behind us and move on.’
When I did eventually go home, I knew how badly I’d upset them, so I agreed to start seeing a new social worker to address my ‘issues’. She was called Becky and I’ll be frank – she was a total idiot. I was going through the worst time of my life and yet she’d turn up saying, ‘Right, today we’re going to draw some pictures to identify our feelings.’
I was like, ‘Becky, let me be honest with you. I know I’m only fifteen but I’m not stupid – I don’t need the Crayolas. I’ll speak to you on a level but don’t even bother with this.’
In reality, I’ve always found it hard to tell people how I reallyfeel. My stomach would go into such knots whenever anyone asked me anything remotely heavy, so perhaps Becky never even stood a chance of getting through to me. But still, she drove me absolutely mad in her attempts.
‘How are you feeling today?’ she’d ask. ‘Why don’t you draw how you feel?’
So I’d say sarcastically, ‘Well, I can either draw a sad face or a smiley face. That’s about the extent of my talent in arts and crafts.’
I know it sounds ungrateful when she was only trying to help me, but this was not how to give therapy to a troubled teenager like me. One time she said, ‘If you draw me a picture with these felt-tip pens, next week we can try it with paints.’
Jesus Christ, what was she thinking? ‘What? I’m fifteen years old,’ I snapped. ‘Are you joking?’ Fair enough, that kind of psychobabble might have worked on four- or five-year-olds but it was just insulting to me. ‘Becky,’ I said, ‘I’m not trying to be rude but this is ridiculous. If you want to talk to me, that’s fine. But don’t expect me to sit here drawing stick men and smiley faces.’
And she replied, ‘Well, what about if we make a chart about how you’re feeling? Has it been a sad day, a good day or a medium day?’
‘I’m not drawing a chart either,’ I said. ‘I’m not three and I’m not wetting the bed. This is just not working for me.’
Those sessions with Becky used to make me so angry and I’d inevitably take it out on Mum.
‘Why are you making me see that woman? I’m not some imbecile,’ I’d say.
In the end, Mum arranged for my previous social worker Christine to step in – and she was a breath of fresh air because I trusted her implicitly. She picked me up from school sometimes and took me to Pizza Hut, so it felt like a treat, rather than somekind of psychobabble session. We could actually talk about stuff, without her forcing me to draw daft pictures. I used to enjoy our chats because she never seemed to judge me or have any expectations of me. And if I felt angry and bitter towards my mum and dad on any occasion, that was fine too. She always encouraged me to express my emotions and that helped me a lot.
But while she was a calming influence in my life, the next almighty storm was already brewing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Truth At Last
A lthough things settled down a bit in the months after my suicide attempt, my impatience to know the truth never left me and, pretty soon, it was gnawing away at me more than ever. One day, I was in the car with Mum when I got stuck into her again.
‘Look, I’m getting older now,’ I said, ‘so I really do think you can tell me about my mum.’
She refused to discuss it and wouldn’t even look at me. I must have been having a bad day because I then screamed at her, ‘You’re just an evil bitch!’ This was bad because, in all our fights, I’d never sworn at her before. But what she said in reply really took my breath away.
‘Well, do you know what, Chanelle? Carry on like this and you’re going to be no better than your mum.’
‘What did you just say?’ I fired back. ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’
But Mum realised she’d let slip more than she wanted to and would say no more. ‘Nothing. I meant nothing. Just drop it. This is definitely not the right time.’
I
When I did eventually go home, I knew how badly I’d upset them, so I agreed to start seeing a new social worker to address my ‘issues’. She was called Becky and I’ll be frank – she was a total idiot. I was going through the worst time of my life and yet she’d turn up saying, ‘Right, today we’re going to draw some pictures to identify our feelings.’
I was like, ‘Becky, let me be honest with you. I know I’m only fifteen but I’m not stupid – I don’t need the Crayolas. I’ll speak to you on a level but don’t even bother with this.’
In reality, I’ve always found it hard to tell people how I reallyfeel. My stomach would go into such knots whenever anyone asked me anything remotely heavy, so perhaps Becky never even stood a chance of getting through to me. But still, she drove me absolutely mad in her attempts.
‘How are you feeling today?’ she’d ask. ‘Why don’t you draw how you feel?’
So I’d say sarcastically, ‘Well, I can either draw a sad face or a smiley face. That’s about the extent of my talent in arts and crafts.’
I know it sounds ungrateful when she was only trying to help me, but this was not how to give therapy to a troubled teenager like me. One time she said, ‘If you draw me a picture with these felt-tip pens, next week we can try it with paints.’
Jesus Christ, what was she thinking? ‘What? I’m fifteen years old,’ I snapped. ‘Are you joking?’ Fair enough, that kind of psychobabble might have worked on four- or five-year-olds but it was just insulting to me. ‘Becky,’ I said, ‘I’m not trying to be rude but this is ridiculous. If you want to talk to me, that’s fine. But don’t expect me to sit here drawing stick men and smiley faces.’
And she replied, ‘Well, what about if we make a chart about how you’re feeling? Has it been a sad day, a good day or a medium day?’
‘I’m not drawing a chart either,’ I said. ‘I’m not three and I’m not wetting the bed. This is just not working for me.’
Those sessions with Becky used to make me so angry and I’d inevitably take it out on Mum.
‘Why are you making me see that woman? I’m not some imbecile,’ I’d say.
In the end, Mum arranged for my previous social worker Christine to step in – and she was a breath of fresh air because I trusted her implicitly. She picked me up from school sometimes and took me to Pizza Hut, so it felt like a treat, rather than somekind of psychobabble session. We could actually talk about stuff, without her forcing me to draw daft pictures. I used to enjoy our chats because she never seemed to judge me or have any expectations of me. And if I felt angry and bitter towards my mum and dad on any occasion, that was fine too. She always encouraged me to express my emotions and that helped me a lot.
But while she was a calming influence in my life, the next almighty storm was already brewing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Truth At Last
A lthough things settled down a bit in the months after my suicide attempt, my impatience to know the truth never left me and, pretty soon, it was gnawing away at me more than ever. One day, I was in the car with Mum when I got stuck into her again.
‘Look, I’m getting older now,’ I said, ‘so I really do think you can tell me about my mum.’
She refused to discuss it and wouldn’t even look at me. I must have been having a bad day because I then screamed at her, ‘You’re just an evil bitch!’ This was bad because, in all our fights, I’d never sworn at her before. But what she said in reply really took my breath away.
‘Well, do you know what, Chanelle? Carry on like this and you’re going to be no better than your mum.’
‘What did you just say?’ I fired back. ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’
But Mum realised she’d let slip more than she wanted to and would say no more. ‘Nothing. I meant nothing. Just drop it. This is definitely not the right time.’
I
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