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SHE WHO MUST BE READ # 2

 

   MEMORIES ARE MADE OF THIS?

 

       (Written November 1993)

 
All the mental preparation in the world could not have made her feel comfortable about her next placement.  She had known it was on the agenda since her return, yet it had seemed far enough away to ignore.  Now it was well and truly on top of her, and she felt very uneasy about what it would entail.

 
Various ploys were attempted to take away the foreboding atmosphere, yet they achieved little. Continually reminding herself that she had been assigned to a different ward, where hopefully no one would recognise her, brought only small comfort. 

 
The building itself would bring about memories that were painful, and worse still embarrassing.  It was happening already, the colour rising in her cheeks, as a sudden reminiscence would leave her inwardly exclaiming, "did I really do that?" the answer always being positive.

 
Other members of her group shared her uneasiness about the next eight weeks- though their reasons were different, and less understandable (her own personal opinion of course) this part of the training had generally been known as the least popular, and caused fear and apprehension.  She had listened as her friends expressed their concerns, and found the ignorance and sweeping condemnation very hard to accept.  You'd think they were going to face aliens or savages from some isolated country, yet this was how many of them viewed the patients they were about to meet. 

 
Even reminding them that she had been one of them once did not alter their views.  This was simply met with replies of "that's different, it was only a minor illness and you're over it now".  It was also suggested that she should forget about it and not tell anyone else.  In some ways this was sound advice - she had to put the past behind her and look to the present.  Yet she also needed to remember - the isolation, the looks of fear, hate and mockery.  She knew what it was like to be on the receiving end,  and was in a very privileged position that needed to be exploited.  Yet the knowledge that she could actually be of use did not remove the selfish coward inside, who wanted to run a mile, or a marathon even, rather than return to the depressing house on the hill, that had proved a less than satisfactory temporary home some two years previously.

 

 
During 1993 I went to a creative writing course, and this encouraged me to "have a go".  This piece was written to show my mixed feelings about the mental health placement of my nurse training.  It was approximately two years after my stay in the local "mental hospital", and it meant me returning to the place as a nurse, instead of a patient.