by Jean Davison
‘Are they really?’ he said, looking interested.
I wished I hadn’t said that. Had it made me sound schizophrenic? I’d been taught at Sunday school to listen to the ‘still small voice’ of conscience, the God-part inside us. After the loss of my religious beliefs I’d perceived this ‘voice’ as a part of my thoughts, but I didn’t mean a ‘voice’ literally.
‘Everybody thinks that way at times, don’t they?’ I said nervously.
‘What way?’
‘That your thoughts are like voices inside you.’
A stony silence. Damn it, I was making it worse.
‘But I can’t hear them. I only mean “voices” in a metaphorical sense,’ I said in a hoarse voice that ended in a whisper.
It’s no good trying to explain, I thought. He probably even thinks the pop song by the Paper Dolls titled ‘Something Here In My Heart (Keeps A-Tellin’ Me No)’ is about mental illness. I picked up my glass with a shaky hand and took a gulp of water. The note-takers were scribbling away and Dr Shaw was wearing his funny little smile. Train people to look for symptoms of illness and they’ll find something sick about the desk and chairs if they expect to, I thought angrily. What a bunch of lemons!
‘Do you ever wonder if people can hear your thoughts?’
‘No, and sometimes it’s a jolly good job they can’t,’ I replied with feeling.
A few chuckles rippled around the room diffusing the heavy atmosphere, but only for a moment.
It was awful. I felt as if I was being interrogated, found guilty of mental illness and the sentence was the destruction of my credibility and self-esteem. I can’t take this much longer, they’re pushing me over the edge, I thought, while another voice inside me (not an audible voice, you understand) was saying: No, you’re wrong to think this way, Jean, they only want to help and now you’re getting paranoid.
No, it wasn’t me. This was enough to drive the sanest person crazy.
OK, I think they really might be only wanting to help, I decided finally, but the problem was that they were so dangerously wrong. And I was one of the casualties of this narrow-minded, medically orientated perspective, one who had been placed in grave danger because of their wrongness.
‘Why did you first see a psychiatrist?’ Dr Shaw asked.
I needed more time to think that one out for myself. Was being caught up in conflicts and confusion about religion and life a medical problem? But life had seemed meaningless and empty; depression was a medical problem, wasn’t it?
‘Come along, Jean. Would you like to try to tell us why?’
‘Because I thought … I thought I was depressed.’
‘You thought you were depressed? And weren’t you?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so in a way, but … but, no, not really,’ I said.
‘You were depressed but you weren’t? That doesn’t make sense, does it?’
‘Yes it does,’ I said defensively. ‘I mean … I mean I wasn’t fully depressed.’
‘Oh? And have you ever been fully depressed?’
‘Yes. In Thornville Ward. I never knew depression before then. Not what I’d call depression now. I didn’t even realise until then that it was possible to feel so …’ My voice wavered.
‘Did going into hospital help you?’
Hadn’t he heard what I’d just said? ‘How could it have helped? How could it have done anything other than make me worse? And that’s all psychiatry has ever done for me,’ I blurted out, as I glanced up accusingly at the others, then back at Dr Shaw. ‘You start treating people in ways that can be harmful, without knowing enough … without even knowing anything about the person you’re treating. Without understanding a single thing …’
My voice trembled as I came close to tears. But I wouldn’t cry in front of them. I wouldn’t. The hurt turned to anger. Dr Shaw had a sort of I-know-how-you-feel-dear smile on his face and I was sure they’d heard all this before from many other poor, sick nerve cases. I suspected they believed these kind of criticisms came only from patients who lacked ‘insight’. Didn’t it occur to them that hurt and angry, even confused or sick, patients could be right about some things? If only they would tear up their goddamn notepads, unshackle their minds from their training, forget about the textbooks they’d read and just listen and hear. Oh, wasn’t there at least one person among them who could understand what was happening at this hospital and see that it was wrong?
I glanced at the sea of faces around me; all eyes were staring intently at me. There were about twelve people in the room, mostly males, seated around the desk where Dr Shaw sat facing me. I turned and looked at Andy sitting behind me. His fresh open face looked serious, thoughtful. I shifted my gaze to the person on his right and held it there for a moment. And then on to the next person, and the next. And the next. All the way round the room, looking steadily at each person in turn for a while. Nobody spoke. Most of them looked uncomfortable under my gaze and lowered their eyes, shuffled their feet or coughed nervously. I got a kind of fleeting, perverse pleasure out of this despite my growing anxiety that I was finally cracking up.
I rested my eyes longest on a young bearded man who I thought looked caring, as if trying to understand. And he didn’t look away. But I realised that I was probably seeing him as I wanted to see him. Finally, I looked back at Dr Shaw, then down at the floor. Afraid and alone.
I was locked in a nightmare from which I couldn’t awaken, trapped in a horror film and cast in the star part as victim. A role which would have to be played out right to the tragic finale. Or would it? Perhaps I could still say ‘NO!’ and not allow it to happen. I must shatter the screen, make good my escape and rewrite the script.
‘Right, thank you, Jean,’ Dr Shaw said, bringing the session to an end.
I remained seated a moment longer, thinking things out.
Dr Shaw coughed. ‘It’s time for you to go now.’
Yes, it’s time for me to go now, I thought. And please, dear God, don’t let it be too late.
The room seemed thick with tension and deathly quiet as I stood up. Then Andy sprang to his feet, patted my shoulder and, smiling warmly, said, ‘See ya later, kiddo. Tarra.’ I liked him for that.
‘Has anybody got any questions?’ I heard Dr Shaw ask just after I closed the door on leaving.
Yes, me. I’ve got some questions, I thought. I’ve got so many questions that I’ve been ignoring for far too long.
The first thing I must do had suddenly become so obvious to me and I knew that this time I must see it through to the end. Were being drowsy, depressed, lacking in energy and motivation, symptoms of illness or side effects of drugs? It seemed that outlets for my feelings, whether through writing, talking, tears or whatever, had all been, to a large extent, blocked off by the drugs I’d taken for years. It couldn’t be healthy, this pressing down of emotions. It was as if I’d packed them tightly into a bottle and pushed a cork in. What would happen if the cork shot out? Would feelings that had been contained for so long erupt like a volcano if released? Perhaps I really was sick and perhaps I did need the drugs, but I had to find out. Frozen in stone, buried before my time, what had I got to lose anyway? I decided to take the cork out myself.
The next morning, a Saturday, I went round the house opening drawers and cupboards, gathering together all the pills accumulated over the years through missing just one dose every so often, then I added these to my present supply, and emptied the whole lot down the toilet. But several flushes later, they were obstinately remaining at the bottom of the toilet bowl; miserable reminders of those years of my life that I wanted to flush away along with the pills.
I scooped out a soggy, yellow handful of Valium pills, but still couldn’t flush the other pills away. Damn it! I fished out the rest and loaded them back into their plastic containers. There had recently been an advertising campaign urging people to get rid of old pills safely by taking them to a chemist. With this in mind, I set off out.
On my way back from the chemist, I
had a strong urge to cut my hair. It was straight and very long, hanging loosely to my waist, and I’d worn it like that since I was about sixteen. Sure that I’d make a mess with the scissors myself, I called in at the local hairdresser’s who said they could fit me in right away for a trim.
‘I want a lot cutting off,’ I explained. ‘I’d like it to just below my ears.’
‘Oh, but you’ve got such lovely long hair. Are you sure you want so much cutting off?’
‘Yes. Quite sure.’
Snip, snip, snip … A part of me, formed over the years, fell away in seconds. The three other hairdressers and the girl who did the shampooing stopped what they were doing to silently stand and watch, though they couldn’t have understood the solemnity of the occasion. Cutting off my hair had somehow got connected in my mind with cutting off my past; a kind of symbolic ritual. I don’t know what gave me that idea. A character in Rosamond Lehmann’s Dusty Answer has her long hair cut short for much the same reason, but I didn’t read that novel until several years later.
Back outside, I breathed in the fresh air, blowing away the cobwebs in my brain. How strange it felt to toss my head and not feel the weight of long, thick hair. Change was in the air. I could feel it, breathe it, smell it and taste it on my lips. High in the sky the sun was peeping out from behind a grey cloud and, for the first time in how long, I felt exhilarated. No more drugs. After years of being a zombie, I was coming back to life again. It’s like being reborn, I thought excitedly.
Lying in bed that night with no bottles of pills beside my bed for the first time in years, but feeling restless, unable to sleep, some of my earlier optimism about being reborn faded as I began to glimpse something of the struggle that lay ahead.
It was going to be a painful birth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I DIDN’T KNOW I was a drug addict. I thought drug addicts were illicit-drug users who belonged to the shady world of dealers and pushers, shifty transactions in discos and bars, fixes in lavatories; and I was never part of that scene.
I awoke early on Sunday morning, feeling shaky after a few hours of restless sleep. As the day wore on I felt irritable and Brian’s behaviour grated on my nerves more than usual. Tomorrow I would have to face the day hospital. I went to bed early.
My mind raced here and there, raking up incidents from the past few years. When I eventually fell asleep, it was as if my brain was processing stored-up information like a computer. Every so often I awoke with a start, sat up and thought: Yes, that’s right! Most of these insights had been kicking around for a long time, at least on a cerebral level, but somehow never before hitting me on this deeper level with such shattering intensity. My thoughts and criticisms of psychiatry, formed gradually and tentatively over the years, now hung forcefully together as a dazzling confirmation of truth which must be acted on without further delay.
Throughout the night I kept waking to flashes of insight into myself, my family situation and psychiatry, especially psychiatry. Clear, painful, disturbing, illuminating glimpses of truth. Although I sensed I was wobbling precariously near to an emotional upheaval which might cause me to lose my balance, I had never experienced a state that was more self-revealing. By morning I felt weak and exhausted, but amidst the hovering fears and ambiguities that threatened to clog up my mind, two things stood out with soul-shaking clarity: I had to get away from the hospital and I had to leave home.
I wanted to do both things immediately, but first I had to find suitable accommodation and I needed hospital staff to back up my attempt to get a job. But no longer would I delay plans to achieve these two objectives now that I’d taken the first step to freedom by discarding the drugs.
When I arrived at the day hospital, Geoff stared at me with unconcealed disappointment. ‘Oh! You’ve cut off your long, beautiful hair,’ he said, looking as if he was going to cry.
The day passed uneventfully. I felt reasonably together, although a bit preoccupied and I almost forgot to pour Arnold’s coffee. On the bus home I began sweating and shaking but managed to control the ripples of panic which threatened to take hold.
When I arrived home Brian began talking about people ‘taking over the country’. My father, too, believed this and, to my dismay, had become a member of the National Front.
Oh God, not today, I thought. I can’t face this kind of talking today. I pictured Samuel sitting in the hospital library, his face contorted in painful recollection as he cried out, ‘I hate the Nazis! They killed my mother and my father and my sister …’ Poor, poor Samuel, and he’s just one victim out of so many.
Brian grinned and said to Mum, ‘Look at her face.’ He turned to me again. ‘What’s wrong, Jean?’ He began tapping with a spoon on a milk bottle. ‘Come on, answer me.’
He stopped tapping. ‘Mum, why isn’t Jean like us?’ he asked. ‘Why is she so different?’
‘I’ve told you before to stop saying that,’ Mum said as she put the kettle on. ‘She’s not different.’
‘I should bloody well hope I am different,’ I exploded. ‘It’s not my fault I was born into a crackpot family.’
Dad and Brian laughed at this, but Mum was indignant. ‘Don’t include me in that. I’m not a crackpot,’ she said.
‘Neither am I,’ said Brian.
‘Oh yes, Brian, you are definitely a crackpot,’ Mum said. ‘But Jean’s not a crackpot, and neither am I.’
‘Hey, Jean, if you’re not a crackpot, then why are you a nuthouse patient?’ Brian asked. ‘You can’t answer that, can you?’
‘Shut up, Brian. I’ve told you before to stop saying that as well,’ Mum said. ‘You’ve got no sense.’
‘At least I’d got enough sense not to go into High Royds.’
Well, he has got a point there, I thought bitterly.
Brian grinned again, and resumed making a noise: belching, animal noises, jingling coins and tapping with a spoon on a milk bottle. Clink. Clink. Clink. Each sound jarred inside my head, my stomach churned and I felt like screaming.
I skipped tea and went up to bed.
The night wore on. I was wide awake. And aching. Aching all over. I tossed and turned until I was sweltering hot. My blankets were in a lumpy, soggy ball. And I couldn’t stop thinking, thinking, thinking. Could I afford a bed-sit on my DHSS giro until I got a job? Yes, there must be a way. Other people without jobs lived in bed-sits and they didn’t starve, did they? I went downstairs for the newspaper and, struggling against waves of nausea, headache and fears of impending insanity, I scanned the accommodation column and drew a circle around a few possibilities that were the cheapest.
Almost anywhere would do for a start till I got a job, till I felt better and got on my feet. God, I wished this damn headache would ease up, I couldn’t think straight for it. What about hostel accommodation? Cheaper? A YWCA perhaps? And would living with other people be good for me, help me get over my shyness? Live at a hostel, get a bed-sit later. Yes, that seemed – dared I use the word? – sensible.
I took the telephone directory upstairs and sat in bed flicking through the pages. No YWCA here in Bradford, but there might be one in Leeds. I’d ring round tomorrow; yes, that’s what I’d do. Got to make a start, it was now or never, my last hope. But there was nothing I could do then at three in the morning so I had to try to get some sleep. Hell, I couldn’t stand this headache and my mind was racing feverishly. Must switch off. Must get some sleep …
Came four in the morning and I was sitting up in bed, my mind a frothy, seething whirlpool. They had messed up my life … Can the blind lead the blind? I was nowhere near as screwed up as this when I first saw a psychiatrist. If only I could get back to how I was then and start all over again. Without psychiatry. Without drugs. Oh, if only … Dear God, please don’t let it be too late.
My pillow slithered off the bed to join the blankets on the floor. I picked it up and hugged it to my chest. How had this happened? How in the name of common sense and sanity had it happened? I was a teenager … I had
a job, was coping, could think clearly. But I was sad and confused about life, wanted someone to talk to, felt I needed help. Without encouragement from anyone else and against the wishes of my mother, I asked to see a psychiatrist, and agreed to come into hospital. Naïve. Trusting. Unaware. So why, then, did Sister Oldroyd accuse me of denying I needed help? And why did she believe I was secretly not taking the drugs when she snatched at my palm?
Get undressed. You’re having some more Shock Treatment…
No, no, no. I cried into my pillow.
God help you if you slip back!
Dr Prior warned me not to stop taking pills. Slip back to what? I was much better before I started on them. You must keep taking your tablets … No, no. I listened to you then but I won’t now, not any more. I want to live.
I was confused, disorientated, exhausted. I badly needed to sleep but something didn’t make sense and I had to try to sort it out right now. My brain raced on feverishly. Then I thought I’d got it. My case notes were wrong! That was it, of course. That was why they gave me all that inappropriate treatment. It was all some kind of misunderstanding right from the beginning. A wrong diagnosis. Because they didn’t know me at all.
I’ll have to see Dr Shaw and tell him my case notes are wrong, I decided. Sister Speight, while reading my case notes, had once told me that Dr Sugden wrote I was quiet and withdrawn in Thornville. But had he failed to record how, right up to being admitted, I was going out with friends, and that I was never quiet and withdrawn with my close friends, at least not until after I was heavily drugged? Perhaps Dr Sugden hadn’t realised that? After all, he’d never even met me except for the two brief interviews before admission, never even seen me when not on tranquillising drugs. And then, WHAM! Hospitalisation, heavy drugs, ECT … But it was all there in my diary – dancing at the Mecca only three days before my admission. No, they can’t have known all this or else surely they wouldn’t have treated me as they did. And what about Sister Oldroyd misjudging my shyness as an ‘attitude’ and wrongly believing that I thought everyone was against me? Had her misinterpretations of my behaviour gone down in my case notes? Did other staff, then and today, think it must be true if a member of staff had said it?
