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Sneak Peak: Chapter excerpt

‘Finding Humour’

This wasn’t my first rodeo in the psych ward. Years ago, I had checked in for mania—what they politely called an "elevated mood."

I was now in week three, riddled with boredom. I decided it was time to stir the pot a bit.

Boredom was rife in the wards, and the mood disorder wing sat right next to the drug and alcohol unit, practically begging for some unhinged interaction.

Nurse changeover happened just before dinner, a sacred ceremony where the nurses huddled in the staff room, locked down tighter than a nun's habit. They would exchange case notes about our latest escapades and medication adherence. I could practically hear the gossip brewing, bubbling over like a pot of overboiled potatoes.

I’d been watching their routines over the past week, making detailed notes. Having a history of staying in institutions, I possessed the pre-planning skills of a criminal plotting a home invasion.

Timing our window of opportunity, I rallied the motley crew of fellow inmates.

First up was Allan, a lanky bloke with barbed hair that resembled a hedgehog in a wind tunnel. He was perpetually high on OxyContin, the hillbilly heroine of the hospital, always ready to crack an offensive joke at the most inappropriate moments. He wore a medley of Lynx competing with the odour of his manic perspiration.

Allan sported an AC/DC T-shirt and khaki track pants, sagging at his hips. Revealing an alarming amount of bum crack.

Next to him was Jenny, a pint-sized dynamo in a pink short nightie; she was a member of the sex addiction support group. She would softly seduce the men in the unit, flirtily asking them to help her with anything on a lower shelf, flashing her lack of underwear in the process.

And let’s not forget Doug, the self-proclaimed “king of snoring,” shuffling about in plaid pyjama pants that had slipped halfway down, showcasing an abundance of hairy pelvis which he would scratch with a dissociated look upon his grey middle-aged face.

With the dream team assembled, we sprang into action. I scrounged up whatever we could find—coffee tables, musty corduroy couches, and even a stack of vinyl cushions I’d compiled for a soft landing.

The cameras only covered the hallways; I’d already sussed out their vantage points from the live footage you could easily observe behind the medication window.

The lounge room buzzed with excitement as we transformed it into a makeshift obstacle course. The winning team would snag first dibs at the vending machine—a treasure trove of Picnic bars, Cheetos, and Mountain Dew. Junk food nirvana! I had also "borrowed" some paint from the art therapy room and hula hoops from the hospital gym.

We went full football team, painting our faces, reveling in the spirit of a bunch of over-medicated supporters.

With a gold-framed photo of Pope Francis on the lounge-room wall, waving as if bestowing his blessings upon our rebellion, I figured we had divine approval.

We arranged the couches in a U-shape, creating the perfect course. Each player had to leap over couches, dive through a hoop held by the most catatonic patient, Karen (now a reluctant hula hoop holder), and execute a wide starfish jump onto the pillows I’d previously arranged on the floor. Extra points for height! The course included a drop and roll onto the polyester-floored hallway, an army crawl past the linen cupboard, past the warden's office, and a stealthy manoeuvre required right under the nurses’ noses at the station.

Just as we were about to leap into battle, Nurse Ratshit, the Irish head nurse—our resident fun-smasher—appeared, clipboard in hand. With hands on her wide hips and eyes narrowed to slits, she resembled a pit bull that had just caught sight of the mailman.

"Ah, what in the name of all that's holy is goin’ on here? For the love of Mary, what in the blazes have ye done to this place?" she snapped.

Allan, loaded up on enough lithium to stop an elephant, laughed and pointed at me. “Jo, geez, she’s a funny bugger!”

Nurse Ratshit dragged me off to my room by my dressing gown collar to the end of the corridor, but I didn’t mind. I fist-pumped the air, basking in the cheers from my fellow inmates.

I’d had my Jack Nicholson moment from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, with less rebellion and a whole lot more laughter. And in my manic state, I was convinced Pope Francis was chuckling all the way from the Vatican.