“They tried to make me go to rehab, I said no, no, no!” Singing Amy Winehouse’s greatest ‘treffer’ every time Herschelle Gibbs got near a raucous bunch of 30-something Warriors fans at Newlands was definitely a highlight of an evening that included running away from security guards, being officially warned for ‘hate’ speech (brandishing a placard reading “Worst Proteas ever – Justin Ontong and Vernon Philander”), and another Warriors victory. Apparently it’s hate speech even if it’s true.
Why I ended up in a psychiatric clinic (a fair colloquial synonym would be rehab) is a story far too deep for me to type and you to care, so we’ll leave it at that. However, for those who feel a supporting story is necessary, think: ‘mainlining’, ‘Vicodin’, ‘dopping’ and ‘lank’ and let your imagination run wild. Then double it.
The clinic I found myself in was conveniently situated in East London. Convenient because even sharing a room with an ex-policeman named Vusi from Alice who flatly refused to change into anything bar his blue overall and Jesus sandals seemed more enticing then venturing into the boring drone that is the rest of the city. Occupants of this Eastern Cape metropolis will counter with a defense weaker than that of a centre pairing comprising Naas Botha and Mike Catt with one single word: ‘Numbers’. After that they slowly fade off with a mismatched grouping of barely audible murmurs including ‘beach’, ‘Selborne’, and ‘bru’.
After surrendering my shoe-laces and all sharp implements, I was shown to my room where I was to spend 5 days and nights. Initially this seemed a plausible alternative to going to varsity and failing another Accounts test, but my first encounter with a fellow patient (a distressed deaf woman screaming at a nurse in incoherent noises) left me more terrified than the day I arrived at the Afrikaans pre-school at which I spent three years of my childhood (it’s awkward, I failed). Thankfully, being relatively sane, I managed to work my way out of spending the evenings at the clinic and spent them instead at a B&B with my folks, shoelaces in place.
The three days I ended up spending at the clinic could be described using a number of unfavourable adjectives. Three group therapy sessions a day all kicked off with a routine straight out of a movie: “Hi, my name is Richard and I have a drinking problem”. Most people are more surprised that I have a first name. My self-description didn’t start out being so pin-point. I tried to be much more subtle about it and say things like “sometimes I drink too much and black-out”, but just didn’t have the gees to argue my point with the all-wise Indian lady in charge and in the company of people who frowned upon the insignificance of my issues.
After two nights and three days my parents realized I had had the shit sufficiently scared out of me and agreed with my argument of needing to get back to my normal varsity life, less the lank jolling. Apart from my gloriously boring group therapy I also had a couple of casual chit-chat sessions with the head psychiatrist. These proved to be far more beneficial than listening to how a lady (not particularly dissimilar looking to the one who begs at the Mowbray Shoprite) progressed from one glass of wine a night to two or three bottles, this after her second stint at the clinic.
My head doctor explained that I had an anxiety issue which had built up over time due to various factors and lead to a depressive breakdown. Not recommended. The drinking became a problem as it was my self-discovered remedy to social anxiety, and once I got going the little angel on my shoulder was having such a fat jol with me that he almost always forgot to tell me to slow down. I won’t lie to you, this lead to some rather interesting events, most of which I don’t remember. Waking up in Zoology 1 lecture theatre was a particular highlight, Stellenbosch medi-clinic not so much.
Life is slightly different now. The cane has had to take a backseat for Castle Light, and the girls in Tiger look half as good as they used to. As one should, I suppose, I took a couple of things out of the whole episode.
· Time your blow-outs: waking up in hospital a day after being stripped of your phone and wallet while passed out next to Terrace is not easy to explain to the parents.
· If Christmas isn’t proving sufficiently fruitful, your parents tend to be really generous when you finish your stint.
· Rehab is boring and crap. East London is worse.
· No matter how bad your issues may be, there are people with much bigger problems.
And finally, because I’m not sure if my High School English teacher will be happy with me finishing on a bullet point; if there are things that need to be said and done in your life, say them. Do them. Deep.
