Editor’s Note: This article by Jessie Downey originally appeared on our affiliate site, Mad in Ireland.
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.
