January 22nd
Today I had yet another appointment with the Kathy the mistress of pain. I tell you dear diary, the only thing that separates physiotherapy from torture is the intention.
Now that I'm securely wrapped up in my second skin, I have to up the ante from the simple moving, stretching and swimming I've been doing to date, and start to really work on getting back as much mobility and fitness as possible. She had prepared a set of exercises which I am to do every day without fail – stretching up as far as I can, bending to try and touch my toes, windmilling my arms around. All designed to stretch the scar tissue that masquerades as my skin, and all deeply uncomfortable. The pressure suit hinders movement somewhat but also provides blessed relief and goes some way to preventing the feeling that my skin will simply split open and my insides find themselves spilling on to the floor.
Kathy's a harsh teacher but also very good with the encouragement. She said I was doing exceptionally well compared to other patients. I wonder if the experimental nature of the skin treatment has made it easier for me, or if I'm just willing to endure more pain than others.
My strength is improving almost daily, in fact I'm now lifting weight appropriate for a man of my age in full fitness. How old am I? For the purposes of my ongoing life, I've decided that I'm the same age as Valerie - 25 years old. Anyway, Kathy has had me lifting weights for some time in an effort to regain the muscle tone lost by my extended period in bed. I'm hardly a walking definition of fitness but I see people who look to be in far better condition than myself struggling with far smaller loads and I wonder if batch five did something more to me than just heighten my senses.
January 23rd
I spent a lot of time today thinking about the future. In two days time I am to be set free, on my own in the world for the first time that I'm aware of.
I don't remember who I am, where I lived, where any of my friends or family may be (assuming I had any, I certainly don't remember them). Was I married? Did I have kids? I have absolutely no idea.
Every food I eat is a new experience. Every face I see is new to me. It's strange how so many things seem completely new, whilst so many others are already firmly lodged in my mind. For example, I know that with no ID I'll receive no money, there are few options for me other than to try and find some work and earn a little, or to aquire money through other means. How do I know that? How can I not know my own name, but have a reasonable knowledge of how the English benefits system works?
Dr Abbot put a name to my condition today – Retrograde Psychogenic Amnesia, affecting only the Episodic Memory. What does that grand title actually mean? Let me explain. 'Retrograde' is obvious enough – I can create new memories, I just can't access the old ones made before a certain point. I can remember what I was doing one week ago, but not one year ago. 'Psychogenic' – there was, as far as I am aware, no physical damage done to my brain that caused the memory loss. Severe head trauma would be the normal cause of amnesia, but that doesn't seem to have been the case for me. I couldn't share this with the Doctor, but I constantly wonder whether something they gave me at Larkhill may have been responsible? Or it could be - as she suspects – for some reason I'm choosing not to remember. Well if that's the case, I'm still blaming those bastards – I'd have no reason to try and forget myself if I'd never been in that hellhole.
The 'Episodic' bit is the most interesting. I learned that there are essentially three components to memory. Semantic memory is knowledge of the world, facts, language, concepts - general knowledge, if you will. Procedural memory is knowing how to do things, skills you've learned, that sort of thing. Episodic memory contains experiences, people, faces, names and so on. This all goes some way to explaining how I can not know who I am, but know how to read, write, swim, eat, converse... How I can know the words to songs I hear on the radio, but not know where I first heard them.
January 24th
The hospital's Salvation Army liason came to see me today. A kindly old lady by the name of Doris, she called me 'son' and did a good job of ignoring the mask while we chatted about this and that. She had me stand, told me off for not eating enough (I suggested the pressure suit acts as a full body girdle but she wasn't convinced) and then proceeded to choose some clothes for me from her box of cast-offs.
A pair of grubby white training shoes, worn but sturdy jeans, a couple of t-shirts with witty slogans and a large grey woolen jumper with several holes in it. It's too big for me, but she insists I'll need it when I finally get outside. All to be worn over the pressure suit, of course. She nodded approvingly when I was dressed and said that she'd have a look downstairs for a hat.
Several hours later she returned, proudly clutching a mountain of tweed. She had excelled herself, not only finding me a black woolen beanie hat, but also a long red scarf and a most superb grey flecked tweed trenchcoat. The sleeves are a little short, but it's warm and will stave off the worst of the cold. I thanked her profusely and she gave me a small card with the address of the shop on it. She knows where I'm heading and wished there was more she could do to help.
January 25th
I write from a bench on Brook Green.
Early this morning, I gathered my things and said goodbye to the staff of Charing Cross Hospital. My meagre possessions consist of the clothes I am wearing, this diary, Valerie's letter and a large carrier bag filled to the brim with painkillers, antihistamines, blood thinners and skin ointments.
A very strange thing happened as the receptionist completed my discharge papers. My signature was requested and I signed without thinking. I didn't even hit me what I had just done, not until I was outside. Of course, I pulled out my copy of the papers immediately and tried to read what I had written but alas, my signature is an illegible scrawl. The first letter looks like a 'D', though it may be an 'O' or even a 'G' or a 'Q'.
I have the address of a local homeless shelter, the hospital suggested I try there for some help with my situation, so I shall visit this afternoon. Right now I am just sitting here watching the world go by – cars, buses, people walking quickly wrapped up against the cold. It's not bothering me much, the wonder of just being outside, being free to come or go as I please, is warming enough.
January 26th
I wear a hard plastic pressure mask 24 hours a day to minimize scarring. It will take at least a year to really know what I will look like when I've fully healed. The hospital gave me a choice of colours. Clear is the conventional choice but I went for white in an effort to hide the carnage beneath.
People stare.
Children don't know any better. I assume they see me as some kind of monster, but I can deal with that. I don't care..
I kept my head down. "Got burned. Got burned". I mumbled it like a mantra as I made my way through the crowds, answering the unasked questions. I said it to keep people from staring. But the glances kept coming, frank and curious, sly and horrified.
I went to the Hammersmith shelter, only a short walk from the hospital, a place supposedly existing to help lost souls such as myself. The woman at the counter asked for a photo ID without looking up. Then she glanced up at me and quickly down again before muttering that I needed to fill in forms, thrusting them toward me, eyes boring into the desk.
Forms which I couldn't fill in, because I know literally nothing about myself. I could have lied, but there's no point. I just wanted to find myself a hole to crawl into.
I wandered north, through Shepherd's Bush, past White City. No matter how busy the street, people got out of my way.
With no money, I can't buy any food and I can't pay for anywhere to stay. So my first night in the real world was spent here, huddled under the looming metal umbrella of the Westway.
January 27th
Freedom. It's terrifying.
I cannot go anywhere without people staring at me as if I'm some kind of freak.
The mask is a blessed relief in many ways. Yes, people look at me and quickly look away, no doubt imagining the hell that must reside below, but it's preferable that they're disgusted by their imagination rather than my real face.
Tonight's dinner came courtesy of Pizza Express. There's a reasonably large restaurant near the top of Queensway and they throw out a lot of food. I can't believe I'm eating from the bins. It might taste better than Larkhill slop but the slop was somehow less demeaning. Crazy, I know, but that's how I feel.
Another cold night awaits me. I've aquired some cardboard boxes to try and build myself a mattress. My coat keeps the worst of the cold out during the day, but it is no match for the bitter London wind once the sun has gone down.
January 28th
Today as I sat in the park, mask off for a few minutes to get fresh air on my face, two men in expensive looking suits threw coins at my feet. They thought I was a beggar…
January 29th
Minding my own business in the park today a couple of young boys, maybe about 16, set their hearts on relieving me of my meagre possessions.
I didn't see them coming, but the second that the first one grabbed at my bag, I had my other hand around his wrist. A sickening snap was heard and he screamed – only then did I realize that I had broken his wrist. I didn't even feel that I had applied that much force.
His friend, enraged by what I had done to his partner, pulled a flicknife from his jacket and raised his arm as if to stab me. I saw the whole thing happen almost in slow motion so I simply stepped to the side and landed a punch to his stomach, which saw him doubled over in pain. I pocketed his knife and quickly left the scene.
I don't know if I've ever been in a fight before, but it was exciting and strangely satisfying. Empowering even, being the victor rather than the victim. How I snapped that kid's wrist so easily I have no idea.
January 30th
I might have forgotten who I was, but I feel that I am still a man of principles. God knows, I would be happy to work for a living, to make an honest wage and pay my way in the world, but it's an option which has been almost completely taken from me. Bloody government, they take my mind, they take my body and now when I'm willing to comply with their rules like a good little citizen I'm presented with a big fat 'no' at every turning.
I can see why so many of my fellow vagrants resort to theft and petty crime – with no help from the government, with no ID, no permit to work, how else is one supposed to survive? Begging? Scraping through the bins for morsels of food, like I've been doing these last few days? Freezing to death on the streets like the old man I found this morning? No big deal, one less dosser to worry about, nature stepping in so the government doesn't have to.
January 31st
It's been raining solidly since last night and I can't remember ever being so cold. My clothes are all soaked through despite my efforts to shelter. I daren't move, the chafing against my skin is almost unbearable. Everywhere itches. I'm so hungry but searching for food would mean moving. Dear diary, if this turns out to be my last entry then I hope that one day you end up in the hands of someone who's responsible for the state I now find myself in.
Congratulations. You did your best to kill me with your torture and your beatings but I wouldn't die. You used me as a lab rat but I wouldn't die. You took my mind, took my sanity but I wouldn't die. You forced me to burn myself alive and still I wouldn't die. I hope you're happy, cos it looks like after all that it's your bureaucracy that's going to get the better of me, with a helping hand from mother nature. Fuck you. I swear here and now that if I die tonight, I will haunt you and your kind for eternity.