little bit behind, hopefully, until you reach a point where you’re fully unburdened.’

  ‘I like the sound of that,’ I blurted out.

  I’ll be honest, I hadn’t thought it was going to be easy for me to speak about what’s happened, or to trust someone enough to be open, but I surprised myself with how much I said. Alright, I did hold some stuff back, of course, but basically I laid it all on the line as I gave her a brief history of what had happened, pausing as I spoke only to take the occasional sip of water from the glass she’d thoughtfully put out on a side table beside my chair.

  Only when I reached the bit about what the consultant psychologist said at the trial did my lips start to tremble.

  ‘Oh God, was it my fault?’ I gasped. ‘Was I such a harridan that that he hurt those women as a reaction, as a coping mechanism rather than hurt me?

  Marsha seemed pretty annoyed with the psychologist. ‘It was her job to explain his behaviour, but sadly instead she seems to have tried to shift the blame on you, which wasn’t correct or professional of her,’ she said calmly, trying to mask the irritated look on her face. Just seeing that made me feel better – one professional dissing another.

  ‘The thing is,’ I confessed, ‘that psychologist did make me feel like I was to blame, like it was our rubbish relationship that sent him over the edge. And then Daryl even mouthed to me, “It’s your fault.” He took great pleasure in telling me that.’

  ‘We’re all responsible for our own decision and reactions,’ Marsha replied, then paused for a moment to give me time to control the urge to cynically roll my eyes. ‘Let me ask you something: do you blame any of those women for what happened to them?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I scoffed, horrified she’d even suggest it.

  ‘And yet Daryl also told one of them that she’d asked for it, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes…’ I said slowly. ‘But…that’s different.’

  ‘Is it? In what way?’ She cocked her head, as if genuinely fascinated by my reply. I tried to marshal my thoughts so I could explain the complex emotional reasons behind why. Instead it felt like the answer was a great big tangle of wool in my heart and soul and I couldn’t figure out how to unravel it. Where to start?

  ‘I-I don’t know, it just is,’ I finally settled for. Marsha simply looked at me, the light reflecting on her glasses so that I couldn’t see her eyes properly. For the first time in the session I felt tense.

  ‘I should have known what he was doing. I’m his wife, I should have known,’ I wailed suddenly. ‘I should have stopped him and nothing anyone says will ever change that. It is my fault.’

  ‘Did he ever tell you what he was doing?’ she asked.

  I shook my head, frowning. ‘Of course not; I’d have gone straight to the police if he had.’

  She nodded. ‘Did you ever see him attack anyone?’

  ‘No.’ The reply came out sullen, like a child. I felt annoyed with her and her stubborn refusal to get what everyone else in the world understood: that I’m to blame.

  ‘Hmm. Did you tell him to hurt women?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then I really don’t see how this can be your fault. Daryl made his decisions on his own, he is the only person responsible for them. Not you.’

  ‘Well, I…’ I hesitated, trying to think of something to say to persuade her. I couldn’t. Not one single logical argument could be put forward. It’s not my fault. No matter how much I feel like it is.

  My hands twisted anxiously as I repeated the phrase in my head, trying to get it to sink in.

  It’s not my fault.

  ‘But everyone says it is,’ I whispered. A final offering in desperation.

  She smiled, shook her head, then glanced at the clock. ‘It isn’t. We can work some more on this next week, if you’d like to come again?’

  Definitely. Definitely! I do think I’ve left just a tiny bit of my emotional baggage behind at Marsha’s. I feel kind of confused, as if my world has been turned upside down, because there has been such a sudden shift in the way I’m seeing things. Maybe I’m finally seeing things right way up again, after it was turned upside down by Daryl. Whatever, I’m looking at things differently and it’s strange but wonderful.

  I still feel guilty and awful but now I have a new mantra that I could almost skip to, it gives me such a momentary buzz when I think of it.

  It isn’t my fault. Daryl’s responsible for his own actions.

  Friday 21

  When I woke up today I looked round the house and decided I’d had enough of these four walls. The journalists outside the house have thinned out now, and only the odd stubborn one still remains (see how quickly they’ve for
gotten me and moved on to the next victim) so I sneaked out the back and went jogging.

  It felt good pounding the streets, even though I could only manage a couple of minutes before having to stop, puffed out. A bit of a walk, then I pushed on with the jogging, alternating between the two when I had to, and all the time I repeated in time to the pounding of my feet:

  It’s not my fault.

  It’s not my fault.

  It’s not my fault.

  I repeat it again and again, trying to make myself believe in my core that it’s true. I hope it’s true. That’s how far Marsha’s brought me already, in just one session though; I have hope again.

  Thursday 27

  For the first time today I found myself looking forward to something: my therapy session. As soon as I got to Marsha’s I kicked my shoes off and made myself comfy in the armchair by sitting cross-legged.

  We talked some more about Daryl. The conviction I’d felt from the last session had quickly faded and I feel weighed down with guilt again.

  ‘If I could just find out why it happened,’ I said. Tears wobbled on the edge of my eyes and I looked up, blinking furiously, trying to keep them in.

  ‘Would you understand if he explained to you?’ Marsha asked patiently.

  I didn’t get what she meant by that. If someone explains the reasoning behind their actions then you understand. What isn’t there to understand? There had to be a trigger for all this.

  ‘Maybe I did put too much pressure on him to have a baby and it did send him over the edge…but there has to be a reason why it did, like something that happened in his own childhood that scarred him emotionally so much that the thought of being a parent made him lose control. God, I don’t know, I’m not the expert here…’ I babbled to the ceiling, still blinking.