by Sandy McKay
D,
I’ve just had a long talk with Veronica and told her there are some things I have to deal with. She didn’t take much notice at first until I said I wanted to see Dad and then she started asking questions. Boy, did she ask some questions! I got scared then but when I showed her my food diary she seemed to believe that I really am trying. The scary thing is that no one else can help. Not even Veronica – because when it comes down to it, I’m on my own.
Being on your own is frightening. Knowing you are in charge of your own destiny is scary. But I guess it’s good as well. Veronica says we can help each other out but in the end we have to make our own decisions. It’s called ‘growing up’.
I guess that is true for Mum as well.
Anyway, I know Veronica’s a therapist and all that but sometimes I’d really like to talk to her as a friend. I’d like to tell her about my letters to Mum and stuff but I don’t want her giving me instructions. I don’t want to be one of her case studies and I don’t want to be analysed. Also, I don’t want her to panic – I’m worried she’ll think I’m nuts.
She says she’ll try to organise a family conference, which makes me absolutely petrified.
Dear Mr Morrison,
In consultation with our group therapist, Veronica Brown, we would like to schedule a meeting with you and your daughter Johanna. We feel she has reached a point where progress may be made. There are obviously family issues that need addressing and the hospital environment will provide a neutral forum.
Please phone me at the above number to schedule an appointment time.
Yours faithfully,
Neville Fraser (Dr)
Dear Issy,
Things have been pretty dreadful lately. Do you remember that girl I told you about, the one in the wheelchair, who wore black lipstick?
Well, she died! I know, I can’t believe it, either. It’s terrible and everyone’s so upset even though none of us really knew her. You might have seen the death notice in the paper. There was a photograph and she looked like Catherine Zeta Jones in the Woman’s Weekly, except that in real life she didn’t look like that at all, which is the scary part. It is the weirdest feeling knowing she’s gone. We had a memorial service where we read poems and said prayers and stuff.
But the thing is, it’s given me a scare and now I’ve decided I’ve got to work hard at getting out of here. From now on I’m going to concentrate on getting well because if I stay in hospital I might end up in a wheelchair like Francine and you might be saying poems at my funeral and eating black grapes. Sorry to prattle on.
I hope everything is going well at school.
Lots of luv,
Jo
D,
Looking out at the stars settles the mind and calms the spirit. I read that in a book and actually I think it’s true. You should try it some time. The stars help you put things in perspective, especially when you are on the verge of losing it.
The thing is, those stars are so far away that it’s hard to tell how big they are, or how important. And I guess that’s the whole point. Because, in the end, what’s important is up to us. When you look at the stars like that you realise how insignificant we all are. I mean, there are hundreds of galaxies out there and, in the grand scheme of things, we are smaller and about as trivial as the teeny weeniest grain of beach sand. I used to think that was depressing. But being insignificant can be quite comforting – liberating, even. Well, that’s what I think. Because, if I am so insignificant, then what I do or say isn’t likely to be seriously important. Which is great!
And so I’m standing in my bedroom thinking about all this (with the light off so I can see the stars) and then it hits me like a meteor. Don’t ask me to explain what exactly, because I can’t. It’s just that suddenly I feel like I understand something new and I don’t feel so trapped any more. Maybe I don’t have to stay here.
It’s all about choice, see. We make our choices on the basis of who we are. And we all make different choices. And it’s these choices that shape our lives. And suddenly I can see that goes for Mum too.
Okay, I know she wasn’t well but she still had a choice. Like, she could have asked for help or she could have told me to pull my head in or she could have taken herself back to hospital.
I’ve never actually felt that way before. Like I actually have a choice.
And now, when I look out at the starry sky, even though it’s from behind a wad of double glazing, I have this warm feeling. Like something’s melting inside.
Dear Jo,
Don’t you dare have me reading poems at your memorial service. If you die on me I’ll never forgive you!!! Never. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever.
D,
Monday – half a plate of porridge, 1 quarter toast, three bites of omelette and two slices of tomato.
Unfortunately I throw it all back up because today is the day I am going to tell Dad the truth about why Mum left.
I put on the blue jumper with the Levis jeans and the white belt. My hair isn’t looking great so Dot helps me tie it back. She does a French braid, which is difficult because due to my recent hair hacking, some bits are longer than others. I really need to get a proper haircut.
Dot is such a sweetie. She even brought in some make-up and helped me put on mascara and lipstick, which I ended up rubbing off because I looked like a clown. I really don’t understand make-up. (Don’t think it was Mum’s strong point, either.)
Anyway … when we get into the room I notice that Veronica is dressed up and looking official, which is slightly off-putting. She has a file on her knee with ‘confidential’ on the front! I try and take my mind off myself by glancing casually around the room. I notice there’s a painting on the wall similar to the one in my room, only in this one the lighthouse is in the distance and the waves are crashing about the rocks. It’s like the same scene from a different perspective.
On the filing cabinet beside Professor Plaque’s desk there’s a family photograph and beside the photograph is a framed poem. The red words leap out from their black background.
And the poem goes:
Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.
A shudder passes through me because the same poem is on Mum’s dressing table. I’ve seen it a million times but I’ve never read the words – not properly. But they are beautiful so I read them again. And it calms me down. Then I hear Dad’s cough and the next thing Veronica’s patting my hand, which makes me feel about five years old. And Professor Plaque is telling Dad to ‘make himself at home’ and now it’s all on and suddenly I’m not so sure I’m ready for this yet. Because here we all are – Dad, Matt and me. I didn’t know Matt was coming. And I know it’s only been a few weeks but he looks taller and his hair’s grown long and well, this is all just so weird.
Dot rushes up to get Matt a seat because there aren’t enough and now we’re sitting in a semi-circle with me directly opposite Dad. I feel like I’m on display and I’m so nervous that when I try to smile my dry lips get stuck on my top teeth and won’t come back down.
Dad looks smaller than I remember, like he’s shrunk. And older. His jumper is matted like when you put the machine on a hot wash by mistake. He’s always been hopeless with washing, which makes me feel guilty and want to cry.
I feel confused. Like part of me wants to race up and put my arms round them both and the other part wants to run and hide. Professor Plaque is prattling on about something but I can’t concentrate. I feel itchy and hot and my breathing is going wonky.
Now Dot’s going all blurry and there’s not enough air in this room … plus I need water … plus I …
I get up and kind of stumble backwards, knowing I’m going to ruin the meeting but also knowing I have to get out of here. I’ve duffed it.
‘Sorry,’ I say. And they’re all looking at me, like ‘Pardon?’
‘Sorry, but I c
an’t do this right now.’
And next minute I’m wobbling down the corridor. And when I see Leon I just lose it completely and burst into tears. I won’t go into the other gory details because it’s all just nuts.
D,
‘Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.’
Fair enough, but how do you get the courage in the first place, and how do you know what to change?
Dear Jo,
I’m really sorry our visit didn’t work out the other day. But it’s not the end of the world. And even though we didn’t get to talk I still feel like we made some progress. I just want you to know, Jo, that I’m always here for you. Whenever you want to talk I’m ready. Or if you don’t want to talk then that’s fine too.
Luv,
Dad
D,
Even when I go over and over it in my head I still can’t figure out what went wrong. I guess I just panicked. But why? Last night Dot came to see me. She sat on the bed holding my hand and I felt like a little girl again. I had a memory flashback to when I’d come off my trike in the driveway (I’d been tearing along real fast and the whole thing tipped me off onto the gravel) and Mum was helping pick the stones out of my knee. I didn’t cry that day, either. I am so good at not crying. The trick is to think of something else and to keep on thinking of something else until the tears give up and go away. It hurts your throat but it’s way better in the long run.
Except that Dot wouldn’t let me think of anything else. ‘I think there’s something you’re not telling us, Jo,’ she said, and I’ve never seen her look so serious. But I didn’t answer because I was trying to think of other stuff like is that a new fly in your web there, Charlotte?
‘It’s your dad, isn’t it?’ she said, refusing to be distracted.
(Well good for you, Charlotte, aren’t you the clever one, and hey, isn’t the sky blue today?)
‘Jo!’
‘Are they new shoes, Dot? Nice colour.’
‘Jo, I want you to listen to me.’
‘I am.’
‘Look … did your dad hurt you?’ She’s looking me square in the eye.
(Bugger off, Dot. I was doing so well…)
‘Jo! This is important.’ (She has me by the shoulders now.) ‘Jo! Answer me! Did your dad hurt you?!’
At first I didn’t understand quite what she was on about. But she mistook my look of confusion for a ‘yes’. She formed a conclusion and leapt to it. Then she came at me with both guns blazing.
‘I knew it!’ she said. ‘I damn well knew it.’ She was shaking now.
‘What?’
Her face was distorted. ‘Another bastard arsehole in the world!’ she declared.
And suddenly the penny dropped and I knew exactly what she was thinking. But … She had it wrong. She thought Dad hurt me like … like … No, Dot. No!
They’re used to that kind of stuff in here. Abuse is why a lot of kids end up in places like this. But that’s not what happened. It’s not my dad who’s the monster, Dot. It’s me! Don’t you see? It’s me!
It took me ages to explain and when I finished I was exhausted. Like I’d gone ten rounds in the boxing ring. But no one can beat you up better than you can yourself – that’s what Dot says.
It felt good to tell someone at last. Like bursting a boil, it hurt like hell at the time but when it was over there was relief. And Dot was fantastic. She let me tell the whole story without interrupting. She just sat there nodding and patting my hand and nodding and patting my hand again. ‘Oh, you poor wee soul,’ she said, which I knew wasn’t true. Because I knew deep down that I was not a poor wee soul but it felt good to hear someone say it.
Then Dot said I absolutely have to tell Dad.
I said I’d think about it.
D,
Veronica came by later and we had quite a long talk about eating disorders. I guess, like most of the kids in here, I like to think I’m different. I know I’m definitely not as bad as they are. Even when I’m admitting things in therapy, underneath I’m saying, ‘This doesn’t apply to me because I’m not as sick as them’. I can’t be, can I? My throwing up is under control and my eating is under control – that’s what I tell myself. I’m coping. You’ll see. Even when I’m put on bed rest I know it’s a complete over-reaction on their part. So, it takes a lot to admit it’s not. And I’m not quite there yet.
The next time Dad visits he comes straight to my room. I’d been on bed rest for three days and he sat in the chair holding my hand. Nervously biting his lip, he talked about the weather and rugby and Matt’s latest creepy crawly. ‘God knows how the poor thing survived in that glass jar.’ And, ‘Did you get the moa tooth, Jo? Strange boy, our Matt – strange boy…’ He waffled on trying to fill up the silence and I just lay on the bed with all this stuff building up in my head.
‘Dad?’
‘Yes, Jo?’
‘Dad –’
‘Yes, Jo –’
‘Well, um, you know when Mum left…?’ Fear clogged my throat and I still wasn’t sure I could do this.
Dad took my hand. My throat tightened. He looked at me hard and I noticed something I’d never seen before. The pain behind his eyes.
‘It’s okay, Jo,’ he said. ‘The nurse already told me –’
Dear old Dot, I thought. And then it started. So unexpectedly, that my normal defence systems were unprepared. One minute I was looking at Dad and swallowing like crazy and the next I was a snivelling wreck. Floods of tears gushed out so fast I couldn’t keep up. Heaving and snorting and choking …
Dad didn’t say a word, just held my hand and waited. And then I noticed that he was crying too. Not out of control snorting like me, but there were big fat tears rolling down his face. Then he wrapped his arms round me so tight I felt like I was going to break.
And then, just when I felt like it was all going to be okay, he did something unexpected.
He got up and walked out the door.
D,
I have this recurring dream.
In the dream Mum comes to visit but she doesn’t recognise me. She’s standing in the doorway asking if anyone knows a Johanna Morrison and I yell out ‘Mum! It’s me!’ and rush over but she ignores me and walks off. And then I’m calling after her and she’s walking and walking and not turning round once. Pathetic, huh?
I guess seven years is a long time. What if she doesn’t recognise me if we meet again? Or, even worse – what if I don’t recognise her? For a while after she left I thought about her all the time and I got obsessed about stuff. Like her smell, for instance. I’d go into the bedroom, open the wardrobe door and bury my head in her red winter coat. I told myself that as long as I could smell her she couldn’t disappear. But then I panicked and I started worrying that I might be over-sniffing. I might sniff her smell away. So I kept out of the wardrobe so that her smell might last longer.
I haven’t been in the wardrobe for ages now.
2:38a.m. is the worst time to be awake. That’s when all the dark thoughts surface, hunting you down and dragging you into the gloom. Into those inky depths.
Miss Hughes told me once that if I accepted that Mum was gone for good then maybe I’d be able to get on with things. Move forward, that’s how she put it.
‘I don’t mean to be cruel, dear,’ she said, in her counsellor’s voice. ‘But –’
Exactly. There are still way too many ‘buts’. Miss Hughes doesn’t know the full story.
‘I wish you were dead’. That’s what I said. How cruel is that?
Miss Hughes doesn’t realise that accepting the fact that Mum might be dead also means accepting that it was me who wished she was in the first place. And I’m not ready to do that. Not yet!
Dear Jo,
As you know I’m not much good with words. In fact I’m pretty useless. The other day when the nurse told me what you’d told her I felt gutte
d. How could I have been such a jerk not to realise what was happening to you? Well, maybe your Pop was right because I’ve made a pretty poor job of things so far. Like when I came to visit, for example. I should have known what to say, but I didn’t. I had absolutely no idea.
But there is one thing that you have to believe, Jo. And it’s this –
Your mother leaving was not your fault. You were nine years old, for goodness’ sake. You were NOT responsible. Do you hear me? NOT responsible.
Your mum wasn’t well. It wouldn’t have mattered what anyone said or didn’t say to her. She was severely depressed and not thinking straight. The doctor said she was suicidal – did I ever tell you that? Well, perhaps I should have!
The tragic thing was, she wished herself dead. That’s the truth of it.
So her leaving had absolutely nothing to do with anything you said to her. Nothing!
Luv, Dad
P.S. You absolutely have to believe that, Jo.
D,
I’ve had a letter from Dad. Thank God for that. The way he walked out that day really threw me and it took me ages to open his letter. I was so nervous because I thought he must be shocked and disappointed. I thought he must be pretty pissed off as well. And so he should be.
But he sounded okay.
He said it wasn’t my fault and that means a lot. I know it’s not exactly true but it feels good to hear him say it. (Well, to read him say it.) The thing is, I still feel guilty about Mum and I probably always will. But I’m not going to let it ruin my life – not any more. I wrote a long letter to Dad explaining things but I changed my mind because I know he’s not into all that therapy stuff.
So I made it brief and businesslike.