Obsession seems to be a big part of my life. I have thoughts about people or things that won’t go away. Another obsession is the voice, which is always talking to me, telling me what to do and where to go. This can be frustrating and annoying. The voice can also become menacing and sinister, which scares me. It’s not like an obsessive boyfriend on whom you can slam the door shut. The voice goes to bed with me and wakes up with me and walks around with me, all day and all night. It preys on my vulnerability to try and make me like it.
I start thinking about what the voice said to me about my father and mother not being my real parents and I wonder about orphaned children and how they cope being in the world, away from their true family. I decide I’m as good as dead if I can’t find my real parents and family. I have no proof of where I am from, no family and no cultural identity. No wonder I’m a mess. The voice speaks to me and says, “You’re not a mess and you don’t need to kill yourself. One day you will meet your real parents.” That I can’t believe, I think to myself, unsure of my emotions, stuck in a holding bay where you feel nothing.
Waris pokes her head in the door. “You ready?”
“I’ll be two minutes.”
The voice says, “I’ll tell you who your parents are later.”
“Okay.”
I grab my cigarettes and roll one.
I meet Waris outside my room. She says, “You all right?”
“Yeah, yeah, no problem,” I say, sounding cheery. I’m not feeling the best but I’m not keen to talk about it.
We end up on Mein Street, the one my room looks out on to. “I heard you talking to someone when I was waiting. Who was that?” Waris says.
“Oh, I was talking to God.”
“So you have a conversation with him. Can you hear God?”
It feels like some sort of interrogation. “What’s up with you and these questions? Why do you have to be so serious?”
Waris looks at me and laughs. “Oh darling, I’m sorry. I was just wondering who it is you talk to, okay? Sorry.”
“That’s cool. I just hate it when everything gets to be so stern and hard.”
Because of being deaf I have always been extremely sensitive to people’s body language and how they speak. If I perceive someone to be aggressive and angry, or cold and conceited, I feel as if I’m being personally attacked.
“You can talk to me instead of talking to God.”
Suddenly I realise Waris doesn’t believe me and thinks I am just making it up.
“Is your grandfather still alive?” I say.
“No, he is dead.”
I listen to my voice for a moment, then say, “He says you’re a singer.”
Waris laughs. “I’m no singer, I can’t sing. I used to sing.”
“Well, he says you should be singing more and that you gave it up because you didn’t believe in yourself.”
“No, I can’t sing. You sing—you’re a very good singer.”
We get to New World and I buy some more tomatoes and Waris gets herself a pink smoothie. I look at my pouch of tobacco and Waris says, “You got plenty.” I start panicking at the thought of no tobacco, and make her promise she will bring me back for more. Cigarettes are like oxygen, I can’t live without them. She shakes my hand and promises me.
Just as we are leaving I remember I need to buy Lester a lollipop, so I race back into the express checkout and grab him one. It’s strawberries and cream. I look for Waris, and she is in the chemist shop looking at hair dye. I go over to where the hats are and start trying them on. The guy behind the counter keeps looking at me. I feel like getting confrontational so I stare back.
Waris comes up behind me. “I think you should get this one,” she says, holding a box of hair dye.
“I don’t want brown-black. I want black,” I say.
Waris touches my hair. “It might wash you out a bit. You’re quite pale.”
It’s my second straight summer of being institutionalised so it’s fair to say I haven’t seen much sun.
“Nah, I’ll just get black.” I go for the cheapest black hair dye, pull out Lester’s card, check the piece of paper with the number on it, and make the purchase. I am instantly happy.
Out on to the street I can’t stand still at the pedestrian crossing.
“No mince pie today?”
“Oh, I forgot!” I figure it’s her dinner and it’s important because she works such long hours. We get the mince pie from the bakery and I get myself another coffee. I roll a cigarette and we walk some of the way up Constable Street, a long road that connects Newtown to other suburbs.
Waris hasn’t asked me anything about my mother’s visit. Back at the ward I say thank you and check the clock. It’s 5.50, nearly time for dinner. I remember I have Lester’s card so I go to the smokers’ room. He’s not there but Fiona is. “Hi, I’ll dye your hair tomorrow if you like. Might be too tired to do it tonight.”
“Yeah, cool, no worries.” I feel a bit bummed that she won’t do it tonight but I’m not too worried. It’s Friday and I guess she wants to watch the movie on TV. I roll a cigarette and stare out the window to the car park. Nola is walking around writing notes on a blackboard stuck on the far wall. She looks angry. She reminds me of what I don’t want to be: angry and fifty and still coming here.
The older people who keep coming back are people who spite the system and resist being helped. They may feel they have missed out on a lot in life and are angry about that. Sometimes they haven’t had a chance to have kids and loving relationships so they don’t have that support either. They feel alone and most of all angry. It’s hard to help people in this state. They lose the will to live and sadly can become statistics, the ones who got away, the ones who couldn’t be helped.
“I’m going to dinner. You coming?”
“Maybe,” I say, hesitating. “What is it?”
“I ticked chilli con carne.”
“Oh, right. I’ll come.”
I walk to the dining room with Fiona and we wait in line. I see Jo sitting with Nga at the front table by the coffee trolley, and Hemi up the back resting his head against the big picture on the wall that always reminds me of a kid’s cartoon. I smile to acknowledge him.
Lester’s in the queue. I go up and tap him on the shoulder, and give him his EFTPOS card and a lollipop. He has a huge grin on his face. He says, “You going to watch the movie tonight? It’s the Michael Jackson one.”
I start getting funny looks from people, so I leave Lester and go back down to Fiona. “Boy, some people don’t like you jumping the queue,” I say.
“Yeah, Virginia was starting to curse you a bit.”
“Well she’s going to set Christ upon me tomorrow when my hair goes black—she’s always digging at me for not having my natural hair colour.”
“Don’t know what she’s on about. She’s not so perfect herself, and besides you look great.”
“That’s not what the shrink says.”
“And what—the shrink’s an authority on how you should look?”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“I think you should be able to look the way you want, and express yourself however you choose.”
We make it to the front of the line and Fiona tells Serena I want chilli con carne. Serena finds me a meal and Fiona makes herself a cup of tea.
I look around the dining room and say, “There’re not many seats. Maybe I’ll sit in the lounge.” We walk into the lounge, sit on the couch and watch the TV news. The prime minister is talking. I automatically start talking to God in my head, telling him to tell the prime minister what to do. I see the prime minister nodding his head: he must be listening to me. I still haven’t got my hearing aid on, though, so I can’t hear.
“Would you like a Coke with your dinner?” I ask Fiona. I go and grab a couple of cups and fill them up. I eat my chilli con carne. It’s pretty good. Nice to have a break from the mashed potato and bread I’ve been eating for months. I don’t think I can face any more ma
shed potato.
“This meal is way better than last night,” Fiona says.
“I just ate a tomato last night,” I say.
I eat some lettuce, a rarity in here.
“Don’t you find you get really hungry on the meds?” Fiona says, trying not to eat with her mouth full.
“I do, but sometimes I just can’t take the stew.”
“I know what you mean.”
I tell Fiona it’s movie night. People can go to a lounge that’s bigger than this one and has a comfier couch. The TV is at eye level so you don’t get a sore neck, craning your head up all the time. There are also lemonade, lollies and chips. “The movie is good tonight,” I say. “It’s Michael Jackson.”
Fiona says she’s not the biggest Michael Jackson fan. “I might just sit in my room.” She runs her hand through her hair and I catch sight of the bandages on her wrist. I know better than to say anything. I don’t like the thought of her sitting in a bare room feeling suicidal so I say, “You can hang about in my room if you get bored. I have lots of pictures on my wall.”
“Oh yes, I would love to check out your pictures. Shall we go do that now?” she says.
5
Fiona stands in the doorway. I point to the coffee and she says no, then I point to the tea and she smiles. I put a tea bag in one cup and coffee in another, and I fill the cups by the nurses’ station.
“Why do you do that?” Fiona says.
“Ah, because the water that comes out of here is actually hot. That other water has been sitting around for about an hour and a half, and half the time it’s empty.”
She looks impressed, but I just see it as a sign I’ve been here too long.
“Oh wow, it’s beautiful,” she says, taking a sip of tea.
We go into my room and I show her my wall. She says, “Wow, it’s amazing, really cool.” She points to a picture. “Oh, I like this one. It’s beautiful.”
I feel relieved that she is happy. “Would you like one?”
She turns around and looks at me. “No, I think they belong together.”
I don’t doubt she means it but I would happily give her one. I don’t like the thought of someone being unhappy and living in a barren room—especially her room, which has no windows to speak of.
I am trying to think of ways to help so I say, “Hair dyeing tomorrow?”
“Yeah, cool,” she says, a bit vaguely. “Wish I could see my kids and husband.”
“I’m sure you will soon, when they think you’re all right.” I nearly say “when you stop cutting yourself” but I don’t want to upset her so I say, “Maybe you’ll get leave sometime soon.”
“But we live in Titahi Bay.”
“They’ll drive you out. I’ve been driven to Eastbourne and Plimmerton.”
She looks a little happier.
“Sure, they will drive you there. Just ask in a few days or so when you are feeling better.” I am trying to offer some hope.
“You’re great, MaryJane, and so’s your art. You have a real gift,” she says quite sincerely.
“Thanks.” I start looking out the door, feeling the urge for a cigarette. “You’re great too.”
We go out to the smokers’ room. There are not many people there. An announcement comes over the loudspeaker that the movie is about to start. I puff my cigarette down in five drags.
“See you tomorrow. I’m going to head for bed,” Fiona says.
“Cool. Bless you.”
I walk down to the lounge. The double doors to the day hospital are locked so people can’t escape. I ring the buzzer and wait. Dean, a nurse, opens the door. He’s never shown much interest in talking to me so we don’t exchange words. In the lounge all the spaces on the couch and on the bean bags around the television set have been taken. I spot a free chair alongside a wooden table by the window.
The movie is called This Is It. I don’t normally watch the Friday night movies; in fact it’s been years since I watched a movie, or even read a book the whole way through. With a movie I can’t concentrate, even if it’s loud enough for me to hear. However, this one’s good because it’s mainly visual, and there are often subtitles so I can follow what’s happening. I watch it from start to finish and feel a sense of achievement at the end.
Afterwards I have a cigarette in the yard. Waris arrives with my new meds. I take the pills and swallow them.
“So you enjoy the movie?” Waris says.
“Yeah, I love Michael Jackson. He can still dance even after all those years.”
“I’m sure he can, MaryJane. So, I saw you talking to Fiona.”
“She’s dyeing my hair tomorrow,” I say. “I was just trying to help her out.”
Waris gives me a worried look. “Now MaryJane, you know you don’t have to save everyone. I don’t want you giving anything else away.”
“Sure Waris, I won’t. I just like to help people.” I roll another cigarette, making up for all the ones I didn’t smoke in the movie.
“Yes, MaryJane, you are very kind.”
I feel a bit overwhelmed so I just nod my head and smile. Waris walks away and I sit and stare at the moon.
The voice returns. “I am your mother. I was a singer in the 1950s and I went to Africa to give birth to you, because that is where it was foretold that your placenta would be buried beneath a tree, so that one day it would grow to be a very large tree.”
I look at my skin for traceable signs that it is black but it is getting too dark to see. Suddenly, the prospect of my mother being a singer makes me want to sing. Head down, I walk quickly across the yard, through the smokers’ room, and past the nurses’ station. When I get to my room I pick up my guitar and sing “Body and Soul”, then “All or Nothing”. It’s as if I’m singing these songs inspired by God. The voice says, “It is very good.”
Waris pokes her head in the door and says, “Last cigarette.” I swing out the door into the smokers’ room, where there is a new guy, Ben. He is walking around in circles and saying, “They just pulled me over. I rang the cops for help and they bring me here.”
I know that story all too well. Once I walked around town for most of a day because my voice had started to tell me I had been abused and should go and tell the police. When I did tell the police, they ended up sticking me in a cell and shipping me up to the ward about midnight.
A lot of what the voice is telling me it’s been telling me for years. Some things, such as that I’m Jesus Christ, I’ve learned to ignore. At the beginning I believed it. I read the Bible furiously and gained my own ideas about Jesus and how he acted. My imagination distorted the truth and carried me away and I formed a new identity. I became Jesus. I saw myself as having authority and really powerful prayers.
The voice builds up elaborate pictures of my life, and of the next life to which I will be reincarnated. It has been telling me for years that I am black and that I have been abused. Every time I get unwell the information becomes more detailed. I don’t act on a lot of it: I just carry it around in my head.
Ben turns to me and his camouflage hat falls off his head. I notice as it drops on his shoes how dirty they are. It looks like he’s had a rough ride from wherever he’s come.
He says quite confidently, “So, why are you in here?”
I’m feeling quite happy from singing so I say boisterously, “Oh you know, lookin’ strange.” And then I start laughing.
He pulls a cigarette out of his khaki pants pocket. “Are you a man or a woman? You have a very deep voice.”
I’m a bit confused on this matter. My voice often tells me I’m a man. I say to Ben, “Oh, I get this question a lot. I’m a woman.”
“You’d be quite beautiful if you dressed differently.”
I stub out my cigarette and leave the room without saying anything. I walk pass the nurses’ station and wave to Waris. I’m pissed off but the Zopiclone has kicked in so I’m starting to get tired. I get into bed, lie down and stare at a light above the bed, and then drift off.
I wake at six. It’s as though my body is programmed to need nicotine at that time so I trundle out to the smokers’ room. Lester is watching Virginia walk around the yard. Nola is getting a cup of coffee and lecturing Mark on waste. I doubt he is listening though. He has four cups in each hand. I say, “Morning” to Lester. I sit down and watch Virginia walking around in her red cloak, buttoned at the neck, looking like a cardinal.
“Do you think she makes these speeches in her sleep?” I say to Lester.
“If she could relax long enough to lie down, I’m sure she’d be having a good old rant,” he says.
“Did you hear Nola ranting last night?” I ask him in a hushed tone. “She was going nuts at Carly. Carly tried to take the toilet paper out of her doorway and she screamed, ‘You dirty fucken bitch’ at her. I mean, I’m deaf and it woke me. Then she started howling.”
Lester looks at me and says, “Babe, I don’t think we should talk to her. It might be contagious.”
I know what he means. In this environment you absorb your surroundings; when you are around mentally unwell people it can be hard to gauge normal behaviour from abnormal.
You are never going to be completely settled in a psych ward because there is always somebody unsettled; if you can’t see it or hear it, you can feel it.
I make coffee and go back to my room. I sit and read the Koran but as usual I fall asleep. I get woken at eight by Waris, who says that I now don’t have any meds in the morning because they are all given to me at night.
“How did you sleep on the Zopiclone?”
I pause to think. “Ah, yeah, good, good.”
I go and eat my breakfast in the lounge. I look around for Fiona to see if she made it through the night. She walks in as I walk out. “Where you going?” she says, looking disappointed.
Sarah Vaughan is Not My Mother: A Memoir of Madness Page 7
