across the tables to throwing crockery. Lynette started crying but Andrea smiled complacently as a flying saucer whizzed past her ear. She told us, almost proudly I thought, that this was nothing compared to the fights in a ward where she was once transferred after trying to hang herself with a scarf.
It was surprising that there werenât more fights even in our showpiece ward, considering the stress we were under, herded together day after day in such an unnatural environment. Perhaps the humiliation of being under the supreme power of the staff kept us all subdued and passive.
CASE NO. 10826
Remains rather withdrawn; not so preoccupied with religious conflicts. Thought problems are not very prominent but still disturbs the patient â âI do not yet know â who am Iâ, âConfused about heaven and hellâ etc. Seemed to be more concerned about not being able to mix well. Prominent thought-block is being expressed with distress. Has gained some insight but not sufficiently. Asking for discharge. She is taking very little interest at the occupational therapy or the ward routine.
Dr Prior
CHAPTER FIVE
T WICE A WEEK I received electrical assaults on my brain. Lightning flashes. Convulsions. Blast it all out, forget everything. I slipped off the ladder and couldnât stop falling. I awoke the same but not the same. A searing pain inside my brain. Branded.
I heard someone moaning when they were being given ECT. I was sitting outside the treatment room, nervously twisting my fingers and thinking of the Simon and Garfunkel song âI Am a Rockâ as I awaited my turn.
âDonât worry,â a nurse said to me. âShe canât feel a thing because sheâs unconscious.â
The moans were terrible; the most poignant, eerie sounds of protest Iâd ever heard, springing deep from a womanâs unconscious mind. Would I soon be moaning like that? Even the rocks canât remain silent.
During one ECT session there was a group of students peering over me ready to watch my convulsions. Just before being seized by the dreadfully unpleasant sensation I always experienced in the seconds before losing consciousness, a wave of resentment hit me as I gazed up at the sea of curious faces. But I resisted the temptation to yell at them: âI hope you enjoy the goddamn show!â
It was at the ECT block where I saw thirteen-year-old Debbie again, who had been moved to another ward. At first I didnât recognise the pathetic, drooping figure who was sitting in the waiting area, white-faced and trembling.
âNow donât be silly, dearie,â a stiff-uniformed nurse was saying, offering a tissue to Debbie. âItâs nothing to be scared of. You wonât feel a thing.â
âItâs all right for you to say that,â a small, shaky voice protested. âYouâve never had ECT, have you?â
âNo, but I do know what Iâm talking about,â the nurse said, confident in her textbook knowledge. How could she know, damn her? I thought indignantly. How could she know?
My heart cried out with pity for Debbie who knew so much so soon. What, in the name of sanity, was she doing in this place? Dear God, she was only a child.
My fear of ECT gave birth to a gut-twisting anxiety. Admittedly, the treatment itself, being administered when anaesthetised, was painless. But imprinted in my memory is the sensation of lying helplessly as the injected anaesthetic seared my brain and played havoc with my senses before the blackness of oblivion. I tried hard to remain relaxed after being given the anaesthetic but that was like trying to suppress a strong survival instinct; not once did I succeed in âgoing gentlyâ into the night.
Next come the after-effects; the post-ECT fog. Itâs bad enough being given drugs every day, which make you feel dim-witted and slow, but add to this the disorientation following an ECT session and youâre living
It was surprising that there werenât more fights even in our showpiece ward, considering the stress we were under, herded together day after day in such an unnatural environment. Perhaps the humiliation of being under the supreme power of the staff kept us all subdued and passive.
CASE NO. 10826
Remains rather withdrawn; not so preoccupied with religious conflicts. Thought problems are not very prominent but still disturbs the patient â âI do not yet know â who am Iâ, âConfused about heaven and hellâ etc. Seemed to be more concerned about not being able to mix well. Prominent thought-block is being expressed with distress. Has gained some insight but not sufficiently. Asking for discharge. She is taking very little interest at the occupational therapy or the ward routine.
Dr Prior
CHAPTER FIVE
T WICE A WEEK I received electrical assaults on my brain. Lightning flashes. Convulsions. Blast it all out, forget everything. I slipped off the ladder and couldnât stop falling. I awoke the same but not the same. A searing pain inside my brain. Branded.
I heard someone moaning when they were being given ECT. I was sitting outside the treatment room, nervously twisting my fingers and thinking of the Simon and Garfunkel song âI Am a Rockâ as I awaited my turn.
âDonât worry,â a nurse said to me. âShe canât feel a thing because sheâs unconscious.â
The moans were terrible; the most poignant, eerie sounds of protest Iâd ever heard, springing deep from a womanâs unconscious mind. Would I soon be moaning like that? Even the rocks canât remain silent.
During one ECT session there was a group of students peering over me ready to watch my convulsions. Just before being seized by the dreadfully unpleasant sensation I always experienced in the seconds before losing consciousness, a wave of resentment hit me as I gazed up at the sea of curious faces. But I resisted the temptation to yell at them: âI hope you enjoy the goddamn show!â
It was at the ECT block where I saw thirteen-year-old Debbie again, who had been moved to another ward. At first I didnât recognise the pathetic, drooping figure who was sitting in the waiting area, white-faced and trembling.
âNow donât be silly, dearie,â a stiff-uniformed nurse was saying, offering a tissue to Debbie. âItâs nothing to be scared of. You wonât feel a thing.â
âItâs all right for you to say that,â a small, shaky voice protested. âYouâve never had ECT, have you?â
âNo, but I do know what Iâm talking about,â the nurse said, confident in her textbook knowledge. How could she know, damn her? I thought indignantly. How could she know?
My heart cried out with pity for Debbie who knew so much so soon. What, in the name of sanity, was she doing in this place? Dear God, she was only a child.
My fear of ECT gave birth to a gut-twisting anxiety. Admittedly, the treatment itself, being administered when anaesthetised, was painless. But imprinted in my memory is the sensation of lying helplessly as the injected anaesthetic seared my brain and played havoc with my senses before the blackness of oblivion. I tried hard to remain relaxed after being given the anaesthetic but that was like trying to suppress a strong survival instinct; not once did I succeed in âgoing gentlyâ into the night.
Next come the after-effects; the post-ECT fog. Itâs bad enough being given drugs every day, which make you feel dim-witted and slow, but add to this the disorientation following an ECT session and youâre living
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