All of Me (25 page)

Socialising was just as good after work as well. At the end of each day I’d park, hop out, then go for a drink with my colleagues. More accurately speaking, I’d just go for the drink. I rarely remembered actually driving the van at all. Obviously I did because that was my job. It was like the eating thing. I got into so much trouble for eating too much or too little or too infrequently and I really argued about it. Honestly, though, I could rarely recall a single meal. And if I couldn’t remember them, how did these other people think they could? But I knew I did it. Just as I knew I was having baths although I could never remember actually getting in one. I was clean every day. Mum complained about my taking time in the bathroom for my entire life. There was the proof right there.

Maybe if I didn’t drink so much I’d remember more.

Life had never been busier or more fun. I dated a couple of guys from work; nothing serious, just an excuse to go out and have a glass or two of wine. Then, after a short while of working I managed to save enough money to finally leave home. I was so excited. It felt like I was taking charge of my life for the first time. My own place! In my wildest dreams at Warlingham I could never have imagined that.

It was more of a bedsit really. I don’t remember viewing it. I picked up the keys from the guy who ran the launderette below, handed over an envelope of money I was carrying and he let me in. It was a bit of a tip to be honest, furnished with a load of flea-ridden tat. But it was somewhere for me to go. Somewhere for me to call my own.

The problem was, I didn’t dare tell Mum. Her health had been deteriorating since she’d lost her eyesight. In the first year or two of my driving job she developed quite severe arthritis which caused problems at her own work until eventually she was grateful to retire. Mum was the hardest-working person I’ve ever known and she hated twiddling her thumbs at home. She received decent support from social services – meals on wheels and a cleaner and eventually a daily caretaker – but nothing seemed to cheer her up like visits from Lorraine or evenings in front of the telly with me. Mum liked a vodka and a chat so I’d happily have a drink with her and then help her to bed. Then I’d slip out, back to my own place. I had to leave for work before Mum got up anyway so she never noticed. Other nights I’d go out straight from work so she wouldn’t expect to see me then either. I should have been a spy. It’s amazing how easily I led a double life without even really trying.

If I’m honest, it would have been better for Mum if I didn’t have my own place, especially when a few years later she was ravaged by both rheumatoid arthritis and osteoarthritis and getting around was getting harder and harder. But I needed space to myself, to grow. In any case, I think I did all right by her. In fact, Mum often thanked me for helping her out when I hadn’t even been round there. I put it down to our friends in the bottles. Either she was drinking too much or I was.

Things could have been a bit more straightforward, I suppose, but by the time I reached my mid-twenties I’d been spinning plates for as long as I could remember, trying to keep so many things going at once, that it was almost second nature. I was busy, I was trying to cram as much in as possible – that’s how it felt, anyway – but I can honestly say I was happy. I was independent, I had boyfriends, I had a job and I hadn’t been inside a funny farm for ages.

And then my delivery van was completely written off in a collision with two parked cars on an otherwise deserted street.
Cars again – the bane of my life.
Witnesses said I hadn’t even attempted to make the bend, just ploughed straight ahead, without braking. My body was found slumped over the steering wheel and then taken by ambulance to the emergency room. I didn’t remember that. I didn’t remember any of the accident. The first thing I knew about the whole affair was a concerned new doctor, Dr Peters, leaning across his desk at the Maudsley, and his chilling words.

‘You could be here for a while.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The psychotic shuffle

It made perfect sense at the time. If you feel unclean, you have a bath.

Julie excused herself from the session and skipped along the corridor to the bathroom. It was locked, as expected. Standard practice during daytime, but worth checking anyway.

Doesn’t matter, she thought, pushing open the door to the ladies’ lavatories. Selecting the end cubicle, she went in and stood on the toilet lid. This was the stall that backed onto the bathroom. If she was lucky, when she looked over the low wooden partition, she should see the row of baths and sinks.

Bingo!

One foot balanced on the cistern, Julie hauled herself up – and over. It wasn’t a dismount to win gymnastic medals but she didn’t twist anything. Anyway, she didn’t have time to worry about it now. In a few minutes she’d be missed. The dogs would be set on her trail.

They’ll never find me here,
she thought as the water slowly filled the bath.

It was a shame to rush. She was looking forward to this. Then, having tested the temperature, she stepped in, absolutely fully clothed.

T
hey call it ‘the psychotic shuffle’. You can spot sufferers a mile off. They drag themselves along, barely lifting their feet, like ice skaters in slippers. The men normally have hair sticking out all over the place and bad fashion sense. With women the tell-tale sign is the makeup. It reminds me of a kid’s colouring book, where he can’t stay within the lines. There’s usually lipstick all over the lower face; anywhere but on the lips. As for eyeshadow, it’s always bright blue, always all over their eyes, like a colourful panda.

One glimpse of this bunch and you know the backstory: ‘mental health problem’. They may as well stamp it on their foreheads – although they’d probably miss.

You don’t need to have been in and out of mental institutions all your life to recognise the signs. But you do need that experience to realise that it’s not their illness that causes patients to act like this.

It’s the medication.

And that’s exactly what they wanted to give me.

Mum and Lorraine. They’re here. I’m at the Maudsley. What have I done now?

Professor Leff was very apologetic. He said, ‘I refuse to diagnose this lightly. Some of the episodes were years ago but I prefer to wait. Now though, what’s this? Six psychotic episodes? I think we’ve held back long enough. We’ll keep her here for the twenty-eight-day observation but I’m afraid there can only be one diagnosis.’

Schizophrenia.

Mum and Dad were in shock. Lorraine was petrified it might be hereditary. She was a mum now. Anything like that could affect her family. And me? I just wanted to scream.

But that’s playing into his hands,
I thought. So I bit my tongue. As usual.

There would be no option – the professor explained, given my most recent episode, which could so easily have injured or killed innocent people – but to take me on a six-year section as a ward of court after that. If my parents wouldn’t sign then he could find the necessary social workers who could.

‘I’m afraid your daughter needs long-term, monitored help. And,’ he said, producing a little pot from his drawer, ‘she will have to take these every day for the rest of her life.’ That was the final straw. I couldn’t take any more.

‘I’m not being drugged up. I’m not schizophrenic!’

The professor gave a look to my family that seemed to say, ‘See what I mean?’ and I backed down. It was the wrong tactic. As I let myself be led to a ward I was annoyed with myself for my outburst. I’d been sectioned before and got out. I just had to keep my nose clean. That shouldn’t be hard. Then they’d see I was fine and, hey presto, I’d be out before I knew it. I just needed to bite my tongue, whatever the provocation. That was the plan.

I can do this.

But then they gave me my medicine and all plans flew out the window. In fact, everything flew out. After a couple of days on the schizo pills I could barely remember my own name. I thought,
Is this your way of curing people? Making them unable to walk ten yards?

Even as I swallowed the pill as a nurse looked on, I could see what they were doing.

You don’t want to make me better. You want to make me behave.

That was it, I was a fully paid-up member of the psychotic shuffle community. I didn’t think I would ever be getting out.

The medication prescribed to me was an anti-psychotic. It was designed to cancel out the lure of hallucinations. Side effects, as I already knew, included listlessness, dribbling, incoherence and general inability to live life. To combat these I was also given tablets used to treat Parkinson’s disease. As I didn’t suffer from anything, I knew neither pill was going to help. They could only make me worse.

I think my parents were quietly happy with Professor Leff’s diagnosis. No one wants a schizo in the family – certainly not Lorraine – but there was a general relief that the root of my behaviour had been identified. The first step to curing a problem, after all, is admitting the problem. That was the logic. That is how it works in the therapeutic community, anyway. The only problem was, I wouldn’t admit the problem.

As far as I was concerned I wasn’t depressed, I’d never suffered from amnesia, anorexia, bulimia, dissociation or, the latest accusation, schizophrenia. The only diagnosis that I had any time for was alcoholism. I didn’t think I had a problem but I could see my drinking was causing the occasional memory lapse and, to be fair, I did like a tipple now and then – more usually ‘now’.

Intransigence in the face of the medical community never goes down well. Therapy or not, the hospital’s ethos was simple: either my way or the highway. I chose the highway. Day after day they shoved these pills into my mouth. Then the nurse, or sometimes lovely Kingy, the orderly, would wait until I’d swallowed and even check my mouth afterwards. It was horrible. I could feel the results but I was helpless to prevent them. It was like someone else had taken control of my body.

As my body shuffled and dribbled its way through the day, my mind at least tried to remain active.
You have to focus, keep focused.
The last thing I wanted was to succumb to the effects of the pills. Once you start on that slippery slope there’s no way back. I’d seen it with my own eyes. In fact I could see it all around me. People who’d been like me once and now, weeks, months or years later, looked like gibbering vegetables, all nervous energy and restless legs making them jump up then sit down every five minutes. A lay person would understandably recognise them as ill, without knowing it was the medicine making them appear that way. Most psychiatric patients give no outward clues either side of an episode. Everywhere I looked there were lives ruined on the off-chance that someone might make a mistake in the future. It was terrifying.

I don’t want to be like them.

But I was locked in tight. What choice did I have?

Actually, I realised, I did have a choice – but only if I acted quickly. One morning I watched as the medicine trolley made its way down the ward, dispensing pills and potions to my fellow inpatients. Only when the nurse was confident the tablets had been swallowed would she move on to the next bed. By the time she reached me, I knew what I had to do.

I’d been taking my medication for quite a few days by now so I knew the drill. Pill in one hand and little drink in the other. Pop pill in the mouth and take a quick gulp of water to wash it down. Then, finally, present my open, empty mouth to the nurse for inspection. The whole procedure took less than a minute and it was already second nature – which is what made me so sure I could fake it.

The nurse handed over the pill and drink. I tossed the pill into my mouth and a second later took a gulp of water. As soon as I’d swallowed, I opened my mouth like I was at the dentist and waited for the nurse to peer in. She nodded approval and pushed the trolley around to the next bed. Then, as soon as her back was turned, I spat the tablet out from underneath my tongue. I’d done it. I’d beaten the system. I would never have to take another pill again.

Day after day I carried on the same act of pretending to take my medicine. At first it gave me a kick, knowing that I had some of the finest medical minds convinced they were controlling me. Then I realised I was still, to all intents and purposes, a prisoner. There had to be a way out, I thought. And then I discovered it. I wish I could have seen the staff’s faces when they discovered I was appealing the ward-of-court order.

Yes, crazy, old, schizo me was taking them to court.

‘No one’s ever won a tribunal.’

‘Have you got a solicitor?’

‘The last person to fight it was never seen again.’

News of my legal intentions was spreading all over the building. The patients on Ward 3 who could still think for themselves were especially excited.

When you’re sectioned, you’re given a bunch of papers explaining your legal status. Everyone is allowed the right of a tribunal. In the Maudsley there was a box where you could post your completed dispute form. I don’t think many people did it with much conviction. Once on the medication, they were lucky if they could concentrate long enough to tick the right box.