Ghost Girl

Ghost Girl

 Victoria Munro

 

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Jonny, who was my 'editor' throughout the writing of this book. And Mum who listened to my useless ramblings and answered my questions. To Amie, who cheered me on, and to my dad who encouraged me.

 

Dedication

 'They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do'.

Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse

 

Dedicated to my mum, who stopped me from fucking up.

Prologue

Freya awoke. Her eyes adjusted to the lack of light in the room. If you could call it a room. It was dark and dismal with crowded walls with stains and marks on them. She was lying on a bed, with a sheet over her naked body. Where was she? How did she get here?

For a split second she could not remember. Her memory was blank, like a sheet of paper, but then it came back to her. Flooded her mind. She remembered. And it wasn't something she wished to remember.

She realised she could not move. Her mind and body hurt too much to do so. She was stuck, literally and emotionally...

 

Chapter One

The mind is a funny thing. Then again - so is the heart. People often say “I don’t know whether to listen to my heart or my mind”, but I have decided to listen to neither, as usually neither is right.

 

The mind can play tricks on you, it can deafen you, blind you, rob your of your senses, but the main thing it can rob you of is your sanity. This is not a pleasant experience.

 

Karrie stared at me, waiting for the answer, the epiphany or the big hundred dollar response.
I couldn’t give her it. I didn’t know the answer. 
I’d tried, I’d really fucking tried, but this was the last straw. This was why I was going to remove myself from this world. She couldn’t stop me. No one could.
“Karrie, I don’t know. Maybe some people just lose it?”
She looked at me, a frown written on her face. Her short black hair was tucked behind her pointy ears, she was wearing a strong perfume, and I could smell its definite scent. It pierced my nostrils.

“Freya, people don’t just lose it. Things, people and experiences cause them to lose it. Surely something must have sparked you to go over the edge and start living like you did?”
She continued to wind her finger round her shiny hair; it was putting me on edge. I studied her facial expression. She gave nothing away, her expression was emotionless. But I guess it had to be, she was trying to remain professional, but my swearing and non-existent reaction to her chatter didn’t help. I was being a complete and utter dick and I knew it. I could sit here and say yes; yes I do know why I went round the bend. It was my parents. The way they pestered and pestered me to do everything right. To be something I am not, to succeed in every bloody aspect of my bloody damned life. And it tore me apart; I could not be who they wanted me to be. Freya North. Failure.
I stared into her shocking blue eyes and said, “You don’t know me. Stop trying to pretend you do”.
Her face crumpled and she slowly smoothed down her skirt, signalling defeat. She’d lost. She was never going to get the answer she was looking for because there was none.

She gave into her defeat and let me leave. I opened the wooden door and it creaked loudly, signalling her departure. As I meandered back to my room I tried to block out the screams and wails from around me. Old nutty Tisha was being dragged to the ECT (Electroconvulsive therapy) room. I felt sorry for her. It’s not her fault she was born a few crumbs short of a biscuit. I guess it wasn’t my fault either. It just happened, as things do, and I found myself here.

I’m not going to do the whole explanation thing. If you want to know you’ll find out. Slowly and surely. What I will disclose is a piece of advice taken from my wise experience: don’t end up like me. Get out before you can.

September - then

Freya raked her hand through her long wavy sandy hair. It was greasy and needed a good wash. She’d run out of her usual apple shampoo a week ago and nothing had sparked her any motivation to go out and get some more, not even the thought of the chocolate awaiting her in the supermarket. An entire row, just for her to choose from. It was foul anyway, the cheap shampoo. It smelled nice but it was stupidly cheap and it stripped your hair of its natural chemicals. That’s what you for buying Tesco everyday value, she thought. But she didn’t own the money to invest in posh shampoo. She barely scraped through as it was. Living on her own in a council flat in the heart of a city had its costs. Gas, electricity, water, rent, not to mention the dreaded food shopping that bulked up most of her spending. So she had to cut down and only buy the essentials. Food. Bread, milk and a few packets of pasta with tins of tomato sauce to boil up for herself on a lonely Tuesday evening.

She needed to sort her life out. Her A-levels hadn’t gone as well as planned and she had opted to do gap year, so she was meant to be saving up for university next year but all the money was being spent on just keeping her alive now. Her parents had completely blocked her out of their lives for various reasons and their once stable income was now gone and all that was left was her own miniscule salary.

Tisha wasn’t going to get out of here for a while. I however was. If I carried on acting the nut I really was I’d never leave so it was time to act a bit more normal. I suppose I would have to start talking to Karrie, but there was something about her that pushed me away and stopped me from gushing my heart out like she expected.
Actually, scrap that, what did she expect? A bloody life story. I had made it clear from session one that I did NOT want to disclose personal information, but she had kept on, wearing me down and grinding at my gears.

When I got back to my room I flopped onto my bed, feeling the hard mattress dig at my stomach. They could at least give us comfy beds so we slept better. The poor insomniacs didn’t have a chance.

Jodi was lying on her bed crying. I felt sorry for her. She’d had it rough. Abusive parents which lead to an eating disorder. No wonder she was a little bit fucked up now. Poor poor girl.

Jodi’s short fluffy brunette hair was stuck up in tufts around her head.
“Jodi” I whispered “you can talk to me." A wail escaped from her small mouth and she raised her head so that I could see her face. God, she looked awful. Her tiny face was red and blotchy, the way it is when tears get the better of you, and her eyes looked so very sad. She wiped a salty tear away with the back of her pale hand and muttered “Thanks Freya, but I can’t really talk to you. You don’t know what its like."
I shrugged my shoulders at her and said “Well I’m here anyway” and with that she threw herself down onto the duvet and started wailing again.

The window was letting in too much light. Usually it was far too dark and I fought with the cleaners and the nurses to let me keep my window open to let in light and to wash away the foul smell that clings to the walls of a psychiatric unit. They never let me, so it stayed dark and smelly. No wonder people felt depressed.
I’d tried, countless times, to escape from the small window above my bed. But it was useless. The cold metal bars that were the barrier from here to the outside world stopped me. I’d used my own fist to smash at them, back in the days where I believed I was stronger than God. But it was no use; I remained in here, surrounded by the smell of onions and the taste of craziness.

 

Chapter Two

The night nurses were really pissing me off. It was 2: 34am and they wouldn’t stop shining lights into my face to see what I was up to. Sleep, that’s what I was trying to do.

Just because I’d once used a hairpin to cut my arm didn’t mean I was going to now. Long gone were the dark dangerous days where I’d try and find anything to salvage pain onto myself. I had given up and accepted the inevitable psychological pain. I detested the fact that I had to have a cold shower in case I tried to burn myself with the hot tap. One thing that really grinded my gears was when people didn’t trust me, and just because I was classed clinically insane it did not me I was not trustworthy!

 

“Can you tell me when things started to turn slightly for the worse?” Karrie asked. I sighed with despair and pushed my too long fringe out of my eyes, glaring at her. She was never going to get the message. I did not want to talk.

“Look, I’ve told you, it’s no use, I’m not going to cooperate so you might as well give up. You are wasting your time."

She frowned in annoyance and clicked her pearly white teeth.

“Freya, you know you won’t be released until you actually properly talk to me. It’s what I’m here for. I’m not going to bite."

I shook my head, and then realised I should be nodding it. “Yes I know, but soon enough they’ll give up. They’re running out of room as it is, so they won’t want ‘uncooperative Freya’ hanging around much longer, will they?”

She sighed “They won’t give up on you”.

Rage boiled in the pit of my stomach and I stood up and screamed “Yes they will. Everyone does!”

I could almost see the excitement in Karrie’s face. I had shown emotion, we were getting somewhere.

I had trust and abandonment issues. Feelings of isolation.

I hated how psychiatrists judged you. They took your words and turned them into something else.

Six months I’d been in here. Six months too long. I guess I had been what they call ‘sectioned’. It doesn’t sound great, actually. It sounds like something from the 1800s.

 

Freya hadn’t been able to afford to live by herself for long. At first it was all going alright, or so she thought. She cooked without burning the flat down, washed without drowning herself, and generally managed to survive, but three months in and the issues began to creep into her life like bugs devouring flesh. Loneliness was one issue. A person can very well live with bad quality food and very little money, but human company is necessary for survival. This lack of simple communication was the first step towards Freya’s insanity.

Secondly she lived an unsuccessful life. Her parents had always expected far too much, expectations that she never managed to live up to. Mr and Mrs North had been perfect since their first breath. Edmund North grew up in a stable happy family, the eldest of three beautiful children he learnt that Maths and Science were his strong points and gained himself a career teaching A-level Mathematics. He was a strong headed man, he knew what he wanted and he knew how to get it. He was tall, 6ft 2, with sandy blond hair and large blue eyes that often frowned down at his daughter. In fact his blue eyes never did much else. Whilst they filled with love when he saw his wife, when they saw Freya they filled with disappointment and ambiguity.

 

Jeanette North, or Jenny as she was known, was an only child. Her father had died when she was three years old of heart failure, but Jenny’s mother hadn’t let that affect Jenny’s perfection. She grew into a gorgeous young woman. Intelligent, smart and adored by all those around her. She was known for her bright blonde hair and infectious laugh. Jenny and Ryan had married five years after meeting and been together ever since. They had three wonderful children. Susannah, Jack and Freya.

 

The window hasn’t grown in size but it appears to have. The metal bar also seems to have shrunk, leaving a gap noticeably large enough for a slim human to crawl through.

 I might just try that. After all, since I’ve been here all I want to do is escape. It’s not exactly a haven.

 

Tisha is still having electric shock therapy when I go to her room to see if she’s back. Her roommate Cara smiles at me and offers me a chocolate biscuit. I decline and tell her “Just let me know when Tisha is back." She nods but seconds later looks at me as if I have just stepped off of a space ship. I’m not quite sure what she is suffering from, but I’m glad I don’t have it.

 

I have another appointment with Karrie tomorrow. I know I don’t want to see her but what else can I do? There is only so much you can do here, and after 6 months the list of activities becomes very limited.

 

I can smell lilies, sweet and sickly. Someone must have died. Lilies are usually brought here to represent a loss. It’s usually suicide, rarely natural causes.

I follow my nose and I’m brought to the memorial stand. Sure enough, a big bunch of beautiful white lilies are standing in a vase filled with water on the top. I read the name ‘Elsa Tarnwood’.

 

Oh, I remember Elsa. She was this stunning but very disturbed woman. About fifty, and gorgeous for it. Long blonde hair and these insanely huge brown eyes. Every time I saw her she was shaking, once or twice I caught glimpses of her in the dining area. She’d be using a plastic fork to scratch at her arm before she was wheeled off into the ECT room.

I could sense the tears welling up in my eyes. It’s times like these, when someone actually dies that the sincerity of my situation is reinforced.

It is also times like these that I am transported back to a very dark time in my life.

 

The glass on the table was half empty. It is laughable when I explain to people that my depression started with a half empty glass. But it did.

The glass was half full of vodka and half full of…well nothing.

 

I had, in a drunken haze the night before, poured myself a half glass of vodka. Straight vodka. And vodka is the kind of drink that knocks you backwards with its power, it’s like taking a dip in an ice cold swimming pool.

I remember I was wearing a towel on my head, I’d just washed my hair, with my cheap Tesco value apple shampoo. I was dressed in my pyjamas, as it was past eleven at night. The glass was just stood there, almost calling me towards it. I could hear it screaming at me, a soft velvety voice, the kind of sound that could be painted if it were a picture. “Drink me” it said.

I laughed at myself. A glass was talking to me. A half empty glass.

I was scared.

What was going on?

Was this glass really talking, or was it my mind. Was it just a figment of my imagination?

I didn’t know.

It kept talking to me. I tried to visualise a face on the glass to push down the fear that was stirring up inside my stomach.

“Drink me Freya, drink me Freya, drink me Freya, drink me Freya."

Everything in my head was rushing together. It is hard to explain. There are two worlds. The insane world and the sane world. I was in the insane world. Nothing made sense. Colours were blurring together, voices and sounds were filling my confused brain.

“FINE” I screamed at the glass.

It stopped. Silence filled the room.

The only sound to be heard was my glugging. I downed the acidic stuff in one swift gulp.

 

It didn’t take long for my mouth to start feeling mushy and my brain to follow.

I’d expected to feel high, like I was floating on a cloud. In the sky. Blue around me, with fluffy white pillows beneath my tired feet. But I didn’t. I felt so so incredibly low. Like everything had been drained from my body. I was walking on water. I was Jesus. I was God.

Pointless random thoughts filled my brain.

 

I am pointless.

 

I am ugly.

 

I am a waste of space.

 

The world would be a much better place without the likes of me existing in it.

 

I am wasting precious resources.

 

I am a thing, a weird tired drained thing. A thing better of dead.

 

I know these thoughts sound ridiculous now, but at the time they were scary. They were terrifying. And they were coming from my own mind.

 

Depression is a terrible thing. It tears its victims apart. There are symptoms, granted yes, but you cannot say to someone “Oh you have the symptoms of depression” because depression is not a medical list of symptoms. It is life and death. It is the slow decomposition of all rational thoughts. It is the loss of sanity. It is the pillow that covers your face, the pillow that holds your head down as you gasp for breath, for life. It is the crazy feelings of utter self hatred, the increase of spontaneity.

Depression starts much like a cold. You feel a bit ‘Ugh’. You know when you say to someone “I feel a bit ugh."

You feel a little bit off. Your head is a bit achey. Your heart feels a bit heavy.

The day starts off a bit shit. You get water on your new suede shoes. Your toast burns. You forget your essay that was due in. Your best friend ignores you. They serve your least favourite food for lunch. You get home and realise you’ve forgotten your keys, so you have to sit outside your house for two hours until your mother returns with a smile as fake as her stupid ugly face, her dyed blonde hair in perfect condition. Perfect. She is perfect. And you are not. You. Freya North, are a failure.

Yeah, well that.

That is the start my friend, just the very bloody beginning.

The best is yet to come.

 

Then comes the loss of sanity. Slowly. Your sight goes a bit off. You make an appointment to see the optician. When you get told your vision is 100 per cent, you worry slightly. Because everything looks a bit grey, like a black and white movie. And when someone waves at you, you don’t see them. Or you do, but instead of waving you see them holding a finger up at you. Your boyfriend’s kisses becomes the worst thing imaginable. Your favourite book suddenly is as boring to read as the bible. Your mother, who you hated anyway, is now the worst person on the entire fucking planet. Your skin is not yours. It is someone else’s. Your face is not yours; it belongs to a stranger that you left a long time ago. Years back when smiles were real and the air smelt of apples and candy, not hate and disappointment.

You know the day your best friend tells you she doesn’t like you anymore, that day. When she says “Freya, I think we shouldn’t talk anymore” and you laugh because who says that? It’s like something from a badly written book, something from a movie that has been written at 3am by some non existent movie writer who hasn’t got any ideas but just wants the money so he can buy himself some more foul porn DVDs and hire a prostitute.

You stare at your friend and fifteen years worth of memories come flooding back to you. The time you filled up your father’s shoes with wine because he told you off for spelling the word ‘amphibian’ wrong, because EVERYONE knows how to spell that. The time you stayed up all night discussing what it would’ve been like to be Marilyn Monroe and when you say “She’s still alive isn’t she. I think my Mum knows her” instead of laughing your best friend just says “Freya, I do love you."

Well, all that comes into your mind.

 The worst bit is the feeling of boredom. Everything is so painfully boring. Even eating a box of Milk Tray and watching your all time favourite feel good movie.

Boredom like that can do anything to you. If you aren’t insane by this point then you will be soon.

You start writing poems about how you feel because you suddenly think you are Sylvia Plath.

 

‘I think I’m going mad

Or maybe I always was

I think I’m going mad

My head is now my foot

My foot is now my head

I can’t walk

I can’t see

Oh, please help me’.

 

You print the poem out of your printer and put it on your mother’s bed. She doesn’t do anything. She doesn’t even bother to mention it to you. She’s probably too busy screwing your father, wishing you hadn’t been born.

 

The last few steps are this:

1)     You want to die.

2)     You start planning ways to die.

3)     Death becomes beautiful.

 

I think that’s it, when you reach this point you realise you might have depression. So you whisk yourself off to the doctors. You sit in the chair, sweat forming on your forehead, and mutter the dreaded words “I think I’m depressed”. He prescribes you some anti depressants. He reels a list of the symptoms off. And you check each one in your head.

Loss of appetite. Check. You’ve lost a stone in a month. Your clothes now feel massive on you. You look in the mirror and feel nothing so you have even started to wonder if you are anorexic. Food now tastes like cardboard and is just something that keeps you alive, and you don’t even want that.

 

Increased sleep. Is he kidding? You have done nothing but sleep and cry. Sleep is everything you want to do. It is the only way out of this cruel world. The only escape. You imagine death is like sleep. A long peaceful rest.

 

Irritable feelings.

You pass on this. But then you think about it. Really think about it. Actually, yes, when you told your mother she could screw herself sideways because she mentioned you looked slimmer, maybe that was irritability.

And you did cut your dress up the other day because it had a slight ketchup stain on it. And that cat that brushed its ginger fur across your leg and contaminated your freshly ironed black work trousers with amber fur, well kicking it was a little bit too extreme. Just a little.

 

Feeling teary. You have never cried so much. When your mother chose your sister Susie to take her memory stick to Tesco to get her Mumbai photographs printed off, well that made you wail. And after kicking that ginger cat you started to sob uncontrollably. 

 

He mentions a few other symptoms but by this point salty tears are streaming down your face. You have depression. Oh my god, you are crazy, a nutter. OH MY GOD.

 

I hadn’t got to my worst by this point.

I had yet to do the worst thing.

On my high horse, after downing half a glass of vodka, I rather impulsively decided to eradicate myself from this little planet. Or to try to.

 

Mum had never been the best of sleepers. Wow, something she isn’t good at. That’s rare to find. Well, anyway, it is sleeping. She lies awake, tossing and turning. So you knew she had a stash of sleeping pills in her cabinet. Next to the perfume and the gold watch, of course.

 

But, you were at your flat. Which you’d been at for ages now. Too long. Solitude was becoming agony. The slow dripping thickness of solitude. It was also turning you crazy.

 

You wrote poems about that too.

 

‘I’m lonely

The thickness of solitude

Is thicker than custard

Dripping

Creeping

Into my life

Turning me crazy

I need another person

To unload onto my sorrows

I’m lonely’.

 

God, they were awful.

 

So you got out your mobile and dialled your parent’s house. Dad answered. Oh joy. Edmund North. King of the world.

“Hello Daddy” you said, faking the joy like you once faked it for Craig, the fit guy who was a terrible shag.

He stuttered, which he never did. “Oh hello Freya. What are you calling for?”

Oh great. I can’t even call my own father without him questioning my actions.

“I was wondering if I could pop round."

You can feel, hear him thinking. He wants to ask: WHY?

You haven’t been round in months, even for your mother’s birthday.

But he says nothing, he puts the phone down, which to you you know means yes, you can go round.

 

Because you can’t be bothered to drive. Scratch that. You don’t feel safe enough in your own skin to drive. You walk.

It doesn’t take long. You listen to your iPod. To your sad songs.

They are talking to you, you realise. Telling you to go chuck yourself off the nearest bridge. I AM. You exclaim, give me a chance. Well not quite, I don’t have the guts to throw myself off a bridge; I’m taking the easy way out.

 

The flowers you pass are waving goodbye. The wind is howling. It is raining. You let the droplets drip down your tired face.

 

When you arrive you are drenched, but you don’t care. Let them laugh. Let them look at you and think: OH DEAR. OUR PERFECTLY IMPERFECT DAUGHTER.

 

Your mother is wearing her million pound perfume. Her dyed blonde hair looks even faker today, it matches her smile. She makes small talk, how is your job going? Crap. How are you feeling? Crap.

You excuse yourself, for a toilet stop.

 

The pills are not hard to find. Why would they be? This family you come from are far too perfect to ever even consider taking an overdose.

 

They are big and round. White. They make you cry.

You don’t know why. They just do.

 

You stuff them into the pocket of your jeans.

Then you go back downstairs to face the music.

 

Dad smiles  for the tenth time since you’ve been here. It’s getting rather annoying. He starts to ask some stupid question. You ignore him, try to block out his words. “Dad” you interrupt “I’m in a rush, sorry."

You wave away his bribery. He has produced a twenty pound note from his jean pocket. Money to make you stay. Why is he so keen on you being here anyway?

 

“Bye Mum. Sorry I wasn’t here for long, I just had to get out the house, you know?”

She nods, although she doesn’t know. She’s never felt the need to just get out of the house because of boredom; she’s never felt anything negative in her life.

She kisses your cheek. The smell of her perfume overpowers you like normal.

 

You walk home in a haze. Nothing registers. A cyclist almost runs you over but you barely notice. The rain is gushing down now, drenching your hair, it thumps against your back as you walk, like a drum. Boom. Boom. Boom.

You pass one of your friends from school. She waves at you but all you see is a cut on her hand, that’s how low you are.

 

When you get in you take off your dripping coat and drop it to the floor where you stand. Then, feeling like a movie star, you light yourself a cigarette, even though you don’t smoke.

 

Inhaling the fag helps to calm your nerves. You are nervous.

 

You can hear your heart thumping. Boom, boom, boom.

It surrounds you. Filling your head. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

You turn your iPod on, it lights up, you plug it into the docking station and search for a song.

‘My Immortal’ by Evanescence. You’ve loved this song for ages. Since it came out in 2003.

The words filled the air.

You sang along like a madwoman, which you were.

 

Half an hour passed and you were too scared to do anything. You traced the pale skin on your arm, stared at the blonde hairs. You could so easily cut your wrist.

But that was too messy. No, death is an art. It has to be done in a careful manner. Not hacking at flesh.

 

You empty the pills out onto your carpet. There’s a lot.

You take them one by one, counting as you go. Sixty four. Sixty four sleeping tablets.

 

The effect doesn’t hit you straight away but after half an hour it does. Your eyes start drooping; your head feels heavy, like a weight has been pressed onto your shoulders. Your eyes shut.

 

Chapter Three

The continuous bleeping of the machines were what woke me.

As I opened my eyes I realised I’d even failed at committing suicide. Great one.

A nurse was close by, I called her over “Excuse me."

She frowned, annoyed that I had disturbed her.

I tried to move my arm but pain shot through it. I glanced down. There was an IV attached to my arm. I was on a drip.

Step one into insanity, I thought.

You know you are depressed when even failing at suicide doesn’t brighten your day with its dollop of irony.

The nurse comes over to me. Her frizzy grey hair scratches at my face as she leans over to check my IV is in place. It is.

She looks at me and I take in her face. She has a large pointy nose, but her eyes are kind, a kind of clear blue, a bit like looking into a swimming pool.

“You silly girl” she scolds “you didn’t half take a lot!”

I almost laugh “That was the point” I exclaim.

She looks at me; I mean really looks at me. She runs her eyes over my face. My sandy dark blonde hair is a mess. My eyes feel bloodshot. Lack of sleep and stress. “Freya, is it?”  She asks. I nod. “Freya, whatever you were going through, suicide is not the answer."

She doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know my life. If she did, she wouldn’t be saying this.

“Things can get better, with help, that’s all you need, just a bit of help."

 

Prozac.

 

That’s what they put me on.

As it takes weeks to start working I was referred to an adolescent counselling service. My counsellor, Jane, was sweet enough.

It did help, I’ll give it that, but it didn’t take away the feelings and ideas surrounding suicide.

Planning suicide is a tricky thing to do. Because you need to be thinking rationally to actually come up with the way you are going to do it, it doesn’t normally work out very well, because the suicidal state of mind does not include rationality.

 

I’d thought of many ways. Another overdose, jumping off a bridge, slitting my wrist, hanging myself.

I think I was too wimpy to actually do most of them. As the overdose idea had failed, I didn’t want to do that again.

My parents had found me, which was quite ironic since they were what I was trying to get away from. They’d been a bit concerned about my random actions, coming round out of the blue. Apparently Mum had checked the pill cabinet and found none missing, but they were all painkillers, then she had remembered her stash of sleeping pills and checked them to find none left. Then they’d rushed round my house, used their spare keys to unlock the door, and found me lying on the carpet unconscious.

Ambulance equalled hospital equalled stomach being pumped.

 

A long story short I had ended up here. Surrounded by nutters, restricted access to the outside world and robbed of any sharps.

Sharps included pens, pins, scissors, knives, nail scissors and razors. The first week I’d felt rather gross, having hairy legs and hairy underarms, but now I’d gotten used to it. Don’t get me wrong I did get to shave, it was just quite rarely and under supervision.

 

I thought coming here might have helped. It might have reinforced my view on reality. Unclouded my vision. But it hadn’t. I guess being surrounded by crazy people didn’t turn you sane.

 

My parents knew I was here and they were not happy. No daughter of theirs was in a crazy home. Susannah was married and Jack was a Maths teacher. I’m the youngest.

 

I didn’t know if my university plans would be ruined. I did have a place to go, next year, even though I got terrible A-levels, but what if I was still here come next September? Then what?

 

The others here did become my friends, in some respects. Tisha was severely depressed, and having ongoing electroconvulsive therapy to help, Cara was schizophrenic, my roommate Jodi had depression, bulimia and anxiety, which was not surprising after her childhood full of abuse. There were the mild ones, with a smidge of depression or a slice of anxiety, and then there were the severe ones like Cara. And Holly, she was the craziest. She used to be a heroin addict and she was schizophrenic.

 

I was a bit scared of the schizophrenics. I mean, that illness sends a chill up your spine. It’s serious. I mean having voices in your head, that was crazy.

The way they used to walk around with a slight distance between them and this world was freaky. The muttering and the mumbles, the talking to ‘themselves’. The multiple personality disordered people, they freaked me out too.

 

I had depression, obsessive compulsive disorder and borderline psychosis.

Psychosis was what scared me; did it make me a psycho? Or was that being a psychopath? Maybe it did, maybe it didn’t.

 

I’d googled the symptoms of psychosis and had to agree that I had most of them. Seeing things, hearing voices, confused sense of reality, changes in thoughts.

 

I heard the first voice when I was sixteen. It was actually on my sixteenth birthday. It was in May, and I had my GCSE exams soon but I tried to enjoy the day anyway. My parents had taken me and my friends to the beach as it was quite hot. My best friend, who at that point was still my best friend, had come with us. We spent the day swimming, sunbathing and laughing. It was a good day.

 

I was swimming in the sea, kicking my legs and moving my arms. The sea was a clear blue, and fresh and salty. I was getting a bit too far out, I couldn’t feel the bottom. Then I heard this kind of voice coming from the back of my head. “Drown yourself” it ordered. I tried to ignore it but it spoke again “I told you to drown yourself, put your head under and don’t come up."

I was panicking now? What was going on?

I made the mistake of replying “Don’t be stupid” I said. My friend Rachel who wasn’t far from me said “What Freya?”

She thought I was talking to her. I wasn’t.

 

“Oh nothing” I mumbled. Rachel looked at me as if I was crazy. Perhaps I was.

 

Why is there such a stigma attached to mental illness?

Why do people refuse to talk about it? I know it makes me sound hypocritical as I won’t talk to Karrie about my feelings, but in general, if the world spoke up a bit more I reckon there’d be less problems.

 

Chapter Four

 

Before.

Before I got institutionalized things were quite different. I’d been fairly normal during my A-level years; I had attended sixth form and done the work. I couldn’t say I was happy and I had very few friends, no boyfriends, but I certainly wasn’t crazy.

 

Maybe things had started when I realised I was different. I had tried to push it away but failed. If I had been true to myself maybe I wouldn’t have gone nutty.

 

My parents didn’t help things. They were always putting me down. Right from the start. When I was a child, the youngest, I knew I was a mistake. Mum and Dad had always wanted two perfect children, and that they got. But then they got me too, much to their disappointment.

 

You see, one of my earliest memories is from when I was about four. I had long blonde hair and a short sharp fringe. I was quite a cute child. Susannah who is two years older than me was helping Mum to cook. We were baking. Baking brownies. Susannah was stirring the chocolately mixture. I was breathing in the delicious aroma and playing with the flour, getting in my hair.

Mum turned to me and said “Freya, for goodness sake do something useful”.

I know it doesn’t seem that bad but from then on I felt useless. I was the add on, the extra.

That comment, that sentence haunts me still.

Do something useful.

Have I ever? Will I ever do something useful?

Those words filled my mind with dirt and corrupted my self confidence.

Mum didn't even know she was digging me a hole that I was soon going to fall in and become forever lost.

 

I was an unhappy child, uncomfortable in my skin. I was always very skinny but I wanted to be skinnier. When I was ten I was diagnosed with anorexia. My parents weren’t having any of it. “She’s just a fussy eater is all” Dad said. Mum wasn't much better. "She's just becoming a vegan far too young. They do that. Stop eating, because lets be honest, what is there for vegans to even eat?"

 

I used to hide food in the weirdest of places. In my sleeve, even once I shoved a bit of bread into my earlobe to avoid having to eat it. I was convinced I was overweight, I didn’t deserve food or drink.

It started off as the voice in my head telling me to lose weight. Just a few pounds. And I did. I felt in control. At ten I was in control of my life because I was beginning to starve myself.

 

I stopped having breakfast and cut down lunch. Then I stopped with lunch so that all I was eating was dinner.

At first it worked. Granted, I was weak and tired and I looked gaunt and pale, but no one noticed particularly. Then I asked my parents if they could stop feeding me dinner. They were horrified.

 

Now at eighteen I no longer suffer with anorexia, but am I any saner? I don’t think so. Plus the disease has never left me. I may appear normal and my weight may be normal, but the demons of the disease still shriek at me inside my mind.

 

I was officially recovered when I was fifteen. That's what the doctors said. What they didn't know was that I was never recovered. Ever.

I’d gone from normal weight to skeletal to back to normal weight.

 

My sister Susannah had tried to help me with my eating disorder, she’d listened and hugged me and begged me to eat. My parents were helpful and understanding at first but soon became tired with my behaviour and gave up. They left me to starve.

 

I began to lose hope in life. I wasn’t depressed, no that didn’t start until the whole glass empty debacle. I just lost a bit of colour to life.

 

Now

“So you didn’t want to face up to what you really were” Karrie exclaimed.

I nodded, that was exactly right.

When I was thirteen I had discovered that I was in fact a lesbian, but no one in the North family was gay, so I couldn’t be.

 

It didn’t stop me falling for girls, pining for their soft touch as I kissed my boyfriend.

That was another thing that drove me insane. Wanting what I couldn’t have.

 

One afternoon my boyfriend Jake was round. Mum and Dad were serving up lasagne for dinner.

Jake sat down. He didn’t have much to say, he wasn’t the most interesting of people.

“So Jake and Freya, how long have you two been together now?”  Mum asked.

I racked my brains. It had been about three months. Three miserable months.

“Umm, I think about three months, right Jake?”

He nodded and patted my thigh.

Mum grinned fakely. “And are you…happy?”

How dare she ask such a personal question! Of course I wasn’t happy.

“Definitely” I lied. She smiled, she could see through my lies, she knew what I was.

 

When my best friend Olivia found out I was gay she stopped speaking to me for a few weeks. She was very Catholic and religious and apparently the bible didn’t like homosexuals. I felt offended.

We’d been friends since we were toddlers. She was like my sister. I was devastated that she was reacting this way.

I thought it was because she didn’t like who I was but it was actually something very different.

 

Dear Freya

I’m so sorry for acting the way I did. There is no excuse. Here is my excuse however:

I am in love with you and I have been since we were eleven years old. I’ve watched you grow up alongside me, I’ve been there throughout every boyfriend you had, and I’ve listened to your stories of first kisses and pretended to be thrilled when actually I was dying inside. You mean the world to me, you are beautiful, intelligent and kind, and you are the person I know best in the world. I thought you were straight and I didn’t mind. It hurt that you didn’t know how I felt about you, but I had to deal with that. Now that you’ve come out it’s stirred up a lot of feelings inside of me. I had to tell you how I feel. I hope this doesn’t ruin our friendship,

Love

Olivia

Xxx

 

I got the letter on a Sunday afternoon. Mum was cooking a roast and I was up in my bedroom attempting homework. I was fourteen at the time.

The amazing fact was, I had loved Olivia too, all this time. Neither of us had guessed in a million years that the other felt the same way.

 

Being with Olivia was the happiest time in my life. We were just like best friends, only more.

No one knew, it was a secret, a rather seductive secret.

 

She used to wink at me from across the classroom, put her hand on my thigh when we sat next to each other. Smile into my eyes.

 

Her parents could never find out or they’d burn her alive. Mine would just be disappointed, more so than they already were.

 

She used to come over for a sleepover. We’d put on some innocent film like ‘Mean Girls’ and curl up with my pink duvet and a box of chocolates. Then when everyone went to bed, Olivia would turn and kiss me. I’d kiss her back, passionately.

We’d tear off each others clothes, and I’d gently kiss her lips, her neck, her stomach, her beautiful round breasts, her delicate nipples, her thighs and below. I’d slowly kiss and lick and she’d gasp with enjoyment, her body tensing up, becoming rigid and then finally releasing with pleasure.

It was perfect.

 

She didn’t know how perfect she was, there was finally someone in my life who understood me, crazy old me.

She understood my anorexia. She understood my anxieties, she liked the fact that I wanted to write for a living, that I hated Maths and Science, that I had very little common sense and often appeared stupid.

 

I loved her; I loved her long straight black hair and her short choppy fringe. I loved the way she smiled. I loved her clear blue eyes, I loved how she was amazing at most subjects but didn’t rub it in. I loved her face, her scent, her hands.

 

She was constantly bombarded with information about how God had created her to marry one man and have children. How her love for me was invalid, immoral, wrong.

 

How could it be wrong when it felt so right? So natural.

 

I think we both knew it felt right, we were the perfect couple; we knew each other inside out, externally and internally.

 

I still think about Olivia now, especially being in the hospital. I think about how much I’ve lost, but I am grateful I once had her, she was once mine. That beautiful girl once belonged to me.

 

“Girls, where is your English assignment?” Mrs Barter asked.

Shit, we’d both forgotten it. Liv had come round last night for us to both work on it but we’d ended up doing other things, things we could not tell Mrs Barter about.

I straightened my blazer and flicked some fluff off my sleeve.

Liv bit her lip. I loved it when she did that, it looked so cute.

“I’m sorry Miss, I’ve left it at home” I said.

Mrs Barter didn’t look convinced.

“What about you Olivia?”

Olivia shook her head “Umm, I’ve left mine at home as well”.

Mrs Barter exploded “Girls how can you expect to do well in GCSE English when you don’t hand in your homework. I will expect it by tomorrow afternoon at the very latest”.

We both nodded in understanding.

 

That night we worked on our English assignments. It was the best night of my life. Liv was wearing her silky pink nightdress, it was my favourite, she looked stunning in it. We put Jessie J on and danced around my room, singing along to the lyrics. We lay close together on my floor, writing up our assignments.

 

We snuggled up in my bed, although it was a single bed, we just about had enough room.

Then we kissed and touched and my world spun with fire and explosions.

 

I often cry for her.

My sobs come in tidal waves now, causing my shoulders to heave up and down. The deep grief filled cries that rack my body. I am filled with a sense of pure and utter loss.

Most things in my life have been removed, but out of them all, Olivia is the thing I most miss, the person I most miss.

I often wish I could relive my life and change bits of it, but then I guess a lot of people wish that. Murderers, serial killers, rapists, just ‘normal’ teenagers like me.

 

Freya was never a very confident person. She had friends, but only a few. She was shy, quiet, very introverted, a mouse in comparison with her bubbly outgoing mother.

She displayed signs of mental health issues from a young age. She used to talk to herself, like there were people actually talking to her. She’d often stare at things that weren’t really there. As she blossomed from a shy young schoolgirl into a blushing adolescent, her mental health problems intensified-she slid closer to the edge, the edge of sanity.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Five

 

When I was six I witnessed someone committing suicide.

I know. Shocking.

 

I was at the beach with my family for the day; it was hot, too hot. I asked Mum if I could have an ice-cream, like an average six-year-old girl. She said no to begin with, like an average bitch-of-a-mother, but I persisted.

She frowned at me, handed me a couple of pounds and I wandered off.

I know what you are thinking: who lets a six year old girl walk off by herself?

The answer is: stupid parents.

 

I found the ice cream van. But no-one was inside. Or that's what I originally thought. I peered in, my nose squashed against the glass of the window. I could see a man swinging, but his eyes were shut. He's dancing I thought to myself. My innocent mind filled in the gaps for me. But I knew he wasn't. He was dangling from a rope. His neck was tied up. His face was turning beetroot red. Minutes later, but what felt like years, he became silent and still.

 

I screamed, unable to move. What would any six year old do in that situation? Scream, cry, faint?

Eventually my mother arrived. She spoke sharply "Freya, why aren't you ordering your ice-cream?"

Then she glanced inside the ice-cream van and her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

"Jesus Christ" she shouted.

 

Mum rang the police then. They came and sealed off the area. Mum and I were taken into questioning, just to be sure, but we were let go fairly early on in the investigation.

It was obvious how the man had died. Even Freya knew, deep down. She may have been four, but she wasn't stupid.

 

Freya's earliest memory was when she was about four.

It was her first day at infant school and her mother was walking her there, stopping to smooth he blonde fringe into place as the wind blew it. Each step, to Freya, felt like it took forever.

She had been dreading going to school since she learnt what the word meant. School, full of children, like her but so unlike her. Loud children, filled with confidence and energy.

She felt constantly sapped of energy, like a tree gasping for water, a baby needing milk. She was always tired and she never had any confidence. She was a mouse. Small, meek and vulnerable Soft. Too soft..

Whilst the other children her age played at the park, pushing their dolls along in prams and sliding down the slides, she stayed at home, with her nose pressed up against the window, watching the outside world and making up stories in her head.

She wasn't really from this family, she told herself. Was she even from this world?

She had been adopted not long after her birth. Her real mother was tall, blonde and beautiful, with a personality to match. She would not care if Freya was shy, or needy, or introverted. She would love her unconditionally, unlike her own judgemental and unsupportive mother.

What parent decides what profession their child is going to join before the child is even conceived?

Freya's parents.

Some people may say that Freya's parents are some of the worst kind of parents you can get, but they would be wrong.

Freya's parents were definitely not good parents, but nor were they bad.

They expected too much but at least they expected.

They motivated too much, but at least they motivated.

The truth was: they loved too much.

But at least they loved.

 

Sometimes I think my life is all a dream. It's not really happening. I will wake up one morning to find I am actually a Russian millionaire. Not me. Not Freya North. Not a failure.

Do I want that to happen?

Yes and no.

 

Chapter Five

The moment you do it you are on a sort of high.

Nothing matters. It's just you and the knife, or pills, or rope.

The cut is always the best bit, and the worst.

It doesn't hurt, not really. It just illustrates your internal pain.

The blood is gross, I don't like blood.

It trickles along your wrist, like a snake, mapping out its journey.

You wipe it up with a tissue. It stains the tissue a velvety scarlet.

It is poetic, lyrical and melodious. You want to sing with the pleasure and pain of the moment.

 

Freya's coping mechanism has never been great, so when she is launched into independent living - where she has to fend for herself. Purchase her own food and cook her own meals, she starts to slope down the sanity scale and flirt with craziness.

 

Now - November

Maybe I was never born sane. My mother certainly isn't sane. She's too eccentric, too extroverted, too large for life. Her love for my siblings fuels her lunacy and the disappointment and despair she feels for me also fuels it.

She's always been a perfectionist and I cannot live up to her skyscraper high standards. She doesn't want to know me now I'm here. Quite frankly, she's glad I'm here.

No more awkwardness at family gatherings, no more lying, she can say I'm in the loony bin and no-one will be prejudice or judgemental because in their minds I'm no longer part of the North family.

"Where's Freya?" they'll ask as they flick their expensively dyed hair and tut their botoxed lips together. Mum will tuck a strand of her dyed blonde hair behind her ears and mutter "Freefort psychiatric hospital." They'll gasp in mock horror, secretly not surprised.

Freefort. Just the name makes me laugh. It's dripping with irony. Free. No one's free here.

                                               ***

 

Perhaps I'll never get out. Perhaps I will be stuck here forever in this hellhole. In the centre of the Earth where fire burns brightly.

 

Tisha just had electroconvulsive therapy again. It's not helping her at all. It won't be long until they force me to have it. It won't work. Nothing will.

 

Freya's diary (now)

Dear Diary, god knows why I've started keeping a diary. At this place ANYONE could get their filthy crazy stained hands on it. But it helps to write. It lets out steam that is otherwise building up, ready to explode, a bit like a kettle. I say it started with the half empty glass. I think it did. But the voices began way before that. Back when I was an innocent little kid, unaware of the horror in front of me, the dark disturbing future ahead.

It's so hard to sleep here with the constant checks or 'obs'. The nurses shine a torchlight in your face to check you're not committing suicide or anything. Not that you could here. Not that easily. But as I know: if you want to do it you will find a way. Dan did. He's the latest fatality. Last week he hung himself with his shoelaces. He was a high risk and they shouldn't have let him keep his laces.

Sometimes I wonder and I come to the conclusion that life is life and it's yours to do what you like with, even end it if you so desire. Suicide isnt selfish. Homicide is. Homicide is taking another life. Suicide is taking your own. You own it.

Anyway, I'd better stop now. The nurse is coming.

Bye, cheers, whatever.

Freya

 

Freya's diary (then)

Olivia gave me an amazing letter today. Basically it was a cutesy declaration of her love for me. I'm so happy I could die.

 

Mum just told me off for choosing A-Level Spanish. For God's sake. She doesn't own me. It's my life. Bitch.

 

September - then

Freya smoothed the apple shampoo into her scalp. She'd decided to go shopping. Stocked up on food, especially the pasta and tins of tomato sauce, for her lovely lonely Tuesday evening.

 

She'd settled into living on her miniscule salary and cooking for herself, and washing etc. Paying for her gas, electricity, water and food.

She'd decorated her flat and stuck posters to the bedroom walls. Painted the lounge blue. The furniture was all from Ikea - cheap enough. She felt better now she'd had a shower and cleaned her hair.

 

November - now

I didn't feel much better. This place sucked the life out of you. I'll never admit it but my sessions with Karrie were what stopped me from breaking down. Although I told her nothing - she did help me. I missed Olivia too. She was off travelling the world - lucky bitch - whilst I was stuck here. And she'd done amazingly in her A-Levels unlike me.

She had it all sorted. She'd travel, then go to uni to do Law, then take a place in her Dad's law firm. I however did not have it sorted. Three months into my gap year and trapped in a loony bin. Typical!

Once I gout out my flat would be taken from me as I obviously couldn't work to pay the rent. I'd have to live with my parents again, whether they liked it or not, and all hell would break loose.

Once I got out what would I do?

New Look wouldn't want me back and I doubt I'll get a job now and will uni want me?! I don't know. I suspect not.

 

September - then

Freya stood in the sea letting it batter her. The roaring angry waves charged at her pale sunken face and her bruised body. She gasped as a tidal wave of salty water drenched her tired stature. "Fuck you!" she shouted at the waves. It was a battle; the ocean against her and it was obvious who would win.

 

Freya surged deeper into the sea. Then she plunged herself under the water and let the ferocious godly ocean immerse her.

A few minutes later and she was still under water.

 

                               ***

She was pulled out of the water by her mother. The second her face was above water she slapped it.

"You complete fool, what were you doing? You could have got yourself killed!" she shouted at Freya's still body.

 

November - now

The thickness of solitude is magnified here. I feel the liquid of loneliness drip dripping onto me. I know I'm around people but they don't hold the most contained of conversations. I know I sound like a bitch (maybe I am one?!) but being here has driven me crazy, or crazier.

The only way to feel wanted, to survive is to cut, but naturally they remove all sharps, however I managed to smuggle a shard of glass in here.

The Cut

At first it's surreal. Just a scratch on the surface. Then the blood bubbles to the surface and the adrenaline kicks in. Then the excitement, the joy, the pleasure. It's self punishment, it's for control, it shows externally how you feel internally. It's physical pain rather then psychological pain. It's bliss and it's hell.

 

September

Push. Push. Push.

Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.

Breathe. Breathe

“Breathe goddamit!”

 

I come to to find a paramedic leaning over me.

"She's awake!"

There's clapping from around me.

Then Mum's face appears in front of mine.

"Freya Isabelle North, my baby!"

This wakes me up.

'Baby' - did she really call me that?!

 

I struggle to my feet and one of the ambulance crew wraps me in a blanket as I'm shivering and freezing cold.

"We'd better get her to hospital" one of the men says.

I find myself in hospital with an intravenous drip attached to my arm and a cardiac monitor monitoring my broken shattered heart.

Great. I can't even top myself, I think. Bloody failure. Freya North.

The ghost girl.

 

 I think the day I was resuscitated was the day I lost faith in the world. My hope, optimism and faith washed away into the sea.

 

 

November - now

Freya's shock turns to sadness as she realises it's not long until December. She loves Christmas usually and can't wait for December, the month of tinsel, turkey and snow, to arrive but this year she does NOT want to be stuck in a mental hospital for Christmas.

She flicks her greasy sandy hair behind her and flops onto her uncomfortable bed. Jodi is there crying, Freya realises perhaps she CAN relate to Jodi. Jodi had abusive parents and has an eating disorder, doesn't Freya have the same almost?!

Okay, her parents are not physically abusive but psychologically they are with their taunting and expectations and disappointment. And Freya only knows anorexia too well. The skeletal frame, the lack of desire to eat even though you're starving hungry. The way that every fibre of your being screams "No, don't eat, you're fat!"

When everyone else if forcing you to eat, pointing out your bony figure.

 

Then- 2011

The atmosphere was so incredibly tense.

"Come on Freya" Jenny North pleaded.

Freya stared at her mother indignantly, decisively.

"I'm not eating it."

Food has become her enemy. The hunger pangs have become tolerable, almost pleasurable.

Jenny sighs with despair. She cannot admit defeat. She cannot fail as a mother. Her other two children are perfect, if only Freya could be too.

"Please sweetheart, it's for your own good."

Freya laughs to herself. How is it for her own good?

It'll make her fat, that's not good. She'll be fat failure Freya.

Freya North. Despicable devious lump.

She laughs at her mother and replies with venom in her voice.

"It's for YOUR own good, then you'll feel better about YOURSELF!"

Jenny ponders this over.

Is it?

Has she ever cared about her children or does their happiness, health and safety just reflect and express her success.

Worrying, she's unsure.

 

Now - November

Freya's diary

Dear diary, today I saw Karrie again. This time I cooperated and answered her questions.

"How are you feeling today?"

"Strangely optimistic."

"Why do you think so?"

"Because I'm allowed on leave."

Karrie didn't expect that.

Her blue eyes sparkled and she smiled.

"That's brilliant news."

I nodded and she nodded in reciprocation, her short fluffy dark hair wobbled on her head.

"How do you feel about that?"

I shrugged, "Dunno really. I'm glad I get leave, the Modern Matron told me only yesterday, so I haven't had time to mull it over really."

Karrie nods again "I understand."

"So what are you doing on your leave?"

That was a question I'd been asking myself since Emma, the Modern Matron I was allowed leave.

I ummed and ahhed and said "Well, I've got to be watched and accompanied at all times so I think my sister Susie will look after me."

Karrie smiled and then asked "Have you arranged this with her?"

I shook my head and made a mental note to myself to call Susie ASAP.

Karrie read my mind "Maybe you ought to ring her soon and ask. How old is your sister?"

"She's 26" I reply.

"Oh awesome" Karrie says. "What does she do?"

"She's married, so she's a housewife. Got a kid who's 5."

"Aww" Karrie grins "that is cute."

 

The session goes on for another half an hour, in which we discuss my childhood and my broken dreams.

"What age did you realise you were gay?" Karrie asks (once I've collected the guts to tell her).

"Thirteen" I reply truthfully.

She beams "Young then."

And I think of Liv and how young we were.

 

Now - Nov 2013

Dear diary, it has just occurred to me that the world is a sham.

Sham

It's all a sham

Of broken dreams

It's a sham

Shattered at the seams.

 

Do you like my poem diary? I don't. I did when I wrote it. It's childish and pessimistic. Like me.

 

Lunchtime

Just about to go for lunch. Shame because I'm really into this story I'm writing. Better go, yours Freya x

 

Susannah- Now, November

Susannah received a phone call from her sister at 1am. She wasn't happy that Freya's ringing had woken up Phoebe who wasn't feeling too good.

But when she heard her little sister's pleading voice she felt a wave of sympathy wash over her.

"Chick, calm down" she reassured.

"Okay, okay, I'm calm" Freya reasoned.

Susannah wasn't convinced but what could she do?

She twisted a strand of her goldy blonde hair round her finger, which she did when she was stressed and which her husband David found incredibly cute.

"Yes of course I'll pick you up tomorrow Freya" Susannah said softly, after hearing the reason for her sister's call.

Her poor sister who was just eighteen was stuck in a mental home when she wasn't even crazy, of course she'd do everything she could to help.

"Oh! Thank you!" Freya gushed.

Susannah smiled to herself and a fizz of excitement bubbled up in her stomach. She loved pleasing and helping people.

They continued to talk for twenty minutes about life and their week and how it was going.

Susie informed Freya how well little Phoebe was getting on at infant school and Freya informed Susie that she'd started up a diary again.

Susannah was glad. Freya had always been artistic and creative and her writing was fantastic. She was, after all, going to do an Art degree at Canton university.

 

Once they'd put the phone down on each other, Susannah tiptoed upstairs and crawled into bed beside her husband.

David sensed her presence and reached out in comfort to pat her thigh.

She, in return moved her face towards his and kissed him full on the lips. He pulled his body over hers and tore off her nightie.

They made love, fast and passionately in a whirlwind of sighs and kisses and peaks and shrieks.

Then Susannah fell asleep, the last thought that entered her mind before she drifted off into the land of pillows and dreams, was this: If I can't save Freya, at least I can try to save David.

 

Because David Watson, Susannah's beloved husband and childhood sweetheart, was dying.

 

***

Freya's diary - November (now)

Dear Diary, today we did talking therapy. I walked to the therapy room in silence, the carpet scratching at my bare feet. The room is large and rather dark which is ironic since we're meant to be letting go of the darkness and dinginess and flaws in this room.

Tisha and Jodi take a seat and I sit beside Jodi.

Emma, the Modern Matron introduces the meeting.

"Hello everyone, Heidi please could you take the minutes today? Thank you."

"So today is Talking Therapy Day and I'd like to start. This week has been a very good week for me, my eldest daughter got married on Wednesday."

Everyone clapped in unison except Tisha.

Tisha is rather old and usually has grey hair, she'd dyed it red. It suited her. She was a small person with a thin frame.

She looked teary so I spoke up "Emma it appears that Tisha is upset", Emma glanced over at Tisha and frowned "What's up?"

The atmosphere changed. Not that it was overly cheerful to begin with.

Then something amazing happened. Tisha's thin smile transformed into a warm grin and she laughed a deep hearty laugh with a truthful guttural effect.

We all stared at her. Then Emma spoke up again "What's up?" she said.

I watched as Tisha fell apart in front of me.

Her dyed hair started to shake and then her mouth, which was shaped like a rosebud, allowed a wail to escape from it.

Her dark eyes dripped tears and her body appeared sunken and utterly defeated.

She was having a 'episode'. Whether it was psychotic or bipolar I was unsure.

Her eyes filled with pure rage and she flew up from her hair and knocked it straight to the ground.

 

Immediately the staff sprang into action. The nurses are corned round Tisha was now foaming at the mouth.

 

They dragged her into the ICA room, or 'mattress room' as it is known to by the patients. It's a bare room with just a mattress that has a sheet covering it and a duvet on top. It is used to contain severely disturbed patients or those who are displaying violent behaviour towards themselves or others.

I've been there once, back in the days where I tried to escape from my window above my bed, when I thought I was God, or stronger than him.

 

Anyway I realised diary that they weren't taking her to the ICA but out of the hospital.

Tisha was gone and where I didn't know.

 

The talking therapy session was postponed after that. We all congregated around the dining area and munched on sandwiches and crisps.

 

Jodi was sat by herself. Usually she was with the Healthy Eating Group (HEG) but today she was alone.

 

I meandered over to where she was sitting and sat down next to her.

 

"Hi" she mumbled.

Her eyes looked tired and sad.

I replied "Hey" back and immediately felt guilty. It dawned on me: I'd been here 2 months and I barely knew Jodi.

She's my roommate for God's sake.

"You OK?" I asked.

She shrugged "I guess, but I'm meant to be eating this food and I can't."

I knew how she felt. Back in 2010 when I was just fifteen, I'd have felt the same. Not that anorexia had ever left my life completely. It'll always cling to me like a cold t-shirt chilling me just enough that I can feel the cold.

Back in the midst of my anorexia, in the throes of mental illness I would have done anything not to eat.

You see diary, I've not really been diagnosed yet. Well, other than anorexia, my diagnosis is unclear.

 

David - now, November

I've always thought life was unfair.

When both my parents died when I was five in a fatal car accident.

Again at aged seven when my ten year old brother died of cancer.

And now history is repeating itself. At aged 30 I am dying.

And I will leave behind mu beautiful wife and my gorgeous five year old daughter.

 

They told me six months ago that I had three months to live. Somehow I've beaten the arse off their prognosis and that's amaing, but it doesn't stop the outcome.

I will die, soon.

 

"Daddy weed me a stowy" Phoebe orders me.

At aged five she still can't pronounce words completely correctly.

Susie worried about it, the worrier she is, but I just tell her to relax, she'll progress in her own time.

But speaking aside, I'm not the one who read the hundreds of baby books when Susie was pregnant.

So who am I to judge?

 

I shush Phoebe down as she's started to whine. This is my favourite part of the day. When we're snuggled up in her pink bed together, reading books.

She's so beautiful, her long blonde hair is in plaits today and her grin is just adorable.

"Feebs" I say "can you read the story yourself?"

She starts to chant the words, her eyes drooping almost immediately.

And then my little princess falls asleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Susannah

Ever since we got the horrendous news about David's cancer our family has been torn apart.

I can't talk to David about his illness because he doesn't want to believe it exists. Freya's stuck in hospital and I haven't talk talked to Mum since I was sixteen.

She's too self absorbed to retain a two way conversation.

My girlfriend's just gossip about their boyfriends and careers as we sip wine and paint our nails adulteress red.

 

I've never questioned David's fidelity but he's been acting strangely for the past month. He's been out of the house a lot.

It's probably me being paranoid but what if he is having an affair?!

My two worst fears will have come true: an adulterer of a husband who is dying of cancer.

 

I can't cope with his news of cancer so if he was cheating on me, what then? Soon I'd have a dead cheating bastard for a husband.

 

I can't question his strangeness because he surely serves to do whatever he likes in what little time he has left.

 

Unless he's screwing around.

 

Jeanette

Since I found out David, Susannah's husband's terminal news my world shook for all the wrong reasons. My baby, my first born is going to be left a widow.

The first thought that entered my head was: what will I tell my friends?

I know that's heinous and disgusting, but after all it is the truth.

 

One daughter in the loony bin and another a single parent, only Jack will be doing me proud with his Maths degree and excellent career.

 

November - now, Freya's diary

Dear diary, I forgot to tell you about my leave.

Susie picked me up at about ten in the morning in her cutesy new car. It's a VW. It's to cheer her up, I know it.

Not that I'm begrudging her that little luxury because I'm not, but I don't know how they afford it with David not working these days.

 

Phoebe was at school, which was a shame because I was hoping to see her.

You forget what day it is in here, all the days blend into one huge day!

 

Anyway I'm going off track diary, what was I saying? Oh Yes - Susie picked me up in her new blue VW and we zoomed to her house.

David wasn't in - thank god - so we sat in the kitchen and had a cup of coffee.

Susie had cleared away all the knives and scissors for my visit which I found frustrating even though I know she's just being responsible and trying to keep me safe.

 

We talked and talked until our mouths were sore.

 

She told me of her devastation as David got sicker and sicker and her anger at the world, her frustration for me 'being trapped in a loony bin when I'm not even a loony' as she put it.

 

Every time she mentioned her questioning of David's fidelity (oh yes she's sniffed us alright!) I went all quiet and was terrified she'd guess.

 

Oh yes diary, I forgot to mention one vital piece of information.

David and I are having an affair.

I know that makes me a terrible terrible person, perhaps I am, and you're probably confused diary because I'm gay, but....it just happened.

Such a bad excuse I know, but there is no good excuse.

 

I think of Olivia when he kisses me, about how I still love her and how she gave me that wonderful letter so many years ago that started our relationship. Our secret.

Her parents were devout Catholics you see so she couldn't tell them about us.

 

I still recall fondly our sleepovers and our friendship.

 

We'd been friends since we were four, we met at infant school and we fell in love when we were teenagers

After she gave me that letter it became clear that we'd both had the same feelings for each other but not declared them.

 

I still remember the night we spent together before the dreaded English lesson the next day when we forgot our homework.

"You won't pass GCSE English" Miss told us.

 

So it seems, diary, that I've gone from an innocent youthful love affair to a stagnant seedy corrupted sex affair with my sister's husband.

 

Is there is a God, I'm doomed.

                            

It began in September, not long after I moved into my council flat to start my gap year. I don't know why it started, but it did.

David was diagnosed with cancer in the June of this year, and our affair began in September. That's sick, that's fucked up, I hear you say diary. Yes, yes it is.

And I'll hate myself for it forever.

 

 

David

For someone so ill my breathing was alright.

For a faithful husband my fidelity was so broken.

I was the cheating sleaze that is portrayed in films and books.

But I was the dying cheating sleaze...so did that counteract any of the evilness of adultery?

 

Freya was so bloody gorgeous. She didn't look a lot like Susie, except for her blonde hair.

We were at it in her bath.

Fucked up - a man screwing two sisters.

Her soft breast was cupped in my hand as i pushed further inside her delicious body.

She moaned with desire and I knew I was going to explode into pieces right there.

And I did.

I exploded into shards of glass that went flying in every direction.

I was broken, dangerous, opaque.

I was half empty, half alive, half dead.

 

Freya

We left Susie's house after a deep soulful chat in which the entire time I felt guilty.

I haven't seen him in a while. He used to come to the hospital to visit me, but it just made me think that it'd be the other way round soon.

He's stopped coming lately.

Perhaps he feels guilty now. I do.

Maybe it'll never come out, our affair, and Susie will never have to have her heart broken more than it will be when David's dead.

 

Now - November, Freya's diary

Dearest diary, I'm coming across as a horrid person, which I think I am.

You see, Susannah wasn't always lovely to me. Back when I thought I was fat she told her friends to call me fat and they did.

Lydia, Susie's best friend used to blow up her cheeks and chant "Piggy, piggy, piggy." Tears would stream down my face and I'd run home and purge myself til I couldn't stand.

 

Well in a way this affair with David is petty revenge, because at a time when I needed a sister's love, Susie gave me hatred, now it's visa vice versa.

 

On the surface I'm listening, caring but dig deeper, the question remains...do I really care?

 

Freya

Karrie sits in silence, just watching me. Her short fluffy dark hair is greasy and her blue eyes look tired. She told me that her husband confessed to being unfaithful. I held her whilst she cried which she later claimed was highly unprofessional.

 

It hit home how harsh I was being by having an affair with David, I decided to tell her what I was up to.

 

Now- November - Karrie

Most of my patients don't show much empathy towards me. Freya does. Okay I didnt like her at first, she was quite frankly a difficult little sod who didn't answer any of my questions or cooperate at all.

But I knew deep down that she wasn't like that, that it was an act, Her sinister self absorbed character was just an act.

 

So when Martin told me this week - or rather when Martin the twat sat me down at our large oak table and stared right into my suspicious eyes and said "I'm sorry Kar, I don't love you anymore." I thought of Freya and her loveless relationship with her parents.

Then I burst into tears.

Martin shifted uncomfortably in his chair and said "Karrie don't be upset." I exploded "How dare you tell me how to feel you fucking bastard, I've always known you can't keep your pants on, you'd shag an open wound."

He stared at me in shock and scurried to our bedroom in retreat.

I shrieked with rage and anger.

Then I marched into his office room, hauled his thousand pound Apple Mac from the plug socket and threw it to the ground. It made a ghastly clatter as it toppled to the floor.

And then I fell to the floor myself, shaking with frustration and heartache and retched.