ROZ III > THE KINGDOM OF OZ

Confinement of one form or another and a series of subsequent attempts to release me again seems to have been the key flavour of this year, so far. And of course the sensation of incarceration however subjective, can be just as painful and realistic whether the shackles holding the patient or perpetrator down were locked in place for his or her benefit or that of the wider society as a whole.

After a previous spell in a locked mental ward I’d promised myself I would fight tooth and nail to avoid that from happening ever again. Alas, it wasn’t all that long before my euphoric ravings and rage against what I perceived as disrespect or mendacity in the face of Truth saw me demanding to be placed in the psych ward as a number of ‘Code Black’ incidents in the Cardiac and Neurology departments had convinced me that it was no good trying to leave me to my own meandering mind movements.

What happened in Gosford Mental Ward was horrendous and fascinating, sheer hell and a very steep learning curve thrown in for good measure. It also came with a free psychology course. I will try to sidestep dwelling on the physical terror of a PD person such as I am being faced with strangely envious homocidal male fellow inmates as well as instantly smitten female ones, all seemingly utterly bedazzled by either my completely forthright fight for life or at a deeper level the recognition of something approaching a messianic or sainthood syndrome on my part. The things I saw in their eyes and the remarkable responses they tended to display – a lovely damaged girl singing ‘Oh, Happy Day’ for one example – as a result were nothing less than startling..

And whatever it was that I was carrying on my sleeve, many staff members too proved susceptible. And now? I feel a bit like Ray Liotta at the end of Goodfellows where day to day life seems safe and sober. So sober…