This morning, when I wake up, I picture some white skating boots and my head. For hours, all I can see is the tip of the blade smacking into the back of my skull, gradually chipping away at the bone until blood spurts everywhere. I convince myself I will never be able to think of anything else for the rest of my life, and the thought swells and magnifies.
Outside, I can hear Dr. Dax stalking the corridors. She swoops in on a cloud of sickly perfume and designer clothing, perches on my bed, and tries to chat about whether I am enjoying my stay.
I cannot cope.
I scream at her and ask her why she keeps changing my medication without explanation. My SPOILED category is going into overdrive, but for once, I don’t care.
“I can’t stop eating!” I gesture round my room toward the sweet and chocolate wrappers littering the floor and the stack of crisp packets in the bin. I wave the banana I’m halfway through eating at her like a crazed ape girl. “I never used to be like this! Those pills make me eat everything in sight, and Frankie said it’s true because she’s been on them and you stop knowing when you’re full. And why have I had no proper CBT? Dr. Finch said that’s the only behavioral therapy for OCD that works. Why did I spend yesterday afternoon listening to dumb people defining the word stress on a big whiteboard with a spider diagram, and why did I have to make a ‘worry tree’ in depression class?”
Dr. Dax replies evenly, “I’m sorry you feel some negativity toward the service you have received.”
“It’s YOUR fault!” I howl. “YOUR fault I can’t stop thinking about ice skates, because this treatment is WRONG. I wouldn’t be thinking about ice skates if it weren’t for YOU changing my medication and making me sit in huge groups of people and I FEEL ALL WRONG IN MY HEAD AND IT’S WORSE THAN BEFORE. And now you’re sitting here making me feel angry, and all I can think about is ICE SKATES HITTING MY HEAD—”
I picture another white boot taking aim. I wince. The thought becomes so vivid, I hear my skull crack.
“Lily,” Dr. Dax says slowly, “have you ever considered the fact that you might be psychotic?”
“I’m not! Dr. Finch said another doctor would say that! It’s an intrusive thought, which of course you don’t know anything about, because I’m not sure you even know what OCD is. GO AWAY!”
“As you wish.”
Dr. Dax leaves.
A nurse comes in with a thimble-size paper cup of water and a pill.
“Take this.”
“I don’t want to.”
“It’s best you take it.”
I am too tired to fight. I sit up to swallow the pill and lie back down. Everything becomes wobbly and slower, and I feel a dull numbness setting in.
I sink down in the bed and sleep.
Frankie bursts in around 4:00 p.m.
“Oh my gawd can you pull yourself together I’ve had such a boring day without you!”
I sit up groggily.
“Okay, it’s fun time now. So I did some exploring while you were drugged up. Turns out there’s this whole layer of offices in the attic that we didn’t know about.”
We wait for the nurses’ changeover time. Engrossed in paperwork, they don’t see us walk off the ward. We walk with purpose up to the attic. The offices aren’t locked. Once inside, Frankie starts rifling through drawers.
“Holy shit, look, office scissors! Tell you what, they could slash some wrists in the wrong hands! It’s pretty terrible that they’ve just been left out like this, I mean, imagine if someone who self-harms found them.” She furrows her forehead in concern. “They could be useful though, if we’re careful. I’m going to take them.”
“But you don’t self-harm, and neither do I, so what use do we have for scissors?”
“For collaging.”
Frankie and I have started making collages out of magazines on our ward. And she’s right. It would be a lot quicker if we didn’t tear all the pages by hand.
I’m sweeping the desks, when I notice a yellow Post-it on the wall and realize what the numbers written on it mean.
“Frankie!” I’m so excited I grab her arm, before regretting it, because unsolicited contact could make me a PERVERT. “Frankie, stop!”
I take the Post-it from the wall and wave it at her.
“Look! You know how we never knew how to get through all those doors with codes? Well, this is the door code. They’ve written it on a Post-it note so they don’t forget it! Let’s find out what we’re missing!”
We dash down to a separate wing, trying to look inconspicuous when passing orderlies. Frankie punches in the code. The door swings open onto a corridor, but neither of us have the guts to go down it, for fear of meeting any mad people. Change direction then—back where we came from and then up a few flights of stairs and along a corridor, a new door beckons. This one isn’t coded, and it opens onto a staircase, which we run up. At the top, there is a white door to a fire escape. More to the point, a white door, ajar.
We cannot believe it. Here, right in front of us, is a chink of real life.
“Bingo!” I squeal. “Where should we go?!”
I’m still not allowed to join the walks in the park, or go on an escorted walk to the corner shop, because I am “too high-risk.” Frankie has no chance of being allowed outside after her previous escapade. The only fresh air we’ve had has been in the outdoor smoking area.
“Lily, you know how pissed off you were about your Coke?”
Three days ago, it was decided I was drinking too much Diet Coke, and the six-packs Mum had brought for me were confiscated. They are now being held under lock and key in the nursing station, and I get dispensed one a day by knocking on their door and groveling.
“There’s a corner shop down the road,” Frankie says in a rush. “I know because the nurses escorted me there with the others to buy fags when I was still allowed out. We’ll go and get you a ton of Coke, and then you can drink it secretly.”
We push the door open. It’s only 6:00 p.m., but it’s already dark. I inhale the swirling wind in private ecstasy. We creep down the fire escape onto a thin layer of snow.
We plod to the corner shop, shivering in our T-shirts. I thought the man behind the till would spot us crazies a mile off, but he doesn’t give us a second look. For the first time since my arrival, I feel like a normal human. Frankie, whose trusted handbag is at hand, pays for as much Coke as we can carry.
We could escape for good now, get a cab to the airport and buy one-way tickets to America (Frankie says she has enough money on her card to pay for tickets); we could go clubbing, or just kill ourselves like we wanted to in the first place.
But we don’t. We turn around, walk back to the fire escape, and go quietly through the door and back to our rooms like nothing has happened.
“Fuck it!” yells Paula. “The remote doesn’t work again! I don’t know why they can’t just get some bloody batteries. It’s not like we’re not paying enough to stay here!”
“How much does it cost to stay here?” I ask, trying to sound offhand. I know it isn’t cheap, but I’ve never managed to ascertain the figure.
“Like £900* a day, I think. That’s right, isn’t it, Annabel?”
“Something like that, yeah,” she replies distantly, munching on some loose skin around her forefinger.
My stomach drops. Since my arrival, my medication has been messed with so much I feel like a human experiment, and I haven’t had a single one-to-one CBT session. I’ve basically mucked around with Frankie all day, smoked, and watched TV, all at a cost of just under £900 a day. I need to get out of here. It’s time for a distress flare.
I go back to my room, take my mobile out of the drawer, and write Dr. Finch an e-mail asking if I can talk to her. I hit Send—Mayday, Mayday, Mayday: a blast of red sparks sent up into the sky.
It is 1:18 p.m., and I am expecting a call from Dr. Finch at 1:30. Based on past experience, she will ring at 1:35 or 1:45. In preparation for this momentous occasion, I have finished all of the day’s routines so I can give the conversation my full attention. Unfortunately, I time everything wrong. I finish my routines at 1:06, which leaves around half an hour for new routines to generate. In a desperate attempt to stop this, I revert to Upper Ock tactics. I go to the hospital gym and set the running machine to full pelt.
For the first time ever, Dr. Finch rings ahead of schedule.
My phone, which I’ve slotted in the treadmill’s cup holder, is buzzing. Fuck.
I panic, pressing the emergency stop while reaching to take the call. The machine drops from twelve miles per hour to a standstill, and I fly off the back. My mobile spins across the waxed floor. I crawl over and grab it, cradling it in my hands like an injured baby bird. I dash into the corridor, collapse into a sweaty heap, press green, and put the receiver to my ear.
“Hi, it’s Lily,” I pant.
“Hi, Lily. It’s me, Dr. Finch. You said you wanted to talk?”
“I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve just found out how much it costs, and I feel awful because that is a crazy amount of money to spend on this treatment. And I was wrong. You’re the only one who can help me. And I can’t just walk out, so you have to get me transferred. I’m sorry about all the stuff I said. I didn’t mean it. I was just . . . Everything was messed up. If you take me back, I promise to be good and do everything you say and—”
“Wait, wait, slow down. You can’t see me at Fieldness—the inpatient unit has closed down now. But I also practice at the Leneston Hospital in Ashleaves. You could be admitted there. Are you sure this is what you want, though?”
“Yes, yes, definitely.”
“Okay. I’ll get it sorted. I’ll talk to your parents and the hospital and arrange a transfer.”
“Okay, thank you. Thank you so much. Bye.”
“Bye, Lily.”
The line goes dead. Relief and joy pulse through my body, surging to my heart like an electric current earthing itself.
Now all I have to do is tell Frankie.
I am waiting on the porch with my bag when my mum pulls up in the Beetle. The nurses don’t come to see me off, but Frankie and Delia do. Hugging is obligatory.
“Good-bye!” I call from the front seat, to which Delia grins and replies “Ciao.”
“I don’t do good-byes. This isn’t good-bye,” says Frankie, the smile fading from her face. She turns around, grabs Delia by the arm, and walks back into the grand entrance hall. The double glass doors swing shut behind her, and I watch until she disappears.
I will miss Frankie. She was constant and unavoidable in a way even my routines couldn’t destroy. She fizzed with life and a lust for fun. She stretched her hand out to a version of myself I thought I’d lost forever, held me tight, and then, when I least expected it, pulled me back from the brink.