A Staged Disappearance “We are tempted to feel offended at the patient's having taken up our time with invented stories. Reality seems to us something worlds apart from invention, and we set a very different value on it. Moreover the patient, too, looks at things in this light in his normal thinking. When he brings up the material which leads from behind his symptoms to the wishful situations modelled on his infantile experiences, we are in doubt to begin with whether we are dealing with reality or phantasies.” (Freud, 1905, XVI, 367-8 ). Zagreb Autumn 1937 I am a madman and this is not a melodramatic account of a madman’s life. A madman is born without a conscience, with a soul so dark, that not even a spectrum of light would find a way inside its boding, malevolent being. But no one can possibly sense my true nature. In fact, I am that someone who helps an aged lady cross the street and one who smiles at strangers when they walk past. Though lately, it has become increasingly difficult to imagine even to myself, how I came to be here- a high security mental institution full of those weak minded souls. Here, I will attempt to explain what has brought me to the lowest of moral standards with sincere hope that some child in the future, born in a place like this will be spared of the same fate as mine. Although my character has been described as savage and I was subsequently called by many loathsome names such as thief, and most recently murderer, my real name is Rudy Harper. As for my paternal relations, other than carrying the family name, Harper, I know only the harsh fact that my father, like my mother, were both present at the mental facility where I am now. My father, Dr. Ayorindi was a well recognised psychiatrist at the Zagreb Mental Conservatorium, while my mother was a patient at the institution. My mother was born very ill, weak in body and mind. She had been spoiled from her first encounter with the world, which had made her exceptionally dependent upon her own mother, Gelda Harper. Gelda was only nineteen when she gave birth and she was so deeply involved with her first child, that her husband, then a head principle at the International Law Academy, paid scarce attention to his wife and daughter. When my grandmother was killed in a tragic riding accident, my mother was then fourteen years of age, the immediate shock threw her in a state of depression that she was never fully to recover from. Grandmother had been everything to her, and the loss left mother unable to cope with the simplest of tasks. Eleanor had given up going to school and spent all of her time locked up inside a room in a big empty house. As for grandfather, after a brief bout of mourning, he dove ever more deeply into political affairs pertaining to the law academy and by then had a young mistress, and his invalid daughter was entirely forgotten. Perhaps this was done on purpose, so as to disassociate his own mind from any stigma attached to his daughter’s illness. After all, what would people think, were it common knowledge, that the head of such a prestigious school was flawed enough to have a mentally unstable child? Still, mother needed caring for and her father was not heartless enough to make no arrangements for her daily survival. So consequently, he had placed her into the Zagreb Mental Conservatorium where she would spent the remaining years of her life. She would never be let out into the world and her existence was confined to this mental facility. Her father had never visited again and at the age of nineteen my mother became pregnant and gave birth. At this point an entry in my father’s diary might best explain how I came into existence: Diary Entry: December 31, 1912: “Did I imagine that glorious sunset? Each flower held to my lips tasting of sweetness and promising happiness eternal. Standing beneath my bedroom window, I hear the pleasing sound of violins coming from the apple orchard. Each lyric resonance lifting me to the heights of rapture or madness even. I scarce could tell the difference, and cared not to distinguish. Thus far only seeing the back of her head, at last she began to turn. Emerging from the grey shadow, her strangely familiar profile came into view, quickly followed by the impact of her full figure. I cannot take my eyes away from the mysterious shape. She tried to speak, her eyes piercing, face swollen and pulsing red. Tears streaming down her face, I almost could sense her pain. Immediately, I felt profound guilt arise inside me. Had I caused this somehow? Was she suffering because of me, and my mad desires? And did I imagine - Oh dear God, I pray not!- last night in the meadow with Eleanor Harper? Like myself, a weak, affectionless soul, we tried to erase for brief moments the pain of our loveless condition . Not much between us was said. But I felt safe with her arms around me and as we drew close, lying on the soft spring grass, our bodies drawn into unison by the sweet blossom." During the sixth month of that year, it became apparent to the staff that mother was pregnant, and she was made to feel ashamed. Soon guessing Dr Ayorindi was the father, for the two were often seen holding hands while strolling the gardens, he was equally condemned. Dr Ayorindi believed all psychosis to be hereditary like a demon that passed down through generations, and blamed mother for her decision to keep the baby. Certain that I, the offspring, could not escape madness, he made sure that I would never see mother again, thus preventing future possibility of illness. For most of the time, mother was kept shut in a wing on the opposite side of the main building. Soon afterwards, finding her way to the roof, she jumped to death, perhaps unable to bear separation from my father, the only light in her dismal and empty life. Why Dr Ayorindi found it necessary to tell the truth of mother's fate remained a mystery to the entire staff. My father recorded in his diary of how he felt about mother’s suicide. Diary Entry: May17, 1925 "At times I find it difficult to distinguish patient’s perception of real from fantasy. In the complexity of the mind, fantasy most seems the sensible choice and reality is gruesome, cold, void the warmth of spontaneous feeling. Sometimes sanity takes over and fantasy erases itself from focus, that is when we fall back to normality, back to the realm of life. It is just like imagination, pictures or visions which appear in the mind but which do not exist. In the case of Eleanor Harper, I am afraid to admit that she had such inability of distinguishing the real events from her imagination. She had committed suicide shortly after she has given birth to an ill child. Poor Eleanor, a mental patient herself she wanted to avoid the embarrassment of watching her own child grow up in the facility but mostly, she wanted to shut her eyes to the disgrace of admitting that her child’s father was the head psychiatrist of this very institution...Oh dear God, please forgive!…” Though merely an infant at the time, I remember vaguely, the cold rain of tears bathing down my face and then they were gone, forever. After the incident, father immediately turned his concerns to the duties of a rapidly expanding mental institution, leaving my upbringing entirely to the staff. Mostly I was taken care of by a nurse, Miss Dina Gates, an odd woman in her thirties, who on some occasions seemed stranger then some of the patients. She was a single woman and never had any children so subsequently she knew very little about raising kids. By the time I was seven she had me reading some of the most provocative literature. Freud I found rather exciting, and his ideas invaded my mind for days, the amount of sexual generalisation and power theory has left me to believe that truly there was no way out from this place. Though Miss Gates did function as a splendid teacher, she was also weak in the mind and was becoming more and more elated about expressing her sexual feelings towards some of the patients, and myself including. Although she had never openly showed her feelings towards me, on one occasion she told me the truth and expressed how guilty she felt having such immoral thoughts, and afterwards broke down in tears. I remember her down by the lake that day, begging my forgiveness, asking me I tell no one, for sure she loved me, in her own twisted little way. I cannot forget the image of her kneeling at my feet, her hands trembling covering her shameful face. I remember how that very second I could feel that stricken of change in me. I was quick to realize the potential of control from such guilt. I felt that evil has been born within me from that very second and afterwards I could get my way with almost anything. When threatening to tell father of our little secret, I was delighted in watching her whole body shake and frighten. Though I felt no compassion for her, I have found a sense of sadistic satisfaction in tormenting her and from that moment my life has been changed forever. In the autumn of my sixteenth year, I fell in love with a young girl. She came each weekend to comfort her ill father. Her name was Angela, and she was very shy at first. I knew that opposites were always drawn to each other. She was as kind as I was cruel. She thought of others with compassion while I could not break away from my desire to harm. I fell in love with her and thought about her constantly. I followed her everywhere she went and we spoke for a while and I complemented her on her beauty. I wished that she would at least return my affection but it seemed she hated me for my very own being. I guess she could not stand someone locked in a mental institution. She had poisoned my existence as she was my only true light and perhaps the only exit from my vicious nature. I remember I drew a picture of Angela once and hung it above my bed, and today as I am writing this, I know it is still hanging there, untouched. I was haunted by the deep blueness of her shining eyes, her sweet voice of an angel spoke to me alone and it drew me closer to something I have never experienced. Why couldn’t she love me back? After all, I too had the emotion and wanted to experience true love. I found in her, the soul of life. And if ever my heart were to warm, just once, it could only be through her. Life for me continued and my existence was becoming tortured. Angela visited a few more times but then she had disappeared forever and when she did visit, she avoided me at every opportunity. When confronted by me face to face, she was repulsed by the attention. Perhaps she saw in me the very centre of my being, the dark protrusion of my cold evil heart. I realised that everyone knew the real me, people felt who I was -Evil! I recall when the west wing of the hospital was under construction, and how a patient had wandered too close to a working bulldozer and was pitifully crushed. While all others turned away, I moved closer. As they gasped at the mangled remains, I drew strength from each convulsive purge. I soared on the fact that I felt nothing. That's how Angela turned from me as though I was mangled or crushed. Sadistic play with Miss Gates derived less and less pleasure. In fact, the entire atmosphere of the institution was unbearable. For the first time I heard the internal spirit screaming out. I felt the longing for freedom, and as I walked through the wards I felt mentally ill for the very first time, watching the patients bound in straitjackets, locked inside cells because of the way they were. I wanted to put an end to this horrid place and I began satisfying my resolve by snitching small amounts of kerosene from the caretaker's shed. I proceeded to drop a handful of the poison into the chef's soup. I knew there was going to be no desert that evening as I watched patients tumbling out of chairs in deadly convulsions. But I made not a move to help and thought only of poor mother, and how her calling for help had settled like drops of rain, on a grey dusty road only to be walked over and treaded on by passer-by’s. Staff stumbled from the kitchen, clutching their stomachs. I personally served Father his dinner and then hurried to explain his fate as I heard him coughing and loosing breath. And now, as I am finishing the last page of my diary, I put down the pen and pick up the revolver on the table, I feel no remorse. Looking out from father’s office window, down upon the moonlit gardens and orchids, and out over the lake shimmering with light, I say to myself, "This institution has never seemed lovelier. Mother- I'm coming!”.
Copyright © 2001 Ekaterina Alexandrova |