Invisible (33 page)

When I think of it, I’ve
spent my whole life being looked through. Mum and Dad virtually trained me to
be that way from the second I was born: stoic and quiet and accepting, just
like them; they are the loveliest, most un-complaining people I have ever come
across. Then I met Daryl, who never called me by my real name but instead gave
me pet names of Gorgeous and Babe, diminishing me further into a yes woman
rather than a flesh and blood wife with actual feelings to be taken into
consideration.
And now?
Now I don’t have a name
either. Now I am bitch, scum,
colluder
. I am a person
of many faces, none of which are actually mine.

It will be good to disappear
all together
.

I pick up a pill and stare
at its pink-hued, grainy texture. Pop it into my mouth and swallow a gulp of
water. I pause for a second hoping that this edge towards a decision will
finally make me feel better. It doesn’t. I try another one pill, waiting,
hoping.

Right or left.
Life or death.
Which way should I go?

This time I scoop up several
pills at once and shove them impatiently into my mouth. Shuddering, I take a
huge mouthful of water and swallow, but the tablets stick painfully in my
throat. Still I take more and more, ignoring the choking feeling that’s building.

Then I think of my parents.

Imagine them when they hear
the news of my death. See them at my funeral. Realise that they will never,
ever recover from the loss of their child. They’ve been so quietly strong for
me all through this, never judging, never accusing,
just
being there for me without question.

I jump
up,
shaking my head, and run to the loo, stick my fingers down my throat. A violent
heave and undigested tablets splatter into the toilet bowl. I make myself sick
again and again until there’s nothing left to come up, then curl up on the bath
mat, sobbing.

I can’t even get suicide
right. What’s wrong with me?!

Anger burns through the
self-pity then. I was right, I AM at a crossroads. And if I decide to live I
can’t do it for someone else’s sake. It has to be for me…but I don’t have
anything to live for.

Sighing, shaking my head, I
stand up and walk
away,
making the best decision I can
for now: I won’t take an overdose. Not just yet. I’ll turn right and try to
live. If things don’t improve I can always kill myself tomorrow instead.

Sunday 16

Maybe all that bollocks
about hitting rock bottom so you can start bouncing back is actually true. I do
feel a little better today, having decided to live. I’m still knackered, crying
and have a shite life, but I did get out of bed at a decent hour, and showered,
cleaned my teeth and brushed my hair like a proper human being, then got dress
into something that doesn’t have an elasticated waistband. The jeans felt oddly
heavy after all that time in pyjamas or jogging bottoms.

I tidied the house too, and
made myself a proper meal for the first time in…I can’t actually remember how
long. My parents have made meals for me, and sometimes Kim has brought
something over, but I’ve not bothered eating them, and as for me bothering to
cook…no, that hasn’t happened since the start of the trial.

When I tidied I came across
a list of counsellors and therapists that my doctor gave me. I’m going to go,
I’ve decided. I can’t actually afford to pay for private sessions but I think I
kind of can’t afford not to either, otherwise I’ll go doolally or go through
with Plan A to top myself.

Besides, I’m already in so
much debt that I can’t afford to pay it back, so what’s a bit more?

So I’m feeling better. Not
miraculously and suddenly jumping around the room singing with joy – I still
spent quite a few hours crying. But I’m…willing to try to live again. How long
this will last is anyone’s guess, and as I said last night, if I get peed off
again I can always kill myself tomorrow….but if I kill myself tomorrow there
definitely won’t be another chance to live, so I’d best be very certain before
going down that route.

I even dug out a yoga
dvd
Kim bought me, thinking it
might help to calm my nerves. I did a bit tonight before coming to bed and
writing, and it has made me feel a little more relaxed.

Monday 17

I keep looking at that
bloody visiting form for Wakefield Prison – that’s where Daryl has moved to now
he has been found guilty and is deemed a dangerous category
A
prisoner. It’s where all the highest security sex offenders in England and
Wales tend to wind up, and apparently its nickname is the Monster Mansion.
Nice.

So why would my own personal
monster want me to go there and have a cosy little chat? Why does he want to
discuss things? I know what the discussion will consist of; him swapping
between browbeating me and sweet-talking me until I would swear that up was
down.

Thursday 20

I’ve
been given a hell of a lot to think about. Today I had my first appointment
with my therapist, Marsha; she actually shuffled her schedule round to
accommodate me when she realised who I was. I’m not sure how I feel about that,
but clearly she thought I was an urgent case.

I’m
not sure what I expected when I reached her office; maybe something like in The
Sopranos, a slightly imposing room; or the classic lying on a couch thing,
while the therapist sits behind you and then sneaks from the room as you talk,
bored.

Instead,
I arrived at what turned out to be Marsha’s rather lovely home, and was shown
into a cosy sitting room with relaxing knick-knacks scattered around: dolphins jumping
from water, that kind of thing. A large window overlooked a beautiful mature
garden with a lawn, impressive trees and hedges, and a kitsch little water
feature, and Marsha indicated that I should sit in one of two big, squashy
armchairs right beside it.

‘Please,
make yourself comfortable. Take off your shoes even, if you want,’ she smiled.
A proper, real deal smile; my first for a long time.
Mum,
Dad and Kim always give me uncertain smiles, as if they’re worried I might find
cheerfulness painful and shatter. Maybe I will. But at that moment it felt wonderful
and I found my mouth turning upwards too, hesitantly but genuinely.

There’s
something nice about Marsha. She has a good atmosphere about her, gives off a
trustworthy vibe – you know what it is, she seems content; boy, do I envy that.
She’s a large lady, comfortable-looking, and wears
mumsy
clothes, which adds to the whole Mother Earth thing she’s got going on. Her
skin glows with good health and her frumpy, neck-length, mid-brown hair may not
be in a cutting edge style but it is super glossy.

I
can imagine giving her a hug.

So
when she said ‘make yourself comfortable’ I took her at her word and kicked my
shoes off, before plonking down on the super soft cushions of the chair and
being enveloped by it, and folding my legs up beneath me.

‘Firstly,
let me explain a little about how this will work. You can say whatever you want
in here and it will be treated in the utmost confidence.’ I nodded at her,
believing every word, so she continued. ‘You’re not going to feel better
instantly, in fact some people feel worse with counselling before they get
better because some very powerful emotions and memories can be stirred up.’

That
scared me a bit. I fidgeted in my seat and tried to cover it with a cough.

‘Think
of yourself as carrying very heavy luggage on your back; your emotional luggage,’
she added. ‘Every time you come here you’ll leave a little bit behind,
hopefully, until you reach a point where you’re fully unburdened.’

‘I
like the sound of that,’ I blurted out.

I’ll
be honest, I hadn’t thought it was going to be easy for me to speak about
what’s happened, or to trust someone enough to be open, but I surprised myself
with how much I said. Alright, I did hold some stuff back, of course, but
basically I laid it all on the line as I gave her a brief history of what had
happened, pausing as I spoke only to take the occasional sip of water from the
glass she’d thoughtfully put out on a side table beside my chair.

Only when I reached the bit
about what the consultant psychologist said at the trial did my lips start to
tremble.

‘Oh God, was it my fault?’ I
gasped. ‘Was I such a harridan that that he hurt those women as a reaction, as a
coping mechanism rather than hurt me?

Marsha
seemed pretty annoyed with the psychologist. ‘It was her job to explain his
behaviour, but sadly instead she seems to have tried to shift the blame on you,
which wasn’t correct or professional of her,’ she said calmly, trying to mask
the irritated look on her face.
Just seeing that made me feel
better – one professional dissing another.

‘The
thing is,’ I confessed, ‘that psychologist did make me feel like I was to
blame, like it was our rubbish relationship that sent him over the edge. And
then Daryl even mouthed to me, “It’s your fault.” He took great pleasure in
telling me that.’

‘We’re
all responsible for our own decision and reactions,’ Marsha replied, then
paused for a moment to give me time to control the urge to cynically roll my
eyes. ‘Let me ask you something: do you blame any of those women for what
happened to them?’

‘Of
course not,’ I
scoffed,
horrified she’d even suggest
it.

‘And
yet Daryl also told one of them that she’d asked for
it,
didn’t he?’

‘Yes…’
I said slowly. ‘But…that’s different.’

‘Is
it?
In what way?’
She cocked her head, as if genuinely
fascinated by my reply. I tried to marshal my thoughts so I could explain the
complex emotional reasons behind why. Instead it felt like the answer was a
great big tangle of wool in my heart and soul and I couldn’t figure out how to
unravel it. Where to start?

‘I-I
don’t know, it just is,’ I finally settled for. Marsha simply looked at me, the
light reflecting on her glasses so that I couldn’t see her eyes properly. For
the first time in the session I felt tense.

‘I
should have known what he was doing. I’m his wife, I should have known,’ I
wailed suddenly. ‘I should have stopped him and nothing anyone says will ever
change that. It is my fault.’

‘Did
he ever tell you what he was doing?’ she asked.

I
shook my head, frowning. ‘Of course not; I’d have gone straight to the police
if he had.’

She
nodded. ‘Did you ever see him attack anyone?’

‘No.’
The reply came out sullen, like a child. I felt annoyed with her and her
stubborn refusal to get what everyone else in the world understood: that I’m to
blame.

‘Hmm.
Did you tell him to hurt women?’

‘No!’

‘Then
I really don’t see how this can be your fault. Daryl made his decisions on his
own,
he is the only person responsible for them. Not you.’

‘Well,
I…’ I hesitated, trying to think of something to say to persuade her. I
couldn’t. Not one single logical argument could be put forward. It’s not my
fault. No matter how much I feel like it is.

My
hands twisted anxiously as I repeated the phrase in my head, trying to get it
to sink in.

It’s
not my fault.

‘But
everyone says it is,’ I whispered.
A final offering in
desperation.

She
smiled, shook her head,
then
glanced at the clock. ‘It
isn’t. We can work some more on this next week, if you’d like to come again?’

Definitely.
Definitely! I do think I’ve left just
a tiny bit of my emotional baggage behind at Marsha’s. I feel kind of confused,
as if my world has been turned upside down, because there has been such a
sudden shift in the way I’m seeing things. Maybe I’m finally seeing things
right way up again, after it was turned upside down by Daryl. Whatever, I’m
looking at things differently and it’s strange but wonderful.

I
still feel guilty and awful but now I have a new mantra that I could almost
skip to, it gives me such a momentary buzz when I think of it.