Karma: Part 2

By Angela McFarlane

Karina was 36 years old when life as she knew it ended. A University educated, I.T. businesswoman whose reputation as a good Christian wife and mother was impeccable. In 2006, her efforts to have a good husband and a better marriage resulted in a text from Brian.

Karina, it sounds like you are in a bad place.
It sounds like you have left your husband.
Be careful. Stay safe. Keep in touch.

Brian is a police officer with nearly 20 years experience whod loved Karina since he was 17. His text triggers events that culminate in the federal magistrate court. It was crazy the lengths Karina had to go to, so she could exercise her right to a happy life for herself and her children. With a shrug for serenity when she couldnt change her life. The courage from her Christian faith to make the changes for a new life. And the wisdom to know how to do what the experts said would never be done.
Karma.
May be nice, but then again, may not.
You never know.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: May 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781514442975

Angela McFarlane

The author lives in Queensland, Australia, with her husband. She is passionate about making the most of life and the opportunities it brings. She graduated from the University of Queensland, St. Lucia, Brisbane, in 1993 and is completing postgraduate studies in psychology. Her past-times are anything that includes family, food, and fun. Her main ambition is to build a home away from home in her local community for families fleeing domestic violence. This residence would be a place where they could learn to live with Grace and have fantastic lives. She has the idea that when you have nothing and nobody, you thank God you have him. With him all things are possible.

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 by Angela McFarlane.

ISBN:                  Softcover                  978-1-5144-4298-2

                            eBook                        978-1-5144-4297-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 05/02/2018

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Your Second Chance

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A  loud, longing moan travelled down the hallway to my bedroom. It disturbed my sleep and kept going, down the length of the entire ward. I waited for it to stop. It didn’t. It just kept going. I opened my eyes and glared at my closed door. Like it had failed me by not keeping out the n oise.

‘Dear God, enough!’ I said in my head.

Suddenly, as if the moan heard my thoughts, it was no more. Silence became the loudest sound in the mental health unit. For a few seconds. Then another moan came down the hallway. Louder than last time. Sounding defiant by its volume.

Argh, I said to the moan and sat up in bed. I didn’t need this racket. Where are the nurses? Why aren’t they doing their job? I muttered as I perched on the edge of my bed and tapped the cold, hard, linoleum floor with the big toe of my right foot. Where were my slippers?

Another moan passed my door.

I couldn’t find my slippers and lost my temper. I jumped off my bed, grabbed my dressing gown from the chair near the en suite door and flung open my bedroom door. Fighting with the sleeve of my dressing gown, I marched down the hallway to find the source of the noise and stop it.

A young woman sat in the armchair, under the public payphone, in the bend of the ward in the mental health unit. This bend was like an elbow of the Unit. On one side, the forearm, the male inpatients had their bedrooms. On the other side, the upper arm, the female inpatients were domiciled. This woman’s location meant she was in the prime spot for disturbing the sleep of us all.

I drew my dressing gown around my waist and stood before her with my hands on my hips. She was so wrapped up in her own misery, she was oblivious to me. Her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth wide open, pouring out her woe in a string of monotonous wailings. Yet, I was the only one in the Unit who was disturbed enough to do something about her caterwauling.

She was a new inpatient.

I’d seen her admitted after dinner that night.

She was young, maybe eighteen years old. She was moaning like a woman of old who had lost everything in the world. Her despair was incongruous for someone her age. It moved me, and I changed my mind about the person who had been thoughtlessly moaning. Until I saw her, all I’d wanted was sleep. Now I didn’t want her to live and learn the rules of the Unit the hard way. I knew she had to be quiet. There were consequences for being disruptive. Surprising her was the quickest way to silence her.

What do you think you’re doing? I scolded in a tone that could cut ice. Her mouth snapped shut, her eyes flew open, her hands crossed her chest. Swallowing her next moan and having nothing to say, she sat. I shook my head at her and walked to the nurses’ station.

I didn’t have to walk far.

If the payphone was at the elbow of the Unit, the side of the nurses’ station, closest to the bedrooms of the patients, was the olecranon of the elbow. The nurses’ station was approximately a five-metre-wide by ten-metre-long trapezoidal box. The longest edge ran the length of the hallway that faced the front entry of the Unit. The shortest backed onto the dining room and common room of the high dependency section of the Unit. The two sides that were of equal length and parallel to each other provided a view of the hallway to the dining room on the left and the payphone and hallways to the bedrooms on the open ward section of the Unit, on the right.

Barricaded behind the walls of the station, with two doors with keypad access in and out, and six large windows that gave a 180-degree view of the ward, the health professionals worked. There were two little sliding windows at chest height in line with the front door and through this small opening, patients were permitted to speak to the staff; at the discretion of the experts. The nurses’ station reminded me of a fort. From this vantage point, the psychiatric team could easily cover their territory. The entry of the world outside and the world within the Unit. Omniscient. Omnipotent. Omnipresent.

Two nurses were on duty that night.

Tucked away in the station.

Immersed in paperwork.

They appeared to have no idea what was happening on the ward.

Considerate of the hour, I quietly knocked, twice, on the small sliding windows of the station. The two nurses, one male and one female, who were sitting at a desk and were at eye-level behind the little sliding glass windows, looked up in response to my knocking. I smiled. Trying to appear friendly. But just because the nurses looked at me didn’t mean they responded further. They merely stared at me. Unimpressed. Then resumed comparing notes in the charts on the desk before them.

Leaving me standing on the other side of the glass.

Like I was transparent.

Fury replaced the feeling of congeniality. I used my fingernails to rapidly drum on the window. The incessant noise achieved the result I wanted. The male nurse sprang out of his chair to slide open the window I rapped on. He took a big breath to tell me off, but before he could get out the words on the tip of his tongue, I reprimanded him. I demanded to know, What do you think you’re doing? Why is she allowed to make this din in the middle of the night and you sit there, doing nothing to stop her?

The female nurse spoke to me in a bored voice from her chair, Karina, you have to remember you are a patient here. You cannot behave like this towards staff.

I smiled at her again.

This time my smile held no warmth.

The female nurse froze.

The male nurse drew my attention to him by leaning out through the window to see who I was referring to, as if he’d been completely unaware the other female patient existed. He looked from me to the young woman and back to me. With disinterest he remarked, Well, she’s quiet now.

In a voice that dripped with sweetness I commented, Yes, she’s quiet now. Thanks to me. Not you. Which is a worry considering, I’m just a patient here. You are the staff.

He withdrew back into his work zone and gave a mock bow, Well, thank you, Karina. Now, can I get back to what I was doing before you interrupted my work?

Condescendingly I replied, You can go back to whatever you were doing, because I have done your work for you.

I turned my back on him. Dismissing him as easily as he’d disregarded us patients. As I heard him mutter, That bloody bitch!, and the window sliding shut, I walked back to the young woman.

Now my anger wasn’t clouding my judgment, I could see she was in her mid-twenties. Pitifully sad and seeming to be abandoned. Tear-streaked cheeks, crumpled clothes and tousled hair like she’d tossed for a while in bed before settling into this armchair. What was she doing awake at this hour of the night, making such a dreadful racket?

As I approached, she tucked her legs up on the armchair, put her arms around her knees and assumed the self-comfort, self-defence position I was familiar with after years of suffering. She fearfully looked at me and waited for whatever was going to come next. I shocked her by smiling. She didn’t know what to do. So, she sat and she watched and she waited.

I wanted her to know she had no reason to fear me. Even if I had stormed into her life. Compassionately I said, OK, I’m going back to bed. Are you coming to your bed now? Do you know where that is?

She nodded. Then she shook her head. She said, I don’t want to go to my bed. I want to go home.

We all want something, I sadly replied. She looked even more forlorn. So, I told her what I wanted. I want a good night’s sleep and I’m not getting that with you sitting on this chair here, moaning like a banshee. I paused. She seemed calm and composed now. In a motherly tone, I negotiated with her the terms for us both getting what we wanted. At least for that night. If you stay on this chair, will you be quiet so I can sleep?

She thought about my request.

She nodded.

Continuing to talk like a mother, I made myself clear, I won’t have to see you again before breakfast? Because if you lie to me, you will regret it. If I go back to my bedroom, believing you are going to be quiet and let me sleep, I want to know I can trust you to let me sleep. Can I trust you? Will you let me sleep?

Again, she thought about my request.

Again, she nodded.

OK, thank you. I’m Karina. I held out my hand for her to shake it. She stared at my hand. Then she took it in hers and we shook, binding our agreement and showing each other respect. One quick shake and then she dropped my hand to clutch her chest. Like I’d burned her. Her behaviour was nothing new. Ignoring it, I wished her goodnight. Then, I’ll see you in the morning at breakfast.

I tried to smile encouragement but failed.

Her shy grin told me I knew how she felt.

If I could, I would have sat on that armchair and moaned all night too.

Every night.

But it would be February 2008 before I could tap into my emotions and let out all the grief I felt within. In October 2007, it was buried deep in my soul. Covered up. Kept in check. Controlled by my will to not let anyone know how much being alive was killing me.

My life was not how I’d planned it.

Not how I expected it to be.

But it was going to be better.

One day.

Soon, I would be out of the mental health unit.

Dr Khanna had admitted me on a promise. I would be an inpatient for only three days. Tomorrow was the fourth day of my admission. Tomorrow was going to be the beginning of my second chance at a better life. I couldn’t wait for tomorrow. I left the young woman and hummed like I was Annie, the orphan in the musical of the same name, Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya, tomorrow.

My friends, Peter and Nerida, would be picking me up in the morning, just before lunch. I had nothing to pack. Nerida had offered to bring in some clothes for me, but I’d told her not to bother with packing a suitcase for me. I’d only be in the Unit for three days. For three days, I’d worn clothes from the lost property box of the Unit.

It had been with a happy heart I’d found a dressing gown, pyjamas and slippers in an unwanted care package. They were new and not someone’s discarded clothes. If I could have I would have worn only them while I was in the Unit. But that was not a good idea.

It’s not ‘normal’ to get around in pyjamas all day.

And I had to be normal to go home.

So, I dressed in unwanted casual clothes from the lost property box during the day and wore the new pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers after showering at night. The nurses had given me an emergency toiletry kit when I’d been admitted. I’d throw these in the bin after I used them for the last time after breakfast.

My walk to my bedroom was deliberately slow. I was testing to see if the woman would keep her promise to me. So far, so good. I opened my bedroom door and glanced back down the hallway. She sat in the armchair, head on her arms, silently rocking. I sighed and entered my room.

It was as I’d left it. A single bed with a stainless steel three-drawer bedside cabinet faced by a wardrobe on the opposite wall. My bedroom had a bathroom en suite. I closed my bedroom door, draped my dressing gown back over the chair beside the en suite door and climbed back into bed. I thanked God tomorrow was only a few hours away and fell asleep.

A few short hours later I drifted back into reality like I’d finished a marathon. Exhausted and feeling like I couldn’t face one more thing to do. Elated by my achievement. I’d made it to see another morning. At times, I doubted my ability to do so.

Just like someone running a marathon feels like their completion of the race will take a miracle and another step could be the death of them, I’d live struggling to not give in to the terrors in my head and decide to end it all. Just like the marathon runner, I knew I couldn’t give up. I just had to stick to the course I was taking and keep going. Believing that, by God’s grace, I would succeed. I couldn’t quit. The reason why was simple. My children.

Every night I’d dream my children, smiling, happy, giggling, getting into mischief and so full of life, were no more. They were lost to me. Gone. Each time I had them with me, they slipped away. Thanks to my husband. That’s what I’d dreamt. Over and over until my brain felt like mush and my heart had been turned inside out. Every night.

I thanked God I’d been on medication that put me to sleep until recently. From September 2006 until September 2007 I’d take my prescribed anti-psychotic medication and fall asleep. I had no idea if I’d dreamed the same dream for a year. I only knew I’d dreamt it every night for the past month. God only knew how much more of this I could take. I was thankful my separation from my children was coming to an end. Life should be good in a few weeks.

I lay in my bed and started my day as I always did.

I greeted God and reflected on my life.

Looking around my room, I was pleased it was only five hours until I’d be going home with Peter and Nerida. I wanted this admission to the Unit to be my last. Once again, my husband had committed me to the Unit because he heard I’d been sharing his secrets. He feared I’d tell his secret to Brian and Brian would come knocking on our front door for him. Brian, my friend from high school who had been a police officer for nearly twenty years. The one who’d sent me a text and told me it sounded like a good idea to leave my husband.

In three weeks, I’d be divorced and my parenting application’s trial would be over. Finally, I’d be able to end my life as my husband’s good Christian wife. I couldn’t wait to go back to the federal magistrate court and show the Judge I’d told the truth. After twelve months of gathering the evidence to show my suffering from bipolar disorder with delusions was all in my husband’s head, I could prove I didn’t lack insight into the severity of my mental illness. I had P.T.S.D. due to the domestic violence I’d lived and was not a danger to myself and my children while I contested the label stuck on me in September 2006, bipolar with delusions. I thanked God for this. Apparently, this label was supposed to have been stuck on me forever because I was ‘so sick’.

The cruel irony that I was ‘so sick’ because my husband made me that way, evaded everyone. According to the local police, the school community, our church, my friends and family, my husband was a good, Christian, businessman. Devoted father and loving husband who was doing his best during this difficult time. His wife had gone crazy and left him, abandoning their four young children. Everyone believed this; except Brian. He knew there was no reason for my husband to be requesting the court order me to have hospitalised care and no contact with our children. After all, I had no history of mental illness until I asked my husband for permission to catch-up with my friend.

In September 2006, my husband said he would allow me to email and have phone calls, but Brian and I were not to have a private get-together. I did as I was told, but my husband decided this wasn’t good enough. My decision to catch-up with my friend led my husband to conclude I was having an affair with him. It was in response to this accusation of infidelity I told my husband’s secret to our church minister at marriage counselling. When my husband heard what I said, he knew I had to be crazy. My diagnosis of mentally ill with bipolar and delusions based on the say-so of my husband had caught Brian and I by surprise. Such a thing shouldn’t have been possible in 2006.

But I’d married a mongrel who knew how to bury the truth beneath such a load of bullshit it was impossible to see it; even though it was right in front of them, the truth evaded everyone except Brian, my husband and me. In three weeks, I’d be able to show this to the federal magistrate. According to the legal and medical experts, then my children would come home to me and my nightmares would stop. I asked God to let the experts be right. Waiting for the truth to set my children and me free from my husband was not my idea of living.

I rolled onto my stomach and pressed my face into my pillow. Into this silencer, I screamed and let out my anguish from my dreams. When I ran out of air, I stopped screaming. My face remained buried in my pillow. Suffocating me, just like my husband had planned. Then the sounds of the Unit crept into my ears. The open ward was awake. There’d be no dying for me today.

It was time to get up, have breakfast and go home.

I had to change out of my pyjamas first. That meant a walk down the hallway, passed the nurses’ station, lounge room, games room, arts and craft room, dining room, and kitchen to the lost property box in the laundry. I would have to walk the length of the Unit, in my pyjamas, in front of everyone. Twice. To the laundry and back to my bedroom.

I climbed out of bed with much less energy than I had a few hours earlier. Making my way into my en suite, I tried to wake up and feel happy to be alive. When I stood in front of the vanity mirror, I saw my face would tell the world how I truly felt.

My freckles stood out on their pale background, contrasting strongly with the black bags caused by countless nights of sleeplessness. These bags under my blue eyes gave me a sunken-eyed zombie sort of appearance. And my honey coloured long hair was a mess of curls that looked like wrestling snakes. I was a wreck. Sighing with disgust at my reflection, I thought about going back to bed.

I knew I couldn’t do that.

Breakfast was the most important meal of the day. Missing it would put a mark against my name. The psychiatric staff might wonder if there was something wrong. I had to go to breakfast and show them there was nothing wrong with me. Nothing would stop me from going home.

Deciding to have breakfast, meant I had to do something about my appearance. The woman of average height and weight for a 37-year-old who stared back at me from the mirror told me I couldn’t leave my room looking like I did. At least now I understood why the young woman had stopped moaning after our agreement was made. I looked terrible in the light of day. I would have been such a fright in the middle of the night.

Running my fingers through my long hair to try to make it less messy, I had to accept I had only one option. With no hair pins nor hair ties, I had to go for a shower. The last thing I’d wanted to do, turned out to be a good idea. I dried off feeling more invigorated. And my hair now fell as ringlets. Happy with this result I studied my face.

Sadly, I accepted my face would stay looking washed out and worn out until I could stop the nightmares that filled my head and chased away any hope of restful sleep. With a shrug, I told myself to stop worrying. Bags under the eyes were not the first sign of madness. I smiled. For a moment, my eyes smiled too. Then sadness stole back into them and the smile on my lips did nothing to improve my reflection. I gave up.

Finding my errant slippers behind the en suite bathroom door, I put them on. I didn’t know how they’d gotten there. I’d slipped my feet out of them as I’d swung my legs into bed at nine o’clock the previous night. They should have been at the side of my bed. Not behind my bathroom door. I shrugged and decided it didn’t matter. My slippers moving without my help wasn’t going to bother me. Nothing and nobody in the Unit was going to jeopardise my chances of going home. I was determined to be cool, calm and collected; definitely not crazy. I left my en suite, pulled on my dressing gown and shut my bedroom door behind me.

Standing in the hallway, I slipped on my mask of happiness and set off to the lost property box. I greeted all of the staff and patients I passed in the hallway on my way to the laundry. Some replied in kind, some stared, one wolf-whistled and received a jab in the arm from one of the nurses on duty that morning. To all of them, I was a social butterfly who floated by and none could tell there was a thing wrong in my world. If asked, none would say I was embarrassed or hated the indignity of this morning walk.

To avoid this shameful expedition, I should have been able to bring the box of lost property back to my room on the first day of my admission. Or at least to grab from the box enough clothes to last me for the length of my internment. But this wasn’t permitted by staff. Such control was something akin to what I’d lived as the good Christian wife of my husband. I hated this fact about my life too.

Nobody knew it. Nobody could guess how humiliating I found my circumstances. People looked at me and thought they knew my life was perfect. I let them think what they liked. Encouraged it. False pride helped me keep up appearances. Years of practise meant I was very good at appearing to be whatever was appropriate for any situation. This time in the Unit I appeared to be getting along better than last time.

Morning, Karina, the dining room staff called out to me in unison as I passed the entry to the dining room. I gave the women serving breakfast a smile and a wave. Loudly I called to them and the nurse who was supervising the patients already eating, I’ll be back.

OK, Arnie, the nurse, David, said good-naturedly. His reference to the The Terminator movies was a lame joke. But it didn’t hurt to laugh. David’s jokes were one of the reasons being in the Unit wasn’t that bad. The nursing staff on duty last night had finished their shift. Now the nurses were ones who did their best to make life in the Unit easy.

In the laundry, I rummaged through the lost property box.

I can do this one last time, I assured myself as I dragged from the box a fresh shirt and a pair of shorts. Garments I’d not be seen dead in if I wasn’t in the Unit, but in here, who cared? Not me. I was going home today. My friend, Nerida, would be bringing me in some of my clothing when she picked me up later that morning. Until then, I could wear this hideous floral shirt and not matching green paisley shorts. Having no dress sense was also no sign of madness.

I realised I was hungry and decided to change into the outlandish get-up in the bathroom beside the laundry. I’d put on my undergarments when I’d used my en suited bathroom. I’d hand-washed them the night before when I’d showered and left them to dry on the towel rack. I’d done this every night since my admission. I knew wearing intimate apparel didn’t matter to anyone, but me. Going commando was no big deal in the Unit. Patients just couldn’t go naked. Or be in the dining room in their pyjamas. I threw the new nightgown into the wash basket for the Unit with a sense of adieu and went back to the dining room.

Ah, she’s back, announced David, with a grin. He handed me my breakfast tray. It was the same meal as it had been yesterday. The same it had been a year ago. A fresh white bun, butter and strawberry jam on a plastic plate with a plastic knife. In a Styrofoam cup was my white tea. No sugar. I thanked David and then did what I’d done a year ago.

I walked through the dining room to exit via the large glass sliding doors and sit in the garden. Nothing had changed in the twelve months since I’d last been there. The mural of flowers and trees were the same. The patch of artificial turf looked more worn but was where it had been. The steel tables and chairs were still bolted to the concrete of the courtyard. I sat at the table and thanked God for my meal, the day and the hope I had for the future.

When I opened my eyes after saying grace, I saw I had a companion. The young woman from the night before had moved from the armchair at the payphone to the table where I sat in the garden. She was standing still, clutching her breakfast tray and looking at me like I was still the freakiest thing she’d ever seen.

Do you mind? David called out from the glass sliding doors. He was half in, half out of the dining room. The look of consternation on his face told me he didn’t know if he should intervene or give us a chance to get to know each other.

No, I don’t mind at all, I replied in a friendly voice to David as I smiled at the young woman, welcoming her to my breakfast table.

David gave me the thumbs up and replied, Cheers! Thanks, mate.

He went in to the dining room to settle a dispute that had just broken out between two male inpatients. One of them was brandishing a plastic knife at the other’s face. After this morning, I knew this man would be only using plastic spoons for the rest of his time in the Unit. I turned my attention to the young woman. The disorderly behaviour in the dining room was no concern to me.

Good morning. It’s nice to see you. Thank you for keeping your promise to me, I said as a way of greeting. I wanted her to feel confident that there was no reason to worry about last night.

She gave me a shy smile in response, nodded and struggled to place her breakfast tray on her side of the table. The tray seemed to be too heavy for her and she tilted it on such a wild angle, the contents threatened to spill on to the concrete floor. Here, let me take that, I insisted. I took the tray from her without any effort and she sighed with relief as I set it in front of her.

Sorry, she said. I don’t know what’s wrong with me? She banged her forehead with the heel of her palm.

Don’t do that either, I warned her and placed a hand on her forearm.

She recoiled as if I’d scalded her.

I blushed.

Embarrassed that I’d unthinkingly broken one of the unwritten rules of the Unit. No touching without permission. I now apologised for my thoughtlessness, Umm, pardon me. I’m sorry I did that. Are you, OK?

She rubbed her arm and gave me another shy smile. Yes, I’m fine. Thank you. You didn’t hurt me.

I smiled back and said, Good. So, what are you doing in this glorious place?

I don’t know.

Our conversation stopped dead.

Neither of us made an attempt to resurrect it.

If silence was what she wanted, silence suited me. I broke my bread roll in half, smearing the butter and then the strawberry jam. My white tea was now cool enough for me to sip. She prodded her cornflakes with her spoon, worried the orange juice as she swirled it in her plastic cup and frowned at the toast still sitting in the paper bag from the kitchen. I don’t know why I’m here, or how long I’m here, or what I’m going to do, she quietly said without looking at me.

Welcome to the Unit, I replied. And if you ask the staff those riddles of yours, you’ll hear, ‘How long is a piece of string?’ as if that’s the most sensible answer and will make all your problems go away. I raised my hand, a clenched fist that seemed to be holding something within, and then flicked my fingers as if releasing the captive woes to the air.

Her brow crinkled as my words hit home.

Her eyes started to mist.

Don’t cry, I warned her as I picked up my Styrofoam cup. Matter-of-factly, I quietly and softly informed her, Cry and you’ll be labelled emotionally unstable before you can dry your eyes.

She swallowed her despair. Then found her voice and challenged my advice, How do you know so much?

I smiled. Bitter sweet. Because I am just like you, I replied and started to eat my bun.

She dropped her spoon.

Stared at me.

Agog.

I laughed, happy to see she was at last thinking of something else apart from her plight, and said, Yes, I am the worst, but not the first and definitely not the only one like me in the Unit. I took another bite from my bun and let my words soak in.

This revelation was too much for her and, as if dazed, she asked, But how?

My matter-of-fact reply, I shouldn’t be here, caused more confused wonderings from the younger woman.

Then how? Why are you?

I shrugged, Simple. I married a mongrel who has learnt how to play the medical and judicial systems and he now uses them whenever he wants to remind me I can go and do whatever I like, but I will behave as he wants or he will put me in my place. I made a grand sweeping gesture of the Unit. Welcome to my place.

My poor companion looked more crestfallen.

Cheerily, I told her, Don’t worry. Getting out of here is all just a matter of time. Take any meds the psychiatrists prescribe for you, attend counselling sessions with the nursing staff, talk to the social worker about your community supports and needs, go to whatever in-house education programmes the staff run and before you know it, you’ll be out of here.

This advice helped. She stopped looking gloomily at her cornflakes and picked up the spoon again. How long have you been here? she asked as she took her first mouthful of cereal.

Good, you need to eat, drink and be ‘normal’. The quicker you behave just like everybody else, the faster you will be free of this place. I took another bite of bun. Chewing it carefully as I considered how to answer her question. The hope of being out of the Unit in a few days and having the freedom to get on with my life was what I’d been clinging to since Sunday night.

I knew from the way she asked, I wasn’t the only one.

I needed to respond so I kept her hope alive, but also kept it real.

Last time I was in the Unit, it was a year ago and I was here for over a month. She gasped, and I hastened to brightly say, But I should be going home today. I was admitted under an emergency examination order, an E.E.O., by the police on Sunday night. I’ve given the staff the required three days of observation. Now I’m going home. I have to be in court to go to trial for the custody of my children in a few weeks. The psychiatrist who admitted me promised this admission would not jeopardise my application to parent my children. He promised I would only be in the Unit for three days.

I sipped my tea and said no more.

What I said seemed to be food for thought.

She digested this information.

Slowly.

What’s your name? I asked her.

In a different setting, I wouldn’t have been breakfasting with a stranger.

Carmel, she told me and blushed.

I smiled, Lovely to meet you, Carmel. Are you OK if I leave you now? The patients who like to smoke after breakfast will be here in about twenty-minutes, so you’ll have a bit of time on your own to get used to the place. Is that OK?

Her eyes betrayed her apprehension, but she nodded. I gave her a smile of encouragement and, as I rose with my breakfast tray, gave her some more parting advice, Don’t worry. The Unit has a routine that is slow and mundane. Being bored in here is something all of us patients have in common. Every day has very little variation and monotony seems to be considered the best cure for the busyness of life. Get used to it. It’s not that bad, really.

She meekly smiled at me, resumed chasing her cornflakes in her bowl instead of eating them and watched me walk away.

I took my breakfast tray back to the trolley beside nurse David.

Said goodbye to him, the kitchen staff and then left the dining room.

I stood in the hallway and surveyed my surroundings.

Nothing had changed since I was last in the Unit in 2006.

I began walking to my bedroom, attending to the Unit while seeming to not do so. On my left, the door of the art and craft room was still locked from the night before. On my right, nobody had started playing pool yet, so the games room was empty. The consultation rooms had closed doors, as if still waiting for the day to begin. Yet the Unit was starting to bustle in its own slow, peculiar way.

When the closed and secure entry to the high dependency section of the Unit was on my left, I was in front of the nurses’ station. From there I could see the length of the hallways on the open ward. The cleaners were making their way from bedroom to bedroom on the open section of the ward; the public payphone had its first customer for the day; a glance down the hallway towards the male patients’ bedrooms and I saw the dispensary door was open, with two nurses in it counting and checking all of the medications in stock.

The nurses’ station was becoming a hive of activity and the psychiatric experts, the doctors, social workers, psychologists, patient liaison staff and nurses, were making their way from the outside world into the Unit through the secured, glass sliding front doors opposite the nurses’ station, on my right.

I’d passed the front foyer, entry and doors when I heard the sound the little sliding windows of the nurses’ station make when they were whizzed open. Someone had some news to deliver urgently.

Karina, a female nurse stuck her head out of the window and called.

I stopped and returned to the nurses’ station, so whatever the nurse had to say wouldn’t be shouted down the hallway. I pleasantly