Sarah Vaughan is Not My Mother: A Memoir of Madness

by Thomson, MaryJane

  “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.”

  We walk to the day hospital and through a door opposite the occupational therapy room into a passageway. Waris is there with Doctor Aso. We wait for the other people to get out so we can go in. Lester is sitting on a chair around the corner with his nurse. He says, “Good luck.” I smile and say, “Same to you.”

  I go into the room and sit down. I look at the judge behind his table. Another person is fiddling with what looks like a tape recorder. Dr Aso has my file with him, filled with notes. The judge tells me he has a letter from my parents, which goes over the history of my psychotic episodes.

  The letter makes me angry: it doesn’t paint a pretty picture. My family is clearly against me and my wish to get out. Dr Aso then speaks about my mental state and says it is necessary for me to keep undergoing treatment in the ward. My lawyer speaks on my behalf and says I wish to be released from the compulsory treatment order. I will contest being held under the Section recommended by my doctor. I then speak and say how much better I now feel, and how I have thought long and hard about my past habits but feel that I have moved on from them and can continue to get well in the community.

  The judge goes with the doctor’s recommendation. His words shake me: “Not mentally fit to be in the community.” The lawyer, Waris and I stand up and walk out of the room.

  I return to my room in a fit of rage. I storm around and curse the lawyer, the doctor and the judge. I throw my empty Coke bottle on the ground and kick it. The voice starts to speak to me and I tell it, “Fuck off.” I look at Jared’s number and decide then and there that I don’t and won’t live a straight life. It’s not worth it when you get all your rights taken away like this.

  I can again feel the drugs running through my veins, around my body, to my brain. No wonder people stay on drugs all their life: there is no mercy in the real world. A nurse pokes his head in and I say, “Whatcha lookin’ at?” He closes the shutter. I say, “You’re just brain-dead, mutha fucka.”<
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  I walk staunchly out of my room and down the corridor. I kick open the double doors and go outside to smoke. Lester and Fiona aren’t there. I look at the dining room and say, “Fuck you and your food.” I pace the yard smoking cigarette after cigarette. Waris comes out and says, “You’re not eating lunch. What’s wrong?” I stop pacing and say to myself, “Be calm.”

  “Did you not think court went so well?” Waris says.

  “No! Seems like I’ve got to be stuck in here forever. Feel like that judge had no respect and didn’t even listen to me, just because I wasn’t the doctor and wasn’t all suited up like a lawyer. Some of us don’t work in offices or high court rooms, looking false because of a well-groomed appearance. Imagine if the judge or lawyer couldn’t get up in the morning to his nice large selection of suits.”

  “Oh, MaryJane, you spoke very well. We are just trying to get you well so you can do the things you want to do.”

  “Well, it seems like it is all going to be too hard, not using drugs, getting a job, if all people at the end of the day are going to do is judge me. It’s not like I’ve committed a crime or harmed anyone.”

  “Exactly, which means you will get out of here soon and have some command over your life.”

  “I need to go out and buy some shoes. No one going to take me seriously in these boots.”

  “Okay,” Waris says, “but I can’t have you going out with no food, so go eat something then come see me.”

  I walk off to the dining room, avoiding making eye contact with people. Thankfully, lunch is a vegetarian sandwich. I feel my rage diminishing and with each bite I return to normal. I go and find Waris. “See, you look much better. You have to keep up your energy—it helps your mood. You are walking a lot more these days.”

  She escorts me down the corridor, through the doors.

  “Be back by five.”

  I cross the car park and walk to the main road. I see buses going past but I decide to walk into town. Once again I feel free. It feels like I’ve been locked up for an eternity. I walk straight down the road towards the Basin Reserve, where fences made of string are tied up around the grass.

  I think of time, the end of time and the beginning of time, and how life doesn’t end, it just goes on and on. I think of how I will be a part of that and how my life may continue after this one. I lie down in the middle of the grass in the Basin and I admire how green it is. I look at the stands and the building at the top. I decide it’s not a safe place to lie as there may be a gunman waiting to shoot me. I stand and point a finger at them to let them know that I know what they are up to. I turn my back and say to God, “Condemn them.”

  I carry on into town, feeling a bit scared of the people who are out to shoot me. As I head down Cambridge Terrace past all the car showrooms I think to myself, still cars driving with petrol, even after all they know! It’s bad for God, and we won’t survive as long as people keep driving cars and emitting fumes into the atmosphere.

  My boots feel heavy. I decide against taking them off as I don’t want to draw attention to myself. I stop for a filter coffee at Starbucks and watch the people go by, wondering if they are normal and think properly, or just walk around blind. I roll a big cigarette like a trumpet to last me all the way down Courtenay Place.

  At Rebel Sport I look around at the shoes and start trying them on with my put-out cigarette in my left hand. I find some casual street shoes that are Nike, black and yellow. I look around the store some more but decide to just get the shoes. I walk up to the counter and pay for them. Outside the shop I take the shoes out of the box and put them on. I can’t decide whether to biff my boots or try and stuff them into my bag, I try stuffing them in but only one boot fits as I have brought all my writing books with me. I didn’t feel they would be safe left in the ward.

  My new shoes feel nice and light. They come up to my ankles, making them still a little like boots, but they are nowhere near as clumpy as my old ones. I decide to chuck the other boots because I don’t think I’ll want to wear them again: they remind me of being institutionalised. I walk down the stairs thinking how I want to start anew. When I do finally get out of the ward, I don’t want memories of being in hospital. I think to myself, if only I could switch off God and carry on my way, not stuck in the past, carrying a burden from then to now. I just want to be normal and like everyone else, present in the day.

  Hearing the voice day in and day out dragging up my past, things I have done and people I have known, can get very negative. The voice goes over awful events and makes up events that I don’t want to relive or know about. It’s hard to move on and forge my own thoughts and beliefs because the voice is constantly telling me what to do and what to think.

  I go down the escalator and walk into the food court. The food reminds me of the slop they feed me in the ward; I fail to understand why people with choice would choose to eat this junk.

  When I leave the building I revel in the feeling of wearing lighter shoes. I head up Cuba Street, go into shops and admire the clothes. It takes me back to a time when I was younger and free and not in a mess. I would meet friends here and drink on a Friday or Saturday night. I stand outside a bar and wonder if I should go in and get a vodka, the drink I always used to drink.

  I walk past the café where my friends work. I look in but they’re not there. I think of how they have probably forgotten me, given I’ve been in the ward so much, and of the letter one of them wrote me, which I ripped up because the voice told me not to read it. I feel a hint of sadness that I never read the letter.

  I continue past and keep walking. I decide against getting another coffee, but my mind leads me back to the thought of a drink. I look in my bag to see if I have ID but I don’t. “Fuck,” I say to myself, “can’t even get a drink.” I decide to ring Jared when I get back and arrange to meet him; can’t keep going on with nothing in my system.

  I make my way back to the ward, excited that I’m going to ring Jared. I make a vow with myself that I must not tell anyone what I’m going to do, not even Lester or Fiona. I head up the hill past Massey University and notice how happy and youthful the students look. It takes me back to a time when I was that way, young, hanging out with friends, not having too many worries or cares. How I wish I could get that back.

  I start turning negative to cover up my sad situation. It can always seem good looking back, I think to myself. Maybe I just had a veil on and living that way was phony. I say to the voice, “I’m never going back there.” I decide university led me nowhere, just deprived me of being able to live the life I wanted, which was why I dropped out, to my father’s dismay. What’s the point of working in a world that’s wrong? Who needs to be taught?

  In this negative frame of mind I arrive at the Four Square store for cigarettes and then remember I have no ID. I ask anyway and they say no. I curse them as I walk away, and say to myself, “Twenty-six and still getting IDed.”

  I get back to the ward and go and tell Waris.

  “Oh darling, you’re back and it’s not yet five. How did you go?”

  I point to the shoes. She says, “They look great and so much easier for you to walk in. Oh, and I love the colour.”

  “Yeah, I just thought the other ones were not so practical. Hey, Waris, I didn’t have my ID so I couldn’t get any cigarettes and I’m running low. Could you give me my ID so I can get some?”

  “Oh darling, it’s my fault. I should have given you some ID. I’ll come out with you—I need to get some dinner. We go soon, eh?”

  I go into my room and drop my bag. I feel good when I look at my shoes because I know I’m getting one step closer to walking out of here. I take my writing out of my bag and put it in the drawer beside my bed. I decide to put on my jeans with my new shoes to see how they look. There are no mirrors but they feel all right. I walk out of my room and see Waris standing outside the door of the nurses’ station with her gold sandals shining through the dimness of the corridor. She is talking to a patient. It must be
a new one as I don’t recognise him. Waris sees me in my jeans and says, “Wow, you look great! You’re back in jeans; you must be getting better.”

  “Well, I hope so,” I say.

  I head outside feeling good about myself because I have some new shoes and am not wearing pyjamas. Fiona is at the table smoking. She says, “You look great. Did you buy some jeans?”

  “No, these are some Waris gave me when I was in ICU. I just decided to wear them because I bought some shoes.” I look at Fiona’s jeans and notice how much more fitted they are than mine. I think about how I looked in ICU when I took to wearing pyjamas, even when I went out. Although I haven’t come to terms with having a mental illness, I am gaining the ability to see some of my behaviour as good or bad.

  “I think I’m feeling a bit better on these meds,” I say.

  “Yes, maybe they are helping you. You’re certainly looking better.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I walked past the university and it made me think I want to be like those people—you know, normal.”

  “I know what you mean. I’d like to be more normal too, especially for my family. I don’t want them worrying all the time whether Mummy’s going to be awake when they come in to see me in the morning.”

  “I agree. I just want to be able to fit in with everybody else and not feel abnormal in crowds because I look so different. When I got here, all I wanted to be was different. I put Vivid tattoos on my arm. I wrote poetry all over my jeans and T-shirt. I dyed my hair purple. I wanted to keep changing my appearance. That’s why I hated them giving me drugs: they took my energy away.”

  “Totally. It’s like you can’t sit right because you have to keep doing and doing. When I feel like that I keep cleaning and cleaning the house. One time I even bought buckets of paint so I could repaint the kitchen, as in House & Garden. Eventually my husband had to take away the paint.”

  As we’re talking Paul comes over. He says to me in a disappointed way, “You look different—you don’t write on yourself any more.”