All of Me (20 page)

I tried to keep calm. A kind of sickness was welling in my stomach making me want to gag. But I wasn’t ill.

I was scared.

It’s all right,
I told myself.
You got out of here before. You’ll get out of here again.

But when? What if they accused me of some new horror? What if they decided I required long-term treatment?

It was enough to drive anyone to tears but a sudden realisation gave me a glimmer of hope. One of the things I knew from my year and a half at the Cassel is how much they value closure. In day-to-day life that usually translates as being able to say goodbye to people when they or you leave. It makes the grieving process more bearable, they say. So the one piece of ammunition I had about Warlingham was that I hadn’t had my perfect farewell. No therapist, I knew, was going to expect any improvement from me without that basic necessity. Which meant …

They’re planning to send me back!

With the familiar nocturnal noises closing in, I just prayed I could survive that long.

I’d forgotten about the toilet thing. Every step I took, there was an orderly just behind, like an unwanted shadow. The worst part was, she didn’t even try to hide it. She was like the worst secret agent ever. If I left my bed or the TV room – basically my only two options – she put down her magazine and sauntered after me. Not alongside me, not near enough to have a chat. But close enough to let me know she was there. Whatever I was going to do, she was going to see. And yes, that included going to the loo.

It was exactly the same set-up as before. Twenty-four-hour supervision. It was so tedious. I thought the orderlies would soon tire of trailing me around all day. There was nothing to do other than sit in the TV room.
If I’m bored doing it then they must be going out of their minds watching me do it.

But they were clever about it. They would sit yapping to other patients nearby or do a bit of reading. They didn’t have to be next to me to keep their beady eyes fixed in my direction. It didn’t matter what they were doing: if I moved, they moved.

Even if I did manage to give them the slip and they did lose sight of me for a second, there was nowhere to hide from their ears. I was back in one of those paper gowns that rustled like dry leaves when I moved. The way the corridors echoed you could hear me coming a mile off. If you didn’t hear me walking you’d still make out the sound of me scratching at my neck where the collar rubbed. It was horrible. My real clothes weren’t in my wardrobe, either. I had no choice but to keep this stupid thing on.

Knowing the place didn’t make it easier to live in. Some of the faces were familiar but there were new ones, too. Some looked open and friendly; others ready to rumble at the drop of a hat. Mostly, though, they just looked distant. Talking seemed to be an effort for the majority; talking clearly, anyway. You couldn’t have a conversation. They slurred and they stuttered and many of their utterances came out in fits and bursts. It wasn’t the patients’ fault. I knew that. It was the drugs. Whatever medication was keeping them docile and unlikely to misbehave was also preventing them thinking and speaking properly. They were drugged up to the eyeballs. That just made some of them scarier.

Drugs, in fact, were all some of them cared about. The first words anyone spoke to me were, ‘What are you on, then?’ I realised he meant my medication. I told him, ‘Nothing’ and he scoffed and wandered off. I soon learnt that the level of your treatment is like a badge of honour. The more you’re on, the more impressive you are.

Everyone who spoke to me asked the same questions:

‘What are you on?’

‘What hospitals have you been in?’

‘What are you in for?’

‘How long?’

All the talk, when it happened, was about discovering who was the worst patient there. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be left alone.

The other question I was asked a lot was, ‘Have you got any cigarettes?’ Again, a negative answer would provoke an exodus. I didn’t know then that nicotine was the currency in the hospital. The ones with any smarts traded cigarettes for favours or other items – just like they do in prison. But why did they think I’d have any?
I’m only sixteen.

Scariest of all was the fear that I might be turned into one of them soon. The very idea terrified me. I had to cling on to my lack of closure at the Cassel.

They’ll send me back soon. They have to.

I saw a lot of terrible cases at Warlingham. It was hard to tell with the medication, but plenty of people looked like they would struggle to live outside those four walls. Unlike at the Cassel, however, the staff’s policy didn’t seem to focus on getting anyone ready to leave. There was no drive towards repatriation or resurrection, which was another reason why I had to get out.

I saw a woman in a wheelchair one day. I thought it was odd she was there.
I didn’t know Warlingham was a place for physical disabilities.

What happened next scarred me forever.

An orderly was standing in front of the woman, who was slumped immobile, chin resting on her chest. The orderly knelt down and lifted the woman’s head. Looking into her eyes, she said, ‘You can walk. Come on, you can walk.’

Nothing happened. I didn’t know what she expected her to do.
The woman’s in a wheelchair. Obviously she can’t walk!

But the orderly wasn’t having that. She fastened her arms around the woman and hoisted her forwards, to the edge of the chair.

‘Come on, you can walk. You have to walk!’ she said again, and with another tug, lifted the woman upright.

The woman was a bag of bones but still a really awkward shape to hold. I don’t know if the orderly had planned it, but the disabled woman slipped straight through her hands and buckled onto the floor, like a doll crumpled over. She looked like she was dead.

I felt sick. I wanted to rush over. The orderly spying on me reached out.

‘Leave her. It’s what she wants.’

What she wants? How can she want that? How can anyone know what she wants?

I carried on watching. I wished I hadn’t.

The other orderly manoeuvred the patient’s limbs so they didn’t look so contorted and then stood up. She made no attempt to lift her charge back into the wheelchair. I would have helped. Any number of people would have. But that wasn’t the plan.

‘You can walk,’ she said again defiantly, then marched away without looking back.

I’ve got to get out of here. I must get out!

It turned out this poor woman’s problems were indeed all in the mind. Her mother had died a few years ago and she and her partner had decided to emigrate. They just wanted to make a fresh start somewhere else. The problem was, the girl had suffered a breakdown as a teen and as a result was denied entry to her new ‘home’.

That was the final straw and she had a complete and utter mental breakdown.

It was incredible to believe that a person could just give up on life but she had. She hadn’t spoken in years, not a word. She wouldn’t feed herself, she wouldn’t get up and her joints were atrophying. She sat in her wheelchair all day, refusing to move, refusing to live. Her mind had literally switched off.

Every day her dad came in to see his daughter. He’d talk to her, stroke her and comb her hair. In nice weather he’d push her outside and let her look at the beautiful lawns of the golf course that surrounded the building. He couldn’t have been more loving. I think he blamed himself.

The saddest thing of all is he had no idea how his beloved daughter was being treated by the staff he trusted to help her. Most days she was dragged out of her chair and left on the floor. Then just before he arrived after work they’d lump her back in, try to spruce her up a bit and stand around smiling.

I learnt the meaning of hate watching that. I wished I was brave enough to tell him. I despised myself for not stepping forward. But I had my reasons. They were cowardly but they made sense to me.

If I interfere they might do that to me. With drugs they can do anything.

And I couldn’t afford that. I was going back to Cassel. I hadn’t had my closure.

I was in bed one day when I was told I had visitors. I was led into the TV room and Barbara and Cathy were waiting for me. I couldn’t believe it. They’d bothered to come all that way just to see me!

It was lovely catching up with them but after they’d left I felt lower than ever. It tells you everything you need to know about the Cassel versus Warlingham when patients from one have the freedom to go and visit the other. As much as I’d loved seeing my friends it was a real slap in the face.

At least they’d bothered. Mum didn’t come to visit me at Warlingham. I didn’t expect her to, not after last time. Lorraine showed her face a couple of times but it was obvious she was uncomfortable. Anyway, now that she had a little mouth to feed, it wasn’t a good environment. I couldn’t wait to meet my new little nephew, Ben. I did think all the baby business was making Lorraine a bit weird, though. One of the first things she said to me was, ‘The weight’s falling off you, isn’t it? I wish I was so lucky.’

What an odd thing to say.

She’d just had a baby. Of course she was a bit bigger than me.

Dad said a couple of things like that as well. I didn’t pay any attention. I hadn’t put on a pound or lost any since I’d come in. I didn’t have to weigh myself to know that.

It was when the nurses and orderlies began to start going on about it that I got really annoyed. Everyone was always trying to get me to eat things. ‘We need to get your weight up.’ Things like that. I suppose I must have eaten whatever they gave me, I can’t remember. Why wouldn’t I? I love food. I remember they gave me eggs again. I assumed someone from the Cassel had told them about the trick they’d played on me there. It didn’t seem right, to me, to laugh at a patient like that. I can take or leave eggs. I didn’t see why I should have to eat them when everyone else was having a roast.

It’s not fair.

But they wouldn’t let up. I began to dread mealtimes. Thinking about them at the end of the day I could never remember the actual dinners, or breakfasts or lunches. Or in fact actually eating. But I did know I wasn’t dieting. I didn’t need to. I was lucky like that.

I was lucky as well because I knew I was going back to the Cassel. Every day I looked at the dribbling, screaming patients in the beds near mine, or skulking lifelessly around the TV room, and I thanked my stars I wasn’t in their position.

Or so I kept thinking. Then every so often my hope was punctured and I remembered the section. I wasn’t going anywhere until the doctors said so. It was quite out of my hands and it made me shake just contemplating it. What was the point of behaving well when no one had the power to release me anyway? Every day that passed I got angry. Things I’d accepted one minute now sent me into a rage.

That was the irony. Just being there was enough to drive you crazy. And if you act crazy you get the drugs, which in turn make you crazy. And I did not want the drugs.

I remember walking over to the garden door and trying the handle. I knew it would be locked. All the doors were locked. Our dormitory door was locked, the bathroom door was locked, the TV room was locked. There was even a secure door leading onto our floor.

I’d always known this. Yet knowing when you don’t want to get out and knowing when you do provoke different reactions. As I stood looking out, watching the shadow of the building’s giant clock tower flickering across the golf course, I just wanted to throw a chair through the glass and flee. Knowing that I couldn’t just made me want to try harder.

But I didn’t. Maybe they drugged me. The next thing I remember is being back in bed. I thought again of the section. I was still angry but scared as well. Just as my fury had heightened with the sense of being trapped, so had my fear. I’d been wandering around, I realised, in a psychological cocoon. The promise of imminent release had protected me. That’s how it felt. Now I accepted I was trapped with the psychos and the deranged and I wanted to hide. Some of them looked like they wanted to hurt me. And they were always shuffling around at night, going through my things. I didn’t belong here.

I have to get out. I have to do anything to get out.

A meeting room. Dad is here. A nurse also. Normal visiting time? We’ll see…

‘Are you happy now?’ Dad was saying. ‘Are you? The least you can do is answer me.’

Okay – not a normal visit, then.

‘I don’t know what to say to her,’ he told the doctor. ‘What can I say to her?’

‘About what?’ I asked, utterly perplexed.

‘For God’s sake, about why you did it, of course!’

‘Did what?’

Maybe this is normal. We’ve had this argument a hundred times.

Dad reached over and flicked the collar of my gown. Instinctively I raised my hand to my neck.

‘This!’ he spat, and I winced as he spoke. Not from his word – it barely registered. But from the burning, lacerating pain in my neck.

I shot an accusing look at the doctor. ‘What have they done to me?’ Then back at Dad, back at the man who had signed the section. ‘What have you let them do now?’