All of Me (18 page)

Anyway, week two arrived – and so did Dad.
Just about.

He really looked rough as he scrambled up the tall old steps at the front. The nurse took one look at him and told him to sit down. Dad argued for a bit and then caved in. So it was that I did my second family adolescent session with my father sprawled in agony on one of the medical beds.

I think he made it the next week but the following Thursday didn’t even get as far as Ham. He rang late in the evening to say he’d had to find a place to pull over on the journey and throw up. After that he would spend as much time at the session as possible but they normally ended with him moaning and groaning on a couch somewhere.

For all the good she was, Mum shouldn’t have bothered either. But as normal visiting was discouraged, it was nice to see a friendly face even if it was in a session. I missed Lorraine and Nan. In fact, Nan’s health was preventing her from going anywhere. I’d been in the Cassel about a month when I got a message to call home. Nan had suffered another stroke and died.

I don’t remember crying. I should have done. The rock of my childhood had disappeared. Home would never be the same again.

Not that I’m allowed to live there anyway …

My lack of visitors wasn’t that bad, actually. The rest of us got on pretty well so I wasn’t lonely. Rosie, who I shared my therapist with, was a lot of fun, and I was very close to Stacy as well, especially when we became roommates.

After a month in the place, I was told I was allowed home visits. Cassel policy didn’t like visitors but trips back home were allowed Friday to Sunday. When Dad came for our Thursday session I asked him to take me back the following day.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I am. I’m allowed home for the weekend.’

‘You’re not going to mess me about?’

‘Why would I?’

He blew his cheeks out and sighed.

‘Why indeed. All right, I’ll come and get you.’

And he did. Straight after therapy I had a small bag packed and ready to go. I was waiting in the car park when he pulled up.

‘Come on then,’ he said, a nervous edge in his voice. ‘Let’s see how far we get.’

I didn’t know why he was being so negative. I was really excited about going back. The only sadness was going home without Nan living there any more. That would take some getting used to.

The weekend passed without incident. That is to say, they let me stay without sending me back early. Then, on Sunday night, my now heavily pregnant sister drove me back again. I don’t remember what we talked about but I do recall the sense of relief that I’d been allowed to complete the full visit. Dad hadn’t thrown me back in the car the second we’d pulled into the road. He hadn’t accused me of messing him around. Mum hadn’t fabricated any stories about my wanting to go back to the hospital.

They must have got over that problem,
I thought.
Maybe we can all get back to normal now?

As far as I was concerned, everything was related. If Mum and Dad stopped saying I’d been causing trouble then perhaps I could leave this place and move back home for good. School would have to take me back then, surely?

It was worth dreaming about. In fact, I couldn’t wait for the following weekend. I was determined to do it all again.

Bearing in mind I didn’t want to be there, the Cassel has a lot of good memories for me. I made some very good friends.

And I remember being happy.

Before I knew it I had been there for two months, which became four, which turned quickly into six. I hated being away from home and I really didn’t enjoy the constant therapy and every little thing being analysed. (At lunch once I was trying to cut into a bit of tough meat and it shot off my plate. Out of nowhere my therapist appeared, saying, ‘Are you angry about something? It’s okay to be angry.’ Honestly, they’d look for meaning in the way you brushed your hair if you let them.)

But there were a lot of things to love about the place. It made me feel secure, I had good friends and most days there was a lot of fun to be had if you put your mind to it. I believe I was actually happy.

What made me happier still was knowing how highly the therapists regarded contentment. They were so sensitive to emotions and moods like anger, depression or envy that if you displayed something more positive they had to go to their notebooks to look up what it meant. I’m exaggerating, but there was no denying that the patients who were judged to be happy with their lot were the ones allowed to leave. That, I realised, was my way out. That was my way of taking control of the rollercoaster.

I’m happy,
I thought.
And if I’m happy they won’t have any excuse to keep me in for much longer.

Then a few weeks later they found one.

CHAPTER TEN

Can you fix it?

Sonia stared at her plate. Itwas obscene. A mountain of mash, huge chunks of meat and enough vegetables to feed an army. Disgusting. She looked at the others, tucking into their meals. Laughing and shovelling it in. Where were they putting it all? Didn’t they know the harm it was doing?

No,
she thought,
they’re lucky. Look at them. They don’t put on weight like me.

She glared at her own sickening physique slumped in the chair.

Why don’t they? It’s not fair!

As she sat there, the unmistakeable aroma of gravy wafted up from Sonia’s plate.

Stop it!
she thought, and shoved it away. But it was too late. There was so much of the smell already in the room. She tried to block it out. No good. It was like a cloud around her.

She had to admit, it really did smell good. And she was starving. It felt like she hadn’t eaten for a week. Where was the harm in having a little taste?

‘One bite,’ Sonia told herself. ‘That won’t hurt, will it?’

Pulling her plate back, she cut a thin slice of lamb, then stabbed it onto her fork along with a tiny scoop of mash. A second later it was in her mouth and gone. It tasted amazing, like manna from heaven. Sonia allowed herself a moment to enjoy the sensation.

Then, utterly ashamed of her weakness, she shoved the plate into the middle of the table and folded her arms.

No wonder you’re the size you are,
she thought angrily.
You pig. You greedy, fat pig.

T
here comes a point in most inpatients’ lives when they accept their lot. I can’t remember when mine arrived. There must have been a moment, though, when I finally appreciated,
This is where I live.

I’d really fought to get away from Mayday Hospital. I didn’t deserve to be there and I knew it. I’d railed against the lies and punishments thrown my way by various schools. As for the treatment meted out by Warlingham – that was just barbaric. No one should have to undergo that, especially a child. San Martino’s, however, had been quite pleasant by contrast, despite the insufferable art classes. Even so, all I could think about was going home.

The Cassel was a bit different from a normal psychiatric unit. As I’ve said, they didn’t force-feed anyone medication. Warlingham was packed with what looked like zombies staggering around, frothing at the mouth like rabid dogs. Forget the rules – that was the biggest incentive to behave there. You didn’t want to end up like them. The Cassel, on the other hand, treated you all like adults, even if you weren’t that old yet. That was a breath of fresh air. The doctors at Mayday had been so patronising, talking about me like I was a lump of meat. Here they were just caring. If I’m honest, a little too caring for my liking. All that incessant probing is not my thing. Other people can get off on talking about themselves to strangers but it really doesn’t do it for me – even if I am being marked on my performance.

The best thing about the Cassel was the fact that they were actively seeking to understand. They wanted to discover a trigger for patients’ behaviour, they wanted to cure it and then repatriate the patient back into the wider society. In other words there was an endgame: to get back into the real world.

Having weekends with our families was one method of kicking that programme off. If you could survive a few days, then perhaps, further down the line, you could be trusted to have a week away from the hospital. Ultimately you might even be released into the community unmonitored – the ultimate ambition of the adults.

I’d had a couple of good weekends at home. Funnily enough, the longer I stayed in Ham the less often I felt the desire to go back home. One reason was I was having too much fun. Another is, with Nan’s passing, our house seemed less welcoming. Then, of course, there was the fact that I was seeing Mum and Dad fairly regularly, health permitting, at our family therapy sessions.

So I was surprised one Friday to get a tap on the shoulder during supper. It was the night orderly just coming on duty.

‘Your father’s here.’

That took me by surprise. Instinctively I looked behind her.

‘No he’s not.’

‘He’s in reception.’

I could see she wasn’t joking so followed her out. Dad was reading a newspaper when I found him.

‘There you are,’ he said brusquely. ‘I thought you might be ready at least.’

‘Ready for what?’

‘Ready to go home.’

‘What – now?’

‘Don’t give me that. You’re the one who rang me.’

What are you talking about?

I looked at the nurse, who nodded. I couldn’t tell if she was agreeing with him or me.

‘When did I ring?’

‘This morning. “Come and pick me up tonight,” you said. “I’ll be ready, I promise.” You know damn well you did.’

‘No I never!’

Dad tried to say something but his words had vanished. I think he remembered the nurse watching and bit his tongue. ‘Look,’ he managed to spit out, ‘are you coming home for the weekend or not?’

His eyes were burning into me as I thought about it.

‘I’m going to give it a miss this time,’ I said. ‘I’ve got things going on tomorrow. You should have said before you came. You can’t go dropping in like that.’

Nurse or no nurse, I thought he was going to explode.

‘I knew it was too good to be true! It didn’t take you long to get back to your old tricks, did it?’

And with that he grabbed his coat and marched out the door.

I didn’t know whether to chase after him or cry. Why had he come? I hadn’t asked him to. Had someone else at the Cassel arranged it for me? Why would he come all that way if he didn’t have to?

My day-to-day life in the Cassel was structured around the treatments. Evenings and weekends gave us a little more freedom. In good weather we could wander around outside. There was actually a friendly atmosphere most of the time. There weren’t many times in my life when I’d experienced that. At lunchtime, cooks would send food up by lift to the patients’ servery and in the evenings the roster dictated which of us prepared dinner.

But it was the therapy we were really there for. We all hated attending the sessions. Everyone complained they dragged on and on. I couldn’t always agree on that. Some certainly felt like they were going in slow motion, others whizzed by. I’d barely opened my mouth when the therapist would be announcing, ‘It is time now’, and thanking me for coming. Other patients said that was a sign I enjoyed it.

‘I don’t.’

‘You must do. Time always flies by when you’re having fun.’

I argued, of course I did, called them all sorts of names for good measure. But they had a point. What other explanation was there?

Adding weight to their argument was the fact that a year had gone by. Cathy and the rest said it felt like ten years. Not to me. I would have guessed a couple of months at the most. I’d hardly had time to do anything.

To mark my anniversary at the Cassel, or maybe that’s just how I remember it, one of the consultant psychotherapists (doctors who were also therapists) took me and Dad into his office for an assessment. There was always more pressure on these meetings. Unlike the nurses and therapists, doctors never asked you how you felt.

They told you.

‘Kim suffers from something called dissociation.’

Dad nodded. The word meant nothing to either of us.

People with dissociative disorder, he explained, can appear distant or disengaged with daily life patterns. It can appear, he said, as though they see different things from other people, or don’t see them at all. Eating problems like anorexia and bulimia – both of which he felt I had – could be contributory factors. At an extreme stage it could also involve amnesia.

Dad leapt forward at that.

‘Which would explain her memory?’

‘Precisely,’ the doctor agreed. ‘If she suffers it to this level, and it’s possible she does.’

What memory problem? Dad’s the one who tries to pick me up when we haven’t arranged it. You should have a look at his memory.