Am I Normal Yet?

by Holly Bourne

  Bleach though. Bleach kills everything. Everybody knows that.

  If I could just bleach the bits where he touched me…then everything would be okay and I wouldn’t get sick and I’d go see Sarah to keep my parents happy and things would get back to normal because normal is all I’d ever wanted.

  But bleach burns… Maybe if I diluted it, it wouldn’t burn me? Like one of those acid peel face masks. I plunged my hand down on the safety cap, unscrewed the top and tipped some into the plugged sink.

  Rose burst in just as I was adding water to dilute it. She looked so in pain – if there was any reasonable part of me left, her face would’ve broken my heart.

  “Evie, please. Stop. Whatever you’re doing, stop!”

  “I can’t,” I sobbed back, honestly, watching the bowl fill with water, willing it to fill faster. If I could just apply one layer before my parents came back and wrecked everything…

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m just washing something off.”

  I needed to put it on, I needed to stop the germs, I needed, I needed, I needed…

  I sank a flannel into my diluted bleach mixture. The bleach seeped into the open sores of my hands.

  I screamed.

  The pain… The stinging.

  “Evie!”

  If I could just break through the pain… It’ll scab, but it will be free of germs, free of filth, free of dirt.

  “Is that water, Evie?”

  “Yes!” I wrung the flannel out and howled again. Then, with my hands shaking uncontrollably, I pulled my trousers down, right in front of Rose, and dabbed the skin at the top of my legs, erasing where Guy had been.

  “Evie. Oh my God, is that bleach?! Have you put bleach on you? Oh God, Evie. Help! Someone help!”

  Relief.

  Relief flooded through me like a tidal wave of gorgeousness. My legs sang with relief. I let out a deep breath.

  Then the burning started. First a tingling, then a hot fire coursing up me. I looked at my withered hands – blisters had erupted all over them. It hurt so much I could hardly see.

  I sank to the floor, sobbing, wanting so much to do the rest of my body.

  “Mum? Dad? She’s in here! She’s done something. I think she’s put bleach on herself.”

  Crashing. Worried shouting.

  “Get her in the shower. Now.”

  “Evie? What have you done? What the hell have you done now?”

  Cold water hit me – it rained down on my head, ran down into my eyes, joining with the tears.

  Just before I passed out, I remember having one thought.

  The thought

  Well this isn’t normal, is it now, Evie?

  Forty-three

  What the doctors said

  “It’s a good thing she diluted the bleach.”

  “You did the right thing, getting her in the shower that quickly. It stopped the burn.”

  “She doesn’t need a skin transplant.”

  “But she may struggle to feel temperatures in her palms.”

  “The scar on her leg will fade with time.”

  “Your youngest daughter, Rose, may need some counselling.”

  “How did Evelyn find the bleach?”

  “We’re transferring her to the psychiatric ward, just for a week or two. Evelyn, do you understand what that means?”

  “Evelyn, we’re putting your medication back up. We’re also prescribing you some diazepam, to help you feel calm again.”

  “Your daughter has suffered a significant relapse of her Obsessive Compulsive Disorder…”

  Forty-four

  Mum’s visit

  Mum was the first. She was allowed to bring chocolate, and clothes.

  I sat in my tiny room, playing with my bandages, staring at the clock.

  I burst into tears the moment I saw her. “Mum, I’m so sorry.”

  She gave me a sad little smile and sat on the hard-backed chair next to the bed, placing some folded jeans and a bar of Dairy Milk on the mattress. “How are you feeling?” she asked, to the pair of jeans.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Evelyn.” But it wasn’t okay. I could tell by her face. Pain bled all over it.

  “Where’s Dad and Rose?”

  “They’re dropping by tomorrow.”

  “I’m so so sorry.”

  Mum brought her face up to look at me, to really look at me. At my skinny frame and bandaged hands and the sterile box room. It was her turn to cry.

  “Oh, Evie,” she sobbed, sitting down next to me and smothering my face into the nook of her neck. “What happened? You were doing so well!”

  “I know,” I sobbed back. “I’m sorry. I let you down. I let everyone down.”

  She cried harder. “It’s not your fault,” she said. And, for the first time, I really believed she meant it.

  We hugged and cried and hugged and cried some more.

  “What’s going to happen to me?” I asked her, wiping some snot on her blouse by mistake. The snot didn’t upset me. It already didn’t bother me. I didn’t know if it was the drugs, or the intense therapy sessions, but I looked at the slimy trail and just thought, Oh, there’s some snot.

  Mum smoothed down my hair. “You’re going to get better.”

  “You said that last time.”

  “And you did get better.”

  “But then I got worse.”

  “Well, that’s life. That’s not just you. Life is better and then it is worse, over and over, for everyone.”

  It was like I’d climbed Everest, had the summit in my sight, the flag in my hand, all ready to pierce it into the top of the mountain and say, “Whoopdedoo, I made it,” and then an avalanche from out of nowhere swept me right back to the bottom of the mountain again.

  Was it worth bothering to try and climb it again? I was exhausted. I’d already climbed it. I didn’t want to…but, then, what other choice was there?

  I extracted myself from her shoulder dent. “How’s Rose?” My voice quivered, with shame and guilt and worry.

  Mum sighed, rubbing her eyes. She looked knackered. I guess she’d just fallen down a mountain too. “She’s not great, Evelyn.”

  “I’m so sorry. I know you never wanted her to see me like that.”

  “It’s not just that… She…never mind.” Mum picked up the jeans she’d brought and refolded them for no reason.

  “What?” I asked, sitting up on the bed.

  “I shouldn’t tell you. You need to rest.”

  “I’m fine.” I looked at my surroundings. “Well, obviously I’m not fine, but I’m fine enough to care about Rose. I’m okay handling other people’s problems – it’s just my own I’m not so good at.”

  Mum gave me another sad smile. “All right then. Maybe you can help. I don’t understand a lot of it anyway. I don’t get technology.”

  “Technology?”

  “She had a counselling session,” Mum continued, her eyes filling up again. “To, you know, make sure she was okay with what she saw…” More guilt free-fell down my throat. “And, well, she got very upset. Not about you. Well, about you a little bit…but, well, she’s being bullied at school… She broke down on this counsellor and told him everything. We’ve had to have a meeting with her school.”

  “What!?” I asked, in complete shock. “I thought she had loads of friends?”

  “Your father and I did too. But they’re not her friends. They’ve set up this silly website where they call her names, I don’t quite understand that bit. But she’s been coming home from school every day to an inbox full of horrible emails and text messages.”

  “Saying what?”

  “She showed us some.” Mum’s voice cracked again. “They call her a geek. Or up herself. Or ugly. They invited her to this sleepover and then said at the last moment it was cancelled. Then they rang her mobile that night and giggled down the phone, saying the sleepover was happening and they just didn’t want her there.”

  My
mouth was wide open. The guilt in my stomach lit an ember that grew into a fire. A fire of rage. Every defensive mechanism in my body ignited. I clenched my fists and winced. My hands still really hurt.

  “I was there that night,” I said. “I should’ve noticed something was wrong. Well, I did, but she convinced me it was all fine.”

  “You had other things on,” Mum said kindly.

  “That’s not an excuse. She’s my little sister. I should look out for her, not the other way round.” I burst into tears again.

  So much is lost when you lose yourself. Not just your pride, or your hope. But worse things, things that affect others. Like your ability to help them when they need you, to notice when they’re hurting. You’re too wrapped up in your own hurt, your own mess. It wasn’t fair. I didn’t want to be selfish, I didn’t want to be a crap sister…and yet I was…because I wasn’t strong enough.

  Mum cooed and let me cry. I thought about Rose – perfect, lovely Rose.

  “Why would anyone bully Rose?” I asked.

  Because it should’ve been me. I was the freak. I was the abnormal one. I was the annoying one, the needy one, the crazy one, the one to point a big finger at and say “ho ho ho, look at that loser”. I was the one who could never eat spare ribs with my fingers, and never stay the night in other people’s houses because I didn’t trust how clean they’d be, and couldn’t go ice-skating for someone’s birthday party because you have to borrow shoes… Those were reasons to get bullied. Yet there was no flaw in Rose – no unredeeming quality to pick on.

  “Because people do,” Mum said simply, putting the jeans down. “People are broken, so they bully others.”

  “But there’s nothing to bully Rose about?”

  “They find something – even if you’re near-perfect, they find something. You can’t protect yourself from the world, Evie. God knows, I know you try. But bad stuff happens, people are mean, there are no steps you can take that ensure the world leaves you alone. All you can do is try not to be one of those people who contributes to the bad. And that’s why I’m proud of you…”

  I looked at her. “Proud of me? For what? It’s not like you can hang a sectioning certificate above the stairs?”

  “Yes, proud of you. Because, despite all you’ve been through, you’re still good and kind. You’re not bitter. Well, you are, but only at yourself. You may feel broken, but you don’t break others.”

  “I make your life hell.”

  She grinned and gave me another hug. “But you don’t mean to! You hate what you do to us. And maybe we all need to have a big chat about how we can handle each other better. We’ve been talking to Sarah and she’s been giving us some tips. You didn’t tell us about your relapse symptoms. You tried to hide them instead. And that must be mine and your dad’s fault too. Not just yours. Maybe this whole tough love thing isn’t entirely working?”

  I laughed. “You can’t just let me go doolally. Otherwise I’ll never get better.”

  “Maybe. But your father and I could be more accepting…because this” – she gestured around the room and to the bandages on my body – “this isn’t your fault.”

  “But, if I could’ve just been stronger—”

  “No!” she interrupted. “It’s not your fault.”

  “But…”

  “Evelyn.” Her voice was so stern it shut me up. “Look at me, listen to me.” She cradled my face in her hands. “None of this is your fault.”

  And I cried so hard I thought I’d never stop.

  Forty-five

  Rose’s visit

  I hugged her so hard I almost killed her.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, hoping if I squeezed hard enough all her pain would ooze out.

  She hugged me back. Hard. “Why didn’t you tell me you were getting worse?”

  “Who are the girls? Tell me. I’ll kill them. I can easily plea ‘temporary insanity’ at the moment and get away with it.”

  “Evie, you can’t ever do that to me again, promise me?”

  Dad stood over our hug, smiling wryly. “Do you not think,” he interrupted, “you should both answer each other’s questions?”

  Rose and I unhugged and grinned at each other.

  “All right, I’ll go first,” I said. “I am so so sorry for what I did to you…” I looked at Dad. “For what I did to all of you. I thought I had it under control. I thought I was just like everybody else.” I looked down at my ruined hands. “I guess I was wrong.”

  Rose hugged me again. “You’re forgiven, on one condition,” she muffled into my shoulder.

  “What?” I asked nervously, tapping her back. “I don’t think I’m ready to start cleaning your room for you.”

  She only half-giggled. We both knew I was a long way away from doing anything normal with cleaning. My care team still let me touch the light switch six times. Apparently I could do whatever I wanted, rituals-wise, until I’d “adjusted to my new lifestyle”, i.e. the ward, my ruined hands, the trauma of the relapse.

  “I won’t make you clean my room. But I want you to promise me that you’ll stop comparing yourself to everyone else.”

  “What?” I broke off the hug, not understanding.

  “You. Evelyn. You’re always like, ‘I wish I could be like this’ or ‘I wish I could be more like so-and-so’. You’re so obsessed with being normal, but that’s well boring, and you’re extraordinary, Evie. Promise me you’ll stop trying to stop being you.”

  Tears collected in my eyes for, like, the millionth time that day.

  “I’m going to sound like a fortune cookie, but you’ve got to love you before worrying about anyone else loving you.”

  Dad and I looked at each other over Rose’s unruly mop of hair.

  “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it time and time again,” I said. “You are TOO WISE for someone so young.”

  She shrugged and wiggled her eyebrows. “I know, I’m basically Gandhi.”

  “Well, that’s taking it a bit far.”

  We both giggled until Rose’s face fell. I put my hand on hers and she didn’t even flinch at the rough touch of my bandages.

  “How are you?” I asked softly. “Mum says you’ve gone through hell…I could kill them.”

  “We’re looking into changing schools,” she said.

  “It’s that bad?”

  “It’s that bad.”

  And there was nothing I could do but hug her, as only sisters can hug. Each of us clasping the other as tightly as possible, hoping that love, somehow, would seep through our embrace and cure each other’s pain.

  It was a surprise to both of us when Dad joined in.

  Good thought

  I am so loved and so lucky…

  The nurses came in and said visiting hours were over. Dad picked up his briefcase, put some extra chocolate on my chair and smiled goodbye. Rose stayed behind a moment.

  “Your friends,” she said. “Amber and Lottie. Mum and Dad rang them when you went missing. They want to know how you are.”

  “You didn’t tell them, did you?” I tried not to sound accusatory.

  She shook her head. “No, but you should.”

  I couldn’t, could I? They would think I was so stupid. That I’d just done it because of Guy or something, like some melancholic lovesick saddo teenager. Guy… Funny how quickly love can turn to anger.

  “I don’t know, Rose, they wouldn’t understand,” I said, picturing telling them and them not being able to handle it.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just do.”

  “Is this because of Jane?”

  “What about Jane?” I asked, though I sort of knew.

  Rose rolled her eyes. “I do share a house with you, I have seen what she did to you. She was your rock, and then she dropped you like a rotten fish at Christmas dinner.”

  “Is that even a saying?”

  “I dunno. But it’s what happened. I saw her let go of you, when you weren’t quite ready to be let go
of.”

  I scratched my eye and looked around my tiny room, wondering for the billionth time how I’d got here. “It’s because I was so annoying. She couldn’t put up with me any more. She’d had her fill of my crazy.”

  “Or…” Rose said. “She’s got ridiculous self-esteem issues and clings onto whoever worships her the most.”

  I went quiet and digested what she’d said. Sometimes there’s a nail that needs to be hit on the head but you don’t have the tools to do it yourself. Right there, right then, my terrifyingly-wise little sister’s words banged the what-the-hell-happened-between-Jane-and-me nail right into the wood. It finally made sense. The hurt, the rejection…they weren’t just my issues, but Jane’s too.

  I gave her one last massive hug. “What are you going to be like as an old woman, if you’re this wise already?” I asked. “Are you The Oracle from The Matrix?”

  “There is no spoon,” she laughed.

  “I bloody love you.” I hugged her tighter. “And I bloody love that you know that line! You are truly my sister. No matter what happens, I’ll be there for you…even more so when they let me out.”

  “I love you too.” A nurse came up behind her and gently put a hand on her back, in a caring but please-go-now way. “I still think you should tell your friends…”

  “Maybe.”

  Forty-six

  Sarah’s visit

  Sarah came the day they took my bandages off. I’d already had a two-hour therapy session to help me come to terms with the state of my hands. But when she found me in my room, I was still staring at them like they were the Ring of Mordor.

  “How are they?” she asked, without a “hello”, perching on the edge of my bed and putting her file down.

  I turned them over at the wrist and watched her try not to wince.

  “You know those baboons with the really gross arses?” I answered, thinking maybe if I made it a joke, it would hurt less. “I have a baboon’s arse where a palm should be.” And I cried harder than ever – because Sarah was there and she could take it better than the others.

  “They’ll heal,” she cooed, letting me cry myself out. “The doctor said they’ll get better. You were lucky your family washed it off so quickly.”