Through my psychosis he stays by my side for four solid days. Grounding me and trying to stave off my panic attacks by asking me questions such as what are your favourite three things? Inside, he is silently raging because he doesn’t understand how some parents who profess to how anyone can profess to love anyone else, could abandon them when they are at their most vulnerable and at their most fragile. Leaving them without clothes, food or money, and most importantly, without their daily medication. It’s not the first time that we have met. We’ve known each other now for six years. Back then, he was an eighteen-year-old bank nurse, doing a night shift on an all-female acute psychiatric ward. Blonde tousled hair and reeking of innocence. But to look at him now. He has grown by at least half a foot and looks like he’s been at the gym working out and drinking protein shakes ever since. It’s no ordinary nurse-patient relationship that we have. More like friends. Or sometimes, boyfriend and girlfriend because we banter and bicker. And now I am stuck with him for eleven whole weeks during lockdown.
He openly flirts with me whilst I am waiting for my tablets to be doled out by the matron. Morning, lunchtime, teatime and night. He whistles at me when I step on the scales each Sunday, me having lost weight again due to the tiny portions of hospital food. He has an uncanny knack of turning up in the laundry room, whilst I am getting my smalls out of the washing machine. In the activity room, he sits opposite me with his leg outstretched underneath the table, sending shivers along my spine as his foot casually rests against mine. His fingers reach out to touch mine if we are playing games in the television lounge. He leans in close to me, lifting his blue t-shirt up slightly revealing his taut tanned back and the band of his designer briefs. He doesn’t behave like this with anyone else but me. And it’s oh so visible to everyone else that we are crushing on each other. But me, I am old enough to be his Mum.
It’s been almost two years now since I have been discharged and whenever I speak to my CPN, I just want to ask about D, my guardian angel. The one who has saved me from my demons. I often think about checking myself in for the night, voluntarily, just to have a cup of tea and a chat. But more often I feel like reaching out to him on social media and ask whether he wants to go out for a pint. And I think of the song by Kasabian, ‘You’re In Love With a Psycho’, and I don’t know who’s more dangerous, me or him?