A Tale of Pigs and Patients

On occasion, someone will ask me why I don't drink. If you know me well, you know why I don't drink (or shoot, or snort, or pop, or smoke). However, if you are one of those unlucky people who have yet to make my acquaintance, let me tell you a colorful tale from my unfortunate past which illustrates precisely why I don't (and can't) drink, or take any other mind-altering substance for that matter.

We will start this tale in the psychiatric ward. Yes, the psychiatric ward. This was not the first psych ward I had the pleasure of visiting, nor was it the last. I will spare you the details of how I got there because, well, because if I wanted to tell you my whole life story, that would be a novel, not a brief post on this here blog. 

It had been a few days since I was admitted, or maybe only one day (I can't really be sure - you can imagine my mind state). I started to feel antsy. You know, being separated from my bottle of gin and all. And this despite the copious amounts of drugs I was being dosed: Olanzapine, Loxapine, Clonazepam, Ativan, and that was just the beginning!

Suddenly, the thought (nay, the brilliant plot) entered my mind to leave the hospital and return home for a nice relaxing drink, and maybe I'd smoke a joint while I was there. After all, some gin-and-weed had always worked better to alleviate my symptoms than anything a doctor in a psych ward had thrown at me. 

Home at that point was a hotel room on Granville Street in downtown Vancouver. I was receiving welfare checks, which partly went to paying the rent for this room, and partly went to paying for "medicine". It was not a complicated accounting.

I tried using my sweet and helpless just-help-me-out-this-one-time-and-I-promise-I'll-get-my-shit-together look in order to retrieve my street clothes from the nurse. It didn't work. I guess I was starting to lose my charm. Damn it! That's okay, I would forge forth in my hospital gown. After all, it was warm outside, and an exposed backside might even feel nice in the cool summer breeze.

Next up I needed some bus fare. Again, I tried using my charm, this time with some fellow patients, to obtain the necessary change for transportation to my oasis. And again, I was dismissed like some kind of crazy person. Who did they think they were dealing with?! (I had forgotten where I was). No problem, I was ready to go to any lengths for a few moments of peace in my room on Granviille Street. So with hospital gown and hospital slippers (which would be more aptly described as paper feet covers), I put on my best I'm-not-up-to-no-good face and ventured down to the hospital parking lot.

Success! I had made it out of the building without incident. I looked around to make sure nobody was following me, then proceeded to quickly duck and dart between the parked cars until I made it around the corner and... out of sight. 

It was warm and sunny - just as I had anticipated - and the fresh air was invigorating (as much as a tranquilized schizophrenic could be invigorated I guess). Despite the sedation, I was surprisingly quick on my feet. Or maybe it just seemed I was moving quickly because everything else was moving so slowly. I can't be sure. Either way, I had made it to the Granville Street Bridge - I was almost home! While precariously crossing the bridge (nowhere to hide here), a wailing ambulance came up behind me. Yikes! "They're coming to get me!" I thought. But a few seconds later the ambulance whizzed by. Whew! It was probably on its way to St. Paul's with a near-death episode in the back and didn't have time to stop for a run-away loon. Thank God for real emergencies.

As soon as I made it over the bridge, I skirted into the alley. I always felt at home in alleys. Probably because they were dark and quiet (I favored closets as a youngster, likely for the same reason). Nobody to bother me there. Just other crazies like myself. And we all stayed the fuck out of each others' way. That was the "crazy code". Which coincidentally is also the "drug dealer code" and the all-encompassing "up-to-no-good code". Mind your own fucking business. That pretty much sums it up. 

There was an empty lot next to my building (it had been empty for years), and I sprinted across it, making the last few meters (or several feet for you confused Americans) to the front door. Relief was only moments away now! The doorman Peter, a short, dark-haired Yugoslavian alcoholic, greeted me with a confused look on his face. Maybe due to my hospital fashion, maybe just because that's what his face generally looked like. Anyhow, I turned the corner and there was my room - No. 1. That was me.

The half empty (or half full if you're an optimist) bottle of gin still sat by the window facing the empty lot. I poured it into a glass, because, you know, I'm a classy lady. Speaking of class, did I mention I used to pee in my sink? This did not seem strange in the least at the time. Let me explain. There was a toilet, but it was down the hall, all the way on the other side of the building. Not that I was lazy. Well, I was. But that's not why I couldn't (or wouldn't) make it down there. It's because I didn't want to see any people. And you never knew who you might run into in the corridors. Someone you owed money to. Someone you had fucked. Some lonely bloke who just wanted to chat. God, I hated people! In addition to this threat of confrontation, there was the more obvious problem of having to piss every twenty minutes or so. Because that's what happens when you're sucking on gin non-stop like a baby rat on its mother's teet. Speaking of rats... no, no rats, let's try to keep this story slim and trim.

So I settled into a comfortable haze. However, the comfort was short-lived. Paranoia kicked in. Or rather it resurfaced, seeing as how it had always been there. Like an old teddy bear that's old and smelly and you want to throw it away but you just can't because, you know, it's got some kind of sentimental value or something. Anyhow, I got the inkling that "they" were coming to get me. I had left the hospital with the idea that I would return home, have a drink or two, and casually walk back to the psych ward with nary a glance. Nobody would miss me. However, once I got settled, I didn't feel like going back to the hospital so soon. In fact, I didn't feel like going back at all. I had important shit to do, damn it! 

My fears, which turned out to be fully justified, caused me to pull out my pocket knife. I didn't have it with me in the hospital of course, but it was waiting for me in my room for just this occasion. In reality, I've never had to use it (to stab someone I mean) but it was a safety blanket, offering me a false sense of security. The blade was maybe five inches, nothing more. A utility knife of sorts. It could certainly do some damage though, if I had wanted it to.

I don't remember how long I sat in that room. Time did not exist. I was crouched on the floor in the corner, ready to sprint at any moment. Glass of gin in one hand, knife open and ready to strike in the other. Nothing, I mean nothing, was going to get between me and this "good time" I was having. They wouldn't take me alive!

Next thing I know, Peter is yelling at me through the open window. "Dita, you have phone call!" (He spoke without articles, as most Eastern Europeans do). There was a phone near the front desk that tenants could use to receive calls (couldn't make any though). You see, this was a time before cell phones. Well, not that they didn't exist, but they didn't exist in my world. No, my world consisted of pagers and payphones. I didn't answer. After repeated yelling, there was a subsequent knocking at my door (God, I hated people! Why couldn't they all just leave me the fuck alone?! Only the crazies left you alone. Only they knew of the hassle, the burden, the torture. God bless 'em.) I still didn't answer. Couldn't they see I was busy?!

Then four, maybe six, cops broke through my door. I couldn't make out for sure in my haze, but they appeared to be fully armed and ready for trouble. Really? "This is overkill" I thought to myself. "These guys are taking their job way too seriously". You see, in my delusion I was a damsel in distress (certainly not a dangerous criminal), and so I had assumed that an undercover officer, or two, would come to coax me out of my room, like a fox being lured out of its hole, and gently nudge me back to the hospital. After all, they wouldn't want to upset me, would they? I might frighten and make a run for it, causing them to lose their prey. Or worse, I might get all "crazy" and shit. 

But I was gravely mistaken. I was not a damsel in distress. I was no longer even a sick patient who desperately needed care. No, I had become a "subject, diagnosed schizophrenic, armed with a knife and possibly dangerous." What was happening here? They were reading the wrong script. Or maybe I was just on the wrong page.

One of them yelled at me to put the knife down. "Drop the knife!" After a few more failed attempts at convincing me through threats (not a terribly effective approach by the way - I'm talking to you VPD), they came at me in a well-organized siege. I can't even remember how many of them there were. It seemed like there were many. But I may have been seeing things. Can't exactly rule that out. Also, in the confines of my three-by-three meter room (that's about ten feet for you Yankees), four men could easily look like an entire squad. 

I didn't realize they had tasered me until it was over. Twice they tasered me (I only know this from the scars, not because I have a superb memory). I suppose the taser stunned me just long enough for them to wrestle me into handcuffs. Then they picked me up, one officer on each side, and forced me out of my foxhole and into the building corridor. I found out later they had evacuated that entire floor. Just for little old me. Now I really felt special. Finally, the world was acknowledging me! 

They sat me down in a smelly armchair next to the payphone in the common area, just past the corridor, where they proceeded to ask me questions for which I had no answers. Questions such as "How much have you had to drink?" Of course, I would never say "I don't know". That was not in my vocabulary. My usual response for this question (it wasn't the first time I'd been asked) was "A few. You know, maybe three or four". That had always sounded reasonable to me - three or four. Certainly nobody could hold that against me, having a "few" drinks? But my response was met with skepticism. 

I should state here that I never had any idea how much I actually drank. Case in point, I was at a boyfriend's apartment one day when I discovered a bottle of Canadian Club (whiskey) in the freezer. I immediately put on my "pretty-please-just-one" face and I was granted a drink. One drink. It wasn't even his whiskey - it belonged to his roommate. Of course, I didn't understand things like possession back then. If it was there and I wanted it, it was mine. End of story. Sure, I would play along and ask if I could open the bottle, but even if he had said no, I would've gotten my prize in a midnight freezer raid. I always got what I wanted, one way or another. 

My boyfriend was busy painting outside, not paying mind to what I was doing. After some time, I returned to the freezer to pour myself another. But wait, the bottle was empty! What the fuck?! Someone had stolen my (I mean, my boyfriend's roomate's) liquor! Who would do such a thing?! And why? And, most importantly, how? There was nobody around but me and my boyfriend. And he didn't drink. Well, I've come to realize (many years later), ladies and gentlemen, that I had drank that whiskey. In a blackout. Because most of my 24-hours were lived in blackouts. And when I wasn't in a blackout, I was in dense fog, where things were fuzzy at best.

Returning to my room on Granville Street, the cops continued their interrogation and - what I took to be - harassment. I didn't hesitate to tell them what I thought of their man-handling maneuvers. I wanted the whole building - no, the whole world - to know that I was innocent! In my version of events, I was just a sweet young lass sitting at home on a sunny afternoon, enjoying a cup of gin, when a band of rogues busted into my room and assaulted me (for no apparent reason), and now they had the gall to talk to me in a threatening tone! They should be apologizing, for fuck's sakes! Fucking pigs!! Of course, that was then. Today I realize they were just doing their job. And I was probably a really annoying part of their day. At best. More likely, they don't even remember me, because they deal with trash like that day in and day out. That's their thing.

At the time, though, I was pissed. The gin had reached it's peak of fury. Funny how booze adapts to the situation. Sometimes it would turn me into a sleepy puppy. And sometimes it would turn me into a raging pitbull. Today I was a pitbull. And it was their fault. Of course. Who else could be blamed? I was surrounded. They loomed over me as I sat in that smelly armchair by the payphone - four or six of them. So smug in their uniforms. A crowd of tenants had gathered in the common area to see what was happening. Everybody liked a good show. The crazier the better. Especially this crowd. The hotel was full of society's rejects, crazies of all shapes and colors. There were alcoholics, drug (mostly methamphetamine) addicts, and then the mentally disordered, which of course also included the boozers and meth heads. The whole place was basically a circus.

I had to do something. I had to let them know they haven't won! Not that easily! In one final vain attempt to prove my righteousness, I defiantly kicked over the battering ram they had leaned against the wall, not too smartly, within my leg's reach. I later found out it broke when it hit the ground. Split in two. Victory was mine! What I had won I wasn't exactly sure. But it was something, damn it. A small medal of valor. Sure, they got me, this time, but not without a fight. I'd show them not to mess with me. That's right, I'd show everybody.

We waited there together in the lobby - the cops, the crowd, and me - for a couple of plainclothes officers who were to take things over. You know, now that the "dangerous" part of the operation was over. Two guys finally showed up. I remember them as having mustaches, but that could just be the result of watching too many 1970's cop shows. One thing was clear. The plainclothes had a much friendlier disposition than the uniforms. They played along with me. They escorted me down the stairs, out the front door, and there we waited. I didn't know for what so I asked. One of them said we were waiting for an ambulance. Finally, some service! I asked for a cigarette and got one. Wow, these guys really knew how to treat a gal. Real gentlemen. I managed to grab hold of the cigarette with my right hand, despite my hands being cuffed behind my back (not because I'm super flexible, but because my diet of gin and crackers had taken me down to a slim-and-trim 45 kilos (do your own math, America). The officers laughed. And my mood lightened.

Before I had a chance to finish my smoke, an ambulance pulled up in front of the building. Two EMT's exited the vehicle and exchanged some words with the plainclothes. They then invited me to lay down on the stretcher so they could strap me in. Naturally, I protested. "No, no, I'm not laying down on that thing. I'm perfectly capable of sitting in the back. And that's what I'm going to do." But they were insistent little buggers. I don't remember how exactly they got me to lay down on that thing. Must have been some form of mind trickery. I bet they're good at that. They have to be. Dealing with riffraff like that all day long.

But I wasn't riffraff. I was different. I was just misunderstood. In fact, this whole situation had been a simple misunderstanding. When I got back to the hospital, I would explain to the doctors that I meant no harm. That I just wanted to unwind in my own space in my own time. That I had every intention of returning to the hospital after a few hours. I had just taken a "break". Nothing wrong with that, was there? Yes, I would explain everything. And all would be forgiven.

I threatened the EMTs that if they didn't let my friend Stephanie ride in the ambulance with me that I would make their job very difficult for them. "She's riding with me" I announced, "otherwise, we're going to do this the hard way." And so Stephanie rode with me in the back of the ambulance. Not sure if she wanted to, but it was too late. What could she do? I had already threatened that I would cause a scene if they didn't allow her to come along. It never occurred to me that she might not have wanted to come along. But that's what I did. I took people hostage. Much like my inability to understand possessions, I didn't understand that other people had their own lives and their own shit. That's how self-centered I was. Other people didn't even exist to me. They were all just disposable pawns on my chessboard. And I was the Queen. Naturally.

A scene broke out in the back of the ambulance when I caught sight of an EMT writing on a block of paper. "What are you writing?" I asked. No answer. "Are you writing about me?" Still nothing. "Because if you're writing about me, I have every right to know what the fuck it is you're writing!" After all, "I have rights!" I protested. Actually, at that point, my "rights" were probably quite limited. But my megalomania certainly wasn't.

When we arrived at the hospital, I insisted on being unstrapped so I could walk in. You know, with some air of dignity. But again, the EMT's disagreed. However, unlike the cops back at the hotel, they knew how to play the game. One of them said to me, "Why walk when you can be carried in?" And I added, "... like a Queen?" Of course! I'm sold! Those guys really knew what they were doing. They knew how to treat a lady.  Or rather, how to treat an inebriated schizophrenic.

Upon being wheeled into the ward, I started laughing hysterically. It had been a fine day after all. I got a little sun, finished off a bottle of gin, had a little scuffle with the cops. And now I was being returned to my rightful throne by my loyal subjects, who had gone out of their way (risked life and limb really) to get me back. Yes, I was home again...

Fuck, what was in that gin?!

Needless to say, the doctors and nurses didn't see things the way I saw them, they didn't sympathize with my plight. On the contrary, they decided it was best to lock me up and increase my drug dosage. Of course, being crazy as I was, this just fed my megalomania. You see, now I had my own room all to myself. Right next to the nurses station, so they could keep an eye on me. Yeah, I was special alright.

I lived on that psych ward for the next few months.

And this, this is why I don't drink. Well, one reason I don't drink. There are more reasons. But I'll tell you about those some other time.