Return to the cupboard of broken toys — Part 1

Andy Lamb
Andy Lamb
Aug 23, 2017 · 4 min read

GAME-CHANGER

I am pretty upset that I have lost all my friends. I didn’t have many friends back in the Regiment. Not many really. But I have lost the ones I did have. And I really need friends now. I mean, real friends. And I have no friends. None. I have no friends. I have been crying again. I cry quite a lot.

It is October 1979. I am 22 years old. I am on Ward 9 of the Military Hospital in Woolwich. I am a mental patient on the psychiatric ward. I am wearing a wrist-band with my personal details on it.

I have finally woken up. When I arrived I was not very alert. I was like a zombie. I guess I was pretty unwell. I was nestling in the comforts of my own personal oblivion. I was hiding in my black-hole. I was nothing. But I needed to wake up. I needed to stop wasting my life. I really, really need to stop wasting my life.

Instead of the comforts of oblivion, now I take comfort in the banal routine of the hospital. Tea-trolley. Breakfast. Volleyball. Day-Centre. Lunch. Ward-Group. Day-Centre. Supper. Tea-trolley. Every day.

Except, I have to have one-on-one sessions with the Doctor. I don’t take comfort in that. It is very stressful for me. I don’t like that. Sometimes I sit and say nothing. He wants me to take responsibility. No-one else will.

I like to lay on my bed, reading. I can draw the curtains around and have some privacy. I can be in a cocoon. I can lose myself in the fantasy of the books I am reading. But not too much. If I stay in here for too long, one of the medics will come and find me. Then I have to join the other patients and play scrabble. I am not allowed to hide in the cocoon. Not ever. For me, that is pretty harsh. I have to play scrabble.

Actually, I am pretty good at scrabble. I can beat any of them. Ha ha ha ha ha!

I am a tea-trolley volunteer. I collect the trolley from the catering station at the end of the corridor and bring it to the ward. Then, I have to return it afterwards. I make sure to save any left-over tea bags or coffee powder or sugar, so we can use it on the ward. The medics are impressed with my initiative. I even do a sweep of the other trolleys. We have a good lot of tea and coffee in our little kitchenette.

Three months ago I was Bombardier Lamb. I was in the RHQ Troop of 94 Locating Regiment. I had a career trajectory. I was going to get promoted to Artillery Clerk. Then, in due course, I would become a Chief Clerk. Then, later still, I might even get a commission. That’s how it would go. Keep working hard, take courses, get promotion. All the way up. I could even end up a Major. That is what happens to the brightest and the best. I could be one of the brightest and the best.

But none of that is going to happen any more.

It still hasn’t sunk in yet. I don’t really appreciate what a complete life-changing event this is. What I am doing is getting used to the routine of the ward and living my day-to-day life without thinking too deeply about things.

They are never going to let me get away with that.

The doctor and my keyworker-medic are trying to get me to understand the new order of things. Without telling me outright. They are trying to make me see all of my old ambitions are dead-and-buried. Gone-and-forgotten. My past is dead and my new future has yet to be written.

Part of the problem lies with the other patients. Not that I am blaming them. Many of them also have a complete lack of understanding about their new condition. Their circumstances. The things that we have to live with now. One lad can’t wait to get back to his unit. But he won’t be going back. He is so ill he’ll be lucky if they let him even go home.

We are all stupidly optimistic together. Whilst also being depressed and pessimistic. Isn’t that funny. I just can’t stop laughing about it.

Ha-fucking-ha!

One time, I am in Group over at the Day-Centre. The medic wants us to talk about the future. For me, that is actually quite hard. I can’t manage to visualise my own future anymore. I am beginning to realise all the things I wanted for myself are now permanently out of reach. It is so hard to think about what my life is going to be. I cannot conceive it. I am a patient, wearing a wristband, on the ward in the hospital. In many ways, that is enough for me. Quite enough. That should be enough for anyone. It is certainly more than enough for me. Perhaps too much.

One morning I get up. I have a wash and get dressed to go down to the hospital canteen. That is when it suddenly comes home to me. My past has been cancelled and my future has been cancelled. No new future has been written yet.

I am wandering down the corridor, under-escort by my key-worker. He is trying to converse with me, but I am paying no attention. Instead, thoughts are circulating in my mind. I start shaking and have to sit down.

I lean against the wall. I am familiar with this. I am having a panic-attack. I have had these for over 10 years. Since I was at school. Since I was in training. And here we are again.

I am having a panic attack. And it doesn’t go away. I am sitting against the wall until some more medics come to get me.

I am very, very upset.

)

Andy Lamb

Written by

Andy Lamb

As a youth Andy Lamb Served in the British Army. He is now a museum curator and studies musical instruments.

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