Free Sarah Vaughan is Not My Mother: A Memoir of Madness by MaryJane Thomson

am exhausted from all the talking and feel a little bewildered and alone. I fall into a deep sleep and am awoken by someone saying, “Lunch.”
    â€œI think I’ll pass today. I don’t much feel like it.”
    â€œOkay, we’ll save it.”
    Waris comes in. For the first time today I notice her bright orange top. She’s also wearing a red necklace. It looks as if it must weigh a tonne. She sits on my bed and says, “Are you okay?”
    I sit up and put the pillow behind my back against the wall. “Yeah, I’m sweet, just a bit tired.”
    Waris looks excited. ”We are starting you on new meds tonight.”
    â€œGreat,” I say sarcastically, “can’t wait. I just want to get out of here, Waris.”
    She puts her hand on my leg. “You will, darling, you just need to stabilise on these meds and let them work, and then you will need a period of recovery once you’re out of here.”
    I look away, frustrated. “How long will that take?”
    â€œIt’s different for everyone. Now, you know your mother is coming today.”
    â€œYeah, yeah, I don’t want her to—she’ll just get upset.”
    â€œIt would be really good if you could talk to her. She loves you, MaryJane.”
    I start to get out of bed. “I need a coffee.”
    Waris stands up and says, “What about lunch?”
    I screw up my face. “Nah, don’t feel like it.”
    â€œWell, maybe I take you down to the bakery later, when it’s not so busy. I have a lot of paperwork to do.”
    â€œOkay, that would be nice. I can get some more cigarettes and tomatoes.”
    Waris leaves the room. I feel better for having spoken to her.

4
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    The time of being sick seems to have extended forever. I have lost all semblance of an ordinary life. When I am low I sometimes get a great sense of loss, and I obsess over it to the point where it really screws me up. I start fantasising about death because that’s the only thing that brings a little hope.
    As I go to make another coffee the voice starts talking to me. “She’s not your real mother. You don’t need to speak to her.”
    â€œYeah, but I look like her, and I’m deaf and so is she.”
    â€œYou weren’t born deaf. They pulled out your eardrums when you were a child.” I start getting visual imagery of my eardrums being taken out, then aural delusions of my screaming with pain.
    â€œDon’t worry. I’m going to come and see you. I want you to text me.”
    â€œBut I don’t want to text you or ring you.”
    â€œWell, you can’t go back to your mother’s. She abuses you, and so does your father. She beats you up every day and your father used to rape you with a knife. That’s why you bleed—it’s not a period. You have never healed properly and you get bleeds from your AIDS. They hate you.”
    â€œI had a nice childhood.”
    â€œPeople with nice lives don’t end up in here.”
    I crouch in the corner of my room and cry, then I pick up my guitar and write a song, “My father, my real father”. I imagine I don’t know who my father is, so I sing to my first father, God: “He listens to me.” I write what I think a man who loved me might write. I have a feeling of real loneliness and inability to escape. The only way I can leave is to go home, and if what my voice is saying is true that’s not an option.
    I get off my bed feeling better for having written a song and decide it’s time for a coffee and a cigarette. I go into the dining room, which is packed. All the tables are full of people crouching over their bowls, protecting their food. I squeeze through to get some coffee. Mark is eyeing me, making sure I’m not taking the Milo.
    I fill up my cup by the nurses’ station and make my way outside. I see the P30 sign in the car park and take it to mean I should smoke three