Memoirs of Ashes
Greetings, reader.
This is meant to be an introductory page. Or whatever one calls the beginning of something I hope you will not forget. Here I will put down a few thoughts of my own. They may well resonate with yours.
They say education begins at home. That a child learns by observing. That is true. But a child also learns, for the first time, what a relationship is. As for myself — I was taught to lie. Not because I did not know how to tell the truth. Because my lies pleased them. When I lied, I was theirs. When I told the truth, I was a traitor. And I came to prefer lying. Why? Because it was easier. Lies built trust quickly. My truths were bitter and they drove away the very people I could not afford to lose. I have always hated losing. People or otherwise. The moment I have no reason to fear, I become anxious. As if everything will end the next moment, as if it will all be over. That feeling — the dread — I chase it. It puts me at ease. Some things are beyond redemption. Such as my preference for anxiety over calm.
Growing up taught me nothing is permanent. What comes, goes. I learned the misconceptions we have about attachment. "I love you, so I will stay." No. Sometimes one must let go. It is never easy. It is an art. It may be painful at first, but you do not know the peace that comes after.
No amount of reassurance can give me the peace I crave. I never let anyone know what I am thinking next. I have been through thick and thin, through days and nights that would curdle one's blood to merely imagine. And yet you will always see me smiling. People tell me they cannot believe it.
That is why I became a psychiatrist. Not to cure. To translate. To sit opposite people who also smile when they should not. I do not keep case files. I keep accounts. These are some of them.
March 14th 1985…
I've been called to Esquirol in Saint-Maurice for a modest consultation. An adolescent, now a criminal. He had been under restraints for four months. He had put two staff members in the infirmary and anyone who had tried to interview him. According to the court he was a minor, mentally disturbed and absolutely needed to be under supervision. I handed the dossier back to the nurse without reading it.
I never underestimate my patients, though I never encourage them to think they are above me either.
There is an art in opening a disturbed person's door: If you open it too fast, it is deemed threatening. If you open it too slowly, the creaking will disturb the person on the other side into thinking you are a predator. Predators are never fast. They are slow, precise, and undoubtedly accurate. I had no intention of appearing as a threat, nor as a predator that day, so I simply opened the door as one would when entering one's own house. As I stepped inside, the orderlies were already working the metal locks behind me with a sharp jingling of keys.
Well — the boy was even taller than I expected, lion-faced, his face marked with old dermatitis artefacta at the temples and jaw, his nails bitten to the quick, a healed slit through his left eyebrow.
I walked, not too fast, not too slow, and sat down opposite him. I kept the clipboard the nurse had handed me earlier face down on the iron table.
"How was your day?" I asked, loud, too cheerful for a white padded cell. I could tell he was completely caught off guard. His eyes twitched. No answer. A disappointment, but I consider it progress.
"Aw, no reply, I see." Then I tilted my head to the side. I quite hate being professionally formal with clipboards and pushed-up glasses. But before I could question him, he spoke.
"Are you here to tame me too, doctor?" he asked with a disdainful downturn of his mouth. He thought I was some regular psychiatrist who would jot down his every minute reaction and call it therapy.
"I thought the word was civilize," I said, leaning back with an easy smile. His bound wrists twitched at the sound of my voice, which considering the situation was too light-hearted and unprofessional.
"Never mind." I cut his thoughts short. "I would like to ask for your name, since I didn't read your file."
He seemed very skeptical. After a tense moment of contemplating he finally answered, "Why?" It was clipped and defensive.
I shrugged and crossed my arms over my chest. "Because I don't believe a man's history can be stamped onto a few pages."
"Anything you do here won't make a difference to me," the boy said flatly after a moment, his jaw set in a stubborn line I wished to erase.
I closed my eyes for a moment. This one doesn't let me inside his head, but one thing is clear: he doesn't want to discuss what has happened to him, what's inside him, nor does he want anyone's help.
They say he's gone. I'll believe it by judging the five wishes I asked him to write by tomorrow.
Revirement — a change of mind.
March 16th 1985...
My schedule kept me away. Again the same routine. Polite smiles, nods and greetings. Again that door. And again it closed behind me, orderlies putting the lock back in place.
I was handed the parchment on which he had written the wishes I asked him for before I entered. I thought the day might never come — I'll admit this about a patient, no less — but... He did not have a bad hand. In fact, it looked well thought out and slightly exaggerated with those twirly ends to his letters. They told me he had been particularly aggressive today so they had fed him Haldol, so he was conscious but his eyes wouldn't focus. But I went inside anyway. The actual thing was, I was looking into the psychology of the room. Once my very wise senior said — "The madman's furniture is his fixed idea made visible."
The first thing that I noticed was... well. The cell was correct. That's the first wrong thing about it. Walls untouched with filth or any scratches with nails a few of the patients would have, the tin mug, the low stool next to that cot parallel to the door on which he lay unmoving. The iron table is perpendicular to it. The boy treated the room like he was about to leave yesterday. Second wrong thing about it — I can't tell if he lived here for four months or four minutes. Even if a few of my great pals here would jot — the patient presents no furniture disorder. But I believe that — Disorder lies in absence of disorder. Third wrong thing about it that is like an itch from a mosquito I can't scratch off my skin is — I don't know if it was deliberate. The first thing he wrote was — The lights never turn off. He wrote lights never turn off as his first wish, not food, new clothes, not even freedom but light. I caught myself smiling again. Most patients would ask for a window. But he asked for darkness. Because here in Charenton, the light is not for utility. It's supervision. When they say 'light out' in Esquirol, they mean they turn off his light so that they can see him better in theirs— So he had done what any adolescent would — he had stopped believing in the night. If he cannot make the light disappear, he cannot make himself disappear. I will not turn it off. If I did, he wouldn't be so patient after all. The only sign of paranoia I had detected in him was — to whatever I say, he always replies at least five seconds later. Paranoid people are usually loud and overwhelming, but he isn't. The second wish was his food. They feed him some bouillon which grows a skin by the time it reaches him. There's a small line by the boy just beneath it — "It looks like they washed the floor with it." I would later ask him to elaborate on this wish. I get it, that's not the most ideal meal you would like to have but this is Esquirol. Charenton. He's saying I don't know the difference between his meal and stale brown water.
Apprivoiser — to tame.
March 17th 1985…
The sound of my alarm pierced my eardrums. Dawn had not yet broken, but I could hear footsteps in the hallway heading towards the cafeteria. I shrugged off the blanket and placed my feet on the floor, feeling the cold of the linoleum. After freshening up and changing my clothes, I emerged from the logement, crossed the corridor and exchanged a few polite nods directed my way. Upon arrival at the cafeteria, most of the lower-ranking psychiatrists deliberately avoided my gaze. Some purposefully adjusted their uniforms or looked at their breakfast to avoid appearing rude. So, everyone knows what the foreigner is here for. What a great way to start the day indeed.
I entered his cell again. He was seated at the edge of his bed with a glassy expression. Looks like the effects of Haldol have not worn off yet. Anyway, I chose to sit beside him at a respectful distance. Sitting at similar positions is a direct way to enforce familiarity. It keeps the patients from feeling inferior, but I wanted to test him.
"Your second wish, as you have written... was the food. Do you want a change of food or a chef?" I asked the boy lightheartedly. I doubt if he can comprehend anything in this state.
"You aren't going to turn them off, right?" he asked groggily, not looking at me.
I raised an eyebrow in amusement. "What exactly?"
"You know exactly what I am talking about."
I tilted my head to a side. "You know right, that's not possible."
"You asked me to list five things, but didn't give me your word that you'd make them true." His tone was undoubtedly accusing.
"That was part of my practice. By the way, how do you think I assess my patients?"
"By observing them."
"Not entirely. I empathize with them, I observe them, then I get into their heads."
"You can observe me, but not get into my head. What have you discovered about me?"
"That's a secret," I said and pulled out his neatly folded list from my breast pocket, scanning the contents. "Elaborate on your wish about food."
"I want them to eat it first before serving me." The boy said gravely, finally turning to look at me.
My eyebrows rose slightly, not in surprise. "That's one hell of a wish you are asking for. And why do you think they would do it?"
He turned his gaze to the stone floor. "That's the point. They won't. They can't. Eating it means getting stripped of humanity itself."
"Did you eat that?"
"I tried to... because I was starving. And I don't wish to die like that." He said in a dull voice.
I noticed that the boy was slack today, maybe from the sedative or resigned from his earlier rowdiness.
Soi-disant — so-called.
March 18th 1985…
It was clear, even to an outsider, that I could not humour his wish for special food. The least the institution could grant him was an extra egg or bread. Insufficient, but sufficient when your suppliant is a patient.
"The infirmiers talk to me as if I am a dog" — his third wish. Quite immature to be verbally sparse with someone who is in an asylum and needs consolation. That's what I said in the staff meeting on Sunday. I even got nods of approval.
I cannot expect a change in the boy if they don't allow a change in themselves. They need to mend their ways, at least their vocabulary.
Today as I entered his cell, the atmosphere in the room was calmer than before, less suffocating, more adequate.
I sat down on the chair opposite the table, he was sitting at the edge of the bed, lost in thought. I let the silence settle for a moment.
"Tell me about your upbringing." I crossed one leg over the other, waiting for his answer.
He took his pause, as expected. Slowly he started, "My mother had a dovecote. When I was a child, she tasked me with culling weak chicks to feed the wolves."
He was calm, "Cruelty can reveal facets of one's personality. Did it never bother you to dispose of them?"
He shook his head slightly, "At first, yes. Then, I learned to master my remorse. It was natural selection in her eyes... I agree with her on this point, feeding weak birds is a waste of resources."
"And your father?"
"Bourgeoisie... he was a fabric trader."
"Was?"
"He is deceased."
"Oh, my apologies."
"Doesn't matter," his mouth curled slightly. As a doctor I knew when to stop.
"They say you put two staff members in the infirmary, is that right?" My fingers drummed at my knee.
"They were forcing me to answer questions I did not want to answer," he said as he wrapped his arms around himself. I looked away respectfully.
"You should've mastered your rage like your remorse."
He sighed sharply, "I cannot control my temper. I get agitated very easily."
"I'll figure out why." I said, then closed my eyes.
I heard his shuffling from the side of the cell so I opened my eyes and saw him moving and straightening his bed with the edge of his palm, meticulously.
I find it a contrast to his actual nature. "Do you have any hobbies?"
He didn't look my way, engrossed in his task, "Arts and piano."
My eyebrows rose in amazement, "But you have not been seen in the common area."
He snorted, "After what I did to those two infirmiers, they locked me up, no going outside since they consider me too violent to mingle with other patients, and they stopped giving me objects, no graphite or paper."
The unavailability of graphite made sense. Some exceptionally creative patients tend to use anything as a weapon, even simple things such as a pencil.
"If I provide you a pencil, would you promise not to misuse it?" I asked straight away.
He paused in his doing. Turned to look at me with scorn, "Do I look mad to you?"
Bourgeoisie — comfortable middle-class /producers who think owning makes them decent.