From
Socks to Insanity
________________________
Patsy Scott
© 2012
All rights reserved
From Socks to Insanity
COPYRIGHT © 2012 Patsy Scott
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED OR
TRANSMITTED IN ANY FORM OR ANY MANNER,
ELECTRONIC OR MECHANICAL, INCLUDING
PHOTOCOPYING, RECORDING OR BY ANY INFORMATION
STORAGE AND RETRIEVAL SYSTEM, WITHOUT PERMISSION IN
WRITING FROM THE AUTHOR.
Contact Patsy Scott at patsy@thetoymaker. biz
ISBN-13 978-0-615-59087-5
ISBN-10: 061559087X
Privacy Notice
________________________
Some names have been changed to respect privacy.
PREFACE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
iii
1
5
11
15
19
23
29
31
37
41
43
51
55
61
69
75
81
89
95
103
111
120
121
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my husband, John Gilham,
who stood by me through all the bad times
and also to my dear friend Kerry Cain
who stood by John while he stood by me.
PREFACE
I wrote this book 10 years ago. It’s taken me that long
to feel ready to publish it. Although I take a light-hearted
look at mental illness, it’s a serious illness with serious
implications. It breaks my heart to hear of a suicide, even
though I tried at least three times that I remember. My
hope is that this book will help people who are caring for
someone with mental illness to understand a little bit of
what that person is going through and how to help that
person on their way to wellness.
Many people think that those who commit suicide are
selfish, taking the easy way out and leaving their loved
ones to suffer and grieve. I think that many suicides just
want to stop the pain. They can’t see the pain ever going
away and they can’t imagine living the rest of their lives
with it. For me it was my belief in Jesus Christ that
ultimately stopped me from trying to end my life. My
fear was that I didn’t know if suicides went to hell and I
couldn’t bear the thought that maybe, just maybe, I
would spend eternity in hell, in pain forever. Some
people suicide because they’re just so tired of thinking
about it all the time. They can’t make the thoughts go
away and those thoughts plague them day and night. I
would think about ending my life when eating my
breakfast in the morning, again as I showered, more as I
walked to work and so on. Many times I would say, ‚I
just can’t stop these thoughts and I’m so tired.‛
I mention my husband John in the book. He was my
rock. He ‘doctored me up’ after I cut myself and would
put me to bed, sometimes getting out his guitar and
singing to me to calm me down. As well my girlfriends
Kerry Cain and Marion Seguin listened to hours and
hours of my despair. They ‘babysat’ me when I didn’t
feel safe and on those days when I couldn’t get out of
bed, Kerry would come in and start running my shower.
As I was always watching money I couldn’t bear to run
the hot water and not use it, so I’d get out of bed and
have a shower. While I was in the shower Kerry would
make the bed. Now because the bed looked so nice and
tidy, I didn’t want to get back in and mess it up, so I
would be up for the day.
As much as possible, I have tried to stick to the events
as they happened. However, I was very confused and
muddled in those days, so events may not have been
exactly as I have reported them. This story is done to the
best of my recollection.
~ January 2012
CHAPTER
ONE
IT WASN’T CLEAR TO ME AT FIRST. I’d studied
him for some time and he looked just like a regular
person. I stepped up to him.
‚Hello,‛ I said. He didn’t reply. ‚Hello?‛ I said again.
‚Leave him alone, he thinks he’s a tree,‛ said Manny.
Manny was an obsessive-compulsive. He spent hours
every day making sure his chair was clean before he
could sit on it. Manny also believed he was John Lennon.
I studied him some more. He didn’t look like a tree.
He just stood there, arms outstretched.
‚Are you deciduous?‛ I asked. He didn’t reply.
‚Perhaps he needs water,‛ I said to John Lennon.
‚Trees need a lot of water.‛
‚Don’t be stupid, he just THINKS he’s a tree.‛
I looked again at the tree. ‚So, what kind of tree are
you?‛ The tree glanced at me. I paused to reflect. ‚You
know, you look poorly for a tree. I think you need
water.‛
The tree rolled his eyes at me.
I’m not sure where it started. I’ve spent long hours
reflecting on it and the best I can come up with are the
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socks. It seems to me that the socks were the definitive
beginning.
‚The kids are here for FIVE days and you’ve packed
only ONE BLOODY PAIR OF SOCKS.‛ My ex-husband
was ranting.
‚What kind of mother are you?‛
What could I say? It was true, I had in fact packed
only one pair of socks.
It had been a busy week, running my business from
home, moving into a new house, starting a new
relationship, running three little boys to and from school.
I hadn’t had time to do the laundry.
‚Any halfway decent mother would have done the
laundry and there’d be socks,‛ he said with finality. ‚You
NEVER pack enough socks for the boys.‛
It wasn’t the first time I had displayed such aberrant
behavior. I could see in my head the mother he wanted
me to be. She not only packed socks but also little snacks
in their packs, and kissed them goodbye on their
foreheads and told them to be good little children for
Daddy ... or maybe for Grandma, because the good little
mother would never leave Daddy.
___________________________
‚I think the tree needs water!‛ I shouted to the nurse.
She sighed and told me to leave tree alone.
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‚If you are a tree, then dogs will pee on you ... I hope
you’ve thought this through ...‛
Tree rolled his eyes again and John Lennon asked, ‚Is
my chair clean?‛
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4
FROM
SOCKS
TO INSANITY
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CHAPTER TWO
Sacramento, California
I HAD BEEN ADMITTED VIA AMBULANCE three
nights ago. I had taken a massive overdose and had been
caught in time. The experience had been humiliating.
My shoes were removed and I was given socks to
wear. Socks again ... I filled out endless paperwork,
signing my papers I couldn’t even read or had the
presence of mind to understand. They walked me down
to a ‘cell’ with a mattress on the floor. It was 4 in the
morning and the staff were tired. I was tired. I’d taken
massive doses of sleeping tablets and I badly needed to
sleep. There was another occupant in the cell, snoring
contentedly as I lay on my mattress with no blanket or
pillow.
I lay there dismayed, afraid, cold and so tired. As the
morning wore on, my roommate took pity on me and
gave me her pillow.
Finally I fell asleep, exhausted, emotionally drained, a
failure at even suicide.
At 6 a.m. the staff burst in the doors, turned on lights,
and ordered everyone out of the beds and into the
lounge. This consisted of one large room with one large
TV playing movies all day. Many people managed to
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find a small chair and try to sleep on it. Some people
were ranting away to themselves, some were ranting at
others. I was afraid. I hoped nobody would notice me.
The staff kept themselves behind bars so we couldn’t
hurt them. It seemed that many of us had been attempted
suicides. Many were lying on the floor trying desperately
to sleep, others were agitated and pacing around and
around in circles, only stopping occasionally to step over
a ‘sleeper’ or avoid another ‘pacer’. The pacers made me
nervous.
One young man, must have been only 16, in his
hospital whites, walked around and around in circles. He
looked confused. Like me, he didn’t know how he had
ended up here. As he paced, one of the floor ‘sleepers’
would roll over into the young man’s walking circle.
He’d stop, look very put out, step over the sleeper and
continue on his circle, each time stopping, looking put
out, stepping over the sleeper and carrying on. It didn’t
seem to occur to him to change his pattern.
I felt ill and I could hardly keep my eyes open, My
hair was matted and filthy from throwing up and my
chin and chest were streaked with black charcoal I had
been made to drink the evening before.
A ’pacer’ walked up to me, looked me up and down
in a discerning way, studiously analyzing the presence of
this disheveled woman in front of him. He stepped back
and studied again, a frown growing on his forehead. I
sensed he was about to tell me something of great
importance.
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‚You have a beautiful bone structure,‛ he said. I was
taken aback. It wasn’t what I was expecting. I took stock
to think of a suitable reply ... it didn’t happen. I grunted.
‚So do I,‛ he said. ‚Scary isn’t it?‛
Satisfied with this, he walked away and left me
standing there.
A staff member stood at the bars, surveying the
pathetic souls before her. A stout woman, one not to
mess with, she raised her voice and barked at us.
‚All right, you will stay in the room for the entire day.
You may NOT go back to your room, the doors are now
locked in your rooms. You will be provided with meals
at 12 and 5. You may watch videos all day, you will not
give us any trouble, nor will you give anyone else
trouble. We simply will not stand for it.‛
I got through the day by trying to sleep, interrupted
only by calling my husband and abusing him.
Apparently I consistently called him every two hours.
I somehow got the idea that I was going to be seen by
the psychiatrist at 10 a.m. and called my husband and
told him to be there for it. He duly arrived and was told
that appointments were not made for the psychiatrist and
they had no idea when I would be seen, or where I even
got the idea I would be seen.
Meals were served up on Styrofoam ‘to go’ boxes.
Lunch and dinner exactly the same. It didn’t matter to
me, I couldn’t eat.
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It wasn’t until 6 p. m. that night that I was seen by the
psychiatrist. An intimidating Asian woman who barked
questions at me, reminiscent to me of Nazi Germany.
‚Why you do it?‛she barked.
‚Ummm ... it was an accident.‛
‚Why you do it???‛ she demanded again.
I didn’t know what to say; apparently she wasn’t
buying the ‚accident‛ story.
‚Are you do it again???‛ she shouted at me
‚Oh no, no, definitely not.‛ At that moment, it was the
last thing I could imagine doing.
‚Are you sure you not do it again???‛ she barked
again.
‚Oh no, no definitely not‛ I assure her.
‚All right, go,‛ she says, and I’m dismissed.
My husband was called to come and get me and I was
required to sign some kind of discharge document saying
that I accepted liability for the $6000 fee for my one day’s
stay there if the insurance company refused.
I feel so tired. I’m within 24 hours of a massive drug
overdose. I can’t think, my head aches and I want to go
home more badly that I could ever have imagined. I
would have sold my firstborn child if they would just let
me go. I just wanted to go home.
Still, for $6000 I thought they could have given me a
pillow, and perhaps matching towels.
As it happened, the only thing they allowed me to
keep,were the socks.
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So ended my first experience in an American
psychiatric institution. Sadly, it wasn’t my first attempt at
suicide.
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10
FROM
SOCKS
TO INSANITY
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CHAPTER THREE
Timaru, New Zealand
My first suicide attempt was not one of my most
brilliant plans. I made a spur of the moment decision to
end my life by way of carbon monoxide poisoning. I
recall so clearly going into the garage, starting the car
and sitting by the exhaust pipe.
After a short while I started to become bored, so I
went from the garage to my bedroom, got a book I had
wanted to read, went back to the garage, sat back down
by the exhaust pipe and started to read my book.
I suppose it might all have gone to plan if I had taken
into account the fact that my garage was built for six cars.
In any event my boyfriend burst into my pleasant little
reverie, reading my book, gassing myself to death, and
ruined the whole thing.
‚What the hell do you think you’re doing??‛ he asked.
‚Umm, I was reading a book ... ‛ I showed him the
book as proof.
Ultimately it led to my introduction to the world of
psychiatry, where (primarily) men of great learning
interview the beaten and bruised remnants of society and
drug them.
‚Well Patsy, your attempt at suicide was unsuccessful,
not because you didn’t intend to do it, but rather because
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you’re not sound enough of mind to do it properly ...‛
This statement of course brought me little comfort. The
fact that I was not of sound mind made me wonder about
those people who had succeeded in killing themselves.
Clearly, those people were of sound mind.
___________________________
I was born the last of ten children. My mother tells me
I’m a virgin birth. Apparently the only virgin birth
because she always spoke of ‘your father‛ to the others. I
did, however, receive my father’s ears. Mother never
offered up an explanation for this.
My mother had been a war-bride, falling in love with
a dashing Air Force pilot while he was in training in
Canada. She threw her close-knit family to the wind and
came to join him in the cold hard Scottish society of cold
hard Central Otago in New Zealand.
Mother was a beautiful and vivacious woman, her
dark exotic looks contrasted starkly with the plain and
dowdy women of that time in New Zealand. Her accent
would have been enchanting, and the local community
expressed their fascination with her differences by
making fun of her. Mother quickly learned that ‘fitting in’
was extremely important. Because we were her offspring
and our happiness of vital importance to her, it became
essential that we also ‘fitted in’.
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As the youngest child, naturally, my much more
mature brothers and sisters of 4 through 16 felt it
necessary to make sure I did everything possible
absolutely correctly, according to their own personal
definitions of correct.
When I was 4, Mother had had enough of ‘fitting in’
with that community, as it apparently also meant
ignoring my father’s affairs. So shortly after their 20th
wedding anniversary, she gave him the gift of solitude.
Mom packed us up in the car and drove 150 miles north
to our new home. How she managed the logistics of this,
I don’t know.
I saw my father only a handful of times again in my
lifetime.
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TO INSANITY
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CHAPTER FOUR
OAKTREE WAS A LOVELY PSYCHIATRIC UNIT set
in the beautiful rural environment of Timaru, New
Zealand. It was a large square-shaped brick building
with the rooms to the outside walls and the laundry and
showers in the center. The rooms along two walls were
single bed units, and on the other two walls were double
bed units.
The rooms themselves were sweet and peaceful.
While they still had hospital beds, each room had
attractively patterned curtains, a peaceful picture (no
glass) and a nice little bedside table. Every room had a
view to the outside, which was lovely native ferns and
shrubs.
Oaktree could have been something of a sanctuary
from the world, if I had been in the right mindset.
The dining area was off the lounge room and
consisted of several little tables, seating four people each,
with fresh flowers on the tables. Meals were served from
the kitchen off the dining area and were quite tasty for
hospital meals. We always had a dinner, a drink and a
dessert. In the evening we were provided with hot
chocolate to help us sleep.
There were two small patio areas where we could go
outside and sit in the sun, to read or to smoke. Both had
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large fences but the restraining element of Oaktree was
fairly subtle. You could pretend you were there on a little
summer break, if you wanted to.
The hallway of Oaktree was long and in the shape of a
square. I became bored. Not because there was nothing to
do, but because I had such a limited concentration span, I
couldn’t stay focused on anything for more than a few
minutes. I paced around and around and around the
hallway, running my finger over the beading on the walls
in the pretense of dusting, hoping someone would notice
me and talk to me. I didn’t want to appear like I needed
them, so I didn’t make the effort to start a conversation.
In my journeys I came across a fire alarm. It was right
in front of the nurses’ station. I looked at it, touched it,
and the glass fell out. The nurses came running out,
shouting accusations that I’d done this intentionally, that
I really wanted the glass to slit my wrists.
Actually I hadn’t, but it sounded like a pretty good
idea.
The nurses believed my protestations of innocence
and allowed me to continue my ‘dust-walking’. I could
hardly believe my eyes when I came across another fire
alarm, this time far away from the nurses’ station. This
one wasn’t so easy to remove the glass, so I decided to
disassemble it. After I had successfully pulled it apart
with the help of my glasses as a screwdriver, I was in the
process of taking the glass when I looked up and saw a
nurse looking right back at me.
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I searched my mind for a plausible explanation and
was still working on one when they locked me in the
‘padded cell’.
I was horrified. I couldn’t believe how they had over-
reacted. After all, it was only a little piece of glass from
the fire alarm I was going to use to cut my wrists. I was
starting to cry when a staff doctor walked in and said,
‚That’s right ... just let it all out ...‛ I fought the
overwhelming urge to hit her, and she left.
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CHAPTER FIVE
MY MOM REMARRIED when I was 8. She always
told me she married again because I had nagged her
constantly for a father. I was later to overhear her talking
on the phone to a friend of hers; ‚Scotty said I’d never
marry again, well I showed him didn’t I? I married
within four years!‛
My stepfather had been great while Mom and he were
courting; the honeymoon between us ended fairly soon
thereafter.
My stepfather had a perfection personality, but only
where other people were concerned. His standards were
miles out of my reach. I was a lovable, friendly, messy,
quirky little girl who liked to go up and talk to strangers,
finding out their life stories.
My stepfather was highly critical. He found fault in
everything I did, and hardly a day went by when he
didn’t tell me I was lazy, thoughtless, useless or stupid.
Surprisingly, I believe my stepfather cared for me. He
simply showed it in a highly critical, extremely
destructive fashion.
He even found it amusing at times to point out how
stupid I was.
I remember once when I was 10 putting a sign on my
door that said ‚The times I have my room tidy, you never
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remember. The times I have my room messy, you never
forget.‛
When I came home from school he had turned it over
and written ‚The times you have your room tidy are so
rare I can never remember, the times you have your room
messy are so frequent I can never forget.‛ I can imagine
now how funny he thought that was.
As the years went by, I learned that his highly critical
manner wasn’t just for me. He was critical of everyone,
especially my mother. Mom brushed it off and didn’t let
it get to her, but between the ages of 8 through 14 that
was a skill I hadn’t mastered.
Even now as an adult, I would go to their home for
dinner and Harry would be picking at the way Mom did
this, or left that door open, or didn’t make the bed
properly. Mom doesn’t even notice. I still feel
traumatized by it.
I hated my stepfather.
___________________________
The tree looked tired. I had been sitting playing a
game of solitaire beside him.
‚Tree, can I give you a name?‛ Tree didn’t look as
though he cared too much one way or the other.
‚I think you’re a Poplar tree.‛ Tree looked perturbed.
‚Oh, okay then,‛ I said. ‚Are you a flowering type of
tree?‛ Tree frowned.
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‚No, no flowers ... okay then ...‛ I said.
‚Patsy, do leave David alone, you’re distressing him,‛
said the nurse.
‚Who is David?‛ I asked. The nurse nodded at tree.
‚Are you David?‛ I asked tree. He looked confused.
‚How can you tell he’s distressed?‛ I asked the nurse.
‚Patsy, you will have to go to your room if you’re
going to continue this,‛ she says ...
I decide to leave the matter alone.
Settling back to play cards, I hear a fuss in the
hallway. A new resident is brought in screaming and
kicking. It upsets me. I look at tree, he doesn’t seem to
notice. John Lennon walked in.
‚Hey, hear the new girl?‛ he asked me excitedly.
‚That’s a girl? Wow!‛ I was impressed.
‚What’s wrong with her?‛ I asked.
‚Dunno, but they’ve put her in the padded cell ...‛
A shadow descends over me as I recall the padded
cell.
‚So what are you doing today, John Lennon?‛ I ask
him.
‚I’m working on my new album,‛ he says. ‚I’m
thinking of calling it ‘Hard day’s night.‛
‚Oh!‛ I said ‚It’s going to be a great seller, I just know
it!‛
‚My boyfriend plays the guitar, you know,‛ I offer.
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‚He does?‛ asked John Lennon. ‚I’m looking for
another guitarist.‛
Thinking my boyfriend John would be excited about
this, I’m dismayed by his reluctance.
‚Why don’t you want to play guitar for John
Lennon?‛ I ask him.
‚I just don’t,‛ was all he would say.
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CHAPTER SIX
I HAD AN INTERESTING FAMILY. My eldest sister
was 17 years old when I was born, and probably tired of
seeing mother having more babies. At 17 the idea of your
mother having a baby is quite ridiculous.
My sister Sally was a mixed-up person in her younger
years. She loved us, and she hated us. We never knew
which one it was going to be.
As a result I was always nervous around Sally. She
had the most amazing way of saying something awful to
you in just the nicest way. So much so, you’d be nodding,
smiling and agreeing with her and days later you
realized what she had said about you.
As I grew older I was to learn to really admire Sally. I
was to learn that her life had been painful too, and she
had made every effort to learn from that and grow as a
person.
Sally and I spent many hours deep in conversation,
conversations that often resulted in my making positive
changes in my own life.
Naomi was my next sister, 16 when I was born, and
not long after that she left for the UK. I never really got to
know my sister Naomi, although I would have liked to.
She was a quiet introverted woman and I never knew
how to approach her.
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After Naomi came Molly. Molly was a very clever,
practical woman. I think she looked down on the rest of
us. We were never practical enough for her and she had
nothing but contempt for our flights of fancy. I always
admired Molly and often wanted to be her, but once
again, she didn’t hesitate to call a spade a spade, and I
didn’t want to find out I was a spade.
Laura was my favorite sister for years. Well at least
she frequently told me she was and I had no reason to
disbelieve her. She was beautiful and clever. She had
wanted to be a journalist but was quickly diverted from
this ‘unfeminine occupation’ by the Catholic sisters at the
school she went to.
Laura was a deep thinker. I often believe she thought
so deeply she became lost in her thoughts and we never
really got her back again. Some years ago she was
diagnosed as schizophrenic. Laura has never been the
same and I miss the old Laura terribly.
The saddest thing about Laura was she told me once
she was experiencing brain damage from the medications
they had her on to control her schizophrenia. I asked her
what she was going to do about that.
‚What can I do?‛ she asked me. The only other choice
she had was to go off them and then experience the most
horrifying of hallucinations.
Julie was Sister No. 5 and what a sister she was. Julie
was always absolutely full-on. Full of motivation, full of
energy, always with a wonderful idea about what the rest
of us could do to improve ourselves. It didn’t take long to
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realize that it was best not to mention an idea around
Julie unless I had absolutely decided to do it. Otherwise
she would become enthused and manage to drive me
nuts with my own idea.
Dirk was the first son of the family, quite a big deal
for a farming family in Central Otago, New Zealand at