House Hunting

“This is the year I will get out of here.”

You call it the Psychiatric Hospital. I call it the Funny Farm – funny as in weird, not funny as in ha-ha.

The day I checked myself voluntarily for hospitalisation into a psychiatric ward, I didn’t quite know what I had let myself in for. But my state of mind – or rather the voice reverberating in my brain – told me it would be the best thing to do.

I was the only remaining sibling from a family of seven. Our parents were dead, and I was all alone… no one on either side of the family had wanted anything to do with us, and I had no friends to speak of. My job as a maid did not leave me much time for socialising… and employers are never friends… not even the ones who pour out their woes to you as you cook or iron mountains of laundry for them.

Although I was not a minor, I was still young enough to qualify for admittance into the Young People’s Unit, they told me. They asked whether I understood what I was doing, and why I had not tried to get a referral from a doctor. How eccentric. Somehow, my replies made sense to them, and I was asked to sign on the dotted line.

I didn’t know what to expect, so I expected nothing. Nothing would be better than the less than nothing I had going in my life, anyway.

They asked me a barrage of a gazillion confusing questions, ticking off the replies in a list. Did I ever want to ‘end it all’? Did I iron my pillowcases? Did I hate washing my hair? Did I hear voices in my head? Did I assume people were talking about me? Did sugar taste sour to me? Did I think photographs steal the soul? Was I colour-blind? Did I like swimming in winter? Did I have feelings of angst? Could I say the alphabet backward? Had I ever spoken to a psychiatrist / psychologist / therapist? Did I frequently lose things? Did I think demons manifest themselves in animals?  I was told I had both quote, “dementia praecox, and maniac depression, which these days are called schizophrenia and bi-polar disorder” unquote… a rare case, since it’s usually either one or the other.

I was lucky to have admitted myself at a time when medication, and weird stuff like lobotomies - was not the only effective treatment considered, for mental ill-health. There was the usual mumbo-jumbo about balancing corticotrophin hormone, progesterone, oestrogen, cortisol, and thyroid hormones…but at the time I didn’t understand anything about this at all.

They said I would need around-the-clock monitoring, so I had to wait until they found me a cubicle in a division where this was possible. Later, the man in the white coat said that when I change the way I see the world, myself, my situation, my relationships, my life, would change. He didn’t use the words Cognitive Behavioural Therapy because he thought I couldn’t handle them. Little did he know. 

In my mind, I am staying at Hotel California – the song, not the location. But it’s time to leave after check-out, now. I have killed the owners of the voices that hijacked my mind, so I am free. The aides love me, so I must be doing something right.

When I came here, it was the right place at the right time, but now, I want to - I have to - leave. My brain no longer malfunctions. I have perfect mental health. No more issues.

I read voraciously, and that is how I know I can earn my way out. It’s a good sign that these days I am allowed stuff that was taken away from me when they placed me on suicide watch – scissors, Swiss knife, belts, nail clippers, shoestrings, belts, hoodies, razors… I have gained their trust. I am an exemplary worker. I encourage he others, even though the work they give us (assembling tiny toys) is boring. I am frugal, so I have quite the nest-egg – and that, apparently, has impressed them, too. Some of the patients are apt to turn violent… I keep away from them, because I do not want to trigger them and hamper my case for being discharged.

This place is ugly. I told them I could paint murals that would make it more aesthetically pleasing, and they gave me free rein in the television suite. I knew that the Four Horses of the Apocalypse, which is what I really wanted to paint (one on each wall) would raise some eyebrows, so I painted a continuous herd of horses galloping around the room, free as the wind. I bet you didn’t know that many horses together are also called a stable, a team, a harass, or a stud, depending upon the situation.

I hated the television room when I first came here – I still do. All the audio-visual stimulation and sensory overload are bad for the mind, heart, and soul. So is the stench of stale sweat. Not everyone is as fastidious as I am about personal cleanliness.

I hate smells – in fact, mine are (I am told) the only client whose sheets are not washed with bleach.

Books are my best friend – or have I already said that? I write. I write only when I am lucid. I write what I want them to read.  They encourage me, telling me it is therapy. I know it is one of the keys to my freedom, especially since I know they read what I write, when I am asleep (I place hair markers in the pages, and they are never where I leave them).

Family Therapy is out of the question, since - have I said this already? - I have no family, or as good as that. As bad as that, I mean.

So, they tried Interpersonal and Social Rhythm Therapy as part of the psychosocial treatment that was coming to the fore at the time. It was supposed to be an adjunctive therapy for people like me, with mood disorders, partly to improve medication adherence. Ha! Whenever I can, I secret my pills under my tongue, and spit them out when I go to the toilet. They trust me too much to suspect me of doing this – I am their model client, they tell me, and, they add, that is why I should find not problem with being released.

I appreciate the fact that IPSRT teaches me skills that help me cope, and how to protect myself from the occurrence of future episodes, though.

There was a time when even waking up five minutes after my usual 3.00a.m. time used to have me in a tizzy. But now I know that it is what it is; worry will not change anything.

I know that insomnia can be a trigger for a manic episode – so I always find something to do, even if it’s going down to the kitchen to peel spuds for dinner, now that I have free rein. Like this, I function better. I like it here. No rent to pay; good food; nice company; no cares. But all good things must come to an end. I would have loved to remain here until I die.

I never had visitors, not until the day a Drama Group came to do “research”, like Jack Nicholson did for One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and Robin Williams did for Awakenings.

There is a true cute story about the latter. Robin Williams had put on a doctor’s coat for Patch Adams, but before that, he was Doctor Malcolm Sayer. The character was based on the neurologist Oliver Sacks, whose distress about a group of catatonic patients leads him to revive Leonard Lowe - played by Robert de Niro - in a medical trial.

During one of his visits to a psychiatric ward, one of the patients somehow recognised him and yelled “Mork!” with reference to his role in the silly late 70s / early 80s sitcom Mork and Mindy. This affected Williams profoundly, perhaps because, as we now know, he had mental ill-health issues himself. 

I know that one of the rules is having personal boundaries, but it’s not my fault that mine was one of the Case Studies presented to the troupe of actors. I know that they say familiarity breeds contempt; but in my (our!) case, it was exactly the opposite. However, this is the year I will get out of here. Or have I already said that?

Now that I am no longer monitored 24/7, I have time and space. They allow me to help in the kitchen - or have I already said that? -  and I write about that, too. I invent recipes… it’s a tad surreal, when on the morrow I tell the Cooks about them, and they act as if it’s all new to them. But I know they know; because they smile knowingly.  

I could, and did, petition my case for review with the administration, since I voluntarily admitted myself; but they told me there was a period of grace which had nothing to do with for how long my symptoms had disappeared. Nice. But I have the opportunity to hone my act, and show how far my coping skills have brought me. I ken they are watching me, for signs of a relapse.

Everyone must be made aware that it’s not an Easy Come, Easy Go, to borrow a phrase, situation. I was comfortable enough here, to not want to leave… safe, fed, and cared for. But there is more to life than basic needs… and I am getting older, so the   Socioemotional Selectivity Theory came into play.

I have impressed them - or have I said this already? - because fellow clients come to me with their problems… some of them labour under the idea that I am a member of the Staff, not one of their peers.

Playing it by ear, I have learned how to de-escalate uncomfortable situations; crazy people are ready to take offence at ill-conceived statements. My approach has been praised by the Administration; I had nothing to lose and everything to gain, and it worked.

I never bicker about religion, football, politics, or current events. I say I don’t watch television, which is true. I don’t say I read the papers, because I like to be au courant of things in preparation for when I get out of here. Nobody has cottoned on yet to my method of discouraging conversation. I simply qualify the vowels (Ah! Eh? Yiyi! Oh? Um?), and the person I do not want to engage with, thinks I have nothing worthwhile to say. I know how to do poker-face and deadpan and play dumb just as much as I can hold an interesting conversation about flowers and herbs, insects and sea-life… or reel off the relative merits and downsides of amisulpride, aripiprazole, clozapine, olanzapine, paliperidone, quetiapine, risperidone, etc - because I read voraciously - or did I already say that?

They asked me what I wanted for my birthday, which is as close enough to Christmas as does not matter. I said that since I wanted for nothing, I wanted nothing – and they laughed heartily. Only, I wasn’t making a pun-joke… it was the truth. So, they got me a sheaf of paper and a score of pencils, since I go through the like the proverbial knife through hot butter.  

As it happened, my Release Documents came through on Saint Stephen’s Day, when we were having the Christmas Party.

I cried. They thought it was because I was equally sad and happy to be leaving… but actually, it was just relief - I was elated at having fooled them. 

“This is the year I will get out of here.” That had been my promise to myself. And I’d made it come true.

My beloved soulmate is waiting for me.