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time. Trapped in a room with mad people. And I’m one of them.
    ‘I have to go now,’ Marie says. ‘I’ve explained everything to the nurse. She’s got Doctor Palmer’s referral and I’ve left my details if you need anything. I’ll call by tomorrow to see how you’re going.’
    Her hand reaches out to me as if some long dormant maternal instinct has been stirred. She pulls it back, the distance between us just too far.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ she says as she stands to go. ‘That’s the main thing.’
    An hour goes by. I count off each minute. Then a nurse ushers me into a cubicle and leaves me to sit alone until a doctor arrives. He’s young with a bristly face as if he’s either trying to grow a beard or hasn’t had time to shave. ‘Now, what seems to be the problem?’ He speaks quickly and glances at his watch.
    When I took the overdose, the doctor who treated me then was as dismissive as this one. I bet I’m only a number to him.
    I refuse to speak.
    ‘The referring doctor seems to believe you’re suicidal. Is that how you feel?’
    My lips remain gripped together.
    ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
    Only cowardice stops me from spitting in his face.
    He calls for a nurse as he finishes up his paperwork. While he’s distracted I should run. But I can hardly stand. My shoes are made of lead. It’s difficult to even think. I want to sleep, sleep, and never wake up.

12

    I n the psych ward every exit door is locked; every window has iron bars or mesh. I slump in a plastic chair near my bed, too tired to even take off my sandals. A short, pudding of a woman in a chenille dressing gown wanders past, back and forth, talking to herself. She’s annoying. After a while, she becomes infuriating.
    ‘Be quiet!’ I rasp at her. She ignores me and keeps yabbering. God is warning her that she is to save the world; the Devil will kill all babies; Mary, her mother, is watching her . . .
    Inside my mind are demons enough without her constant, crazy babble. There’s one part of me that knows I should feel sorry for her. But this place changes you quickly and I hear another, stronger part of me, threatening her.
    ‘If you don’t shut up, I’ll come and shut your fat gob for you.’ It doesn’t sound like my voice.
    Trying to blot her out, I find the energy to flip off my sandals, strip, pull on a gown and climb into bed. But nothing can blot her out. I put my head under the blankets, press against my ears. Her shrill voice pursues me.
    I dive out of bed and storm up to her, shaking her by the shoulders.
    ‘Stop it!’
    ‘God is in charge of my soul! I am His divine instrument!’
    ‘Enough! I told you – enough!’
    I slap her face. Hard.
    ‘The Blessed Virgin is amongst us! Oh Mary full of grace . . .’
    She stands there raving. Doesn’t flinch or try to protect herself. I could hit her again and again, and it wouldn’t make any difference. She’s not here in this world; she’s in her own, damned head space. I feel more ashamed than I’ve ever been in my life. The poor woman wanders out of the room, proclaiming God and Mary to the walls. Even so, she’s more at peace than I am.
    Sometimes it feels like there’s another person inside of me who takes control. I see myself doing the weirdest things – like attacking that woman, or thinking of self-destructing – and it’s as though I’m watching someone else. I can be wildly happy, and hours later in the depths of despair. I’m never in the middle like everyone else. Soaring or falling, that’s me.
    An orderly rattles by with a metal trolley full of plates, jerking me away from my thoughts to the cold reality of the hospital.
    That night they give me pills to sleep and I don’t fight it. Oblivion is a good place.
    The next day I find I’m in C Ward. Patients are kept here for observation, I’m told. Doctors and nurses, bureaucrats – they all love to observe me. There’s nothing much to do. The other patients, older than me, wander around