Checked Out of Reality by Angharad Gray

I find myself wondering how I got here. In this state. In this place. Nothing feels familiar, yet I recognise something in every glance around.

Retune. I now remember.

I’m in a room full of people. People in smart clothes, with clipboards, looking a lot more put together than I am. Despite the proximity of my bed to this room, I haven’t managed to make an effort, like these people have. Their commute is, no doubt, significantly longer.

I’m not sure I even remember how to look put together. That phrase jars in me- do we ‘put together’ the broken pieces in arranging our outfit, our make up, our perfume? Is arranging ourselves a daily façade, do we even know how broken we are? Until the break becomes obvious. Until the break becomes a Breakdown.

Looking back, I actually can’t recall if I even packed make-up, moisturiser. Something to treat my eczema? No glamorous clothes. The focus seemed to be on comfort. There was a rush in plans being made. It feels like a lifetime ago that I travelled here. It is definitely a season ago. My summer tops are constantly juxtaposed by the jumpers of other residents.

Maybe it was someone else that packed my bag. Memories still feel a little confused. There were so many plans. Changes. Suitcase constantly being rearranged. I would pack for my getaway, then have someone unpack when I reluctantly fell into sleep. Sleep seemed the most dangerous thing, with a constant stream of adrenaline: presumed danger.

I wasn’t even brought straight here. There was a holding cell. I smile as I remember singing at the top of my lungs ‘I want to break free’ to people who probably saw it as further evidence of my craziness. People who treat criminals and psychosis the same. Both a danger to society.

The loony aspects justified the restraining and inhumanity I suppose. Or maybe these people were hardened to mental illness. Tired of trying to understand patients. A strained resource. A process lagging behind modern society. The literature student in me thinks of Jane Eyre’s nemesis. The madwoman in the attic. Locked away.

Maybe they can’t see the other side. That whilst it was difficult for them to see crazy, it was difficult to be crazy. Childhood memories were rewritten, edited, as though the truth was a draft to annotate and exaggerate. Happy recollections turned grandiose, then suddenly dark. Blurry. Evidence of a big conspiracy.

Truth became a radio frequency that I was blocked from tuning into.

Static hits me as I try and make sense of what the people with clipboards are saying. There’s a computer, a large desk, data, a long file. I notice every detail in this state. Look over the shoulder at one of the doctors’ notes. Able to use my good vision to see notes on my behaviour. Activities.

I find it ironic that they observe me, but never talk to me. There is no opportunity to explain why I made those decisions, why I moved in that way. Medication gets focused on more than plans of therapy.

I suddenly think of a zoo, vets trying to guess and respond to the behaviour of animals. They’re at a disadvantage there: animals have no way of communicating in conversation. How can these scientists be sure that their assumptions are true? They work on data, on hormones, on chemicals, but how do we measure thought processes? Is there a way to scan what is inside the mind?

Sometimes agitation and elation get confused. Both quickening the heart rate. But how do we distinguish the two without knowing the cause?

I, also, don’t feel human now. The little space I have to sleep in, a meter or so squared, partitioned with a curtain, is constantly invaded. Getting changed, I listen out for footsteps. Warn those that approach that I am indecent. They don’t seem to care, don’t pay the respect that I assumed before this illness. Sometimes I acted like a child. But my body, the real me, is grown. I’ll regret those childlike actions, and can never undo them.

Perhaps, they think that this whole time I won’t be aware. That I am so far from my real self, that I won’t care. But even with this illness, even at my worst, there is a part of me still there.

I pull myself back to the present. Surprised I am now able to. Conversations are happening about me. They assume I’m not quite here. Family discuss with the doctors what me normal is like. Trying to fit a whole 22 years of personality description into a 30 min appointment. But how does anyone but me know who I really am? Even those I love don’t see every side of me.

Sometimes I am a chameleon, adapting my shape, my pattern, to those who are there. So, yes, my family know some part of me. But the whole shape will never be shown in full to them. Friends, lovers, will see other sides. Being human is a variety of behaviours.

But this illness has made my feelings, emotions, actions fair game. Like an actress in a Hollywood film. She performs for a living, but her living then becomes a performance for judgement. Cameras stalk her, exposing every aspect of her life. She wonders if she allowed this in acting. People invested in her character, but also in the personality of her.

They are still wary of me, the doctors who treat me. They wonder if my medication is high enough. They tell me I’ll likely put on weight, but how can I complain about that, in this state? I’ve stopped being suspicious of pills at least. They have less reason to restrain me. One of the lessons I learnt early: do what they say or things get scary.

This appointment concludes with some glimmer of hope. A promise of a visit home. Thank god for that. I think I have been disrupting the patients around me. I need the comfort of my childhood bedroom. Comfy sheets.

I return to the ‘living’ room. Although we’re only just living here. Flirting with death and destruction.

The music channel is on again. My cheeks blush furiously as I remember singing constantly in my episode. Not the type of episode you can easily skip.

I decide to focus on those around me. The range of people, behaviours. Some are owned by a diagnosis. Categorised. Some have trauma they still need to work through. Some have a never-ending booking here.

As I scan the room, a truth suddenly hit me. I didn’t know the stories of most of the people in this place, and I’d never fully understand them. I was so focused on my own story, making sense of my own mind. So much going on. Internally.

Recovery is finally seeing those around me. Wondering how much of a shadow this place would cast on their lives.