My mum didn’t have a door on her bedroom, and for a while I didn’t dare walk past it in case I caught a glimpse of her smoking crack. I couldn’t handle seeing her at it with my own eyes.
But I couldn’t leave the house and go to see one of my mates either, because I knew I would break down, and I didn’t want them having any idea what was going on. People think I’m a strong person, but under the surface I’m far from it. I can put a front on for a little while, but it soon crumbles. At that time in my life my bedroom was the only place I could express my true feelings. And most of the time that meant sobbing myself to sleep.
Then one day I sat in my room and thought, I’m never going to beat the drugs. They’re always going to win. And I can’t believe I’m admitting this but a voice in my head said to me, ‘I might as well do a bit of crack myself. I might as well go the same way as her. At least then we’d be together.’
Of course I knew I could never do that. But I wanted her to see what her behaviour was doing to me.
I’ll never forget what happened next. I wiped the tears from my face and walked out of my bedroom to the lounge, where she was smoking crack. I kept telling myself, ‘Be brave, Jade,’ as I approached her in deadly earnest.
‘Right then, hand it over.’
‘What are you talking about, Jade?’
‘The crack. The drugs. Come on, Mum – if it’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me.’
‘No, Jade! You can’t ever do that!’
‘Well, you’ve always taught me to follow your example, to listen to you. So that’s what I’m doing now. I’d like some, please.’
‘No, you’re not having any.’
‘Don’t tell me I can’t have something when you ask me for money so you can buy it.’
And there and then, to prove a point, I decided to show her how nasty and heartbreaking it was to see a member of your family, your own flesh and blood, killing themselves in front of your very eyes. I took some of her crack, put it in a Rizla paper to make a joint and I smoked it.
I felt dirty and disgusting.
‘How does it make you feel watching me do this?’ I asked.
‘You can’t do that, you’re my baby daughter!’
‘And this is how you treat your baby daughter, is it?’
All the time I had tears streaming down my face. I was willing her to stop me and to promise me she’d never do it again. But she didn’t. I’d foolishly thought that if she could see what it looked like – and if she thought that her own daughter was about to go to the same dark place she was – she’d put a stop to it.
I couldn’t even smoke it all, it made me feel too ill. I ran to the toilet, stuck my fingers down my throat and made myself sick, and sick, and sick. I was shaking and crying. Then I ran into my room and shut the door.
And moments after I’d gone into my room? I heard her at it again.
I felt like utter shit. As I lay on my bed I even started hitting myself, somehow trying to take the pain away. I’ve never self-harmed or anything like that – I couldn’t properly cut myself anyway because I’m too squeamish about blood – but if I wasn’t such a wimp I could’ve easily got a knife and stabbed myself. Instead I bashed my head repeatedly against the wall as hard as I could, I pulled my hair out of my head until my scalp was red raw and I pinched my skin until it went purple. I was so frustrated. I didn’t come out of my room for two whole days. During which time my mum continued to smoke crack.
Eventually, though, it got too much and my tears turned to anger – and hatred. Mum didn’t understand how I felt. It was like a knife going through my heart and shattering all my good thoughts about her.
Finally I cracked. I got up off my bed, opened the door and stormed out into the lounge. I rushed over to where Mum was, grabbed her by the throat and pushed her hard up against the wall. ‘You make me feel physically sick!’ I shrieked. I was nearly choking her, but I didn’t care. I was swinging her around the lounge like she was a little rag doll – she was so weak from all the drugs. I just couldn’t stop myself. The build-up and the upset had become too much. I was shouting, ‘After everything I’ve given up for you, everything I’ve done for you! You’ve just thrown it all back in my face.’
Mum was crying. I was crying. But the rage I had was awful. I was at boiling point. And although I wanted to stop I couldn’t. At that moment I felt like fighting with her was the only way to get through to her.
Finally she found some strength and started to retaliate – and we began to have a proper full-blown fight. She punched me and I whacked her back. It must’ve gone on for about half an hour. I had a big black eye and cuts all over my face and so did she. But of course, afterwards, rather than her feeling remorseful, it was still me who was the one that felt bad. I’d lost all respect for myself because I’d hit my own mother. It had got to the point where I’d asked her to either choose me or the crack and she’d chosen the crack. And that killed me. Because my dad had chosen drugs over me too.
I couldn’t deal with it back then, and to be honest it still makes me sick to the stomach talking about it now. After that fight I moved out of our home for a time, but ended up having to come back not long after because I couldn’t afford my rent.
But now you know the real reason I applied for Big Brother 3. I had to find an escape from my mum. I also had to get away from my boyfriend Danny (who, as I’ve said, was nearly as much of a dodgy character as Mel was). Everywhere I turned there were people doing drugs – even my other friends were doing pills in clubs. I couldn’t get away from it.
So when I saw the advert for Big Brother it felt like I’d been offered a lifeline. And I honestly think that’s what it was. It was as if I was being offered the chance to be a kid again. Like I was in a holiday camp or being allowed to go back to school.
What was it about me? I always wanted to be a good girl, but no matter what I did I somehow ended up on the wrong side of the tracks. When I was at school I dreamed of being head girl. I wanted to get straight As and be told by the teachers that I was going to amount to something. Well, I fucked that up, didn’t I? At my school, when you did well in something you got a letter of merit, but if you did badly you got a demerit.
I must’ve held the record for the most demerits in existence.
Somehow, though, I did manage to blag myself the title of Games Captain, which meant I got to wear the special badge on my uniform. I bribed everyone in my class to vote for me to the point that they had no choice if they wanted any chance of peace and quiet. That badge was my pride and joy. I also had a ‘School Committee’ badge that I wore each day, even though I was never actually on the committee. That one I nicked. But the cream of the crop, the absolute best badge of honour, was the Gold Lion badge. You only got awarded one of those if you reached 1000 merits, and I had about as much hope of that as of Prince Charles knocking on my door and asking me to be his queen. So the only way I could get one was to cheat. To prove you deserved a Gold Lion you had to show the head teacher a certificate saying you’d