And I will go to the Day Centre: to Art Group, to Talking Group, to Relaxation Group, and I will do as I’m told.
I will take my medicine.
how best we can support you
It isn’t so bad here.
I’ve been spending time in the relaxation room. It’s just a normal room really, but there are a few beanbags scattered about, and a stereo with cassettes of gentle music and meditation. It’s as good a place as any, if you’ve nothing better to do.
Inside my head is a story. I hoped if I told it, it might make more sense to me. It’s hard to explain, but if I could only remember everything, if I could write my thoughts on sheets of paper, something to hold with my hands then – I don’t know. Nothing probably. Like I say, it’s hard to explain.
In the relaxation room I got thinking about trying one of the jigsaw puzzles. There is a drawer stuffed full of them, and a few more stacked on the shelves. I found myself looking at a thousand-piecer. The picture on the box showed a coastline with sloping cliffs above a pebble beach. Dotted along the cliff path are small wooden huts in different colours, and lined along the top are dozens of caravans, like a neat row of white teeth.
It reminded me a lot of Ocean Cove, and if I looked closer, maybe I could see two young boys running down the path. Or maybe sitting on the beach together, scrunching dry seaweed between their toes and throwing pebbles at a rock to see who could get closest. If I put my face right up close to the box, perhaps I’d hear them laughing together. Or practising new swear words, and promising not to tell Mum. But that was daydreams. There was nobody in the picture. And inside the box were a thousand pieces of nothing, and even some of them would be missing.
‘You alright, mate?’ I’m not sure how long
Click-Click-Wink
was standing in the doorway, I hadn’t noticed him.
‘I’m okay thanks Steve.’
I turned away, pushing a cassette of panpipes or whale song into the stereo and turning up the volume. ‘I’m going to listen to this.’
‘Do you want to talk?’
‘No.’
I didn’t say that I’d rather be left alone, but I guess it was obvious because he didn’t hang about. He didn’t go immediately though. He said, ‘I’ve been meaning to give you this.’
It wasn’t a big gesture, or a song and dance. He didn’t
click
,
click
. He didn’t
wink
. He handed me a small yellow Post-it note, and left the room.
I felt the sticky strip against my finger. It took me a moment to work it out.
User name: MattHomes
Password: Writer_In_Residence
I can get so wrapped up in myself I’m blind to the kindness around me. He didn’t have to do that. It isn’t so bad here. Right now I’m logged onto the computer as a Writer_In_Residence, and I have a story to finish.
clock watching
I was driven from the police station to the hospital without any sirens – a policeman at the wheel and a social worker sitting beside me in the back, holding my section papers on her knees, absently twisting a paper clip. My mouth was still stuffed with cotton wool from when I fell in the police cell, and I could feel the jagged broken edge of my front tooth against the tip of my tongue. My brother’s voice crackled over static on the police radio.
I want to talk about the difference between living and existing, and what it was to be kept on an acute psychiatric ward for day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after
day
after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day etc.
Day 13, for example
7 a.m.
Get woken by a knock on my bedroom door, and the call for morning medication round. I have a metallic taste in my mouth, a side effect of the sleeping tablets.
7.01 a.m.
Sleep.
7.20 a.m.
Get woken again by a second knock. This time the door opens and a nursing assistant walks in and pulls the curtains. She stands at the foot of my bed until I get up. She makes a remark about what a lovely day it is. It isn’t a lovely day.
7.22 a.m.
Walk down the corridor in my dressing gown. Wait in a queue for medication that I don’t want. Avoid eye-contact with the other patients who are doing the same.
7.28 a.m.
Get given tablets, an assortment of colours and shapes in a plastic cup. Ask the dispensing nurse what they are for?
‘The yellow one is to help you relax, and those two white ones are to help with some of the troubling thoughts you’ve been having. And that other white one is to help with the side effects. You know all of this, Matt.’
‘I just like to check.’
‘Every morning?’
‘Yes. Sorry.’
‘You can trust us, you know.’
‘Can I?’
They watch me to make sure I swallow them. I always swallow them. They always watch.
7.30 a.m.
Breakfast is Weetabix with lots of sugar and a Mars Bar that Mum brought in. The coffee is decaffeinated. The mugs are provided by Drug Reps. They have the brands of the medication we hate, stamped all over them.
7.45 a.m.
Sit in the high-fenced smokers’ garden with other patients. Some of them talk. The manics talk. But they talk crap. Most of us don’t say anything.
Those who don’t have cigarettes blag off those who do, and promise to pay them back when benefits come through.
We smoke for ages. There is nothing else to do. Nothing. Some of the patients have yellow fingers. One of the patients has brown fingers. We all cough too much. There is literally nothing to do.
8.30 a.m.
A nursing assistant pokes his head around the door. He explains that he is my allocated nurse for the shift. He asks if I would like some one-to-one time? He isn’t one of the staff who I feel safe talking to, so I say no. He looks relieved.
8.31 a.m.
Go take a piss.
8.34 a.m.
Continue smoking.
9.30 a.m.
Finish last cigarette. Feel a surge of panic. Try some of the breathing exercises the occupational therapist taught me. A manic lady stubs her cigarette out, and starts playing at nurse. She tells me that breathing exercises help her too. She tells me I’ll be fine. She asks me if I would like a cup of tea, but then gets distracted and starts talking to someone else about the different kinds of tea she enjoys. She doesn’t seem to notice me leave.
9.40 a.m.
Run a bath. Stuck to the tub are somebody’s pubic hairs. I have to swill them away first. There is tightness in my chest. My hands are shaking. The panic is getting worse, it’s hard to breathe. Forget bath. Leave bathroom.
9.45 a.m.
Knock on the nursing office door. All of the morning shift are in there. They are chatting over cups of tea, sharing some cake that was left behind by the night staff.
I feel like I’m interrupting.
‘I need some PRN,’ I say.
PRN is the name given to medication we can have on an as-required basis. All patients know this.
‘I need the one that calms me down,’ I say.
‘Diazepam? You have that with your regular tablets, Matt. You’ve already had it this morning. It takes a while to work. You can have some more at lunchtime. Why don’t you try your breathing exercises?’
‘I have.’
‘Why don’t you try to distract yourself? You could get dressed.’
This is what we do to distract ourselves. Fun stuff. Like getting dressed.
9.50 a.m.
Put on my combat trousers and green T-shirt. Lace up my boots. Curl up in bed. Sleep.
12.20 p.m.
Get woken by a knock at the door. The lunch trolley has arrived. Get up. Take a piss.
12.25 p.m.
Sit in the dining room with other patients and eat hospital food. It isn’t bad. Take double helpings of Victoria Sponge.
12.32 p.m.
A nurse steps into the dining room and gives me my diazepam tablet. She doesn’t wait to watch me take it. She knows that I want this one.
12.33 p.m.
Get offered three cigarettes in exchange for the diazepam.
12.45 p.m.
Smoke first cigarette.
12.52 p.m.
Smoke second cigarette.
1.15 p.m.
A lady who I have never met before comes out to the smokers’ garden and asks if I am Matt?
‘Yes.’
‘Hi. I’m an agency nurse on this afternoon, and I was hoping we could have a little chat about how things are?’
‘I don’t know you.’
‘We could get to know each other.’
‘Will you work here again?’
‘I don’t know. I hope so.’
‘Can you take me for a walk?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ll need to see if you’re written up for escorted leave.’
‘I am.’
‘I’ll need to check. I’ll be right back.’
The lady who I have never met before walks away.
1.35 p.m.
Smoke last cigarette.
1.45 p.m.
The lady (who I have now met once) comes back.
‘Sorry I took so long. I couldn’t find your notes.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘They were right at the back of the filing cabinet.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘You do have escorted leave written up, but the nurse in charge says we’re a bit pressed for staff today, because of sickness. It might not be possible for you to have a walk this afternoon. Did you get one this morning?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. I’m so sorry about that, Mark.’
‘It’s Matt.’
‘Sorry. The nurse in charge says that your mum comes in around 4 o’clock. You’ll be able to go for a walk with her. Is that okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s awful when they’re so short of staff, isn’t it? Oh I am sorry, Mark.’
2 p.m.
In TV lounge. Listen to an argument between two patients about what they want to watch. Think about cutting my throat. Listen to Simon. Think about whether the TV might be linked to Simon. Think about whether Simon can transmit thoughts through the TV. Think about what I would cut myself with. Think about smashing a coffee mug. Listen to Simon. Sit on my hands. Listen to argument between the two patients. Think about Cloth Dolls. Listen to Simon. Think about Atoms. Listen to Simon. Look at a coffee mug on the magazine table. Listen to Simon. Simon is lonely. Think. Think. Think.
4 p.m.
‘Hello sweetheart.’
‘I want to go home, Mum.’
‘Oh baby.’
‘Don’t call me that!’
Look through the stuff she’s brought. Mars Bars, Golden Virginia, cartons of Ribena and Kia-Ora, a new sketch pad and pens and a camouflage jacket from the army surplus store on Southdown Road. Say thank you, and try to smile.
‘Matthew, sweetheart, look at your tooth. Let the nurses take you to a dentist. Please, for me. Or let me take you. The doctor said—’
‘It doesn’t hurt. Don’t make a fuss.’
‘I want my handsome smile back.’
‘It’s not your smile.’
4.10 p.m.
Go for walk around hospital grounds. Tell Mum that I am better. Tell her there is nothing wrong. Ask her if dead people can transmit thoughts through a TV? Try to accept her reassurances. Try to remember she is on my side. Tell her that I am better. Ask her if I am better?
5.30 p.m.
Mum leaves. Dinner arrives. Eat.
5.50 p.m.
Sit in the smokers’ garden with other patients. Some of them talk. The manics talk. But they talk crap. Most of us don’t say anything. Those who don’t have cigarettes blag off of me, and promise they’ll pay me back when their benefits come through. There is nothing to do.
6.30 p.m.
Take a shit, then go to bedroom and try to masturbate. Fail.
6.45 p.m.
Back in smokers’ garden. It’s getting cold.
7.05 p.m.
Pace up and down the corridor. There is another pacer – a black man with long greying dreadlocks and an open shirt showing his chest. We keep passing each other in the middle. We smile at each other. This is fun. Up and down the corridor, smiling each time we pass. Saying hello and goodbye. We start to pace quicker so that we reach each other sooner. We start to run. We laugh each time we meet, doing clumsy High-Fives. A nurse comes out of the office and asks us to settle down.
7.18 p.m.
Back in smokers’ garden. It isn’t really a garden, it’s a claustrophobic square with a few chairs, and dead butt ends littering concrete slabs. There is literally nothing to do.
7.45 p.m.
Go to make a cup of tea in the kitchen. Two patients are snogging. They ask me what I’m looking at? I leave before the kettle boils.
7.47 p.m.
Back in smokers’ garden. Nothing.
9.40 p.m.
It’s dark, night-time, there is mud in my mouth, in my eyes, and the rain keeps falling. I am trying to carry him, but the ground is wet. I lift him and fall, lift him and fall, and he is silent. His arms hang lifeless at his sides. I am begging him to say something, Please! Say something! I fall again, and I am holding him, holding his face to mine, holding him so close I can feel his warmth leave, and I am begging him to say something. Please. Please. Talk to me.
10 p.m.
Called for evening meds. Wait in a queue for medication that I don’t want. Avoid eye-contact with the other patients who are doing the same.
10.08 p.m.
Get given tablets, an assortment of colours and shapes in a plastic cup. Ask what they are for?
‘They’re your tablets, Matt. You need to take them.’
‘The other nurses tell me what they’re for.’
‘Then you know.’
‘Please tell me.’
‘Okay. These two are to help with the difficult thoughts, and the voices.’