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    Born Broken: The Mistakes That Medicine Made
    Born Broken: The Mistakes That Medicine Made
    Born Broken: The Mistakes That Medicine Made
    Ebook94 pages1 hour

    Born Broken: The Mistakes That Medicine Made

    By T.J. Wiltshire

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    About this ebook

    There have always been people who are different. Whether it is their sexuality, mental health, or their way of experiencing the world. Throughout history, perceptions of abnormality have changed for the better (much like fashion, though that hasnt improved all that much so thats probably a bad comparison horrible fashion seems to be cyclical, much like the negative attitudes towards difference).

    There are still battles to be won, but on the whole, attitudes and treatment have improved. The aim of this collection is to represent the misunderstood and challenge those who hold prejudice. They are set in different decades to show improvement of treatment, however minor.

    In these stories, the most important message is for those who can relate to the characters and/or situations and for you to know that things have gotten better, and will continue to get better still.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAuthorHouse UK
    Release dateFeb 19, 2014
    ISBN9781491894231
    Born Broken: The Mistakes That Medicine Made
    Author

    T.J. Wiltshire

    T.J. Wiltshire is currently studying Media Production at the University of Lincoln, UK. She hopes you enjoy her first book. She’s far too proud to admit that it was actually her little sister who came up with the book’s title, and that she couldn’t have written this collection without the help of a certain member of staff at her college. You can find her on twitter.com/tjwiltshire or tjwiltshire.wordpress.com

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      Book preview

      Born Broken - T.J. Wiltshire

      © 2014 T.J. Wiltshire. All rights reserved.

      No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

      Published by AuthorHouse 02/15/2014

      ISBN: 978-1-4918-9005-9 (sc)

      ISBN: 978-1-4918-9423-1 (e)

      Library of Congress Control Number: 2014902634

      Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

      and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

      Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

      Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

      CONTENTS

      1940s

      AND THE CREST OF SUBMISSION

      AND THE TAPS LEFT RUNNING

      1950-60s

      AND THE DENIAL OF ATTRACTION

      AND THE FRIENDS OF DOROTHY

      1970-80s

      AND THE FRIEND CALLED DEREK

      AND THE TWO SIDES OF A COIN

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      For Everyone

      1940s

      AND THE CREST OF SUBMISSION

      3290 DAYS. 3150 tiles on the ceiling of the dormitory, 5488 in the day room. Fourteen patients on the ward—Ward 51—including myself. My parents admitted me here because I do not talk. My captors think that means I am retarded; they all talk around me like I cannot hear them. I let them continue to think that, mostly because telling them would require talking, but also because being quiet benefits me here. I am seen as less difficult. I am treated with more leniency than the fat woman who thinks she is the Virgin Mary, or the old woman who shouts to the air. I live under a disguise of incompetence, yet I am intelligent enough to have figured out that the ward is supplied with its drugs every other Friday; the captors are more hesitant to stab at us when they are low on drugs.

      At 7:00 am, the grey dress with the white apron comes in to dress and wash me. Today, it is the nice nurse; she lets me dress myself once I shrug her away. I do not like people touching me.

      I am given the derivative task of sweeping, which I do invisibly. No one notices the mute with the broom. I sometimes clean the captors’ offices. I am good at sweeping. It takes me exactly 467 strokes; my personal best is 8 minutes 5 seconds. Under constant supervision. It drives the paranoid woman insane. She is normally dragged kicking and screaming to the padded room, and when she comes back she will be calmer for a day or two with new puncture wounds on her arms. The ones we all have: our crest of submission. The drugs we are given when we are difficult make your head foggy. You are disorientated for a few days. I do not like it.

      At 10:34pm, I creep out of bed so as not to wake the other women; I pick the lock with two hairpins I had lifted from a bad nurse, and slip out of the dormitory. I take my regular walk around the corridors, avoiding Night Nurse’s patrol route (which I had spent my first 4 nights here studying). I hear a noise I have not encountered before. It is a strange noise, almost a shuffling sound. I cling to the wall and peer around the corner: There is a captor with his back to me, trousers low enough for me to see his buttocks, and a nurse—the nice nurse from this morning—with her grey dress ruffled up around her waist. The captor pushes her against the wall. The nice nurse cries, but does not make a sound because the captor has one hand firmly clasped over her mouth; though he is the one making the peculiar noise. I do not like people crying. My mother tried to teach me how to comfort a crying person. I was not very good at it. The captor lets out a louder noise; it almost sounds like he is stifling a cry himself. I try to remember where I have heard a similar noise before… When the memory comes to me, I recoil and feel my cheeks go warm. The captor and nurse are doing sex. I remember the noise from when the woman from bed 12 had told everyone about her honeymoon. Noises and actions included. She had been taken to the padded room.

      I peer around the corner again, out of necessity, since they are blocking my route. The captor has gone, but the nurse sits on the floor, sobbing into her palms. Then, remembering my manners and my mother’s voice, I stealthily make my way across the thirty feet gap between us and sit down next to the nice nurse. She flinches when I tap her shoulder, and chokes as she looks up and sees me.

      ‘Oh… you shouldn’t be out of bed, Andrea,’ she stammers.

      I shrug. Nice Nurse sighs.

      ‘I’m a right old mess… I don’t know what I’m going to do… Oh God…’

      I am not sure if she is talking to herself or me. It is an awkward nine-second silence. Almost silence, Nice Nurse is still sobbing.

      ‘. . . Did he not say please?’ I murmur. Talking for the first time in 11 years and 7 days; my voice sounds raspy.

      Nice Nurse gasps at the sound of my vocal chords working. She looks at me wide eyed.

      ‘Did he not say please?’ I repeat. Mother taught me to say please when I want something.

      The repetition shakes Nice Nurse out of her shock. ‘No… no he didn’t. The bastard should die…’

      Andrea Garcia underwent a lobotomy on the 11th February 1942. She was the seventh person out of fifteen in the UK to receive this operation after a mental breakdown during which she stabbed a well-respected doctor through the chest with a fountain pen while sweeping his office. The cause of her actions is unknown, and she was incapable of explaining herself. As a result, Miss Garcia is now in a vegetative state.

      AND THE TAPS LEFT RUNNING

      ALICE HAS ALWAYS been odd. Mother had told me on several occasions that when she was a baby, she didn’t smile or make cute baby noises—though she hadn’t really acknowledged this until she had taken Alice to one of Joyce’s famous get-togethers. Alice had been the only baby not screaming, crying or laughing. Mother told me that Albert—Evelyn’s husband—had made a remark in his deep, booming voice that Alice was broken. A few people had chuckled mockingly, clearly having noticed my sister’s vacant expression. Mother had been horrified and embarrassed, so we had left soon afterwards. My parents were very concerned about social and public appearances, the degree to which you’ll soon understand.

      When Alice hadn’t started talking by the age of five, my parents

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