Proselytizer
Wednesday: 13th April 2011
Walking down The Bourne and turning towards a long gravel drive, woven through some kind of woodland which snaked towards the impeccable Southgate Priory, I suddenly felt a strong sense of impending doom. The Imperial March soared in my ears as a tiny voice peeped, do you think we should have a codeword, you know in case they murder people here, which, until further inspection had slipped from my own mouth and hung in the air like a silly childish dread. The drive curved to the right, opening onto a wide lawn with marble steps leading to the front door of a majestic building, two large white pillars supporting the balcony above.
‘There’s the anorexics’ Juliet says with a sour laugh. She doesn't mean it that way.
An excruciatingly frail looking woman, fag hanging from two protruding fingers, stands in front of the steps, her free arm hugged into her stomach as though she fears the wind will blow her down – the feeling is mutual and I find my eyes probing her body jealously, staring dumbfounded at the way her cardigan stretches like a second skin over her spine. We pass her, lugging the suitcase towards the swinging glass doors, minds ringing with questions: What will the room be like? Who are psychiatrists this time? Group therapy? Do they put you in one according to age, or trauma? The receptionist tells us to wait with a bored smile and we take two leather chairs positioned under the unnecessarily large, and plush carpeted, splitting staircase. Looking around no one seems insane; there is a young woman next to me reading a newspaper, a floral scarf wrapped tightly about her neck, legs crossed, twitching brown suede shoes tapping at the table leg, jiggling the hot coffee; I anxiously ring my hands, eyeing the caffeine rings on the varnish with a crinkling nose.
A woman strides into the reception area, a post-adolescent boy slouched at her side – most likely her son – in sweatpants and a frayed training jacket; they stand together at the counter, the clack of the woman’s nails setting my teeth on edge. The boy, who slumps his fists into his stained trouser pockets, bouncing back on the heels of his trainers, turns his head nervously and eyes the interior as well as its occupants. They briefly scan over my scarf and coat, looking as miserable as I feel.
‘Miss Oliver?’
Yes. I drag the case through three tall white doors, the wheels catching on every possible edge, into a small office lit by one vast window. She tells me to take the seat nearest and for Juliet to take the seat behind, to which we oblige apprehensively; a consent form lies on the otherwise empty desk in front of my chair. The woman, short with a mordant haircut, reads the conditions of my stay and points vindictively at the signature line, to which I oblige again after skimming the document with as much feasible dignity I can muster. Juliet then complies as a second document, funds, is pushed across the desk; a quick automated call to the bank and we’re done.
We look at each other, ‘It’s fine’ Juliet says brightly, and I believe her.
The mordant woman leads us through several security doors, past two reception desks and a small lounge area to a lavish room off the ward: number 19. The faint but tangible smell of hospital, though masked quite well by the thick beige carpet and spacious interior, makes me nauseous; the undeniable reality of my whereabouts hangs in every inch of the Priory, regardless of how abundantly it has been designed. The staff, though dressed smartly, seem prim and irritable as we pass them by but force a quick hello and a see-you-later, an inadvertent promise they won’t hold.
‘Wow, look at the bed...’, I look around the room, struck mostly by the high window and its exterior which fortunately looks onto a beautiful, but almost diminutive, patio circled with pillars; a small bird, most likely a hatchling, peeps in the thicket beyond the sill. I test the bed gingerly, rewarded as the springs sink quietly and deeply into the lower layers of my new mattress. Bouncing, I survey the rest of the room; seven pieces of furniture in all, two bedside cabinets of the same matching wood that constructs a large wardrobe and desk, two chairs that stand arbitrarily about the room and a purple cushioned bed with a large four foot headstand – I wonder how daunting it must be to sleep under. On inspecting the bathroom I find that the door doesn’t lock.
‘Why doesn’t it lock?’ I ask the mordant woman.
‘For your safety, in case there is an emergency’
‘What if I’m using the shower? What if I don’t hear them knock and they just come right in?’
‘That won’t happen, sweetie’ Juliet laughs, but I don’t feel reassured.
After the receptionist leaves there is a soft knock and a man enters, he offers tea and biscuits to which we nod eagerly; the train ride had consisted of one cold croissant and sugarless coffee leaving us hungry and a chill had wafted through a gap in the window; tea would be welcomed here. I wonder at the small open space between the glass and its sill, come to the conclusion that they think I will try and run away, and upon questioning this only receive a similar answer. Ten minutes later I come face to face with an enormous spider on the bathroom floor, no doubt exploring the warm room for places to nest after a brief slip over the sill and quickly across the carpet. I yelp and rush to the far end of the bathroom, calling to Juliet who blithely fetches another receptionist to deal with the intruder.
Later, after tea and a banana, we are visited by the consultant psychiatrist who assures us that I will be very much looked after and that there have been a few changes to my medication. She goes over some brief details about the Priory, who I will be assessed by and the like, before introducing me to the chief nurse and taking her leave. Bonnie, a small woman with yet another laconic blonde haircut, leans forward confidently to address us both.
‘So, hello! My name is Bonnie as you can see,’ she points to her name tag with an awkwardly large grin, ‘and I’ll be the one looking after you, Libby. Today we’ll just focus on getting you settled in, having a few assessments and getting to know the Priory!’
Juliet and I nod in unison and I notice my hands clutching hers. I wonder at the person behind the smile, whether she is pleased to see me or just pretending; I wonder whether she took up this job out of compassion and a refusal to work with anyone other than patients-in-need, like a true do-gooder. I can see that she is Christian from the small and almost indiscernible silver cross protruding from her shirt collar, but feel doubtful as to whether that is the true motive behind her career. She fumbles through a large folder, slapping it against her lap every now and then as though out of frustration.
‘I can’t... for the life of me find that form. Bear with me one moment!’
I take the time to smile at my mum and kiss her cheek, a gesture returned in a hand squeeze. How was it that I ended up here? I feel incredibly fortunate all of a sudden, gratitude towards Juliet and my grandfather washing over me so suddenly I feel sure I’ve stained the bed with it. To think that, if Donna had had her way, I could be in a grotty psychiatric ward pumped with tranquilizers and anti-psychotics. I adjust my position, half out of discomfort but also to check I hadn’t wet myself. Roused from my thoughts by a snap, I look up to see that Bonnie has finally found her form and she places the closed folder on the desk next to my new bed.
‘So,’ she folds her arms and looks at me expectantly, I stare back with equal anticipation and she glances back at the folder, ‘well, first of all let me tell you how this is going to go. I’ll wake you up early every morning come rain or shine, I don’t care if you’re tired or have period pains; I can be very unforgiving in the mornings, you see, and a lot of people think I’m a bit of a dragon.’ we laugh nervously at this, ‘First I’d like to take a urine sample, if you just fill this up-’ she holds out a pale grey plastic pouch, concealing a cup, ‘because I need to know whether you have taken anything within the last twenty-four hours. You can tell me you’re clean all you like, but I won’t believe you until I’ve got it in the lab.’
‘Okay, sure’
‘Good. Let’s see now,’ more rustling, ‘I need you to fill this out please, it’s just a consent form to say that all the details we take down can be transferred to your GP’ and it goes on much the same, for half an hour; forms and questionnaires and petty details before Juliet has to leave for work and they begin to rush me for lunchtime. Bonnie slips out of the room while I embrace mum and let her rub my back, I refuse to let go for a while until she pulls away and I suddenly feel as though there are great mountains between us; the world shifts as she leaves the room. The door clicks and I am alone.
A few minutes pass while I wait for Bonnie to return, and when she does she is accompanied by another woman. I begin to think every member of staff is of a below-average stature, when a nurse in pale blue steps into the room briefly to check everything is alright, standing at an impressive six foot three, ‘Hi there, Libby, I’ll be at the desk this afternoon if you need me. Just around the corner, alright?’ to which I nod and he leaves, pulling the door gently so as not to make a slam. The women mutter among themselves words that I don’t understand or that make no sense, ‘Amber? Yes. Amber. How about ml? Is that what she said? Make sure you write that down. Zopiclone, yes, for three nights. Aggression and property we’ll talk about in a minute’. I watch them inquisitively.
After much fuss and hasty scrawl, the new woman tells me that she is the resident doctor here and that tomorrow – not today because of a tight schedule – it is mandatory that I have a physical examination; blood tests and a stitch-removal will be done in the morning so that she can gain an inclusive impression of my general health and well-being. I watch her pull out more forms and she asks me invasive questions, pummeling my mind and stomach into a steadfast stupor. Tell me about your father, when was the last time you saw him? What did the lodger do? How old where you when the feelings began? How often and where do you use a blade? How long have you been doing that, then? This continues for several hours, my room visited by various consultants and psychiatrists, nurses and key-workers, until I am exhausted and depraved of my, now non-existent, pragmatic mind. I drift into automatic-response, my mind wondering separately to my mouth.
When I was a little girl I would watch cartoons in the morning, squished into an uncomfortable-looking, but actually quite pleasant, ball on the sofa with a bear and a bowl of cereal. Usually the Smurfs was the only interesting program running, for a four year old, that early on a weekday morning. I’d watch the tiny blue characters running about in their funny white shoes, Papa-Smurf guiding the villagers through the wilderness and back into the safety of their mushroom houses. I would wonder whether grandma knew that Smurfs lived in toadstools and, if she did, whether she would ever show me some. My grandma, ever with the love of nature, would lead me down the lanes behind her country house to a small forest flanked by great rolling fields of corn and peas, to pick bluebell plants and make potions with the petals of various flowers. She would do this with me every time I travelled there from London, and each day would be different; there would be the ducklings to feed, carnivorous terrapins to spy, fish to poke at through the long reeds at the edge of the pond, coffee mornings to go to, Bingo on a Friday night, blackberries to pick in late summer, butterflies to catch...
How would you describe your relationship with Juliet? Every night at grandmas, after cheese and biscuits, I would be tucked into the little spare room with a cup of hot chocolate and a kiss on each cheek and grandma would say ‘Goodnight Libbyloo’ to which I would peep ‘See you later alligator!’. Sometimes, depending on how tuned his hearing-aid was on those nights, a gruff voice from downstairs would add ‘...in a while crocodile’, to which me and grandma would giggle. I’d make her promise to give granddad a kiss from me, and she would always oblige. Then, after a few moments I would open the curtains and slip out of the bed, rummage through the contents of my night bag until I found a secret envelope; inside would be a message from Juliet, sealed with a lipstick kiss that I would open as carefully as I could so as not to rip the paper.
Angel face,
Go to the window and count all the stars in the sky. Can you see them? I am looking at them now with you, and I have told the moon to keep an eye on my little girl. If you miss me, just remember I’m looking at those stars with you. Be strong, chick.
I love you,
Mummy
No doubt I would find one of those scrawls tucked away in a sanitary box later, Juliet will never see me as a grown woman. I smile benignly, nod, adjust my shirt so that it doesn't cling to my stomach, become friendly with various cracks on the wall and let them pummel me. I let them ask and press and frown pityingly. I let them pinch and cluck and scratch at their pads. I let them lacerate my stomach, let them unfold my guts and study them, smiling encouragingly all the while. I let them. I am safe in my space between the sofa and the wall, the cold concrete unfelt at my back, while the big voice wails and breaks and howls passed my hands which I press, fiercely, over my ears. No one can touch me here, in my safe space. They would have to climb over three boxes full of junk, and then a broken sink. They can't touch me but I hear them, I hear the big voice and the wails of the other voice, and the name of a child I no longer associate with myself. He can't find me here. He doesn't know this place. It hurts to crawl here, through broken things. When did you first notice that things at home weren't quite right? Did anyone help you? The phone rings and I hold my breath, it's silent now, I can hear big voice contemplating who might be on the other end, and if it's worth setting my mother down to finish later. I count the cracks in the sink, seventy eight, seventy nine, thirty two, thirty forty, fifty ten, eleven, twelve, fourteen. The phone is by my safe space. It ring rings. Big voice comes and my chest hurts from holding.
She sets down her pen and considers me over the rim of two hideous lenses, the kind that connect to a chain to keep them from falling. Her purple lips are compressed into a tight line, white around the edges, like the asshole of a pornstar, puckered and dry. I stare at them, trying to swallow the bile. I've never been good at looking them in the eye while they prod at my insides. I can see them now, great sticky mounds of bloated flesh in a pile on her lap, staining her white blouse. I release a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. She smiles.
'You must be hungry'. It takes me a while to gather her meaning and finally I shake my head while the room spins back into order, no ghosts in the corners, no empty bottles on the fluffy carpets. My stitches itch. I go to scratch them but a fleshy hand stops my arm; I can already feel the flakes of her calloused palms settling on my sleeve, the sweat leaking from swollen pores. Disgusting. 'Come now, Missy, I'll show you the dining room and get you acquainted.' And so I go, towed behind her like driftwood stuck in a net and reaching desperately through holes smaller than my body. Through the wide halls and their pretentious paintings spaced meticulously, painfully, perfectly, I pass a few rooms with open doors, with beds and carpets and curtains identical to mine in all but colour. I wonder if they colour code their patients according to severity and the thought makes me smile; a part of me wishes I had blue coverlets instead of purple. I think what I am feeling is inevitability. The inescapable, unavoidable, inevitability of it all, and a numbness that doesn't entirely stop the throat from tightening in grief. I stare now at the woman's heels, the kind that you can only really buy in Marks or some heady corner of Debenhams, no, the size 4 rack in the Clarks summer sale. Navy blue, chunky, narrow but square-toed with a little fringe. Not quite rubber but something else, something similar, something similarly dreary and practical to match the mordant cut of her hair and jacket. So, this is the woman that will have seen me naked by the end of the week.
'...-ket potatoes, bread, salad, plates over here, water machine... oh, this machine never works. Andy? ANDY?', she turns to me in mock fury, 'Silly man is never where he should be,' a plump hand presses against her cheek as if to shield her words to all but me, '...always at the cake and biscuits - ANDY!'
I am told never to talk to patients occupying the back tables, the ones by the big bay window. To avoid looking directly at them if I can. By all accounts some floppy-haired post-post-adolescent member of McFly is currently undergoing his 30 day purge and sits there among the others, for drug abuse and alcohol, but I didn't hear it from her. They congregate by the bay, rowdy and outwardly cheerful, on a strict program that denies access to sugar, caffeine and other patients - and, of course, anything psychedelic or vaguely reminiscent of that particular horse tranquilizer. I duck my head, take a seat and watch with disinterest as the woman walks away. And so I sit and stare at a plate full of food I can't stand the sight of. I stare but don't really see. My eyes do that thing where they loose focus and everything swims strangely, blurs sickeningly, so that almost, almost you can make cloudy shapes out of a hazy slice of cucumber. A moon eating hand sanitizer. That kind of thing. Inside, distant but tangible, something moans and writhes and howls against the steel bars of a cage, a body of anger or something, but all I see is a square of butter sealed in gold, and a smudge on the bowl of my spoon.
