All of Me

by Kim Noble

  It’s not fair.

  But they wouldn’t let up. I began to dread mealtimes. Thinking about them at the end of the day I could never remember the actual dinners, or breakfasts or lunches. Or in fact actually eating. But I did know I wasn’t dieting. I didn’t need to. I was lucky like that.

  I was lucky as well because I knew I was going back to the Cassel. Every day I looked at the dribbling, screaming patients in the beds near mine, or skulking lifelessly around the TV room, and I thanked my stars I wasn’t in their position.

  Or so I kept thinking. Then every so often my hope was punctured and I remembered the section. I wasn’t going anywhere until the doctors said so. It was quite out of my hands and it made me shake just contemplating it. What was the point of behaving well when no one had the power to release me anyway? Every day that passed I got angry. Things I’d accepted one minute now sent me into a rage.

  That was the irony. Just being there was enough to drive you crazy. And if you act crazy you get the drugs, which in turn make you crazy. And I did not want the drugs.

  I remember walking over to the garden door and trying the handle. I knew it would be locked. All the doors were locked. Our dormitory door was locked, the bathroom door was locked, the TV room was locked. There was even a secure door leading onto our floor.

  I’d always known this. Yet knowing when you don’t want to get out and knowing when you do provoke different reactions. As I stood looking out, watching the shadow of the building’s giant clock tower flickering across the golf course, I just wanted to throw a chair through the glass and flee. Knowing that I couldn’t just made me want to try harder.

  But I didn’t. Maybe they drugged me. The next thing I remember is being back in bed. I thought again of the section. I was still angry but scared as well. Just as my fury had heightened with the sense of being trapped, so had my fear. I’d been wandering around, I realised, in a psychological cocoon. The promise of imminent release had protected me. That’s how it felt. Now I accepted I was trapped with the psychos and the deranged and I wanted to hide. Some of them looked like they wanted to hurt me. And they were always shuffling around at night, going through my things. I didn’t belong here.

  I have to get out. I have to do anything to get out.

  A meeting room. Dad is here. A nurse also. Normal visiting time? We’ll see…

  ‘Are you happy now?’ Dad was saying. ‘Are you? The least you can do is answer me.’

  Okay – not a normal visit, then.

  ‘I don’t know what to say to her,’ he told the doctor. ‘What can I say to her?’

  ‘About what?’ I asked, utterly perplexed.

  ‘For God’s sake, about why you did it, of course!’

  ‘Did what?’

  Maybe this is normal. We’ve had this argument a hundred times.

  Dad reached over and flicked the collar of my gown. Instinctively I raised my hand to my neck.

  ‘This!’ he spat, and I winced as he spoke. Not from his word – it barely registered. But from the burning, lacerating pain in my neck.

  I shot an accusing look at the doctor. ‘What have they done to me?’ Then back at Dad, back at the man who had signed the section. ‘What have you let them do now?’

  He looked genuinely shocked. Speechless.

  ‘They saved your life,’ he said finally. ‘They cut you down. They stopped you from hanging yourself.’

  That wasn’t the closure I was expecting…

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  You’ve got ink all round your mouth

  It all looked so delicious.

  Sonia surveyed the mouth-watering feast before her. Cream of tomato soup to start. Succulent roast chicken with all the trimmings, coated in a rich gravy as the main. Then an array of lavish chocolate cakes. Some with icing, some with cream, some with extra chocolate. It was such an amazing spread. She wanted to savour the moment forever.

  She was tempted to go straight to the dessert. She loved cakes. She missed them. It was so unfair. Other people ate them without putting on weight.

  But even she was allowed a little treat. Just every now and again. She deserved it.

  Where to start? Soup, roast or cake? It didn’t matter: she wanted all of it.

  Oh, but that chocolate looks so enticing.

  It was decided. Cakes first. Cakes second. Cakes third. The rest would have to wait. Sonia was relieved to have made the decision. Now she could relax and enjoy her meal.

  Then she tore the page out of the magazine, shredded it into tiny pieces and began to chew.

  A child when I entered ‘the system’, I was seventeen now. I didn’t know how I’d got that old. As they say, time flies – but I wasn’t having fun. The latest ignominy heaped on me was that I’d tried to hang myself. Another lie. Obviously someone had attacked me in my sleep. If I was lucky it was another patient. Either way, it was a cover-up by Warlingham. They were lying to my dad like they were lying to the father of the wheelchair-bound woman.

  Who knows what lengths they’ll go to to keep me here?

  The lies were coming thick and fast. Not only did I have dissociation, now they said I had anorexia. That was just ridiculous. Eating wasn’t my problem. Getting enough food was the problem. I was always so hungry. And whose fault is that? Why won’t they feed me?

  As my month in Warlingham grew to a close I feared the worst. How would the ‘hanging’ count against me? This anorexia business had been blown out of all proportion as well. What would Dr Picton-Jones do next? Lock me up for six months or let me go back to the Cassel?

  At the end of the section I had a review meeting with her. She went on about progress and effort and this and that. I couldn’t concentrate. The pressure was killing me. In the end I had to blurt it out.

  ‘Are you letting me go back to the Cassel?’

  The doctor looked over her glasses. I scrutinised her for any signs or clues. Two years of therapy had taught me there’s more to a conversation than words. Slowly she put her pen lid back on, adjusted her papers minutely and took a breath.

  ‘No, Kim,’ she said slowly. ‘I’m not sending you back to the Cassel.’

  ‘Don’t keep me here! They’ll kill me.’

  ‘Kim,’ she said calmly. ‘Listen to me. I’m not sending you back to the Cassel – because I’m sending you home.’

  It took a moment to sink in.

  Home?

  I barely dared say the words.

  ‘My home?’ I asked nervously.

  She nodded. Some of her colleagues had argued for an extended section but they’d been overruled. My hanging – as unfortunate as it was – was a sign, she felt, of how much I loathed my body. In other words, a classic demonstration of the demons driving my anorexia and bulimia. Yes, she said, there were grounds to keep me locked up for the next six months or six years or sixty years. But what I really needed was treatment for my eating disorders.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Laugh – because I was getting out of that hellish prison even though they claimed I’d tried to hang myself. And cry – because still the lies persisted. Anorexia and bulimia? I wished they’d play another record because this one was getting tiresome. How could a non-existent eating disorder drive me to a nonexistent suicide attempt?

  Apparently my diagnosis of dissociation was still relevant because it was often a factor in eating disorders – especially when I was claiming not to remember my behaviour at mealtimes (amnesia being a symptom). But that, and the anorexia and bulimia, would be sorted out once I started outpatient visits at the Maudsley Hospital. That was the condition on which I was being released. Failure to attend would see me yanked back into Warlingham Park the same day.

  Eagerly I agreed. She could have set the bars at any height and I’d have jumped them. Or injured myself trying.

  I only needed one clue to know where I was this time. My sister’s smiling face. She was holding a small bundle. My nephew. Ben. Behind her was her new boyfriend, Lawrence – or Lol – the lad�
��s father. It was like looking at a family photo.

  Lorraine and her new family were in Nan’s old room. My things were in the box room. I didn’t mind. At least it was mine. There were no locks on my door, no one would follow me to the loo in the night and the only person I had to worry about going through my things was a curious little boy.

  ‘Well, you’ll be needing a job, then.’

  Mum was as blunt as ever.

  ‘You’re an adult now. You need to be paying your way.’

  It was fair enough. I was seventeen. Unfortunately I’d missed the last few years of education. What job was there out there for me?

  ‘At least you can sign on until you find something.’

  Before I knew it I had an Unemployment Benefit number and fortnightly payments coming in. I wasn’t exactly earning but I was able to give Mum a few pounds for my bed and board, as she called it – especially as we no longer had Dad’s wages to support us. After seven or eight unsuccessful years, it had finally happened. Dad had moved out. One day he’d just waited until everyone was out of the house, then packed his bags, left a note and walked out the front door for the last time.

  With Dad gone money was tight. That wasn’t the main issue though. Mum was the hardest-working woman I ever knew. She believed that everyone should pull their weight in the world. And that included daughters fresh out of hospital.

  Mum was right. It might only be dole money, but if I had my own income I’d be able to put some distance between me and my dark past. I could make a fresh start. Unfortunately that was the last thing the authorities wanted me to do.

  Because of my hospital history I was registered on the ‘Green Card’ system – basically to show a disability. That was the last thing I wanted. It’s one thing being locked up in a mental institution. It’s another thing having to carry a card that tells the whole world.

  ‘Put it this way,’ the guy at the job centre said. ‘If you’re on the Green Card there’s a lot less pressure on you to find work. And if you do find work it means they have to let you have any further treatment.’

  Actually the card didn’t specify why I had been in hospital. I suppose it could have been for an ingrown toenail. But I knew what it meant and every day I saw it in my purse was another reminder of the treatment I’d been subjected to.

  Lots of people. Machines. Terrible, loud whirring noises.

  I was in some sort of factory, sitting at a bench alongside dozens of other women. There were a few men milling around as well. They were wearing overalls, like foremen at a depot. Some had clipboards. Everyone was talking. I hadn’t heard so much chatter since Warlingham. But here people were answering. Listening and answering. That was something you didn’t get at the other place.

  Suddenly it was my turn to listen.

  ‘How are you getting on, dear?’

  My godmother, Bette, was leaning over my shoulder.

  Quickly. What do I know about Bette? She works in a factory. She works in a factory where they make something. Where they make optics for pubs!

  That’s where I was.

  ‘Do you want me to show you again, dear? It’s a bit tricky at first, I know.’

  I smiled. ‘Yes please.’ A minute later I was picking up the small bits of plastic and inserting them into their moulds. It was simple, straightforward and incredibly dull – and I had no idea why I was doing it.

  Still, I suppose I’m being paid. That will keep Mum happy.

  Part of my deal with Dr Picton-Jones when I left Warlingham was I had to go back for regular outpatient sessions. They were easy enough. I trotted along and the therapists or doctors there told me about my depression, my anorexia, my bulimia or my dissociation. I just sat and nodded. Whatever they wanted to tell me, I wasn’t going to disagree – even though it sounded like they were plucking random words out of a medical dictionary. I knew they were wrong. I knew it wasn’t about me. And I knew the best way to play it.

  Bite your tongue, nod your head – then get out of there as fast as you can.

  I didn’t need their advice. I didn’t need help from anyone. I had discovered my own therapy: alcohol.

  I can’t remember when I first had a drink but know I liked it. White wine was my tipple. I began to have a little glass at home with Mum. Sometimes I went out with her and Lorraine on one of their regular sessions. In most of my memories from this period I was holding a glass.

  I didn’t always drink alone. One of my visitors at Warlingham had been a girl called Jennifer. We’d known each other at school and then lost touch. She bumped into Mum one day and discovered where I was. It was lovely to see her, although she looked too terrified by what she called ‘the nutters’ around her to speak much. Once I was out, though, we hooked up. She’d moved back into the area after a few years away. We got on so well that we decided to go on holiday together. After a few months of working I’d saved enough for a week away. It was so exciting poring over the holiday brochures. In the end we settled on Greece and had a great week. Well, I say week – it seemed to flash by in a blur. But, I thought, that’s the wine for you. It affects the memory.

  I used the same excuse when I started doing the weekly shop for Mum. ‘It’s the least you can do now you’re earning.’ She sent me to the supermarket with a list and off I trotted. When I got back, Mum opened one of the bags and just stared at me.

  ‘What’s all this?’

  ‘It’s what you asked for,’ I replied.

  ‘I don’t think I ordered a carrier bag of sweets.’

  Sweets?

  I tore open the other bags. They were all full of cakes and goodies.

  ‘I must have picked up the wrong basket,’ I said. But I could tell Mum wasn’t convinced.

  In a fairly short time after leaving Warlingham I’d managed to put down some sort of roots: I’d got a job which gave me a small income, I was socialising with friends and I even enjoyed being at home. Mum was still devastated that Dad had gone – despite everything, she was that classic ‘one-man woman’ – but without him there I didn’t have to put up with the constant bickering. If anything, she was back to the normal, kind, funny woman that I’d seen so little of for so many years. Yes, things seemed to be working in my favour for once.

  I even started seeing boys.

  It began when Lorraine bought me driving lessons for my eighteenth birthday. I don’t know how it came about but I ended up dating the instructor. Every night Joe and I would end up in a pub somewhere and usually I’d drive us there, although I don’t remember actually ever having a lesson. Luckily for me he didn’t drink.

  Everything seemed to be working for me, but it didn’t take long to get back to situation normal: out of the blue I was told I’d lost my job – I knew people sometimes seemed fed up when I asked what I was meant to be doing, but firing me seemed a bit extreme. No, I decided. There has to be another reason.

  It’s because of my Green Card. Someone must have found out.

  But that wasn’t the reason at all. Apparently I just hadn’t shown up a few times and they’d assumed I’d quit. This was news to me, although, on the plus side, it was a relief to learn I hadn’t been fired at all.

  Bette later told Mum that on the days I had appeared there’d been reports of my disappearing to the toilet to throw up. Mum denied it to Bette but as soon as she was gone turned on me.

  ‘For God’s sake, Kim, you know what will happen if you don’t stop this stupid behaviour.’

  I didn’t – but I soon found out.

  ‘My name is Dr Simons. I’m in charge of the eating disorder unit here.’

  I looked around.

  Who’s he talking to?

  There was no one else in the room.

  Where am I? It’s not Warlingham. Too smart, too clean, too friendly. So far, anyway.

  His words sank in.

  What does he mean, ‘eating disorder’? There’s nothing wrong with my eating.

  True, I couldn’t remember my last meal, but that was normal. Blam
e the wine.

  ‘Now, here at the Maudsley we believe in therapeutic treatment.’

  The Maudsley. I knew that place. A huge redbrick psychiatric hospital in Denmark Hill, near Camberwell. I didn’t know why I was here but, I’d learnt, it paid to go along with their ideas. Or at least appear to.

  ‘When do I have to come in?’

  The doctor looked surprised.

  He didn’t expect me to say that.

  He certainly didn’t – any more than I predicted his response.

  ‘Oh you don’t have to come in,’ he beamed. ‘You’ll be staying here for a while.’

  Oh no you don’t. I’ve got my life. I’m happy. You’re not ruining it again.

  ‘I’m eighteen. You can’t keep me here if I don’t want to be here.’

  He shrugged. ‘Technically, I’m recommending you stay with us for a while until we get your eating under control. However, if you choose to walk out that door I will apply for a section.’

  ‘A section?’ My mind was reeling.

  What for?

  He nodded. He was serious. I slumped in my seat.

  ‘You win. Where do I go?’

  The Maudsley, I’d heard, catered for all sorts of nutters and weirdos and psychos.

  And me.

  I was on Ward 3, the therapy ward, with a complete range of oddballs. The ones with eating disorders were the worst. Anorexia, bulimia, you name it. Half of them wouldn’t eat anything; the others cleaned the plate, then threw it up within minutes.

  What’s wrong with people? Who would want to live like that?

  The same accusations had been levelled at me, I remembered, so it was best to take them all with a pinch of salt. In my experience my fellow patients turned out to be some of the sanest people you could meet – with perhaps a few things to work on. Funnily enough, though, no one else denied their diagnoses. That was weird. Why was it just me who was locked in by mistake?