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Dr. Celia Banting
Copyright © 2008 by Dr. Celia BantingAll rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, in-cluding photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to the following address: Wighita PressP.O. Box 30399Little Rock, Arkansas 72260-0399www.wighitapress.comThis is a work of ction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used ctitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication DataBanting, CeliaI Only Said I Wanted to Kill Myself; I Didn’t Really Mean It/Dr. Celia Banting – 1st Editionp. cm. ISBN 9780978664886 (paperback)1. Therapeutic novel 2. Suicide prevention 3. Behavior modication4. Step-parentsLibrary of Congress Control Number: 2007930369Layout by Michelle VanGeestCover production by Luke JohnsonCover drawn by Georgia RostronPrinted by Dickinson Press, Grand Rapids, Michigan, USA
Issues addressed in this book:Suicide preventionStepfathersChanging family dynamicsSibling bullyingChildhood griefLosing and building support networksAttention-seeking behaviorManipulationMistrustOperant conditioningHelplessnessActing outIntuitionBehavior modicationGuided imageryThe value of fablesCoping with lossCoping with nightmaresEnuresisMeanness and bullyingParental neglectProviding safety through parental boundaries The impact of positive and negative Strokes on developmentThe impact of a Stroke economy on behavior shapingLearning how to changeEnabling a child and avoiding shamePositive reinforcementDeveloping a relationship with step-parentsBehavior and consequencesLove and respect
Also by Dr. Celia Banting…I Only Said I Had No ChoiceI Only Said “Yes” So That They’d Like MeI Only Said I Couldn’t CopeI Only Said I Didn’t Want You Because I Was TerriedI Only Said I Was Telling the Truth• • • •Available after April 2008…I Only Said I Could Handle It, But I Was WrongI Only Said It Didn’t HurtI Only Said I Wasn’t HungryI Only Said Leave Me Out Of It
Dedicated to Erica Elsie. Also dedicated to my “Little Prince,” my work partner, Dwayne Harris, and dear Dr. Chris Stinnett, the original “Mister Doc.”
AcknowledgmentsMy grateful thanks go to my proofreader and typesetter, Michelle VanGeest, who frees me from my dyslexic brain, and replaces my mother’s voice. Thanks to Bev, my stray-word spotter, too. I thank my wonderful husband, Des, for the inspi-ration and support he gives me. Thank you to Luke and Sam for their faith, inspiration and talent. Thank you to Helen and Dave, and Moya and Tony for their faith and support. Thank you also to Susan Harring and Ron Woldyk for their reliability and professionalism. Thank you to my dear friend Vicki for her guiding sense of style. Thank you to Dr. Claude Steiner for the great gift he has given humankind by explaining operant conditioning in terms of Warm Fuzzies and Cold Pricklies, which enables everyone to understand a complex concept in simple, accessible and amus-ing terms. Thank you to all my psychotherapy tutors and colleagues at the Metanoia Institute, London, for teaching me about human nature, psychopathology, growth and recovery. I thank the good Lord for giving me a lively imagination, and I also thank my parents for moving to the Isle of Wight, “the land that bobs in and out of view, depending upon the sea mist.”
11É Ñ Chapter One Today started out the same as every other day, arguing with my mom and telling my stepdad to butt out. He’s not my dad. He has no right to tell me what to do. Before he moved in, I had all my mom’s attention, but since they got together it’s like I don’t exist. It seems that the only way to get Mom’s attention is to piss her off. Today it started over nothing; I didn’t take out the trash. I meant to but I didn’t get up early enough. It’s summer, school’s out. I slept in. What’s wrong with that? Yes, the trash smells; everything smells in this heat. She acts like it’s the crime of the century, nags me to get out of bed. I can hear the trash men outside. I’m not dressed. Why can’t she do it? I cuss at her and drag myself out of bed and pick up the trash roughly, so that the bag splits. She yells at me, and Gary, my stepdad, says, “C’mon, son.” I
12É Ñcuss at him, too, and tell him I’m not his son. When I get to the road, the truck disappears around the corner, and I yell after them but they refuse to take our trash bags, and Mom goes crazy. Mom screams at me as I bring the trash bags back into the yard, a trail of rotten vegetables ly-ing behind me. “You’re asking for it; clean it up,” she demands and I brush angrily past her, dumping what’s left of the trash on the kitchen oor. Gary stands, peering over his glasses, his face a frown. Mom catches up with me and yanks on my tee shirt. “Clean it up,” she explodes in my face, “or you’re grounded.” I tear myself away from her grip, my temper aring inside me; it’s so close to the surface since she married Gary and pushed me aside. I slam the door, panting, but she doesn’t give up. She bursts into my room, and that’s when I lose it. This is my room. I may only be fourteen, but this is my space, not hers. She steps close to me and screams into my face. I don’t hear much of what she says, something about her working hard and expecting some help. Whatever! I turn on her and my anger explodes. I tell her I’m leaving home. I grab a bag and stuff a few clothes into it, trying to ignore that she’s yelling at me. I zip up the bag and throw it over my shoulder. I thrust my face into hers and hiss, “I hope you’re happy, just the two of you, without me.” I watch her face crumple but
13É Ñmy heart’s hard. I didn’t mean to sleep in. I fully intended to put out the trash. Why can’t she leave me alone? As I slam the kitchen door, my nostrils aring from the smell of rotten trash, I stride down the drive to put as much distance between me and her as possible. I wave her away as I hear her begging me to come back, and when I ignore her she threat-ens to call the police. I go over to my friend’s house. It’s the only place I can think of to go. Paul’s Mom looks at me as I stand on their porch and she says, “What happened this time?” “I forgot to put the trash out,” I say, without mentioning that I had an attitude. “C’mon in. We’re just about to make lunch. You hungry?” I follow her inside and Paul’s lying on the sofa watching cartoons. We’re just about to dig into burg-ers and fries when a police car pulls into their drive followed by Mom’s car. I feel sick. She has called the police. How could she? Certainly she knew I’d go home later when we’d both cooled off. Paul’s mom opens the door and a policeman stands there on her porch with his hands on his hips. “I believe you’re harboring a runaway,” I hear him say. Paul’s mom tells him he’s being ridiculous and he gets mad and all ofcial. He demands that she “hand
14É Ñme over or else there’ll be trouble.” My stomach churns with anger when I hear him threaten her and when I hear my mom start demanding that I come out. I bolt out the back door, through their yard, and I scale the wooden fence. I hear the cop yell when he sees me, and my heart races in my chest as I y down the alley that runs behind Paul’s house. I glance over my shoulder, and just as I get to the road, another cop charges into me, having checked out the other end of the alley. He slams me to the ground and I taste the dirt that is kicked up in my face. Mom and the other cop arrive out of breath and they haul me to my feet. Mom starts crying, telling the cops that she only asked me to take out the trash. My face is grazed, it hurts, but that’s nothing compared to how hurt I feel inside. Why did she have to call the cops on me? She knew I hadn’t really run away. I cuss at her and I don’t care that my mouth is foul. She deserves it. She grabs me and tries to shake me, saying, “What’s wrong with you? Why are you being like this?” I can’t defend myself as the cop has a hold of me. He tells her to back off. Paul and his mom arrive and try to stand up for me when Mom asks why they would “harbor” me, knowing I’d run away. I try to protect them by say-ing that I hadn’t run away. Paul’s mom shouts at my mom and asks her what kind of mother she is.
15É ÑMom is yelling and crying. The cop with the attitude turns on Paul’s mom and tells her to “shut up” or he’ll arrest her, too, for “harboring me.” She backs away and I feel abandoned. Paul and his mom pro-test loudly, as they head back to the house, saying the cops should be arresting my mom, no one else. I’m desperate to get away so I clench my st and punch the cop who is holding me in the chin. He yanks my arms behind my back, and I struggle as they march me back around to where their car is parked. Mom tells them she’ll take me home, but they have other ideas. They put me in the back of their car and take me to the precinct. I see Mom running after the police car and I turn away. She’s crying but I don’t care. How could she do this to me? I’ve never been in trouble before, and I’m scared when the cops take me to a room and tell me to sit down and be quiet while they ll out their paper-work. They lock the door as they leave. I can see them through a window, and I watch as they whisper together and glance over at me periodically. I hit a policeman. I know that’s serious. Also, they think I’m a runaway, thanks to my mom. I hate her. I sit at a table, my head pounding. I’m in trouble, I know I am. Fear creeps over me when I realize what I’ve done. They’re going to take me to juve-nile detention, I know it. You can’t hit a policeman and get away with it. One of my friends at school
16É Ñdid the same thing and he was in detention until he went to court. He told me all kinds of stories about what happens to you in detention, and as his words inhabit my mind, terror creeps over me. My head is spinning so much that I can’t think straight. My stomach’s in shreds and I need the bathroom badly. I jump up and bang my st on the window to get the cops’ attention. I see my mom and Gary walk through the front door and talk to the policeman at the front desk. The sight of them fuels my anger. I hammer on the window, and when the cops glance my way, I shout that I need the bathroom, but they tell me to “shut up.” If I have to go to detention and the guards are like this, what am I going to do? Fear rears up inside me, ravaging my intestines and reducing my insides to liquid. I soil myself. I have to get out of here. If they take me to de-tention and anyone sees what I’ve done, I’ll die of shame and humiliation, and when I think about the things the kids talk about at school—what happens to guys in jail—I disgrace myself again. I do the only thing I can think of, as panic rides over me: I start to yell and go berserk. I fake it at rst, but as adrenaline ies through my body, it becomes real. I hammer on the window and scream, “I’m gonna kill myself, I’m gonna kill myself.” I vaguely remember Mom turning around, seeing me beat on the window that separates us and becoming hysterical as Gary holds onto her.
17É Ñ The cops jump up, unlock the door, and rush me. I ght viciously, trying to retain some dignity with my sts despite my pants being stinking and wet. Suddenly re burns my face and I scream in agony. My hands y to my eyes as the ofcers take the easy route and spray me with Mace. My humiliation is complete when the cops take me to the oor again, only this time they say foul things about me and how I need diapers. My face scrapes along the carpet and the burn intensies my anger, but the cops lean on me with their full weight and I have to submit. I’m panting, nding it hard to get my breath as they squash me. Tears are pouring down my face, and I know for sure that they are going to take me to detention and it’s over for me. “Get off me,” I buck uselessly beneath their re-straint. “Let me go. Let me go or else I’m going to kill myself,” I threaten emptily. I gasp as the effort of speaking leaves me breathless. Their bodies immobilize me and, while I’m pinned down, I feel one of them yank my arms be-hind my back and snap handcuffs roughly over my wrists. Then he shackles my ankles and attaches the cuffs to chains so that I’ll only be able to shufe and I won’t be able to move my arms very far. “I’m going to kill myself,” I cry again, when they move away. They lock the door again and head back to their desk. I can see one of them on the phone.
18É Ñ I struggle to my feet, and when I’m upright I shufe over to the window and smash my head against it. I want to die. My throat is raw from screaming and I continue to smash my head against the window. I don’t feel as if I’m myself anymore; I seem to have disinte-grated into a thousand shame-tainted pieces. When I’m worn out, I slump to the oor and sob. Eventually the door opens and I’m hauled to my feet. “This is it,” I think, and I start screaming again, terried out of my mind. Mom and Gary hover in the background, and the sight of them ignites my fury. The police take me outside and push me towards their police car. I’m not me anymore. I feel as if I’ve turned into an animal, one that’s caught in a trap, one about to die. I’m tied tight in chains, shackles, like a Thanks-giving turkey, my pants soiled, and my humiliation and terror alive on my face. The cops shove me into the back of their car and make snide comments about the smell coming from me. My heart’s pound-ing and my jaw is clenched with bitterness as I think that this all started with me sleeping late and for-getting to take out the trash. I lie in the backseat, curled up in a little ball, desperate to protect myself. My eyes are so raw from the Mace that I keep them shut. My nose is running and I’m wheezing. I’m overwhelmed by the smell in the car, and my face burns with shame.
19É Ñ Finally, after what seems like hours, the police stop the car. They get out and open the rear door. Fear leaps into my chest, but as they yank me out of the car and tell me I’m disgusting, someone shouts. “Get off him!” I hear a lady demand. “Let him go. Take those chains off him, now!” A whimper escapes me when I hear kindness in this person’s stern voice. The cops drop me like I’m a disease, and I feel one of them ddle with the handcuffs behind my back while the other tends to my ankles. I feel a hand in mine. I open my raw eyes but I clamp them shut again as they sting so badly. I blink over and over trying to make my eyes focus. I try to control the whimpering that comes from my con-stricted throat. I allow this lady to lead me away, as the policemen’s snide remarks about people being too soft for their own good fade into the distance. “It’s okay, Russell,” the lady says gently. “You’re safe now. You’ll be okay. You’re at Beach Haven.” “What?” I cry. She pats my back as she opens a door beneath a sign that says “Beach Haven” in big letters, and under them in smaller letters, “a place to rest and grow.” “Where am I?” I ask. “This is a place where we help kids deal with their problems,” she explains. “I’m Miss Tina, by the way.”
20É Ñ She takes me up a spiral staircase and opens a door. “This will be your room,” she says. “Have a shower; there’s a set of clothes you can borrow until your mom brings your things.” She points to a bed where I see a pair of jeans and a tee shirt. I’m so grateful she hasn’t said anything about the terrible smell that’s coming from me. “Put your clothes in that plastic bag and I’ll wash them for you.” I smile bleakly at her, my face raw from Mace and shame. When she leaves me, I slip out of my foul clothes and stuff them in the bag, my nostrils aring at the acrid stench. I stand under hot jets of water and let them wash away the smell. I don’t know where I am or why I’m here, but I’m just so relieved that I’m not in jail as a runaway or someone who assaulted a cop. When the smell is nally lost in the steam, I turn off the shower, dry myself, and put on the clothes Miss Tina left for me. I hear someone knocking. A man pokes his head around the door. “Hi, Russell, I’m Ken, one of the counselors here. Are you done?” The bag of soiled clothes is gone. Miss Tina must have waited until I was in the shower and sneaked them away so that I wouldn’t feel humiliated. Something weird happens inside me. I want to cry but I don’t. I don’t know what the time is, but this day seems to have gone on forever, despite me get-
21É Ñting up late. I think of everything that’s happened today—the distance between me and my mom, Gary and his intrusion into our family, Paul’s mom who tried to stand up for me against the police and my mom, and now there’s a lady that I’ve never met before helping me so that I won’t feel ashamed. I don’t know what to think. I follow Ken downstairs, glancing at the pictures on the walls, which have obviously been painted by kids. I don’t know what this place is, but I’m relieved that I don’t have to go home tonight and face my mom, because I’m mad at her. He chatters on as we turn a corner and head down a corridor, telling me that Beach Haven is a therapeutic community, almost like a family. He grins at me and says, “A good family.” “Well, I hope it’s not like mine,” I bite back bit-terly. “Why am I here?” I ask. “I thought the cops were taking me to juvenile detention. My mom told them I’d run away and then I assaulted a cop.” “You’re here because you threatened to kill your-self. We take that kind of thing seriously,” Ken says. My face burns. I didn’t really mean it; I was just desperate, that’s all. I don’t say anything, though. Ken walks up to a door, telling me that this is where the kids here hang out. Suddenly I feel ner-vous when he opens the door and a sea of faces turn my way. Ken says, “This is Russell; show him around before dinner, okay guys?”
22É Ñ Ken claps me on the back and leaves me stand-ing there, alone in the midst of all these kids. I don’t know what to do, but I’m not afraid. Instantly I know that these kids are not the same as those in detention. My breathing slows and, even though I’m nervous about meeting so many new people, I sud-denly feel calm and I’m aware that my face slides into an embarrassed grin. A kid with a shaven head turns to me and says, “Hi, I’m Grant. “Hey, sit here, man, we’re watching a game. It’s nearly over. What team are you for?” I tell him and one of the girls hands me a soda from a fridge in the corner of the room. “Hi, I’m Libby,” she says. I sit next to Grant and watch the end of the game. Grant shows me around, and at dinner I ll my plate and sit with him and Libby. “So, why are you here at Beach Haven?”Grant asks me. I shrug, feeling a bit embarrassed. Saying it out loud makes me feel ashamed of myself. “I said I wanted to kill myself; but I didn’t really mean it.” “Why say it, then?” Libby asks, looking at me and leaving me nowhere to hide. “My sister did that and it hurt everyone in our family.” Her honesty irritates me. “I didn’t set out to say it,” I retort. “I was scared that I was going to go to detention, and I’d rather die than go there.”
23É Ñ “I said it, too,” Grant admits. “You did?” I say, not feeling so bad anymore. “Yeah, my life at home was crazy and no one would take me seriously,” he says. “I tried to talk to my mom but she wouldn’t listen to me. It was weird. I never meant for it to happen. It started with me getting so frustrated when Mom wouldn’t listen to me, but when I threatened to hurt myself I had her attention, even if she cussed at me and told me not to be so stupid. It became like a game. I was hurting inside, but because she wouldn’t take me seriously or listen to me, I gured that I’d do what-ever I could to get her attention, and threatening suicide seemed to do the trick.” I’ve never threatened to kill myself before to-day, but what Grant says echoes what’s in my heart. I got my mom’s attention. My face starts to burn. “My sister did the same,” Libby says, “and it was like she held our family hostage. Every time she didn’t get her own way, she’d threaten suicide. She made me sick.” Grant grins at her and says, “Does that mean I make you sick?” “No, stupid. I know you’ve worked things out with your mom since you got to Beach Haven and you wouldn’t pull a stunt like that again,” Libby pokes him in the ribs. “What happened to your sister?” I ask her. “She’s living with my dad now because Mom
24É Ñcouldn’t deal with her anymore. I’m glad she’s gone. Mom was pretty upset. She said she couldn’t trust her anymore. It was weird. My sister got loads of attention by threatening suicide, yet how could she be satised with the type of attention she got? Mom stopped trusting her, and eventually couldn’t stand to be around her. Who wants that? Not me.” “Me neither,” Grant says determinedly. “My rela-tionship is way better with my mom since I stopped threatening suicide. We listen to each other now and she trusts me.” Ken comes into the dining room, xes a plate of food and joins us. “What are you guys talking about?” he asks, stufng a sausage in his mouth. “Making idle threats to kill yourself when you don’t really mean it,” Grant replies. “Ah,” he says, chewing. He takes a gulp of water from his glass and then nods his head thoughtfully. “What?” Libby asks. “Have you ever wondered why I work here?” he asks. “This place is run by grants and charities, which means that all the staff get paid peanuts. Anyone who is into money wouldn’t work here.” “Then why do you work here?” I ask, nding it hard to believe that anyone would choose to work somewhere for hardly any money. He looks at each one of us in turn. “Because I know what despair is.” He looks right at me. “I, too, said that I was going to kill myself,
25É Ñbut I didn’t really mean it.” I give him a icker of a smile. “When I was nine years old, my life was so aw-ful. My mom didn’t pay any attention to me and my brothers; all she cared about was nding a man. Some of them were awful, and I felt so angry with my dad for leaving us. When Mom nally married someone, it took me ages to accept him. I was full of rage and acted out all the time. I was desper-ate for my mom to be strong and protect me and my little brother from my older brother who was a bully, but she wouldn’t, and so I threatened to kill myself to get her attention. It backred on me, though, because that day she had me admitted to a place where they dealt with ‘kids like me.’ She was glad to get rid of me, if only for a few weeks. I can’t begin to tell you how mad I was.” Libby smiles and looks like she might cry. “I felt totally betrayed by her. I was terried. I’d never been away from home before.” Ken looks as if he’s lost in his thoughts but then says, “But, y’know what? I met someone in that place who changed my life.” “Who?” I ask. He grins. “Miss Tina.” For a moment I can’t think straight. Was Miss Tina a patient in the same hospital that Ken was put in? No, that can’t be right. Ken’s young, and Miss Tina’s old. I decide to ask rather than try to guess.
26É Ñ “What happened?” I ask. He smiles at us, and says, “Oh, it’s too long a story to tell you, but if you want to, you can read the book I wrote about it.” “You wrote a book?” Libby says, breathlessly. “Yeah, well, it’s never been published, of course. It’s more like a diary, but it’s great to read and look back on because, although I was terried to start with when my mom left me there, it was great. It totally changed my life. When I left the hospital I knew what I was going to do when I grew up. I wanted to help kids in the same way Miss Tina had helped me. “It scares me when I look back, to wonder where I’d be if Miss Tina hadn’t helped me. Y’know, I can’t be sure that I wouldn’t have ended up in jail, be-cause I was so desperate to get my mom’s attention that I would have done anything. Sooner or later, if you behave that way, someone’s going to lock you away. “Miss Tina and Mister Doc, the doctor who used to take care of the kids in the hospital, worked hard to make things better for me at home. And although Mom couldn’t see that she was doing anything wrong, my stepdad helped her to change. When things calmed down with Mom, I got along really well with my stepdad and he helped me grow up. He encouraged me to go to college. He’s been awesome.
27É Ñ “While I was in college, I took English, and my instructor gave the class an assignment. We had to describe, in detail, an event or person that had changed our lives. As far as I was concerned, there was only one life changing experience for me, and that’s when Mom put me in that place and I met Miss Tina. I had so much to say that the assignment turned into a book.” He grins at us. “Can I read it?” I ask, and Libby looks put out, as if she was about to ask the same. He shrugs, and says, “If you want to. Although I wrote it when I was twenty, it shows all my feelings when I was nine years old.” “I want to read it, too,” Libby says. “Me, too,” Grant says. “I don’t mind anyone reading it, but Russell asked rst. I’ll dig it out later, okay?” he tells me. “Um, thanks.” I offer to let Libby and Grant read it rst, but they tell me that it’s okay, and they’ll take turns after me. I smile at them. They make me feel wel-come on my rst day at this place. Later that night as I go up one of the two spiral staircases off the reception area towards the boys’ bedrooms, Ken’s coming down the stairs. “Ah, there you are. I was looking for you to give you this. Hey, listen man,” he says, “you don’t have to read this, okay? Read it only if you want to.”
28É Ñ “I want to,” I assure him. I want to know what was in his head, as a nine-year-old who hated his mom, and right now I hate mine, and what hap-pened to make him one of the coolest guys I’ve ever met. He hands me a folder and I head to bed. I read the rst page and my stomach turns over. He was just nine when this happened—I’m four-teen—but as I read it, he describes everything I’ve experienced today. I understand his desperation and why he said, “I only said I wanted to kill myself; I didn’t really mean it.”