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  I was enjoying working in schools and it gave me freedom to still travel to London and gig. Gert booked me in for one of her London nights. I had a feeling Klaus would be there, as he always used to go and scout for new talent, so I took the gig. I was nervous about performing, especially if he was gonna be there but at the same time excited as it was an excuse to see him. It had been over a month since we last spoke.

  I got dolled up, a nice skirt and boots, did my make-up and hair and got to the gig early. Margaret Cho was on. She’s a famous American comedian and amazing. As we were chatting on the stairs, Klaus walked around the corner. He seemed nervous and embarrassed; I thought it was because Margaret Cho was talking to me. He introduced himself to Margaret and gave her his card. I told her he was a great promoter from Germany and then went to go find him to say hello to him properly.

  The gig was about to start and I saw him leaning at the back of the room. As I started walking towards him, he turned his body away from me. I thought he was just anxious so I waved and smiled as if to say ‘Hi, can we be friends?’ but he didn’t look up. So I just turned and faced the stage, knowing that Klaus was behind me and could see me clearly in his eyeline. I remember watching the gig and putting my hands on my hips and wondering if he was looking at my silhouette, as he always liked my phat ass. I laughed at a comedian on stage and turned to look at Klaus. This is ridiculous, I thought. I’m just gonna go up to him. As I started walking towards him, a young woman ran up behind him, wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a massive snog. Oh, what’s that? Is that snow? I thought I had escaped unharmed, whoops! Apparently not. Here it is – may as well welcome it with open arms. Hello snowstorm, I was wondering when you’d finally hit.

  I slowly felt the wind being kicked out of me; you know the kind of pain you get when you don’t notice it and you just function. And you’re so aware that right now in this moment you have to function. Because if you don’t, you will collapse. I felt sick, humiliated and embarrassed. I felt like a fucking idiot: everybody in the room was laughing at me. Like the universe was mocking me to my face. I was surprised that I wasn’t wailing or crying. I just smiled and went on autopilot. As if nothing had happened. In hindsight, I don’t know why I was surprised. Just because I was in heartache didn’t mean he had to be.

  I functioned. I turned back around and acted like nothing was wrong. My name was called up on stage. I got up and was a quivering wreck. I tried my best to do my jokes but I couldn’t get the words out. I was just silent and still. I stood there for a moment in the spotlight and felt so isolated. I could see Klaus at the back of the room with his new girlfriend and I wanted to cry right then and there. I wanted to tell the audience that I had just seen the man I had lost my mind over, that I’d lost Chicago over, that I’d lost my self-respect over, in the arms of somebody else, but that wasn’t funny. Well not yet it wasn’t. It actually went on to be hilarious but you know the classic equation, Comedy = Tragedy + Time.

  Instead I just stood there, delivered the material like a robot and took the hit of dying on stage. I made an excuse and left. I felt so stupid being dressed up nicely, trying to look good for him and just looking like an idiot. I felt angry and hurt and ashamed, and I knew that he could see that. I wanted him to see the mess he had made and feel guilty and ashamed and say sorry, say something.

  I didn’t let anyone else see that I was hurting, I remained still and calm. Margaret and some of the comics left and I left with them. Klaus stayed at the venue. As we all walked through Primrose Hill to get to the tube, the guys were talking and I was making all the right noises to show I was listening, but my mind was miles away, I was desperate to cry and scream. It was an autumn evening and there were leaves on the floor. I slipped and went flying, both feet in the air, and landed smack on my arse. Put my palms down to catch myself and instead not only whacked my hands but fell right on my coccyx. Yay. Now my physical and emotional states were in alignment, slumped on the floor in the cold, with my hands bleeding and feeling utterly humiliated and embarrassed to be me.

  I was embarrassed to trip up in front of Margaret, I was embarrassed I’d caught Klaus with his girlfriend, I was embarrassed that I’d thought he still cared and there was going to be a reconciliation, I was embarrassed I’d got dressed up, I was embarrassed that I’d just died in front of an audience, I was embarrassed I’d had the wind knocked out of me and fallen smack on my arse in every way possible.

  My eyes welled up from the pain of landing on my butt and this gave me the excuse I needed to cry. It couldn’t be a long one though, I was not with people I could talk to about it. I quickly laughed it off and headed towards the tube, got the Northern Line down to Waterloo and caught the train home.

  I was fine; all I could think was, well he’s an idiot, a selfish idiot. OK so I went to Chicago to get away from him, OK so he called me the whole time I was out there. OK so he met me when I came back and we hung out a lot, OK so he bought me a ring: it meant nothing, he always said that I wasn’t his girlfriend. He did always say I wasn’t his girlfriend. OK so he would still hold my hand when we walked down the street, but he did always say there was no chance of being his girlfriend. OK so I would show up at his house and he would tell me off for coming over when I should know it wasn’t a good idea and then he would still make me a cup of tea and hold me all night long. OK so he told me all the time how he wasn’t ready for a relationship, he wasn’t ready for a girlfriend and he couldn’t give me what I needed. OK so he’s met some girl, she probably doesn’t mean anything. It’s probably just sex, you know what guys are like, they need sex. And OK this was all me, I chased him and he knew it, and it’s fine because I am the idiot who let all this happen, he didn’t do anything, he hasn’t actually done anything wrong, he’s not cheated on you, he always said it didn’t work out and this is all good. He’s free to do what he wants. I am fine with it.

  I went to sleep with my bruised palms and tried not to think about it.

  I woke up the next morning and momentarily felt light. For about two seconds I was OK until my body felt really heavy and my chest felt really tired and weighted and then I just started to feel really sad.

  I heard music coming from downstairs: ‘I can feel something inside me say I really don’t think you’re strong enough.’ It was blaring from the living room – it was X Factor and one of the contestants was singing ‘Believe’ by Cher. Here it was, my sign, it never failed me. The song was playing, it was over. I ran downstairs and cried my eyes out. I cried and I cried and I cried until I couldn’t breathe, and then I cried again. I didn’t stop crying for months.

  My mum came in to ask me why I’d been crying. I told her about Klaus, and she said that he was an idiot and that deep down I knew it was over anyway. I did, but it still hurt. Ah yes, the past can hurt, but the way I see it, you can either run from it or learn from it. OK, too soon for a Lion King reference.

  In fact knowing it was over didn’t make any difference to me. I couldn’t understand why he couldn’t date me. He’d said he wasn’t ready for a girlfriend but now he seemed to have a new girlfriend. I don’t know why he didn’t like me coming to work functions with him, yet here he was letting another woman kiss him in a comedy club. I just don’t understand, why her, not me? That was the start of it. My depression had been building for months, if not years, but it was in that moment that it finally began to unravel.

  14.

  PRAY YOU CATCH ME

  Twitter filled me in. She was a singer from Switzerland called Anna, she was quite well known. It seems they met on one of her tour dates and now she was staying in England and delighted to be recording an album in London. Her tweets were all about her new comedy boyfriend who was showing her around London. She tweeted about comedy club gigs and how happy she was to be there with the hashtag #Proud.

  What? Proud?? She’s not allowed to be proud, she hardly knows him. I’m the one that’s been there for him, I flyered for him for fuck’s sake, I went to Chicago and h
e called me every day for fuck’s sake, he bought me a ring for fuck’s sake. I cleaned and sorted his bedroom for fuck’s sake, I put up with all his shit, I’m the one who helped him. Who the fuck are you, a stranger! You can’t be proud.

  I cried, I tried to distract myself, watch a film, listen to music, but all I could do was cry. I couldn’t even wank. I’d just imagine them having sex, start crying again, I couldn’t touch myself after that.

  A lot of my friends didn’t understand, as they’d seen it coming. But I never saw it coming. I think it’s one of those things – you have to experience it to get it. I rang Katerina. She was so patient and would listen to me go on and on for hours about the girlfriend’s Twitter feed. She just let me talk and listened.

  Social media is the worst when you have broken up with someone. I wish there was an app that could ban you from looking at all your ex’s online presence for at least six months. Little note for my old self – just unfriend them, just do it. It’s really not necessary to hurt yourself. If you are going to be friends again, you can be, but give it time, you don’t need to see his life without you in your news feed.

  I found I could rely on friends I never knew I had. Sajeela, a brilliant comedian who ran a comedy club and was like Mamma Showbiz, took me under her wing. I would ring her late at night and she would just listen as I talked for hours. I couldn’t get it out of my head.

  Sajeela and Katerina were incredible and never judged me. I don’t think anyone knows me better than Katerina, I could tell her every sick, hurtful thought. Like how when I was making a cup of tea and watching the kettle boil, I wanted to pour boiling hot water in my face. I felt like I deserved it. I felt like I was unworthy. Lying in bed, I would imagine what it would be like if I jumped in front of a train. I couldn’t hang myself and I didn’t know how to do the car in the garage thing. But I could probably jump in front of a train. It wouldn’t really hurt for that long and at least I wouldn’t feel this shit about myself any more. I didn’t want to die because I didn’t want to live; I just wanted to do something drastic to get some peace from feeling like this. I felt so bad. I would walk down the street and see people who were happy, and think, that must be how he looks now, happy.

  I’d sold myself short in Chicago. I’d cut my hair off because of him, I’d let him back in my life when Chicago was meant to be mine. It was meant to be about me. I was meant to cut him off, and I didn’t, and here he is. He’s cut me.

  This feeling went on for weeks. I hated getting out of bed; it was easier to go back to sleep than it was to face the day. Sometimes I would wake up and for a few moments I would feel all right, and then I would remember everything and I would feel shit again. And if I didn’t feel bad enough that day, I would go on Twitter and see what they were up to. And then I would feel bad enough again.

  I did’t even want to go on stage, all my Chicago passion went out the window.

  It got to Christmas, which is quite a depressing time anyway because it’s cold and windy and whenever the family get together all we do is talk about past issues and my father. I guess me and my brothers kinda miss him, but personally I have found it easier to just not have him in my life any more. Instead I just moved my wound.

  This rejection by Klaus was my Achilles heel. It felt so familiar, this notion of being replaced. I felt like that 12-years-old kid again. I felt disturbed and to be honest if it wasn’t for Katerina and my mum, I don’t think I would have survived. I would put on a pretence on stage and with people who didn’t know how real my pain was; they would just laugh and respond, ‘Oh you’re so crazy!’ They had no idea that as soon as I left and got on the train home, my eyes would well up and I would feel so heavy and tired and think that if I killed myself then maybe they would understand how all-consuming my feelings were.

  Something about Christmas is so hard if you are feeling sad or vulnerable. This particular Christmas was no different. In Poland we celebrate Christmas Eve more than Christmas Day, and so my mum spends the whole day preparing food and then when the first star comes out she lays the table and we sit down and eat a Polish feast.

  It’s a Polish tradition to keep a chair spare, just in case Jesus drops by.

  You know what he’s like, he never texts beforehand. No matter how many people are squashed around the table, you gotta save a place for Jesus! Don’t even try and sit in the spare chair because how much would you kick yourself if right as you pressed your bum into it, DING DONG, naooooo, Jesus is here! He rocks up and is like, whhaaat, you didn’t save me a chair? I’m going next door. You’d be proper gutted. So we all sit around the table and make the same old jokes about when he’s gonna show up and my mum tells us off for being rude and I’m like, hello, who’s being rude, he’s the one not eating his fish.

  We all had the dinner. I was depressed but dealt with it, then I went upstairs and thought about how I would kill myself if I was going to. I came back down to help my mum with the washing-up.

  I finished and went to go and chat to one of my brothers. I passed the room he was sleeping in and from the corner of my eye saw something that didn’t seem right. I saw his arm hanging off the side of the bed. So I walked in, his eyes were rolling to the back of his head and he looked ill, all drowsy and out of it. Next to him was a bottle of pills. He had taken an overdose.

  We rushed him to A&E and my mum was crying outside the room whilst my brother was getting checked over by a nurse. Two of them were monitoring him and he was slowly getting more and more drowsy.

  They give him some stuff and get him stable, they say he needs to just sleep for a bit. I am devastated and gutted and heartbroken. I ask the nurse about when he will see a psychologist or a doctor. She replies, ‘Unfortunately, as it’s Christmas Day and because you are here with your brother, you’re put down as his primary carer so he doesn’t need to see anyone. We will monitor him and make sure he’s stable.’

  ‘What? But he needs to see a doctor, a psychiatrist; he’s just tried to kill himself.’

  ‘I understand but because you are his primary carer, he didn’t get enough points to see someone as you are here with him, so we will monitor him and then send him home with you.’

  ‘Points? Well, can’t you just pretend I’m not here and then he can get proper attention?’

  ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, I have seen you now. You will have to make an appointment with your GP and go through the system, he will go on a waiting list and hopefully be able to see a psychiatrist in six to eight weeks’ time.’

  Wow. My bro just tried to kill himself and he didn’t score enough points to see a psychiatrist. I would hate to know what it takes to score enough to see one.

  So picture this, it is Christmas Day, approximately 3 a.m., my mum is outside devastated, my other brothers are crying at home, we didn’t call my sister, she was celebrating Christmas at her boyfriend’s house and we didn’t want to ruin her Christmas as well. I called my dad, I didn’t know who else to call. I felt so hurt and desperate, I wanted someone to help. I wanted a man to walk in, for my dad to walk in, for Klaus to walk in and say, ‘I got this, everything is gonna be fine, it’s gonna be fine because I am going to make it so.’

  My dad answered and didn’t recognise my voice until I said, ‘It’s Luisa, your daughter.’ I explained to him what had happened and he said he was sad to hear that and to tell my brother to give him a call when he gets out. I say, ‘Happy Christmas’ and put the phone down.

  I look back at my brother. Here we are in the early hours of Christmas Day, sat in this room with harsh bright fluorescent light. And we are here because my beautiful brother wanted to end his beautiful life. My heart is in my stomach and I am numb with sadness and I am looking at him lying on the bed and all I think is, wow, you beat me to it. I wanted to do that.

  What do you do in this situation? No one really tells you. Mental health is so taboo and stigmatised, I couldn’t put a call out on Facebook, I didn’t want to google ‘when someone tries to kill themsel
ves’. What do you do? I didn’t know. I had no idea. There is no guide in Cosmo on how to handle it.

  So here is my guide.

  What to do when someone you know tries to kill themselves.

  Be there, just be with them.

  Don’t judge, don’t hate, don’t be jealous that they beat you to it.

  Just be there.

  That’s it. Wow, guides are hard to write, hey?

  My brother stirs and whispers that he’s tired. He says nothing else, no explanation, no reasoning, just that he is tired. He sounds tired, he sounds exhausted. I look at his beautiful tired face and I am in disbelief. I mean sure, we have all felt that way at some point or another but we never actually do it. And why my family, why does my family have to suffer and feel this worthless, why do we have to be plagued with this mental health bullshit?

  This isn’t fair, it’s not normal! I am looking at my brother and thinking, you are so loved, you could not be more loved. Why? Why would you feel the need to do this? You didn’t have to do this! You should never feel like this is the answer! If you ever feel like this again, please please come and talk to me, come and ask me.

  My brother stirs again, he looks straight at me and exhales, ‘I am so tired, I am just so tired,’ and buries his face in the pillow. I wanted to offer him all my comfort and all my love, but my mouth started talking before my heart could catch up.

  ‘You’re tired? You’re fucking tired?? Its 5 o’clock in the morning, you dickwad! We are all fucking tired, mate! What the fuck were you thinking? An overdose? What a fucking moron! Who takes 12? 12? You couldn’t have taken the whole bottle? You can’t even do that right, you moron! Here is an idea, you little punk: next time you fancy having a go at killing yourself, why don’t you do us all a favour and come and ask me how?!’