Standing in front of the mirror, i wonder, “what outfit should i wear for scanning my
psychiatric records at the local library?” the choice is obvious. i reach for my Sinead
O’Connor t-shirt. a sense of pride and gratitude washes over me.
dressed now, it occurs to me that my bag may not be big enough to carry the
approximately 850 pages of psychiatric fiction. i consider the possibility of rain and
imagine myself cycling home with a sea of soggy pages, resenting the fact I had to
pay so much just to get this partially redacted horror story.
i decide to take my chances. hauling the heavy bag over my shoulder, i feel the
weight of my psy-fi history. as i’m leaving, my 8-year-old self makes eye contact with
me from a photograph on the wall. we acknowledge each other in an act of self-
witnessing and finally, i am on my way.
stepping back off my bike at the library, i remember how my psy-colleague told me
she was planning to rent a room here. i feel no shame about my madness though
she only knows pathological framings. imagining running into her now and feeling
frozen on the spot. i shut my eyes and keep going.
approaching the service desk I say, “i would like to become a member”. the librarian
takes me through the process and provides instructions on how to use the scanner. i
ask if there’s a limit to how many pages i can scan. “50 pages at a time – that’s 25
pages double sided – otherwise the system will crash.”
i walk towards the scanner, soon realising that it’s smack bang in the middle of the
library. there are people sitting all around me. i search the space for another
possibility. there is none. pacing around the isles, i contemplate abandoning the
project. but suddenly i am standing in front of the scanner, and the plan is already in
motion.
the scanner doesn’t work. or, more accurately, i can’t work the scanner. i become
extremely aware of myself and realise I need to ask for help. my bag is full of
reasons why asking for help is dangerous for me. resisting the invitation to be
restrained by histories of restraint, i do it anyway.
as i’m being escorted back to the machine by the librarian, i ask, “is there another
scanner available?” “this is it”, they say. “now where are your documents?”
i gesture towards my bag, “oh that’s a lot. it will take you some time”. my attention is
drawn to the publicity of the process and the radiating heat in my body. “please give
me your documents”, they say.
in my mind’s eye i see, “mental health records” written in thick black marker on the
front of the files i am about to reach for. with a sleight of hand, i succeed at removing
a sliver of pages without revealing the front of the file.
i can see their eyes scanning the document and i’m immediately attentive to any
signs of judgement. postural changes, a heightened tone of voice, a change in their
gaze. they shuffle the papers and start the scanner. within seconds the machine
jams and an alarm sounds. my body tenses up as the room turns towards me.
i pull the crumpled piece of paper out of the machine and the voices of the psy-
regime come alive. mocking my attempts to re-claim the archive and pathologising
my mad resistance in condescending tones. nursing observations: remained quite
stubborn. judgement and insight poor. confine to bed, strictly.
“use two hands and go slow”, the librarian interrupts. is my rough handling of the
paper confirming what they read about me as being “disordered?”
the loud mechanical sound of the scanner breaks the silence of my surroundings.
“oh, i am going to be so disruptive”, i say, “maybe this wasn’t a great idea”. i turn
around and offer a silent public apology to the people in quiet study around me.
some glance in my direction and shuffle in their chairs.
having fulfilled their duty, the librarian walks away and i begin discretely pulling small
sections of the psy-archive out of my bag for scanning. the system logs me out after
30 seconds. i realise i have to move fast.
the pressure to keep pace induces a cold sweat and before long, admission records,
growth charts, and diagnostic assessments are splayed all over the floor. four large
files with my full name written in big block letters on the front become obstacles for
people entering the aisles.
with every round of paper loaded into the tray, i become less and less concerned
about discretion. people swerve around me, stepping over my discharge summaries,
and taking sideward glances at the mess. the irony of “disordering” the space is not
lost on me.
i am trying to find a rhythm but the machine continues to jam. the alarm sounds
again, and again, and again. with sleeves rolled up, i start pulling page after page of
psychiatric scrawl from the tray.
every now and then my eyes wash over the words.
psychiatric diagnosis: blah blah. inpatient management reports. treatment orders.
psychological assessments. intervention protocols. unsigned consent forms.
suddenly I feel a presence to my left. somebody is waiting to use the machine. i have
so much left to go. i invite them to interrupt me and as they step up the scanner, i
find myself squatting at their feet trying to pull my trauma out of their way.
lingering in the aisle to the right for a moment, i convince myself that the hospital’s
refusal to send me a digital copy of the records is all part of the carceral regime.
haunted by years of psychiatric surveillance, i see the faces of the various psy-
professionals in everyone who looks my way.
returning to the scanner, i move through the remainder of the archive in a quickened
pace. and as the last page hits the tray, i look up. exhale. and begin packing the past
into a cheap yellow bag i got second hand on the internet.
searching the room once more for my colleague, my ex-partner, or other disordering
witnesses, i recognise i am free to leave. moving through space in this way reminds
me of how the threat of the psy-complex endures.
riding home in the rain, i notice the ordinariness of my surroundings. Sinead sings to
me: take back the rage you gave to me. take back the anger that nearly killed me.
take back what doesn’t belong to me.
when I arrive home, I feel an urgency to write. i scrawl this story to begin my counter
archive.