17. Chlorpromazine

17

Chlorpromazine

 

They say that the definition of insanity is ‘doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results’. I can, with some degree of experience tell you that this however, is a complete nonsense. Insanity, sure enough could cause you to do this but to limit it like that is insensitive and naïve.

         In my experience, insanity is when fantasy (or delusion, paranoia etc.) cannot be separated from reality in a person’s mind or to be more specific in this case, in my mind.

          For months after Paul’s murder, I’d suffered increasingly disturbing psychotic abnormalities. The never-ending river of blood in my kitchen and the hallucinations at work eventually made way to insomnia and (to my surprise) spider-themed psychosis. I’m not sure why, I can’t make any obvious connection between what I’d done and spiders but sure enough that’s the thing that began to torment me.

           This particular form of psychosis started on a cold, lonely Friday night, less than a month after Rachel had left. I lay in bed looking at the ceiling and in one corner, noticed a large spiders web had appeared. The web consumed my attention as soon as I saw it, simply because of its mass. It hung in the corner around the equivalent of a king size duvet. The two overriding emotions I encountered at this point were surprise �" because of its supernatural size and fear. I’ve never really suffered from arachnophobia but the proportions of the web unsettled me, it stood to reason the spider responsible for it was the size of a coffee table and as my eyes �" panicked and anxious, darted around the room, I realized the only place this eight legged monster could be was under my bed.

          Dread’s icy grip seized me; I lay awake for the entire night, frozen still. Beads of cold sweat lingered on my forehead. I was terrified by the thought that as soon as I closed my eyes, it’s long legs would slither out from underneath me. Pulling its huge, hairy bulk from beneath the bed and clamber on top, its weight pinning me down. I pictured its many eyes staring into me, its fangs bearing down on my torso. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t real, I knew it was ridiculous but that never stopped the fear from being anything other than tangible and pure. Night after night the webs began to branch out and it wasn’t long before my entire ceiling was covered, leading to a long period of severe, fear driven insomnia.

          Insomnia is both a result of and direct contributor to insanity. When suffering from it, you are never truly asleep or awake. Instead you live in a state of limbo where reality and dreams are experienced in exactly the same way. Strange things occur and you have no idea how much of what’s around you is real, how many of your experiences actually happened. For me, by day every inanimate object seemed to take on a personality, constantly staring at me knowingly, accusingly. An inescapable world enveloped me, in which I was a heinous criminal and everywhere I turned, the finger was being pointed in my direction by accusatory chairs and judgmental curtains. By night, my room �" or any room I’d be in, became a spider’s nest, giant arachnids waiting in the shadows for me.

           Eventually, I began to research medicine for my condition, in my more sanity filled moments, I’d spend hours reading texts and searching online for a solution to my problem. I longed for the old me, the sane me. I wanted him back, wanted to get rid of this paranoid idiot that was now residing in my body. After weeks of dedicated research, I singled out the drug Chlorpromazine. An antipsychotic medication used to treat a range of psychological mishaps. I didn’t want to go through the process of being prescribed it, which would be risky, I felt. Having to let someone into my situation, give them freedom to roam around and investigate my mental state would be a mistake; I had to obtain the drug without going through psychoanalysis. My only real option then, was to obtain it illegally. Dan eventually became my dealer and now the only contact I have with him is in order to buy my next batch of pills. I have no idea how he gets it for me and if I’m honest I don’t want to. I don’t want to feel like an accessory, it makes it easier that way.

           It’s eight-thirty in the morning, the day after I’d phoned Dan from my garden shed. His flat is a rough flat situated in a rough part of town and I positively detest having to meet him there. The end justifies the means I tell myself as I stride up the dilapidated, urine scented stairs to his flat door. Dan now makes a living entirely from the distribution of illegal (or illegally obtained) drugs, this has changed him somewhat over the years and the squalor he lives in suits the current version of him, a ruthless, manipulative, untrusting shell of a man. Many times, I’d contemplated prescribing the drug to myself in order to be able to cut him out of my life completely. Each time I’d mulled it over however, I’d concluded the professional risk to be too great. Nothing is bad for a psychologists’ business quite like being medicated for insanity. Thus it remains our dirty little secret, ‘off the books’; the one remaining tie that keeps us together.

           His flat door is not only unlocked but slightly ajar, not hugely unusual. Dan keeps his “produce” in a separate, secret location and this is well known, meaning he gets very little trouble at his home and security doesn’t need to be high on his agenda. I walk straight in, his small, dingy living room has its usual distinctive smell and his only furniture consists of a small coffee table and a two-seat couch. On the table is the usual assortment of drug taking equipment and paraphernalia, cigarette papers, a teaspoon, syringes, scales and a zippo lighter. On the couch a young girl is laying �" fast asleep, curled up tightly in a ball. She has what I presume to be a small amount of dried vomit trickling from her mouth, her hair is greasy and her clothes look dirty. She looks as though she might have been pretty before she’d been ravaged by her need to have destructive chemicals in her blood stream. Her face now deathly looking, her cheeks sucked in below her protruding cheekbones, dark circles framing her lower eyelids. Once upon a time the sight of a girl like this may have upset me but over time, I’ve become desensitized to it and rather than standing to pity her I merely walk through to Dan’s bedroom.

           He’s asleep on his front, sprawled out on his bed next to a skinny brunette. Wallpaper hangs from the wall, clinging on by the skin of its teeth and the carpet is matted and disgusting, littered with various sweet wrappers and crushed beer cans. I attempt to wake him without a shred of guilt, it may be relatively early in the morning but this scene would be identical if it was 4PM. “Dan.” I say, slapping his cheek with incrementally firmer slaps. He groans and opens an eye, upon seeing me a wry smile curls one side of his mouth upward. “Mr. Evans” he sluggishly sits up and rubs his eyes, “it’s early,” he mumbles. “I’m on my way to work, I need my pills.” I reply hurriedly, Dan’s constant lack of vitality is a failsafe way of irritating me.

            The girl he’s with rolls over and in a whiny voice says “tell him to f**k off Dan, it’s too early.” Her skin is covered in a mixture of scars, blotches and tattoos; her hands are swollen and have a purple hue. Dan merely smiles, “Don’t mind her, she gets grouchy in the morning.” He pulls out a cigarette and puts it to his lips “She’ll do anything for a fix you know. F*****g slag.” He says, lighting the cigarette, pushing his bottom lip outward and exhaling the toxic smoke towards the ceiling. “And I mean anything.” He looks up at me with a disgusting look, that predatory look I despise. It reminds me of Paul all those years ago when he’d picked up Izzy and Sarah, causing a hatred for Dan to fill my body. A horrible smirk forms on his face as he looks at me, gesturing towards the girl, he says; “You know… if you wanted a go before you go to work.” He looks proud of himself as he inhales another drag of his cigarette. I sigh with repulsion; it’s always the same. I come for my pills but end up getting a showcase of how scummy he can be. The girl he’s with doesn’t even flinch, the fact he’s selling her body for the price of a hit of heroin almost seems agreeable to her. The whole tragic scenario disgusts and upsets me in equal measure.

          I pull a handful of crisp paper money from my pocket, “where’s the pills Dan?” I say ignoring his previous comments. I know the sight of my cash will motivate him a little; I make its appearance obvious. He looks at me, forcing his tongue under his bottom lip. “Have it your way” he sighs, getting out of bed and walking past me into his kitchen. I frown and look away as I realize he’s completely naked. He returns with a small clear bag of pills, I attempt to grab them but he jerks them out of reach just as I do. “Ah ah, money first.” He sings, holding out his empty hand. I place the money in it and he throws the bag up in the air, which I catch gratefully and immediately take two pills from. Dan sniggers at me. “You’ve got problems” he mutters, “I don’t even know what you see in them, I took a couple the other day and… nothing. Just felt a bit tired.”

         I’d never told Dan what they’re for and he’s not the sort to research it. “I’ve got to go.” I say turning and leaving his flat. Once back in my car, I feel a sense of calm come over me. In small part due to the Chlorpromazine entering my system but mainly the comfortable knowledge that I have the drug on my person, easily accessible.          

         I’d learned about missing my pills the hard way. Months after I’d begun to take them, I became complacent, thought myself healed and stopped. It took less than two days before my psychosis returned and it did so with a vengeance. I was awoken in the middle of the night by a sound at the foot of my bed. The whole of my bedroom was blood red and stood there, where the sound had come from was Paul. Staring at me, his face caved, as it was the last time I’d seen him, his body crawling with spiders. A pure horror consumed me and I screamed loudly, I bolted from my bed and out of my flat door, aimlessly trying to escape the terror. In my hurry I fell down the stairs and crashed my head against the banister. Blood poured and I ended up in hospital, the doctor told me I was lucky to have not suffered serious brain damage or worse. I still have the scar on my head, it serves as a reminder, a stern reality-check, that if I am to function even as a remotely normal member of society then I am to take this drug for the rest of my life.

            I often think that the pills are mainly placebo and whilst they are effective at stopping my delusions and insomnia, I still think about Paul most days. About Izzy and Sarah, the needless death of the three of them. Sarah’s body had never been found but I knew with some certainty that she was dead. I’d looked for her for years, on the system’s database, social media sites. Relentlessly searching for any scrap of evidence she was still alive. I’d given up after two or three years of fruitless combing through the various avenues. Tragically she was dead, like Izzy and I was one of the last people to see her alive.

              The investigation into Paul’s body and car, discovered on the disused business park, received very little media coverage and Amare’s recount was the last I heard of it. I speculated that the police already knew he was a killer; that he’d killed two young girls and maybe didn’t put too much effort into the case. Pure speculation on my part, whatever the truth I’d not heard from the authorities about it and this gave me a strong sense of relief.

            As I enter my office, I realize that in all the commotion of having to go to Dan’s place, I’d forgotten something. Something, I’d been looking forward to. Today is the day of my first session with Mark Barton. His file had fascinated me and since reading it I’ve been looking forward to beginning my work with him. I have no idea what to expect, three previous psychologists had tried to evaluate him and not gotten very far. The best conclusion they’d managed to offer is that he is perfectly sane but no possible reason, no suggestions have been offered as to why he’d done something so decidedly insane. Now it’s my turn and this intriguing case was an hour or so from walking into my office.

            Maybe it’s my own mental state, the insanity that sits relatively dormant within me, I’m not entirely sure but I have an incredible success rate with this kind of patient. I can relate to them and them to me, forming a bond, a trust that most of the time yields good results. Nevertheless Mark is lined up to be my biggest professional challenge to date and I relish the thought.

          The time passes quickly and before I know it the phone on my desk rings, I answer and Becky on reception tells me “Hi Dr. Evans, I’ve got a Mark Barton here to see you.” “Great” I smile, “Bring him through.”  

 

 

Reviews

[AprilRN1210]

Yes! Informative, entertaining, and leaves with another little twist hanging.. This one has vivid imagery and nice details.. I really like this one!