Women of the Ward

By Leigh Malaihollo

The problem with obsessively trying to prove one’s not mad, is that it makes one look very mad. Well, that’s the case when you’re a patient on a psychiatric ward anyway. It’s like prison, where everyone is innocent. The nurse asked us if we would like anything from the corner shop she was popping to. I requested a notebook and pen. And cigarettes. And a banana Yazoo. I was going to prove to them how sane I was and win my freedom back but until then I was going to smoke every hour on the hour with the gaggle of mad women I was locked away with. Like birds coming home to roost, the women would start to gather near the door 20 minutes before the allotted time. Slippered feet shuffling, mumbling under instant coffee stained breath. If you went into a Psychiatric ward a non-smoker, you would almost certainly come out with a 20 a day habit. I recently learned that all mental health units have banned smoking altogether and I can’t think how I would have coped without that little slice of pseudo freedom. That 15 minutes of standing, usually silently, in the dank courtyard of an East London hospital, breathing in a taste of the outside world. If it weren’t for the fact I was wearing hospital pants made out of paper, and standing next to women with wild, unbrushed hair and darting eyes, I could almost imagine I was just on a fag break at work. Work. I had definitely lost my job by this point. My life lay in tatters around me.

I used the corner shop notebook to write furious letters to people. To my assigned Psychiatrist who kept insisting I was ill and refusing to let me out. To the Ward Manager for making me live on a corridor with women who had entirely lost their minds. Women who either mumbled incoherently or shouted obscenely, and never just spoke at a normal level. I wrote sternly to my friends for making me go to hospital in the first place and setting in motion the process that would lead to me walking into this place and not being able to walk out. Fast, furious writing interspersed with silent smoking and loud crying in my spartan room with piss yellow walls. When I realised no one was reading these important letters with the gravitas they deserved, I took to writing about the women around me. If I was to be trapped here, sane and alone, I would be an undercover writer reporting what I witnessed first-hand. I was journalist Nelly Bly in 1887, posing as a mad woman in the asylum. And here were my observations:

Francis, 60ish, as grey and as blunt as the knitting needles she carried. Heavy with wool, she stalked the communal area of the ward. She behaved like the self-appointed Top Dog of a prison block. She spat out nasty comments here and there, leaving a trail frightened women and bad vibes. “She can do one” I thought from a safe distance, a little bit scared of her. We came to blows very early one morning as I was helping a tearful, depressed and kindly Cypriot lady to turn on the communal TV. Francis threw sharp and humiliating comments towards the defeated woman, but I caught them, hurled them back at her and told her to fuck right off. She slinked away, later declaring to a busy ward “Never mess with Leigh before she’s had her cup of tea”. She aint half wrong, I thought. I had earned her respect.

It was the large urns of weak tea that kept me going throughout my incarceration. Bowls of brown-stained, clumpy white sugar invited tiny fruit flies to this awful party. But I dumped that shit into my cup without care. One morning, the urns were empty, sending me into a frenzy. I hurled a cup at them and yelled obscenely, attracting attention from the few women that were already haunting the area in their tired pyjamas. It was Tasha that quietly knocked on my door later that morning. “Piss off” I yelled from under my blanket. “There’s tea now, if you want it. You should come and sit with us, when you’re ready” Her voice was soft, measured and notably non-crazy. Why was she in here? Maybe, like me, she didn’t really belong here. But she didn’t seem angry about it. I noted that down in my book.

You could hear The Queen of Heaven before you saw her. A loud voice, pitched high “I AM THE QUEEN OF HEAVEN”. Then her face, wrinkled with a perpetual smile that engages her eyes. I have never met anyone happier than Ravi. It’s hard to determine her age because of this and her garish, bright make up appears to have been applied by a 6 year old child. Even Francis couldn’t dull her shine, try as she might. The only thing Ravi hated was medication. I, on the other hand, being an ex-addict, lived for the little pills handed to me from a small hatch twice a day. I loved the blue ones best. A larger hatch would rattle and open at 9pm every evening, and a nurse would serve us weak tea and buttered white toast. It was my favourite part of the day. I still feel a warm glow when I hear a rattling metal noise. It’s my own fucked up form of hygge. I anchored myself to these little routines, clung onto them as though they were old friends offering comfort. In days of nothingness, these little rituals were lifesavers. Literally. I began to like how being in this weird world of the ward was making me appreciate the little things in life. My friend Ellie had visited me early on and brought with her the practical gift of a pack of Primark pants to replace the paper monstrosities I had been wearing. That small gesture, so lacking in grand emotion yet so full of quiet & genuine care, bonded us as friends forever. I decided not to forgive her for her part in getting me admitted here, but to thank her for it instead.

Margaret was my source of light. There from day one to light my cigarettes in the cold NHS courtyard, hidden away from the eyes of the real world. At first, just with a little nod or a gentle pat on my shoulder. Then gradually and with the caution of someone who had been on the ward for a long time, she spoke to me. Her kind, Irish voice immediately put me at ease. Margaret. 60 or so, thick greying black hair in a ponytail, tall and thin, was always calm, always carried her handbag with her and always wore civilian clothes. I never saw her in pyjamas. She was a Mum, but her adult children didn’t care about her. This made me sad during visiting hours, when I could see her trying to smile through their obvious disdain and boredom. She gifted me with little gems of advice about the ward and how to survive it. She had indeed been here a very long time. I wonder how many other young women she guided through their brief stay in this alternate reality where she was a permanent fixture? Margaret. My source of reassurance, strength. My source of light

A woman from the outside world would visit the ward every Thursday evening, bringing with her a selection of Pret sandwiches. She would carefully place the sandwiches on the tables outside of the nurse’s office, settle herself down in a chair and quietly begin knitting. Never looking up from her task, never uttering a word to anyone. I never saw her smile. She wasn’t a medical professional. She wasn’t a patient. And as my mind could only comprehend those 2 categories of people, I had no idea how to place her in this world of the ward. But she placed herself there, every single week, without fail. The sandwiches were for us. Another little ritual we gathered for, anticipated with as much happiness as we could muster. This kind but oddly solemn gesture brought out the best in all of us. We all behaved very well when the mystery lady was around, so as not to frighten her away or appear ungrateful. This fragile treat was to be treasured. It was in the third week of my incarceration that I discovered that the silent, knitting lady was in fact Tash’s mum.

Tash, 20 something, hair tied up in a scarf, kind eyes and voice, usually in a dressing gown & slippers. Tash had the privilege of being allowed to cover the small window in her bedroom door with a scarf, so no one could see in. This was very much prohibited for all other patients, I noted. I was still trying to understand why she was in here long term. She was so...nice. So...normal. It was during one of the hallowed visits from her mum that she revealed her story to me, over a shared chicken salad sandwich. She was unable to live outside of a state institution. In the past, she had committed crimes, started fights, just so she could be arrested and imprisoned. This took me by surprise. Here I was desperately trying to get out of this place, but Tash could not bear the thought of leaving, of having to live in the outside world. A world full of hatred, racism, poverty, pain. I felt my white privilege more acutely than I had ever felt it before. I felt utterly ashamed of myself. I listened and understood. Here, we don’t have to face any of it...the crap jobs we hate, money worries, bills, cooking, relationships. All choice & responsibility is stripped from us. We are told when to eat, what to eat, when to smoke. We don’t have to get dressed, we can do nothing at all day long and not feel guilty about it. We can scream, we can shout, we can rage, we can laugh manically, dance in the corridors and proclaim ourselves to be Queens. No one bats an eyelid. There’s a certain freedom that comes from being locked up.

As the days went by, my attempts to escape from the ward became less frequent. The pen and paper that had shielded me from interacting with my fellow females became less important to me. Listening was working, the rage was dissipating. The wall of anger and prejudice I had built to keep them, these strong, loving women of the ward, away from me, this privileged, spoilt woman of the ward, that wall was cracking. We had all lived pre-ward lives. Jobs, titles, homelessness, abuse, addiction. Gentrification was charming the East London streets just outside of the hospital walls, but the ward itself reflected the truth of our society. Women of colour, working class and immigrant women comprised the majority of patients there. Women who had worked hard, tried to survive a deeply aggressive system and suffered the consequences. I began to feel lucky to be living with them, to share tea, toast and time with them. They were my soul sisters and we struggled against our demons side by side.

Eventually I was granted release, unlike so many of the women who may well still be living in the ward today. I used my corner shop notebook to pen goodbye letters to some of the ladies I had formed deep friendships with. I sat and talked and smiled with Ravi, grateful to be in the presence of this joyous Queen. I asked Margaret to keep an eye on a small yellow flower that had been growing, in the freezing February ground outside of my window. It had given me flashes of hope in the darkest hours. I told Francis how much I would miss her, and she gave me a purple woollen hat she had made me. It was itchy, which was perfect.

Years later, I think of them all almost every day. They changed my life forever, and I will forever feel bonded to them. I lift my voice and tell their stories because I love them. I love you Francis, your skill & strength. I love you Queen of Heaven, your joy and glitter. I love you Margaret, your kindness & resilience. I love you Tash, your intelligence & calm. I love you all and hope you have found peace of mind, and if you haven’t, I hope that you are fully enjoying the freedoms that come from being locked up.