canât win. They watch and mark everything down. Picking fights with the nurses and other patients will go against you and keep you in here longer. They like us placid. So placid we are. Not that they trust us to be placid of our own volition of course. They fill us full of pills and potions that turn us into the walking dead to ensure that we are placid. But there really is no use in fighting it.
Remember there is a blame culture here, point scoring, stool pigeons, snitching. If you do something wrong and someone sees you doing it they will tell on you and it will be detrimental to your stay. So either donât do anything wrong or donât get caught.
Â
The aide is standing next to my bed. I open one eye. Think he is about to shake me. He sees my eye and takes a step back.
âYou need to get up,â he says.
âI didnât sleep very well.â
âYou still need to get up.â
âI dreamed I was being chased by a wolf, then I was the wolf and I was doing the chasing.â Iâm still shaking. My heart is hammering inside my chest.
âYou still need to get up. Hold onto the feeling you have now. Itâs no use sharing it with me. Keep it for group.â
âI wasnât trying to share. I was explaining why I couldnât get up,â I want to argue, my eyes are itchy with tiredness. I am all irritation and compressed aggression.
âYou have to get up. Everyone has to get up.â
He grabs hold of the corner of the blanket, to pull it off me. I relent. Sit up. Rub sore eyes. The world changes from black to green to purple to blue to yellow under the heel of my pressing hand. From the window sill I feel the vibration of The Zoo. It quivers. Then rumbles. I take my hand away from my eyes to look at the aide. His image ripples. I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut. Push the tips of my fingers into them. It rumbles again. I scream ânooooooooooooooooâ inside my head. Count to thirty and when I open my eyes again the aide has gone. I get out of bed and pull the blanket back over it, tuck the corners in, all the while avoiding the gaze of The Zoo.
In the ward the day staff are settling in. I go through to the day room. A nurse is writing on a whiteboard.
On the wall in the corridor there are little photos of the nurses, the team. I stand in front of them and study the greying pictures. âI could get to you all,â I say to them, âI probably have got to you all.â
Head Psychiatrist, I read. Janet Armitage. I reduce her down to a target. To a sector. Female, 45-50, paid between thirty and fifty grand, homeowner, about to become an empty nester, interested in gardening, reads Elle Decoration and the free aspirational magazine that plops through her letterbox monthly, drives to work in a luxury saloon bought on HP, passes a slog of 48-sheet poster sites upon which I would place a carefully designed selection of words and images designed to influence her whether she knew it or not.
âI know you, Janet,â I say to the picture. Kiss my fingertips and touch them lightly to its glossy surface.
The whiteboard reads, Today is Monday. It is the 23rd February. It is raining.
17.
Collins is brooding. He spends a lot of time on his mobile in one of the side offices. I suspect he is looking for another job. The rest of the time he has his head buried in his MacBook. Heâs barely spoken to me.
âIâm worried about Collins,â I say to Hilary as we drink espresso in his office.
âHeâll be fine. Heâll come out fighting,â he says.
Hilary looks tired. More tired. His skin is grey, his eyes bloodshot.
âAre you okay?â I ask.
âHmm.â He studies his coffee, appears to be considering something, then says, âAngie has moved in with her sister. A trial for a trial separation.â
âShit. Sorry.â
He slurps when he drinks.
âCanât be helped. Certain irony to it all though.
Remember there is a blame culture here, point scoring, stool pigeons, snitching. If you do something wrong and someone sees you doing it they will tell on you and it will be detrimental to your stay. So either donât do anything wrong or donât get caught.
Â
The aide is standing next to my bed. I open one eye. Think he is about to shake me. He sees my eye and takes a step back.
âYou need to get up,â he says.
âI didnât sleep very well.â
âYou still need to get up.â
âI dreamed I was being chased by a wolf, then I was the wolf and I was doing the chasing.â Iâm still shaking. My heart is hammering inside my chest.
âYou still need to get up. Hold onto the feeling you have now. Itâs no use sharing it with me. Keep it for group.â
âI wasnât trying to share. I was explaining why I couldnât get up,â I want to argue, my eyes are itchy with tiredness. I am all irritation and compressed aggression.
âYou have to get up. Everyone has to get up.â
He grabs hold of the corner of the blanket, to pull it off me. I relent. Sit up. Rub sore eyes. The world changes from black to green to purple to blue to yellow under the heel of my pressing hand. From the window sill I feel the vibration of The Zoo. It quivers. Then rumbles. I take my hand away from my eyes to look at the aide. His image ripples. I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut. Push the tips of my fingers into them. It rumbles again. I scream ânooooooooooooooooâ inside my head. Count to thirty and when I open my eyes again the aide has gone. I get out of bed and pull the blanket back over it, tuck the corners in, all the while avoiding the gaze of The Zoo.
In the ward the day staff are settling in. I go through to the day room. A nurse is writing on a whiteboard.
On the wall in the corridor there are little photos of the nurses, the team. I stand in front of them and study the greying pictures. âI could get to you all,â I say to them, âI probably have got to you all.â
Head Psychiatrist, I read. Janet Armitage. I reduce her down to a target. To a sector. Female, 45-50, paid between thirty and fifty grand, homeowner, about to become an empty nester, interested in gardening, reads Elle Decoration and the free aspirational magazine that plops through her letterbox monthly, drives to work in a luxury saloon bought on HP, passes a slog of 48-sheet poster sites upon which I would place a carefully designed selection of words and images designed to influence her whether she knew it or not.
âI know you, Janet,â I say to the picture. Kiss my fingertips and touch them lightly to its glossy surface.
The whiteboard reads, Today is Monday. It is the 23rd February. It is raining.
17.
Collins is brooding. He spends a lot of time on his mobile in one of the side offices. I suspect he is looking for another job. The rest of the time he has his head buried in his MacBook. Heâs barely spoken to me.
âIâm worried about Collins,â I say to Hilary as we drink espresso in his office.
âHeâll be fine. Heâll come out fighting,â he says.
Hilary looks tired. More tired. His skin is grey, his eyes bloodshot.
âAre you okay?â I ask.
âHmm.â He studies his coffee, appears to be considering something, then says, âAngie has moved in with her sister. A trial for a trial separation.â
âShit. Sorry.â
He slurps when he drinks.
âCanât be helped. Certain irony to it all though.
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