A Gleam of Sunshine

1

Thursday, April 21, 2016

The police car slowed in front of the Smyth Mental Health Centre. Headlights shimmered off the panorama of hospital windows like fairy dust. Loose gravel crunched under the tires. A lively stray cat—black fur, a splash of white on its tail and its paws, which were hewn by the rigours of outdoor life—scampered across the street. I watched from inside the car and wanted to squeeze it but squinted as a gleam of sunshine broke through the gathering of dark clouds beckoned by an easterly wind.

The minutes passed so listlessly that time itself must have taken a stake in my misery. The police officer parked, opened the back door, and pulled me up. I saw the flex of his biceps beneath his uniform. He towered over me, a handgun attached to his right hip, a taser on his left. His buzz cut made his already large skull look disproportionate to his body. With a quick twist he removed the handcuffs, revealing livid red indentations on my skin. I tried to rub the pain from my wrists as the blisters on my feet seemed ready to burst.

Strands of hair hung loosely across my forehead, and I scratched my long nails across my bony frame. My long sleeve t-shirt, encrusted with patches of vomit, felt as if it had been drenched in a vat of starch. And with my stomach revolting against itself, I knew it wouldn’t be long before I puked. Again.

The Controller yelped:

Jack? You’re going to be lobotomized.

It was through trial and error, as a teenager, that I found I could rid myself of the Controller’s voice by repeating phrases obsessively within my mind. Mental rituals. So, I started a set. “Not listening. I’m safe. One…Not listening. I’m safe. Two…Not listening. I’m safe. Three…” 20 times. Relief. Albeit temporary.

A smattering of raindrops touched my skin. I loved the energy of a springtime storm: lingering earthy scents rising from the damp soil and water trickling down the streets weaving through the crevices in the concrete and rushing into the corroded sewers.

I shifted my eyes, just before the officer walked me through the sliding doors into the building, to watch as a flock of geese glided through the sky, migrating home. Without regard for a sudden burst of thunder and a flash of lightning, their wings flapped in unison, seemingly the sum of their parts. The rain started pouring down, not as a deterrent to their flight, but rather as a necessary reminder that this was all part of the timeless ebb and flow of nature.

The outside world became a distant fragment in my imagination as the officer led us down a central corridor that was aseptic and without smell. He had his hand on my shoulder and his grip made my upper body ache. His back was straight and his chin up. I slunk beside him, and my heart pounded. The squeaking of my slip-on sneakers on the polished floor, made my eyes—wide open like that of a rotting animal carcass—jerk upwards to check if I was attracting attention.

Various figures entered my range of vision. I saw a woman with a white lab coat carrying two large file folders. There were three well-dressed and bespectacled middle-aged men deep in conversation. An individual with a gigantic knapsack slung over his shoulders, overflowing with clothes, brushed past us. And another fellow carrying a bag of tobacco and rolling papers stood quite still and muttered something indistinguishable. They dissolved as we made our way to a large windowless room that was as frigid as a blast freezer.

The policeman didn’t wait for an invitation to sit me down. He ensured that I took my place in a chair beside him before a square desk, next to a garbage can. I shivered and my arms felt like sandpaper. A woman with deep laugh lines kept her eyes glued to a computer screen. She looked up. “Hi, Jack,” she said. “I’m Molly. I’m an intake nurse.”

I wondered how she knew my name.

“Do you know why you’re here?” She asked.

I had a flashback: office buildings surrounded me casting shadows onto the street. Unintelligible hoots, shouts, roars, whoops, whistles, and bangs. Seagulls screeched, swimming in their excrement down the puddles in the road and foraging for discarded food bits. My guts released a choke of puke that poured onto the sidewalk. Three men mocked me with their laughter, while the Controller shrieked, and words were exchanged until I heard a wailing police siren pierce the smoggy air.

The room was quiet. I said nothing. Stayed completely still. “So, Jack,” she said. “You’ve been placed on a Form 1, meaning that you’re to be certified in the hospital for 72 hours.”

“I’m not staying here that long.” A hair trigger impulse.

She was unflustered. “We’re here to help you. And you’ll be re-evaluated after three days. Your family doctor, Dr. Wright, forwarded some information and the police sent over some details of the incident downtown before your arrival. We’ve determined that you'll be going to the Schizophrenia Unit. It’s on the second floor.”

My shoulders jerked back. “Wait what? I don’t have schizophrenia.”

The Controller squealed:

Jack? I’m real, Jack.

I tilted my chair and nearly fell backwards but did a set of rituals. “Go away. Stop the voice. One…Go away. Stop the voice. Two…” Five times.

“Jack, it’s not your fault,” Molly said. “You’re struggling with some serious mental health issues.”

I continued rubbing the lacerations on my wrists. And with my insides churning, I gagged, and Molly’s voice faded. I made a desperate dive for the garbage can. Vivid streams of vomit spewed from my mouth. The trash can which was already almost full, nearly overflowed. The melange of colours resembled a piece of modern art. I released a moan and wiped my mouth, which left another swath of puke to dry on my sleeve. I wanted to change my clothing but returned to the chair.

The police officer shoved the can away from the table and put his hand on my knee. “You ok, Son?” he asked.

I lifted my head and looked at him. “Can’t I just go home?”

“We won’t be much longer, Jack,” Molly said. “I’ll make sure that our staff has some medicine for you when you get up to the ward. Would you like some water?”

The chunks of somewhat digested tilapia mixing with the acidic taste in my mouth should have prompted me to accept it but—stubbornness being a trait I inherited from my family lineage—I said, “I need some space.”

“I know it’s not easy and I know it’s hard to understand, Jack. I’m just going to quickly go through a few questions with you. And then you’ll be heading up to the ward. Now, can you confirm your date of birth?”

“March 9, 1996.”

“Okay,” she said. “And do you happen to have your health card with you?”

“No, I think it’s at home.”

“That’s fine.” Molly glanced at the monitor and tapped the keyboard. “Are you on ODSP?” she asked.

I tried not to get defensive, but my voice rose. “For two years. And I hate being on it.”

A film reel of life before the Ontario Disability Support Program played before me: a suburban middle-class bliss, having grown up in a neighbourhood that felt like a Hollywood movie set. Long narrow leaves with silvery undersides hung from the weeping willow trees that lined the sidewalks while yellow tulips bloomed, and SUVs parked in front of two-car garages. If I were standing outside on a summer afternoon, I would hear the laughter of kids playing in backyard pools and the incessant drone of lawnmowers.

Those were carefree days, wandering through the winding trails near my parents’ home. I recalled the sticky pinecones scattered across the forest canopy. Warm breezes caressing me as beads of sweat ran down my back. Rambunctious chipmunks darting across my path. And the smell of musty algae along the Ottawa River’s edge captivating my senses. There were moments when I could breathe the flares of enchantment from just the faintest of sparks.

I wished I was back exploring those twisting paths, eyes ablaze, with nothing in mind but making it home for dinner on time. I had existed without the fear: this burden of knowing that my Controller’s voice could swiftly unleash mental carnage upon me. This reflection brought me pause before withdrawing into the dark realms of my mind.

“Feels like I’m useless,” I said. “Stuck on disability. I’ve tried finding work, but nobody wants to hire someone like me.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed about,” Molly said. “One day at a time. Do you have any special dietary needs? Or are you a vegetarian?”

I could feel my skin tingle. “I’ve seen some pretty messed up things on TV about mental hospitals. You’re kinda not what I expected in here. But to answer your question. No.”

Molly smiled and continued typing. “Are you carrying any cash with you? Or anything you would like us to keep in our hospital storage area?”

“I have 10 bucks in my front pocket and you’re not taking it.”

“And do you have a cell phone?”

“Does it matter?”

“Well, you’re allowed to keep your phone, but we can store it if you would prefer.”

I twisted myself upwards and downwards, shifted my posture to lean over the desk and looked around the room which was empty but for several large cabinets behind Molly. The Controller’s scream cut through the numbness that engulfed me:

Jack? You’re being brainwashed. Don’t follow their orders.

I reflexively tensed my body and wanted to be inconspicuous toward Molly. But I felt like a crazed rat snake, slowly cannibalizing itself, as I squirmed in my seat, pinched my skin, and tried not to release an outward screech. The Controller’s voice remained on a repetitive loop. I was overwhelmed, unable to even start the rituals. “Ughh,” I grumbled while exhaling.

“You’re going to need a little time to get back on your feet,” Molly said. “And it’s ok to be angry.”

I stared at the white walls adorned with pictures of the Smyth Centre. And images of people being forcibly tied to beds, screaming, electrodes pressed against their skulls, being shocked into submission by high voltage charges, flushed into my thoughts.

“Who should I contact about your admission?” Molly asked.

I didn’t hesitate. “No one.”

“Jack, I’m going to need to let your family know.”

“Please don’t call my family.”

Molly glanced at the police officer. “Well, why don’t you think about it. And I’ll ask your primary nurse to discuss it with you.”

Molly stood and opened one of the cabinets, containing piles of organized, plain white pyjamas and canisters full of soaps, tubes of toothpaste and toothbrushes. She handed the officer a container of one of each and a pair of pyjamas. He tucked them under his arm. “Do you have any questions for me, Jack?” Molly asked.

I lifted my eyebrows. “Aren’t you being a little too nice?”

Molly seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “Our staff is here to take care of you and help you in your recovery. But I know it’s not easy. Don’t give up.” She looked at the officer. “I’ll forward Jack’s file up to the unit.”

The officer nodded and guided me out the door. I kept my head lowered and listened to sprinkles of conversation between the people that we walked past:

“Can you send that report to Mary in the Mood Disorders Unit?” … “I’ll get back to you on that, but I’ve got to talk to Gerry.” … “Can I bum a cigarette?” … “I’m meeting with Chris Smith’s family today, and his eight-year-old son will be there, so, we’ll see.”

I recalled being a child and playing hide and seek with my big brother. I had ventured into the backyard of my parent’s home, trying to scramble behind a shrub, listening to my brother count down from ten. My heart had pounded, not like now, but with excitement, a joy that can only come with the innocence of youth and an inherent ignorance of the future. If I could return to those days, I would not surrender to the Controller. I’d keep myself from the torture that would materialize in my teens.

The officer licked his upper lip. He remained intent on holding me by the shoulder while he directed me towards an elevator, but his grasp now felt looser. Before we got to the second floor, he broke an awkward silence. “Take some time, Son,” he said. “And accept the help that you’re offered. It’s not always easy to receive direct admission to the Smyth Centre. Usually, it takes weeks to get in here. You’re lucky that there was an early discharge and that a spot became available. Otherwise, we’d have to put you in the detention tank down at the police station.”

We weren’t walking slowly but it seemed to be taking forever to get to the Schizophrenia Unit. My fatigue didn’t prevent adrenaline from flowing through my veins until my breathing faltered. “I don’t feel lucky,” I gasped.

“It could be worse, Son.”

“Worse than this?”

The officer’s eyes narrowed. Whatever he said next, I didn’t hear. The Controller screeched:

Jack? This cop is reading your mind.

I did a set of ten rituals. “Stop. He can’t. One…Stop. He can’t. Two…Stop. He can’t. Three…” We reached a locked door.

2

The officer pressed a buzzer and the staff let us in. He walked us down a long corridor past a dining area to another door. It also needed a buzz in from the staff team. We entered the unit. I blinked several times and my legs tremored. Three hallways spanned out in a distinct T-shape from a nursing station, the focal point of the unit. Each hallway had rooms on either side and windows looking out upon the world at the ends. There was no screaming. I was reassured by the number of people in the nursing station. I noticed two patient lounges with televisions. My first impressions of the ward were that it was organized and calm, and still markedly cold.

The officer talked with several staff members. There were several other inpatients, who had realized that there was a newcomer in their midst and shuffled around me. They were much younger than I expected. I shivered while hoping that I would adjust to the deep freeze like the rest of them—mostly dressed for a day at the beach—seemed to have.

A tall fellow, maybe 20, walked toward me with a steady gait. Sunglasses were perched above his eyebrows, and he had a ponytail, white sneakers, a blue shirt, and shorts. “Wanna buy some smokes?” he asked.

“I think I’m gonna need more than a cigarette to survive this place.” I forced myself to say.

He offered me a puzzling wink, just as the officer and the staff ended their discussion. The lawman handed me the toiletries and pyjamas. He adjusted his belt and before turning to leave, looked at me. “Hang in there, Son. Good luck,” he said.

I stared at my feet, searching for words that I couldn’t find. I felt the dejection better known to a wild-eyed gambler from some deadbeat town in the Midwest, head bowed at a craps table in Vegas, just off the loss of major dollars, wishing they had quit a winner.

There was a lump in my throat. A woman approached me: medium height, clad in jeans, with a slight crook in her nose. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Daphne. I’m your primary nurse.” She juggled a plastic cup half-full of yellow liquid and a paper cup with water in one hand. And in the other, she held a muffin. The muffin crumbled in half as she handed it to me, but I shovelled pieces into my mouth, munching on its dried blueberries. I grabbed the liquid after swallowing the remnants of the snack and washed it down with the warm water.

“What’s been making you feel so sick?” Daphne asked.

The ward was spinning around me. “Dunno,” I said. “I probably ate something bad last night.”

She prompted me to turn and escorted me to a starkly bare room, midway down one hallway. I tightened my shirt around my shoulders and dropped myself onto the hard foam mattress. How do I sleep on this? I adjusted my posture, trying to get comfortable.

Daphne pulled back the grey curtain separating the room, revealing a thin man, probably no older than 25, lying on the adjacent bed, sporting a handlebar mustache and oval framed glasses. He looked like a hippie who might have wandered around Greenwich Village in the 1960s attending poetry slams and listening to Bob Dylan. Daphne sat down while asking the fellow if he could leave the room so that she could conduct an interview. He shrugged and placed the comic book he had been reading on a lopsided stack of others at the foot of his bed. He tossed aside the bottle of orange juice that he had been drinking and made eye contact. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes and strolled past me.

Thunder clapped and through the window I could see small gullies forming on a slope of green grass in front of the hospital. The ceiling lights were somewhat irrelevant as the low-hanging, nimbus clouds—seemingly intent on showering enough rain to wash from the earth all its living creatures —darkened the room. I held no belief in divinity, but if there was to be a Reckoning, I wanted it to start now.