Sarah Vaughan is Not My Mother: A Memoir of Madness

by Thomson, MaryJane

  I leave my picture and go outside for a cigarette. The occupational therapist, Raewyn, follows me out.

  “You’re not going to run away like you did last time, are you?”

  “Nah, I’m just going to chill ’til they let me go.”

  “That’s the way.”

  When I go back inside, I search on the computer for a photo of Bob Marley. When I find one I look for similarities in our facial features, then I listen to some of his music on YouTube and write out the lyrics. I go back to my room and the voice says, “That’s your father and you’re going to meet him. You’re going to America and you’re going to meet the president. He will announce on worldwide television that you’re the saviour, but you have to text Rose; she’s coming to get you out. She will threaten them with a shotgun if they don’t let you go.”

  The thought of all this gets me excited. I pick up my phone and stare at it, wondering what to write. I send a nice message: “God bless you and your family. I hope you are all safe.”

  I get a message back: “Who is this?”

  I text: “It’s MaryJane.” Then I wait. I leave the phone in my room and go and have a smoke. I scan cars in the car park through the window at the back of the yard, looking for a sign of Rose’s car, not that I know what it looks like. I spot my mother’s car. She must be back in to see me. I race to my room as I don’t want to see her. The voice tells me to text Rose again and say I’m in here. I text that I’m in Ward 27. I am getting a lot of nervous tension and have butterflies in my stomach. I sit and wait for ten minutes and then I go back outside. My mother’s car is gone.

  I go to find Waris. She is just walking in. My adrenaline is still running high but I calm myself down as I don’t want to seem as though I’m racing. “Waris, did you see my mum?”

  “Yes I did, MaryJane. She wanted to know how you were doing. She saw you outside and got upset with me because I let you dye your hair black. She says it’s not your natural colour and that whenever you’re unwell you change your appearance.”

  I say, “I can’t do anything about that. Just because I dye my hair it doesn’t mean I’m getting unwell.”

  “Well, she’s upset. It can be hard on families, MaryJane.”

  I go back to my room and see there is no response. I say to the voice, “She’s never going to respond.” The voice says, “The message she sends is very important because you’re important.”

  I send Rose another text explaining that she is worthy and I am Muhammad. I wait another ten minutes and there is still no response. I get the Bible and start sending quotes. I send them all afternoon trying to convince her not to hate me. I even tell her I have AIDS and haven’t got much longer to live. Just before dinner I get a text back telling me she will inform the police if I send any more. This makes me angry and I send: “It’s a positive vibration.” I explain I’m trying to put out positive vibes because of all the negativity on Earth.

  Waris comes and says, “It’s time for dinner.” I go up to the blackboard and write in big white letters FUCK ROSE. I think to myself, “She’s just a dumb phony.” I go back to my room, pick up my guitar and sing, “Rose is just working for the boss.” I think of her as being a disease that wants me to rot and decay.

  I strum the guitar in G, trying to make myself feel positive. I send another text: “Ring the cops I don’t care” and then go and line up in the queue for dinner.

  Fiona says, “What’s up? You don’t look so happy.”

  “Ah, haven’t had a very good day. Trying to get hold of somebody and they are not responding. They told me to text them.”

  “That’s no good. Seems like they’re messing you around a bit.” We get our trays and sit at the table. The main course is sweet-and-sour chicken. I just eat some bread and veggies, green beans and diced carrot. We don’t talk much. I’m preoccupied with all the messages I’ve sent.

  “It seems like this person is bringing you down. Maybe not the best person for you to be hanging around waiting for,” Fiona says. “They may be unreliable and just not care at all. There are heaps of people like that.”

  “You’re probably right,” I say. “Guess I’m thinking they can get me out of here.”

  Fiona says, quite seriously, “It seems like this person is making promises they can’t keep.”

  “Yeah, they’ve been saying for years that they will come in and rescue me. They never do. Wouldn’t even call this person a friend; some people can switch hot and cold on you.”

  “Know what you mean. I know a few people like that, fine one week, next week—bam!—they don’t like you.”

  We finish our meals and I make a coffee. I can feel my stress rising, I need to do something but can’t, stuck in here with no way out. We have a cigarette and I go back to my room. I check my phone. No response. The voice comes in and says, “Text again.” I don’t want to, for in my heart of hearts I know there is no one who can rescue me from this hell. I have so many things I want and need, but none of them can all come at once.

  I say to the voice, “She can’t help me. I don’t want help from anyone, not even you.”

  I hear a knock at the door. It’s Waris with my meds. “Darling, maybe you should get an early night. You have a big day tomorrow.”

  “Sure, Waris.”

  I take my meds, lie down on my bed and pray quietly for answers as to what I should do with my life outside. The voice says, “Just sit and write all day. You don’t have to get a job like everyone else. Your job is working for me.” I look at my phone and think about sending another text but I decide against it.

  When I awake next day I look at my phone. No text messages. I scroll down, see my ex-boyfriend’s number, and think for a second of texting him. I decide against it: I’m unsure whether or not I trust him. I don’t seem to be able to trust the right people. My life is at a desperate low. I am searching for people to help me because I can’t help myself.

  I text Rose and say good morning, and then I text her some Arabic words to make it clear to her that I am not a Christian, and even though she gave me a Bible I don’t have the same beliefs. I send about ten texts in the space of half an hour and I take my phone to breakfast. After breakfast the music teacher comes and visits me in my room. She asks me if I want to play some songs with her at around ten o’clock. I say, “Sure.” I sit in my room sending text message after text message. At about ten past ten Rose rings me but I’m not in my room. I arrive back to a very brief message from her saying: “Pick up your phone.” She then rings and starts yelling, sounding like she’s supercharged on something. I hold the phone away from my ear so I can’t listen. When I put the phone back to my ear she hangs up.

  Feeling Rose’s words of utter hatred has sent me into a state of shock. The music teacher comes in. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah, fine,” I say. “I just got a call from someone I was texting but they hated me. They hung up before I had a chance to explain. She was telling me to just listen. It was like she was on speed: she spoke really fast. Oh well, at least I now know where I stand, can rule out her rescue mission.”

  I am relieved at having discovered that Rose isn’t the voice because it takes the pressure off my having to text her. Underneath it all I knew that she, or anybody else for that matter, was not going to come and get me out.

  The music teacher tells me a story about Buddha, who is behind a wall. You have to break down that wall to find him, and when you have found him you have really found yourself. The whole idea is that the answers are inside you. She asks me to sing a song and I sing “No Woman, No Cry” very loudly and forcefully, channelling my rage about Rose and the voice.

  I go back to my room, angry at God and the voice. I say, “Not talking to you any more.” I scroll through the numbers on my phone and find the number of Jared, my ex-boyfriend. I lie and look at it for a while and think about calling him. I am experiencing lots of tension and feel I need something for it. I decide to wait but I memorise the number all the same.
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br />   Waris comes in and says, “Morning.” She sees me with my phone. “MaryJane, I’ll take that back off you.”

  “Okay, I’m finished with it anyway,”

  “Have you thought about what you might like to do today? You have leave from twelve until four.”

  “I’ll head into the city council and the library.”

  “Okay, but remember we want you to go home to your parents’ for a while. We’re not going to let you go into a council flat on your own.”

  I start getting angry. “But you did last time.”

  “I know, but this time we want you to go home.”

  “Well, I’m going to try anyway. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

  “That may be so, but home is the safest place for you so you don’t go back out and keep using drugs.”

  I get off my bed and look for my cigarettes.

  “Make sure you check in with me before you go out, okay?” Waris says.

  I go and have a cigarette and look for Fiona and Lester. Fiona’s outside using her phone.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey, I wondered when I was going to see you.”

  “Oh, I just had a session with the music teacher.”

  “You’re getting lessons?”

  “Not really lessons, just a little jam. She had a drum with her and accompanied me.” I roll a cigarette and then another.

  Fiona says, “You seem a bit stressed.”

  “I am a bit stressed. Got yelled at on the phone this morning by someone I used to know. They had told me to text them if I ever needed help.” I omit the fact I have sent multiple texts to this person, who explicitly told me a number of years earlier never to contact her again.

  “Oh honey,” Fiona says, “that’s a shame. Must have been scary. What did they say?”

  “Well, I don’t know really. They were having a big rant and I didn’t want to hear it because it would mess up my head and I would fixate on it forever, so I took the phone away from my ear. I think they said that I think that the whole world revolves around me.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t know what in my actions would make them perceive that. All I have ever done is be kind to them.”

  “Oh, some people are just like that, honey,” Fiona says. “It’s probably more a reflection on their issues than on you so I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “At least now I know they’re not the friend they say they are.”

  “Exactly. You can trust me. I would never scream and rant at you. Friends don’t do that to each other.”

  “Yeah, guess she is no friend. I gave my phone back to Waris, just to make sure I don’t text her again. Thought I might be able to make the situation better but some things are just beyond your control.”

  “Know what you mean.” Fiona says. “It’s the same with having children. You think you can control them but you really can’t. And by the way you are not a selfish person who thinks the world revolves around them. Have you decided what you’re doing today?”

  “Think I’m just going to head in to the council and the library. I could bring you back a coffee if you like.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that. Just focus on yourself.”

  “It will feel a bit weird going out. Haven’t been on my own in the real world for a while. Hope I’m not getting institutionalised.”

  This is one of my great fears about being in a psych ward. It’s hard to prevent becoming institutionalised when you’re living in such a regimented, confined space. Your life revolves around how to fill your time. I constantly look at the clock, wondering what to do next. I lie down and sleep a lot. In the past when I’ve been released it’s always taken a good period of time to unlock myself from that way of living and thinking. Some people get institutionalised to the point that they don’t want to leave, and they look forward to coming back again. I would hate to become that way. I want to keep my dreams and aspirations rolling, however big or small they are.

  8

  I go to my room, change the sheet on the ground, and replace the orange and banana. Waris comes in and says, “Are you ready?”

  “Yeah, I’m ready,” I say. “I just need my eftpos card.”

  “Now, make sure you are back by four, and don’t go looking for drugs—might make you so unwell you have to go back to ICU.”

  “Okay.”

  “MaryJane, we just want to see you well and out of here living your life.”

  “Okay, Waris, I’ll be good.”

  I leave the ward through the front door. Waris walks me out so the security person knows it’s okay. I cross the car park and walk along the periphery of the main hospital. As I walk I enjoy my freedom. I feel more like myself when I am alone and walking. I’m not asking the voice for directions.

  I start rationalising the whole text thing in my head. I feel a little embarrassed and stupid for sending all those religious texts. Because I was angry with Rose I was trying to put down her religion. I wanted to make it clear that I no longer agreed with the way she thought about things, that I was no longer dependent on her for guidance, and that I was a stronger person than when she had last met me.

  Now that my voice is proving faulty I wonder what there is left to believe in. I’ve always hated the notion of just dying and not going anywhere. Even in the stark barren room of a psych ward, my wish is not to die and go nowhere.

  I make my way through the middle of the Basin Reserve. I walk quite slowly: this is the longest walk I’ve had in three months. I feel as though I’m returning to myself.

  The voice says to me, “You will never have to text Rose again.”

  I roll my eyes and say, “Not talking to you. All you say is lies.”

  The voice leads me to the grassy bank and says, “I was just doing that so you know not to rely on her and forget about the religion she taught you.”

  “Yeah, well I never wanted to text her anyway. Don’t need anyone to look after me,” I say quite angrily.

  The voice says, “Yes, but you need somebody. You can’t do all this on your own.”

  I get up off the grass and continue walking all the way into town. I go into a café at the top of Courtenay Place and buy myself a coffee. It feels nice to be able to do this freely with no nurse watching.

  I head to the council, go to the housing section, and ask if there is anything available. They say I have to make an appointment. I can’t get one for a while but they give me the form to fill out. I can’t complete the form because I need a contact person. I don’t want to put down any of my family members and I don’t have any other numbers because I don’t have my phone. I turn to the person behind the desk and say, “Thank you. I will bring the form back tomorrow.”

  I start to feel a bit hungry so I head to a café down a side street by the library. I order fish and chips. The café is packed with people on their lunch break. I take a seat at a table down the back. There’s a newspaper on the table. I try to read it but struggle to concentrate so I just look at the pictures and the headlines. As I go through the paper, letters jump out at me. I close the paper because I don’t feel like communicating with the voice or God, or any type of voice for that matter. I eat my fish and chips, of which there is quite a lot. As an offering to God, I leave half my chips and a bit of my fish.

  I buy a Coke as I leave and head over to the library. I go to the music section. The voice tells me to go to the Bob Marley section because he is my father. I get a Bob Marley album and then I go to the jazz section, to Sarah Vaughan. The voice says she is my mother. I kind of laugh and think to myself, whatever! I sense the voice’s anger because when I look at the albums they seem to glare back at me. Everything appears hard. I notice the lines and angles on the cover of the CDs.

  Hesitantly, I pick out a Sarah Vaughan album, then I sit down at the listening station and listen to the Bob Marley album. I turn the volume right up so I can feel the bass. I feel like singing along but there is a sign on the desk saying: Be consider
ate to others. I sit and look at the wall, which is decorated with CD covers. I close my eyes and dream I’m in a better place, far away. For a moment I am filled with hope, in ecstasy from the music. For a moment I forget my situation, which is a bit of a mess, and am transported to another time and place when the music was made. I wish for a different life. I put on Sarah Vaughan. The voice says, “She sang these songs for you” so I listen for traces of me she might have left. As I listen I feel reassured that someone loves me, but at the same time I know it might not be true.

  On the way back I walk the same way I came. I don’t notice traffic or people; I’m just focusing on having my freedom. I feel the breeze through my singlet and thank God for the wind. I don’t really want to go back to the ward. I like being on the outside, free to make my own choices and not having to wait to ask anyone what to do. I see shops selling clothes, people selling coffee, buskers on the street, all these normal people who are free to go about their daily lives.

  I feel a sense of longing for a life I used to live and hope to live again. Maybe I could give up drugs, go back to university and lead a normal life without having it disrupted all the time with hospital admissions? When I was twenty and got unwell, I was in my last year of university in Christchurch. I started wandering the streets and following people I thought were leading me. I dropped out and went back to Wellington because I wanted to get away from people I thought were after me. In Wellington I followed a familiar pattern of being out wandering the streets looking for people.

  I start thinking to myself that maybe I could do a law degree. That way I would understand the law better and know my rights when I end up in hospital. It might mean I could fight my way out of the system for good.