June 25th 2007

June 25th 2007

Last night, Harriet heard yelling and screaming from behind the bathroom door. Someone opened and slammed the door repeatedly, but she missed it every time she looked out from behind the shower curtain. When she came downstairs, dressed in a nightie three years too small, hair wet and dripping, she asked who was there.

No one. I answered.

She looked over at the telly, the show Most Haunted was on. Maybe I heard noises because they’re calling to ghosts, she said, and walked away.

This incident isn’t enough to diagnose schizophrenia. But she also actually believes she can control water. Like she’s some water goddess.

I think about her, and what’s going on behind her pretty face, and want to cry. I don’t want anymore phone calls at work, when she’s crying and scared because she can hear screams during her music lesson. I don’t want a good day to be when her moods are barely controllable, and we’re screaming obscenities at each other.

She’s only twelve. I keep hoping she’s too imaginative for this world. Or maybe she’s psychic, and can hear voices from beyond the grave. Maybe she’s emotionally stagnating at age five, and with some proper counselling; she’ll start to behave less bizarrely.

Anything is better than her Head of House requesting meetings, to discuss her unusual needs. We have a Unit at the school, he says, she doesn’t need to leave. The psychologist she’s been seeing since she was seven, I’ve avoided for the last year. I don’t want to know anymore. I want her to be like her friends. The lost look disturbs me most, and I just can’t make it go away.