Sarah Vaughan is Not My Mother: A Memoir of Madness (15 page)

The voice says, “Yes, but you need somebody. You can't do all this on your own.”

I get up off the grass and continue walking all the way into town. I go into a café at the top of Courtenay Place and buy myself a coffee. It feels nice to be able to do this freely with no nurse watching.

I head to the council, go to the housing section, and ask if there is anything available. They say I have to make an appointment. I can't get one for a while but they give me the form to fill out. I can't complete the form because I need a contact person. I don't want to put down any of my family members and I don't have any other numbers because I don't have my phone. I turn to the person behind the desk and say, “Thank you. I will bring the form back tomorrow.”

I start to feel a bit hungry so I head to a café down a side street by the library. I order fish and chips. The café is packed with people on their lunch break. I take a seat at a table down the back. There's a newspaper on the table. I try to read it but struggle to concentrate so I just look at the pictures and the headlines. As I go through the paper, letters jump out at me. I close the paper because I don't feel like communicating with the voice or God, or any type of voice for that matter. I eat my fish and chips, of which there is quite a lot. As an offering to God, I leave half my chips and a bit of my fish.

I buy a Coke as I leave and head over to the library. I go to the music section. The voice tells me to go to the Bob Marley section because he is my father. I get a Bob Marley album and then I go to the jazz section, to Sarah Vaughan. The voice says she is my mother. I kind of laugh and think to myself, whatever! I sense the voice's anger because when I look at the albums they seem to glare back at me. Everything appears hard. I notice the lines and angles on the cover of the CDs.

Hesitantly, I pick out a Sarah Vaughan album, then I sit down at the listening station and listen to the Bob Marley album. I turn the volume right up so I can feel the bass. I feel like singing along but there is a sign on the desk saying: Be considerate to others. I sit and look at the wall, which is decorated with CD covers. I close my eyes and dream I'm in a better place, far away. For a moment I am filled with hope, in ecstasy from the music. For a moment I forget my situation, which is a bit of a mess, and am transported to another time and place when the music was made. I wish for a different life. I put on Sarah Vaughan. The voice says, “She sang these songs for you” so I listen for traces of me she might have left. As I listen I feel reassured that someone loves me, but at the same time I know it might not be true.

On the way back I walk the same way I came. I don't notice traffic or people; I'm just focusing on having my freedom. I feel the breeze through my singlet and thank God for the wind. I don't really want to go back to the ward. I like being on the outside, free to make my own choices and not having to wait to ask anyone what to do. I see shops selling clothes, people selling coffee, buskers on the street, all these normal people who are free to go about their daily lives.

I feel a sense of longing for a life I used to live and hope to live again. Maybe I could give up drugs, go back to university and lead a normal life without having it disrupted all the time with hospital admissions? When I was twenty and got unwell, I was in my last year of university in Christchurch. I started wandering the streets and following people I thought were leading me. I dropped out and went back to Wellington because I wanted to get away from people I thought were after me. In Wellington I followed a familiar pattern of being out wandering the streets looking for people.

I start thinking to myself that maybe I could do a law degree. That way I would understand the law better and know my rights when I end up in hospital. It might mean I could fight my way out of the system for good.

I make my way slowly, trying to ignore the stiffness in my legs. I long to have my body functioning the way it used to, not slowed down by drugs the doctor has given me. Part of me wants to veer off track and go to my ex-boyfriend's house and get some drugs that will make me feel light and euphoric but I don't want to risk what might happen. Hiding places run through my head, but I know I would eventually be found and sent back to ICU.

 

I head back to the hospital and report to Waris. “I am so proud of you, MaryJane,” she says. “You went out by yourself and made it back on time. I think the new meds are working for you.”

“Yeah, Waris, just one problem—I'm feeling stiff in my legs, not so easy to walk all that quickly.”

Waris goes and gets the drug Congentin while I wait outside the nurses' station, watching the patients. I notice how they don't look normal, the way people do on the outside world. They look kind of expressionless and worn out, moving about slowly in worn-out clothes. They seem to have no vigour or life left inside them. You get used to this when you're in the ward. A lot of the people come in with no money and have spent their life struggling and battling. It's no wonder some get relief when they are institutionalised. But it is sad to see young people who also look like that.

There's a pile of people outside the nurses' station, all asking for extra drugs. It makes me sad that some people will spend the best part of their lives waiting for their meds, or waiting to be driven somewhere, the hopelessness of it all. If only they could be free to decide for themselves, to be independent. After a while people stop complaining, stop looking at the things that are wrong. Some just resign themselves to being invalids, accepting cash from the government and accepting they are limited and need to be in and out of hospitals. It's a hard cycle to give up.

Waris gives me the pills. “So, how was your afternoon out?”

“Oh, it was cool. I enjoyed taking the walk in and back.”

“Did you eat lunch?”

“Yeah, I got fish and chips from Bond Street and then I went to the library and listened to music.”

“Oh MaryJane, I'm so happy for you, going out on your own without me. Did you see anyone you used to use drugs with?”

“Nah, I didn't see anyone.”

“Well, that's good. I was a bit worried about you but I'm pleased you are back on time. Can we go into your room? I need to talk to you about something.”

We go into my room. Waris sits on the bed and I turn the chair around to face her. “Is something wrong?”

“Well, your drug test came back and they found cannabinoids in your urine. Now, I don't think it was recent because you seem to be getting better and better with every day that you are on your new meds. You even look different.”

“Oh.” I start panicking. “Does this mean I can't have leave by myself any more, because really I need that leave. I've been stuck in here for three months without leave and I think it's time. I think I'm ready to go back out into the world.”

Waris looks surprised. “Of course you're ready to leave, darling, but you should know if there's one thing that's going to set you back it's your use of drugs. You can't keep using drugs. It is not good for the maintenance of your health.”

I nod my head. “Yes, I know what you mean. I was thinking on the way home how nice it would be to live drug-free, and eventually medication-free. I just want to be pure, Waris.”

Waris looks at me and says, “Darling, I'm sure you do, but the medication helps take you out of psychosis and it stabilises your mood. How do you feel on it?”

I start looking at my pictures on the wall. I look out the window. “Well, it's not sedating like the other meds and I do feel more like my old self. I just feel a bit stiff really.”

“Okay, well that's good to know. Tomorrow is court day so you may not be able to go out until the afternoon. Your lawyer will meet you before you go in.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh great, another court meeting where anything I say gets ignored and the judge keeps me under Section.”

“Well, the doctors here don't feel you are ready for the community treatment order, but when you are ready you will go on one of those. Jack Mirage is your lawyer. You remember him?”

“Yeah, I remember him from last time. I will make some notes tonight for when I go in and speak with the judge.”

“Good on you. You are very intelligent so I'm sure you will have some good things to say. You will be free to go out again after lunch but you may not have enough time to make it back into town.”

I smile at Waris, feeling happier at the mention of getting out. “All right, that's cool,” I say. “I was just wondering though—will I get more leave the day after tomorrow, where I get to go out for longer, like more than six hours?”

“Of course, darling, we are just doing it slowly so you are able to cope.” Waris clasps her hands together.

“I see what you mean.” I smile, relieved.

 

Waris leaves my room and I write down Jared's number. I am already scheming about ringing him tomorrow to see if he will spend the day with me. It's as if the conversation with Waris hasn't happened. I get a sensation of the drugs rushing into my veins and surging through the blood in my body, rushing to my head, and then the sense of relief when my head is lightened and my body feels no pain. No pain of living and no fear of dying. I think how I would like to live my life like that, not like everyone else, governed by what society tells them to do and not do. I can stay on the benefit while everyone else works or studies and follows their ambitions. I can just live the way I want to live.

I ignore the thoughts I had earlier in the day. I look at Jared's number and decide not to call him now as it's the time he will be taking his next dose of heroin. I lie on my bed and fantasise about using drugs again. The voice speaks to me. “You deserve respite. The drugs you use don't make you mental. They bring you relief from your physical problems. Ring him tomorrow.” I look at one of my pictures and pray Jared will pick up the phone when I ring. He must be wondering where I am anyhow as my phone got taken off me when I was picked up and admitted.

I start feeling excited. I move lightly out of my room to the smokers' area. I see Lester and Fiona at the table. I move nimbly over to them, touch Lester on the back and say, “Boo!” He turns around. “Sweetie, I knew it would be you. Fiona and I were just saying we expected you back by now.”

“Well, I'm back.”

“Wow, you seem happy. Looks like the trip out did you some good,” Fiona says.

“Yeah, it did. I had a great walk into town and listened to some music at the library. It felt really good to get out. I think you can become dependent on this place.”

Lester looks at me. “Yeah babe, know what you mean. Some people actually like staying in here because they can be fed and drink coffee all day and receive attention.”

“Well, it's not going to happen to me. I want to go home, to my own house, and make my own meals and see my family.”

Lester looks at Fiona. “I just want to get back to my radio show.”

“Bet you do. They must be missing their number one DJ,” I say.

Fiona offers me a cigarette and I take one. “Really missed you. Couldn't hear your music or anything and I can't sit in that lounge during the day, it's so depressing.”

I nod. “I think you do right to sit outside, then you can't soak up everyone else's energies. Surely you must be allowed to go out for a walk by now?”

“Tomorrow I think. Maybe they would let me go with you.”

“We should ask. I have court tomorrow.”

“Same,” Lester says.

“Oh, wonder why I'm not going,” Fiona says.

“You probably haven't been here long enough. They just review your Section status under the Mental Health Act, nothing too exciting. The judge never lets you go: they just need it to be official.”

“Sounds like we have no rights,” Fiona says.

“We don't get listened to,” I say.

“Yeah babe, that's totally it. Best not to try and fight. You just get frustrated, and when that happens it gets taken down in your notes.”

I say, “True. I can just see my file growing.”

“Those notes can be held against you,” Lester says. “Don't be deceived. When they say obs they are thoroughly observing you.”

“Yeah,” I add. “They're not just checking where you are and making sure you haven't run away. They also note down what room you are in because they can see patterns in your whereabouts, whether you are around people or isolating yourself, whether you're reading, which shows your concentration levels—things like that.”

“Oh, I never knew that.” Fiona sounds surprised.

“Babe, you've only been here a week. You can't be expected to know everything. MaryJane and I have been coming for years so we know how the place works.”

I look into the dining room window. People are lining up early for dinner.

Lester says, “It's the only occupation in here, eating.”

“Some of the people in here, like Hamish, are old,” Fiona says. “I'd ask someone to shoot me if I were still queueing up in a place like this when I was sixty-five.”

I suddenly get a wave of paranoia that I'm going to be old and sixty and still coming to a psych ward. I say a prayer to God in my head that this will not be the case.

Lester says, “We won't be like that.”

Fiona says, “You reckon?”

“Yeah, totally,” I say.

 

Sadly, many elderly people do go into psych wards. Because of paranoia they reject the love and care of their families. They cannot care for themselves so they end up in places like this, maybe unaware even that it is sad. Being institutionalised becomes their reality.

“I'm going to run away and leave the country so they can't catch me. I'll change my name and everything,” I say.

“Yeah, but I've got kids and a husband. I can't just leave them.”

“You probably don't need to worry. This is your first time in; you are not trapped into the cycle. I am, which is what scares me.”