Katrina and Dr Mazzner

Rob Harle

by Rob Harle

(An experimental poem in the form of random diary entries set within a frame narrative.)

Dear Dr Mazzner,                         Friday May 8, 1998

i phoned the hospital today to talk to you but your secretary told me you were on holidays for two weeks.

my medication doesn't seem to be working properly. sometimes the voices are screaming. i hope i can hold out 'till you come back.

thought i'd go through my diary to see what's happened over the past few years.

you told me it was a good idea to get my feelings out, remember? "Words on paper can help straighten out your head", you said once. i wonder where you are, enjoying yourself, what's a holiday like?

 wishes, katrina

PS: i'm still waiting to hear from the Church about an apology and compensation, remember your secretary wrote THAT letter?

                    ****************************************************

Personal Diary          18th March 1996

Today i realised i was still alive

the white-coats took me for a walk,

scents of the earth

early flowers and spring buds smiled,

neatly tended hospital grounds

how much i'd missed - did it matter?

drugged, strapped down, electrocuted

incessant blurred nightmare.

today i realised i was still alive.

the future?

memories, fragments of memories

deep-sleep clearing,

bits of someone's life - mine i guess,

was it a year since i went mad?

birds chirped and danced

darting behind happy hyacinths,

puffy clouds looked down - watching me,

would she fall?

the white-coats chatted at a distance

voices, memories of voices

but: no voices, no voices

Oh wondrous day - calm day.

but i was tired

i sat under a huge velvet fig tree,

my body, i still had a body

imagine that, a body that felt.

outside the hospital walls life was moving

cars in the distance, hummed

imagine that, to drive a car

fast - speeding along.

Personal Diary             26th  March 1997

Another year has passed

Clozapine - Valium - benzo haze,

rest,

walks,

talks with doctors,

getting strong day by day.

i help the gardeners sometimes

they don't talk to me much,

i've planted seeds, some grew

bursting into bloom - a miracle.

gardeners seem full of love,

i wonder if someone will ever love me?

many times in the black night, i wonder.

i wonder?

i'm not mad; I'M    NOT      MAD!

Doctor said i only have an illness

....S C H I Z O P H R E N I A....

big words are hard for me,

i wonder, did i ever go to school?

so i'd remember, i copied schizophrenia,

Doctor Mazzner left me in his room one day.

alone.

the green-coats always look at me funny

i don't trust them,

they tell the doctor my thoughts

so they can all plot against me.

trying to get rid of me,

secretly.

days drift into other days,

i'm getting strong.

Father O'Brien's voice has disappeared,

has he gone forever and ever?

Doctor Mazzner chased him away with Clozapine.

i'm leaving the hospital,

a room of one's own, in the city.

imagine, a room of my own.

i'm really scared.

Personal Diary              3rd April 1997

My own room, ooh ah!

the white-coats helped me settle,

they didn't have their white coats on today

they were incognito, undercover!

ha! ha! - we tricked the landlady.

Mrs Streng terrified me,

No parties! No pets! No noise!

her eyes made me feel cold.

i checked and double, treble checked

no hidden microphones,

no hidden cameras,

maybe they can spy on me through the TV,

"Cover it up with a cloth, silly".

Night time crept in my window,

i was alone

I can't remember being ON MY OWN before

fear lay me on the bed frozen.

suddenly light flashed my window,

i jumped and screamed

go away, go away.

another flash, cautiously i approached

i laughed and laughed,

my only window looked over a bus terminus

empty buses,

empty buses here and there

row after row of empty lonely seats

followed the driver into the unknown.

medication,

"Take your medication now",

i must remember to take my medication.

Personal Diary              16th June 1997

i cross days off my calendar

like crossing days off my life.

what is my life?

alone in a tiny room

no one visits,

no one,

no one.

only the white-coats to bring medication.

alone in my tiny room,

no one!

the empty buses tease me

i wonder where they go?

tomorrow i'll follow one.

Personal Diary              17th June 1997

Today i ran after the first empty bus,

ran faster as it disappeared,

around the corner

all sorts of people standing in a line

one by one they moved,

stepping into the blue monster,

i got on too!

i had money

the white-coats gave me some,

Clozapine - Valium - money - food,

"How are you?

"See you next week" - bye.

they hardly ever look at me

i don't trust them.

the bus purred along,

ooh, more passengers,

a man sat next to me

i froze.

"Morning" he said,

opening up a huge newspaper,

i should read newspapers too,

too many words might confuse me.

i should try to be like these people,

yes, i'll try.

"Where are you going?" i asked timidly.

"To work of course".

He didn't look up from his paper,

maybe i should try to work?

"How do i get a job?"

i gazed at the shops speeding past

a sign,

a sign in an office window

WORK VACANCY - Apply within.

i jumped up, squashed the man's paper

and rushed to the front bus door,

stop the bus!

the driver looked at me as though i was mad,

i'm not, Dr Mazzner told me

stop the bus now!

the driver screeched to a halt

everybody laughed,

i ran back up the street towards

the sign.


Personal Diary              24th July 1997

imagine, i've been working for five weeks

i cross the days of my calendar,

work close to my room

cleaning out the dirty, empty buses.

i work each night,

i'm not scared

all the lights are blazing

the empty buses haunt me though

the morning's passengers at home

with family, friends

with boyfriends and girlfriends

i wonder if i'll ever have a friend.

i can't talk to people,

they read my thoughts

hurrying away,

sometimes they laugh loud

sometimes they snigger.

i even bought new clothes

new hairstyle, ooh!

i look just like the passengers.

Dr Mazzner called yesterday

two white-coats followed behind,

i said, "The drugs make me too tired"

He said, "We shouldn't reduce the dose"

i said, "we must"

He said, "I'm worried"

i said, "Don't worry, i'm getting strong"

He said, "OK, just a small reduction"

the white-coats didn't say anything

just smiled,

sneaky suspicious smiles,

smirks.

Personal Diary            8th September 1997

ENERGY! ENERGY! ENERGY!

the Valium haze is lifting,

each day,

stronger and stronger.

Bang! Bang!

"Evening"

Mr Security Guard likes to frighten me

hits his truncheon on the side of the bus

"Don't sneak up on me!"

i tell him every time,

he roars laughing and marches off.

i find things in the empty buses

traces of lives,

lost property

i keep some things

my only link with people.

i hide them in my room

i found a black wallet today,

framed inside

family photo, some money, driver's licence,

imagine zooming along in a car

passing the slow blue monsters.

a family photo

a lady, two children.

i study the photo

and start to cry loudly

louder and harder

i woke up with the sun burning,

my window glass.

i had to destroy the photo

so i burnt it on the stove ring,

the plastic burnt my fingers

it stuck hot,

i couldn't get it off

i screamed out in pain.

"Everything all right?" growled Mrs Streng.

go away you old busybody

i screamed through my door,

then cried alone,

and cried

and cried.

Personal Diary           9th October 1997

ENERGY! had to use up energy

go for a walk

walk see Dr Mazzner

walk to see Dr Mazzner's hospital

yes yes yes.

when i leave my room

i hide my secret things,

i hide them in the oven.

never use the oven,

never learned to cook

i eat from packets and cans.

passing people fast

shops of people fast

cars and buses full of people fast

strangers strangers strangers.

an old man stumbled over the gutter

i leant over to help him

"Leave me alone", he grumbled

he wanted to be alone

i don't want to be alone anymore

faces bombarded me laughing sneering

reading my thoughts

i ran towards a lane way

crashing into a priest at the corner

looking up from the ground i screamed

"Father O'Brien. No! No! No!.

ice surged through my body

i choked on cold fear

"What ever's the matter my child?"

i screamed out, "Get away"

and ran off wildly,

through zooming cars,

knocking people over.

room, my room,

had to get to my room

i collapsed on my bed

Father O'Brien's voice penetrated my soul

wicked child,

you wicked, wicked child.

Personal Diary            15th March 1998

(recollection of 10th October 1997)

memories came back

not traces, not bits

huge chunks of burning memories.

foster parent's cruelty,

locked in tiny cupboards

starving for days,

being shuffled around like a thing,

never belonging,

never anywhere long enough to belong.

i longed to belong,

i prayed for help

NONE CAME!

NONE!

the agony of Father O'Brien abusing my body,

he'd force me to pray after he hurt me

he hurt me so many times

he told me to pray because i was wicked,

he told me the devil lived in me

my voices were the devil's voice.

Now Father O'Brien's voice kept screaming

i held my head

wicked child,

you wicked, wicked child.

i lay on my bed frozen with fear for days,

"Get your pills!"

"Get the Clozapine!"

i crawled across the floor

wicked, wicked child ha! ha! ha!

i'll make you pay for your wickedness.

tomorrow -  when we're alone.

i gulped down a handful of pills,

the lights faded

my mind numbed

the room faded into darkness.

Personal Diary           6th April 1998

i'm back in my room

months have gone, how many?

a blur

too many days not crossed off the calendar

i must start again

i'm still alive, how? why?

trying new medication - RISPERIDONE

they treat me like an experiment

i'm a person you know!

BASTARDS!

i can't talk to people,

i can't socialise,

i know i'll never have friends.

i can't watch TV

they all laugh and have fun,

i can't join in

they never answer me when i talk.

i bought a potted house plant,

a weeping fig,

i need some company.

i wonder if plants like people

i wonder,

weeping fig do you like me?


Personal Diary           6th April 1998

The buses come and go,

flashes of memories come and go

ECT fades my memories

...ELECTRO CONVULSIVE THERAPY...

big words still frighten me.

flashes of light now and then,

all my people links are gone

Mrs Streng must have stolen them

she spies on me,

steals my things when i go for walks.

i walk in the park each day

i talk to birds and flowers

i have to talk to someone.

Dr Mazzner's secretary typed a letter for me, she said,
"This will get an apology from the Church”,

i kissed the letter for luck

dropping it carefully in the post box

i'm feeling agitated waiting,

waiting, waiting.

i start crossing days of the calendar

again

i don't feel much pain anymore

sort of - just numb

too numb to even cry.

                ************************************************************

Cardinal Bell

The Church of Australia

GPO 666

Canberra ACT 2601

1^st June 1998

Dear Katrina,

Regarding the letter sent from Dr. Mazzner’s office concerning your claims of abuse by Father Obrien we can find no evidence that you were ever abused, sexually or in any other way, in the said Diocese. Therefore any claims you have against Father O'Brien and the Church will not be taken any further. They are clearly a fabrication of your imagination.

However, in keeping with the growing number of genuine abuse claims against the Church, which have been resolved in the claimants’ favour we admit that it is possible you could have been abused. We apologise if this ever happened and offer you the enclosed cheque as a token of compensation. This compensation in no way constitutes an admission of guilt on the part of The Church.

This matter is now closed.

Cardinal Bell

        

                            *******************************************************

Dear Dr Mazzner,                2^nd June 1998

finally, this letter arrived from The Church yesterday morning.

as you can see the lying creeps deny everything but still offer compensation? for me, reading between the lying lines, this is a complete admission of guilt by The Church.

i don’t care about the money offered but i now feel like a new person. a huge weight of false guilt for all these years has suddenly been lifted from me. it has just vanished, GONE!

I know i’m going to get better now, i’ll see you next week to get some lighter medication.

wishes, katrina

November 2017