Crossing the Line (6 page)

11

I
’m deep in the forest, near where I used to live, on a ledge high above a gorge, peering into a dark abyss. The wind is picking up and I’m swaying backwards, forwards, and I know I can’t fight it much longer. I’ll fall into the blackness and my body will never be found.

It’s the next day. I’m sitting in Noel’s office, recounting my latest dream. When I stop talking, I dimly recall Tracey and Matt taking me home from the bar last night. I know my jacket was on so Matt didn’t see anything. But Greta did. Now she knows my darkest secret.

‘Sophie?’

Noel is looking at me intently, as though my mind is a book with pages open wide for him to read.

‘You sound deeply unhappy,’ he says.

All I want is to be alone. I’m only here because I have to be. I wish the whole world would go away.

‘I’m not unhappy.’ I drop my head as I say it.

‘Are you thinking of harming yourself ?’

That starts my mind racing. Why would he ask that? I think of Greta, staring. Maybe she’s said something. It could have got back to Noel. I struggle to think how – maybe she told Matt and he . . .

Noel’s voice cuts into my thoughts.

‘You’re not your usual self today.’

‘I got smashed last night. My head aches.’

‘Why did you drink so much?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Were you drinking to block out your feelings?’

I shrug. I wish he’d shut up and leave me alone. I try to excise him from my mind, pretend that he doesn’t exist.

‘I’m worried about you, Sophie.’

My hands automatically cover my eyes.

‘I wonder if perhaps you have thoughts of killing yourself.’

I fall back against the chair, shaking my head.

‘No. No. No!’

Noel takes a notepad from his desk, and scribbles on it.

‘I think it’d be best if you were to go into hospital for a few days. For your own safety.’

I hate him. ‘I don’t want to go to hospital. Are you saying that because I got drunk? Because of the dream? The dream wasn’t real. I made it up. I was lying to you!’

‘Yes, the dream is a part of it, Sophie. The drinking. Your general demeanour. I feel that you’ve been slipping for a while now. It really sounds to me as if you might be planning to . . . to hurt yourself.’

‘I’m not planning anything!’

‘You’re not feeling suicidal again?’

‘No.’

‘I believe you, but still, for a short while, I think you need to be protected from yourself.’

‘Truly, I’m only tired. I haven’t been sleeping very well lately. You asked me to talk and that was just some stupid dream I had. Or I think I had. Please don’t put me into hospital. I’m getting better all the time. Please.’

‘It would be irresponsible of me not to admit you. Given what happened last time. And it is only for a little while.’

I try every argument I can think of but he’s not listening anymore. He’s on the phone to Marie, betraying me.

I sit there thinking of how when I’d overdosed before, I’d been threatened with a psych hospital. Just the idea of being locked up had terrified me. I’d managed to wriggle out of it then with the compromise that I would see a shrink regularly. And now that shrink – Noel – isn’t listening but is making plans to commit me.

Too quickly I’m in Marie’s car headed for the hospital. After the first handful of platitudes she doesn’t say much. It’s all part of the job for her – carting another crazy off to the loony bin.

I am so frightened. What are they going to do to me? Will they lock me in a cell? Will they make me take off my clothes and see my cuts? At that moment the worst thing happens. I cry in front of Marie. Without a word of comfort she passes me a tissue. I throw it on the floor. I close my eyes – I’m so tired – and when I open them I’m in a waiting room filled with mad people. I try to hide from their vacant stares, their hate-the-world eyes. It’s a real nightmare this time. Trapped in a room with mad people. And I’m one of them.

‘I have to go now,’ Marie says. ‘I’ve explained everything to the nurse. She’s got Doctor Palmer’s referral and I’ve left my details if you need anything. I’ll call by tomorrow to see how you’re going.’

Her hand reaches out to me as if some long dormant maternal instinct has been stirred. She pulls it back, the distance between us just too far.

‘Don’t worry,’ she says as she stands to go. ‘That’s the main thing.’

An hour goes by. I count off each minute. Then a nurse ushers me into a cubicle and leaves me to sit alone until a doctor arrives. He’s young with a bristly face as if he’s either trying to grow a beard or hasn’t had time to shave. ‘Now, what seems to be the problem?’ He speaks quickly and glances at his watch.

When I took the overdose, the doctor who treated me then was as dismissive as this one. I bet I’m only a number to him.

I refuse to speak.

‘The referring doctor seems to believe you’re suicidal. Is that how you feel?’

My lips remain gripped together.

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

Only cowardice stops me from spitting in his face.

He calls for a nurse as he finishes up his paperwork. While he’s distracted I should run. But I can hardly stand. My shoes are made of lead. It’s difficult to even think. I want to sleep, sleep, and never wake up.

12

I
n the psych ward every exit door is locked; every window has iron bars or mesh. I slump in a plastic chair near my bed, too tired to even take off my sandals. A short, pudding of a woman in a chenille dressing gown wanders past, back and forth, talking to herself. She’s annoying. After a while, she becomes infuriating.

‘Be quiet!’ I rasp at her. She ignores me and keeps yabbering. God is warning her that she is to save the world; the Devil will kill all babies; Mary, her mother, is watching her . . .

Inside my mind are demons enough without her constant, crazy babble. There’s one part of me that knows I should feel sorry for her. But this place changes you quickly and I hear another, stronger part of me, threatening her.

‘If you don’t shut up, I’ll come and shut your fat gob for you.’ It doesn’t sound like my voice.

Trying to blot her out, I find the energy to flip off my sandals, strip, pull on a gown and climb into bed. But nothing can blot her out. I put my head under the blankets, press against my ears. Her shrill voice pursues me.

I dive out of bed and storm up to her, shaking her by the shoulders.

‘Stop it!’

‘God is in charge of my soul! I am His divine instrument!’

‘Enough! I told you – enough!’

I slap her face. Hard.

‘The Blessed Virgin is amongst us! Oh Mary full of grace . . .’

She stands there raving. Doesn’t flinch or try to protect herself. I could hit her again and again, and it wouldn’t make any difference. She’s not here in this world; she’s in her own, damned head space. I feel more ashamed than I’ve ever been in my life. The poor woman wanders out of the room, proclaiming God and Mary to the walls. Even so, she’s more at peace than I am.

Sometimes it feels like there’s another person inside of me who takes control. I see myself doing the weirdest things – like attacking that woman, or thinking of self-destructing – and it’s as though I’m watching someone else. I can be wildly happy, and hours later in the depths of despair. I’m never in the middle like everyone else. Soaring or falling, that’s me.

An orderly rattles by with a metal trolley full of plates, jerking me away from my thoughts to the cold reality of the hospital.

That night they give me pills to sleep and I don’t fight it. Oblivion is a good place.

The next day I find I’m in C Ward. Patients are kept here for observation, I’m told. Doctors and nurses, bureaucrats – they all love to observe me. There’s nothing much to do. The other patients, older than me, wander around aimlessly or park themselves in chairs in the central courtyard. Some are dressed oddly. Some walk as if in a trance, and no wonder: they’re all on meds, doped out of their loopy brains. The demented, religious woman is no longer here, thank goodness.

For the most part I hide out in a deserted chairs-and-whiteboard-only room. For once I have something to be thankful to Marie for. She dropped off some exercise books at the office this morning so I can use one as a journal. It’s my magic cape. I twirl it around, and disappear inside it.

In my life all seems frail
,

precarious
,

emotions fleeting
,

relationships fragmentary . . .

‘Hello.’ A young woman with short, ragged hair stands in front of me.

She gets a cursory nod but I keep writing.

‘My name’s Lola and I’m on the Patients’ Committee. I just wanted to welcome you.’

I don’t respond. She takes this as a cue to continue. ‘I’m supposed to see that you settle in all right, and if you have any suggestions on how to improve the place.’

‘Okay.’ I don’t lift my eyes to her. Some people can’t be fazed, though. And she’s one of them.

‘I’m here because I wasn’t taking my medication so I had a psychotic episode. What are you here for?’

Now I look at her. ‘I’m mental.’

She scarcely draws breath. ‘No you’re not. We’ve all got problems. Group Therapy’s on soon. I find it very helpful for dealing with my troubles.’

I swivel my seat around so that I almost have my back to her, and keep writing. It’s rude, but with someone like her, it’s either rudeness or a brick.

‘Okay then,’ she says. ‘Well, it’s been nice meeting you. I’ll see you at Group. Bye for now.’

At last she goes. Great! I can’t stand nosy do-gooders. And Group Therapy – I know I’m going to hate that even more.

Twenty minutes later a nurse arrives with bad news. ‘Time for Group.’

Fann-tastic!

She ushers me into the Day Room where I become part of a circle of patients – including Lola – who are supposed to talk to one another about whatever is on their minds.

I push my chair back so I’m as far away from the others as I can be without some nurse hauling me back into line. I don’t want to be part of their precious games.

Rachel, a young red-haired nurse, is the Group leader. I keep my eyes focused on the floor as she introduces me to the others. Like trained parrots, they chorus, ‘Hello, Sophie.’ The floor continues to fascinate me.

The rules of engagement in a group session are simple but she recites them at caterpillar pace, as if she’s a pre-school teacher and we’re the backward class. One person speaks at a time. No interjections. And most importantly, Rachel declares, ‘What is said in Group stays here.’

Yeah, yeah; heard that one before.

Theresa’s the first guinea pig. Sallow skin, Coke-bottle glasses. She goes on and on about another patient, Mark, who she says keeps bugging her. ‘I don’t want anything to do with him. Tell him to leave me alone!’

Rachel looks at Mark.

‘What’s been happening?’ she asks.

He’s a stutterer. It’s painful to listen as he tries to force out the words. She obviously already knew that before she asked him to speak. She should never have put him on the spot.

With great effort, and humiliation, he says, ‘I’m just trying to be friendly.’

‘Not with me!’ Theresa jumps up and shoots a finger at him. ‘Be friendly with someone else – you freak!’

The others don’t seem to mind this exchange. Apparently it’s common.

Rachel doesn’t blink. ‘How do you think we can support both Theresa and Mark with this problem?’ she asks the group.

I can’t help myself. ‘Take a pill,’ I say. ‘We should all take a lot of pills. That would help.’

My chair goes flying out from behind me and I rack off before anyone can say a word.

I’m left alone after that. They must have put me on the Watch-Out-She’s-Trouble list. Cool. No one tries to get me to join in with the table tennis comp in the Day Room. Draughts, chess – no invitations come my way. And I definitely won’t be sitting with the couch potatoes watching TV soapies. A few patients wander by, but if they get too close, I try to look dangerous and they leave. I sit for a long time, wanting nothing. I’ve got this place sussed out.

Just when I think they’ve forgotten about me, a nurse arrives to tell me I have to see the doctor. Reluctantly, I agree.

The doctor’s name is Helen Marshall. She asks how I am. I don’t answer.

‘What do you think is wrong with you, Sophie?’

I ignore that, too.

‘I have a letter from Doctor Palmer. He seems very concerned about you.’

Silence engulfs the room like a huge black cloud.

At last she says, ‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’

I watch tree branches thrash in the wind outside, scattering leaves.

‘We’ll put you in the Adolescent Unit in a day or two. You should feel more comfortable there.’

As I pass her on my way out, she places her hand on my shoulder. ‘Take care, my dear.’

The way she says ‘dear’ is so different to Marie. Like I really matter to her.

In the toilets, hidden from the inquisitive eyes of nurses and patients, I can’t stop crying.

After three torturous days I am transferred out of C Ward to the kids’ ward. The very act of putting one foot in front of the other takes every drop of my concentration and energy. I don’t want to eat or write or read or even breathe. I don’t know what’s happening to me: everything lacks colour, as if I’m seeing the world through dark wire gauze. All I want is to stay in bed forever, but the nurses – damn them – are constantly trying to jolly me into activity.

There are five others in the unit: Ashley, Emma, Felix, Holden, and Lauren. I haven’t responded to any overtures of friendship so they’ve left me alone. I don’t want to tell my life story. Sick to death of that.

In Group, the new therapist, Shelley, keeps asking me questions, but I look straight through her. Yesterday she asked Lauren a question, but Lauren, my new hero, told her to ‘Shut up, bitch-face’. Lauren keeps fighting the staff, abusing them, not doing what they want. If I wasn’t feeling so crappy I’d join forces with her.

My sessions with the doctor are getting nowhere. I don’t want to talk with her so I retreat into my old pal, Silence. As much as I can I keep my head down; that way I don’t need to make any contact. Sometimes I close my eyes and drift off. The doctor said to call her Helen, if I like. She sits, clasping her hands in her lap. They are narrow hands, white and dappled with freckles, which Arlene used to call ‘flowers of death’. From time to time she twists a diamond ring on her right hand. Sometimes she tells me about herself. So far I know she’s a single mother with a ten-year-old daughter, Cara, and that she went to an all girls’ school. Oh yes, and she likes bodysurfing. I think she chatters on to fill the gaps of silence, or perhaps it is to make me feel comfortable with her. Her voice is low and gravelly. She’s tall and well-padded. Not fat or even chubby. She’s just right. Her hair, the colour of butterscotch, is looped onto her head, held in place with clips. When she walks beside me, escorting me to the door after our sessions, I smell a whiff of her perfume. It’s exotic, like white lilies, which I love.

She has put me on antidepressants so now I line up with the others in a conga line of loonies as nurses dole out our medication, a bandaid against demons. I don’t really mind it all that much. Maybe I can never beat my demons, but the meds make them quieter than usual.