Bloodletting Read Online Free Page A

four beds, each with its own chest of drawers, bedside table and curtain that could be pulled around for privacy. I was to discover that while the curtain hid you, it didn’t offer any protection from the people who talked constantly, in their sleep as well as in their waking hours. Nor did it protect you from those who were simply curious.
    I was asked the usual health questions. Had I had any major operations? Was I allergic to anything? Had I had any infectious diseases? They asked for my medication. I was also asked if I’d brought in any sharp implements.Why would I do that? I thought, I’m trying to get away from those things. They know that. A psychiatrist who would assess me more fully would be coming in later. In the meantime, I was told to stay on the ward, either in my corner of the room—a space of about one and a half by two metres—or in the common area.
    Contrary to what I had imaged, the common area wasn’t filled with people dribbling and muttering to themselves. Instead, five or six women sat on plastic-covered chairs and sofas.They watched television in a rather half-hearted way, read old copies of women’s magazines and Reader’s Digest s, and talked quietly in a manner that suggested they didn’t want to disturb anyone else. Most of the women in this peach-coloured room with its matching floral curtains were in their sixties. It was strange to see them, dressed and looking perfectly well, sitting patiently inside on a cloudless, sunny morning.
    This wasn’t what I had expected. My immediate reaction was, I’m going to be really bored. It hadn’t occurred to me to think about how I’d fill my time once I signed in.
    I was also trapped. I was now, of my own volition, locked up. I was not to leave the ward, let alone the floor or the building. I wasn’t allowed to duck down to the shops. I couldn’t go for a walk.This was particularly galling as exercise was probably my only ‘appropriate’ way of coping with stress. I’d never quite been able to get rid of the idea— which first surfaced when I stopped eating as a teenager—that if you didn’t exercise every day you’d get fat. Just like that. Sometimes I could ignore it but the more unhappy I was, the more it recurred.
    It was strange being in a hospital where you could get out of bed— indeed where you were expected to do so—but where you had nowhere to go and nothing to do. On Monday, I was to find that there was plenty to do.There were groups to attend on anger management, medications, coping with depression, dealing with anxiety. But on the weekend most people, if they could, would get overnight leave and spend the time with their families, or at least arrange to go out for a meal. For those who stayed behind, the two days dragged on endlessly.
    What had I done? I still didn’t believe I was sick. I was perfectly healthy, just unhappy.What was I doing in this place full of sad, lonely old women? How had this happened?
    Late in the day, the consulting psychiatrist turned up. The doctor who had arranged for me to be admitted wasn’t taking on new patients, nor was she a visiting specialist at this hospital. I couldn’t imagine how she’d got me in. Now this slight, well-dressed man in his fifties, Dr G, was going to take over my treatment.
    Dr G asked me to tell him about myself. As usual, I left out the bits I didn’t consider anyone else’s business, such as my love life and my mistrust of the medical profession. I was too embarrassed to talk about sex or relationships, and only touched on drug use. I circled around issues and expected him to read my mind, pick up on clues. He scribbled down notes but didn’t make any comments.
    At the end of our session, he asked me to sign a contract: a list of ten points, things that I would agree not to do during my‘stay’.These points included not harming myself, either with a blade or in any other way. I wasn’t to harm anyone else, nor was I to leave the ward without