by Pip Granger
Along with the odd artery, I had also managed to block the final exams from my consciousness. I had driven all thought of them from my mind for two years and more, so that when they eventually forced themselves on my attention, I was very frightened and ill-prepared. Looking back, I can see that there had been clear signs that all was not well with me for some considerable time, but I didn’t recognize them then, and neither did my friends and flatmates.
I began having a series of minor accidents: a twisted ankle here, a sprained wrist there. I often took to my bed, sometimes for weeks at a time, apparently chirpy enough but unable to face the world outside my duvet and occasional runs to the bathroom and the kettle. And all the time those terrifying exams loomed in front of me, and Valerie’s death, and the terrible wounds it had inflicted on my poor, benighted family, haunted my memories.
‘I don’t want the pills,’ I told the doctor flatly.
I was at the doctor’s yet again, and yet again tranquillizers were being offered as a cure-all for everything from fractured toenails to fractured lives. The trouble was, they wiped away everything, all joy as well as pain, and that never seemed a fair trade-off to me. I had a close friend who had been reduced to a zombie by the things, and I can’t say I fancied it one tiny little bit. The really big advantage of being brought up with no faith at all was that I knew that life was for living, not for ‘getting through’, and that deadening things by popping the docs’ little miracle pills until the old ‘pie in the sky by and by’ saved me from it all wasn’t an option. I was certain that there was no pie.
‘I wasn’t aware that you’d gained a medical degree since last we met.’ The doctor looked over his half-moon specs in his best intimidating manner. ‘What do you suggest we do with you?’ The doctor did almost as good a line in world-weary as he did in heavy-handed patronage. He had a gift for saying little but implying much. He was able to convey, by the merest inflection, just what a pain in the arse I was being.
‘It seems to me’ – I tried to keep the pathetic whine of pleading out of my voice, but I felt weedy and it was hard to hide it – ‘that treating the cause of my troubles might be cheaper in the long run, and more productive too.’ It’s hard to put across just how bone-weary I was of having the symptoms of my distress treated, but none of its fundamental causes. I was forever tearing up prescriptions for Librium, Valium and various other ‘ums’. As time went by, I became so demoralized by the total absence of any kind of official support for my point of view that I fell into a deep despair.
The whole thing came to a head just before the dreaded exams, when in an incident that seemed agonizingly familiar and terribly personal, Father shot another dog that I loved. Print was a white springer spaniel with orangey-brown splodges dotted about here and there. The splodges were reduced to freckle size by the time they reached his nose, and scattered themselves across his muzzle in the most fetching way. He also had great lugs, long dangly things with curls. Print and I had had a special relationship ever since I’d rescued him from one of Father’s rages when he was a pup. So I was devastated when he failed to bound up to me when I arrived one day on a visit and was told that Father had shot him. I never knew why.
Thus it was that, a few weeks before my finals, I finally suffered the full-blown nervous breakdown that had been threatening for so long, and I was carted off to the local psychiatric ward late one night after being stuffed full of Largactil – the so-called ‘liquid cosh’ – liberally administered by a locum. According to the nurses, I had had enough to knock out a stable full of cart-horses, and I was still going like a train when I was admitted into the ward. Apparently, I was literally begging someone, anyone, to cut my throat and put me out of my misery. I meant it too.
The ward could once have been some official’s house back in the day when the grim, red-brick general hospital was built. It was situated in the substantial grounds, tucked well away from the main buildings. There was a large room that was meant to be used by the patients as a lounge, but it was too institutional to be cosy. I remember that it had black and white lino tiles on the floor, and a big, bile-coloured rug in the middle. Upright armchairs were placed in a circle around the bilious-looking rug. The chairs were covered in either dark red plastic or battleship grey, and were always cold to the touch. One or two tired cushions were scattered about, in a futile attempt to bring a homely touch. Nobody really used the lounge except at coffee time at eleven in the morning, and again at four in the afternoon for tea. We only ventured in then because we didn’t get a drink unless we presented ourselves there at the appointed hour.
Occasionally, a patient was called for a ‘review’ in the lounge. This was a terrifying ordeal for a person suffering from acute anxiety, because the entire staff sat in a large circle around the patient as if he or she were an exhibit in a zoo. Each member of staff then gave their assessment of the condition and progress of the hapless patient, whose job it was simply to sit and listen.
Some inmates slept in small, single-sex wards of twelve, while others, like myself, were blessed with rooms to ourselves. The men’s quarters were on one side of the building and the women’s on the other. Separating the two were the administration offices and the cheerless lounge. The idea was to discourage midnight creeping by those patients whose condition might include sexual obsession. The manic depressives were considered fairly notorious for that kind of behaviour, although I have to say that most people were so drugged up to the eyeballs that raising an eyelid was an effort, let alone anything else.
I was allocated a room because I was studying for my exams and it afforded me some privacy, as well as much-needed peace and quiet. The room was how I imagined a nun’s cell would be, with just the bare essentials – a narrow single bed, covered in a worn, well-washed, white cotton bedspread, a small chest of drawers and, as a special dispensation, a table and chair for studying. The curtains had once been patterned chintz, but were so washed out as to be almost white.
The whole building smelt of disinfectant, floor polish and – surprisingly, because no cooking was done there – over-boiled cabbage. That combination of smells seemed to follow me around to every miserable institution I had ever been in, starting with the Rest Centre, through various hospitals and all of my many schools. Fancifully perhaps, I have always associated that smell with quiet, and not so quiet, desperation.
Dimly, I was aware that a lot of my problems, at that precise moment at least, stemmed from being convinced that I wasn’t at all bright. The crunch had come: the examinations were about to find me out. Worse, they’d expose me to all the world, as if the world would be interested, as an idiot. The problem was – the really tricky, sticky bit was – that if I didn’t try to take those bloody exams, then I’d never know for absolute, certain sure that I was, in fact, utterly useless. And I would regret not finding out – I knew I would – if I dodged the issue altogether. Anyway, it would make facing the next set of tests even worse. So, reluctantly, I decided to plug on and sit the papers, even though I was still in the bin.
Being actively engaged in revision meant that I was excused a lot of the usual stuff like occupational therapy in favour of studying time, which meant that I was a bit cut off from the other inmates. Perhaps that would have been the case anyway, as everyone was so drugged all the time, we were all isolated in our own little worlds. We had no choice in the matter. Or, at least, it didn’t feel as if there was one. The nurses were wise to tricks with pills, and everyone was either dosed in liquid form or watched really closely as they swallowed.
Mostly I kept close to the hospital, but I did occasionally venture out to get the books I needed for my college work. I have vague memories of visits from friends, and in my mind’s eye I can see them in the sunny grounds, but I have very few clear memories of that time. It is hardly surprising. I was on prodigious doses of strong drugs and the whole world seemed hazy.
I was very quickly allocated a psychiatrist. He was a young Australian chap with a stammer. He deci
ded that visits from my father would be unsettling for me, and banned them. He also pointed out that it was unwise for me to attempt to share flats with a couple (one of my flatmates had moved her boyfriend in), because I was over-sensitive to domestic strife, and I was unlikely to grow out of it.
He dished out advice along with the tranquillizers. ‘What you need is a good husband,’ I can remember him saying, a shade testily, one day.
‘And do you supply them on the National Health?’ I asked, wide-eyed with innocence.
‘Th-there’s n-n-no n-n-need to b-b-be f-f-facetious …’ The poor man’s stammer was really bad.
My next shrink was a tiny Austrian lady, youngish, skinny and intense. We didn’t do too well together, either. It was the long silences. I hated those. After I’d horrified myself by gabbling non-stop into them a few times, I decided to keep schtum. I’m not sure why; perhaps I needed more encouragement than I was getting. The long silences had begun to get up my nose, and I was blowed if I was going to flog myself to fill them all on my own.
Meanwhile, I beavered away revising for my exams, and one day it became necessary to go to a book shop in the West End to fill some gaps in the material I had to study. I decided to visit Father at his office while I was at it, because he would literally be within spitting distance from the shop I needed to visit, and it seemed churlish not to.
First, I went to Dillons and, to my relief, was met by a member of staff who knew their stuff and was able to find a whole load of relevant texts in no time at all. My general state of being was so very shaky at that point that I was suffused with gratitude that someone could be so good at her job. Making decisions, even the smallest ones, like which knickers to wear that day, had become such an effort that I often gave it up in a fit of frantic wobbles or, worse, uncontrolled sobbing.
The next part of my trip was not so easy. I was anxious all the way to Father’s office, and when I arrived I was shivering with fear at the reception I’d get. Father didn’t disappoint. The swine kept me waiting in the outer office for three hours before sending someone to tell me that he couldn’t see me after all. I was being punished for allowing the hospital to refuse to let him see me when I was so ill.
By the time I crawled down the stairs to the street I felt completely wrung out and fuddled. Everything was such very hard work, even putting one lead-booted foot in front of another. I could not face the insurmountable obstacle of planning a tube and bus journey back to the hospital. My brains simply weren’t up to it, and neither were my watery knees. Eventually, I managed to hail a taxi and sank into the back seat with a whimper of relief. I was so grateful to be off the street and enclosed in a safe space for a while.
‘Where to, love?’ the cab driver asked.
I told him the name of the hospital.
‘Where?’
I repeated the name of the hospital.
‘But that’s bloody miles away!’ His tone was accusatory. ‘That’s out Harlesden way, that is. Further, even,’ the cab driver said, incredulous that I should suggest venturing so far out of the West End. ‘I don’t do Harlesden, love,’ he told me, as if I’d suggested Outer Mongolia. ‘T’aint worth me while, ’cause I won’t get a fare back, see? You can bet your life on that.’
Just as red mists can descend, so can emotional dams burst, I discovered. Mine burst in that cab in Oxford Street in front of a horrified cab driver. I told him everything. I told him about being in the bin. I told him about my terror of exams and not having ‘the family brains’ to fall back on. I told him about my father keeping me waiting for three hours and then refusing to see me. I told him that I simply could not get on that damned tube because my brains were scrambled and my knees were rubber.
‘Have a fruit drop,’ he said softly when I finally ground to a halt. ‘Take two.’ He carefully selected one in an unlikely shade of purple and unwrapped it in meditative silence as he absorbed the torrent of information I had poured over him. He came to a decision. I could tell by the way his mouth set and he squared his shoulders slightly.
‘Seems like a lot for one day. I’ll take you back to the hospital, don’t you worry,’ he smiled. ‘I’ve got a daughter about your age, lives in Sydney, Australia. I’d like to think that if she was in trouble, some Ozzie cabbie’d help her out. So sit back and relax, love, I’ll deliver you safe and sound.’
When we arrived at the ward, the cabbie helped me out of his cab and handed me my bag of books. ‘There you are, love. Now, you hurry up and get well quick, despite that dad of yours.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I don’t understand the man, meself, I’d give me right arm to see my girl…’
He eyed me a little blearily. ‘You’re a nice kid, a good kid, and don’t you let that miserable old beggar make you feel otherwise! Get well really quick, just to spite the old beggar.’
He wouldn’t take the fare. ‘I didn’t put the meter on, you see, so I’ve no way of knowing.’
‘Well, can’t you make an educated guess?’
He shook his head. ‘Nah, I never come out this far. These is foreign parts, these is, couldn’t even begin to guess. Have it on me, love. It’s good ju-ju in case my little girl needs a helping hand one day, eh?’
Along with the staff at Dillons, that cabbie lives in my mind to this day.
‘Alone’ did seem to characterize the way I was during this period. My mother said that she was unable to visit me because most of my stay coincided with her term time. She was teaching on the Outer Hebridean island of Harris. By half-term, her exhaustion made the trip south out of the question. Gaby came once, which was kind of her, but I don’t remember much about her visit.
I was in the hospital for a little under twelve weeks. I took all of my exams from there and passed the lot, after a fashion, except an oral, which I flunked by coming over all wobbly right in the middle and rushing out of the room sobbing. As I had done really well in my final teaching practice, which I had completed before the breakdown, I think they kindly overlooked that awful oral.
Eventually, I was let out of the bin. I had gained a friend – an alcoholic priest called Derek, who made me laugh – a drum of downers large enough to snuff out most of London plus a healthy chunk of the Home Counties, and a feeling that I had failed some vital test and that I was a marked woman for life.
I’d also gained my Teaching Certificate, but I would not find out about that until later. Funny thing was, facing up to the exams had not had the desired effect at all. I remain terrified of tests and examinations. To this day they seem to represent abject failure – despite the fact that, looked at objectively, they could be seen as achievements. I had, after all, passed my A levels and my teaching qualification – I’d even managed to gain a distinction in my teaching practice – but the fact remained that I always felt as if I should have done better, and without misplacing my marbles while I was at it.
‘Dr Kingdom’s Special Trial Number 13’ said the label on the tub of downers. I didn’t like the look of it, not one little bit. I didn’t like the look of the bomb-shaped pills behind the label, either. I had an awful feeling they’d blow my brains out if I took them. So I didn’t.
I had been let out of the bin on three conditions: I should take the doobs (pills) as per instructions on the label; I should be released into the care of my mother until I settled down and could face life again; and in the fullness of time – in other words, when they could get it organized – I should attend group therapy sessions, weekly on a Saturday morning, at the hospital. We’d all given up on the one-to-one sessions quite early on.
I was not going to take the pills, and as for being released into the care of my mother, nobody said what I was supposed to do if my mother, care-giver extraordinaire, had legged it. I had done my best, but when I turned up in the wilds of the Scottish Isles, my mother had buggered off on an arts and crafts course somewhere on the mainland. Poor old Don was left to deal with his nutty stepdaughter all by himself. I can’t remember anything at all about that period. I seem to have bl
otted it completely from my memory banks.
What I do remember is getting back to London sharpish, going to group therapy sessions as soon as they started up, and attending religiously every Saturday morning for a couple of years thereafter. It was at these therapy sessions that I first began to hear the horror stories of the women and men who were trying, in vain, to get off their tranquillizers. I couldn’t understand it. Didn’t you just stop taking them? After all, I had.
But listening to those sad stories, I thanked God for my stubbornness. I had always held out against the downers until they were more or less forced on me in the hospital, then dumb luck dictated that I was held there for a shade less than the number of weeks that can lead to addiction. Apparently, it takes a minimum of twelve weeks or so for many of these substances to get a real hold on a person.
My refusal to take the pills the doctors prescribed for me may have been due to a form of displaced rage at my parents for not being there – or, indeed, anywhere handy – in my hour of need. Or I may just have been bloody furious at being used as a guinea pig without so much as a polite enquiry as to whether I minded.
Be that as it may, I had never liked Dr Kingdom, the head honcho of the Ward. I had never liked the way he’d swan through the narrow room, stolen from a corridor, where we inmates ate our meals, without even the briefest glance left or right, as if we were not present. I suspect that he was embarrassed at barging through our mealtimes, but it came over as arrogance. Everyone else – the nurses, the other shrinks, porters, admin staff – all said hello with varying degrees of chirpiness, and some stopped to chat, but Kingdom never did.
I didn’t like the notion of any ‘Special Trial Number 13’ either, and the fact that no one had consulted me before doling out what looked like an experimental drug. That also smacked of breathtaking arrogance, and I was cross, very, very cross about it.