"You left your post," they said. I had gone out because I did not know
what to do! Someone had returned to the lab with a large bottle of
bicarbonate and had neutralised the acid with this. By this time the floor
had been irretrievably damaged. They told me I had caused hundreds of
pounds worth of damage, and I was told to leave immediately. When I went to
get my cards, surprisingly the office staff were very sympathetic.
"You're better off out of that job. No-one would work for that doctor,"
they said. "They were all funny people who worked in that lab", they
remarked.
This did not help me practically very much as I was now without work.
I went home and in the silence of the squalid little room gave way to
panic. I thought that I would immediately be given notice by the landlord
as the lodgings had been obtained by the agency of the hospital. In the
meantime, I had not been able to visit my father in Manningtree at all, and
this was the reason I had taken the London job!
I went to the employment exchange to sign on as unemployed. Having
never done this before, I felt ashamed. The staff at the employment
exchange told me not to be silly, when I said that I did not believe I
should be signing on.
"We are here to help people like you," they said.
But I did not believe them, and went to see my doctor in a fit of
nerves. For a week I had had a peculiar headache. It was like a tight
band of pain round my head and was there all the time. I began to believe
that it would never go away.
Unfortunately, the doctor decided to send me to
Horton Hospital for a
rest. This was a mental hospital in Surrey.
I thought that I had better go, as I believed that the hospital where I
worked would force me to leave my lodgings, now that I had lost my job.
This was because the lodgings had been obtained through the hospital's
accommodation agency, and I believed that they were in control. Probably I
was incoherent when I tried to explain things to my local G.P., who I had
never met before, but said that I did not feel well enough to pack up the
possessions in my room.
"Of course you can do that", the doctor said.
I spent a day alone in the room, packed up, and left my possessions in
Aunt Violet's flat in West Kensington, saying that I hoped to be
home soon
to reclaim them. I felt very ashamed and would not tell Aunt Violet where
I was going.
The hospital was near
Epsom, and was in a pleasant part of Surrey. I
was admitted to a villa in the hospital grounds. It was commonly believed
that these villas were for people suffering nervous breakdowns, but not for
the seriously ill. Most of the women in this villa were very pleasant.
The building was quite large, and had two floors. Downstairs was a day-
room, and a dining room and a kitchen for washing-up and making tea. We
were allowed to make tea whenever we wished. The two main meals of the day
were brought over on heated trolleys from the main building. These were
often eagerly awaited.
We had occupational therapy during the day. I chose to attend an art
class. It was here that I most enjoyed myself. I had not done any painting
since leaving school, and I began to draw still life in water colours.
Round the corridors of the main building was a row of professionally drawn
water-colours. I asked the art teacher who had done them.
"It is one of the patients here."
"He cannot possibly be mentally ill if he can do such wonderful
drawings," I said.
"There is nothing wrong with him. He is afraid to go out and face
life," was the answer.
"Can't he get any paid work?" I asked.
"At Christmas he gets a commission to design some Christmas cards for a
shop in Epsom," was the answer. "That is the only work he can get."
On my first day I had met a man in the corridor, and had said to him,
"They tell me that I'm unlikely to be here for more than three or four
weeks."
"They told me that, when I first came, " he answered, "but I've been
here for 23 years."
I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard that.
I resolved not to lapse into the same state as that man or become like
the artist, but to start applying for jobs as a chemist immediately. In the
meantime I had been given several different types of tablet, mainly anti-
depressants. I saw the psychiatrist for five minutes once per week, and he
asked me how I was doing on the particular tablet.
Each time I replied that I still had a continuous headache, and he
changed the tablet. One day he gave me a tablet called sparine. That week
I applied for a position as chemist with a firm in Epsom. I considered
that I was very lucky to have an interview, as I had given the hospital
address. I got up early in the morning and set off for the interview. It
was possible to walk into Epsom, using a path which led through several
fields and grassy places called "The Backs". Most patients would use this
route instead of the main road, because it was very pleasant. That morning
the fields had never looked so brightly coloured before. I realised the
tablet I had taken for the first time that morning was having a strange
effect. I felt like a person raised up to a higher state of consciousness.
Every blade of grass was a separate glorious object which stood out from
the fields and shone with a bright green light. The spring buttercups and
celandine were a shining shade of yellow, and I experienced everything with
an intensity I had never known before. For the time being I thought life
was very pleasant, and when I entered the interview was seen by a group of
men seated at a long table. This was known as an interviewing board. When
they asked questions, I thought I was doing well. I felt much more
confident than usual.
However when I left the room, I heard the sound of laughter, and
realised that the men on the interviewing board were all laughing at me. I
felt humiliated.
I thought, "It is because they have the hospital address, that they are
not considering me seriously."
So I thought that if I wanted a job I had better try to get away from
the hospital soon. However, my reaction to questions at the interview may
have been peculiar, because the drug was making me very excitable.
When I arrived back at the hospital I told the doctor about my strange
experiences with the tablet, which were just beginning to wear off.
Actually, I thought that this was what the tablet was meant for; to give me
an intense experience of well-being. But the psychiatrist said he was
sorry that the tablet had caused this effect, and said he would try
something else. I was surprised. It was only years afterwards that I
realised that unintentionally I had had what is now called "a trip". from
this drug called Sparine. I suppose it was a "trip" but I was innocent, in
the knowledge that I had not asked for that drug, Sparine, and had not
known what its effects would be.
In its place I was given the drug
Nardil, an anti-depressant, and after
taking these tablets for a week, I felt so well and my headache had
disappeared that I said that I would like to leave hospital and start
applying for new work. I think I had been at Horton for only six weeks, but
the time I had seemed much longer than that.
With Nardil I had to avoid eating cheese, Marmite or Bovril. Its
pharmaceutical generic name is phenelzine, and it is a monoamine oxidase
inhibitor (MAO). MAO drugs react with certain foodstuffs producing toxins.
The main use was in treating depression and anxiety where this is a
reaction to unfortunate circumstances. One of the side-effects of MAO
inhibitor drugs was a lowering of the blood-pressure. Nardil had some bad
effects on me, but these were slight. If I was walking fast or running
through the park, I would come over faint, and have to stop and rest. But
I did feel immensely cheerful and able to accomplish twice the amount of
work I normally did in a day. My system became used to the drug and after
a time I no longer noticed any side effects. Unfortunately, without
realising it, I became addicted to this drug. At a later date when a
doctor tried to withdraw the drug, I made a fuss, as I was convinced that I
could not manage without it.
In this hospital interlude I had met some interesting people. There
was Sheila, who had attractive blonde hair. She said she was there because
she was no longer able to do the housework. One day the husband or boy-
friend called for Sheila. I spoke to him and said good-bye to Sheila.
"Yes, one day Sheila suddenly jumped up and said she could face going
home. She's quite well now," said this man, and Sheila smiled.
Sheila was inarticulate, unlike her friend, Anna, who frightened me,
because when she washed up, she would throw a cup across the kitchen and
smash it, and had a foul temper.
Most of us felt we were unable to follow our normal occupations or
hobbies while in the hospital. I declared that I was unable to read a book,
whereupon the psychiatrist told me to go to the hospital library and borrow
a book.
"You can do all the things you normally do," he said.
I thought this doctor was most understanding. I was reassured when I
found an interesting book, which I was able to read while sitting in a
quiet corner near a window. Another quiet patient with a book joined me
there.
Evelyn was about 50. She told me that she used to be a doctor, a
general practitioner. I could hardly believe this, because I imagined that
doctors would not themselves be subject to nervous breakdowns. I had
little understanding of the frailty of the professional classes. Evelyn
was sitting in the day-room, watching me scan the advertisements in the
Daily Telegraph. I found this paper uninteresting but it had all the
scientific job advertisements in it, which was my reason for buying it
occasionally.
"The Telegraph used to be my paper, but I can no longer read it,"
Evelyn remarked.
I felt very sad to hear her say this and said, "Of course you can read
it, if you pull yourself together," echoing what the doctor had told me,
and left her with my copy of the Telegraph.
The main temptation in this hospital was to take a nap in the
afternoons after lunch, and forget to go to occupational therapy. The
nurses forbade us to lie down at any time until after the evening meal.
This was usually finished and washed up by 6 pm, so we could have a long
evening on the bed if we so desired. However the evening was not a time
when I wanted to sleep, as I found that the patients were quite interesting
to talk to. Most of them had more medical knowledge than me, but it was
rather shallow.
"None of us are bad cases on this ward," someone said. "This is the
ward for the mildest cases. Nobody here is psychotic."
I was very glad to hear that.
"Except maybe for that woman sitting over here," said Evelyn, the
doctor. "Have you heard her laugh? I don't like that laugh."
However, this laugh did not disturb me, and when I talked to the
patients, the main reason for being there was incapability of continuing
with whatever job they had recently left, or with the housework. Half of
them were housewives; the other half were mostly secretaries working in
Central London, and living alone.
Betty was a housewife. She told us that she was going for special
tests.
"They are called brainwaves," she said.
I was mystified by this. But when she left the room, the another woman
said "Poor Betty. She will never get better. But don't tell her. She has
got something organically wrong with her brain".
The other patients agreed, and made sympathetic remarks. I wondered how
these women knew this if Betty herself did not know it. I had been talking
to Betty that morning on commonplace subjects, and could not find anything
mentally wrong with her. Likewise most of the women seemed very normal. I
wondered why we were here in this hospital.
One of the nurses said that Anna had formerly been a nurse and had been
named as Nurse of the Year. She had come top of her year in nursing
examinations when she had qualified as SRN. "Unfortunately, she will never
be allowed to go back to nursing when she is better. That is why she has
been training to be a secretary," said this mental nurse.
Apparently Anna, while in hospital had passed tests in shorthand and
typing and was now applying for jobs locally in Epsom as secretary. I
believe some of the women were local residents, but the hospital's
catchment area was also West London, which was why I had been sent there. I
questioned why Anna should not be allowed to return to work in nursing when
she was better.
The mental nurse said "Because working in nursing was what caused
Anna's breakdown."
I wanted to return to work in chemistry. Life had been fairly equable
in most labs, and I had got on with most of the staff fairly well. It was
not until I had worked for a doctor in the hospital lab, that I had been
unable to cope. This idea that the patients should not be allowed to return
to their former professions, if they so wished was not something I agreed
with. The idea that work had caused the breakdown was threatening to my
way of thinking.
The hospital culture did not apply this idea to married women who were
fulltime housewives, and these were encouraged to continue in their former
state. Husbands visited the hospital, but children were never seen there.
If any of these women had families, they certainly did not talk about them.
However it was often a boy-friend who visited.
"I am not well but I think I can manage to set up our little love-
nest," was how one young woman described it when her boy-friend arrived to
take her home for the week-end.
She was wearing a black and white diamond checked jumper from Marks and
Spencers. I recognised it as last year's fashion, and immediately wanted to
go to Marks and buy one like it, but they had gone off the market, so that
was impossible.
One woman said she was doing without tablets. She used to sit quietly
in a side-room doing some very elaborate embroidery each evening, and did
not talk much.
"You are not very active," someone said.
"But I am doing without tablets," she said triumphantly.
One day we were all sitting in the day room in the evening just before
going to bed, when a new patient was brought in.
Her name was Wendy.
"They say no-one here is psychotic, but she must be," I thought.
Wendy walked round the room pulling the curtains even though it was
still day-light. She continued walking round the room all evening and if
the curtains were pulled, pulled them back and vice versa. She uttered no
word and would not speak when addressed. Most of us did not venture to
speak to her, because we thought her behaviour would become even more
frightening unless we left her alone.
The next day we had a ward meeting and she just sat there not uttering
a word.
But on the second day at the early morning ward meeting, Wendy spoke.
We sat in a circle containing also two nurses and a doctor.
"The reason why we are here is because we have not cleaned ourselves
out," she said.
I tried to read some profound meaning into this statement. It was
declaimed so dramatically that I felt sure it had a mystical meaning.
Most of us spoke of more commonplace things. At first these ward
meetings seemed interesting, but after about ten days they became boring.
We discussed subjects such as whether we should be paid for the housework
we did each morning on the ward, and decided as it was just cleaning up
after ourselves we should not be paid. The occupational therapy was
sometimes discussed, or our clothes, or how to look for work, but nothing
much about failed relationships.
We all had to do housework on the ward;some of this was quite heavy.
Housework was done from 7 am until 8 am each morning before breakfast. This
was compulsory for all fit patients. There was a woman of 70 years of age
on our ward, and she was not excused. Apparently she lived an upper-middle
class life-style normally and was not used to housework, but a light
dusting job was found for her, which she did under protest.
"When I get home I'm going to ask Dr. Stevens to tea," she said,
cattily, trying to get one up on the rest of us. Dr. Stevens was the
psychiatrist for our ward.
Jobs were allocated each morning on a list which was put up by the
ward-maid. One job consisted of cleaning the lavatories and this was highly
unpopular. Cleaning the day-room was also a heavy job. All ash-trays had to
be emptied and washed. The tables had to be dusted, and the floor swept.
The large ward bedroom, where about thirty women slept, was divided
between six patients for cleaning. After the floor had been swept, the
polish was applied to the floor by hand. Then we used a buffing machine,
which was a large, thick pad on a handle, which had to be dragged up and
down the floor, using a fair amount of pressure in order to polish the
floor. It was very heavy work.
When Anna saw me doing it she said, "You should refuse to do that".
"But it has to be done," I said. I aimed to please and did not want to
refuse to do anything. In fact I often did extra housework during the day,
in order to keep myself occupied. Once I was taking the Nardil, I speeded
up, and thought I could do massive amounts of work.
Anna laughed at me, and went into a side-room, where an electric
polisher was stored and proceeded to use it to polish the floor. "You are
living in the dark ages", she said to me.
One of the more unsatisfactory occupations was the industrial therapy.
I disliked it because all the products from one table were placed together
in a sack when completed. Those incorrectly were extracted afterwards by a
sorter, who was a member of staff.
The sorter was always muttering "It is no good giving work to these
kinds of people. They make so many mistakes".
This hurt me, as I was confident that over 90% of my product was
correctly done; but there was no way of distinguishing our individual
products during the work process, and I could see a large quantity of
incorrectly assembled items passing down the line. The work consisted of
jobs such as:- folding cardboard and gluing it to make boxes; packing four
assorted components into a small box - some of these items we were told
were components for car engines; arranging six different coloured pencils
on a cardboard rack. Usually the detailed work changed weekly. We were
paid about seven shillings per week for this, and allowed to work two half
days per week, from 2 until 4 in the afternoon. I was pleased with the
money because it was enough to buy tea and cakes in the patients' canteen
in the hospital grounds, which was run by the WVS. My sick pay was almost
wholly spent on fares to Epsom, when I did not wish to walk into town; on
the launderette; on having clothes cleaned, and on newspapers, especially
the "Telegraph" which contained the most advertisements for chemists and
lab technicians.
A woman of about 50 was allowed to work every afternoon on this
industrial therapy at her own request, and I was horrified to learn that
she cried when she was discharged from hospital. Most of us were pleased
when we were ready to go home, but it transpired that this woman was very
short of money, could get no employment, and was very loathe to give up the
£1 per week which she earned through industrial therapy. The other
patients chattering in the tea-break also felt sorry for this woman.
Wendy soon disappeared from our ward and I was told she had been
transferred to the locked ward called "E".
"It is a bad ward?" I asked the nurse.
"No, there is a much worse locked ward called 'O'", she replied.
"Patients on "E" ward don't usually stay there long."
I met Wendy most mornings at the art classes, and she seemed to be
better. Many of the women on "E" ward were allowed out for occupational
therapy. It soon became apparent that Wendy had outstanding artistic
ability. The art teacher was annoyed when he found that she had taken some
of her paintings away from the art room, as he wanted to keep them on
display.
"Wendy will have to bring them back, because paintings done here belong
to the hospital, not to the patients," he said.
The Italian ward-maids appeared to hate their work and were very abrupt
when they spoke to the patients. However, one day when I had been mopping
out the kitchen, which was an extra job which I did voluntarily after
finishing the washing-up, I was called into the cubby-hole occupied by the
ward-maid when she was not busy. She poured me a glass of fizzy lemonade.
This was an unexpected treat, and I thanked her profusely.
"I am giving it to you because you have helped me," she said.
One of the patients was Italian. She talked incessantly. She told me
that she had been employed as a live-in maid. When she was discharged, I
promised to write to her, but was disappointed with the reply, when I
discovered she was illiterate. She had been articulate in speaking during
the ward meetings.
The day came for me to say good-bye to the patients, and the
psychiatrist wished me the best of luck, giving me a prescription for
Nardil.
"How did you like it here?" he asked.
I replied that the experience had given me a better understanding of
human nature, but I was thankful to be leaving, feeling much better. It
was a warm day in June.