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because she is pregnant. Joan blushes and grins. She pulls her shoulders back, then brushes her hair forward with her fingers. She looks up at this young man and gives him a tight smile. He can’t keep his eyes off her breasts and wide hips. She smiles at him, or pretends to, and I puff on a Rothmans. He leaves the balcony and heads for the dayroom. Joan stops grinning, relaxes her shoulders and sits down.
    â€œHow long are you in town for?” I ask.
    â€œA few days.”
    â€œWill you come by again?”
    â€œI’m afraid I can’t, but I’ll call. I’m producing a TV series on women’s health issues. It’s about time I made good money,” she says. For a moment, I am dizzy at the thought of what this work involves.
    â€œAre they treating you well?” she asks.
    â€œSometimes,” I say.
    â€œAnyhow, got to go. I promise to call you before I head back to T.O.” She kisses me on the cheek and I walk her to the metal doors where an orderly unlocks them. She waves. I shuffle back to my room. Joan has a lot on her mind. I couldn’t handle the hustle and bustle, I say to myself.
    A new patient is admitted to the ward. She asks, “Can I have a cookie?” over and over again to anyone passing by. She is neatly groomed and wears fake pearls. A young man – her son, I presume – kisses her on the forehead then leaves through those metal doors. I sit next to a woman who holds two knitting needles but no wool. I watch her knit invisible wool. “I’m making a scarf,” she says. I get up and walk into the TV room. The Bugs Bunny Show is on. There is one man stretched out on the dull sofa watching the TV. He laughs when the coyote gets crushed by a huge rock. I do not find this funny. I hear a loud scream. I rush into the dayroom. Three orderlies struggle to put a straitjacket on a thin man.
    â€œWhat happened?” I ask the nurse who is standing by.
    â€œHe was trying to tear his eyes out.”
    It is early evening. A well-groomed woman in her thirties, carrying a brown nylon briefcase, walks through the metal doors. She and Betty exchange a few words, then Betty points straight at me. The woman walks toward me. She carefully looks around the dayroom. I can tell that she is uneasy. A little frightened.
    â€œI’ve come here to visit you,” She says to me. “I’m Louise. Joan told me you were here. I heard all about you.”
    â€œYes,” I whisper.
    â€œI’m writing a play about madness. I wanted to see what it’s like to be on the inside.” She takes a green felt pen and notebook from her briefcase. “What brings you here?”
    â€œI suffered a psychosis.” Louise looks away. Her body stiffens, she puts her hand on her forehead then brings it down again and starts scribbling on paper.
    â€œHave you made any friends here?” she asks.
    â€œI talk a little to a few people.”
    â€œWhat drugs do they give you?”
    â€œRisperdal. Now Lithium too.”
    â€œWhat’s your diagnosis?”
    â€œHmm, well, manic-depressive. They call it bipolar disorder now. It makes the illness sound less severe, but the pain is quite unimaginable to those who have not suffered it.” I feel like a talking textbook. Louise scribbles down everything I say.
    â€œHow powerful are the drugs?”
    â€œStrong. Very strong. They leave me listless, but they take away my fears.” I am uneasy talking to this stranger. But Louise knows Joan, so I can trust her, at least a little. Louise glances at the woman knitting with invisible wool. “What’s she doing?” she asks.
    â€œShe’s making a scarf.”
    â€œOh…” Her voice trails off. Louise asks to see where I sleep. I take her down the narrow corridor to my room. Three women lie there, their backs to us.
    â€œWe shouldn’t stay, they’re sleeping,” I whisper. We walk out of the room and I close the