job is to take an evaluation and make an assessment. Then I'll make a report on your mental state of health determining whether you are a threat to yourself or to the wider community. Based on my report a committee will decide whether you can leave the hospital or not and whether you will be able to return home. What I need to do is to ask you a few questions – it should only take about ten minutes. I'll ask a few standard questions and you just say whatever you feel. However, you must give an answer to each question. Shall we begin?'
His speech sounded rehearsed, almost as if he was recounting an anecdote. James just stared at him blankly. He was thinking about his brother 5, wondering what was going on in his mind.
'Do you mean you could decide to have me sectioned and put in a madhouse just like that?'
'There are a whole myriad of rules and the Mental Health Act Commission reviews all decisions that are appealed.'
'So it's not up to you?'
'Well, not exactly. I don't make up the questions. The governing body sets the questions. So it's up to you and your answers. I tell everyone the same thing, it's very important they take me seriously.
We can't have mentally ill people wandering the streets putting innocent lives and themselves at risk.'
'And if you say I failed your test? How long would I be put away?'
'Until the doctors saw fit to place you back into society.'
James looked at him for a moment. 'Define mental illness.' He was becoming afraid.
'Mental illness is not defined by the Mental Health Act of 1983. People like myself define the type of mental disorder. These types of disorder are schizophrenia, major depression, bipolar disorder and personality disorder.'
James thought of a GO article he'd seen – 'Ten Ways to Spot a New Man' – and then he couldn't help thinking of the therapist having his arse waxed. He smiled.
'Care to share?' asked the therapist.
'I found something funny. That don't make me crazy,' said James.
'I didn't say it did. Why so hostile?'
'Here we go. Have you already made up your mind?'
'Have you already made up your mind?'
There was a long pause.
James thought of his brother's friend, Dayo, who had robbed a jeweller's when he was twenty. When he was arrested he panicked and shat himself after being repeatedly kicked in the stomach by three policemen in the back of their van. The police said he was crazy and had him sectioned because he was ashamed and tried to clean up his shit with his hands. He'd been locked away for eleven years. They let him out now and again for supervised visits. James had seen him on one such visit. He was sitting in the kitchen while Dayo spoke to 3 and 5. Dayo told them how, when he had seen his eldest daughter a few years earlier, he had called out to her and she'd run away from him out of fear. He wasn't thinking and ran after her and his day release was revoked for another two years. James had always admired Dayo, wanted to grow up to be like him – a footballer, one of the best in the manor. He'd played for Newham. He'd passed the youth trials for West Ham and even had a picture on his mantel of him sitting with Trevor Brooking that the estate youths were all jealous of. When his daughter ran off like that Dayo stopped fighting; no more appeals, no more day-release applications. He gave up. He'd never get out. If that could happen to Dayo, it could happen to anyone.
The man unzipping his bag broke the long silence. He took out a writing pad.
'May I begin?' he asked in a firmer tone, and continued straight away as though James had said yes.
'First of all, you are not alone, and let me remind you that there is nothing more important than your life. Nothing. My name is Trevor Carrick and I am very pleased to be here.'
He extended his right hand and when James did not extend his, he gave a strained smile.
'Look, I've been working with suicidal people and people with mental health issues for nearly twenty years, and I've been firmly dedicated to
His speech sounded rehearsed, almost as if he was recounting an anecdote. James just stared at him blankly. He was thinking about his brother 5, wondering what was going on in his mind.
'Do you mean you could decide to have me sectioned and put in a madhouse just like that?'
'There are a whole myriad of rules and the Mental Health Act Commission reviews all decisions that are appealed.'
'So it's not up to you?'
'Well, not exactly. I don't make up the questions. The governing body sets the questions. So it's up to you and your answers. I tell everyone the same thing, it's very important they take me seriously.
We can't have mentally ill people wandering the streets putting innocent lives and themselves at risk.'
'And if you say I failed your test? How long would I be put away?'
'Until the doctors saw fit to place you back into society.'
James looked at him for a moment. 'Define mental illness.' He was becoming afraid.
'Mental illness is not defined by the Mental Health Act of 1983. People like myself define the type of mental disorder. These types of disorder are schizophrenia, major depression, bipolar disorder and personality disorder.'
James thought of a GO article he'd seen – 'Ten Ways to Spot a New Man' – and then he couldn't help thinking of the therapist having his arse waxed. He smiled.
'Care to share?' asked the therapist.
'I found something funny. That don't make me crazy,' said James.
'I didn't say it did. Why so hostile?'
'Here we go. Have you already made up your mind?'
'Have you already made up your mind?'
There was a long pause.
James thought of his brother's friend, Dayo, who had robbed a jeweller's when he was twenty. When he was arrested he panicked and shat himself after being repeatedly kicked in the stomach by three policemen in the back of their van. The police said he was crazy and had him sectioned because he was ashamed and tried to clean up his shit with his hands. He'd been locked away for eleven years. They let him out now and again for supervised visits. James had seen him on one such visit. He was sitting in the kitchen while Dayo spoke to 3 and 5. Dayo told them how, when he had seen his eldest daughter a few years earlier, he had called out to her and she'd run away from him out of fear. He wasn't thinking and ran after her and his day release was revoked for another two years. James had always admired Dayo, wanted to grow up to be like him – a footballer, one of the best in the manor. He'd played for Newham. He'd passed the youth trials for West Ham and even had a picture on his mantel of him sitting with Trevor Brooking that the estate youths were all jealous of. When his daughter ran off like that Dayo stopped fighting; no more appeals, no more day-release applications. He gave up. He'd never get out. If that could happen to Dayo, it could happen to anyone.
The man unzipping his bag broke the long silence. He took out a writing pad.
'May I begin?' he asked in a firmer tone, and continued straight away as though James had said yes.
'First of all, you are not alone, and let me remind you that there is nothing more important than your life. Nothing. My name is Trevor Carrick and I am very pleased to be here.'
He extended his right hand and when James did not extend his, he gave a strained smile.
'Look, I've been working with suicidal people and people with mental health issues for nearly twenty years, and I've been firmly dedicated to
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