Sarah Vaughan is Not My Mother: A Memoir of Madness by MaryJane Thomson Read Free Book Online Page B

doctors should try taking these drugs and see how it makes them feel.”
    I nod my head in agreement.
    â€œHmmm,” I say, rolling another cigarette, “my meds just make me want to eat and lie down.”
    Lester stands up, runs his hands through his hair, lets out a sigh, turns to me and says, “But isn’t that just how they want us, sedate, so we become stupid and can’t do anything and can’t talk? Hate talking to doctors.”
    Being in the ward creates a real them-and-us scenario. I don’t think that’s the intent, but when you are locked up and given meds that make you feel as though you have to fight just to get out of bed and function it’s hard not to think that way.
    Different people need different drugs for different reasons. A lot of psych drugs make me function very slowly, and make simple tasks such as strumming a guitar hard. They slow down my thinking and tense up my body, so I develop a resentment towards the mental health system, feel it’s not good enough, I’m being chucked out into the waste end of society, and other government-funded areas seem to get much better treatment. I am offended by the level of treatment I get. A high proportion of the staff, doctors and nurses, make me feel I don’t count and don’t matter.
    Waris comes outside with the pill cup and says it’s time for meds. I decide I don’t feel like taking them. I am about to spit them out when Waris says, “MaryJane, have you been taking your meds?”
    â€œSure I have. Why?”
    She sits on the chair next to me. “I’m just checking. You have been known to try and avoid taking them.” I decide I don’t want to get caught out so I swallow them back down.
    â€œNight, MaryJane, see you tomorrow.”
    â€œNight, Waris. Thanks for doing my fruit.”
    As she walks away I remember I was meant to ask for the phone. I don’t really want to text Rose and I don’t really believe what she’s telling me about AIDS is the truth.
    I turn into my room for the night. I sit on my bed and eat my apple. I can hear the voice talking to me through the chews, saying, “I can read your mind. I know you don’t think I’m coming but I am. You have AIDS. I’m coming to take you to a doctor.”
    â€œI have no lesions.”
    â€œPull your top up, I’ll show you.” I pull up my top. My eyes get led to my right breast and I see a mark.
    â€œThat’s a lesion,” the voice says.
    â€œIt doesn’t look like a lesion.”
    The voice speaks forcefully. I feel my head being compressed. “That’s because your skin’s been bleached so the lesions don’t come up the way they should. You’re really sick physically. That’s why you’re here. Those drugs are for your AIDS.”
    I stop chewing, cut a piece off the edge of the apple, and leave it on the sheet as an offering. I pick up my guitar and start singing, “How long will they kill our prophets…” The voice tells me I’m a prophet and that I can foresee the future, and that I have a deep and profound understanding of history through my ability to talk directly to God. I start singing about how the prophets get killed because they threaten establishments. Although this may be true, I don’t think that makes me a prophet.
    A nurse knocks on my door and says it’s getting late and I should stop singing. “No worries.” After she leaves I reluctantly put down my guitar. “We need to get you out of here. They interrupt your singing. Your singing is very important.”
    When I am in this state, it’s as if I’m occupying two worlds. I go between my intimate moments with the voice, where I sing and talk to it, and my relations with the real world. Indulging in my psychotic world can make me feel really good, as though I’m on drugs. Everything I see and hear has purpose and meaning. It’s no