A Fool, Free

by Beate Grimsrud

  ‘How can you run when you’re sick?’ Mum asks. I can do anything.

  From my medical journal: Pat says that the only thing she wants to do is fight, with anyone. After a while, pat then instead starts to say that the only thing she wants is for someone to hit her, to be kicked in the head...

  The undersigned has been called to Ward 93 because Eli has become very aggressive, restless, and is hitting herself and the staff. The staff were forced to restrain her because she wanted to hit herself on the head, as she herself said: to break her skull. Asks to be killed.

  The day after I sit in the smoking room. My whole body is stiff after the injections. My speech is delayed. It feels like I’ve got rubber bands in my jaw every time I try to open my mouth. A man comes in who is just as stiff. He’s terribly thin and the hospital tracksuit hangs off his body. Haven’t seen him for a few weeks so I guessed he’d been discharged.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘What brings you back here?’ He sits down with great effort. He’s got a boyish, gangly body that’s grown old. ‘I pissed on a tree and had to pay a six hundred kronor fine. There are plenty of people who’ve pissed on that tree in Katarina Bangatan.’ He rolls a cigarette. He looks up. He’s changed his mind. ‘Nope, I was thrown out. Was hammering all night, but not many people heard it.’ A woman bangs open the door to the smoking room. ‘I don’t smoke,’ she says. ‘Just want to come in for a chat. But I’d actually rather go out. Run around the streets shouting: take me from behind, take me from behind.’

  An older man that the police found wandering around the town is sitting out in the corridor. He’s been a concert pianist and has just played beautifully on the piano. He’s a black American. He’s wearing a baseball cap, which only the Americans never get too old to wear. Someone asks: ‘Are you glad that you came here now?’ He looks away. Doesn’t want to answer, but then says: ‘At my age, you are glad to be anywhere.’

  I’ve got my bike in my room and cycle up and down the corridor. There’s something I want to say. But can only say it by hitting. Or losing the power of speech and just lying there shaking. My manner changes and becomes wild. Madness and a wealth of ideas. Am I writing or not writing? Am I alive or sleepwalking? Something is thumping inside. I’m locked into several bodies, layer upon layer of Eli and the boys. Don’t know how they’re trying to help me. Is it just a matter of time? Just to wait. The months pass.

  We bake buns in the unit kitchen. One of the nurses suddenly turns round. I jump out of the way. Hunker down. My hands up in front of my face. ‘Don’t hit me, don’t hit me,’ I shout.

  ‘Hide,’ Espen shouts. ‘Run away, burn,’ Emil whispers. ‘Kick,’ Erik screams. ‘Tell them who you are,’ says Prince Eugen.

  The nurse bends down over me and wonders what’s wrong. He doesn’t dare hold out his hand. I kick him away. Don’t come near me. I cover my head with my hands. I don’t remember, but can’t forget.

  The first thing I say to Jonathan when he comes in the door is: ‘I can’t sleep.’ I slept badly for several months and say so every time we meet. I sit up eating crisps and sweets and smoking. The floor in the flat is full of sweet wrappers. I throw everything around. If there are no sweets, I can sometimes wake up to a floor covered in sugar. Wander around. Talk loudly with the boys and wave my arms up and down, up and down. Sit in the corner of the kitchen. The safest place in the flat, drag my pillow and duvet over there and lie straight on the hard lino floor. Try to sleep but then jump up. Think that I can’t.

  ‘You’re not allowed to start our conversations by saying how badly you’ve slept any more. Say something positive instead,’ Jonathan says. ‘Say something good about the hours you did sleep. Say I’m a champion at sleeping. I can sleep.’ We write a contract about what I’m not allowed to do at night: smoke, listen to frenetic pop music on the headphones. Eat chocolate. Write, unless it’s absolutely necessary. Make compulsive movements. Indulge in violent fantasies. Take any pills, like ten Heminevrin, in the middle of the night, only the normal dose of sleeping pills before going to bed. Don’t go to bed hungry. Don’t drink coffee.

  Instead I should do this: concentrate on anxiety reducing methods, such as audio books and the radio. Beautiful, peaceful music. Do some exercise in the evening. Phone the hospital. Phone Lolo after six in the morning. Listen to relaxation tapes. Think about what I’m writing. Develop positive fantasy worlds and use them to replace anxiety. Do everything that reminds me that it’s night and do nothing that might indicate that it’s day. Believe that sleep will come.

  ‘Because it will. It’s like the postman. He comes no matter what. But you don’t need to stand there waiting for him.’

  I see that there’s a trolley full of glasses outside the dining room. I pick one up and weigh it in my hand. ‘Smash it,’ Erik shouts. ‘Smash it.’ He throws it onto the floor so hard that shards fly. He smashes five glasses at a furious pace. It’s great. Something is released. ‘Cut yourself,’ he shouts, agitated. I sit down on the floor in the middle of all the glass. Pick up a piece and press it as hard as I can into my forehead then cut down. The piece of glass is thick, but not very sharp. Put as much force into it as I can. Feel the blood oozing out. ‘More,’ Erik says. I manage to make four deep cuts. Not so that they’ll be visible later. Just for that moment, to feel that I’m alive. To shift the attention.

  The nurses rush towards me. I’m overpowered. I’m holding the piece of glass tight in my hand. They push back one finger at time, I hold them closed as tight as I can. The glass has cut deep into my hand, the blood bubbles out. ‘Take another piece,’ Erik shouts. I manage to free myself from the nurses and grab a new piece, squeeze it in my hand, fist tight. They open it and force me onto my stomach on the floor, with hands that press hard against my back. There are splinters of glass everywhere. I try to press my cheek against the glass. I want shards of glass all over my body, but am pushed clear. I like the firmness of the nurses’ grip, but would rather have glass. Feel something.

  There are maybe five nurses there now and things happen fast. When I’m lifted up, I’m very light. I try to make myself heavier by fighting. ‘Take a piece of glass with you,’ Erik says. But I can’t. I can’t get to them and I’m not Eli any more. It’s Erik who is carried down the corridor to his room. Is laid down on his stomach while the nurses hold his arms and legs. He tries to struggle. The sister comes, pulls down his trousers, and Erik gets five injections in the bum. Then the restraining bed is rolled into my room. Because Erik has vanished, and it’s me, Eli, who is lifted onto the bed. Alone. Erik, where are you? You who are so strong. I’ve got no strength. Lying on my back, restrained by belts around my wrists, ankles and belly. It’s impossible to scratch yourself or turn round or sit up. Then Erik comes back. ‘Next time take a glass with you to your room,’ he says. ‘Put it on the floor with a pillow over it then smash it, so that no one can hear. Then you can cut yourself in peace.’ Or smuggle in a razor blade in your shoes, I think. I got that tip from one of the patients in the smoking room the other day.

  When I wake up, I’m no longer restrained and the doctor comes in to look at the cuts on my face. It’s too late to sew them. They put plasters on. ‘Run,’ Espen says. ‘Escape,’ Emil says. ‘Hit them,’ Erik says. ‘Make yourself attractive, cut your hair, get white gold hoops for your ears,’ Prince Eugen says.

  I will never lie restrained on a bed again. I will not listen to Erik and the little boys. I will listen to Prince Eugen. I will make myself elegant. Be both a prince and a princess.

  From my medical journal: Eli is agitated and bad-tempered after being restrained and has been at odds with the night staff for several nights. Wants them to come and sit on the edge of her bed when she’s feeling anxious. The night staff don’t think they can do this any longer and are worried that she might get used to having their support nightly. Eli wants them at least to come in and say goodnight. It’s agreed that the undersigned will try to negotiate with the night staff and arrive at an appropriate compromise wher
e both parties give and take and the current deadlock is broken.

  As Eli is experiencing such huge mood swings, I am of the opinion that we should try lithium.

  I tell Jonathan that I’ve been watching the children’s programme Bolibompa. That they were teaching them the emergency number. Mouth, nose, eyes. One, one, two. So I rang it.

  ‘Why did you ring it?’

  ‘Because there’s radiation coming from the walls.’

  ‘When you use mobile phones and electrical equipment, there’s always a minuscule amount of radiation in the walls.’

  ‘But there’s loads. It’s the police, they’re scanning me. They want to catch me, restrain me, prevent me from moving freely.’

  ‘The police are not interested in you. They never have been, not as long as I’ve known you. You should ring us instead.’

  ‘The police have been after me for a decade, and I can’t get away.’

  ‘Listen to us now,’ Jonathan says. ‘We think about you. Remember, we’re only a phone call away. Forget the police, and think about me instead. Learn my number off by heart.’

  Instead of a prayer meeting in the mornings, we have a morning meeting for all the patients and staff. The theme is open, it might be about a flower or a bird, and time is always left to celebrate anyone who has a name day. I sit there more or less in my own world. Nothing of value is said, it’s simply become one way to start the day.

  In the evening, one or more of my friends come to visit. They read out loud for me or talk soothingly. I don’t sleep well at night. Wake up with a start at nothing and am wide awake. Scramble out of bed, go out into the corridor where the staff are sitting wrapped in blankets in the armchairs. ‘Go back to bed.’ ‘Can’t. There’s radiation coming from the walls. There’s someone watching.’ ‘No one’s watching. There’s no radiation.’ My body spasms. I walk back and forth. ‘I want to talk to the priest.’ ‘You’ll get an injection to help you sleep.’

  I run down the corridor, bumping into the chairs that stand up against the wall, knocking them over onto the floor. ‘You’ll wake the others,’ one of the night staff shouts, and runs after me. I have to talk to the priest. I’m falling to pieces. The sister comes after me with an injection. ‘I don’t want an injection,’ I scream. ‘Shhh.’ More of them come and carry me back to my room.

  Once we’re in the room, they let me go and I throw myself at the screen between the beds, head first. There is a thump and the old lady in the bed bedside me with her grey hair elegantly piled on her head and her own nightie, jumps. She sits up with terrified eyes. She was an opera singer. Her name is Esmeralda. How could her parents have known that she would be an Esmeralda? She’s started to lose her memory and is saddened by her circumstances and the fact that she needs to be in this awful room. She wants the lights to be turned off when she wants them off. She starts talking about it in the morning. ‘We have to make the best of the situation,’ she says. That means that she decides. She’s been in the room longer and that gives her the upper hand.

  More nurses run in. I wave my arms around. I have to escape, to save myself. Before the police come, before anyone discovers where I am. God, where are you? I’m wrestled to the floor. One arm is forced back. I throw myself forwards and up. The grip on my arm is hard. I fall on my back, arm first. Ow, it hurts like hell, but I continue to struggle. The pain makes me even wilder. I bang my head on the floor. The restraining bed is rolled into the room. I’m lifted up and restrained. I throw myself from side to side. My arm hurts, but my rage blankets everything and numbs it. A nurse sits down beside the bed with a newspaper. He says nothing.

  Perhaps it’s better to be restrained than to go to pieces. Perhaps the belts keep everything in place. I wanted to destroy everything until there was nothing left. I can’t sleep. After an hour, the nurses swap places. I say that my arm hurts. ‘We’ll have a look when the doctor comes back, but that’s not for another three hours.’

  Finally imprisoned. Finally restrained. A pain in another pain in another pain. Body after body, like a Russian doll. The ultimate punishment, locked doors and windows, locked hands and feet. Only the innermost doll can’t be opened. If anyone tries to gnaw at it, they’ll only get sore teeth. Everything that is me has to be stuffed into that little doll in order to survive. This is what I have feared.

  When the doctor comes to release me, my arm is blue and swollen. He can see immediately that it’s broken. A nurse and I spend all morning at A&E. I’m restless and walk back and forth in the waiting room. My arm hurts. I move it up and down in the air. Erik says: ‘Serves you right. It’s the police’s fault.’

  My friends are furious that I’ve been restrained again and about my broken arm. Sonja contacts the staff. They are a little more cooperative now, frightened that we might report the incident. Sonja says that if I go wild again they should call her straight away. Night or day. ‘I can get here in five minutes,’ she says. ‘And I think I can calm Eli down so you don’t need to restrain her.’ Lolo comes with flowers, which I love. I throw the vase to the floor. Want to break it, but it’s made of plastic. Which frustrates me at first, but then I later think it’s good, and I can enjoy the flowers.

  The staff slowly start to work with my friends. They realise that they want to help me get out of hospital as soon as possible.

  Sonja, Lolo, Harald and Tim have a meeting with a doctor, but are none the wiser for it. I’m still not allowed to go out on my own, but get permission to run with Lisen twice a week along the lake, in order to get rid of some excess energy. I run fast, despite the heavy medication. I haven’t had a period for five months. Is that because of the stress or the medicine? One of the other patients has started to produce milk, even though she hasn’t had a baby.

  Sonja visits me frequently. She leaves her husband and child and sits with me for hours. Sonja can just sit in silence in the room and be present. She demands nothing of me. Sometimes we talk about writing. I show her my book where I’ve scribbled page upon page. It’s chaotic. It’s what the voices say. I’ve written what I think. The same thing over and over again. Sonja thinks it’s good and that I should continue.

  She tells me about an insect. I think it’s a male. One of its wings is broken and it can’t fly. It bites off one leg and takes off. ‘Will I find a way to get out of here?’ I ask. ‘Why do you ask?’ she says. ‘We know each other. So I don’t need to say any more.’ Typical her, I think. Was it the wing or the leg that he bit off? ‘Tell me again.’ Sonja tells me again.

  Then she sits on the edge of the bed and reads Gombrowicz’s diary to me until I fall asleep. Read, Sonja, read. I feel better now.

  I’m allowed to leave the unit for a few hours every day, as long as I say where I’m going and when I’m coming back. It’s Prince Eugen who goes out. He’s going shopping. Completely wild. Prince Eugen feels exhilarated when he shops. He doesn’t try clothes on, he slips into them. Expensive suits are like putting on better self-esteem. He looks good in everything. Admires his elegant, supple body in the mirror. He, who feels so different inside, is understood by a whole host of designers. His body is perfectly proportioned. He suits colours, feminine cuts, silk shirts and finely checked ties. He buys flowers, household goods. Is delighted to find a pillar box-red dish signed by Sigvard Bernadotte, or even better a coffee thermos. There’s something seductive about coffee thermoses. He has a kitchen full. He also buys bits and pieces on sale and in second-hand shops, like duvet covers, tablecloths, computer equipment, CDs, uniform details, electric drills, and lots of painting things, of course. He collects coffee sets from the fifties and already has enough to open a café. He feels contented, with his entire being. Pays, and leaves with his bags and boxes. The more, the happier. Secretly happy. Like a thief stealing from himself. A stolen joy. To think that I can afford all this. That I am a prince.

  Jonathan comes into the flat and discovers that it’s entirely changed. I’ve got a stipend and want to do something new. He stands in the middle of the ro
om. The walls have recently been papered. By an artist who has decorated the walls with thin strips of eight different wallpapers around the whole room. In blue, turquoise and a bit of red. The wallpapers are from different periods, but mainly from the fifties. It’s not possible to hang any pictures, as the walls themselves are a work of art. I’ve stored Dad’s paintings away. Feel a bit guilty about that. Might put them up again when I get a bigger flat.

  I tell Jonathan that I’m going to live in this room with the new wallpaper for a while longer. Then one day, when I’ve written something that sells really well, when I’ve met someone, when I’ve been left an inheritance, then I will move to something bigger. Then I will have open, light surfaces. A cream medicine cupboard from the forties with all my red fifties cups and saucers visible behind glass doors. A chandelier. And I will almost only sleep in the bed. I won’t greet Jonathan by saying how badly I’ve slept. I’ll tell him the truth, that I’ve slept well. That I’m considering whether to stop taking sleeping pills altogether. I’m fine now and things will only get better. Things will go my way.

  Jonathan listens to my plans, and hears and sees that the new wallpaper has created strips of light inside me.

  I’m tight-lipped on the train home. I’ve been in Ludvika and thought that I was going to get a place in a clinic there. I tried to make a good impression. Really made an effort during the interview to be the model patient, someone who quite simply would fit into their programme. This was my chance to get away from the hospital. I had never imagined that they would not want me. I was the only one who could say no. It was too rural. Too cosy-cosy. The train journey was endless. Did they really not want me? I could perhaps move there all the same.