Sarah Vaughan is Not My Mother: A Memoir of Madness (16 page)

“Scares me too,” Lester says.

“How do I not get into the cycle?” Fiona says to me.

“Well, going on my experience the things that get me in here are taking too many drugs, not sleeping, and isolating myself from the world. The doctors call me psychotic but I just think I'm misunderstood. Whenever I start feeling happy, I panic because I know I'm due to come in. Then their drugs knock all the life out of me and I have to start again. This time, though, I'm going to save my benefit and go live in another country.”

“I think I'll join you, babe,” Lester says. “I need to do the same. They always get me when I'm feeling good too.”

“Well,” Fiona says, “I was feeling pretty bad when I came in here and feel happy now to have met you and know a bit more about how the system works. I don't even think my husband wants me to come home.”

“Oh, I'm sure he wants you home, but he also wants you well. Maybe he felt you were at risk of harming yourself,” I say.

“Maybe, but I'm angry at him for putting me here.”

“Don't be, babe. Sometimes people don't know what to do,” Lester says.

“I'm sure he's deeply affected by your not being with him,” I say. “And I'm sure now you're gone he wouldn't want to live without you.”

I look through the window again. “They're serving dinner.”

“I know,” Lester says. “I can smell it. Fish of some sort.”

“It'll be sweet-and-sour fish. I should have bought us some food from town. I'll do that next time.”

Fiona, Lester and I make our way to dinner. The tables are nearly full so we go into the lounge and sit on the couches. The news is playing on TV but as usual I can't hear it. I have a sense of guilt around wanting drugs, but I have made the decision to ring Jared tomorrow. I know at some deep level that it is the wrong thing to do, but all I can think about is that it will be one last time and I won't ask again.

Drugs are like that. Every day you say one last time, yet you keep going back for more. Drugs can change you from a beautiful, healthy-looking person to anorexic, malnourished, unclean, a shadow of your former self. Mixed with mental illness the result can be ten times worse.

I know all this, but I convince myself I need relief from the psych meds and the institution. Thinking about it makes me nervous, which kills my appetite for food.

Fiona says, “Aren't you hungry? You're not eating.”

“I just don't feel like eating right now.”

“Babe, was it something I said?”

“No, I just have a lot on my mind, I wish I had the strength to do the right thing all the time, then maybe I'd be in a better place,” I say. “I'm sort of powerless over my vices.”

Lester stops eating and looks at me. “Me too, babe. I do the wrong thing by myself all the time.”

“Could be like karma,” Fiona says.

“Yeah, maybe if I do good it will come back to me, but I just haven't reached that stage yet. Oh, what if I don't? I'll be in this rut forever.”

“No, babe, you won't be. It's just how you're feeling right now. It will get better.”

“You're right. Sorry if I'm bringing you down.”

I take my tray back, make a coffee, and tell Lester and Fiona I'm going to have a smoke. They come with me.

“I feel the same,” Fiona says. “I have habits I'd like to break, like my self-harming. You've probably seen these bandages.” She shows us the bandages on her wrist.

“Babe, that's no good.”

“I can't help it. I just sometimes want to die and I can't stop myself cutting my wrists.”

“Then maybe it's good you are here; maybe you can get some help with that,” Lester says.

“Yes, but they don't give me counselling. They just throw me pills that make me feel worse.”

I know what she means. It can be hard to help yourself when you are just given medication and have no one-on-one time with a counsellor. Nurses in the ward are not trained to provide counselling, but often what people need more than anything is someone to listen to them. In the community it can also be hard to see counsellors: most people on a sickness benefit don't have sufficient funds, and there is often a huge waiting list for free counselling.

“And these doctors tell you nothing,” Fiona continues. “All they're interested in is prescribing you more drugs. I'm not psychotic, I'm suicidal.”

“Babe, maybe you need to get out of the rut that makes you feel this way.”

“I would if I could but I don't know how.” Fiona starts to cry. “Talking to you guys helps a lot; it means I'm not alone in my head with the same thoughts spinning around. MaryJane, you just got me thinking about letting go of old behaviours but I just can't let them go.”

“Yeah, after a while you feel comforted by those feelings and thoughts, and feel sad to let them go,” Lester says.

Waris comes out with my meds. “You guys have been sitting here for hours—must be quite some conversation,” she says.

I take my meds and say, “Thank you.”

“So are these meds better?” Lester asks.

“Yeah, they don't make me feel so stifled in my thinking, and I feel as though I can move about more easily. Olanzapine and Seroquel are horrible. They put concrete in your back and feet, and make you very immobile.”

“I know that feeling,” Lester says.

“They should be more careful what drugs they give us. The code says we have the right to refuse medication, but it doesn't seem to be true. I tried and tried to refuse meds, but they made me take them,” I say.

Because you're under Section you are obligated to undergo treatment, which seems to cancel out all your rights. Most new people going into the ward are given a strong dose of an antipsychotic, whether they want it or not.

A nurse comes out and gives Fiona and Lester their drugs. Fiona rolls her eyes and takes them. Once the nurse has gone Lester spits his pill out on to the grass.

“Oh, that's a good idea. I'm going to do that from now on,” Fiona says.

9

 

In bed I plan the next day in my head. I write down what I will say to the judge. My hand feels stiff, which makes it hard to write, but I am determined to get down what I am thinking.

Waris comes in and says goodnight.

“Night,” I say. “I'm just making notes for tomorrow.”

“You're a good girl,” she says. I think to myself, imagine if she knew what I was planning. She would be very disappointed in me.

The voice tells me not to feel guilty. I justify it to myself by thinking if God doesn't mind it doesn't matter what others think. I tell the voice I'm not talking to any other voice, only him and my real mother.

I eat an orange and replace it on the sheet with another one. I go and ask Tu, the night nurse, if I can have another cigarette. She says no. I call her a bully and go back to bed and have a cigarette in my room. She comes in, sticks out her hand and says, “Lighter.” I look around and can't find it. “I know you have one,” she says and walks out. I say, “Bully” as she leaves.

I don't sleep very steadily. I wake up at two and start thinking about what I can say to Jared that will get him to come and pick me up. We didn't have a very good conversation last time I spoke to him, which was when I was in ICU. When he tried to phone me I called him a rapist because God had told me he was. He wasn't a rapist: God just didn't want me talking to him.

I toss and turn. Tu comes in every hour and shines the torch on my face. I get up and walk around the ward, uncomfortable because I have lost my lighter and need a cigarette. At five I finally relax and doze for an hour. Dead on six I go out to the smokers' room. Once again there is a queue of people at the coffee trolley. Lester is sitting in his usual spot, staring out the window to the car park. I ask for a lighter.

“Oh, babe,” he says, turning around, “it's you. I was lost in thought. How did you sleep?”

“Not that well. I was thinking a lot about today. I really want to persuade the judge I no longer need treatment in the ward, and should be free to go and get treatment in the community.”

“Oh, babe, it's not going to work. Don't get your hopes up. I think that's only happened once since the 1950s; a judge never overturns the recommendations of a doctor.”

“But maybe it could be different for me,” I say. “I really want to get out of here. I will talk to my lawyer before I go in.”

Over the years I have been before a judge many times. The judge first listens to the doctor, who goes over your history and then states his opinion on your health. I say my piece, which is generally that I think I am well and fit to be in the community. The judges never appear interested in what you have to say: they are very emotionless and just agree with the doctor. It is the same for everyone and the process is quite demeaning.

The same happens when you get out. I have gone before a judge to get off a community treatment order, which can have quite a few constraints. Again, the judge listens to the doctor. It can seem pointless even bothering to go.

“I didn't sleep well last night either,” Lester says. “I kept thinking about court too, getting frustrated that we are so powerless to change anything. It's like being in prison here, except in prison people are guilty of a crime. I haven't done anything bad to anyone, yet the conditions in here, and the way we get treated, make it seem like a punishment.”

“It seems you get controlled by the system and then become dependent on it,” Fiona says. She has been standing behind us, listening. “I can't work as long as I'm in here, and we have four kids to feed and clothe.”

“I know what you mean but we must not get frustrated or we'll get locked in here forever,” Lester says.

He's right. When I have shown too much emotion and loudly voiced my concerns, the nurses tranquillise me even more with medication or a strong injection as authorised by a doctor often not at the scene. This means I end up lying on my back in bed all day, dribbling at the mouth.

“We need to come up with a plan that gets more revenue coming in, but you can't do that when you're on a benefit because you aren't allowed assets. It's impossible to get ahead,” Lester says.

“Catch 22,” Fiona says.

The sky is going grey and I am starting to feel cold so I head to my room to get into bed and pray for God to help me find a way to make money so I'm not dependent on anyone. God speaks to me and says, “Just stay on the benefit. You haven't got much longer to live.”

The thought of dying makes me feel weak and sad. I roll over on to my stomach and weep into my pillow. I feel overwhelmed with hopelessness because I have no power and control over my situation. I lie with my head in the pillow until Waris knocks on my door and says, “You all right, darling? It's breakfast time. Make sure you have a shower before court today.”

“But I don't have anything nice to wear.”

“Oh darling, it doesn't matter. Maybe take off your hat and sunglasses so the judge can see your face.”

I get up and go outside, cursing what I think is a crooked system where people who have access to better clothes can make a better impression on the judge. I have a cigarette by the tree and look into the window of the dining room. People are lining up for breakfast. I don't feel like eating because I'm nervous, but I could murder a coffee. I get up off the chair, go in and make a coffee. Just as I'm walking out I see Fiona. She makes herself a cup of tea and we sit at the table outside.

I start talking about how frustrated I am about going to court and how I'm going to embarrass myself. “I'll look like just another psych patient, insane and dishevelled, while the judge sits there in his pristine suit with shiny grey hair, staring down his nose at me and smiling at the smartly dressed doctor, who looks like him.”

I roll a cigarette, look at my boots, and curse myself for not having appropriate shoes. “There's no point in arguing. The judge will take one look at me and turn his ears off. I'm going to buy some more shoes when I get a chance,” I add.

Fiona says, “Good idea. You should get some that aren't so difficult to walk in.”

Waris comes over. “Hope I'm not interrupting your conversation but MaryJane, it's getting close to court time. You will need to meet your lawyer before you go in.”

Before she has a chance to say it, I say, “Okay, I will go and have a shower.”

I say goodbye to Fiona and walk with Waris.

“What's the lawyer going to say to me? Do I even need one?” I am feeling negative about going to court and wonder why I need to bother with a lawyer. It is hard to state your case and feel as though you are going to be respected when you're wearing printed pyjama pants and clumpy boots in summer. And all the judges I've had have been male and seemed to lack empathy. There's always a long list of people and you feel like just another number to be ticked off.

“You need a lawyer. He is acting on your behalf.”

 

I shower and get dressed. I feel stupid putting on my boots but I don't have anything else to wear. I consider getting some shoes out of the basket in the nurses' station but I don't like wearing other people's shoes.

I walk out of my room and wait outside the nurses' station until my lawyer comes. He says, “Hello. How have you been?”

“Oh fine.”

I have my little 1B4 book with me. We go into the dining room and chat.

“The doctors want to keep you under the treatment order, which makes it compulsory for you to be here and receive treatment,” the lawyer says.

I look at my boots and his black shiny shoes followed by a pinstripe suit and I say, “Well, I haven't really got a leg to stand on. The judge won't go against the doctor. All I have is my voice and what I choose to say, and that will not cause an intervention. The judge is just going to say I need to stay under the Section.”