Are We All Lemmings & Snowflakes? Read online

  I nodded. “Yes! But you see, I can’t explain that to Mum and Dad. I say the word ‘suicide’ and they totally flip out and won’t listen to anything else. All they hear is me saying ‘I want to die’. They don’t hear me when I say, ‘But I tried really hard not to.’”

  He looks at my test sheet again. “Your scores are quite high, Olive.”

  Jake taps on his computer, pulling up my records. His fingers are clumsy and slow. He double-clicks, reads, doesn’t seem to mind that he’s keeping me there waiting. “So, you say you’ve had periods of feeling very low before?”

  I nod slowly. “Yes. Umm, last winter everyone got a bit worried about me. And then a year before that. But I’ve been feeling okay the last few months.” I think… I mean, I’m not always like super sane. But then, who is? But I hadn’t felt the Nothing in ages. I really thought…hoped it had gone for good.

  Jake double-clicks and brings up a box on his screen. “Ahh,” he says. “And I can see here on your records that a psychiatrist assessed you last year and said—”

  “STOP!” I shout out. “Stop it, I don’t want to know!”

  He looks up.

  “I don’t want to know my diagnosis,” I’m practically yelling. “That should be in my notes. Don’t tell me.”

  He is unmoved by my outburst and scrolls down. “Ahh, yes. It does say here. I apologize.”

  “I don’t believe in labels,” I tell him. Oh God, I sound like I want to be a freaking HIPSTER psycho.

  “Fair enough.” Jake doesn’t press the point. He asks me some more basic stuff about my moods, my behaviour, my feelings, how I rate things out of ten. I can feel the adrenaline leave my body and the heaviness snuggle back in, complaining that its spot was taken on the couch. Jake starts yammering on about how it’s okay to talk about how I’m feeling, and how it’s IMPORTANT to let the people who care about me know what’s going on. He suggests a course of antidepressants, warning me that they take a few weeks to work.

  “How do you feel about medication, Olive?”

  I’m so tired now I’m not sure I feel anything. “Sure. Whatever.” I blink and it takes longer than a blink should. It takes a lot of effort to open my eyes back up again.

  “We can see how you get on with them. Shall we bring your parents back in? Give them an update?”

  “Huh? Yes, okay.”

  My fingers are so heavy, my wrists are so heavy, my arms are so heavy, my shoulders are sinking down, down, down into my ribcage.

  Mum’s at the door. Dad is world-weary and behind her. They screech their chair legs along the floor again and I close my eyes, trying to suppress what it triggers.

  “Olive is aware that she gave us all a scare here,” Jake tells them. “But I don’t believe her to be in any danger right now.”

  “How can you say that?” Mum shrills. “She tried to…”

  “Olive has explained what happened this evening, and I repeat, I don’t believe her to be in any danger.” His stern delivery temporarily shuts her up. “You can take her home now. I’ve prescribed some SSRIs. These are a standard antidepressant that should help with Olive’s low moods. I know she’s not taken medication before, but I think, considering what happened this evening, it will be beneficial for her. Here’s a leaflet about them.” He hands over some brightly-coloured pamphlet and Mum grabs it out of his hands. “I’ll write a letter to your GP, and you can book a follow-up appointment with them to talk through her further treatment options.”

  Mum is not taking this well. I can feel her angry vibes, shooting off her like arrows.

  “She needs a bed,” Mum says. And she doesn’t mean a nice new one from Dreams. She means a bed in a psychiatric ward.

  I poke my fingers into my eyes. “I don’t need a bed. I just need double-glazing.”

  Dad tuts. “Olive, we’ve gone through this. You can’t shut out all the noise. You’ve got to learn to COPE with the noise.”

  I roll my eyes. “Of course, I’m sorry. I forgot. Whoopsie. Silly me. I’ll just start coping now. Cheers for the reminder.”

  He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  It’s his birthday and I’m being a dick and I’ve not even said sorry, and I’m too tired for this. I sink into my chair. I let my muscles crumble into dust, my brain turn off, as Jake and Mum and Dad discuss me like I’m not there. And I

  Just

  Keep

  Wishing

  That it would

  Please

  Stop

  Happening

  …

  But it seems like the Nothing is back again.

  And I don’t have the words to tell you how much I wish it wasn’t.

  We have to wait a week for a doctor’s appointment because I refuse to see anyone but Dr Herret.

  Mum’s all outraged. Dad is all trying to calm her down.

  I’m not too bothered because it won’t stop raining and therefore the world shuts up.

  I start swallowing the antidepressants each morning with a glass of water Mum brings me.

  But mostly I just lie in my little bolthole, under my desk. And think about

  What

  A

  Shitty

  Terrible

  Person

  I am.

  They have me on watch.

  “I told you, I’m not suicidal,” I mumble, turning over to put my back to them. “Ask Jake. He’ll vouch for me. I just want to sleep.”

  But Mum still takes time off to check I’m safe. She comes into my room regularly to shove full-fat yogurt down me or anything else I can stand to eat. Dad comes back from work and sits on my bed, the bed I’ve not slept in for ten days. Flutters out his newspaper and reads in silence.

  The

  Days

  Drag

  Past.

  They are of nothing. Nothing but guilt and numb and wondering who let the bath plug out on the universe.

  I get my period.

  Which allows one emotion to carve its way through my veneer of nothing.

  Relief…

  I’m not pregnant.

  I’m not about to have Rick Macaby’s baby.

  I perk up enough to eat two whole yogurts and Mum cries and acts like I’m Tiny Tim who has finally learned how to walk without crutches or something.

  And then at last it is the day of the doctor’s appointment.

  Dr Herret has been our doctor since before I can remember. She was the doctor who jabbed needles into my toddler arms. Who doled out banana-flavoured yellow antibiotics when I got tonsillitis. The doctor who gave me the pill…before it sent me stark raving crazy and I had to come off it.

  Oh, and she’s been here throughout this roller coaster of mental unwellness that, apparently, isn’t going to stop any time soon.

  She greets me like a friend. “Hi, Olive, sit down. Sorry you had to wait so long. I’m running a bit late today.”

  I shuffle over and slump into the chair, and Dr Herret’s eyebrows rise when she sees Mum hovering at the door. “Do you want to come in too, Mrs Newman?”

  Mum pretends to think about it while I’m already moving over to make room.

  “I mean, is that okay? Olive is a bit…out of it at the moment.”

  Dr Herret gestures to my now-vacated chair and looks unsurprised. It’s actually less tiring to have Mum here, rather than explaining every last detail afterwards.

  “So, what’s been going on, Olive? It says in your notes you were taken to A & E?”

  I nod my head slowly. “Yes, but I didn’t need to go.”

  “Yes, she did,” Mum butts in. “The police found her out in a storm, standing at the top of a cliff…”

  Dr Herret raises a hand to stop her. “Mrs Newman, please. I’m asking Olive. If you’re going to sit in on this, I need you to let Olive tell me herself.”

  Mum twists her hands in her lap and looks down.

  “Now, Olive. It looks like you’ve been prescribed antidepressants to help you through this ba
d patch. How are you finding them? Any side effects at all?”

  “All she does is sleep,” Mum interrupts and my doctor puts her hand up to stop her again.

  I shrug. “They’re fine. They’re not doing much.”

  “It can take some time for them to kick in. And the sleep thing is quite common, so don’t worry too much about that.” She looks down at my notes again. “So, this is the first time on medication, but it also says here in the notes from the hospital that they recommend you get some additional help?”

  “A new brain would be great, thank you.”

  She smiles, just as Mum tuts and says, “Oh, Olive.” I’m actually pretty pleased with myself for making a joke when I feel so incapable of breathing. The doctor fiddles with her ancient computer again, reading half to herself.

  “You had those ten sessions of CBT last year, didn’t you? Did you find those helpful?”

  “Well they can’t have been that helpful because here I am again.” After my second batch of Nothing, I’d been considered Nothing enough to get some therapy. I missed weeks of school, including my mock exams, waiting for an appointment. They were vaguely useful I guess, though I remember thinking, at one point, it felt like bringing a knife to a gunfight. But they must’ve done something because I cheered up and, after my ten allocated slots, I wasn’t considered ill enough to get any more help. They shoved a sticker on me, labelled me as Treated and that was it.

  “Hmm, well, sometimes these things come in waves…”

  Mum keeps putting her finger out to punctuate the air. Shutting up is killing her.

  “Well I can refer you for some top-up sessions,” Dr Herret says. “But I’m afraid there’s a waiting list.”

  “Again?” Mum explodes. “There’s ALWAYS a waiting list. Can’t you—”

  “Mrs Newman, please, I’m not finished.”

  Mum apologizes, but doesn’t sit fully back on her chair.

  “As I was saying, there’s a waiting list, and I know, from the looks of things…” She stares straight at me right then and I feel all exposed. What does she mean, looks of things? Do I look ill? Okay, so I’ve not showered for a few days, shoot me. It’s not like I’ve been out socializing. It’s fine to smell in the privacy of your own home-made bunker. “… you may not be able to hold on for that long. There’s one other possibility to run past you. There’s a new treatment option that’s being trialled, and I’ve been told to look out for possible candidates. I wondered if you’d be interested?”

  I cross my arms. “In a guinea-pig trial? I’m not letting you electrify me.”

  She has the grace to smile. “It’s not anything like that. It’s this new state-of-the-art treatment centre. Hang on…I’ll pull it up on here.” She taps away and then twists her clunky computer around so we can see the screen. I see a staged photo of a group of teenagers sitting around laughing on some lawn. Underneath it says:

  “Camp Reset?” I ask.

  “It’s a new private mental health facility, just for teenagers. They’re still in the piloting stage and they need volunteers so you could stay for free.” She tilts her head, smiling again. “The standard of treatment looks incredible. Participants are asked to stay a month, and receive round-the-clock care.”

  Mum’s leaning so far forward I’m surprised she doesn’t fall off her chair.

  “Are you sectioning me, after all? Is that what this is about?”

  “Nobody’s sectioning you, Olive. Your stay there is totally voluntary. You can leave at any time.”

  I think about it. Stare at the screen.

  Dr Herret fills the silence. “I do think it’s a good opportunity…the chance to get such intense treatment…for free…you do fulfil all the pilot’s requirements…because you’re not considered an immediate risk to yourself, the waiting list for other types of therapy is quite long I’m afraid…”

  I tune her out because something new and unfamiliar has arrived in the clotted cream of my sludgy head. Something that’s not lit up in me since the horrible moment the Nothing returned. Hope. Hope this could be the last time I’m like this. The thing is, it sounds good. It sounds like it could work. I mean, a month. A whole month. Of intensive treatment. I could improve. I could learn how to not feel like this again. This could be it. This could be the silver bullet. The magic pill. The miracle cure. The thing that actually does it. And just that thought – the thought this could all go away. The thought that I’d finally be able to feel normally, as opposed to EVERYTHING or NOTHING… The thought is enough to make me smile.

  “Will it be noisy in the camp?” My anxiety speaks for me.

  Dr Herret smiles kindly. “Are you still worrying about noise?”

  I’m impressed she’s remembered since last time. “I’m not worrying about it, I just can’t stand it.”

  “Olive, one of the things they’ll be able to work on at this camp is your…umm…preoccupation with noise. And your medication may help to decrease the levels of anxiety you have about it. But let’s see if we can get any more information…hang on…” She taps again. “Ahh. Okay. Each patient gets their own private room with en-suite. That should help, shouldn’t it?”

  It depends, I think. It depends on what the neighbours are like. It depends on how thick the walls are. It depends on when the building was made and how well insulated it is. It depends how many adjoining walls I will have. It depends if it’s on a main road. It depends if it’s single glazed.

  Mum starts asking questions about what the other patients will be like. Are they dangerous?

  “No one will be dangerous, they’ll just be teenagers like Olive. And Olive isn’t dangerous, is she?” Dr Herret reassures her. “Once Camp Reset’s been accredited by the right bodies, it will cost several thousand pounds to attend. Olive would be lucky to go for free.”

  Lucky.

  Ha.

  I almost laugh. You are so lucky to have cancer that we caught quickly. You are so lucky that you only lost the one leg.

  “Will it work?” I stutter out. “Will this place stop this happening again?”

  The doctor’s eyes shine with sympathy. They always want you to hope, but not too much.

  “It’s worth a try,” she says. “You’ve never had intensive therapy. And you may find it’s helpful to be with other similar teenagers.” She looks at her notes. “It could be that this combination of medication and residential care is the ticket to get yourself feeling like you again.”

  I don’t know who “you” is, but I like the sound of her. I guess she means the me between the mood swings. When I’m getting good marks in school, and staging elaborate photoshoots for college, and not pissing off every single person in my year group apart from Ally. When I’m steady and my brain is quieter and I go out and do normal things like shop and chill at Ally’s, painting our nails. She’s quite nice, that Olive. I guess she is me… But if that’s the case, I don’t know where the other me’s fit in. The ones who kick in the windows of greenhouses. Who ruin birthday parties, who have unprotected sex with Rick Macaby, who have no friends left apart from one.

  I suddenly just want to go to sleep. Right there. On the hard chair. I answered some questions. I got out of my bunker. I got in the car. I sat here on this chair. That’s more than enough for one day. I feel my head hang with the weight of itself.

  “So, Olive, what are you thinking?”

  A month. Could a month of this camp ensure this doesn’t happen ever again? A month is nothing. It’s a blink in time. Could this feeling be gone with a blink? I don’t want to hope. I can’t afford to hope and it not…

  But what can I lose?

  “When does this camp thing start?” I ask.

  Dr Herret smiles. “In just over a week.”

  It’s the first day of Camp Reset and I’m finally levelling out.

  I can feel it as I wake up. My eyes actually want to open. My limbs actually want to stretch. My body is not utterly horrified at the thought of leaving bed. Which is just as well as I’m
about to be driven miles away to bunk up with fellow mad people for a month.

  I wake before my alarm and just lie here, trying to catch up on what I’ve missed.

  What the hell happened?

  I remember the euphoria over the end of exams, and Rick’s hands on my body. But then the heatwave hit and everyone was outside all the time and I got heavy…

  I lurch up in my weird cubbyhole under the desk and bang my head. “Oww,” I say aloud. I stretch out my bare foot from under the sheet. A thin, red, angry cut is scribbled across my skin from the broken glass.

  This can’t happen again.

  I roll out from under the desk, pull back the curtains and open the windows. The early morning air is fresh and sodden with dew. It blasts through my window, making my body erupt into goosebumps, waking it up. It’s the first time in weeks I’ve welcomed the world. The antidepressants must’ve finally kicked in. They said they would. I stare out at the sun shining down on our little street and marvel at how a little pill can bring me back to me. Why did I refuse to take them last time? I think it was Mum who put me off. She’d read some horror story about them on the internet.

  I pad to the shower for the first time in ages. I shampoo my hair twice. My leg and armpit hair clogs my razor as I shave. When I’m out and dried, I scrub a hole in the steam of the bathroom mirror.

  Wowsers trousers.

  I am thin. How have I lost so much weight so quickly? No wonder Mum was freaking. My already-angular face looks like it’s been vacuum-packed – I could probably slice a cucumber with my chin. My bobbed hair lands just at my shoulder blades, which look like they’re trying to break free from my body. And my eyes are just…missing something.

  I go back to my room wrapped in a towel and look around at the state of it. There’s a bundle of stinking sheets and pillows muddled under the desk where I’ve been sleeping. The giant photomontage I had on my walls lies ripped and littered across the carpet. I blink and get a flash of a moment of me tearing the whole thing down while crying and screaming. My walls are so naked, how did I not notice this before? I’m so used to them being covered in my photos and it really jars – a bit like seeing a glasses-wearer’s face when they take their glasses off. My parents clearly tried their best to tidy as much as they could around me. The clothes I’d strewn all over the floor are all washed and packed in a suitcase for camp at the end of my bed, my running trainers on the top. I reach out and stroke my shoes, and then touch my heart, trying to push the guilt back in.