Admit It

You never wanted to win this competition.

Photo by Victor Barrios on Unsplash

Hi there.

I entered a competition recently which asked writers to:

“Challenge your creativity and mastery of language by crafting a single, long periodic sentence that holds the reader in suspense until the last word. The winning entry will need to be read out loud, so make it a really compelling sentence. Maximum 200 words.”

Two hundred words? In one sentence? Blimey.

Nevertheless, I managed to write one, drawing on two indelible memories linked by behaviour and setting from over thirty-five years ago.

The first memory was of a middle-aged patient experiencing an acute manic episode. Her speech reflected her psychological state, a constant stream of words which were often repeated and, when taken together, held no identifiable meaning. She walked around the ward fitfully as she talked, and I followed her for several minutes, attempting to clerk her admission – until she began to peel off all her clothes, still babbling away.

My second memory was of an elderly patient in a persistent state of catatonic depression. He stared through another ward’s window without speaking, only eating and moving when prompted. The consultant psychogeriatrician prescribed him a course of electroconvulsive therapy¹, to which he responded in remarkable fashion. For a few months.

Back in the present, my far more minor challenge was ensuring I could clearly articulate what I’d written, as stipulated by the competition’s adjudicator. Remember, this was a sentence of up to two hundred words, capped by a desperate full stop². Punctuated breaths would be essential to prevent the reader turning blue and keeling over.

So I read my single sentence out loud to myself several times and was pleased to remain conscious. Then I recorded myself to see how I sounded, a mortifying ordeal I last agreed to in 1987 (not a typo). Then I assiduously edited it, because knowing I’m being listened to, even when alone in a room and only by a ‘phone microphone, results in audio not fit for aural consumption. Then I admitted to myself I’d rather not be placed in the competition at all than attempt to read something so tortuous, even to a small audience. I appended ‘you coward’ to my inner monologue.

Nevertheless, I’ve included both my sentence and the edited recording below. (Bonus marks for spotting the discrepancies). It’s the first – and, so far, only – public recording of my voice available anywhere. Wow, aren’t you lucky?

Until next time…

P.S.

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Photo by Andy Li on Unsplash

Admittance

I cannot stop my incessant walking and talking, for ceasing would imply a degree of control, the ability to care about the why of my being here, the where of my faculties, and the devilish who occupying my tortured mind, a cajoling homunculus imploring me to ignore the social contract of normality – the agreed boundaries of tenuous sanity – and instead pretend there’s no harm in my constant babbling and hesitant, shuffling gait, which occupies only myself, unless it attracts special attention, dressed in the white coat of formal procedure, pronouncing special as a loose-tongued term which belies the distance between their decisions and my situation, as nothing special is ever granted to me, unless you count the needles which prick my skin, the ties that might bind my limbs and the wired cap which will fit snugly on my divided head to force the demon inside to depart my exhausted brain, leaving my body to lie in a depression as deep as the mercifully still and silent dead, whom I will again soon yearn to join.

(176 words — in 1 minute — within 1 life sentence)

1. Yes, it sounds barbaric.
Er, it’s not the same as being “bipolar”.
Every treatment has potential side-effects.
No, multiple RCTs demonstrate ECT efficacy is greater than alternative treatments when appropriately administered to suitable patients.

2. Or a period if you write American. E.g. “I’ve cleaned out every period from this sentence.” Well, quite.