The Imperfect Life

Please note: mental health themes throughout

1.

I turned right into the local shopping centre car park and found myself circling around the same parking bay twice, and still without a park when a young woman caught my eye. Dressed alternatively, in what exactly, I don’t know. I don’t know fashion, but I knew it wasn’t the norm. As I looked out above my dashboard, she briefly glanced my way as she returned a trolley just four or five metres in front of my car. You know that feeling when you know someone from somewhere but you’re not sure where? - It’s an instant recognition but then BOOM - the brain freezes and you’re not sure from where and when this person is from. She had the same recognisable graceful manner, so light on her feet, yet more wieldy and purposeful than I remembered. Uh, that’s right, I thought. Is she still on anti-psychotics? Does she even need those? They screw you over until you wish you were dead - but you can’t feel anything or think clearly enough to know any better. Had she spoken to Josh? I wondered if she was still single?

My mind gravitated back to my first conversation about her with Josh.

“Have you met the new chick?” He asked.

“No, why?” I grinned, a new chick here, I thought. It was as if Josh was here just to party. I sure wasn’t..

My mind continued to drift back in the space of micro-seconds to the strong smells of the soap there, the sterile rooms, the inhabitants and the girl’s innocent charm - her earnestness to chat with me and others and the warmth and connection I observed when her family visited her. I felt so bad for her back then. What had happened to her? I’d overheard there were whispers of a court hearing. What had she done? Surely, nothing of any real consequence. She was far too sweet-natured for that. Yet, could she have screwed her brother and then killed the family cat when mum and dad found out? I’m not sure, but what exactly makes someone detained by court order with an upcoming hearing in a place like this? My mind was going crazy with the possibilities, whilst simultaneously being enchanted by her pleasant demeanour.

2.

How did I find myself here? Well, I didn’t think that having a complete mental breakdown in my early thirties would ever be something that would have happened to me. I was significantly happy for a time, moderately successful (at least in my career) but I was living an inauthentic life on many levels and sometimes, depending on the situations, it’s only a matter of time before, SNAP! You’re a deeply broken snivelling mess in mental health crisis. My go to knowledge of breakdowns was solely made up of Scott Hasting’s dad Doug in Baz Luhrmann’s “Strictly Ballroom”, who’d become a broken nervous-wreck of a man after jeopardising his dancing career. It wasn’t until he encouraged his own son many years later to dance his ‘own steps’, like his own history of the forbidden steps and non-conformity, that the father was able to have a recovery from his breakdown. He started to become at once confident and slowly whole again with the freedom of not living a life in fear. An apt parallel.

Although, three of my family members have had mental breakdowns of sorts in the past - I don’t know the exact specifics, just vague retellings I’ve heard, sometimes making it difficult to distinguish from the exact facts. I guess it’s partly genetic then, right? When it hits though, it’s not like chance when you are in the wrong place at the wrong time. You are more so in the wrong body at the wrong moment in time as you begin entering a dissociative state to survive! It’s not a choice, but a natural progression to deal with trauma or an untreated or repressed illness - that sooner or later the issues you’d once ignored uncontrollably bubble to the surface.

Here was a place I didn’t want to be, but a necessity all the same. It was over thirteen months post-breakdown, before I hit rock-bottom (there were so many levels to fall down to first) that I knew I had to make this choice, the alternative was far too shameful to digest.

3.

If Josh wasn’t wearing his dark shades inside like a celebrity at an American rehab centre, he was waltzing around like he owned the joint - frequently walking up and down the ward’s long hallway whilst playing his acoustic guitar - and playing not badly at all mind you. You might even be privy to his accompanying pop/rock vocal renditions if he were in the mood. His illness? “Something that hasn’t happened to anyone before,” according to him. Ain’t that the truth! How illnesses and disorders seem so unique and special to begin with, but then you wake up and realise they’re not and you are not that special, but at least you now know you are not alone.

The first time I met Josh it was on my first day after a long sleep, and he’d approached me in the main hallway.

“Are you new?” He asked, desperate for interaction.

“Yeah, I’m Anthony,” I replied.

“Hey, I’m Josh. So why are you here?” He asked.

“High anxiety, suicidal ideation, can’t seem to be alone right now. Too many meds are fucking me up,” I replied. Well, that was the short answer anyhow.

“Yeah I get that,” Josh said.

He looked remarkably like the actor Luke Wilson - by turns serious, thoughtful and kind, but larrikin to the core, with a lashing of ‘surfer dude’.

“Yeah me too,” he continued - “I just started a new one.”

“Likewise,” I said. “I’m coming off virtually everything I am now on, starting the new med and also tapering off Valium.”

“Valium?”

“Yeah, diazepam”.

“Ah yeah, cool,” he said.

Not cool, I thought, after the damage that had been done popping them like jelly beans the last two years, but I continued chatting. “Why are you here?” I asked.

“I put three knife wounds in my throat,” he pulled down the collar of his t-shirt a little to show the scars.

“Ah shit! That must have sucked.” Ah crap, what did I just say? Fortunately, he is still alive and breathing so the wounds could not have been hugely deep but nonetheless shocking.

“Yeah I kept harming myself,” he continued, “So my mum put me in here.”

“Like you have to be here?” I queried.

“Yeah, psychiatrist order to be detained minimum of four weeks and reviewed this week. I’ve already been here for three.”

I didn’t flinch but thought that’s messed up - but, then I’m here too and while voluntarily admitted there was family pressure to do so.

“Well, I hope you get back on track soon,” I said.

“Yeah, cheers”.

We then both departed towards opposite ends of the massive corridor of adjacent rooms, locked in, seemingly with no place to go and nobody to go there with.

4.

Our days were spent looking forward to meal times (over twenty of us would usually all strangely sit around in the silence as we ate). I sometimes remember being so depressed it was as if someone had jokingly pressed the remote control and I was eating in slow-mo!

They were mostly monotonous days to be sure, but there were occasional points of structure, like being visited by an occupational therapist for tips to control your anxiety, nurses guiding you through live panic attacks with breathing techniques, and the resident psychologist stopping by for a visit and occasionally guiding you in some group mindfulness.

There were many other ‘characters’ that coloured the days (at least in retrospect) and I had to move rooms around four times so I met most of them. There was the young guy who ran his car into a tree after his girlfriend broke up with him, the older man with schizophrenia that would steal our bread and smoke tea bags in the shower (I can assure you it stunk!) I was bunking with him for a little while so I reported him to staff and eventually got my own room! There was the borderline woman having intense meltdowns three times a day, much to the chagrin of the nurses, but I talked to her a lot and she seemed to be calm then. Then there was the guy with chronic OCD and red raw hands from excessive washing. My OCD personally presented itself differently, but he was charming and kind, but I can tell you right now he wasn’t happy when the washing machines broke down for days! Surely one of an OCD sufferers’ biggest fears! Then there was Josh. He was either randomly conversing with me or other patients, getting to know us or gregariously sharing stories like his brush with fame with Margot Robbie.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“I met her - hell small tits.”

“How’d ya know that?”

“I looked down her top while I was waiting on her at the hotel restaurant.”

Good to know, I thought. Mostly though I spent a lot of time in my room, sleeping or writing in my journal. One of the worst things was having nurses check on you every hour throughout the night, they’d open your door and shine a light. It made you feel like you were in prison, couldn’t be trusted and had little privacy.

There was one mindfulness session with our psychologist that was particularly memorable. Our young resident psychologist in his thirties, an Norwegian man, was uber serious, but patient with us. During this guided session, a short older lady got up during our mindful breathing and started performing some sort of tai chi with karate type sounds. This diminutive woman acting fierce during our group mindfulness session got Josh, perched on the couch like he was feeling the effects of Lorazepam and wearing dark shades, to start cracking up laughing along with a few others too including myself. I was trying to focus on the practice, but was finding it increasingly challenging under the circumstances. I was even looking for some shred of our psychologist’s visage to crack, but no, he seemed far from impressed and politely gave us a schooling to take it more seriously, to not distract others AND directed towards the older lady, to stay in her seat! She eventually did and ten minutes later she was asleep and snoring which had me restraining my stitches of laugher yet again!

5.

“She’s hot. She was out here briefly earlier this arvo, then she went back to intensive care, behind the glass walls.”

“What?” I replied. “I didn’t even know there was a restricted area - where is it exactly?” Protective glass windows covered the whole front office. I hadn’t paid much attention to what was back there though, being more concerned with what was for dinner and when my next dose of Lorazepam was.

“It’s just behind the offices,” Josh continued, “If you look through the glass windows of the offices and when that control room behind them has its door open, you can see just a little inside intensive care. She’s got this red-blonde hair,” he went on, “plaited down both sides - she looks like a fuckin’ Disney princess!”

“Yeah, really?” I cracked up. Something about his overly confident tone made me question him. It was as if he was making up stories just to entertain himself from the evident boredom of this place.

“C’mon - have a look,” he gestured. So we walked over to the front office and the door to the room behind was open like he’d said, thus allowing us to gain a peek into the intensive care unit. It was covered in what appeared to be glass walls and lots of white, and then for a second, a daintily built young woman with plaits slowly walked by.

“Wow,” I exclaimed more than a little dumbfounded. “But I can’t really see if she’s that cute from here,” I continued, “A Disney Princess huh? Well now she’s imprisoned, and you’re the knight who’s going to have to set her free her from her tower!”

He chuckled lightly.

For a few short moments I literally forgot about my illness, and thought I’d suddenly made a new friend whilst being on this mysterious covert mission to find out whether this was just one of Josh’s tall tales or not.

6.

The next day, who should be released from her tower for an hour? - but, ‘the girl’. I saw Josh nearby the ‘smoko door’ and kitchenette happily talking to her. I knew it was her straight away even though I hadn’t yet seen her face - it was of course ‘the plaits’.

“Hey,” I exclaimed. Remarkably able to muster some enthusiasm compared to my, of late, usually deadened tone of voice.

She smiled softly. “I’m Beth.”

I told her my name and welcomed her. She said she’s only here for a little while and then “I have to go back.” Her voice was quiet yet warm.

Josh was grinning laconically. Where am I and why do I feel like I’m intruding on their match-up? I later followed them to the lounge - all open plan- nowhere to hide. The cameras were everywhere too, even in some of the toilets.

Beth was sitting on the small stool, with Josh on the beanbag and I was on the couch. Josh quizzed her about why she was here, but it quickly started to fall into incomprehensible nonsense - or at least very challenging to piece together the specifics. So, what had happened? Well, there may or may not have been drugs involved; she’d broken up with her boyfriend and she may or may not have been naked at some point and then she was wandering and the police were called. Okay, so they’ve started her on Seroquel, a moderate dose. “Possibly schizophrenia”, she suddenly mentioned but not convinced. She curiously kept looking over my left shoulder then back to Josh.

“Someone’s watching me,” she said. “And writing notes..”

I turned around. Maybe I need to start taking things at face value and stop doubting people, as whilst turned around, I noticed the middle-aged man scribbling down notes at a table about five metres behind us and staring our way.

“They just want to know how I’m going,” she said. “I’m meant to go back - in fact, I’m probably meant to go back quite soon as I’m only meant to be here for an hour.” She started to get a little uneasy and stood up.

“Well, it was nice meeting you,” I said. Josh then spoke to her briefly up close, about what I don’t know, and then she placidly followed the middle-aged man, went down a small hallway with locked double doors at the end and was gone.

“What was she even talking about?” Josh laughed.

“I don’t know but that was entertaining,” I muttered back.

7.

I honestly didn’t see much more of Beth, but I hoped she was okay. I just remember the conversations when her family would visit, once when she was drugged and drained from Seroquel, but another time when she was happily playing snooker with her parents which made me glad for her. Of course I would also overhear bits and pieces of the conversations her dad would have with hospital staff about her court hearing. For the most part, she was in the intensive care section with only a few short visits to the rest of the ward.

Josh later told me, after chatting with Beth further, that she did do something to get in here like she intimated when I first met her, but on the whole it was completely innocuous. She also didn’t think she was exactly schizophrenic.

Beth told Josh she had walked out of her ex-boyfriend’s place after smoking some weed and then took her clothes off in the street (grass doesn’t always bode well for those who already have a mental illness). So she stripped off and walked bare-naked down the street where the cops had found her and made an arrest for public indecency then she found herself here.

‘Ah,’ I mumbled under my breath. “You know, sure she’s kind of troubled (I mean who isn’t right?) but she’s lovely and the two of you seem to get on real well”.

Later, when I departed, Josh had given me his full name for Facebook. I honestly didn’t know if he was ever going to get out of that place, but he did have another review meeting coming up soon. Josh was quirky and laconic; I found him very entertaining. I tried to find him on Facebook later, but to no avail. He must have given me the wrong surname or something and I realised maybe he didn’t want to be found, or perhaps he associated me with his being in a mental health ward. Maybe it was a case of people that you’d be friends with inside, but not in the real world, like when Brian’s character asks in “The Breakfast Club” what will happen to them all come Monday morning? Apparently I hadn’t made a new friend and this was all just just my mild ‘borderline tendencies’ of rampant adoration alternating with poor attachment - assuming we’d become closer than we actually had. It’s not my fault I’d only left my house for groceries in the last six months and had met no one!

After this experience shook my life up, gave me some confidence, as well as overhauling my entire med regime, I was finally able to leave albeit cautiously. Leaving the hospital after three weeks was rough. You really do become somewhat institutionalised. I wasn’t confident being at home so I started by staying with my parents for about four weeks, then finally returned to my home after two months. It wasn’t until a solid two to three months later that I started to gain some further control of the intense anxiety, but there was a lot of depression as a result of trying to accept my ‘new normal’. I was still isolated for the most part too, but I was building myself back up slowly and could be at home again on my own. Rewatching the entire series of “Lost” on DVD proved a solid escape, and I began reading fiction again which worked wonders for my OCD. The intrusive thoughts (OCD) were becoming less rampant and I tried to control the panic attacks with breath work, meds and distractions. I never saw anyone from the hospital again, except the psychologist assigned there who had now become my regular, after making my way through three or four the year before (with little success). I was at last on the road to healing with a small glimmer of a future in sight.

8.

Eight months later, there was Beth in front of my car in the shopping centre car park, so I did what any sane guy would do and temporarily trailed her in my car after she had returned her trolley. I saw her get into the passenger side of a silver Peugeot. Right then, I thought, that was fun; time to find a park and get my groceries. Yet, what if I followed her further? I’d always loved and identified with the outcasts, the broken and forgotten. It’s purely harmless. She’d make an interesting friend or maybe even something more - and she’s been screwed up as well so she’d understand what I’d been through. This chance encounter could be fate!

Then, there’s those ‘borderline bells’ going off in my head again - THIS is absurd! I told myself. You don’t even really know her. Yet how are you supposed to design a real life if you don’t take any chances? It’s not like I’m going to follow her home and camp out on her roof for the night where I am found the following day, “Here I am! Good morning Beth!”

“What the fuck? Who do you think you are?” Beth would cry.

“Don’t you remember? We met and chatted at the mental hospital - it’s Anthony - I was just in the area!”

“Why are you on my roof? Can you please get the fuck down before I call the cops!”

Don’t worry Beth, I thought. I’m just one of your delusions; you’re perfectly safe - after all I wouldn’t hurt an ant, well I have actually, but I certainly wouldn’t hurt you! This is going great - just what I’d envisioned would happen.

Past my better judgement I swung my car around - and had to drive right around the outside of the parking inlet to follow them, as they exited closer to the main road. What the hell am I doing? Fuck. Fuck. I banged on the steering wheel but kept on, finally exiting the shopping centre car park. They were four or five cars ahead in an 80 kilometre zone - travelling north. They continued to speed off - and I realised as I trailed that I was going to struggle to keep up. There were traffic lights ahead and of course they turned red on approach - effectively losing their car. I sat at the lights with mixed emotions, annoyed I’d lost her and frustrated by my own desperate need for connection and simply just plainly fed up with life! What could come of this anyhow? I shouted at myself and again banged the steering wheel excessively. “Idiot! Idiot!” Fate it was not. The lights changed and as I started to proceed through the green light who should come speeding by in the oncoming right lane, but the silver Peugeot. They’d ‘chucked a chewy’ and were now heading south. Quickly forgetting my internal moaning - NOW’S my chance!

I sped up past the service station - then took a u- turn into the oncoming right lane near Hungry Jacks. I floored it, passing 90 kilometres to catch up and there they were, stopped at the lights in the left lane, and I was in the right and just a car behind. I wondered if that was Josh driving the Peugeot with Beth? That would be funny, I chuckled to myself. At the very least, I was entertaining myself on this ghastly escapade. The driver wore a beanie and I couldn’t quite see his face, even looking into their rear-view mirrors provided no clues. I noticed Beth’s head was now looking out the passenger window, I hoped I was completely inconspicuous and, possibly, not about to be moderately screwed.

Discretely following them for around another eight minutes, they pulled into a house on a pleasant street, as I waited back in the car further down the road, just a few houses down and watched them go inside with their groceries. I assume it’s her place and that’s her boyfriend, I guessed. I slumped down with my arms over the steering wheel, exhausted and shut my eyes.

I can just imagine knocking on Beth’s front door.“Surprise!”

“You just can’t rock up at someone’s house, my boyfriends inside!”

“But I just really wanted to say hi so I followed you home from the shopping centre. I’m not crazy I swear!” Said no sane person ever, but I guess a lifetime of isolation and loneliness will do that to someone. What was probably only around ten minutes but for what felt like an eternity, I eventually gathered by thoughts and attempted to psych myself up to go home.

9.

Hands over the steering wheel, my face still down. I heard someone tapping lightly on the passenger side window. It was a little foggy from a chilly day, so I bravely wound it down. Ah shit.

“I noticed your car from out the front. Do I know you!?” Beth questions.

“Uh, I .. um..,” completely lost for words.

“I was just getting something I’d left in the car and - I saw you.., when I was returning my trolley - your glass windshield isn’t exactly an invisibility cloak you know”.

“I just, um..”

“You’re from M*****, right? At least I think so”.

“Yep, and you’re Beth, I remembered chatting with you a couple of times but we hardly ever saw you,” I smirked. Did you keep in contact with Josh?” I continued.

“Well, actually he uh.. - did you want to come inside for a minute?”

Shocked but secretly thrilled - was it normal for random stalkers to be invited inside? I thought.

“Sure, I’d love to have a bit of a chat again.”

“And Josh, he’s actually my boyfriend now, believe it or not. A few weeks after you left we both were officially released around the same time and, well we kept in contact for a few more weeks after online, and then randomly caught up one day once I was a little more settled and he’s inside right now.”

My dumbfounded facial expressions must have looked amusing to her. Things were starting to get a little surreal like one of my episodes of unreality or derealisation. Am I dreaming? I certainly hope not. So that was Josh? I guess he did have a beanie on and I didn’t exactly see his face earlier.

“So you are very welcome to,” she continued.

“I’d love to Beth, that’d be great. I um, I’m so embarrassed though. I have to apologise for following you - I don’t do things like this, I really - .”

“It’s fine,” she said, you’re certainly not the first person in history to do something out of character. And I'm the first to attest to that. Come on in, even if it’s for a brief chat; I'm about to make dumplings, but I’m sure Josh would like to say hi.

“Thanks,” I said appreciatively. “I’ve been going through a really rough time after leaving about seven months ago and..,” I said as I exited the car.

“Tell me all about it inside,” she smiled.

And I followed her inside the house.

* Thanks for reading my coming of age style/autobiographical short story with a few fictional flourishes towards the end. Towards the climax there are a couple of small instances of fiction. I have also changed names to hopefully allow for people’s anonymity.

If you liked it, please let me know by hitting the heart or subscribing to help encourage further stories of mine. Many thanks.

You can also check out my recent Poem “House of Horrors” here.