Overwhelmed

by Marita A. Hansen

  I wanted to tell her that Nicky was scared of talking to people, and that her issues with her appearance had become debilitating, but I couldn’t. “I told you she hates going to counters,” I said instead, wishing I could talk more openly about Nicky’s problems.

  My mother’s frown deepened. “It’s more than that. She went hysterical when I insisted that she get out of the car. She also got upset over the clothes I picked out for her, almost refusing to leave the house because of them.”

  “She’s self-conscious about her weight, and only feels comfortable in certain clothes.”

  “Regardless, if she can’t even approach a counter, how is she going to get a job?”

  “I’ll talk to her,” I said, knowing it was all I could say.

  My mother nodded, then headed down the passage to the top of the staircase. I followed, watching Tom and our son disappear around the staircase corner. I hugged my mother and said thanks, then descended the staircase, going outside to the car. Tom, Nicky, and Remy were already inside waiting for me, the engine running.

  I jumped into the front passenger seat. Within minutes, we arrived home. Tom unlocked the house. As soon as Nicky walked through the front door, he grabbed her computer, causing her to scream and yank it away from him.

  “You can’t touch it!” she yelled, storming past him. She disappeared into the passageway, her bedroom door slamming shut seconds later.

  Tom turned to me, his expression angry. “I told you not to buy it for her, now she’s gotten even worse. How the hell is she supposed to earn a living when she gets older? She’s almost sixteen and she can’t even go up to a counter to ask for a bloody job. She will be out of here in just over two years, and I don’t want her ending up like your sister.” He screwed up his face, then spun around and disappeared through the passageway door.

  I breathed out, feeling a painful pressure building up inside of me. No matter what, I couldn’t do anything right, couldn’t make things work. I thought the laptop would help by making her happy; I didn’t know that things would get worse. Nicky was now using the computer as a means of escape when she couldn’t bring herself to leave the house, her mind space handicapping her.

  I sat down on the couch next to the pile of clothing that I hadn’t had time to fold. There was also a mess on the couch across from me, mainly Remy’s toys and an array of DVDs and PlayStation games, and God only knew what else. There were flecks on the pale green carpet that I should’ve vacuumed, as well as dust on the shelves. I was failing as a wife and a mother. I put my hands to my head. I could feel tears prickling at the back of my eyes. I didn’t want to cry, but I knew it was coming. Everything was piling on top of me and I didn’t know how to fix it.

  Tom’s words came back to me. ‘I love you, but...’ There was always that ‘but’, because I did drive him crazy. He came home exhausted from work and the place looked like a dump because of my writing. He also came home to a surly teenager, who refused to do anything other than play on the computer that I had bought her. I had failed her too. I knew she loved me, knew she had times where she was happy, times where we did things together, went out to soccer. I did so much for her with her teams, even became a coach for her, but I didn’t know if she appreciated that now. Had the need to succeed in writing taken valuable time away from being with her? Had it ruined my relationship with my family? I knew I couldn’t get a full-time job working for someone else, it wasn’t in my nature. It would drive me crazy. I would eventually get fired or go into a depression like I had after my miscarriage. It took three months to snap out of that. I had walked around in a permanent stunned state, barely uttering a word to anyone, too caught up in my own misery. I couldn’t bear going through something like that again. It wasn’t living; it wasn’t even surviving, because I had felt dead inside.

  Noise came from the kitchen. Remy hollered for food, totally oblivious to what had happened, which was good, because I didn’t want him to feel sad. I wanted him happy—I wanted his sister happy too, like she’d been before puberty had hit. I just wished I could fix everything.

  I pushed up from the couch and went into the kitchen, forcing myself to appear happy for Remy. “What would you like?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know,” he said, his cute face scrunching up.

  I smiled at him, his indecisiveness a characteristic he’d inherited from me. I hoped with all my heart he would be alright, and that he wasn’t going to closet himself off from the world like his sister did.

  I pulled open the fridge and looked inside. “How about a peanut butter sandwich?”

  “And Nutella!” he shouted.

  I breathed out, Remy’s normality stabilising me.

  ***

  I called out to Nicky. “Dishes time!”

  She didn’t reply. I poked my head around the kitchen door, looking at the blue chair in the corner of the sitting room. “Dishes, Nicky.”

  “You know not to say it,” she snapped, glancing up from her laptop. It was an unspoken rule for her that I wasn’t allowed to mention the dishes. But how was I supposed to tell her that they needed to be done? By sign language? She would probably tell me off for that too.

  “Do the dishes, Nicky,” Tom said, still staring at the sports news.

  “I will,” she answered him, her eyes returning to the computer screen.

  He glanced over at her. “You said that ten minutes ago.”

  “I said I’m going to do them.”

  “Then do them instead of talking about it.”

  “Dad!” she yelled. “I will.”

  He got up out of his chair and walked towards her, making her quickly turn her computer away from him, probably knowing he was going to take it off her.

  “Give me that computer,” he said.

  “No! It’s mine.”

  “You need to do the dishes.”

  “I said I will do them.”

  “Like every other night, yet I get up in the morning and find the bench full. I work, your mother cooks, and you do the washing.”

  “Remy does nothing!”

  “He dries.”

  “I want to dry instead of washing.”

  “Your job is to wash, his is to dry. You didn’t wash at his age. So, just do the dishes. You don’t bloody do anything else around here. Your room is a mess and you sit on that bloody computer all day.” He reached for her computer again.

  Nicky jumped out of her seat. “You can’t touch it, it’s mine!”

  “Just put that God damned computer away and do the dishes!”

  “No! I was going to do them, but not now! It’s your fault for pushing me.”

  Tom swore. “Just get out!” he yelled, pointing at the door. “Get out!”

  She rushed past him, going to her room.

  Tom turned to me. “You’ve pandered to her for too long, now she won’t do anything. She’d rather argue the amount of time it takes to do the dishes, than to actually do them.”

  “I’ll go talk to her.”

  He threw his hands up in the air. “What’s the point?! She still won’t contribute to this family. She doesn’t care.”

  “All I can do is talk to her.”

  “Didn’t you hear me? She doesn’t care!”

  I breathed in and out, trying to calm myself down. “I’ll talk to her.” I walked past him, hearing him mumble: “What’s the use? No one wants me here. All I am to you all is money.”

  I glanced back at him as he sat down on the couch, his angry face focused on the television. I wanted to tell him what he’d said wasn’t true, that he was so much more: to me, to the kids, but I also wanted to say that I couldn’t control everything or even stop these arguments over stupid things like the dishes. But instead, I walked down the passage to Nicky’s room, knowing if I said anything else Tom would just get more upset. That seemed to be my life now, shutting my mouth so things didn’t blow up completely in my face.

  I knocked on Nicky’s door. When she didn’t reply, I called out her name.
Again, she didn’t answer me. I pushed her door open and looked inside the mess called her bedroom. Clothes and other things were piled up against her far wall. I entered, my eyes going to her bunk bed, which was empty as well as the chair and desk underneath it. My eyes shot to the open window by her white cabinet, my heart dropping. I walked over to it and looked outside, not seeing Nicky anywhere in the darkness. I left her room, praying she was just cooling off in the backyard. But she wasn’t there. I walked over to the little playhouse and look inside, finding it empty.

  “Nicky,” I called out.

  She didn’t respond. I headed for the front of the house, wondering if she was sitting on the doorstep, but she wasn’t there either.

  I went back inside the house, stopping in the sitting room. “Have you seen Nicky?” I asked both Tom and Remy.

  Tom ignored me as he continued to watch TV, his jaw tense, his eyes still angry. Remy replied with a “No.”

  “I can’t find her,” I said, still focused on Tom. “Her window was open, she’s gone.”

  “She’s probably cooling off,” Tom muttered. “Doing everything but what she should be doing.”

  Knowing he wasn’t going to help, I went back outside, running down the driveway. I scanned the dark road, my heart pounding, fear now gripping it, Nicky’s behaviour and disappearance scaring me.

  I called out for my daughter, but got no reply. I ran back inside the house and grabbed the keys, telling Tom I was going to look for Nicky. Within seconds, I was in the car, reversing out of the driveway. I swung the car around and headed down the dark road, stopping at the end by the corner dairy. My eyes went to the playground across from the shop. Someone was sitting on top of the jungle gym with a hoodie on. I stared at the person, hoping it was Nicky, but they didn’t pay me any attention, plus Nicky didn’t have a hoodie. I turned the car around and drove back up our road, searching for her.

  After checking the next street, I doubled back to the playground. The hooded person was still sitting on the jungle gym. I stopped and stared at their silhouetted form. They were hunched over, the night shrouding them. They turned to look at me, making me move onwards, afraid they would think I was stalking them. I headed home, checking to see if Nicky had returned, but came up with nothing. I kept my tears to myself and got back into the car, knowing I had to find her.

  Yet again, I went to the park, something prickling at the back of my mind to check the person on the jungle gym more carefully, regardless of whether it was or wasn’t Nicky. Plus, if it wasn’t her, I could ask if they had seen her.

  Nervous, I pulled over to the kerb and got out of the car. The person turned and flicked their hood off, surprising me. It was Nicky.

  “I thought you were a guy,” I said, walking through the playground gate. My eyes went to the hoodie, now recognising the patterns as I drew closer to her. “That’s Remy’s.”

  She pushed off the jungle gym, her shoes thudding against the ground. Without a word, she walked to the car and got in. I followed, getting behind the wheel.

  “You scared me,” I said.

  “Dad’s an insensitive jerk,” she snapped.

  “He’s frustrated.”

  “He’s still a jerk.”

  I started the engine and headed up the road. “It would be so much easier if you just did the dishes, then no one would get upset.”

  “I can’t, I hate them. Remy should do them. I’m sick of always washing.”

  “You only wash the dinner ones. I used to do the lot when I was a kid. I also used to iron, mow the lawn, vacuum—”

  “It was different then.”

  I turned into our driveway. “How’s it different?” I said frustrated, thinking she had it so much easier than I did, yet appreciated none of it.

  “It just is.”

  I pulled on the brake. “I can’t do everything, Nicky. Please, just help out.”

  She turned to me, her face angry. “Make Remy wash and I’ll dry.”

  “You never washed at his age.”

  “I’m sick of always washing.”

  “He’ll take forever.”

  “And I will too!”

  “Okay, let’s see if we can alternate nights.”

  “That’s what I was asking!”

  “You don’t need to shout.”

  She pushed out of the car and headed around the back off the house. I locked up and followed, entering through the kitchen door. I walked into the sitting room, finding Tom still staring at the TV, his anger not having dissipated.

  I veered left, heading for Nicky’s room. I knocked on her closed door. When she didn’t reply, I entered, finding her sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, crying.

  I bobbed down in front of her. “How about we do them together? I’ll wash while you dry for tonight, then tomorrow Remy washes and you dry, then you take the washing the next night.”

  She kept her eyes down. “I just want to die.”

  “What did you say?”

  She looked up. “I’ve thought about committing suicide.”

  I stared at her in shock, unable to process those words.

  She wiped her eyes. “For the past three years I’ve wanted to die.”

  “But why?” I croaked out, still not believing what I was hearing. She’d been surly since we’d returned from Singapore a year ago, but I’d just assumed it was teenage angst, as well as the stress from moving.

  “Things are just pointless.” She banged the back of her head against the wall. “I look disgusting—”

  “No, you don’t, you’re gorgeous.”

  “No, I’m not! I hate going out, I hate everything. It’s all pointless, and the only reason I haven’t done anything is because I know it’ll hurt you and Dad.”

  I leaned forward and hugged her. “God, Nicky,” I said, my heart tearing apart. “I love you so much. What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” she sobbed against my shoulder. “I can’t explain it.”

  I pulled back from her. “Has anyone hurt you?”

  She shook her head. “It’s just me.”

  I wiped her face. “I’ll call the doctor tomorrow and make an appointment for you.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can get you some help.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “You’re my daughter—that’s the point, and a mental illness is just as serious as a physical one, if not more. It needs to be seen to. The doctor will probably refer you to a psychologist. You can talk to them. Are you willing to do that?”

  She nodded.

  I leaned over and hugged her again, her words both shocking and heartbreaking, the pain she was feeling now mine.

  12

  Things settled down at home for the next week. I had taken Nicky to the doctors. He’d asked her a lot of questions, then assessed that she wasn’t in immediate danger, although he’d contacted the place who dealt with suicidal tendencies. We had an appointment set for today, a few days after the doctor’s appointment. I’d told Tom, just let it slip into conversation as we jogged together. He didn’t say much at first, then a minute later he started talking about his mother and my sister, who both had mental health ailments. Maybe he was worried that Nicky had the same issues as they did, or maybe he was too scared to talk directly about Nicky’s problems, instead referring to her through the other two. Regardless, I still didn’t feel like I could discuss it fully with him. Now I knew why they called suicide the silent killer ... because no one talked about it, no one knew why people even thought about doing it. Oh, I understood why some people did, but Nicky was different: she wasn’t abused and she was brought up in a family who loved and cared for her. It just hurt that everything I’d tried to do for her wasn’t enough or what she needed. No matter how much time I spent with her or went to her activities, it was never enough. I just hoped that the psychologist could give us some answers to help her.

  I pulled up to the mental health building and got out of the car with Nicky, who looked jus
t as nervous as I did about going to the appointment. We headed inside the stone building, and took the elevator to the second floor. Once the elevator opened, we stepped out into a small foyer. The place appeared pleasant, with soft colours, not sterile like I thought it would be. Actually, I didn’t know what to expect, since I’d never seen a psychologist before.

  I headed for the desk, giving the receptionist my daughter’s name. She passed me a clipboard with a form to fill in, which I took to a chair by the far wall. Nicky sat down next to me. I quickly filled out the form with her information. Once done, I gave it to the receptionist then returned to sit with Nicky, wondering what would be said in the meeting.

  A middle-aged woman with a grey ponytail and a twenty-something blonde entered the reception area. They headed for us, making me get up in expectation.

  “Mrs. Hamlin?” the older of the two asked.

  I nodded and shook her hand.

  “It’s nice to meet you. My name’s Miriam and this is Katie,” she said, indicating to the young blonde woman. “She’s a psychology student. Is it alright if she listens in with our meeting?”

  I nodded.

  “Thank you.” She indicated to the passage, asking us to follow her.

  We walked around the corner and entered a small room. A large table filled the majority of the space, with several chairs surrounding it. Nicky and I sat down on one side, while the two ladies took the other side. The older of the two, Miriam from memory, started talking:

  “Today is about accessing Nicky’s problems as well as finding ways to help her cope with the more serious of them. We also need to find out what exactly is causing her to feel this way. But firstly, were you given the help lines by your doctor?”

  I nodded.

  “Good, because, Nicky,” she said, focusing on my daughter. “If you feel at anytime you need help, or just want to talk to someone, you can call those lines. It doesn’t matter whether it’s three in the morning, someone will be at the other end, ready for whatever you need to discuss.”

  Nicky nodded, her expression neutral, although I knew deep down she was feeling uncomfortable, but fortunately not enough to have refused to come. It gave me hope that she wanted to get some help.