I had to get out of hospital.
That was all I could think. I had to see in person the people I loved and maybe being face to face with them would help remind them that I wasn't the monster Anne had made me out to be.
My head swam with all the horrific possibilities. Anne had had MONTHS to build whatever stories and images she wanted to of me. I'd been away in hospital, trying to recover from my own demons and was still in a very fragile state. How was I going to handle all of this?
I want to tell you that I won. I want to tell you that I fought the good fight and that everything worked out okay.
But it didn't. I didn't win. In fact, I lost so badly and so dramatically, I to this day don't know how the sheer force of the grief of it didn't kill me where I stood. It was that bad. It honestly was.
This is what actually happened:
First of all, I started to lie to my Psychiatrist. I told her that I was "better" and that I wanted to go home. I don't think she believed me (I'm crap at lying) but she did allow me more and more 'weekend leave' from the hospital - as long as I was back in my room by Monday morning.
My plan was to get back into Church and Youth group and re-assert myself. To remind them who I was - the beautiful girl they'd met all those years ago - not the crazy woman Anne had made me out to be - and to finally stand up to Anne and put things right.
It wasn't that easy.
Secondly, I didn't know what Anne had said so I didn't know what I was defending. Thirdly, I was not a well girl. I was under so much medication and was so lost, broken and fragile that this was the worst possible time to "go into battle", it really was.
Where do I even start in setting things right? Where do I begin?
With my family.
I dialled Mom's familiar number.
"Mom? It's me"
"You stupid f**king b*tch" Mom said. And hung up.
Oh no.
What was going on?
Over the next few days; through very painful calls to people who would still talk to me (very few), I found out that "someone" had put a call in to Social services about "incest" in my home and my parents had been visited and my Dad severely warned against it.
Oh Dad...
That explains my Mom's volatile response when I rang.
That also meant that going home was not an option and my family would not be there to support me.
I was alone.
Alone, alone, alone.
I don't remember in detail the next few months, but I remember it all going very, very wrong for me.
Instead of remanning cool, calm, reasonable and rational, I remember physically tugging at friends, trying so hard to make them like me and stay with me despite what Anne had said - that I pushed away what little trust I had left with them. In one instance, I thought I saw Cara's boyfriend at the time raise his hand to her the way Gareth did with me and in fierce protectiveness, I shouted "Don't f**king touch her!" at the top of my voice. I don't know what had happened - if Bruno had really been threatening to Cara or if in my panicked and lost state I saw what I wanted to see - someone I could relate to and protect, but they both looked at me with disgust and disbelief. Cara had fallen deeply in love with Bruno and saw my shouting and irrational behaviour as a threat.
I lost my best friend. Just like that.
I was so scared and running solely on adrenaline so instead of talking to my friends, trying to find out what I was up against and calmly making my way through the months of lies Anne had cemented while I was away...I was a hot mess.
I screamed, I cried, I laughed hysterically when I felt so lost that I didn't know what else to do. I cut myself. I didn't know how else to show I was in so much pain. I ranted. I raved.
And in doing so, I was every bit the 'psycho' Anne had warned others against.
I was also dirt poor.
I didn't have a cent.
Because remember - Anne had taken my bank card?
That meant I didn't have access to my account and when I finally did get access (very very difficult to do as a lot of my 'stuff' had been 'moved' to a house I had never seen before and didn't know the address to and the important legal documents proving my identity were at my family's house - which I was NOT welcome at)...my accounts were empty.
Not only that, my accounts were in overdraft - so that even if I did somehow get a job, any money going in would just bring me "up" to zero.
What have you done, Anne?!?
I can't remember how I did it, but I found the address of the house "I" was renting.
I didn't know it at the time, but later found out that I had signed the house forms for SOLE responsibility of this mystery house of "mine".
I caught 3 buses on a hot, dry day with only the clothes I had as my only possessions.
I turned up to a brown bricked, old, ugly house in the middle of nowhere.
I know this house.
How did I know this house?
Oh yeah. I'd been here 3 times in the last 9 months. 3 very hazy times where Anne had picked me up from hospital to "sleepover" on weekend leave. This was before the whole "Lucas" debacle. I had not been 'invited back' since. When I had stayed in the past, my room was the smallest in this horrible house and inside had been decked out with expensive furniture, a stereo system, big TV, silver double-door fridge...all the mod cons. So expensive.
Who was paying for all of this?
Turns out - I WAS.
Back to my arrival at the house:
There was a big red/orange sticker on the front door - taped across the entrance with "EVICTED" on it in big letters and an official looking stamp on it. The stamp had dates on it. What did this mean?
I looked into one of the dirty, dusty windows. The house was empty.
A ribbon flapping along the side of the house caught my attention. I followed it to plastic bin bags in a heap. They weren't tied shut, so I cautiously peeped into one.
It was filled with my clothing.
Another had my treasured journals and books.
Another trinkets I had always loved.
I felt as if I wasn't really there. The grief and shock of it all so immense I almost screamed from the pain of it.
These were all my things - binned. Discarded.
A house I had paid for and only had fuzzy memories of sleeping in maybe twice or three times was empty and I had been evicted from a home I had never really been welcomed in.
I was penniless.
I was homeless.
I was unwelcome in every place I could think to turn to for help.
I was alone and I didn't know what I was going to do next.
That was all I could think. I had to see in person the people I loved and maybe being face to face with them would help remind them that I wasn't the monster Anne had made me out to be.
My head swam with all the horrific possibilities. Anne had had MONTHS to build whatever stories and images she wanted to of me. I'd been away in hospital, trying to recover from my own demons and was still in a very fragile state. How was I going to handle all of this?
I want to tell you that I won. I want to tell you that I fought the good fight and that everything worked out okay.
But it didn't. I didn't win. In fact, I lost so badly and so dramatically, I to this day don't know how the sheer force of the grief of it didn't kill me where I stood. It was that bad. It honestly was.
This is what actually happened:
First of all, I started to lie to my Psychiatrist. I told her that I was "better" and that I wanted to go home. I don't think she believed me (I'm crap at lying) but she did allow me more and more 'weekend leave' from the hospital - as long as I was back in my room by Monday morning.
My plan was to get back into Church and Youth group and re-assert myself. To remind them who I was - the beautiful girl they'd met all those years ago - not the crazy woman Anne had made me out to be - and to finally stand up to Anne and put things right.
It wasn't that easy.
Secondly, I didn't know what Anne had said so I didn't know what I was defending. Thirdly, I was not a well girl. I was under so much medication and was so lost, broken and fragile that this was the worst possible time to "go into battle", it really was.
Where do I even start in setting things right? Where do I begin?
With my family.
I dialled Mom's familiar number.
"Mom? It's me"
"You stupid f**king b*tch" Mom said. And hung up.
Oh no.
What was going on?
Over the next few days; through very painful calls to people who would still talk to me (very few), I found out that "someone" had put a call in to Social services about "incest" in my home and my parents had been visited and my Dad severely warned against it.
Oh Dad...
That explains my Mom's volatile response when I rang.
That also meant that going home was not an option and my family would not be there to support me.
I was alone.
Alone, alone, alone.
I don't remember in detail the next few months, but I remember it all going very, very wrong for me.
Instead of remanning cool, calm, reasonable and rational, I remember physically tugging at friends, trying so hard to make them like me and stay with me despite what Anne had said - that I pushed away what little trust I had left with them. In one instance, I thought I saw Cara's boyfriend at the time raise his hand to her the way Gareth did with me and in fierce protectiveness, I shouted "Don't f**king touch her!" at the top of my voice. I don't know what had happened - if Bruno had really been threatening to Cara or if in my panicked and lost state I saw what I wanted to see - someone I could relate to and protect, but they both looked at me with disgust and disbelief. Cara had fallen deeply in love with Bruno and saw my shouting and irrational behaviour as a threat.
I lost my best friend. Just like that.
I was so scared and running solely on adrenaline so instead of talking to my friends, trying to find out what I was up against and calmly making my way through the months of lies Anne had cemented while I was away...I was a hot mess.
I screamed, I cried, I laughed hysterically when I felt so lost that I didn't know what else to do. I cut myself. I didn't know how else to show I was in so much pain. I ranted. I raved.
And in doing so, I was every bit the 'psycho' Anne had warned others against.
I was also dirt poor.
I didn't have a cent.
Because remember - Anne had taken my bank card?
That meant I didn't have access to my account and when I finally did get access (very very difficult to do as a lot of my 'stuff' had been 'moved' to a house I had never seen before and didn't know the address to and the important legal documents proving my identity were at my family's house - which I was NOT welcome at)...my accounts were empty.
Not only that, my accounts were in overdraft - so that even if I did somehow get a job, any money going in would just bring me "up" to zero.
What have you done, Anne?!?
I can't remember how I did it, but I found the address of the house "I" was renting.
I didn't know it at the time, but later found out that I had signed the house forms for SOLE responsibility of this mystery house of "mine".
I caught 3 buses on a hot, dry day with only the clothes I had as my only possessions.
I turned up to a brown bricked, old, ugly house in the middle of nowhere.
I know this house.
How did I know this house?
Oh yeah. I'd been here 3 times in the last 9 months. 3 very hazy times where Anne had picked me up from hospital to "sleepover" on weekend leave. This was before the whole "Lucas" debacle. I had not been 'invited back' since. When I had stayed in the past, my room was the smallest in this horrible house and inside had been decked out with expensive furniture, a stereo system, big TV, silver double-door fridge...all the mod cons. So expensive.
Who was paying for all of this?
Turns out - I WAS.
Back to my arrival at the house:
There was a big red/orange sticker on the front door - taped across the entrance with "EVICTED" on it in big letters and an official looking stamp on it. The stamp had dates on it. What did this mean?
I looked into one of the dirty, dusty windows. The house was empty.
A ribbon flapping along the side of the house caught my attention. I followed it to plastic bin bags in a heap. They weren't tied shut, so I cautiously peeped into one.
It was filled with my clothing.
Another had my treasured journals and books.
Another trinkets I had always loved.
I felt as if I wasn't really there. The grief and shock of it all so immense I almost screamed from the pain of it.
These were all my things - binned. Discarded.
A house I had paid for and only had fuzzy memories of sleeping in maybe twice or three times was empty and I had been evicted from a home I had never really been welcomed in.
I was penniless.
I was homeless.
I was unwelcome in every place I could think to turn to for help.
I was alone and I didn't know what I was going to do next.
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