Can't Anyone Help Me? by Toni Maguire Read Free Book Online Page B

pain and the fear.
    And every time it happened, the feeling grew that what was taking place was unreal. It took some time but gradually I perfected the process of detaching my mind from my body. Then I, like my uncle, became another observer. That made it seem as though what was happening was happening to someone else.
    My nightmares told me otherwise. The disturbing dreams started to visit me more and more often. The images even appeared when I was awake, pictures of writhing adults taking part in grotesque acts, their faces featureless. I would hear a jumble of noises, as though an old cracked recording was playing in my head, issuing instructions. To begin with I couldn’t make out what the noises meant, but gradually they turned into voices telling me to run, urging me to escape.
    There were times when, as soon as food was placed in front of me, I felt as though something was growing in my throat, restricting it and preventing me from swallowing. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t dislodge it until I had retched and retched. That was when fear, then anger filled me and threatened to burst through my skin.
    In the playground I got into fights with other children. I screamed and punched with little or no provocation. It was only when the teachers came running and pulled me away that I calmed down. At six I was still small enough to control so it was my own safety that concerned them, not their own or even the other children’s.
    It was when my urge to run became too strong to resist that they became even more worried. Out of control, my arms swinging and my feet moving as fast as I could make them, I would take off like a sprinter until I reached the school wall, then hurl myself against it with full force. I had realized that physical pain was the only way to stop the inner torment that the nightmares caused. Screaming, I would throw myself against the rough bricks, and the pain of impact would at least stop my thoughts.
    Time and again the teachers caught me and I, distraught with tears that streamed down my face, had no memory of who or where I was. As I was held tightly, a high desolate wailing, continuous and piercing, echoed in the school grounds.

10
     
    More little snippets of memory come back to me.
    The school strongly recommended, if not insisted, to my parents that I was taken to see a doctor because of my violent outbursts. He would probably refer me to a psychologist, the headmistress explained. There was another serious issue that she wanted to discuss with them: my excessive retching and vomiting. She explained to my mother that, when presented with food or after lunch, I would often be sick. There were no signs that it was self-induced – although I’m sure those adults did wonder. An urgent visit to a doctor was essential, she said. So they arranged to take me first to the local GP, who referred me to a consultant at a hospital in Manchester.
    The waiting room was crowded with people – arms in slings, legs in plaster, wheezing and coughing. My mother and I were shown to another room.
    ‘You’ll have to get undressed, dear,’ the nurse said.
    The lights were bright in the small room and I trembled. All I could think of was that somewhere in that room, tucked out of their sight, there was a hidden camera and, behind it, eyes that would watch me.
    I shook my head.
    She, thinking I was shy, tried to set my mind at rest. ‘There’s nothing for you to worry about, dear,’ she said kindly. ‘There,’ she said, opening a door, ‘is the changing room. I’ll be outside with your mummy so no one can see you.’ When she noticed that I was still looking at her with distrust, she pointed to something hanging on the inside of the door. ‘Look, Jackie, here’s a dressing-gown,’ she told me – it was a child-sized cotton garment with ties down the back. ‘You just slip that on once you’re undressed, then knock on the door to tell me you’re ready, all right?’
    She left me then and, unable