my friends, then back at the board, all the while absolutely nothing sinking in. What did the chalk words mean? Why was I on a different page from my friends? How come everyone knew what to write and not me?
It was as though I’d missed the lesson where we were taught how to do it. It wasn’t just the time I missed being in hospital. Some lessons I had every day …
There was always the option of raising my hand. Experience told me that never went well. This time I went for it.
‘I don’t understand, Miss,’ I ventured bravely.
‘Well, perhaps if you weren’t talking all through my lesson you’d follow it a little better.’
‘I wasn’t talking, Miss,’ I claimed. Immediately, though, I knew that was a mistake. I could see the hackles rise on the back of her neck.
The worst thing about school was the time I spent in the orange room. I seemed to spend half my time in there for no reason. I was always finding myself incarcerated from morning till home time. And always for the same reason: absolutely nothing at all.
Every time I discovered myself there it felt like another punch in the stomach. Another twist of the knife.
Why were they doing this to me? What had I done wrong? They were as bad as the doctors. How were they allowed to get away with it?
I knew kids who bullied other pupils – even when they were grassed up they didn’t get punished like me. I’d seen students do unspeakable things in class and not get half the orange room time that was always being dished out to me. How were teachers allowed to lock me up so indiscriminately? What had I ever done to them? Surely there was a law against it?
I don’t know if they were related but after my first hospital sentence I seemed to spend more time in the orange room than ever. That was all I needed. Subjected against my will to unfathomable experiments at the hands of NHS psychos, then no sooner had I recovered enough to go back to school, thrown in this tangerine prison.
I know it happened a lot because Mum mentioned it once at home. She must have been sent a letter. I tried to tell her I was victimised but she wasn’t interested.
‘You’re lucky they don’t throw you out,’ she said. ‘And then what will you do?’
If I’m honest, other kids seemed to hate it more than me. My friends said it drove them mad staring at those four satsuma-coloured walls all day. I never experienced that. For me it felt like I was in and out in no time. I certainly didn’t spend the day reflecting on my misdemeanours, if that’s what they were hoping for. Not only did I have nothing to apologise for, I didn’t even remember leaving half the time, although obviously I did.
I could have coped if I’d deserved to be there. If I park on a double yellow line today, I don’t like it when I get a ticket but I accept it was my fault. It would be a different story if I hadn’t parked illegally and I still got the fine. Any punishment is exacerbated when you don’t deserve it. An eye for an eye didn’t come into it when I was growing up. As far as I was concerned I had been the victim of bullying all my school life. Not by pupils. By teachers, by the head, by the system.
That sense of injustice continued outside school. All adults seemed to have it in for me, whether I was at work, in class or shopping with friends. Worst of all, though, was the treatment I was subjected to in hospital. If it happened outside Mayday you’d call it torture. How else would you describe being drugged then invaded by coarse hosepipes? Being flushed out by water and saline? That’s what they told me they were doing and I believed them – I had the scars every time to prove it. How else would you account for the days of pain, the enforced imprisonment and – most unpleasant – those sneering faces of doctors accusing me of scheming for my own reward?
What reward was that? What could I possibly gain from putting myself through that hell?
Not all of the faces were so bad, I
It was as though I’d missed the lesson where we were taught how to do it. It wasn’t just the time I missed being in hospital. Some lessons I had every day …
There was always the option of raising my hand. Experience told me that never went well. This time I went for it.
‘I don’t understand, Miss,’ I ventured bravely.
‘Well, perhaps if you weren’t talking all through my lesson you’d follow it a little better.’
‘I wasn’t talking, Miss,’ I claimed. Immediately, though, I knew that was a mistake. I could see the hackles rise on the back of her neck.
The worst thing about school was the time I spent in the orange room. I seemed to spend half my time in there for no reason. I was always finding myself incarcerated from morning till home time. And always for the same reason: absolutely nothing at all.
Every time I discovered myself there it felt like another punch in the stomach. Another twist of the knife.
Why were they doing this to me? What had I done wrong? They were as bad as the doctors. How were they allowed to get away with it?
I knew kids who bullied other pupils – even when they were grassed up they didn’t get punished like me. I’d seen students do unspeakable things in class and not get half the orange room time that was always being dished out to me. How were teachers allowed to lock me up so indiscriminately? What had I ever done to them? Surely there was a law against it?
I don’t know if they were related but after my first hospital sentence I seemed to spend more time in the orange room than ever. That was all I needed. Subjected against my will to unfathomable experiments at the hands of NHS psychos, then no sooner had I recovered enough to go back to school, thrown in this tangerine prison.
I know it happened a lot because Mum mentioned it once at home. She must have been sent a letter. I tried to tell her I was victimised but she wasn’t interested.
‘You’re lucky they don’t throw you out,’ she said. ‘And then what will you do?’
If I’m honest, other kids seemed to hate it more than me. My friends said it drove them mad staring at those four satsuma-coloured walls all day. I never experienced that. For me it felt like I was in and out in no time. I certainly didn’t spend the day reflecting on my misdemeanours, if that’s what they were hoping for. Not only did I have nothing to apologise for, I didn’t even remember leaving half the time, although obviously I did.
I could have coped if I’d deserved to be there. If I park on a double yellow line today, I don’t like it when I get a ticket but I accept it was my fault. It would be a different story if I hadn’t parked illegally and I still got the fine. Any punishment is exacerbated when you don’t deserve it. An eye for an eye didn’t come into it when I was growing up. As far as I was concerned I had been the victim of bullying all my school life. Not by pupils. By teachers, by the head, by the system.
That sense of injustice continued outside school. All adults seemed to have it in for me, whether I was at work, in class or shopping with friends. Worst of all, though, was the treatment I was subjected to in hospital. If it happened outside Mayday you’d call it torture. How else would you describe being drugged then invaded by coarse hosepipes? Being flushed out by water and saline? That’s what they told me they were doing and I believed them – I had the scars every time to prove it. How else would you account for the days of pain, the enforced imprisonment and – most unpleasant – those sneering faces of doctors accusing me of scheming for my own reward?
What reward was that? What could I possibly gain from putting myself through that hell?
Not all of the faces were so bad, I
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