I’ve been researching Z Ward at Parkside Mental Hospital. It’s in the suburb we refer to now as Glenside, very much a posh place to live. That’s what they’re going to do to some of the old buildings, make them into luxury apartments. Not Z Ward. It’s marked for demolition.
When researching I discovered there were tours of the old buildings, in particular, one for Z Ward. I booked myself in. Mum freaked. Dad calmed her down which is pretty normal. I should give you a little more information. The tours are primarily to do with the paranormal. That’s right ghost tours. That’s why Mum freaked. She didn’t want to go on a ghost tour and be scared out of her mind. Dad said he’d come. I told them I could go by myself. I wanted to see where I had spent those few days. I wanted to see if it was going to be the same. I also wanted to see more of what was outside of the room and maybe learn about some of the characters there.
They both came along with me, and I was glad that they did. I felt disconnected standing outside the ha-ha wall, seven at night in the dark, holding a little torch in my palm, looking up at the building through the red-painted iron gate. It’s multi-chromatic brickwork standing out in the few lights from people’s torches or flashes from cameras. This was what the place looked like from the outside, and I wondered briefly if I should’ve explored more when I was a ghost. But then, after Bertie… well, I just wanted to find my way home. That was all that mattered.
My legs trembled when I walked into the building, through the first door, down a little corridor, then another iron door. It was like I’d imagined it from the sounds I’d heard.
‘Are you all right?’ Mum asked me quietly.
I nodded. I was. Just. I meant it wasn’t like I was going to do anything stupid. It was just very surreal. I hate that word. It’s spooky, and I was scared. Of how I would react when I saw the room. I wanted to go there. I could see the stairs ahead of me and I immediately wanted to go up to the next level straight away, but the tour guide called us all over.
There were two rows to my left and right of rooms where patients had been locked up for their safety as well as others. The lady began telling stories about people who were held in here in the late 1880s, and the early 1900s. Mad Jim got a mention. And Billy. Poor bastards. I don’t miss them. Smithy didn’t. Sure as hell didn’t miss him. There were others. Their stories filling my mind with their plight, of how their minds had seemingly turned against them, or something that ‘normal’ people, those who aren’t insane can’t understand. Even me. I couldn’t understand. There were no answers to the whys. It was good to know that I wasn’t even close to being like these people. Just a little bit of darkness in me, whereas they were full of it and leaking it out.
When the tour guide had finished talking we could explore. I simply walked up and down the wide corridor, listening to the sound of my feet on the wooden floorboards. A sound I missed when in my ghostly form. I reached out. I don’t know what made me do it, but I did. I reached out like Bertie had taught me to do when he was teaching me to go through the walls.
I felt them.
All the people who had been here.
There’s darkness rippling in the air. I tasted it on my tongue when I inhaled. Bitterness. But there was more. Sadness. A sense of loss. Desperateness. Loneliness. All the emotions I knew. The ones that cut deep into my psyche and left me bleeding out. I didn’t want to feel these emotions, but I held onto them for a little while inside of me, turning them around and feeling them. Then I surrounded them with love. Exhaled. I hope I helped the people if they were hanging around as ghosts. I didn’t feel any ghosts, but I wanted to do something positive, and this was all I could think of doing.
I don’t think I really made a difference. These people might well have been beyond help. But I had to try. Like Mum and Dad kept trying with me and never giving up. They understand I can’t control how I am. They’ve accepted that. And so have I. But I don’t want to go back to the way things were, which is why I stayed in Z Ward remembering what it had been like. So when the signs came up again, I could recall this, and use it to drag myself away from the edge.
Then we went upstairs.
I knew the room was to my right straight away. On the far side of the wall, at the end of the row of rooms.
I stood listening to more stories. This time not hearing them. Coldness seeped down me from head to toe locking me in one place, and I couldn’t move.
‘We can go if you like,’ whispered Mum in my ear.
I managed to shake my head. We couldn’t go yet. There was one thing I had to do. It was the real reason why I wanted to come on this tour. To see the room.
Mum stood close to me. I could feel she was unsure what to do for the best. Plus, she was uneasy because of all the ghost stories. I sort of listened enough to know there wasn’t a female ghost in this place. Ever.
‘Were there any female ghosts?’ I ask. The question came out before I’d thought about it.
‘Not that I know of. Z Ward was for men, but I have seen a record where there was a female held here for a time, but there are no details.’
Well, I know that to be a lie, but I didn’t say so. I was here. Surely, I would’ve left a mark on this place. I know what I should say out loud and what I should keep to myself in my head.
It’s been a challenge to write about my experience and to share that with people I love. Yes, I do love my parents and Ashla.
We were given more free time to wander, in the dark with just our torches for atmosphere. It was weird walking in physical form here in this building. Upstairs was much like downstairs. There were two rows of single rooms, except where the stairs are there were two dormitory rooms where seven men were squeezed in, along with two rooms for the orderlies.
I immediately walked left along the middle of the broad corridor which kept the two rows of rooms apart, separating them like a road separates a suburb. At the end, there’s a large arched window. Instead of stain glass it’s simply multi-glass panelled, and it lets in enough moonlight to spill on the floor and make its mark. It’s how I remembered it.
I looked into some of the rooms. They were small. One window. Some had cylindrical vents in the corner, something the architect put in, an innovation of the time when the building was constructed. At least he was thinking about the people living in this building.
I tried to look out of the window, silly of me because it was dark. I was delaying what I’d come here to do. With a sigh, I decided that it was best to get this over with. I wanted to do this. I wanted to see the room where I spent so much time with Bertie. To see if I could feel him, his mark in the air, before.
Emotion clogged in my throat.
My vision blurred.
It was like I was wading through the marshes once more, and an invisible force was trying to hold me back. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea? I’d never thought of that before. But I didn’t believe it. I was safe. Logically I knew that. Fear built up inside of me with a force of a winter’s storm. I didn’t want to be held back by this.
The room was on my left.
I stood looking at the open door. There were the two peepholes. The heavy lock. It was painted heavy with cream enamel paint.
I saw Bertie’s legs. There above the floor. His boots that he never got to take off when he went to bed.
I blinked.
His image disappeared.
I couldn’t walk in.
I held out my arm as if I was calling for Bertie as if I was trying to reach him. My legs didn’t move. My arm dropped to my side. The room looked like all the others. Except for the window with the panel on the bottom to stop the patients from getting to the glass. The tour guide made that perfectly clear in her explanation. I must have been listening more than I thought.
There was no bed. Thick paint on the wall tried to cover the mess and pain of those who’d been kept in there over the seventy or so years this place was open.
There was nothing there for me. I could feel it now.
Tacenda.
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Bertie was right when he told me I didn’t belong in this place and I don’t now, back in my own time.
The tour led me to start researching more about local history, there is so much more I want to know, especially about Parkside Hospital. Mum and Dad don’t really like me doing this, but this is a very real interest for me. Plus, they can’t stop me. I want to find out more about the life Bertie lived. It makes me feel connected to him. It helps me to unlock his red book and peek inside.
There was a man here in the late 1800s called Bertie, and I found out what he’d done wrong. He’d tried to kill himself. It was illegal. Suicide. Even now. Sort of. At least no one will throw you in jail for it now, though. That’s what happened to Bertie. He was put into jail. Then he tried to kill himself again. So he was transferred to Z Ward. It makes sense now. It was the part of him that I didn’t want to see in myself. Not so close up. It won’t stop me from trying again, but it helps me to understand the part of myself I’m ashamed of. It lessens the shame. Sort of.
Tracenda, some things are best passed over in silence.
I feel like I’ve found the key now to Bertie’s book. I can open it up and find out about him. The part he kept from me. The part that is in me. I wonder if he saw it in me. Probably not. Doesn’t matter. I will write his story someday. He was buried in an unmarked grave in Adelaide cemetery. I feel sad to learn this. Guess it was his misfortune that he had to live with but couldn’t. So I’m trying to live with my lot. With my misfortune and not give up. I’m not making any promises.
In my journey of playing with words and writing, I’ve learnt new words. Dad enjoys me coming to him with new words. It’s how we find something to talk about. We take it in turns using the words in sentences, and we attempt to be funny. It’s not always easy for me to be funny but I’m trying. Dad’s all right if I can’t as long as I have a go. As long as I come to him with a new word and not ignore him. And if I go too long without going to him with a new word, then he comes to me with one.
‘Énouement.’ That was his word. My dad is clever. I’ll give him that. It means the torment of arriving in the future and seeing how things have unfolded, what has happened, what hasn’t, and not being able to tell your future self. I guess it was his way of telling me not to get my hopes up. I dunno. I couldn’t talk to him about it.
What we did do though was to sit down and start watching the Dr Who series. The episodes right from the beginning in the 1960s. Dr Who time travels, and I wasn’t sure how I would go with that after my experience. I must admit it was very uncomfortable to begin with. The old special effects didn’t help, though they added a bit of humour which I needed. I don’t mind laughing. Not now. Though it’s hard at times. I see how the character copes being out of time and I sorta get it. If I could travel like Dr Who, I would go back and help Bertie. There’s no question about it. Sometimes I daydream how I would do this. I haven’t worked out the details. I like to change the ending of his story sometimes just because he helped me. He showed me how to give myself a different ending. I’d like to give the same to him, if only in a story.
Some words I don’t show Dad. ‘Manqué.’ I don’t think my parents view me as a failure. And I’m starting to find my place in the world. But I sometimes worry that this word could be applied to me if I do fail to become what I might have been. Even though I’m still not sure what that is. My therapist is helping work through this one. Dunno if she’s helping, but I’d rather not forget about this.
‘Altscherz.’ I like to think of my darkness as this. Though that’s not so positive, right? But I like to use this word in the poems I destroy. Makes me think that I’m destroying my anxieties and worries, and getting rid of the weariness that I seem to feel these days.
I brought the word ‘cathect’ to both Mum and Dad. I painted the word on some art paper and decorated it. It sort of looks like something I might have done in primary school, to be honest. But it’s another reminder. Mum cried when I told her the meaning. Tears of happiness, she told me. I believed her. Dad and Mum got the painting framed, and it’s on my wall in my room. Next to my dark fairies. Another form to remind me of my journey. I look at it every time I walk into my room.
‘Cathect.’ It’s what I’m doing with people these days. Investing in emotion with people. Connecting with them. Forming little silver chains to join us, like I learnt with Bertie. Not everyone. I can’t manage that, so I’m starting with those who are important to me—Mum and Dad and Ashla. I haven’t seen Bree yet. This might be all too much for her. That’s fine. I’ll make other friends. Ones who understand. I know I will. All in good time.
Who would’ve thought I’d find so many words that describe what I couldn’t express in the past?
‘Wabi-sabi.’ Though I struggle with finding the beauty within myself because that means I have to accept my imperfections, and that’s not so bad now, but I’ve still got to accept how I treated myself. My family tell me they forgive me. I believe them. But I don’t forgive myself. Whenever I try, an image of Bertie’s face forms in my mind’s eye. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe that’s what keeps me moving towards a healthier path, one he couldn’t find. I’ve found it now. I owe him and myself the chance of walking it and exploring where it will take me.
‘Altschmerz.’ That’s another word I learnt quickly after coming home from my ghostly experience. My therapist helped me search the internet for a word that would best describe the repeating anxieties and worry of the same things I had. I like this word. I don’t like it when I think about it because I know that I’m ruminating again and that I’m stuck thinking over and over the same things. That’s not healthy. But if I think of the word, then it helps me to pull away and think about other things. That’s what’s important about this word for me, not so much its meaning. Also, it starts with an ‘a’ and ends with a ‘z’, which frames the beginning and end and in between are all the things I think about which I get stuck on. Then I move on.
I also like the word ‘opia.’ And Bertie’s eyes. And how ambiguous they were when I looked into them. But I don’t like to dwell on this word, it’s too painful. It always will be. But at least I have a word to explain what it was like to look into his eyes. Depth didn’t cut it. Opia sounds more elegant, more beautiful. Something I can use in a poem. Over and over again.
The word that helps me the most is ‘querencia.’ It has a soft sound to it. So when I’m struggling finding my wabi-sabi, I think of the word, querencia. Then I draw my strength from within me, I know my home is in my heart, that tiny place inside of me where I am my true self, my authentic self, with the good, and the bad and the ugly things I’ve done. And I think more happily about Bertie. He had a glimpse of this part of me before I did. This is my Honey Pot, which one day I might be able to have the peace to share with my family, with friends, perhaps even a boyfriend.
I was always sceptic that I could change. Now I believe. Not so much about changing, more about my perspective on living has been altered. I believe in life. At least a little more than I believe in death. That’s a change in itself. A hope. Something to tether myself to.
The door is inside me. It looks like the door to the insane asylum where I was trapped. It is locked. I have the key. Sometimes I touch the key, play with it in my hand. It’s cold and heavy, a beautiful design, with an ornate ending of swirls and twists.
Sometimes I even place it in the lock.
But I never turn it.
I don’t even have the desire to.
That’s how much better I am now. The darkness is locked up. I can feel it pulsing to be let out. I can unlock it, go back to how things were. I don’t know why, but I don’t want to. At least I don’t want to today. And this is a day-by-day sort of journey.
For now, I have hope. I’m no longer a sceptic. I’m a believer in change, and that’s all I can ask for. k12
On a more serious note:
This book is a work of fiction but some situations discussed are of a sensitive nature.
If you or anyone you know has a problem, please seek help or assist them to obtain help.
Crisis hotlines exist everywhere, so please don’t hesitate.
If you live in:
USA call RAINN- 1-800-656-HOPE
Canada call 1.888.407.4747 for help
UK call The Samaritans 116 123
Australia call Lifeline Australia 13 11 14
Thanks to Marianne for the gritty conversations on mental health, as well as more lighter chats about the writers’ life and for encouraging me to write this story. Thanks to Maggie, Leesa, and Carla for your continual support with writing and life. Thank you, Kaylene and Kim for your wisdom on writing, formatting and publishing. Thanks to the Glenside Hospital Historical Society and Adelaide Haunted Horizons Ghost Tours, for conducting tours of Z Ward and keeping the history of this unique building and the people who lived there alive. Thank you, Kellie, for another beautiful cover.
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Sceptic Page 17