Delta40
08-23-2011, 07:35 PM
You should see her in the courtyard. Gross. Fat, dumpy redhead - and not just the usual red hair but that wispy fuzzy ginger stuff that goes everywhere. Of course one side of her hair is tied in a pigtail like she was a twisted Saxon or something but the point is, I don't know why she thuds round the place with only one pigtail while the rest of her hair crackles like electricity.
'Day sed Ize mad!'
Her bottom lip, fat like the rest of her protrudes and her eyes are wide open as if she had just been surprised. I never know what to do when she comes near me talking like that. I'm pretty sure it's an act because on other days, she seems quite lucid and less like the BFG.
'I sez, day sed Ize mad!'
'Don't worry about it Eff. Doctors just say that so they can get paid.' Her thick ginger brows furrow as she struggles to comprehend what I just said. I tentatively pat her arm and try to move away but she blocks my exit by sticking out her trunk like leg.
'Yooz men Ize nat mad?'
I don't know when or what meds she gets administered. Her big dumb giant act could be just that. An act. Or this is who she transforms into when her meds start to wear off. Or this is who she becomes after she's given her meds. I just don't know.
'I mean you're not mad ok?'
Eff smiles and snorts, her mouth resembling Mumbles from Dick Tracey as she feels momentarily relieved that she is no longer shackled by the invisible chains of mental illness. I try to move past her but she is still revelling in the sweet idea of normality, fantasizing what it must be like and enjoying the imaginery scene.
'Effee nat mad.' She bounces up and down on the wooden bench like a happy child, clapping her hands, proud that she grasped something to hold onto.
I check my watch. Visiting hours are just about to start and I'm hoping someone, anyone who cares about me and knows I'm here will drop by. Effie leaps up and swallows me in a bear hug. My face is pressed flat against her armpit and I have no choice but to inhale her foul body odour. A shower is too complicated for her most days and no staff member is willing to wash her so all of us patients suffer. Not only from the smell but the threat that this big mamma will go off the rails and crack our spines. So in some ways, it's a relief to see her so chuffed but mad or not, there is an element of suffering involved whenever Effie crosses my path.
'She's the maddest b itch here.' says another patient as she walks past us. Thankfully Effie is looking straight into the sun, muttering and pays no heed to the insult.
That's the trouble with this place. Too much of a mix if you know what I mean. People from extreme opposites are squeezed in under the one roof and expected to get along. In between all the fighting and squabbling and emotional upheavals, we get to speak to a psychiatrist who tries to convince us that being here is for our own good. Well, that's what he says to me.
'You're subject to mood swings and things have got on top of you lately.' Yeah well so what? That's life isn't it? Apparently not and I compare myself to Carol Brady and realise this four eyed dude is probably right. All I need is some respite. Respite? Here? People like Effie make that impossible.
The automatic doors open and a well dressed elderly woman enters. Effie's mother is a sharp contrast to her daughter. Prim and elegant, she smiles kindly at me as she passes. She reminds me for a moment how much I miss family and friends. She looks so, so - competent. I should ring them. I'll have no choice in the next day or so. She sneaks up on Effie and taps her shoulder from behind.
'Boo my little baby bunting.' Effie squeals in delight. Her Mum does the same. I have a bad feeling this will be a bad day for her. From where I stand, lapsing into childish behaviour is not a good sign. The two make themselves comfortable on the bench. Effie's Mum pulls out warm fruitcake wrapped in a tea towel.
'Mama baked it for her baby.' She talks as if Effie was four years old. My insides cringe as the spectacle unfolds. She takes the towel and tucks it under Effie's double chin who 'hoot's her pleasure. Sickenly, Mama spoonfeeds the cake to Effie, mouthful by baby mouthful, dabbing at the corners of her thick lips. Afterwards, she rubs and pats Effie's back till she burps and I wonder just who is the sickest bastard here? At least she is happy for now.
Last night Effie threw a wobbly because she wanted more mashed potatoes on her plate and the nurse said she needed to lose weight. Everything went flying, crashing, smashing. Effie was sedated and dragged off to the locked ward where as the nurse put it, 'she could stew in her own juices.' It's a waste of time though. Anyone would think that no matter how crazy you are, you're still capable of rational thought and action. Effie isn't. She explodes, implodes, cries, giggles at other people's pain. She smears faeces on her wall when she's angry. What lesson can she possibly learn from being restrained in a locked room? Perhaps the mental health system feel like they need to be seen doing something, to placate the taxpaying public. In here, I can assure you, nobody is getting the help they so desperately need.
Nobody has come by. It's true that I'm yet to ring folk and tell them where I am. It's always so embarrassing. Like I failed at something you know? Meantime, Effie is bellowing in the courtyard, 'Ize a fwootcake!' then laughing hysterically. She's been here for eight months. I wonder if she came in this bad or the system and constant meds have eaten away at every defence she ever developed in life.
What if she is a reflection of my future?
'Day sed Ize mad!'
Her bottom lip, fat like the rest of her protrudes and her eyes are wide open as if she had just been surprised. I never know what to do when she comes near me talking like that. I'm pretty sure it's an act because on other days, she seems quite lucid and less like the BFG.
'I sez, day sed Ize mad!'
'Don't worry about it Eff. Doctors just say that so they can get paid.' Her thick ginger brows furrow as she struggles to comprehend what I just said. I tentatively pat her arm and try to move away but she blocks my exit by sticking out her trunk like leg.
'Yooz men Ize nat mad?'
I don't know when or what meds she gets administered. Her big dumb giant act could be just that. An act. Or this is who she transforms into when her meds start to wear off. Or this is who she becomes after she's given her meds. I just don't know.
'I mean you're not mad ok?'
Eff smiles and snorts, her mouth resembling Mumbles from Dick Tracey as she feels momentarily relieved that she is no longer shackled by the invisible chains of mental illness. I try to move past her but she is still revelling in the sweet idea of normality, fantasizing what it must be like and enjoying the imaginery scene.
'Effee nat mad.' She bounces up and down on the wooden bench like a happy child, clapping her hands, proud that she grasped something to hold onto.
I check my watch. Visiting hours are just about to start and I'm hoping someone, anyone who cares about me and knows I'm here will drop by. Effie leaps up and swallows me in a bear hug. My face is pressed flat against her armpit and I have no choice but to inhale her foul body odour. A shower is too complicated for her most days and no staff member is willing to wash her so all of us patients suffer. Not only from the smell but the threat that this big mamma will go off the rails and crack our spines. So in some ways, it's a relief to see her so chuffed but mad or not, there is an element of suffering involved whenever Effie crosses my path.
'She's the maddest b itch here.' says another patient as she walks past us. Thankfully Effie is looking straight into the sun, muttering and pays no heed to the insult.
That's the trouble with this place. Too much of a mix if you know what I mean. People from extreme opposites are squeezed in under the one roof and expected to get along. In between all the fighting and squabbling and emotional upheavals, we get to speak to a psychiatrist who tries to convince us that being here is for our own good. Well, that's what he says to me.
'You're subject to mood swings and things have got on top of you lately.' Yeah well so what? That's life isn't it? Apparently not and I compare myself to Carol Brady and realise this four eyed dude is probably right. All I need is some respite. Respite? Here? People like Effie make that impossible.
The automatic doors open and a well dressed elderly woman enters. Effie's mother is a sharp contrast to her daughter. Prim and elegant, she smiles kindly at me as she passes. She reminds me for a moment how much I miss family and friends. She looks so, so - competent. I should ring them. I'll have no choice in the next day or so. She sneaks up on Effie and taps her shoulder from behind.
'Boo my little baby bunting.' Effie squeals in delight. Her Mum does the same. I have a bad feeling this will be a bad day for her. From where I stand, lapsing into childish behaviour is not a good sign. The two make themselves comfortable on the bench. Effie's Mum pulls out warm fruitcake wrapped in a tea towel.
'Mama baked it for her baby.' She talks as if Effie was four years old. My insides cringe as the spectacle unfolds. She takes the towel and tucks it under Effie's double chin who 'hoot's her pleasure. Sickenly, Mama spoonfeeds the cake to Effie, mouthful by baby mouthful, dabbing at the corners of her thick lips. Afterwards, she rubs and pats Effie's back till she burps and I wonder just who is the sickest bastard here? At least she is happy for now.
Last night Effie threw a wobbly because she wanted more mashed potatoes on her plate and the nurse said she needed to lose weight. Everything went flying, crashing, smashing. Effie was sedated and dragged off to the locked ward where as the nurse put it, 'she could stew in her own juices.' It's a waste of time though. Anyone would think that no matter how crazy you are, you're still capable of rational thought and action. Effie isn't. She explodes, implodes, cries, giggles at other people's pain. She smears faeces on her wall when she's angry. What lesson can she possibly learn from being restrained in a locked room? Perhaps the mental health system feel like they need to be seen doing something, to placate the taxpaying public. In here, I can assure you, nobody is getting the help they so desperately need.
Nobody has come by. It's true that I'm yet to ring folk and tell them where I am. It's always so embarrassing. Like I failed at something you know? Meantime, Effie is bellowing in the courtyard, 'Ize a fwootcake!' then laughing hysterically. She's been here for eight months. I wonder if she came in this bad or the system and constant meds have eaten away at every defence she ever developed in life.
What if she is a reflection of my future?