Bloodletting (11 page)
Authors: Victoria Leatham
Tags: #Medical, #Mental Health, #Psychology, #Psychopathology, #General
He paused, expecting me to say something.‘Wouldn’t it be fun to move in? To have our own house? Our own garden where we could grow things? Just imagine—we could sit on the verandah and watch the sunset.We could invite people over.There’d be no more house-sitting, group living or poky flats.Wouldn’t it be fun?’And then came the crunch.‘But I can’t do it without you.’
It didn’t occur to me that this meant he literally couldn’t do it without me. Instead, I was flattered: Mike wanted me to live with him in a real house. He didn’t want me to move and to leave him.
‘It sounds lovely.’ I tried to sound enthusiastic as visions of my new life in Melbourne slipped away.
He hadn’t lied.The place was charming and it had marvellous views. Together, we could afford it. I had my yellow sofas and the rest of my furniture brought down from Sydney and Mike retrieved his bits and pieces from his mother’s house, where they’d been stored for some time.We then focused on getting the house and garden into order. It had been badly neglected for years, so there were plenty of things to do. Plenty to keep us occupied.
Mandy, Mike’s daughter, came to visit regularly while we were painting rooms and planting vegetables. She loved the constant projects. Or it might have been that the projects always involved getting dirty.
One day, when we were digging in the garden, and Mike was out, she told me that she was really happy that her father had his own house again.Her step-father,apparently,still called Mike a ‘goodfor-nothing-bum’ but Mandy didn’t believe it. He was doing well, wasn’t he?
I was glad she didn’t expect an answer.
Mike had spent the last ten years looking for both love and meaning in his life. He’d had a number of relationships since his marriage broke up, and a range of jobs. He’d tried church, therapy, crystals and self-improvement courses. He’d learnt the guitar and played cricket with the local club. My first impression of him had been of someone who didn’t care what others thought, and was content to drift. However, after we moved in together it soon became evident that this attitude was a front.And increasingly,it was clear that he was only able to sustain it by using alcohol or dope.
What he really wanted was a stable job, a steady income and a glamorous woman.‘You’d look really good if you only lost a little weight,’ he’d say to me,‘and if your skin were better.Why don’t you wear skirts more? And high heels? Dress up a bit?’
His suggestions about clothes were just ridiculous.We lived at the beach.I didn’t have a job.I didn’t need to dress up.And I wasn’t going to do so for him. His other criticisms were harder to deal with.
The truth was I’d now managed to put on nearly two stone since leaving Sydney, and the cystic acne now covered the tops of my thighs, my back and my shoulders. I wasn’t looking my best. Part of me hated him for drawing attention to this but part of me responded to it—after all, it was the kind of honesty I had grown up with. My mother had a phrase for it: constructive criticism.
The acne disturbed me so much that I actually visited the local doctor. His theory was that it was caused by the Lithium, and that Lithium was also responsible for the weight gain. He had prescribed medication for the acne. It hadn’t worked.
Mike knew this, and suggested his own solution. ‘Why don’t you just stop taking all of those drugs?’ He thought that besides affecting my looks, they were affecting my mind. Detrimentally. He went on. ‘How do I know who you really are anyway when you’re on all that psychiatric crap?’He paused.‘How can I love someone I don’t know?’
I wanted Mike to love me. I wanted someone to.
He went on, knowing he had my attention, ‘Are these drugs supposed to make you feel better? You don’t seem very happy to me. You’d be better off without them, better off just being able to feel your emotions naturally, and then deal with them.Why don’t you just stop taking them?’
I had known that he didn’t believe in medications but hadn’t realised that he felt so strongly about mine. I didn’t agree with him but I hated not fitting into my clothes, the constant tiredness and that it hurt to roll over in bed or even wear a bra.The spots didn’t just look bad— it was painful.
If I stopped taking the pills, perhaps it would go away. Perhaps the weight would fall off; perhaps I’d be happy. I certainly wasn’t now, not anymore.What did I have to lose?
The next morning I skipped my usual dose of Prozac, Lithium and the anti-acne drug and threw out the Largactil, which I occasionally took when I felt overwhelmed. It always knocked me out, and it wasn’t until years later that I discovered that like Stelazine, it too was an anti-psychotic, not just a tranquillizer. I didn’t take anything that evening. And I didn’t take anything the following day. I’d been a bit worried that I’d suddenly feel miserable, or that I might even want to hurt myself. But it seemed Mike was right, it was easy to get off them.
By the evening of the second day, however, I began to feel odd. At first I couldn’t put my finger on it.
Every morning since we’d moved in, Mike would get up, walk out to the verandah and declare, gesturing towards the white cliffs, that we lived in Paradise. In the beginning, I had agreed.The place was unquestionably beautiful. Now despite the cloudless skies and crystal-clear ocean, I began to answer him internally with,‘No, you dickhead, this is hell’.When he talked about what he wanted to do, the screenplays he wanted to write, the movies he wanted to direct, I was just annoyed. His prattle had at first been endearing, but was now excruciating.
At first it was just his words that upset me, and then it was the sound of his favourite chair scraping on the concrete. It went straight through my head, like fingernails on a blackboard. He didn’t believe me when I told him.
Nor did he believe me when I said that I couldn’t bear the sound of his voice, that he wasn’t to talk to me. It was only when I started to cover my ears when he entered the room that he began to look worried.
If I went into the kitchen, I could not only see but could smell the acrid trail of ants leading to the cupboards.When I picked up the newspaper, I’d shudder involuntarily at the sensation of the paper in my hands. Soon, even walking across the bedroom floor barefoot became impossible as the soles of my feet screamed against the nylon in the carpet.
It wasn’t long before I couldn’t cope with the sensory overload and the only safe place was my bed.And I didn’t want to cope.There was no point. I wasn’t interested in eating, reading, showering or even moving, and instead spent my days dozing, or staring at the walls.
Katie, our neighbour, who was a nurse, came to visit after I’d been like this for nearly a week. She was furious with Mike.‘I can’t believe that you suggested she go off those pills without medical supervision— they’re not bloody vitamins.’
But Mike wasn’t going to take any responsibility. ‘She wanted to go off them, I didn’t force her.’
Katie didn’t believe him. She’d known him long enough to be familiar with his views on a lot of things, including medications.‘You know that she’s sick? You know that she’s not at all happy?’
‘I don’t know anything.’ He sounded exasperated. ‘She won’t talk to me. She doesn’t like the sound of my voice.’
‘And what you’ve got to say, no doubt.’ Katie then came back into my room—and it was mine, as Mike was now sleeping in the spare bedroom—and told me that she was going to call my psychiatrist. Mike would drive me up to town.
And that was that.
An appointment was organised for that afternoon. My bag was packed and the car filled with petrol. For the first time in days I got out of bed—clenching my teeth so as to be able to bear it—and showered and dressed.
As Mike and I drove to town I stared out the window. I didn’t have enough energy to hurt myself but Katie was right, I wasn’t in a good frame of mind and I didn’t know what to do about it. I needed professional help.
When we arrived at the doctor’s, Mike suggested that he join me in the appointment.That way we could talk about things together. He could help.The psychiatrist, Dr C, refused; he wanted to see me alone. Mike could sit in the waiting room, and wait.
An hour later, he drove me to the private psychiatric hospital I’d just been booked into. Dr C hadn’t seen me for months but the change must have been significant. All I wanted, I said, was to go somewhere clean, cool, dark and quiet. Mike helped me in with my bags and was then asked to leave by the staff.
The relief was enormous. It really hadn’t occurred to me how desperately unhappy I was until then. It wasn’t just the side effects. It was Mike. And my life. I had been ‘settling’ for a life that I didn’t really want and I knew that this was a mistake. ‘Settling’ was akin to giving up, or giving in, and I wasn’t interested in either of these things but I was very, very tired.
The clinic was much the same as the psychiatric hospital I’d been in before.This time, however, instead of being in a ward, I was given my own room, my own bathroom, and had my meals delivered.
It was wonderful.
Later that evening Dr C dropped in to see how I was. He was obviously pleased that I’d agreed to go to hospital, and pleased to see me looking more comfortable. Initially, he suggested that I go back on to the Prozac and Lithium but I refused. I explained that it wasn’t Mike’s influence, but the other factors.
It took several days before we agreed that I did need to take something and what that ‘something’ might be. For the first time I felt as though I wasn’t being patronised. I was being consulted. I agreed to start on another mood stabiliser,Tegretol.And he referred me to a dermatologist for my skin.There were drugs around that could fix it.
When I was able to get up, the first thing I did was head downstairs for a cigarette.After the third visit,I started to talk to the other smokers, and began to feel a bit more like myself. I then called two people—my aunt to let her know where I was, and an old childhood friend, Josh.
My aunt was obviously uncomfortable about the situation, in the same way my parents always were. I told her very little but the fact I was in a psychiatric hospital was enough. She suggested that we keep it quiet, and particularly that we shouldn’t tell either of my grandmothers,who both lived close by.After all,I was supposed to be better, all of ‘this kind of thing’ was supposed to have been left behind.
Josh reacted in a very different way when I told him where I was. He was a builder and football player, and I’d not been sure about what he’d say but I wanted to speak to someone. Someone without an agenda. It was odd, we’d spent most of our childhoods together, and then when we’d left the property that was it. I hadn’t seen him for fifteen years, until I arrived in Adelaide. Despite the gap, it was as if we’d only seen each other the previous week. His girlfriend had been incredibly jealous of this connection,which had made us laugh but her angry.As a result, I had seen nothing of him since moving to the beach.
He turned up an hour later, looking impossibly healthy and cheerful.‘So what on earth are you doing here, darl?’
I told him everything, all the things I hadn’t told him when we’d last met.Then I’d focused on the good bits.When I’d finished, he shook his head. He was surprised that he hadn’t heard about it on the grapevine, as our mothers were still friends. I had to explain then that it wasn’t something anyone in my family talked about—to each other or to anyone else. He was still amazed. ‘I don’t know what to say, or what I should do.’
Nothing, I didn’t want him to do anything, and that was the point. I just wanted him to know.
As I began to feel better, I realised that I had to leave Mike, and the beach.There was no choice.The relationship wasn’t making me happy and neither was the lifestyle. I needed to be doing something. I needed to be busy.
I’d already forbidden Mike to visit or call me, yet he was still surprised when I said I’d be moving out.
First, though, I needed a bit of time to recuperate. So when I left hospital, I went to stay with my maternal grandmother. For two more weeks, I did very little except sleep in, stroll round the block, eat light meals, and go to bed early. My grandmother didn’t ask what had happened. Like everyone else in the family, she didn’t believe in prying or discussing anything that might be unpleasant. But she encouraged me to use her phone to call my friends in Sydney.
Emily was delighted to hear from me, and to hear I hadn’t gone back to the beach. She’d rung the beach house and had spoken to Mike, who’d lectured her on the evils of medication. He’d told her I was in hospital but that it didn’t matter. I’d got off the stuff. I’d soon be myself again and he’d be living with a real person.
Emily was astonished, and immediately sat down to write to me. The letter eventually turned up at my grandmother’s, and in it she said how worried she was about my relationship with Mike. Since I’d been with him, I’d hardly spoken to anyone outside his group of friends, and it wasn’t good for me. He wasn’t good for me. He was clearly mad. She hated to have to be so blunt but had to say it.
Peter offered to buy me an air ticket back to Sydney, so I could get a bit of perspective.Would I at least think about it?
By the end of the month, I had done a lot of thinking, and had a plan.
Josh drove me down to the beach to pack my things and pick up my clothes. I’d been wearing the same things for weeks but had hardly noticed. I told him that I didn’t want to be left alone with Mike.
‘I just want to speak to Vic in private, inside. There are things to say that, quite frankly, are none of your business. Don’t treat me like an abusive husband.’ Mike was shouting.
Josh was calm, and adamant, and told him again that we were just picking up my stuff. And that I didn’t want to speak to him alone. It was pretty simple really.
Mike then turned to me again.‘What’s wrong with you?’
What had I ever seen in him? ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. I just don’t think we have anything to discuss.You’ve said often enough that you weren’t in love with me, that I wasn’t the kind of person you wanted, that I wasn’t attractive. I’m doing you a favour by leaving. Don’t pretend I’m not.’
Mike was insistent, and I suddenly realised it wasn’t about me. ‘You’re treating me as if I’ve done something wrong. I haven’t. I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve been honest—and is that so bad?’ He was almost pleading now.
Josh and I walked past him with suitcases. Things had been thrown in, not packed. My furniture, which I loved, now felt tainted. The yellow sofas were marked and I couldn’t even think about the bed. It could all stay. Mike said he’d buy it. When he could afford to.
Before I could finally leave, I had to say goodbye to Mandy. I liked her, and we’d got on well. She promised to write, to keep in touch, but I knew I’d be replaced. Mike would find another girlfriend soon enough—from what I heard, he always did.
Wanting never to have anything more to do with him, I left.
1
4
Two months later Mike was found washed up on a beach on the other side of the country, naked, bruised and dead.
During those two months, my life had changed enormously. I was barely recognisable as the girl he’d lived with.
My time at my grandmother’s meant that I had all but given up cigarettes and had totally given up alcohol, which I’d been drinking a lot with Mike. I felt much better for it. Regular, balanced meals had also made a difference: I had energy. For years I’d alternated between starving myself and binging, to the extent that I’d forgotten what it was like just to eat because I was hungry. Now that I knew, I didn’t want to lose this again. I had no doubt that these factors, as much as the change in medication and the move, were responsible for the way I felt. And I felt great.
I’d finally moved to Melbourne—a few months later than I’d intended, but I was there. My older brother, Archie, with whom I’d stayed the last time, let me sleep on the sofa bed of his front room while I set about finding somewhere to live.
Once I’d found that, the idea was to find a job.
After three days, during which I’d scoured the papers and visited a number of places, I began to feel that finding somewhere might be harder than I’d imagined. Sharing was certainly the most sensible option but I’d not seen anywhere that I really liked—and I wanted to like where I lived. But I needed to find somewhere soon, as it had become obvious that my brother’s fiancé didn’t want me staying any longer than was absolutely necessary. Archie himself was rarely home.
The problem might have been that I didn’t fit into her lifestyle, which was about designer labels, gallery openings and film premieres, or it might have been that she was worried that I’d ask for support of some kind, either moral or financial. She knew about my history, and while chatty enough when we’d met for lunch in the past, and actually friendly when I’d attended their engagement party, the idea of me potentially disrupting her life must have really worried her.
So I accepted the offer of a corner of someone’s sitting room. It was partitioned off, and had space for a bed, table and clothes rack. I’d lived once before in a room with particle board walls that didn’t quite touch the ceiling so I could manage that. It was in a renovated three-storey former industrial building, so the spaces were large, and the kitchen and bathroom clean and modern. Sam, the owner, had some nice pieces of furniture, and there were flowers on the table. Surely someone who bothered to put flowers on the table couldn’t be too bad? He was a barrister and, I soon discovered, out a lot. He told me that he normally rented the space—now my space—to backpackers, which made sense. Other people might have insisted on a door. He also told me where I could find a job as a barmaid.
He directed me to the old pub diagonally opposite his building— so less than two minutes’ walk away. I had to speak to the boss, a tough and terrifying woman, and tell her that I was staying with him. She frowned slightly, and then, when I said I had no experience, allowed me a trial night. I could pick up glasses, and she’d see how I went. I was to report for work at 6 pm in a white shirt and black pants. Pants mind you, not jeans.
I spent the evening being yelled at, hassled, pushed and finally, I was employed. She’d let me know later which shifts I was to do.
I had both a room and a job.Things were looking up.
After several weeks of working in the bar at night, where I had finally been promoted to pouring drinks, and at a nearby café during the day, I was contacted by the Commonwealth Employment Agency, or the CES as it was then known. As I’d been on their books con
tinuously for over six months, I was officially one of the ‘longterm unemployed’. In reality I’d been on their books for much longer, but not continuously, as sickness benefits apparently didn’t count.
As one of the ‘long-term unemployed’I was to have a case manager, training, and would be put in a subsidised job for six months. It was bizarre: I didn’t think of myself as unemployable anymore and I wasn’t. I had two jobs—not that they knew this.
My case manager shook her head as she looked through her files. It was going to be difficult, apparently. ‘There’s something going at a magazine. They need an administrative assistant. The job’s not avail
able for a month but it might suit you. Can you type?’
I had to tell the truth.‘No.’
She sighed.Then she grimaced.‘They really want someone who can type.They’ve specified that it’s essential on the form. But how about you go along for the interview anyway, it would be good practice.’ She paused. ‘I know you’ve got two degrees, but it would be better not to sound too ambitious.They only want an assistant. Nothing more.’ She repeated this about four times in the space of an hour, then told me that I had to enrol in a course to improve my employability.What about computing? I had no choice but to agree: if I didn’t they’d cut off my allowance.
When I turned up at the CES training centre the following Monday, I was asked to do a spelling and comprehension test. I explained that I had a Master’s degree in English Literature, so really didn’t need to do the test. By this time my work had been marked and, surprisingly given the circumstances, had been passed. I’d been awarded my degree
in absentia
.The girl behind the rather grubby beige desk looked at me blandly and shrugged.‘Doesn’t matter.You still have to do this.’
I then spent four hours each weekday morning for the next month learning how to design restaurant menus and invitations to parties.
During the first week, I heard from the CES. The people at the magazine wanted to see me.
When I was getting ready for the interview, I realised that for the first time since I’d hit puberty, I had really clear skin and fine, fine pores. The dermatologist I’d been to see while in the clinic had prescribed Roaccutane and I’d been on it for six weeks.The difference was incredible, the acne had cleared up entirely on my back, and though my face hadn’t ever been affected,it now looked amazing.And I wasn’t suffering from any of the side effects that I’d been warned about, like split lips, a painfully dry nose, dandruff. On the contrary, I looked radiant. My hair had been dyed back to close to its natural colour, and, since there was so little oil in it, it too looked soft rather than lank.
I owned only one jacket, and one pair of winter pants, so dressing for the interview was easy. As I perched on a chair in the bathroom, trying to see myself in the mirror, I realised that I really wanted this job.The CES officer’s voice came back to me.‘Don’t show that you are ambitious.This is just admin.’ I could do that.
The interview was in the main office, which had overflowing bookshelves, large windows and a tatty old Persian carpet on the floor. Isat in front of a large table, facing the editor, the editorial assistant and the director of the company which owned the magazine.
They’d all read my resumé but it quickly became apparent that they weren’t interested in talking about it—except for the editor, Eva, who wanted to know what a gatekeeper was. I explained that it involved sitting in a booth, reading a book, and letting cars in and out. It was one of the many part-time jobs I’d had at uni.
They had been about to give up on the CES program, as the last few people they’d interviewed were painfully unsuitable. It was almost as though the CES was just sending people over in order for them to brush up on their interview skills.The previous applicant was a contract fencer by trade, and a handyman. The director, Tim, had been pushing to hire him, as he liked the idea of having someone around to fix up shelves and replace light fittings.
After half an hour or so, Tim, and Jill, the editorial assistant, left the room and Eva offered me the job. Shocked, I immediately accepted but—aware that they’d find out sooner or later—felt compelled to confess two things. First, that I couldn’t touch-type and second, that I’d recently come out of a mental institution.
The CES officer had been right, there was a lot of typing to do but I’d spent the couple of weeks between being offered the job and starting it, learning to type properly, so I didn’t mind at all. In fact I loved it. And I loved making the coffee, and doing all the other mundane admin jobs. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t particularly challenging. It was fun, and everyone was nice to me.
In my spare time—I was only working four days a week so I had quite a bit—I decided to try writing an article. Not for my employer’s magazine, but for another, or for a newspaper. I wanted to write about mental illness; not about my own experience, but about other people’s. I had heard there was a collection of in-patients’ art at one of the public psychiatric hospitals. It was the product of many years, and many art therapy classes. (How I would have loved art therapy: none of the hospitals I went to ever offered it. One clinic had a punching bag, but it wasn’t the same.) When I rang the curator and said I wanted to write about the collection, it was surprisingly easy to organise a tour of the whole institution.
The hospital was the kind of cold, daunting and forbidding place I’d envisaged when—several years ago now—it had first been suggested that I needed some ‘time out’. Unlike private hospitals, which were like health clubs with security, this place resembled a prison. The paint was peeling and the furniture in the reception area was practical and scuffed. Linoleum floors meant that sounds carried.
One of the male nurses took me around.As he talked,I thought to myself that this journalism thing was pretty straightforward really. You just had to come up with an idea, speak to few people, ask a few questions and remember to listen to them when they answered. I could do that.
In the common room, patients sat around watching television, pacing and staring out of the window at the leafless trees.That was the only similarity to the hospitals I’d been in.The bedrooms, if you could call them that, were spartan. I had been lucky to be able to go somewhere else, somewhere that cost five hundred dollars a day for the uninsured.
When I was shown the modern-day equivalent of the padded cell, I was staggered. Somehow I’d doubted that they existed.These ones had an open loo in one corner and a tiny window high in the wall. Painted a familiar, supposedly soothing, shade of pale pink, they looked like places for housing criminals, not sick people. But as the nurses asked, what other options were there? If someone was violent, psychotic and dangerous, they had to be locked up—for their own good, as much as for everyone else’s.
Resources were limited and it was obvious that it wasn’t just the patients who were unhappy. But things weren’t going to change: the government didn’t actually want people in the hospitals, so why increase funding?
The collection of psychiatric art was housed in a building across the park.The artworks were grouped into sections according to the category of diagnosis, with each artwork accompanied by a small note about the patient who produced it.The differences between sections were immediately apparent. Generally, the images from the depressive group were dark, still and claustrophobic. They managed to convey a sense of isolation, frustration or plain despair. Conversely, the few paintings by those suffering from mania were vibrant, expansive and exhausting. The works painted, or made—as there was also embroidery and sculpture—by people suffering from forms of schizophrenia often showed an acute attention to tiny, tiny detail. The notes were enlightening.These complex works, they said, reflected the perspectives of people who were trying to control their worlds through art.
The commentary also illustrated the importance of the collection: while offering relief for the patients, it also provided valuable insights into their minds. Given that so many forms of mental illness were so difficult to articulate, I could see why most of the visitors were students studying psychology or medicine.
I thought the collection should be open to the general public.
At home in my corner room, I started writing. As the place was unheated, I sat at my computer wearing a hat and scarf. If I’d been able to type in them, I also would have worn my gloves. Five hours later, I’d written something about the hospital, the art and the founder of the collection. I didn’t know if it was any good but I did think it was interesting—and, maybe, important. If people could just understand how it actually felt to be depressed, obsessed, frightened, out of control, maybe they’d be more tolerant. More understanding.
Already, as I began to believe that I could have a career, could fit in, I’d started to want to hide my past. I wanted to be like everyone else.
At work on Monday, Eva spotted me trying, discreetly, to photocopy my article. She knew about my history so I had nothing to lose. I let her read it.
As she sat at her desk, I tried to keep busy, and to pretend I didn’t care, it didn’t matter. Nevertheless, it was hard to forget that I’d given my work to one of the country’s most outspoken critics: what if she hated it? What if she told me I couldn’t write?
Ten minutes later, she congratulated me. She liked it. It wasn’t right for the magazine of course, but she liked it. Did I want to do something for her? Was I interested in book reviewing?
Was I? I couldn’t think of anything better. Eva was actually offering me money to read a book! She also suggested that I contact a friend of hers who edited another magazine, an art magazine, and send him the piece I’d written. He turned it down, but kindly. If I wanted to do something else, he said, I should call him.We could talk about it.
But by then I’d decided that I’d concentrate on reviewing. I put the piece away.
Things were going well. I was fit, I was happy and I was busy. All I needed now was a real place to live. As soon as I finished my review I’d start looking.
It only occurred to me as I was trying to write my first sentence that the last time I’d written a book review was at school. Perhaps inspiration would come if I left it for a bit.If I cleaned, ironed,dusted.The place was spotless and I had finally sat down at my computer when the phone rang.
It was my aunt from Adelaide. I was surprised to hear from her and chatted for a bit about nothing in particular. Then came the truth. She’d just finished reading the local paper.They’d found Mike’s body on a Sydney beach.According to the article, it had taken several days to identify him, as he hadn’t been reported missing, and there were no documents nearby. There would be an inquest but at this stage it looked like he’d jumped from a cliff. There were no suspicious circumstances.
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to cry and I didn’t feel angry. I felt nothing. Blank. She gave me the time and date of the funeral, which was to be held in Adelaide.
Since I’d left, Mike and I had barely spoken. His voice had still irritated me. He owed me money and, although he had recently inherited quite a lot, he didn’t want to pay his debt to me. He kept fobbing me off, telling me the cheque was in the mail, and it was a line I was sick of hearing. It hadn’t even been funny the first time.
I knew he’d moved to Sydney, with a young woman he’d met while she was waitressing at a party he’d thrown.As they were passing through Melbourne on the way there, he actually rang me and suggested that I meet them both at the train station. I’d like her, he said. She was like me. He couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to see him—or her.
It was to be our last conversation.
It wasn’t until I spoke to friends at his wake that we began to put together a picture of his final weeks. He’d spent nearly $30,000 in less than three months and died virtually broke. No-one could work out where the money had gone at first, until his brother—who, Mike had told me many times, had never liked me—asked if I knew about his gambling. I didn’t. Autoteller receipts had been found on the floor of his rented room in Sydney showing large, daily withdrawals. He’d spent it on poker machines; $30,000 on poker machines, dope and alcohol.
He had also left a diary and the entry on what was probably the day he died was rambling and barely coherent, though it was clear he planned to kill himself. Also in the room were books on self-healing and New Age spirituality. His last phone call had been to a woman he’d done group therapy with some years before.
On his last weekend, he had flown back to Adelaide and visited everyone he cared about, telling them how well things were working out. He saw almost forty people in two days, it turned out. He had left his dog with a friend, promising to collect it later. My grandmother, who was then 90, asked him to leave when he arrived on her doorstep at 8 am on the Saturday. She didn’t tell me this until after he died. She hadn’t thought it important.
The overnight train trip home after the funeral was miserable. The heating didn’t work, the rain leaked through the side window, dampening my blanket, and there was no food available. I had twelve hours to stare out into the blackness and think.
Why didn’t I feel more? Why was I still angry, not with his decision, but with him? Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was because he had been happy to live with me, sleep with me, criticise me and let me look after his daughter but he hadn’t been in love with me.When things had been going well, when we’d been having fun, he’d said carefully, ‘I love you but I’m not in love with you. I’ll never be in love with you.’ I didn’t love him, but that wasn’t the point. Just because it hadn’t broken my heart didn’t mean it didn’t hurt, or that I didn’t resent him for it.
The train drew into a cold, wet morning and as I trudged up from the station, I was looking forward to having a long hot shower and crawling into bed. Only I couldn’t: there were two strangers asleep under my doona.
Stunned, I stopped only long enough to clean my teeth and wash my face before heading out to find a newspaper and a café.As I looked through the various share accommodation ads for smokers, nonsmokers, females, cat lovers and professionals, one ad in particular caught my attention.‘Small room in city warehouse, very central, suitable for travellers.’At the bottom was my housemate’s mobile number.
Sam knew I’d been thinking about leaving, and must have been planning to show my room to people while I was away. I hadn’t told him Iwas only going for two days.
I was determined not to go home until I’d found somewhere new.
By the third dark, grungy, dirty house I was ready to cry.Wasn’t there anywhere in the whole of Melbourne that I could both afford and like? By the time I reached the final place on my list I was sure there wasn’t but I tried to be friendly to the two girls who lived there.At the beginning of the day I’d been cautious about talking too much about myself, and didn’t want to complain about my current flatmate, as people might think it was my fault—or that I was difficult. But it was 5 pm, I was exhausted and didn’t care anymore. I told the girls about the funeral, the couple in my bed and the ad. I admitted that I hadn’t slept or washed since leaving Adelaide.After half an hour of swapping stories about flatmates from hell, I got up to leave.They had a few more people to see that afternoon but said they’d call me. Even if they didn’t, I felt better for talking about it all.
As I was crossing the park nearby, I heard someone calling what sounded like my name. Knowing few people in town, I ignored it. And then I was tapped on the shoulder.
Did I want to move in? And how soon could I do so?
