Once upon a time there was a perfectly sane princess, who was locked away by her evil step parents, in a Dickensisen esque institution. In this awful, ex-prison, overflowing with incredibly sick patients, conversing with Jesus, whilst insisting their devotion to the church of Satan.
Locked away, where I shouldn’t be, lacking a companion to engage in the simple necessity of conversation. Staff attempted to talk to you, but without fail Mad Margarette would attempt to enter the men’s corridor, smoking and they would dash off to prevent her attempting to have a nap in one of the male rooms. Or crazy Kat would torment some innocent target. Or Nit Picky Gerald would call an ambulance. I could go on.
I allowed my parents to visit on day two. Desperate for them to see this was far from appropriate. My drug addiction, ADHD, self medicating, nothing to do with the reasons for having me locked away, would be addressed. I hoped home treatment would be agreed and would have refrained from daily intravenous drug use to have assured this. Instead of taking me out of this hellish prison they reinforced their lie that their cruel actions where nothing more than a mirage, created by my poor sick brain. As they were kind loving people incapable of such hideous actions.
My heart and soul sunk. They didn’t even have to admit to it, but the lies broke me a little bit more each time.
I was there as I believed they we’re surveilling me. I have evidence of people tracking my movements and evidence there was some kind of sick Big Brother CCTV installed in my home and theirs.
Upon me looking out my window or leaving my house the local community would snap into some The Trueman Show type acting.
What my sick family was doing was big. Big enough to have me locked away unlawfully.
I decided to make the most of my time imprisoned in this institution by spending my time using ethylphenidate intravenously psychosis free (bar the annoying niggle via my bedroom window… Yeah psychosis, only from outside my window! Yeah that’s authentic! Go Mum and Dad).
Upon admittance I was rather annoyed that I hadn’t attempted to hide my works. I did my ethylphenidate which was firmly placed in one bra cup, and my benzos, placed in the other. I simply refused to have the doctor do the medical, claiming I was too upset. This allowed me to go to my room. There on I hid this in my food packets.
However due to the amount of time the real crazy’s required from the staff, sneaking some fresh works in was child’s play.
Day one I inhaled the ethylphenidate from my bra, after my parents and their refusal to remove me from this hell. Then when the works arrived I went straight back to my 1 gramme daily intravenous habit. To be honest, without this helping me through this unbearable misery, without a doubt, suicide upon discharge would have been inevitable. This saved my life.
The ethylphenidate numbed the indescribable aching cascading from my heart, through my veins, to each millimetre of my skinny, malnourished body. I kept hearing my mother’s lie to the doctor and social worker ‘SHE THINKS I’M FILMING HER’. How I longed for ‘yes we’ll treat her at home’ instead.
My mother shouted her lies to the people responsible for removing my freedom unlawfully. I found my mother tended to shout a lot when it came to telling lies. Unlike my father who would faff around in an anxiety ridden haze before moving on to ‘Let’s Shout Coz We’re Crap Liars’.
This hurt. Like most junkies I’m where I am because I struggle to cope with huge amounts of pain in my less than perfect life. Creating more hurt will definitely not encourage me to use more. Nope no. I’ll definitely stop using. Yeah right that’s sarcasm.
I was able to use freely bar the odd annoyance when in my bedroom. So simply I often used and left immediately to prevent this annoyance. Having seen my father, brother and his girlfriend or how I like to refer to them, Sir Cuntalot, Fat Cunt and Nice But Dim, walking back to the car park and the odd noise whilst in my room.
I now realised why they had been so eager to see which room I was in. So they could continue to torment me whilst locked up exactly where they wanted me to be.
But bar this pathetic attempt at making me think I was mad, I was ‘psychosis’ free and banging up more than when I was on the outside.
Weird how my psychosis can be turned off by shutting a window or leaving a room. Yeah psychosis! Go thickos!
Karma was watching over me though. Whilst the three Cunt-a-teirs tormented me, my mother suffered a heart attack (because of me she would scream in my face at a later date). After being subjected to their cruel actions this gives me immense pleasure.
Anyway psychosis over back to the nut house. After day one and my parents realisation this was not a suitable place for a junkie, I would get no treatment over my ADHD, self medicating, addiction therapy etc. a man in a dressing gown appeared.
Labelling him another nut nut, I spoke to Dave, a long termer with a section 17 implemented meaning day release. It was only when, much later, he was playing music in the smoking area did he catch my attention.
The lyrics of a garage tune I remembered. I started singing along. It was followed by a favourite, ‘Do You Really Like It’ by Pide Pipper and the MCs.
I sang each lyric with Nit Picky Gerald getting more and more excited with my ability to sing along.
‘What else you got on there’ I said approaching. He had a few garage tunes I loved and my theme tune! Stan by Eminem. I demanded he played the latter.
‘Coz that shit helps when I’m depressed
I even got a tattoo with your name across my chest
Some times I even cut myself to see how much it bleeds
It’s like adrenaline the pain is such a sudden rush to me’
He introduced himself as Steve and seemed impressed at my version of Stan, belting out both Dido and Eminem.
Steve, like me, there for an overdose. Like me, benzos. He had fag burns all over his hands from stubbing out his fags. He had real moments of what sincerely appeared to be real depression and did seem a genuine patient until my discovery upon discharge.
Steve entertained me with tale of his cocaine fuelled past, joined me for an evening joint daily and spoke of his time on Roehampton’s nut wars at Queen Mary’s.
We both shared a love of drawing and when not smoking a sheet of A4 could pass away an hour of time. Which when in a place when time stood still, meant more than I can give it credit for.
I wouldn’t have questioned Steve if it wasn’t for Glen who appeared the day after, overdosing as well!
They did provide a welcome break from the shuffling brain dead other in mates.
Steve even wore my onesie for a joke.
After one week I was finally given leave, and Friday discharged.
As I waved goodbye to Springfield I also waved good bye to my freedom and privacy.
As you’ll know from my previous Springfield Spy post, Glen’s story didn’t add up. Then I found his spy book.
Then the penny dropped. My parents realised Springfield wasn’t suitable, there was no other ‘normal’ people like me, and two people who overdosed turned up.
Neither Steve nor Glen denied my initial accusation of them being spies.
So welcome to my sick world. I’m sure you can share my sentiments of hatred towards my family.
I will never love them again.