After Bill and Seron left my buzzed up mood took a dive. Poor Mum, she had only been there five minutes and already I was asking her to give me some space. Having the patience of a saint she went to visit and old friend of hers, knowing full well it would give her the opportunity to speak to my GP. Doctor Gibbon’s advice to my mother was, “Go home Jeanne and give Neil the space he has asked for.”
I did feel embarrassed when Mum told me later what she had said. That after-noon Mum travelled back to Berkhamsted, saying she would be in touch. My guardian angel, Bill, had said to Mum he would keep an eye on me, which put her mind at rest.
Later that day Bill popped into see how I was. It’s just as well he did. I was on a downer and very confused. “Why don’t we go and see your doctor,” he asked. “Would you come with me?” “Yeah, no problem.” He replied. I think because I heard the word doctor, I recall asking him if he could drive as slowly as he could. I think it was because I was in no rush to go back in the ‘fun palace.’
Doctor Gibbon had opened the surgery on this Saturday afternoon to see me personally. Now that’s what I call a National Heath Service. I was in such a state of confusion, apparently, that when she asked a question I drifted off mentally. I can vaguely remember mumbling away to myself as I sat cross-legged on the doctor’s couch.
She gave me a large red tablet to take. This was to stop me getting any higher throughout the rest of the day. She also gave Bill a second tablet in a brown envelope for me to take at 9.00 p.m. that evening. Bill said he would make sure I took it. The whole week-end felt surreal, even more so after taking the medication. What a result, my doctor’s being open on a Saturday! I really was a punnet short of a strawberry that day. Doctor Gibbon asked me if there was anything else I needed or wanted.
I thought for a moment, this being the only question I actually understood, and said, “Well, I could do with, a good, hard, shag.” In complete control and with only a hint of a smile she replied, “I’m afraid we don’t that on the N.H.S.” At the time I was totally oblivious as to just how funny that must have sounded. Months later Bill reminded me of what I had said and we fell about laughing. It was nice to know that I still had the ability to make people laugh.
I lost the rest of Saturday and the majority of Sunday to the powerful medication I was given. Bill contacted my Mum to explain what had happened at the surgery. She was back on my door-step the very next day. I had completely lost the plot this time. For reasons best known to me I decided to put some of my tools in the washing machine and turn it on.
Can you imagine the noise! God knows how long they were in there clanking around before Mum switched it off. I, of course, was totally oblivious to the row, thanks to the high I was on. From what I can gather, the best way to describe how I acting was to watch a four year old child at play.
As usual I had lost all concept of time, and was totally reliant on other people. It’s a wonder I didn’t start a fire, as I smoke. I guess I had a taste of what some people would like to experience again, a second child-hood. It’s a shame I can’t remember more of those seventy-two hours, perhaps its better I can’t. I sometimes wish, when I hit a low spot, the whole twelve years of my illness had been like that lost weekend. As it is, I will remain mentally scared for the rest of my life.
I awoke with a start early on Monday morning after having a nightmare. I had dreamt that I saw my Mum was dying. She looked surprised to see me presenting her with a cup of tea but I wasn’t to know it was half-past-five in the morning. I gave a sigh of relief to see my little Mum was still breathing. The next twelve hours were hectic to say the least.
Prior to Mums’ arrival I had become obsessed with colour co-ordinating my clothes, all of which I separated to those of the armed forces, from khaki through to navy blue. I put the trousers on hangers followed by the shirts and then their jackets. Any other tops or T-shirts that were left over I rolled up as you would a flag and placed them on a work-top next to the kitchen sink. At this point everything had to be spotlessly clean and tidy; I also polished all of my shoes and boots, putting clean socks in each pair.
I had stumbled into another fantasy, now believing that whatever colour top I had on in the morning was the service I had secretly been drafted into. If I saw someone in the street with a similar colour scheme as mine they were also in the same force. Because this would have been a hush-hush operation, I was left to guess as to what rank the other people held.
On this one particular day I had put on a white T- shirt and a pair of navy blue jogging bottoms. I was convinced I was a Naval rating who had been granted shore leave. So where would I go with my imaginary forty-eight hour pass? That’s right, the nearest grog shop.
Days earlier I had finger-knitted a wrist-band made from white string. This was something my dad had taught me to do as a boy. Basically, it was a means of shortening a length of rope. I just adapted it for my own purposes. I tore off a segment from a matchbox and wrapped it around a solitary match. Then I poked it through the plaited twine.
As I pulled the wrist-band back into shape the string gripped my make-shift source of ignition. With this in place I turned the band around so the match and its wrapping faced my wrist and just touched the palm of my hand.
My reason for this elaborate process was obvious, but of course only to me. Although I was on shore-leave it occurred to me that I may be called upon to do a four-hour watch, well you would wouldn’t you? Christ knows where of course, the nearest ship was bloody miles away. Still you never know somebody might have gone down with scurvy on HMS Belfast!
Anyway I wasn’t going out without a fag on me, so I tucked one behind my ear. I was in a world of my own, where it seemed my subconscious had overridden my conscious mind. I can’t even remember where my Mum was before I went walk-about. I do however recall my personality changing from a serious mood to a jovial one and back again, as if someone had flicked a light-switch on.
At this juncture my imaginary furlough began to merge with a new fantasy. In my head, clear as a bell, I heard the voice of Paul McKenna the hypnotist. I was now under his control, something that was to occur again. Not only could I hear him, I could even feel the weight of his arm through mine as he led me into the car park of the flats where I lived.
“Hold up,” I said, “where are we going?” “Oh, just a little stroll,” he replied smugly. “But I don’t want to go for a walk thanks.” I said in disbelief. “Well just try and stop yourself then,” he answered with a chortle.
So I tried to turn round, my upper body moved but my feet were firmly stuck to the pavement. The fantasy hypnosis was incredibly powerful. Try as I might I couldn’t break free from its grip. I heard Paul say, “Okay, okay, I’ll give you a sporting chance. After the count of three I’ll release your feet, ready, one… two… three…”
Part four next week…
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