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by Cathy Glass


  ‘You wicked, wicked, girl,’ she hissed under her breath. ‘You evil bitch! You’re not human! You’re evil. An evil, evil child.’ Her jaw was clamped and she gritted her teeth as she chopped at the scars. There was no doubt in my mind that Dawn was punishing herself – for what, I didn’t know.

  I went over and squatted beside her and encircled her with my arms. ‘It’s all right, love,’ I soothed. ‘It’s OK. You’re all right now.’

  Suddenly she stopped all movement and gave a small cry of alarm. ‘Cathy?’ she asked, raising her head to look at me. Her eyes focused on me and I knew she was awake and really seeing me. ‘Cathy? Where am I?’ She stared around, anxious and confused.

  ‘It’s all right, love. You’ve had a bad dream. Now let’s get you back to bed.’ I looked to John to help me, and he came over.

  ‘Cathy?’ she said again, searching my face, disorientated and anxious. ‘John?’ she said, gazing at him and around the kitchen.

  ‘Yes, we’re both here,’ I reassured her again. ‘You’ve had a bad dream. Let’s get you back to bed.’

  John took one arm and I took the other, and together we helped Dawn to her feet. Although she was awake and no longer sleepwalking, she was so dazed and disorientated that it took both of us to steer her out of the kitchen and along the hall. I talked to her calmly as we went. ‘It’s all right now, love. There’s nothing for you to worry about. We’re taking you back to bed.’

  At the foot of the stairs, John went up first, and Dawn followed, with me gently steering her from behind. She seemed less co-ordinated and less able to navigate things now that she had suddenly woken than she had been when sleepwalking. It was almost as if she was in a twilight world, somewhere between waking and sleeping, and her senses were caught between the two and not fully functioning. At the top of the stairs John led the way into her room and I steered her to the bed.

  ‘In you get, love,’ I said gently, holding back the duvet. She climbed in and lay down. ‘You go back to sleep now,’ I soothed. ‘Everything is fine.’ She didn’t speak, but turned on to her side and immediately closed her eyes.

  John and I waited for a few minutes to make sure she was properly asleep, then came out and quietly closed her bedroom door. We hovered on the landing for a few moments, looking at each other, and I could see John was as shaken as I was. My heart was still pounding from the shock of it all and my knees felt weak. ‘I’m going back to bed,’ I said quietly. John nodded, switching off the landing light, and we returned to bed.

  We lay side by side as our eyes adjusted to the dark and the small glow coming from the street lamp. It was some time before I felt my body slowly start to relax, and longer before either of us spoke.

  ‘Jesus!’ John sighed eventually. ‘Whatever was that all about?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’ve no idea, but supposing we hadn’t woken and she had found the matches?’ My stomach churned at the very thought – Dawn playing with matches in the kitchen and possibly setting fire to the house while we slept on upstairs with Adrian in his cot. The implications were too horrendous to contemplate. ‘Do you think she wanted the match to light the hob and try to cook?’ I asked at length. ‘I mean, I know the burners light automatically but Dawn might not have realised that.’

  ‘It didn’t look like it to me,’ John said. ‘She was nowhere near the stove, and what about the expression on her face? You don’t normally show pain and anger when you are cooking. And why was she punishing herself? She was definitely trying to hurt herself for something she’d done.’

  ‘I know,’ I agreed reluctantly. ‘I know.’ I paused. ‘I was thinking I might go to the doctor tomorrow when Dawn is at school, and discuss her sleepwalking with him.’

  ‘Good idea,’ John said. ‘I also think we need to tell her social worker and ask her what she knows about it.’

  ‘And if Dawn remembers what happened tonight,’ I said, ‘which she might do, as she was awake, I could try to talk to her about it. At least it will be out in the open then, and it might help her.’

  Utterly exhausted the following day, Monday, we hauled ourselves into the weekday routine. When I woke Dawn at 7.00 a.m. to tell her it was time to get ready for school, she was in a very deep sleep and it took me some time to raise her. When she finally came down to breakfast I had already eaten mine and was spoonfeeding Adrian his baby porridge. I watched Dawn as she took her place at the table. She was obviously very tired and looked almost hung over, with dark circles round her eyes, but she managed to say good morning and smile. I continued to watch her as she began eating her toast, half expecting her to say something about the previous night, but she didn’t. She carried on eating and sipping her juice; then she yawned, and I seized the opportunity.

  ‘Are you still tired, love?’ I asked, giving Adrian his last spoonful of porridge.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and yawned again.

  ‘You didn’t sleep well. You had a really bad dream. Do you remember?’

  Dawn looked at me puzzled and nearly yawned again. ‘Not really. Was I talking in my sleep?’

  I nodded. ‘You seemed really worried about something. Don’t you remember John and me resettling you?’

  She shook her head. ‘I hope I didn’t say anything rude or embarrassing.’ She gave a small nervous laugh.

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  She shrugged and returned to her toast. Despite waking from her sleepwalking, clearly Dawn had no idea what she had been doing. I saw no point in telling her – she couldn’t add anything if she didn’t remember, and being confronted by what she had done was likely to have caused her more anxiety. I lifted Adrian from his high chair, sat him on my lap and gave him a teaspoon to play with, which he tapped on the table.

  ‘Dawn,’ I said looking at her seriously. ‘Is there anything worrying you? You’ve had a few restless nights since you’ve been with us. Is there anything troubling you? If there is, maybe I can help.’

  She briefly met my gaze and then looked away, and I knew in that look that there was something worrying her. I also knew that she wasn’t about to tell me. Her usual open expression closed. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry if I woke you. I’d better go and do my teeth now. I don’t want to be late for school.’ Quickly finishing the last of her juice, she left the table and went upstairs to get ready. Five minutes later she reappeared and I saw her off at the door.

  As soon as she had gone, I changed Adrian’s nappy, made up a bottle of boiled water, put Adrian in his stroller and left the house. It was about a twenty-minute walk to the doctor’s surgery, on the High Street, and I was pleased to be walking; it was a lovely spring morning, and I hoped the air might clear my head, which was still thick from lack of sleep, despite two cups of strong coffee.

  The front gardens of the houses I passed were all coming to life with green buds shooting from the brown twigs of the shrubs, and late spring flowers replacing the daffodils and tulips. Birds were nest building and singing in the trees and Adrian was joining in with a song of his own. The air smelt fresh and clean, and I had a certain optimism. Though it saddened me that Dawn didn’t feel able to confide in me, I was relieved that I had decided to unburden my worries about her to the doctor. As well as telling him that I thought Dawn was concealing big problems, and asking him if these could be responsible for her sleepwalking, I had approachable. I explained

  thdecided I was also going to talk to him about her self-harming, for although she hadn’t actually done it since she’d been with us, she had re-enacted it three times now. After I had seen the doctor I intended to go to the library and see if I could find any books on self-harming. Looking after Dawn was proving to be something of an education, a sharp learning curve, but on subjects I would rather not have known about.

  The doctor’s surgery was full with the accumulated ailments of the weekend. I gave my name to the receptionist and said I was happy to see any doctor – the one with the shortest queue; it didn’t have to be my own doctor. In the waiting roo
m I took one of the last two empty seats, between a badly overweight woman on my left who wheezed and coughed continuously, and a child of about three on my right who was seated on his mother’s lap and also had a bad cough. I hoped Adrian wouldn’t catch anything. Fortunately Adrian was usually very healthy and we rarely came to the doctor’s.

  By the time it was my turn, an hour had passed, and Adrian had drunk his bottle of boiled water and had exhausted playing with the contents of my large bag. I went through to ‘consulting room two,’ where Dr Roman waited. He was fairly new to the practice, which was probably the reason why his queue was the shortest – patients tend to opt for what had been tried and tested. I sat in the chair opposite his desk with Adrian on my lap. Dr Roman was quite young, and I thought it was likely he was only recently qualified, but he was very approachable. I explained that I had come not about me, but about the girl I was fostering, Dawn Jennings.

  ‘Have you registered her with this practice?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, when she first arrived.’

  ‘Just a moment and I’ll send through for her notes. I only have yours here.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I should have explained at reception.’

  He pressed the intercom button on his desk phone and asked the receptionist to bring through Dawn’s medical records. ‘You realise confidentiality stops me from disclosing what’s in her notes,’ he said to me. ‘But it might be useful for me to refer to them. What exactly is the matter with Dawn?’

  Good question, I thought; I wish I knew. I began outlining Dawn’s behaviour.

  His phone buzzed and he picked it up. ‘OK, thanks,’ he said, and replaced the receiver. ‘Dawn’s notes haven’t arrived yet, which is nothing unusual. It can take months to transfer them.’

  I nodded, and continued with the résumé of Dawn’s background (what I knew of it), and then her sleepwalking and previous self-harming. I finished with a description of her behaviour in the kitchen the night before. ‘I am obviously very worried, Doctor,’ I said. ‘And really I don’t know what to do to help her.’

  ‘And she’s not telling you anything about her problems, or what could have caused this?’

  ‘No. Nothing. She’s always very polite and wants to please.’

  He had listened carefully as I was speaking, occasionally nodding, and taking my concerns seriously. Now he sat back and thought for a moment before speaking.

  ‘Not knowing Dawn or having her medical records it is difficult for me to say. But in my opinion she is exhibiting signs of very disturbed behaviour, presumably as a result of something that has happened in her past. It sounds as though she’s had a very unsettled time between her parents, and you say that according to her social worker there is a gap in her history that no one can account for – indeed no one seems to know where she was?’

  ‘Yes, between the ages of five and nine.’

  ‘I’ll know more once I have her notes, but I think it would be my recommendation that she has counselling. I could make a referral under the NHS for her to see a psychologist. However, I would need to see Dawn in person – I can’t do anything unless she comes in and asks for help. I would also need the consent of either her parents or social worker before I made a referral, as she’s a minor.’

  ‘I see,’ I said reflectively. ‘I’m going to speak to her social worker later today. I’ll tell her what you said.’

  Dr Roman nodded. ‘That would be the first step. In the meantime my advice is to try to talk to Dawn again; perhaps eventually she will start to confide in you. You’re handling her sleepwalking correctly, and sleepwalking is more common than you think, though not to this extent, I agree. I appreciate it can be very distressing to watch, but just keep her safe, and put anything she could use to harm herself with out of reach. If it was an adult who was sleepwalking regularly I might prescribe a sedative. I could for Dawn, but again I would need to see her first and obtain the permission of a parent or social worker.’

  I realised that Dr Roman couldn’t add or do anything more without Dawn, and aware there was still a waiting room full of patients, I thanked him for his time and left the surgery. I didn’t feel it had been a waste of time – he had taken my concerns seriously, and his suggestion of counselling sounded a very positive one, although of course Dawn would have to be made aware of and recognise she had a problem first, which realistically meant me telling her.

  In the library, I returned the two books on sleep disturbances, and then scanned the non-fiction section for books on self-harming. I was no more adept at navigating the Dewey classification system now than I had been before, and eventually I went to the desk and asked the librarian. At least I had the subject matter named correctly this time – self-harming – and the librarian checked on her computer and found there was one book listed. She led me to the shelf and took down the book. It was entitled Self-harming and Adolescents: The Therapy. Before she passed it to me she briefly flicked through it.

  ‘I’m not sure this is what you want,’ she said. ‘It seems to be about teenagers.’

  ‘It’s not for me,’ I said quickly, ‘but someone I know.’ Thanking her, I took the book to be checked out and then headed for home.

  Once I had given Adrian his lunch and settled him for his nap, I phoned the social services and asked to speak to Dawn’s social worker. A colleague answered and said that Ruth was on annual leave and wouldn’t be back for another two weeks. I asked if there was anyone else I could speak to who might know Dawn’s case. ‘Not really,’ the woman said. ‘If it’s an emergency you can speak to the duty social worker, but otherwise it’s best to wait until Ruth returns.’ I didn’t think it constituted an emergency, so I left a message to ask that Ruth phone me on her return.

  While Adrian slept, I read the book. It was really aimed at therapists working with adolescents who self-harmed and was full of psychologist’s jargon. However, it contained a lot of in-depth information, and cited research based on case studies of young people who had deliberately hurt themselves. What I read in no way lightened my concerns: it was truly horrendous.

  There were black-and-white photographs of the injuries that adolescents (and it seemed to be mainly teenagers who self-harmed) had inflicted on their arms, legs and sometimes their bodies, some of which had required hospitalisation. I quickly learned that self-harmers, or ‘cutters’ as they are colloquially referred to, are very good at hiding their injuries, and the cutting is usually a secret activity. Cutting was described as a ‘coping mechanism’, born of anger and self-loathing, and was often a punishment for how the young person perceived themselves. In many cases the cutting continued for years undiscovered and, even once diagnosed, the cutting often continued, despite therapy. Reasons why young people harmed themselves included: lack of love; physical, sexual and emotional abuse; acute bullying; low self-esteem; and depression. ‘Cutting makes the blood take away the bad feelings,’ one young person was quoted as saying. ‘I feel so guilty, I punish myself,’ another admitted. The author added that if someone was feeling ‘numb’, then the pain of cutting could make them feel ‘alive’. In some cases the cutting escalated and led to death – intentional or otherwise. Cutting was not simply a failed suicide bid, though, the book explained: it was an act in itself, although some professionals viewed it as a cry for help. I learned that cutting wasn’t the only means by which self-harmers hurt themselves: they also took overdoses; punched themselves; threw themselves against walls; pulled out their hair and eyelashes; burnt, scratched, picked and tore at their skin – in fact anything that vented punishment or gave relief from their inner turmoil.

  It was very harrowing reading, and the general consensus of opinion among the psychologists was that self-harmers were disturbed and could be suffering from any number of psychological illnesses. However, nowhere did I read about anyone re-enacting their cutting while sleepwalking, as Dawn had done, and I’d no idea if this was significant or not.

  When Dawn returned from school I asked her, as I alwa
ys did, if she’d had a good day. She said she had, although she added that she’d been so tired she had nearly fallen asleep in the English lesson. I said she’d have to have an early night. I then said I’d like to talk to her before she started on her homework. She fetched a drink from the kitchen, as she usually did on returning home, and joined me in the lounge. During the afternoon I had carefully thought about what I was going to say and had come up with a way of broaching the subject without actually having to tell Dawn of her disturbed behaviour.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked sipping her milk. ‘You look worried. Have I done something wrong?’

  I smiled. ‘No, Dawn, you haven’t done anything wrong, but I am worried. Come and sit down.’ I patted the sofa and she sat beside me. ‘John and I are both worried about something your mother said when we all met the other evening.’

  ‘Oh, her,’ she said dismissively. ‘You don’t want to believe what she says. She doesn’t like me and never has time for me. In fact she’d rather I wasn’t around at all.’

  I was taken aback to hear Dawn say that, although it appeared to be the truth. ‘I understand, love, but what I want to talk to you about is not something your mother made up, but the scarring on your arms. I’m very worried that you felt the need to hurt yourself, and I was wondering if you would like to talk to someone who may be able to help. Someone called a counsellor, who is trained and used to listening to people who have problems, and can give advice.’

  ‘I’m not cutting now,’ Dawn put in quickly.

  I looked at her. ‘No, but you must have been very upset and hurting inside to want to harm yourself like that. And some of the scars are quite recent, aren’t they?’

  ‘But I haven’t done it here,’ she said defensively.

  ‘I know, love. But to have done it at all makes me think you were very upset about something, and might still be.’

  She glanced away, and absently rubbed the sleeve of the jumper on her scarred arm, as though remembering.

 

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