All of Me

by Kim Noble

  The Cassel, here I come.

  I was in the doctor’s room again. Dad was sitting next to me. They were talking in hushed tones with lots of pauses, Dad picking his nails as he listened. I tried to pick up the gist. It sounded serious. It was about me, obviously. They must be discussing the dissociation.

  ‘Obviously our treatment isn’t working as well as we’d like …’

  The doctor sounded angry. No – disappointed.

  ‘We thought we were making progress …’

  Dad was just nodding, resigned.

  ‘If I thought there was any other way …’

  Normally with these conversations I should have worked out what was going on by now. None of this one, however, was making any sense.

  ‘After the weekend’s problem we can’t take the risk of her being a danger to herself or others.’

  What weekend problem?

  I suddenly remembered Kingston. A shiver ran through me. They’d said I walked all the way back to Ham Common in the downpour, and looked shattered and confused when I arrived.

  Why was I in the hospital?

  Instinctively I felt my chest. Sore! No, it was just a dream. It must have been a dream. There and gone in the blink of an eye.

  Dad’s voice snapped me out of my shock. ‘Are you sure it’s the only way?’

  ‘At this stage I think we’re left with no choice.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Sectioning your own daughter is not something to be taken lightly. You have to consider the consequences,’ the doctor explained. ‘But in my opinion it is the best way forward. It’s the only way to protect her.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll do it.’

  I was still stunned at the realisation that Kingston hadn’t been a nightmare. It had happened. My throat felt like I’d swallowed razor blades to prove it. Suddenly the realisation of what the two men were saying hit me.

  Sectioning?

  I’d heard about this.

  Panicking, I said, ‘There must be some mistake.’ Dad and the doctor spun round to stare at me. I think they’d forgotten I was even there.

  ‘You’ve brought it on yourself,’ Dad said, although he couldn’t look at me as he spoke.

  ‘It’s for your own good, Kim,’ the doctor agreed.

  ‘You can’t do this!’

  Dad still wouldn’t look at me. Eyes fixed straight ahead, he said quietly, ‘Where do I sign?’

  *

  I’m moving.

  I looked around. Two nurses sat alongside me. I was lying down. They were wearing seatbelts. I tried to sit up. I was strapped in as well.

  I’m in an ambulance.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You know where we’re going.’

  I recognised the nurse who spoke. She was one of the Cassel staff. The other one was a stranger. Probably part of the ambulance crew.

  ‘Tell me where we’re going!’

  ‘You’re going on a little holiday.’

  ‘Where to?’

  The other nurse spoke up.

  ‘Warlingham Park.’

  No!

  ‘You can’t! Take me back. Take me back to the Cassel! I want to go back!’

  Funny how I was so conditioned by the system. It didn’t even occur to me to ask to go home.

  ‘You haven’t fixed me. You need to fix me!’

  That was the last thing I remembered.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I’m not one of them

  Rebecca tugged again on the sheet. It was taut.

  That should be strong enough.

  She looked again at the knot above her head and back down to the floor. She’d thought of everything. It would soon be over. She rolled her shoulders to relax, took a deep breath and stepped off the table.

  Then everything went black.

  ‘I’m sorry it came to this, I genuinely am.’

  Dr Picton-Jones looked as sad as she sounded.

  ‘I thought you’d been doing so well. What changed?’

  I couldn’t answer. The only thing that had changed was the way I was treated. That was the story of my life and she’d heard it all before. There was no point going over it again just so she could tell me I was wrong. So I kept quiet.

  ‘Well, if that’s how you want to be, so be it. Obviously you’ve been here before but you’ll be under stricter supervision, until we’re sure you’re going to behave. And we need to start getting your weight back up as well, of course. I’m sorry about that but there it is.’

  *

  I’d known exactly where I was the second I opened my eyes and saw the four grey walls and that imposing, thick door with its menacing spy hole.

  A room, with a bed, and nothing else.

  It could only mean one thing.

  Warlingham Park.

  I don’t know how long I was in that cell. Two or three days, probably. To be honest, it sailed by. It’s horrible having no windows, nothing to do, but I made the best of it. I knew the drill. It didn’t matter what they were accusing me of. It didn’t matter what I denied doing. They wouldn’t let me out until they were confident I’d calmed down, as they put it. So I climbed on my bed and waited.

  Before I knew it I was back onto the main part of George Ward in one of the dormitory beds. The smell was unmistakeable. More pee, vomit and worse than any amount of cleaning agents could mask. If I never smell Dettol again it will be too soon. And the sounds. Those animalistic cries and mutters, the shouts of rage and delight and delusion. The whole foul cacophony that had followed me everywhere on my last stay. It was still here, as bad as ever.

  I actually found myself wishing I was back in the cell. Although I couldn’t get out, no one could get in. At least I was safe there.

  What was the point in being good if you still got treated like this? I just wanted to shout at the top of my lungs, ‘Let me out!’

  But nobody would have come. The staff hear that all the time. That’s what everyone at Warlingham says. Every day, every week, every year.

  I spent so much energy trying not to be noticed by the other inmates that it was a day or two before I remembered Dad’s role in my being there. It wasn’t just doctors keeping me there. He’d signed something, I recalled. Dr Picton-Jones filled in the gaps. I was in Warlingham, she explained, because I’d been ‘sectioned’. This was a legal order for a patient to be kept in the hospital by the state – usually against their will – in order to protect them or others. A section was usually for seventy-two hours, initially. This was the emergency one, a bit like the police arresting you, then working out the case, before having to apply to hold you for longer.

  I knew instinctively I’d already been there longer than seventy-two hours.

  ‘Will I be let out soon?’

  The doctor shrugged noncommittally.

  ‘That’s up to you.’

  Apparently you can’t do two emergency sections in a row so the next section block is for twenty-eight days. That’s what they call the diagnosis period.

  ‘That’s how long you’re here for, Kim.’

  The doctors had four weeks to work out what’s wrong with me, then, if they were successful, they could apply for a six-month period for treatment.

  My blood froze at the thought.

  ‘I can’t spend six months here.’

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ the doctor agreed.

  Then she explained that a six-month section wasn’t the worst. As I understood it, after that comes the big one: six years. If you’re hit with that you may as well kiss your old life goodbye. You’re never coming out.

  Never coming out alive, you mean, I thought as a shiver ran through me.

  The prospect of anything more than a month terrified me. I’d just spent eighteen months at the Cassel but that had been like a holiday camp compared to my memories of Warlingham. I had to behave. Anything more than twenty-eight days would kill me. A bad choice of words as it transpired …

  To action a section in those day
s, you needed the signatures of a psychiatrist and a social worker. In the absence of a social worker a member of the immediate family can authorise it.

  That’s what Dad had done.

  Apparently they could have summoned a social worker to the Cassel. Dad knew that so he signed the forms while he was there for our meeting with the doctor. Knowing that I would have been sectioned anyway didn’t alter how I felt.

  As far as I was concerned, he’d betrayed me.

  The dormitory. George Ward. Still here.

  I tried to keep calm. A kind of sickness was welling in my stomach making me want to gag. But I wasn’t ill.

  I was scared.

  It’s all right, I told myself. You got out of here before. You’ll get out of here again.

  But when? What if they accused me of some new horror? What if they decided I required long-term treatment?

  It was enough to drive anyone to tears but a sudden realisation gave me a glimmer of hope. One of the things I knew from my year and a half at the Cassel is how much they value closure. In day-to-day life that usually translates as being able to say goodbye to people when they or you leave. It makes the grieving process more bearable, they say. So the one piece of ammunition I had about Warlingham was that I hadn’t had my perfect farewell. No therapist, I knew, was going to expect any improvement from me without that basic necessity. Which meant …

  They’re planning to send me back!

  With the familiar nocturnal noises closing in, I just prayed I could survive that long.

  I’d forgotten about the toilet thing. Every step I took, there was an orderly just behind, like an unwanted shadow. The worst part was, she didn’t even try to hide it. She was like the worst secret agent ever. If I left my bed or the TV room – basically my only two options – she put down her magazine and sauntered after me. Not alongside me, not near enough to have a chat. But close enough to let me know she was there. Whatever I was going to do, she was going to see. And yes, that included going to the loo.

  It was exactly the same set-up as before. Twenty-four-hour supervision. It was so tedious. I thought the orderlies would soon tire of trailing me around all day. There was nothing to do other than sit in the TV room. If I’m bored doing it then they must be going out of their minds watching me do it.

  But they were clever about it. They would sit yapping to other patients nearby or do a bit of reading. They didn’t have to be next to me to keep their beady eyes fixed in my direction. It didn’t matter what they were doing: if I moved, they moved.

  Even if I did manage to give them the slip and they did lose sight of me for a second, there was nowhere to hide from their ears. I was back in one of those paper gowns that rustled like dry leaves when I moved. The way the corridors echoed you could hear me coming a mile off. If you didn’t hear me walking you’d still make out the sound of me scratching at my neck where the collar rubbed. It was horrible. My real clothes weren’t in my wardrobe, either. I had no choice but to keep this stupid thing on.

  Knowing the place didn’t make it easier to live in. Some of the faces were familiar but there were new ones, too. Some looked open and friendly; others ready to rumble at the drop of a hat. Mostly, though, they just looked distant. Talking seemed to be an effort for the majority; talking clearly, anyway. You couldn’t have a conversation. They slurred and they stuttered and many of their utterances came out in fits and bursts. It wasn’t the patients’ fault. I knew that. It was the drugs. Whatever medication was keeping them docile and unlikely to misbehave was also preventing them thinking and speaking properly. They were drugged up to the eyeballs. That just made some of them scarier.

  Drugs, in fact, were all some of them cared about. The first words anyone spoke to me were, ‘What are you on, then?’ I realised he meant my medication. I told him, ‘Nothing’ and he scoffed and wandered off. I soon learnt that the level of your treatment is like a badge of honour. The more you’re on, the more impressive you are.

  Everyone who spoke to me asked the same questions:

  ‘What are you on?’

  ‘What hospitals have you been in?’

  ‘What are you in for?’

  ‘How long?’

  All the talk, when it happened, was about discovering who was the worst patient there. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be left alone.

  The other question I was asked a lot was, ‘Have you got any cigarettes?’ Again, a negative answer would provoke an exodus. I didn’t know then that nicotine was the currency in the hospital. The ones with any smarts traded cigarettes for favours or other items – just like they do in prison. But why did they think I’d have any? I’m only sixteen.

  Scariest of all was the fear that I might be turned into one of them soon. The very idea terrified me. I had to cling on to my lack of closure at the Cassel.

  They’ll send me back soon. They have to.

  I saw a lot of terrible cases at Warlingham. It was hard to tell with the medication, but plenty of people looked like they would struggle to live outside those four walls. Unlike at the Cassel, however, the staff’s policy didn’t seem to focus on getting anyone ready to leave. There was no drive towards repatriation or resurrection, which was another reason why I had to get out.

  I saw a woman in a wheelchair one day. I thought it was odd she was there. I didn’t know Warlingham was a place for physical disabilities.

  What happened next scarred me forever.

  An orderly was standing in front of the woman, who was slumped immobile, chin resting on her chest. The orderly knelt down and lifted the woman’s head. Looking into her eyes, she said, ‘You can walk. Come on, you can walk.’

  Nothing happened. I didn’t know what she expected her to do. The woman’s in a wheelchair. Obviously she can’t walk!

  But the orderly wasn’t having that. She fastened her arms around the woman and hoisted her forwards, to the edge of the chair.

  ‘Come on, you can walk. You have to walk!’ she said again, and with another tug, lifted the woman upright.

  The woman was a bag of bones but still a really awkward shape to hold. I don’t know if the orderly had planned it, but the disabled woman slipped straight through her hands and buckled onto the floor, like a doll crumpled over. She looked like she was dead.

  I felt sick. I wanted to rush over. The orderly spying on me reached out.

  ‘Leave her. It’s what she wants.’

  What she wants? How can she want that? How can anyone know what she wants?

  I carried on watching. I wished I hadn’t.

  The other orderly manoeuvred the patient’s limbs so they didn’t look so contorted and then stood up. She made no attempt to lift her charge back into the wheelchair. I would have helped. Any number of people would have. But that wasn’t the plan.

  ‘You can walk,’ she said again defiantly, then marched away without looking back.

  I’ve got to get out of here. I must get out!

  It turned out this poor woman’s problems were indeed all in the mind. Her mother had died a few years ago and she and her partner had decided to emigrate. They just wanted to make a fresh start somewhere else. The problem was, the girl had suffered a breakdown as a teen and as a result was denied entry to her new ‘home’.

  That was the final straw and she had a complete and utter mental breakdown.

  It was incredible to believe that a person could just give up on life but she had. She hadn’t spoken in years, not a word. She wouldn’t feed herself, she wouldn’t get up and her joints were atrophying. She sat in her wheelchair all day, refusing to move, refusing to live. Her mind had literally switched off.

  Every day her dad came in to see his daughter. He’d talk to her, stroke her and comb her hair. In nice weather he’d push her outside and let her look at the beautiful lawns of the golf course that surrounded the building. He couldn’t have been more loving. I think he blamed himself.

  The saddest thing of all is he had no idea how his beloved daughter was being treated by th
e staff he trusted to help her. Most days she was dragged out of her chair and left on the floor. Then just before he arrived after work they’d lump her back in, try to spruce her up a bit and stand around smiling.

  I learnt the meaning of hate watching that. I wished I was brave enough to tell him. I despised myself for not stepping forward. But I had my reasons. They were cowardly but they made sense to me.

  If I interfere they might do that to me. With drugs they can do anything.

  And I couldn’t afford that. I was going back to Cassel. I hadn’t had my closure.

  I was in bed one day when I was told I had visitors. I was led into the TV room and Barbara and Cathy were waiting for me. I couldn’t believe it. They’d bothered to come all that way just to see me!

  It was lovely catching up with them but after they’d left I felt lower than ever. It tells you everything you need to know about the Cassel versus Warlingham when patients from one have the freedom to go and visit the other. As much as I’d loved seeing my friends it was a real slap in the face.

  At least they’d bothered. Mum didn’t come to visit me at Warlingham. I didn’t expect her to, not after last time. Lorraine showed her face a couple of times but it was obvious she was uncomfortable. Anyway, now that she had a little mouth to feed, it wasn’t a good environment. I couldn’t wait to meet my new little nephew, Ben. I did think all the baby business was making Lorraine a bit weird, though. One of the first things she said to me was, ‘The weight’s falling off you, isn’t it? I wish I was so lucky.’

  What an odd thing to say.

  She’d just had a baby. Of course she was a bit bigger than me.

  Dad said a couple of things like that as well. I didn’t pay any attention. I hadn’t put on a pound or lost any since I’d come in. I didn’t have to weigh myself to know that.

  It was when the nurses and orderlies began to start going on about it that I got really annoyed. Everyone was always trying to get me to eat things. ‘We need to get your weight up.’ Things like that. I suppose I must have eaten whatever they gave me, I can’t remember. Why wouldn’t I? I love food. I remember they gave me eggs again. I assumed someone from the Cassel had told them about the trick they’d played on me there. It didn’t seem right, to me, to laugh at a patient like that. I can take or leave eggs. I didn’t see why I should have to eat them when everyone else was having a roast.