Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Letter from my son

Dear George (I cannot bring myself to call you father, even after the result of the
DNA test)

I was horrified when mummy told me that you had been incarcerated in a lunatic asylum. We have never got on very well but I had no idea you were so mentally unbalanced. I am sorry.

Have you made a will?

On a personal note: Could you please sign the enclosed document which will add me to the insurance policy, so that I can drive your car while you are ‘inside’, so to speak.

What’s the food like in there? I imagine you are missing Anthea’s dumplings down the Jolly Pervert.

I would come to see you but Charlene is now 6 months pregnant and needs me by her side. You will be a granddad soon; that is if you don’t top yourself - your decision of course; we won’t feel that you are being selfish or anything.

A word of warning. Anastasia is continuing posting to that awful blog thing. You know the one ‘Sisters under the Duvet’ – the web address is www.brokeneenglish.blogspot.com. I am only telling you this because I have just looked at it, and I think you might have a good case for libel.

Chin up! - as the hangman said to the condemned man.

Sydney

Monday, November 28, 2005

Early hours

3.30 am. the early hours of on a can't sleep, dark and icy morning... a Victorian lunatic asylum, which is now called a ‘psychiatric unit’, somewhere in the northwest of England.

a time when - so it is said - your metabolism is at its lowest ebb. that is why secret police all over the world choose this time to knock on your door.

“ANNA MY LOVE,
IT’S TIME NOW, I’M SURE –
THERE, HEAR THE KNOck –
THIS TIME IT’S OUR DOOR”

(From ‘Anna, my Love’ by Harvey Andrews)

it is a time when 'time' itself seems to stand still, to congeal, and you see yourself as a fly stuck on one of those old fashioned 'fly papers' - you know you should get out of here but you can't move: you are trapped in sticky time.

not like those other occasions when time is greasy and slippery and skids past you, too quickly... you want to grab it, hold it back, but you can't.

it is a time when banshees howl at your windows, and all the securities you thought you knew slowly dissolve, like cubes of ice in a tumbler of whisky, and you realise that you are truly alone...

alone on a piece of rock whirling through space, gradually cooling - until it becomes so cold that it can no longer support life, but it still goes on spinning purposelessly into the void.

and the cold glacial winds of outer space tear across a scarred landscape where your house once stood... but now there is nothing.

nothingness is hard to imagine, but it waits, crouching in the dark just outside the circle of our campfire's light… and when the fire slowly dies, and then goes out – it swallows us

but soon, morning will come, and, as the sun warms this side of our rock, another day begins...

Sunday, November 27, 2005

Sam

I have got ‘Restless Arse” Syndrome: it is like “Restless Leg” Syndrome (did you know that 1 in 10 Americans suffer from it?) except that it is your arse that won’t keep still. In my case it keeps heading towards the lavatory. Actually, the doctors call it “Irritable Bowel” Syndrome – but I think my phrase is more picturesque.

I was in the bathroom when they showed Sam in (not into the lavatory). He did not mind waiting.
He asked me how I was feeling. “Shitty” I replied. He was sympathetic.

When he had gone I thought about what he had said. It must be nice to have a faith – no, I really mean it - to be so certain of things; to KNOW that there is life after death. But not only that, Sam seems so happy NOW: his face is radiant when he talks about ‘giving his life to Christ’.
I am not knocking it. It is just that I find it so difficult: the Church thing. I just can’t go along with a lot of the language in the hymns and so on – it does not make sense to me. But Sam says don’t bother about all of that. That organised religion has just twisted and distorted the essential message of Jesus
And I do think Jesus was quite a guy. I mean when you read some of the things he said – well the things people SAID that he said – you know, they really make sense. Things like ‘The Sabbath is for the people, not the people for the Sabbath’ (I may have paraphrased a bit there – it is a long time since I read the bible). Now, I interpret that as: religion should be there to help people, not to condemn or threaten them with dire consequences if they do not toe the line. Religion should ‘fit’ the people, not the other way round. And that means the people of the 21st century, not a middle eastern civilization of 2000 years ago.
I said to Sam that when I looked back on some of my behaviour I was appalled, and that I used to think that I was ‘steeped in sin’. He laughed and said he did not think I was. That cheered me up a bit.
Anyway, we had quite a chat – me and old Sam. He asked me if I would like him to come again, and I said yes. Strikes me, the more people I have on my side, the better. I shudder to think of being totally reliant on the lesbian to get me out of here.

Friday, November 25, 2005

Interview

ST BOTOLPH

Hospital Trust


Form 2/547b – Interview/Transcript

DATE – 23rd Nov. 2005

DOCTOR - Singh R. W.

PATIENT – Turner G.


Dr. Singh Good morning Mr Turner, and how are we today?
Turner Well, I don’t know about you, but I am feeling pretty pissed off.
Dr Pissed Off?
GT Oh come on doc – not the ‘reflecting back’ bit, please. Remember
I’m in the trade too.
Dr Ok. Why are you feeling pissed off?
GT You know why.
Dr You tell me.
GT Because I’m locked up in here. There’s nothing wrong with me and I
want to go home.
Dr And you will go home – all in good time. But as for there being
nothing wrong…
GT Ok. So I was thinking of jumping off a bridge – I changed my mind. I
AM NOT MAD.
Dr No one said you were, Mr Turner.
GT Then why am I being kept in here – against my will?
Dr We want to help you.
GT And how do you think you can do that?
Dr We think you may be suffering from depression.
GT The old faithful, eh. And would that be reactive or endogenous
depression? Does it ever strike you psychiatrists that someone might have good cause to be ‘depressed’ as you call it? How about this for a diagnosis: ‘clinically pissed off’.
Dr You sound angry.
GT Of course I’m angry.
Dr Who are you angry with, George?
GT I am angry with you, with Foggatty, with myself, but most of all
doctor, I am angry with LIFE.
Dr With Life?
GT You’re doing it again! Yes, angry with the whole cold, meaningless
cruelty of the universe. We humans delude ourselves in trying to find
some purpose to life. There is none – except to obey the ‘selfish
gene’: blindly procreate and so ensure the continuance of the species.
Then we die and others take out place, and so the mindless farce
continues. We are cannon fodder for nature.
Dr But what about the good things of life: beauty, joy, love?
GT Oh sure. But they are far outweighed by ugliness, misery, hate;
not to mention the pain: mental as well as physical. Just look around
you, doctor.
Dr Are you taking your medication?
GT Oh yes. Greta sees to that. I wouldn’t want to argue with that one.
Dr I believe your wife has been to see you?
GT The lesbian? Yes – and do me a favour: don’t let her in next time.
Dr That is up to Dr Foggatty – anyway, you have another visitor.
GT Don’t tell me it’s the Swedish tart.
Dr I’m sorry?
GT Our ex au pair.
Dr Oh, no – it is one of the policemen who pulled you out of the river:
P.C. Beckett.
GT Oh, not the ‘Born Again’ Sam! Tell him I’m having insulin shock
treatment.
Dr He says there are some questions he needs to ask you.
GT He’s trying to convert me, you know.
Dr Mr Turner, he is a policeman.
GT Well, he’s not here on police business, I can tell you that… he’s
here on behalf of the Chief Superintendent in the sky.
Dr Is there anything you’d like to ask me before I go?
GT Yes: what was happening before the Big Bang?
Dr I am making some slight alterations to your medication – nurse
Kawalski will talk to you about it.
GT So no ECT yet?
Dr We use ECT only as a last resort.
GT That sounds like a threat. Play ball – or else.
[silence]
Now I suppose you will add ‘incipient paranoia’ to my diagnosis.
Dr Is there anything else you’d like to ask me?
GT No
Dr Well, then, Good Day Mr Turner. I shall see you again later in the
week.


Interview terminated – 10.45am.


Tuesday, November 22, 2005

I had no idea water could feel that hard. They told me afterwards I was lucky the bobbies were on hand: I stuck in the mud at the bottom. Three of them (Sam was one) dived in, and together they managed to extricate me and get me to the surface before I had ingested too much of the river. Anyway, I got off lightly as far as physical injuries were concerned: a broken ankle, bruised ribs and a fractured right wrist; I am learning to write with my left hand. I find this very interesting; the left being my ‘un-socialised’ hand means I am more directly in touch with my real self. Yes, I know it sounds a bit airy-fairy but it is true. I find that the stuff I am writing now has a different feel to it.

Diary extract – 22nd November

It’s quiet on the ward. I’m sitting by the window, looking out onto the lawn. It’s raining, and the gardens have that sad kind of beauty that makes you want to cry, and you don’t know why. Well, YOU may not know why, but the doctors do: you’re a depressive. They’ve diagnosed me as depressive – amongst other things. I know that because the staff nurse told me. She’s ok, Greta. A bit on the fat side, and she smokes a lot; but she’s got a lovely face.
I’m going to ask to see my notes. You can do that nowadays; they don’t like it, but you can insist.
Bernie, my observer for this shift, is sitting at the table in the middle of the room. He’s talking to Harry, but keeps glancing over to see if I am about to slit my wrists. Now Harry: he’s an interesting case. Used to be a teacher. Taught maths in a big secondary modern. It got to him – I should say the students got to him. Came to the point where he used to have a miniature of whisky before coming to school, and in the lunchtime he would be down the pub for three or four pints, to get him through the afternoon. In the end he had a breakdown: poured lighter fuel over his jacket and trousers and set fire to himself – in the middle of an algebra lesson.
I never liked maths, myself. Wasn’t any good at it. I thought whilst I was in here, old Harry might give me a couple of lessons: sort of help me and keep his hand in at the same time. But he won’t talk about what he used to do for a living, Can’t blame him really.
Paul has just come in; but I am going to ignore him. He says he’s God. I asked him how he got this idea. Well, it seems he used to pray a lot. Then one day when he was talking to God he realised he was talking to himself. At least that’s what he told me; but, as I said, they’re all mad in here.
– oh, I’ll have to stop now – here comes Freddy’s registrar: Doctor Singh...

Saturday, November 19, 2005

THEM

Shadowy figures in my head, lurking, waiting until I am asleep to enact their crazy dramas
Sometimes they can’t wait, and I hear them just as I am about to drop off – the odd snatch of a phrase, sometimes just one word; whispers in the back of my head, occasionally a shout – which startles me.
Lately they have been getting bolder, and I hear them during the day – sudden, unexpected.
But it is in my dreams that they really come into their own: indulging their wild fantasies. But of course, it is not fantasy to them – only to me. For them it is reality.
Mostly I stand and watch – just on the edge of the action. But often they get me to join in, to play a part – maybe several parts. So that I am both spectator AND player.
The scenarios are becoming more bizarre; the plots more convoluted. And the violence is escalating.
And the terrible thing is… I know it is not ‘them and me’ – they ARE me. I am THEM.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

SHE

SHE came to see me yesterday. I said to the charge nurse ‘I thought I was not allowed visitors’
He said ‘But this is your wife – your next of kin’
‘She’s no kin of mine I exploded’ He just smiled and showed her in.

She sat down and just looked at me for a while. ‘I suppose you thought that was clever’ she finally said.
‘No, it would have been clever if I had done the job properly’ I retorted.
She started to eat my grapes, and spit the pips into a Kleenex! How gross is that!
‘Do you mind!’ I expostulated, ‘Those grapes have been sent by a friend’.
She sneered. ‘I suppose you mean that ex Animal Rights Activist and part-time writer – the one that got you into all this Blogging business. Well, I will have a few words for him, if ever I meet him’
‘What are you talking about, woman’ I said, tiredly.
‘Well it’s all this blogging stuff that got you into this state. All those weirdos you link up with on the so called ‘information highway’. She sniffed, ‘If you ask me it should be called the ‘information dead-end – for no hopers.’
I maintained a dignified silence, although I was appalled to see R.J.’s grapes had almost gone. And then I had a thought – ‘Wait a minute, you talk about me, but aren’t you and that Swedish tart doing the same thing with your… what is it… ‘Sisters under the Duvet’?
She wiped the last of the grape juice off her chin. ‘Not any more, kiddo – she’s on her own now’
‘You mean you’ve kicked her out?’ I cried.
‘No – she can stay as long as she pays me rent but I want nothing more to do with the crazy bitch. The blog thing was her idea anyway’
I considered this information. ‘Why have you come here?’ I asked at length.
She began to repair her lipstick. ‘I want to raise money on the house. You can get one of those ‘Reversion’ things… you know… releasing equity or something, they call it.
I was aghast. She went on, calm as you like, ‘Anyway, since the house is in both our names I shall need your signature.’
‘Not on your life’ I shouted.
‘Shush, don’t get yourself excited dear – you know it isn’t good for you.’ She admonished. Getting up to go, she continued, ‘Oh, and I have seen Foggatty; you’re only going to get out of here if I undertake to be responsible for you – look after you’, she added with a grim smile. ‘Think it over, darling’ she called over her shoulder, as one of the nurses let her out of the ward.

I sank back in my chair, my mind numb. Has it really come to this?

Saturday, November 12, 2005

self indulgence

The old building creaks and groans in its sleep. But I am wide awake. I am confused, and my confusion brings sadness. My ‘NHS’ pillow feels damp, and I realize I have been crying.
I am confused because I do not know who I am. Or rather, I am lots of people. Which one is really me? All of them? None of them?
I think I was hoping to find the ‘real’ me at the red lantern on top of the bridge. But the well-meaning, interfering cop prevented me. Ronnie Laing thought that it was often better to allow a person to ‘go through’ a schizophrenic episode (with support) and so come out the other side. Unfortunately the medics want to rescue us before we get to that point. Rescue us from what? From ourselves? But when you rescue someone from themselves you have robbed them of their most precious possession. Still, you have fitted them back in the world, and can tick of the ‘successful outcome’ box.
Old Freddie seems a bit different from the other medics I have encountered. We shall see.
I am in this big old hospital, surrounded by tormented souls, and yet I feel alone. I have always felt alone. But the fact that I have always felt alone does not mean it gets any easier.
I have recurring dreams where everyone has abandoned me – left, to go about their own business which does not include me. I am standing in a deserted street, late at night. I think I should go home but I am not sure how to get there; and I am not sure that I want to go there. I am still standing on the empty pavement when the dream ends.

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Dr Foggatty

The brass plate on the door says ‘Dr Frederick Foggatty’, but the man furiously pedalling the exercise bicycle does not look at all like a doctor: He is wearing a mauve sweater with leather patches on the elbows, lime green corduroy trousers, sandals and red socks; there is a small hole in one of the socks. His beard and hair join in one wild, rusty tangle.
He climbs down off the bicycle and, dismissing the male charge nurse, walks over to a desk, so large you could land a helicopter on it; that is, if you could find a place between the high-rise stacks of beige folders that litter its leather landscape. There is one folder all on its own; neatly squared off in the centre of the big pink blotter; I guess that is me – waiting to be dealt with.
Motioning me to sit down, this large, untidy man moves behind the desk and lowers himself into his chair. He stares hard at me. I say ‘at me’; actually he seems to be looking over my left shoulder and, when he speaks, he seems to be addressing his remarks to someone standing just behind me. I glance round, but there is no one there. I think he has a slight squint.
He finally speaks, ‘Now then, how long has this hand-washing business been going on, Brian?
‘I’m sorry’, I reply, bewildered.
‘No need to be sorry, Brian. We all have our little foibles. Now I’m here to help you, so don’t be afraid’.
‘No – I mean, I’m not Brian – my name is George: George Turner.’
The doctor glares at the folder in front of him. Then, shuffling through the nearest deck of similar folders on his desk, he extracts the correct case-notes and begins to read. As he reads, he breaks off from time to time to scratch his head vigorously, then examine his fingernails, as if looking for something.
Whilst he is reading, I look around the room. There is a framed school photograph, about a yard long: rows of identical small boys, sitting cross-legged, and behind them taller boys, and behind them even taller boys. The back row look as if they must have been on stilts when the photo was taken. To the right of the photo hangs a large card with printing on it. It slopes at an angle, as if someone has knocked it whilst dusting. Tilting my head, I read: Anyone who goes to see a psychiatrist needs his head examining.
He finishes reading, and begins to ask questions. I am on my guard of course, but his gentle, almost soothing voice, seems to draw me; and before I realise it, all sorts of stuff is pouring out.
All too soon (now why do I think that) the interview is over. He walks back to the ward with me, talking all the time about an old motor-bike he is restoring. Patients we pass, on the way, call out ‘How do, Freddie’. And he replies ‘How do Tom’ or ‘How do Alice’, whatever their name is. Not exactly the usual sort of doctor/patient exchange.
Still, I look forward to my next meeting with him.

Monday, November 07, 2005

Visiting hours

I am not allowed visitors just yet. I am allowed mail but this is scrutinised by the staff before being passed to me. So far I have only had one mail (thank you 'girlzoot'). Perhaps the printer has run out of paper. They are very inefficient in the office here.

Sunday, November 06, 2005

Another world

If the lunatics really are running the asylum, which would you rather be: a patient or a member of staff?



It was New Year’s Eve on the Locked Ward,
The lithium flowed like wine,
A psychiatrist from ‘G’ wing
Was singing Auld Lang Syne;
And sometime after midnight,
When sane folk are abed,
They started telling stories
And this is what they said:


I am being detained under the powers of the Mental Health Act, 1983 - Section 2, to be precise. This provides for “detention for up to 28 days for assessment of condition… this may be accompanied by treatment.”
Ah, but what kind of treatment? I have refused to take any of the medication they have offered, although I am prepared to talk, to anyone who will listen – including the other patients. They don’t seem such a bad bunch. They’re all mad of course: why else would they be here?
I am under twenty four hours surveillance. They call it “observation”. Anyway, the hospital rules refer to “the necessity of watchfulness at all times…in the interests of the patient’s own health or safety.” All this, demanding “a high standard of tactful guidance by nurses”. How do I know all this? I told you: I’m in the trade.
But they are not very tactful, most of them. They write everything down. Everything I do, even when I go to the lavatory. And of course they write down the fact that I am always writing. Talk about “Alice in Wonderland”. At night I have to leave my bedroom door open, and it’s hard to get to sleep with someone peering in. I’ve tried telling them I have no intention of attempting to take my own life. But they don’t believe me. Incredibly, they’ve put me in a room on the 4th floor. The 4th floor – and me a “jumper”!
Of course, I’m not really a jumper – more of a “slipper”. I’ve tried telling them that as well. Waste of time. You can see their point of view. What was I doing up on the bridge in the first place? Okay, so in the end I had decided not to do it. I was coming down. Unfortunately, I stepped on that patch of oil. An accident. Ah, but Jung says there are no such things as accidents; my psychiatrist is a Jungian.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

The Dream

I am walking under water, slowly, awkwardly, because I am encased in a ‘deep-sea’ diving suit: thick, heavy rubber, the sleeves ending in clumsy gloves, a huge globe of a helmet, and on my feet, great metal boots. As I ponderously move my legs, I am aware that I am treading on all manner of nasty things: crabs scuttle away – some are not quick enough and I hear them crunch underfoot. There are other things too; I can’t see them but I can feel them: slithery, slimy abominations, they brush against my rubberised legs. And although I know that neither they nor the crabs can harm me, I am sweating with a mixture of fear and disgust.
The water seems to clear, and I detect a movement out of the corner of my eye. With difficulty, I turn my head. To my right, there is a large metal cage; inside are about a dozen creatures: although they resemble huge pike, these ‘things’ are hardly fish, for they have the snouts of crocodiles; sharp teeth gleam in their gaping red mouths as they snap their jaws. But the worst thing is their colour: grey, like dead flesh. The reptile fish appear to be decaying – yet they are still very much alive. They have seen me. Wild, bloodshot eye fasten in a malevolent stare, and they begin to butt against the bars. Suddenly, a door in the cage opens. Here they come. Heading straight for me. I think my suit will protect me but I am not sure. One of the ‘things’ has sunk its jaws into the rubber of my sleeve. I jerk my arm and shake it off. They are all around me now. I turn and try to get away. My legs move as in ‘slow motion’, my steel boots dragging in the silt. I am breathing heavily now, and I start to worry about my air supply: will the men ‘on top’ continue to keep turning the big wheel, pumping air into my helmet? What if they tire? Just stop pumping?

Then I am walking up a gradual slope, the water above me becoming lighter with each step I take.