The Dark Threads Read Online Free
Author: Jean Davison
:
Admitted from my clinic at St Lukeâs Hospital as an informal patient, where her history clearly indicated that she was suffering from a schizophrenic type of illness and had been for some months before. She had been abnormally preoccupied with questions of a religious character and was morbidly concerned about questions of right and wrong, to such an extent that she could not think in a normal way or live a normal existence. She was markedly introverted with gross flatenning[sic] of affect. She had obvious difficulty in concentrating and there was great lack of spontaneity.
Family History :
It seems likely that both the father and the mother are unstable persons.
Dr Sugden *
* Names of all medical professionals have been changed
CHAPTER TWO
H IGH R OYDS P SYCHIATRIC H OSPITAL , formerly Menston Lunatic Asylum, was situated about seven miles to the north of Bradford, on the edge of Ilkley Moor. Set in spacious grounds, surrounded by sprawling fields, there was once a self-contained community here where inmates could be kept out of sight and mind of the public. I didnât know what to expect as I walked up the long, winding driveway in the fading evening light, my father beside me carrying my case. A sense of foreboding ousted my curiosity as we rounded a bend, for there it stood: large, dark and drear. A Victorian madhouse. I clutched Dadâs arm.
On entering, we found ourselves standing on a tiled floor in a stark corridor with high ceiling arches. The air was thick with the smell of cleaning fluid and in the distance I could hear someone crying. A nurse directed us to Thornville Ward.
Thornville was brightly lit, and had potted plants, a radiogram, a TV, tropical fish and a noisy budgie. It was, I understood later, a âshowpieceâ ward. I tried not to stare at the occupants of the armchairs seated around the TV, but I was curious to know what these mental patients I had come to stay with were like. They looked like ordinary women, but I thought there must be some strange and terrible sickness lurking behind the façade of normality.
A dumpy nurse with straight black hair introduced herself as Sister Grayston.
âFollow me,â she said, waddling off down the corridor from the day room to the dormitories.
âShe looks like a penguin,â my father observed.
âShh, Dad,â I whispered back, grinning.
She took us to an oblong room, which contained several beds down each side.
âIf youâve got any valuables you must give them to me for safe keeping,â she explained. Her manner, like her white starched apron, was stiff and practical.
Sister Grayston left my dad and me alone. We sat on the hard bed with its crisp, white sheets and pale-green bedspread. I put the Lucozade my mother had given me on top of the small bedside cabinet next to the Gideon Bible and placed my old, familiar pyjamas, neatly folded, on to my pillow. What was I doing here? My itâs-no-big-deal attitude was fast deserting me and I wondered what would happen. But at least it was only for a week, I reminded myself. Only for a week.
âDonât worry, Dad,â I said, squeezing his hand because he looked upset. Focusing on him distracted me briefly from those stabs of anxiety inside me.
After Dad left, Sister Grayston took me to a room at the end of the corridor where I was weighed. I then had to give a urine sample, which wouldnât have been a problem if she hadnât stayed with me. I sat there, bare-arsed, on a commode-like contraption. My body tensed up in embarrassment, adamantly refusing to perform this natural function.
âYou said you could do a sample now,â she complained.
âI ⦠I thought I could,â I said, feeling myself blush.
We both waited in silence, expectantly. Nothing happened.
âAre you going to do anything or not? Hurry up!â she snapped.
I was thankful when she left the room but the sound of her uniform rustling told me she
Admitted from my clinic at St Lukeâs Hospital as an informal patient, where her history clearly indicated that she was suffering from a schizophrenic type of illness and had been for some months before. She had been abnormally preoccupied with questions of a religious character and was morbidly concerned about questions of right and wrong, to such an extent that she could not think in a normal way or live a normal existence. She was markedly introverted with gross flatenning[sic] of affect. She had obvious difficulty in concentrating and there was great lack of spontaneity.
Family History :
It seems likely that both the father and the mother are unstable persons.
Dr Sugden *
* Names of all medical professionals have been changed
CHAPTER TWO
H IGH R OYDS P SYCHIATRIC H OSPITAL , formerly Menston Lunatic Asylum, was situated about seven miles to the north of Bradford, on the edge of Ilkley Moor. Set in spacious grounds, surrounded by sprawling fields, there was once a self-contained community here where inmates could be kept out of sight and mind of the public. I didnât know what to expect as I walked up the long, winding driveway in the fading evening light, my father beside me carrying my case. A sense of foreboding ousted my curiosity as we rounded a bend, for there it stood: large, dark and drear. A Victorian madhouse. I clutched Dadâs arm.
On entering, we found ourselves standing on a tiled floor in a stark corridor with high ceiling arches. The air was thick with the smell of cleaning fluid and in the distance I could hear someone crying. A nurse directed us to Thornville Ward.
Thornville was brightly lit, and had potted plants, a radiogram, a TV, tropical fish and a noisy budgie. It was, I understood later, a âshowpieceâ ward. I tried not to stare at the occupants of the armchairs seated around the TV, but I was curious to know what these mental patients I had come to stay with were like. They looked like ordinary women, but I thought there must be some strange and terrible sickness lurking behind the façade of normality.
A dumpy nurse with straight black hair introduced herself as Sister Grayston.
âFollow me,â she said, waddling off down the corridor from the day room to the dormitories.
âShe looks like a penguin,â my father observed.
âShh, Dad,â I whispered back, grinning.
She took us to an oblong room, which contained several beds down each side.
âIf youâve got any valuables you must give them to me for safe keeping,â she explained. Her manner, like her white starched apron, was stiff and practical.
Sister Grayston left my dad and me alone. We sat on the hard bed with its crisp, white sheets and pale-green bedspread. I put the Lucozade my mother had given me on top of the small bedside cabinet next to the Gideon Bible and placed my old, familiar pyjamas, neatly folded, on to my pillow. What was I doing here? My itâs-no-big-deal attitude was fast deserting me and I wondered what would happen. But at least it was only for a week, I reminded myself. Only for a week.
âDonât worry, Dad,â I said, squeezing his hand because he looked upset. Focusing on him distracted me briefly from those stabs of anxiety inside me.
After Dad left, Sister Grayston took me to a room at the end of the corridor where I was weighed. I then had to give a urine sample, which wouldnât have been a problem if she hadnât stayed with me. I sat there, bare-arsed, on a commode-like contraption. My body tensed up in embarrassment, adamantly refusing to perform this natural function.
âYou said you could do a sample now,â she complained.
âI ⦠I thought I could,â I said, feeling myself blush.
We both waited in silence, expectantly. Nothing happened.
âAre you going to do anything or not? Hurry up!â she snapped.
I was thankful when she left the room but the sound of her uniform rustling told me she
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