The Dark Threads (28 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I
WAS GIVEN AN
attic room with a sloping ceiling. It contained most of the things I needed and some things I didn't, such as the dead cockroach I found beneath the bed and the cheeky mouse which I awoke to find sharing my pillow. The window was too high to see through unless I stood on a chair which wobbled precariously as I stretched up, gripping the windowsill, to either gaze down at chimney pots and grey slate rooftops or up at the sky.

Occasionally, during my first couple of weeks at the hostel, hysterical laughter rang out in the middle of the night from the room next to mine, which housed a woman whom the other residents called ‘Nutty Norah'. She gave me such a fright one night when I awoke to find her standing in my room, though I guessed she had innocently wandered there after going to the toilet. ‘I'm so sorry,' she said, and fled. They put us mad ones up in the attic as in
Jane Eyre,
I thought, smiling to myself.

There was a gas fire in my room and a hungry meter which was forever running out of money. How quickly the room would turn cold. Orange, glowing flames shrank to white apparitions, flickering and dancing to that annoying popping sound –
phut, phut, phut
– as I searched for the appropriate coin. I hadn't much money but my parents did help by giving me ‘money for your meter' which they saved for me in little polythene bags. (My mother had soon forgiven me for being so ungrateful a daughter as to leave home.)

Shyness was still a major problem. At mealtimes if anyone spoke to me or if I tried to join in conversation, I could hardly swallow, the cutlery shook in my hands, my heart hammered and I felt hot and sticky: all those old, familiar feelings that froze me into silence. After the evening meal I either retreated to my room in defeat or ventured into the communal TV lounge, only to find that once inside I could do no more than sit quietly among the chattering crowd. Would I ever belong anywhere? But I remained optimistic about building up a life for myself, though I knew it would take time. I wasn't expecting a rose garden.

The next stage towards leaving the hospital had to be getting a job. I applied for a clerical post with the Civil Service, passed the written examination and was called back for an interview. It began to go badly when I tried to answer, with scrupulous honesty, the questions of the man and woman who were interviewing me. This meant explaining about my lengthy period of unemployment. The man in particular seemed extremely embarrassed at my revelation that I was a day patient at High Royds, His pale face flushed crimson and he shuffled about in his seat. After a silence, he cleared his throat. ‘I … I won't prolong this interview,' he said, straightening his tie. ‘I don't believe in, er … in prolonging things because … because prolonging an interview only makes things get rather embarrassing. I mean embarrassing for both parties.'

I knew before he managed to stutter out, ‘We'll let you know' that I had no chance of getting the job.

I recounted the interview to Len, the new charge nurse.

‘Never mind, Jean,' he said. ‘You did well to pass the written test and to attend the interview.'

‘How will I ever get a job? What am I supposed to write on application forms?' I'd received two application forms in the post that morning for low-level office jobs and, on each, I was supposed to give ‘full details' of my ‘previous employment' and ‘explain any gaps'. Shit! If only I could cancel the last five years of my life and start anew. Pretend I was five years younger or something. ‘What am I supposed to do?' I said again, realising for the first time the immensity of the problem. ‘It's as bad as having a criminal record. Nobody'll ever want to employ me.'

‘We'll see what we can sort out for you,' Len said.

A Disablement Resettlement Officer who liaised with the hospital made arrangements for me to attend an Industrial Rehabilitation Unit in Leeds. But there was a waiting list.

I sat next to a woman called Vivian in the YWCA dining room, and she invited me for a coffee. Her room looked cosy in the glow of the gas fire but I realised, with a pang of remembered pain, it was the same room in which I'd cried through the night.

It did look different though. On the small table beside the bed sat a portable typewriter with a half-typed sheet of paper inside. Piles of plain and typewritten sheets, along with an electric kettle and an over-stuffed ashtray, cluttered the floor. The oval mirror on top of the chest of drawers vied for space in between two metal filing trays and several wallet folders. A large box-file and a ring-binder occupied part of the bed. Two half-open drawers revealed more papers and binders. The long shelf across one side of the room housed a row of books.

‘These are my friends,' Vivian said, pointing to the books.

Vivian picked up the kettle and, while she padded barefoot down the corridor to fill it in the bathroom, I sat on her bed and glanced at her friends on the shelf. They had names such as
The Bell Jar, Wide Sargasso Sea, The Razor's Edge, A Room of One's Own, The Four-Gated City …

Vivian sat cross-legged on the bed, propping herself up with the pillow. In her long blue dressing-gown and usual dark glasses she looked fortyish, much older than the other residents.

‘Are you a student?' she asked, lighting a cigarette.

‘No. I'm a patient at a psychiatric day hospital,' I said boldly, then in somewhat cowardly fashion added, ‘but please don't tell anyone here. Only Mrs Stroud knows.'

‘I've been in a mental hospital,' Vivian said. ‘A long time ago.' She handed me a sheet of paper. ‘This is the synopsis for the novel I'm currently working on. The theme is alienation.'

The synopsis outlined the story of Catherine, a young woman who married a Nigerian law student and went to live in Nigeria. Marital problems relating to the culture clash proved insurmountable and Catherine returned to England with their two daughters. The couple divorced, and Catherine underwent a traumatic identity crisis, which led to a suicide attempt and admission to a mental hospital.

‘Yes, it's autobiographical,' Vivian said as if in answer to my thoughts. She pulled open a drawer and showed me a photo of a distinguished-looking black man in ceremonial robes. ‘My ex-husband. He's a barrister in Nigeria.' Another photo depicted two smiling young women. ‘My daughters. They live in London.'

Hours later I cleaned my teeth in the communal washroom with the big old-fashioned sink and antiquated bath. In my attic room, I undressed, swallowed a Melleril and got into bed. By now I had cut the pills down to amitriptyline 25 mg twice a day, and Melleril 25mg at night. The Infirmary was close to the hostel and I drifted to sleep listening to ambulance sirens and thinking about Vivian, suicide, alienation. Vivian and I shared ‘outsider' feelings. Perhaps that's what drew us together.

In the autumn of 1973, I had reached the top of the waiting list for the Industrial Rehabilitation Unit. At last I was leaving High Royds. But first there was something I had to do.

I wandered around those miles of corridors in the rambling hospital until I came to a sign for ‘Paley Ward' where I'd heard Mr Jordan now worked. I went in and was met by a stench of urine and the distressing sight of women whose bodies had outlived their minds. They were sitting or wandering around, some silent, others muttering or wailing, while a radio was blaring out some irrelevant pop song that was currently in the charts.

Mr Jordan emerged from an office wearing a white coat and looking tired.

‘Hello,' I said shyly. ‘I'm leaving the hospital today, so I've come to say goodbye, and thank you.'

Leaving his sad charges under the eye of another nurse, Mr Jordan motioned for me to follow him to a quieter place at the far side of the ward where we could sit and talk.

‘I'm glad to hear you're leaving,' he said. ‘May I say – and I mean this in the nicest possible way – I hope you never come back.'

‘I won't,' I said, smiling. ‘I certainly won't.'

‘How's things with your family?'

‘I told my dad I had to get away from the hospital or I'd end up like a vegetable. My brother mocked me for saying “vegetable”. And Dad dragged me to the window and made me look at our neighbour's cabbage patch. He said, “Those things there in the ground are vegetables. People can't be vegetables, so stop talking silly.”'

I looked at Mr Jordan who had tilted his head back and was puffing clouds of smoke into the air. I'd recalled the same incident to Mrs Winters and she'd said that most non-medical people wouldn't say ‘vegetable' in that context. So was it me?

‘It's awful,' I said, suddenly feeling very sorry for myself. ‘When I'm with my family I've got to rephrase whatever comes into my mind before I say it. Or they accuse me of “clevering” by using what they call big words. But I'm not trying to be clever or special. I just want to be ordinary, whatever that means.'

Mr Jordan sighed. ‘There's one simple solution to all your problems and it's staring you right in the face,' he said, lighting another cigarette and puffing furiously.

‘What?'

‘Leave home.'

‘Oh, I'd forgotten you wouldn't know. I'm living at the YWCA until I get a job and then I'll be flat-hunting.'

Mr Jordan looked interested, but we were interrupted by a patient with a tall, slender body bent forward and arms flailing like a windmill. She'd been gradually inching her way nearer till I could feel a fan-like breeze on my face from her arms wafting the air. A fraction nearer and I'd have to move to prevent being hit.

‘Go away, Monica,' Mr Jordan said.

She backed away a little but was soon advancing again.

‘Monica, I've told you to go away,' Mr Jordan said with mock severity in his voice. ‘Go on. Push off.'

Monica moved away and watched us from a distance, uttering low wailing sounds.

‘She's jealous because I'm talking to you,' Mr Jordan explained.

‘There's not much to live for like that,' I observed sadly, my thoughts returning to God and my ‘why?' questions.

‘Like Monica? She'll be dead in less than three months. Now, what were you saying? You've left home. That's good. You'll be all right now.'

‘It's not quite so simple. I can't mix with the others at the hostel because of my shyness. I am trying but … but it's hard.'

‘Sure it's hard. So what? Life's hard.'

‘I keep feeling sorry for myself,' I admitted. ‘But I know that a lot of people are much worse off than me.' How could I not know? Here, of all places, there were always plenty of reminders. Monica had returned to stand in front of us again, her arms still cutting the air in large circular movements. ‘I'd better go now. I just wanted to say goodbye and to thank you for the time you spent talking to me at the day hospital.'

We stood up and shook hands, ducking away from Monica's flailing arms. I turned as I was leaving and saw Mr Jordan affectionately place his arm around Monica's shoulder. He seemed tired, angry, cynical, and had chain-smoked while we'd talked. He had a difficult job and he was no saint. But he was a good nurse. He cared.

I walked back to the day hospital where Georgina, a day-patient again, threw her arms round my neck and wept.

‘Oh, Jean, I am pleased for you that you're leaving, but I'll miss you so much,' she said between tears. ‘Don't forget about us, will you? But then it's selfish of me to say that because you're young and it's only right that you should go away and forget all about us and this awful place.'

‘No, Georgina. I won't forget.'

‘You will, Jean. You'll forget about us, but I suppose that's how it should be. Goodbye, Jean. I'll miss you.'

‘I'll miss you, too. And I won't forget. Goodbye, Georgina. Take care, won't you, and please try to be kinder to yourself.'

I lingered for a while holding this child-woman who was clinging tightly to me as her body convulsed with sobs. After that, there were more goodbyes to say to other patients, handshakes with the staff, together with polite smiles, cheery ‘all the bests'. And then it was time for me to go.

Time for me to go! Five years after agreeing to spend ‘about a week' in hospital for a ‘rest and observation'; five years after my initiation into the mental hospital world of drugs, ECT, humiliation and pain; five rotten, lousy, wasted years too late, and it was time for me to go.

Outside a cloudy sky was brightening. I strode down the drive resolutely looking forward all the time, while daring to hope that each new step was taking me on towards a brighter future in which the strange, sad, hospital world would be left far behind me. Goodbye High Royds Hospital. Goodbye at last. Goodbye for ever.

PART FOUR

BLESS THIS MESS

Be not disturbed at being misunderstood.
Be disturbed rather at not being understanding.

Old Chinese Proverb

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

O
N MY FIRST DAY
at the Industrial Rehabilitation Unit I palled up with Jenny, my age, who was fighting agoraphobia. She and a friendly young man called Gerry became my special friends at the unit. Gerry often got on the same bus as me and one morning, after getting off the bus together, he told me he was ‘gay'. Not realising his sensitivity about this, I acknowledged it only briefly. Minutes later I had to stop him stepping absent-mindedly into a busy road.

‘Do you know what I mean by “gay”?' he asked, still looking preoccupied.

‘Yes, of course. You're homosexual.'

‘Doesn't that bother you?'

‘Why should it?' I asked. Did he think that because I was shy and quiet I must also be easily shocked or naïve?

I realised later, from the responses of some of the others at the unit, that I was, indeed, naïve. I'd had no idea of the extent of prejudice that still existed.

‘But I am right to tell people, aren't I, Jean? I know I am,' Gerry said. ‘If people can't understand, that's their problem. It doesn't bother me. I don't care what anyone thinks or says. I don't care at all.'

‘It's hard not to care,' I said.

‘Yeah, I reckon it is,' he admitted.

With Gerry and Jenny's help, I got talking to many of the others at the unit. Rob, eighteen and the size of a primary-school child, became aggressive when people treated him like the child he looked to be, but his strong sense of humour was never far beneath the surface. John had problems finding employment because of his prison record. Vincent was disabled through a stroke so needed to change his employment. Colin had lost two fingers in an accident, Chris had lost his hand, Bert's arm had been amputated … Always someone worse off.

I sat packing envelopes with Karen, a blonde, baby-faced twenty-five-year-old. She told me her problems started in her teens. That was when she began ‘doing drugs', got drunk every night, became pregnant, had an abortion and tried to kill herself.

Dennis Sloane, the staff instructor in charge of our section, told me Karen was immature and he felt her prognosis was poor. But I noticed how Karen acknowledged responsibility for her life, blaming only herself for messing it up. There were lessons to be learnt from them all as we each strove in our own way to overcome various obstacles.

I wanted to forget about the hospital. But my not-too-distant past was still breathing heavily down my neck and reappeared on my doorstep just before teatime one day in the form of Mrs Winters, the psychiatric social worker from High Royds.

I sat uneasily on my bed next to Mrs Winters, aware that her eyes were flitting around the room till they came to rest on the carpet.

‘How often do you clean your carpet?' she asked.

‘Once a week but the old, manual sweepers here sometimes pick up dirt in one place and put it down in another,' I explained.

Then Mrs Winters looked at the window high up on the wall. ‘I think you should clean your window,' she said.

‘That dirt won't come off. It must be on the outside and I can't get to it,' I replied, feeling hot.

‘There's a club near here for people like you,' she said.

I took it she had changed the subject and wasn't talking about a club for people who didn't keep their windows clean. She fumbled in her handbag and pulled out a notebook. ‘Ah, yes, this is it. The Felix Club for ex-psychiatric patients. It's on Wednesday evenings. I could arrange for a worker to take you.'

‘Thanks but … but I'm really too busy at the moment.'

‘Busy?'

‘Yes. I go out with friends in Bradford regularly, and I often go to Jenny's house – she's a girl I got to know at the Rehabilitation Unit who lives in Halifax. When I do stay in, I've got Vivian to talk to who lives here.'

‘Really? That's lovely. And you tell me you're shy! What do you and Vivian talk about?'

‘Oh, just things generally,' I said, unsure of how to reply. I'd talked with Vivian into the night about religion, politics, education, literature, writing, psychiatry, philosophy, ethics, alienation, relationships, sex, social-class differences, prejudices, inequality, feminism … the list was endless.

‘Well, I'm glad you've made a friend here,' Mrs Winters said. ‘I know it must be difficult for you when most of the other residents are students.'

‘It's not that. It's shyness that stops me adding my opinions to the discussions at mealtimes,' I confided.

‘Do you have opinions when you hear things being discussed?' she asked, sounding so surprised at the thought of it that I felt instantly deflated.

Just then the tea bell rang. Mrs Winters came downstairs with me. ‘Let me know if you change your mind about going to the Felix Club,' she said, pausing at the door. ‘And do ring High Royds when your pills are getting low and we'll get a community nurse to bring you some more. Are you listening, Jean?' I was glancing self-consciously around to see if anyone else was listening. Let only the uninitiated optimistically proclaim that there is no longer a stigma attached to mental illness.

Mrs Winters's visit unsettled me. I told Vivian about it later that evening.

‘It's not the way
she
behaves that upsets me so much as the way
I
behave,' I explained. ‘I get all shy and tongue-tied so that I can hardly say a word or make eye contact. I'm like that with Mrs Stroud and everyone else here except for you.'

‘Yes, I know. You don't do yourself justice,' Vivian said, looking thoughtful. ‘Force yourself to get over this shyness, Jean. Jump in at the deep end. Enrol for evening classes in public speaking.'

‘I don't know about public speaking,' I said, ‘but I'll give the idea of going to evening classes more thought.'

‘Great. I'll call in at the Adult Education Centre down the road when I'm passing and see if I can get hold of a prospectus for you. The spring classes will be starting soon.'

One Saturday, when I was twelve, I went to the swimming baths alone to deal with my fear of diving. I stood at the side of the pool in my new sea-green swimsuit, my toes curled over the edge and my stomach a quivering mass of jelly. The thought of hurtling head-first into the glittering water terrified me. I looked into the bottom of the pool, took a deep breath and forced myself to do it, then immediately climbed out and plunged in again. And again. And again. I did some stinging ‘belly flops', got the awful chlorinated water in my eyes, ears and nose, which made me cough and splutter, but didn't stop until I'd achieved my target of ten. When I went to buy my chocolate bar reward, I still hated diving. But I hadn't allowed fear to defeat me. And I survived.

I enrolled for a ten-week course at evening classes in ‘The Art of Self-Expression'. I stood at the front and gave a talk, did some drama, joined in class discussions with help from the tutor: ‘You haven't said anything yet, Jean. What do you think about this?' I went every week until I'd achieved my target of ten classes. When the course finished, I was still painfully shy. But I hadn't allowed fear to defeat me. And I survived.

Not only did I survive the classes but there was much about them that I enjoyed. Someone gave an interesting talk about the Brontë family. Some of the things Vivian and I had talked about arose in class discussions. Without being patronising, Mrs Broadhurst, the tutor, was full of praise for me. ‘You've got a wonderful mind,' she said one evening. ‘Always questioning, always reasoning and always able to see the other side.'

Mrs Broadhurst, a short middle-aged lady with rich chestnut hair piled neatly up on top, involved me from the start by asking me to be the class secretary. This entailed maintenance of the register, where I saw in the ‘Occupation' column that I was the only one unemployed: the others were professionals. I became aware, for the first time, of my strongly working-class way of speaking, and realised how some people (had the psychiatrists?) might feel ‘distanced' from me by ‘me owts, nowts and summats'. Would the doctors have viewed me differently as a teenage girl expressing existential concerns if I'd come from a family and educational background where such philosophical questioning was not unexpected?

Jenny was well spoken, elegant and articulate. Her good A levels seemed to impress Mr Atkins, the DRO (Disablement Resettlement Officer) at the unit. He always interviewed us together but most of the time only discussed Jenny's career prospects while I sat next to her feeling redundant. Jenny was offered a job, with good promotion prospects, in the office
at
the Rehabilitation Unit. An interview for a clerk/typist was arranged for me with Mrs Dunn, the personnel officer at the head office of Ravens Superstores.

I arrived to see Mrs Dunn and was amazed to realise that she was rather nervous about interviewing me at first. But soon we were laughing and joking together. She asked me to start work on Monday. ‘This interview hasn't been at all like I expected,' she admitted. ‘To be honest, I was
dreading
interviewing you. I thought they were sending someone very withdrawn and that it would be hard for me to get a word out of you.'

I'd signed a form at the unit prior to my interview with Mrs Dunn, giving permission for my ‘medical details' to be divulged to potential employers (which seems ironic now since I'd never had them divulged to me). Apparently it was these psychiatric opinions that had initially given her some pre-conceived negative ideas about me.

By the end of my first week at Ravens I was bored with the work, and also sadly aware of being the only person in the large, packed canteen who ate alone every day. But I was determined to retain the financial independence I had at last achieved. My employers were happy with me. I was supposed to be ‘on trial' for the first few weeks under a system whereby the unit would give me an allowance instead of Ravens paying my wage, but after the first week, Ravens were happy to employ me in the usual way. They also paid for me to do a crash course of Teeline shorthand, allowing me day release twice a week for this. Jenny told me that Mr Atkins had phoned Ravens to enquire about me and they had told him they wished he'd send more like me!

I told Mrs Broadhurst, my self-expression tutor, that I'd got a job as a typist. Earlier I'd confided in her that I'd been an unemployed psychiatric patient for several years, so I expected an ‘I'm pleased for you' reaction. But her face fell and she said, ‘Oh!' in a tone of voice as if she'd been given some bad news. ‘Do you like it?' she asked.

‘I find it boring,' I admitted, with eyes cast down, feeling terribly guilty for finding it boring.

‘Yes, of course. You would do. What a pity that nobody at the Rehabilitation Unit realised you've got abilities far higher than most people.'

Abilities far higher than most people? It seemed people tended to perceive me either as incredibly dim or almost a genius. No doubt the truth lay somewhere in between.

After secretly cutting down my drugs significantly before leaving the day hospital, I had become complacent about completing withdrawal. It was Mrs Winters who inadvertently gave me the push I needed to finish with pills and make a complete break from the hospital. The wheels were set in motion on the afternoon when Martin Potts, my boss and Office Manager, was out and I answered the phone on his desk at the front of the office.

‘No, I'm sorry. Mr Potts isn't in at the moment. Can I take a message?' I asked, pen poised.

‘Well, I did want to speak to him,' the female caller said hesitantly.

‘He'll be in tomorrow morning.' I averted my eyes from Darren, the office junior, who was pulling faces at me. He was going through a phase when he thought it a huge joke to try to make people laugh when dealing with phone calls.

‘Well, perhaps you can help me. My name's Mrs Winters and I'm a social worker. I'm ringing about Jean Davison …'

I gasped. She could have been saying this to Darren or anyone. I didn't want my colleagues wondering why I had a social worker.

‘It's … it's Jean who's speaking,' I stammered, my efficient business-like tone instantly disappearing.

For a moment, Mrs Winters sounded more embarrassed than I was.

‘Jean? Oh good heavens, is that really you?' She gave a nervous laugh. ‘Well, here am I thinking I'm talking to the Head of the Department and I'm talking to you!' There was an uncomfortable pause. ‘Anyway, it's you I really want to speak to,' she said. ‘How are you?'

‘OK.'

‘Do you need any more tablets?'

‘No.'

‘Well, do let us know when you need them, won't you?'

‘Yes.'

I was trying to make it sound to Darren and the other staff within earshot like I was dealing with the usual business call.

‘You
are
taking your tablets, aren't you? That's important.'

I felt like asking her if she thought I would die or go stark raving bonkers without them, but I meekly replied, ‘Yes.'

‘Well, I won't keep you from your work any longer. I just wanted to make sure you're all right and have enough tablets.'

‘Thank you for calling. Goodbye.'

That evening, in the early spring of 1974, I wrote a polite goodbye letter to Mrs Winters. I thanked her for her concern and explained that I now felt the time had come for me to finish my connections with the hospital and to stop taking tablets.

Back came Mrs Winters's reply by return of post:

I am concerned about your intention to cease taking tablets. I am sure they help to keep you well. You could get them from your GP instead of the hospital if you prefer that. If you haven't yet registered with a GP you must do so. I'll be in Leeds on Thursday and I will call at the hostel to see you …

I flung the letter down on the bed. If enduring the awful, zombie-like state which ensued when I followed the advice of mental health professionals meant being ‘well' then no wonder we couldn't communicate: we didn't even speak the same language.