by Jean Davison
Yes, I’ll have to tell them my case notes are wrong, I thought. But they won’t believe me, they won’t listen, they won’t admit it.
But they’d have to. Other people could confirm most of these things. They’d know it was the truth if they spoke to my family, my friends, and the people I used to work with at Lee’s.
The anger inside me boomeranged back and forth between being directed at psychiatry for what it had done to me, and at myself for complying. Once somebody sets foot inside one of those places, they can never get out of their clutches. My mother’s warning. And I had just laughed. Laughed! Take no notice of me if you like, but one day you’ll remember what I’ve just said, she had warned me. And you won’t be laughing then.
‘Oh, Mother, you were right, I’m not laughing now,’ I whispered as I pressed my forehead into my pillow to mop up the perspiration. ‘I’m not laughing now.’
I could understand my naivety in believing I was going into hospital for ‘about a week’ and for ‘a rest and observation’. That’s what Dr Sugden had told me, and how was I to know any different then? But even when I’d been given strong drugs from the day of admission, and ECT after barely a week, even when I was being pained and humiliated and virtually destroyed, I let them do it. And I kept on letting them do it. Who was I to think I’d more sense than my family? Even Brian had more sense than to allow that to happen to him. So when my family said things which seemed silly to me, supposing they were right after all? Like my mother’s warning about psychiatry? How could I trust my own perceptions about anything? The ground was slipping away. I was light and hollow. But then I re-entered myself with a new surge of anger against psychiatry because they had let my mother be right and she shouldn’t have been right!
The night was long and dark and perilous. Unlike the well-spaced, clear-sighted, rational insights of the previous night, my thoughts tonight were tumbling about in my head and then spilling out in a jumbled heap. A mixture, I realised, of balanced and unbalanced thinking. I thrashed about on the bed as I struggled to sift out precious insights buried like jewels near the edge of a cliff, regaining my balance each time I felt myself toppling.
With shaking hands, I began writing a letter: ‘Dear Mr Jordan, I hope you won’t feel annoyed at me for writing to you when you are no longer the day hospital charge nurse and therefore have no concern with my “case”,’ I began. ‘Perhaps I should not be writing to you (for the above reason) and I’m going to try not to post this letter. If I do it’s just because I feel at the end of my tether and at a loss as to who to confide in …’
I never meant to send it. The letter was just a means of getting my jumbled thoughts down on paper as if I was confiding in someone while trying to sort out my sense from my nonsense. I wrote about how I’d felt worse since the Case Discussion Meeting. I expressed my concern about how Dr Shaw, even with my case notes in front of him, didn’t seem to know that I, alone, had made that decision to see a psychiatrist in the first place at a time when, despite my depression or whatever, I’d been coping, ‘functioning’ as they called it. I wrote, also, how it bothered me that Dr Shaw had said I’d be seeing more of him in future. I didn’t feel he understood me at all.
When I finished the letter, I stared at the words. Words belonged to the world of logic and order, but I knew now there were other worlds, other truths: that some things, important things, couldn’t be put into words. Still, they would have to do. Words were an inadequate but necessary tool. I tore the page from my notepad and let it join my blankets on the floor, then fell into a restless sleep.
Time to get up when I realised, with shocked surprise, that my nightgown and the sheet on which I was lying were soaking wet. Sweat? Urine? Whatever it was, it wasn’t normal. Panic! Heart beating fast. Thud, thud, thud. Too fast, too loud. Imagination switched on to ‘high’. Feverishly high. I could imagine I was turning into a quivering lump of jelly that might dissolve leaving no trace of me except my soggy nightgown and a wet patch on the sheet where I’d been lying. I held out my hands in front of me and watched them trembling. Mr Jordan had told me this tremor was a side effect of my drugs. So what was it now? I tried to control it with my mind but to no avail. And then it wasn’t only my hands. I was shaking all over. I felt sick.
I dashed to the toilet and, gripping the edge of the bath for support, I thought: I’m going insane, I’m going insane … I clung to the bath, still shaking all over and sweating in fear, until somehow I managed to get a hold on myself. When the anxiety attack subsided, I filled the basin and had a good wash. I wasn’t going to vomit after all and, if I was going insane, I said to myself with a wry smile, at least it was to be postponed for a while.
I felt shaky and sick again when eating toast for breakfast and my head ached horribly. So I phoned the day hospital and told Tony I wouldn’t be coming in as I’d got flu. It wasn’t a lie: I thought I probably had got flu.
Back upstairs, I picked up from the floor beside my bed the letter I’d written to Mr Jordan. I glanced at the untidy writing, crossings out and noticed spelling mistakes but didn’t bother to correct them. I put it in an envelope which, with shaking hands, I addressed, stamped and sealed. Then I went out and posted this letter which I’d never meant to send.
On my way back from the post box I went into a phone booth and, true to my resolve, dialled the number of the Leeds YWCA which I got from Directory Enquiries.
‘Hello, YWCA.’
Was I strong enough to do this now that thoughts were buzzing around my head like a swarm of angry bees? Supposing I was bordering on madness, about to tip over the brink? The way I felt now made that easy to believe.
‘Hello! Hello! This is the YWCA.’
Supposing I did need the drugs? Dr Prior had warned me never to stop them. Oh, Lord, supposing he was right after all?
‘Can I help you?’
I couldn’t speak.
I’m crumbling, I thought with horror. I can no longer think straight. I’m mad!
‘Can I help you?’
Speechless, I replaced the hot, clammy receiver that kept saying, ‘Can I help you? Can I help you?’
Who in the world could help me now?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A FEW DAYS AFTER giving up the pills I was sitting facing Tony across the desk, the letter I’d sent to Mr Jordan in front of him beside the ominous manila file.
‘What do you want me to do with this?’ he asked, pointing to the letter.
‘Do what you like with it,’ I said, wishing he’d at least take it off the desk out of my sight. It embarrassed me.
‘I’ve been reading your case notes,’ Tony began.
‘You’d be wasting your time less if you read the Beano.’
‘And if it’s any consolation to you, there’s nowhere in your case notes that says “This patient has got …” There’s no diagnosis.’ He stabbed the blotting paper with his pen. ‘That’s lucky, you know.’
‘Lucky?’
‘Many patients have things written about them, a schizophrenia diagnosis, for instance, that could go against them for the rest of their lives – in terms of jobs and things.’
No diagnosis? I didn’t know until many years later when I read my case notes that Dr Sugden had given me a schizophrenia label right from the start and, in the letter from Dr Armstrong referring me to the day hospital, I had been described as suffering from chronic schizophrenia. So why did Tony say this? I don’t know. All I knew at that point was that I had suffered greatly during the past years, was still suffering, and that my suffering had been very much worsened by my treatment.
‘Lucky? Oh yes, aren’t I a lucky girl?’
Tony either didn’t notice or chose to ignore the angry sarcasm in my voice.
‘Actually Dr Copeland and Mr Jordan believed your problems weren’t mental illness at all, but just the normal turmoils of an intelligent teenager, and … and I’m inclined to agree with them.’
‘I’m not a teenager now,’ I said, unconsole
d.
‘Are you feeling better than when you wrote that letter?’
‘I’m OK,’ I said guardedly.
‘Are you sleeping all right?’
‘No, but I’m OK.’ I was biting my fingernails and aware I could hardly manage to sit still. ‘I’m OK,’ I said again, trying to convince myself, as well as him.
‘Are you?’ Tony said, with a look that frightened me. He fingered the letter. ‘Anyway, what do you want me to do with this? I could put it in the bin if you like and that would be the end of it.’
‘What does it matter what I want? You’ll do what you like with it anyway.’
‘I’m asking you what you want me to do with it.’
I tried to remember what I’d written in it about Dr Shaw, aware that, unless it was binned, it would be there for Dr Shaw to read. Still, what did it matter?
‘What do you want me to do with it?’ Tony asked again.
I looked steadily at Tony, decided he meant well and that I liked him a lot, but felt irritable.
‘Do what you like with it. Why are you going on about it? Put it in the bin, stick it on the wall, staple it to my blasted case notes or … or wipe your backside with it for all I care!’ I heard myself say.
‘I don’t think you’re quite yourself, are you?’ he said quietly, his eyes watching me intently. ‘You’ve been rather agitated for the last few days. We could prescribe some extra pills to calm you down and help you sleep.’
‘Stuff the bloody pills,’ I retorted, wondering why it had taken so many years for me to say that. ‘I’ve finished with pills.’
‘Jean, love, you’re not making this easy for me,’ Tony said, brushing his forehead. ‘Do you realise you’re not well physically? Your blood-test result shows you’re anaemic and your urine sample showed up a urinary infection. Then there’s this weight loss, which is becoming very worrying.’
‘Well, I will keep taking the Complan,’ I conceded.
I’d been steadily losing weight for several months even though my appetite remained good. And this despite me eating bigger dinners and substituting tea or coffee at breaks with the large mugs of Complan, a nutritious milky drink the nursing staff gave me three times a day. I was down to less than 7 stone, which was definitely underweight for my height of 5 feet 5 inches. The nurses had been weighing me each week for some time, and noting the steady decrease. In the few days since coming off drugs, the rate of the weight loss had become alarmingly rapid.
Later that day Dr Baines-Bradbury, the hospital superintendent, came to the day hospital. Tony sent me to see him in one of the consulting rooms upstairs.
‘Sit down, Jean. I’d just like a chat with you,’ he said. The manila file was open in front of him and the letter I’d written to Mr Jordan was on top of that.
Fortunately for me, I found him approachable and was able to explain calmly how I’d like to leave home and was thinking of trying the YWCA in Leeds. He asked if I’d like him to arrange for a social worker to help me with this move. I hadn’t even known there were social workers at the hospital. I hesitated. I wanted to do it myself, but remembered my abortive phone call, and my self-confidence was low, so I accepted his offer.
Finally, he asked if I felt better than when I wrote the letter to Mr Jordan.
‘Yes, I do,’ I replied, while taking care to keep my hands below the desk level where he couldn’t see that I kept tensing them up, showing the whites of my knuckles. ‘Does it seem … Do you think I’m …’
‘I don’t think you’re on the brink of a serious psychotic illness,’ he said, with a twinkle in his grey eyes.
‘Don’t you?’ I said, feeling greatly relieved because during the past few days this had been my biggest fear. I’d forgotten for the moment that I’d decided not to take any notice of what a psychiatrist might think of me.
‘No, not at all,’ he assured me, smiling at my obvious relief. ‘One day you’ll look back on this, wonder what on earth all the fuss was about, and laugh.’
At last things were moving. I saw Mrs Winters, a psychiatric social worker, who rang Mrs Stroud, the warden at the YWCA in Leeds, while I was with her in her office. Apparently Mrs Stroud had some apprehension about offering me a room, but she agreed, after making it clear that the hostel could give no kind of ‘after care’. Mrs Winters, a grey-haired, bespectacled woman, beamed at me after her negotiations.
‘Mrs Stroud’s a bit wary about accepting patients but I’ve persuaded her to give you a try. She says you must leave immediately if you present any problems that might distress the other residents.’ She fingered the pearl necklace which hung over her grey twin-set. ‘We don’t need to worry about that, do we?’
‘No, of course not,’ I said, feeling heat rising to my cheeks.
That evening I went into Brian’s bedroom to get the suitcase I’d be needing. My eyes rested on a huge pile of Denis Wheatley books on the floor. I shivered. Could people or places really become possessed by evil? And wasn’t Brian a bit too interested in the occult? An eerie sensation crept through my body.
‘What’s up?’
I jumped. Brian was standing by the door watching me, grinning. ‘I saw that look on your face just then. Don’t you like me books?’
I said nothing, picked up the case and left the room.
Again, sleep didn’t come easily to me that night. I was thinking about good and evil, and back on the old restless search for meaning. I tossed and turned until the morning light was streaming through my curtains and I still hadn’t found any answers – for how can one possibly even begin to understand?
The following evening I was packing my case as Mrs Winters was due to call in the morning to drive me to the hostel. Brian was laughing, jingling coins and clinking with a spoon on a milk bottle. Mum was crying and telling me she’d get a lodger to have my bedroom who would be more grateful than me, her own daughter. This was a repetition of the scene when at seventeen I’d announced my intention of leaving home. Oh, if only …
I was still feeling delicate since stopping the pills, and the way my skirts swivelled round my waist reminded me I was still losing weight. I hurriedly packed my case, then decided to escape the commotion by getting out of the house for a while.
I caught a bus into town and sipped Coke in a coffee bar. I thought that if I could hold myself together for just another week or two I might be OK, but I was scared by how bad I kept feeling. Shaking, sweating, insomnia, aches and pains, and most frightening of all, difficulty in thinking clearly. Did that mean I really did need the pills I’d been swallowing in handfuls each day for the past few years? Was it a choice between a zombie-like existence or … or what? Surely I couldn’t remain like this for much longer. Something was bound to happen if I stayed off the pills. Sanity or madness? In which state would I surface?
I gazed out of the window, battling with fears that I was losing my mind. I marvelled at how well I was hiding it. Here was I teetering on the precipice of the dark pit of madness but looking for all the world as if I was just another customer sitting enjoying a Coke. No doubt the other people in this coffee bar thought I was gazing out of the window thinking what other young people thought about. And what might that be? Boyfriends, pop songs, clothes, trying out a new hairstyle perhaps? Oh, it would be lovely to be wrapped up in things like that, instead of having to put all my energy into trying so hard not to fall apart.
My pride at how well I was managing to hide my unease suffered a blow when Kenny, the proprietor, tapped on my shoulder and asked if I was all right. I’d liked Kenny ever since I’d seen him go outside before he locked up one night to give a sandwich to a tramp who was leaning against the window. Glancing up, I realised the coffee bar had emptied. It was eleven o’clock and he was waiting to close.
‘Yes, I’m OK,’ I said quickly, standing up.
‘Wait,’ he said as I opened the door. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, luv?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘You’re as white as a sheet.’
Another night of restless thought, punctuated by snatches of fitful sleep, but in the morning I was up and ready early, waiting for Mrs Winters. Some hasty cleaning and tidying had taken place in anticipation of her visit. When she arrived, Mum bustled about in a nervous manner, handing me my suitcase and fetching my handbag. Then, after commenting that I wouldn’t stay at the hostel long and would soon be back home, she burst into tears and disappeared upstairs. She just couldn’t accept that her baby should grow up and leave home. (Brian was to continue living with my parents until he got married at the age of thirty-six and then he ceased all contact with his birth family).
I hurriedly buttoned my coat and left with Mrs Winters. My mother came back downstairs and stood looking through the window, her face streaked with tears, then she watched from the door. As I walked down the path with my case, Mrs Winters turned to her and said, ‘She’ll be back.’
CASE NO. 10826
MEMORANDUM
Ref. Miss Jean Davison Date. 18th July 1972
From. Mrs D Winters To Dr E Shaw
P.S.W. Dept.
On 12th July I called at this patient’s home to escort her to the Y.W.C.A. Hostel in Leeds. The home is a semi-detached house which I think is owned by the Corporation. It is comfortably furnished, with wall-to-wall carpeting, a television and a modern gas fire, but had the rather neglected look which houses tend to have where all the members go out to work. Both house and garden were very untidy.
Only Mrs Davison and Jean were at home when I called and Mrs Davison was helping Jean to get her things ready to go to the hostel. She had very little to say, in fact was rather distressed and said ‘Of course she won’t stay there – she will be back soon’, after which statement she burst into tears and left me and went upstairs. As we left the house she was standing in the window mopping her eyes. Because of her co-operation in helping with preparations for Jean’s departure, I think her emotion was caused by her daughter’s illness and not by the fact that she was leaving home.