Spurious

Staying In

Ill, and the city is spreading all around us, in all directions. Ill, and the city is bigger than us and how will we ever escape it? Ill from the city. Illness - from the city, and by way of the city. You'll never leave, said the city, and you won't even stand upright. You'll never get up, said the city, you'll never be vertical again. Lie down - accede. Lie down, give up, I've won and you are mine. Lie down - you're mine.

Are we ill from the city? Are we sick from the city, and the extent of the city? It's everywhere, and who are we, lost in the afternoon, getting off the bus into the day. The city - everywhere - and who are we who go to and fro beneath the day? Give up - get sheltered housing. Give up, find a flat you'll never have to leave. 'Doctor, I'm ill, I can't get up ...'

I'm going inside, you said, I'm never coming out. In - and never out, you'll have to come to me, the world will have to come to me, I'm staying in. I'm inside and the world is everything outside, the light across the windows, the traffic jam on the street. Inside - that's where I am, I've given up, you know where to find me.

Ill

The specialist's office was in the basement. I was sent to her because of my symptoms. 'We have an in-house specialist', said the G.P. Very well; I'd see her - I was happy to see her. I'd been feeling tired for months, and worse than tired. Anything - I'd do anything. Down to the basement, where there is a multiple choice to fill in. When do I feel most tired? Do I feel pain? Do I ache anywhere? 'Everywhere', I wrote, across the boxes. I ached everywhere - I was tired. No pain, unless pain was that diffuse throbbing which filled my whole body.

Then, later, the diagnosis: there's no question about it. I have it myself, you know. So the specialist. She had it too! We both had it, the pair of us! And my sister has it, she told me. She stays in bed. Someone else is looking after her children. The specialist tells me how to handle my symptoms. Take it easy, she says. Plan everything when you have strength so that when you feel weak you are not overwhelmed with worries. Arrange your life so there's no panic. Very well; why not.

It's common to highly successful people, she tells me. I laugh. 'I'm hardly successful'. Highly motivated, intelligent people, then. 'I'm hardly intelligent', I said, 'and motivated? I don't think I'm that'. Wasn't that the problem? Wasn't it the lack of motivation that was the illness? Wasn't it the draining away of motivation, of all forward movement, a life that had lost its grip on the future. Is it really an illness?, I asked her. It was an illness, she said, and I saw that for her it had to be an illness. We were both ill, physician and patient. Both of us - ill.

She lent me a book. 'Read this'. It was full of practical advice and cartoons. The list of symptoms was endless. All this was one illness? Then it was everything and nothing, this illness. It was like hysteria or neurosis - a name for everything. Home on the bus. I can't stand the bus. I get off and sit on the wall, alcoholics around me. Are they ill? Is it the same illness? Then, I walk along the narrow pavements. They're all ill, I thought, looking around me. Everyone's ill, I thought, I know their secret.

Do they know of it - their illness? Probably not, I thought. They haven't been diagnosed, I thought, and laughed. They haven't been diagnosed by a fellow sufferer, I thought. It takes one to know one, I thought. But I'll diagnose them, I thought. I will diagnose them all. I'll put notes through their letterboxes: you're ill! - and crosses on their doors. We're all ill! We're all tired! Time's passing us by, it's over! There's no forward movement! Nothing's going to happen! Nothing's ever going to happen, not now and not ever and we're all ill!

Inside

You were in sheltered accommodation, you said. A woman brought your meals a couple of times a week. 'I don't go out much. I can't go out'. We drank tea in your flat that evening at rush hour - the cars were jammed outside. 'I'm too clever, my doctor says'. Too clever - but for what? Who was she, cleverer than us, who had to be kept away from us? She kept herself away. 'I don't go out much. I can't'.

Outside - you were frightened of the night and frightened of the day. Food was brought to you, money came to you. Your flat was dark. When we spoke, it was in darkness. I had promised to call on you. A mutual friend had said I should phone and call in on you. 'You'll get on. She's interesting. Besides, she doesn't see anyone. She could do with company'. In the evenings she smoked pot. Where did she get it? 'A friend sends it to me'. The flat stank of it. 'I need it. It keeps me calm'.

What did we talk about? Of your former life and your present life. Of your intelligence. You were very bright, you were convinced. 'I read a lot', you said, so I brought you books. We'd talk about them. 'One day, when I get better ...' you would begin. What then? What would you do, you who'd come back to this city after a breakdown, who'd put on so much weight and now never left your house? What would you do, with your panic attacks and exhaustion. 'I ache - all the time'.

You saw the same illness in me, you said. I went for tests. 'They don't know what it is', I said, 'but I do feel tired'. You told me of your doctor. 'Go and see her. She's really nice'. I saw her, a large benevolent woman in a shared practice a bus ride away. She asked me some questions, I knew what to answer. Would I, too, get a flat in sheltered accommodation and a woman to bring my meals? Was that what I wanted - to disappear for a few years, to live inside for a few years? I was sent to a specialist. The diagnosis was confirmed. I was to attend counselling sessions.

'I thought so', you said, 'I thought there was something wrong'. I remembered The Magic Mountain. 'I don't think I'm ill', I said, 'just tired'. You thought I was ill. 'Don't fight it'. I looked around me, the flat was dark, outside, the rush hour traffic. It's true - I was frightened of it, the outside; I wanted to stay inside, in a flat of my own, in the darkness. 'I'm not ill', I said, and that was the last time I visited.

Not ill - but what was it I feared? Why not admit to it, and fall into the arms of illness. Why not claim the sick instead of the dole for a few years? I had the diagnosis, a sympathetic G.P. ... I could sign off the rest of my life and live inside. I was tired, my limbs ached. I was afraid of everyone I passed. I got off the bus, panicked. Was it contagious, your illness? Had it contaminated the books you gave back to me?

Several times, your voice on the answering machine. You were hurt and drowsily high, as you were in the evenings. Your voice - temptation. I left the room when I heard it. I left it and went outside, to prove that I could. Outside! Terraced houses in both directions. I was frightened and thought of others, too, who were frightened, who'd given up on sleep and on waking up. Thousand of them. Thousands of us, all over the city, stranded and sheltered.