‘No! Chanelle! What have you done?’ he screamed as they barged into the room and found me lying almost lifeless on the floor. They wrapped my wrist with a towel to stem the bleeding and, thank God, the ambulance arrived moments later. I was rushed to Wakefield General Hospital and taken straight through to have my stomach pumped. Obviously, I was out cold through all of this, so the only recollection I have after blacking out is of waking up in my hospital bed, feeling thoroughly dazed and sick. When I did come round, I remember looking down at my bandaged arm, wondering, ‘What the hell was I thinking?’
As the reality hit home, one of the doctors told me, ‘You’re a very lucky girl. If you’d taken many more tablets, you wouldn’t have had the choice of living or dying. Your organs would have been so messed up that you wouldn’t have stood a chance.’
I couldn’t believe I had come that close to dying, and just wanted to get out of the hospital. The doctors and nurses kept coming over to put tubes in my arms, or write a list of confusing figures on their clipboards, and I’d continually ask, ‘Can I go home now?’
‘Not yet,’ they told me, again and again. ‘The effects of the tablets can take a while to show up and sometimes they can cause long-term damage to your insides – even days after the overdose.’
This was the last thing I wanted to hear and a small part of me actually wished I had died. At least then there would have been a point to it. But, as it was, I felt like I’d failed and that people would think I had only done it as a pathetic cry for attention. That was mortifying when all around me on the ward there were really poorly children suffering from cancer and terminal illness they had no control over. I kept thinking, ‘You selfish cow, Chanelle. At least you have your health, unlike these poor little things.’
When Mum and Dad came to see me, I just burst into tears as they approached my bed.
‘Hello, Jadey-pie,’ Dad said and smiled. ‘How’s my girl doing?’
Mum sat and held my hands and I couldn’t understand why they weren’t furious with me.
‘I’m OK,’ I said with a shrug, wiping away tears. ‘Aren’t you mad at me?’
They shook their heads and said, ‘We just want you to be well. Nothing else matters.’
‘So you don’t hate me for doing this?’
‘Of course not,’ said Mum. But, like before, they really didn’t want to dwell on my behaviour. ‘Look, we just want you home,’ she said. ‘We don’t need to talk about why you did it. We can just put it behind us and move on.’
When I did eventually go home, I knew how badly I’d upset them, so I agreed to start seeing a new social worker to address my ‘issues’. She was called Becky and I’ll be frank – she was a total idiot. I was going through the worst time of my life and yet she’d turn up saying, ‘Right, today we’re going to draw some pictures to identify our feelings.’
I was like, ‘Becky, let me be honest with you. I know I’m only fifteen but I’m not stupid – I don’t need the Crayolas. I’ll speak to you on a level but don’t even bother with this.’
In reality, I’ve always found it hard to tell people how I really feel. My stomach would go into such knots whenever anyone asked me anything remotely heavy, so perhaps Becky never even stood a chance of getting through to me. But still, she drove me absolutely mad in her attempts.
‘How are you feeling today?’ she’d ask. ‘Why don’t you draw how you feel?’
So I’d say sarcastically, ‘Well, I can either draw a sad face or a smiley face. That’s about the extent of my talent in arts and crafts.’
I know it sounds ungrateful when she was only trying to help me, but this was not how to give therapy to a troubled teenager like me. One time she said, ‘If you draw me a picture with these felt-tip pens, next week we can try it with paints.’
Jesus Christ, what was she thinking? ‘What? I’m fifteen years old,’ I snapped. ‘Are you joking?’ Fair enough, that kind of psychobabble might have worked on four- or five-year-olds but it was just insulting to me. ‘Becky,’ I said, ‘I’m not trying to be rude but this is ridiculous. If you want to talk to me, that’s fine. But don’t expect me to sit here drawing stick men and smiley faces.’
And she replied, ‘Well, what about if we make a chart about how you’re feeling? Has it been a sad day, a good day or a medium day?’
‘I’m not drawing a chart either,’ I said. ‘I’m not three and I’m not wetting the bed. This is just not working for me.’
Those sessions with Becky used to make me so angry and I’d inevitably take it out on Mum.
‘Why are you making me see that woman? I’m not some imbecile,’ I’d say.
In the end, Mum arranged for my previous social worker Christine to step in – and she was a breath of fresh air because I trusted her implicitly. She picked me up from school sometimes and took me to Pizza Hut, so it felt like a treat, rather than some kind of psychobabble session. We could actually talk about stuff, without her forcing me to draw daft pictures. I used to enjoy our chats because she never seemed to judge me or have any expectations of me. And if I felt angry and bitter towards my mum and dad on any occasion, that was fine too. She always encouraged me to express my emotions and that helped me a lot.
But while she was a calming influence in my life, the next almighty storm was already brewing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Truth At Last
Although things settled down a bit in the months after my suicide attempt, my impatience to know the truth never left me and, pretty soon, it was gnawing away at me more than ever. One day, I was in the car with Mum when I got stuck into her again.
‘Look, I’m getting older now,’ I said, ‘so I really do think you can tell me about my mum.’
She refused to discuss it and wouldn’t even look at me. I must have been having a bad day because I then screamed at her, ‘You’re just an evil bitch!’ This was bad because, in all our fights, I’d never sworn at her before. But what she said in reply really took my breath away.
‘Well, do you know what, Chanelle? Carry on like this and you’re going to be no better than your mum.’
‘What did you just say?’ I fired back. ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’
But Mum realised she’d let slip more than she wanted to and would say no more. ‘Nothing. I meant nothing. Just drop it. This is definitely not the right time.’
I couldn’t make her tell me anything else and we fell out badly over it once again. Things got so bad that I decided to move in permanently with Scott and his family. His mum, Lynne, was brilliant right from the word go.
‘Stay as long as you want,’ she told me warmly. ‘I know you’re having a tough time, so you’re more than welcome here.’
It was nice of her but Scott was still into his drugs and it became quite a regular occurrence that I’d cook for him and then end up throwing his food in the bin while he ‘tripped out’ at the table.
All the signs were there that Scott was going to hurt me badly, so perhaps it shouldn’t have surprised me when he announced casually that he’d got another girl pregnant.
‘What?’ I froze when he told me, my jaw literally hanging open. ‘How could you do that to me? I trusted you!’
I ran into the lounge in floods of tears and broke the news to Lynne, who was disgusted with her son.
‘I want you out of this house, Scott,’ she told him coldly. ‘Chanelle would never cheat on you in a million years – how dare you treat her like that?’
He didn’t have much to say to that and got his stuff together that same evening. He moved into a caravan and my world was in bits. He had been everything to me and him cheating on me was like having my one and only emotional prop kicked out from under me.
Full of despair, it was in their house that I took my second overdose. Just like the last time, I decided I wanted to flick the switch off and end all of my pain. Grabbing a bottle of gin from Lynne’s cupboard, I went up to the bathroom and started swigging it with some painkillers. Almost
methodically, I then found a razor and scored a couple of small cuts on my left wrist. Little beads of blood shot out, just like before. It was so easy but, in the blink of an eye, I changed my mind and thought, ‘What the fuck am I doing? This is stupid. I need help.’
Clutching my arm, I staggered downstairs and wailed, ‘Lynne, I’m so sorry! Look what I’ve done! I’ve taken all these tablets too. Please help me. I’m in a really bad place.’
As ever, she was so calm and knew exactly what to do. She called an ambulance and then phoned Scott, who joined us at the hospital. Fortunately, the cuts were no way near as bad this time and I hadn’t taken enough pills to pose any serious risk to myself. I was allowed out that same night and, as I didn’t want to talk to Scott or even look at his cheating face, Lynne took me back with her. As good as she was in the crisis, she said later, ‘I feel like it’s all my fault.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘Of course it’s not.’
After that, I decided to go back home because there was no point in me staying with them after Scott left. But old habits die hard and pretty soon, I’m ashamed to admit, I started phoning him again. Unbelievably, I begged him to take me back.
‘I don’t care if you got that girl pregnant,’ I grovelled. ‘I’m so unhappy without you, please can we try again?’
I can’t believe I was such a fool now but we did end up getting back together and, with his encouragement, I started bunking off school. He had quit by then and didn’t want me going in without him, mostly because he was worried about other boys flirting with me. Scott was always a complete control freak – he used to work in a bowling alley and he liked my friend Natalie and I to get the bus there every Saturday and hang around all day. I’d met Natalie in Year Seven at high school and we were as thick as thieves. Even now, we’re still very close. But when we went along to the bowling alley each weekend, we didn’t even play – we just sat there chatting because Scott liked to keep an eye on me. I loved him though and I’d have done anything to keep hold of him. How pathetic does that make me sound?
At this point, I was about to sit my mock-GCSE exams and my teachers were concerned about the number of lessons I was bunking off. They had repeatedly called my parents to tell them and this was what Mum and I were fighting about on this particular night.
‘You can’t keep skipping school, Chanelle. You need to get your education or you’ll never make anything of yourself,’ she said.
I sat in silence, refusing to even look at her.
‘What are we going to do with you? Your dad and I are at our wits end.’
‘Stop telling me what to do!’ I spat back. ‘You’re always criticising me. It’s no wonder I hate living here!’
As the fight went round in a circle for what seemed like the millionth time, I screamed, ‘Right! I’ve had enough. I’m going into the woods and I don’t want you to follow me.’
‘Why are you going to do that? It’s pitch-black out there,’ she reasoned.
And I thought, ‘Because if I stay in this house, I’ll bloody well go into the bathroom and take some more pills.’
So I stormed out to the wooded area behind our house, which was also a shortcut to Natalie’s house. Because it was dark, I called her on my mobile and she ran to meet me and we walked to her house together. I was crying so hard I could hardly walk straight. When we got there, her mum Anthea gave me a big hug and sat me down.
‘What on earth is the matter?’ she asked. ‘What could be so terrible?’ I could barely speak for the tears but then, without even meaning for it to happen, it all came pouring out. I told them about everything I’d been through and why I couldn’t take any more. It was an enormous release of pressure.
When I’d finished recounting my traumatic few months, Anthea looked a little dumbstruck but stood up and said, ‘OK, Chanelle. I think this has gone on long enough. I’m going to call your mum.’
And as I sat there sobbing, she dialled our home number and I heard her say in a hushed voice, ‘Christine, I’m sorry to interfere and I know you have Chanelle’s best interests at heart. But I don’t think things can go on like this. Something’s got to give here. It’s bad for her, it’s bad for you and I think you need to be honest with her. This is destroying her. I’m worried that, if it goes on, she might really be pushed over the edge and it’ll be too late then.’
Finally, someone was actually talking sense. I’ll always be grateful to Anthea for that because what she said really got through to Mum at long last. She came over straight away, still in her dressing gown, and has since told me that the next hour was among the hardest of her life.
As soon she walked into the kitchen, I wiped my nose and said, ‘Are you going to tell me then?’
She looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights and Anthea said, ‘Girls, go and wait in the living room. I need to talk to your mum now, Chanelle.’
At least someone was there to take control of the situation. It seemed that neither Mum nor I was capable of that.
Natalie dragged me by the hand into the living room and sat me down on the sofa but I was in such a state that I kept trying to get up and go back into the kitchen.
‘Sit down,’ Natalie urged. ‘Let my mum talk to her first – she knows what she’s doing.’
It felt like they were in there for an eternity and, though I was straining my ears to catch what was going on, I could barely hear anything over the thudding of my heartbeat. Every now and again I heard a little bits of a muffled conversation and, at one stage, I’m sure I heard Anthea gasp out loud.
Finally, the door to the living room opened.
I jumped up. ‘What is it? Tell me.’ I stared directly at Mum.
She glanced at Anthea, shaking her head. ‘I can’t do this,’ she whispered, holding her head in her hands.
‘What?’ I shouted. ‘Stop these games! You have to tell me now. This isn’t fair.’
‘Come on, Christine, you know you have to do this,’ Anthea said softly, putting her hand gently on her shoulder.
As Mum sat down, she sighed deeply and I noticed that tears were rolling silently down her face. In all our fights over the years, I had never seen Mum cry and something registered in the pit of my stomach what a big deal this must be.
‘OK, Chanelle, I have wanted to protect you from this all your life but, if I really must tell you, I will.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You think your mum died because of an accident or illness and we’ve always let you believe that. But that’s not the case.’ She paused and composed herself again. ‘She didn’t die of cancer, or in a car crash, or because of anything else like that.’
Another deep breath. ‘Chanelle, your mum was a prostitute. She was murdered.’
I felt a rushing sound in my ears. I must have misheard.
‘What?’ I said slowly, my voice barely audible. ‘No way,’ I whispered, shaking my head. ‘You’re lying. It can’t be true.’
‘I’m not lying, it’s the truth. I swear,’ she said. ‘Why would I make this up? Your mum was strangled to death by one of her clients when you were five months old. You were sent to foster parents and then we adopted you soon after. We didn’t want to tell you until you were older. We’ve always felt it would be too much for you.’
Mum had come and sat next to me on the sofa but I wasn’t able to listen to any more. Of all the scenarios I’d imagined over the years about my real mum, it had never even crossed my mind that she might have been killed. I was completely lost for words.
‘I don’t believe it,’ I must have said 20 times. ‘How can this be happening?’
Nobody knew what to do or say after the big announcement and, after a few minutes, Mum got up.
‘Here’s £10 for your dinner money for the rest of the week if you want to stay here but you’re more than welcome to come back with me. It is still your home, Chanelle, and we love you very much.’
But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t even look at her. So she went home and I sat shak
ing in the chair, feeling like I might pass out. Anthea handed me a big glass of red wine.
‘This will help calm your nerves,’ she said.
I hated red wine in those days but I gulped it down quickly and can’t remember much about the rest of the evening. But, bizarrely, I do recall that, when we finally went to bed, with Natalie and me lying top to tail in her bed, I started thinking about my Spanish oral exam the next day.
The phrases I’d been practising were going round and round in my head for some reason and, in particular, the topic about my family. You know the kind of thing you have to learn verbatim; those sentences like, ‘In my family, I’ve got a mum and dad and one brother.’ It suddenly seemed so ironic. Imagine if I’d said, ‘I’ve got a mum, dad and brother – oh, and another mum who was a hooker and got murdered by some sicko bastard.’
I don’t think I slept the entire night. My mind was racing and I kept hearing Mum say those chilling words: ‘Your mum was a prostitute… she was murdered.’
The next day, I felt like death but forced myself into school for the exam. God knows how but it went well. I barely spoke to anyone all day and I brushed off my friends’ concerns every time they asked me what was wrong. I needed some time to get my own head round it before I could tell anyone else.
Natalie and Anthea helped me through the next couple of days by giving me space when I needed it and a shoulder to cry on as the news began to sink in. I couldn’t begin to make any sense of it but, after a few days, I knew I wanted to go home and start repairing my relationship with Mum and Dad. I knew that I had to salvage the family I still had, while I still could.
CHAPTER NINE
Revisiting the Past
Although our relationship was still on shaky ground, things were much better at home when I moved back in. I had a new respect for Mum and Dad for telling me the truth and knew instinctively that I didn’t want to fight them any more. Although it was the most horrific piece of news to come to terms with, I felt calmer inside. For me, knowing what had happened – no matter how distressing – was a lot easier to cope with than being kept in the dark. It had also made me realise how badly I’d treated them both.
Chanelle Hayes - Baring My Heart Page 5