Lucy in the Skye

By Carolina Giacobone

Lucy wakes up in the coldness of a hospital room after another suicide attempt and realizes her life needs an urgent change. Having been caught up in a whirlwind of vices, self-loathing, and erratic behavior for twenty-one years, it is now time for Lucy to embark upon a new path. This riveting novel takes us alongside Lucy in her journey around the world to find her father, oblivious to the fact that her travels would lead her to encounter much more than her long-lost parent.

A constant struggle between mental health issues and her desired recovery, Lucy gives voice to all those stories of suffering, fear, prejudice, and confusion that are silenced by stigma and rejection. Lucy is the outcast, the odd one out, whose thrilling adventures will move us and entertain us at an equal pace. But Lucy is not just the mad psychiatric patient, she is nothing more than a girl trying to become a happy woman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Nov 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524663803

Carolina Giacobone

Dr. Carolina Giacobone is a medical doctor who specializes in general adult psychiatry. Born in Argentina in 1988, she moved to Ireland in 2015, after finishing her specialization with the highest honors. Carolina has been working as a psychiatrist and a lecturer in psychiatry since 2012. She has published several poems, articles, and short stories in magazines, but Lucy in the Skye is her first published novel. She lives with her husband, cat, and dog, and she is as passionate about mental health as she is about writing. Her goal is to convey a positive, deep, mind-opening message to all the readers.

Book preview

Chapter One

A Day in my Life

May 2005

I woke up to the familiar tickling sensation down my hands. I opened one eye and saw the pool of crimson, as I’d expected. I lazily closed it again, drained of all life, until the surrounding red was replaced by black.

***

This time, the familiar sound of the drop of the intravenous line awoke me. It is very hard to get your bearings when you have been doped up for several hours. At least I assumed I had been in hospital for a considerable time, but my memory was still a cloud of haze and tablets. My eyes complained at the brightness of the pristine hospital room. Okay, everything was clean and smelled good, so I wasn’t in a Psych institution. Not yet at least.

Lucy, you are awake! Newsflash. How are you feeling?

My aunt burst into tears as she squeezed my ribs. I was a petite 1.58m ginger 20-year-old, give me some room woman. Peachy, Maria. Just peachy. I sighed. Where’s mom?

She’s getting coffee. She stayed up all night holding your hand Lucy. More like holding my bandaged wrists. We were worried sick! My aunt gave me another quick hug and wiped her tears. I patted her back.

There, there. My aunt was cool, I really liked her. She was sweet, and supportive, and always tried to be understanding when I went coo coo. Unlike mom. Not that I blamed her. Or maybe I did. I definitely did.

The first time I hallucinated I was 13. It wasn’t a fully formed voice; it was more like a whisper. I was sure it was my grandmother speaking to me from Heaven; 13 years old, grieving her loss, naive enough to believe in God and such. My mom and the school psychologist assured me it was a normal part of grief, hearing your loved ones, but their furtive glances and the biweekly appointments with the therapist said otherwise. That voice never came back. But others followed.

I wasn’t worried at all by the strange workings of my mind. I knew I was different, but not cliché different. Special different. My mom was evidently upset by me not turning into an ideal, valedictorian teenager. She tried very poorly to hide her concern for my bizarreness, which always gave me a guilty sense of pleasure.

I can’t say I didn’t enjoy torturing my mom a little. My psychoanalyst, way more bonkers than I was, was completely convinced I was punishing my poor mother for the disappearance of my father. But I never heard my father’s voice, I barely remembered it anyway. My psychoanalyst used to say abandonment is even harder to process than death, and that might have been the only wise thing that came out of her preposterously red lips.

At 15, my lovely friend Asia introduced me to the bliss of booze. She had sneaked into her father’s office and snatched what we later found out was a very fine bottle of Talisker whisky. I was a curious child, what can I say, it was more of a science experiment for me. Maybe a bottle of whisky would silence the voices.

The alcohol numbed my senses and gave me a sense of relief. But then came the concern, what if all that free sugar turned into fat and piled up around my tiny waist? Clearly the easiest solution would be to cut down on the food, come on, it’s not like food was essential for living. Sometimes a high-pitched, ridiculous voice would tell me my freckled abdomen had started to bloat, and I would spend hours cutting and burning the clothes that made me feel chubby. The day that I accidentally tuned my duvet on fire led to my first admission to Psychiatry, at 15.

As much as I loved reminiscing when I’m high on anxiolytics, it was little tiresome to recount my story every time I was admitted. And this was the third.

Lucy, my God! My mother barged into the room with two cups of coffee. WHAT THE HELL CAME INTO YOU THIS TIME?

Hey mom, nice to see you too. Can I have one of those coffees before we start the usual ping-pong of blame, guilt and covert insults?

My mother puffed. My aunt had cowered into a corner. You are going to be the death of me, you wretched child! Why do you keep doing this to me? Tears were caressing her olive cheeks.

I just love the sound of your nonsense, it’s what keeps me alive. I started tugging on the IV line.

My mom puffed again. DO NOT JOKE ABOUT THAT. There’s a limit to your nonsense child. And this is it. Dramatic drumrolls… You are going to a Day Hospital.

WHAT!?! Ouch, I had ripped the catheter completely out of the vein. You can’t do this to me!

Watch me, you spawn of the devil. She pointed a long finger at me. As soon as you are stable, you are going straight into Day Hospital, and you should thank me, you can’t imagine how much convincing it took. The Psychiatrist wanted to throw you into a locked ward. You should be thanking me, you ungrateful brat!

I’m forever in your debt, ma. I sighed. "But they’d better have cable. No way I’m missing the last series of Charmed."

***

Welcome, Miss Skye, I’m Doctor Susan Whelan, a middle-aged woman greeted me. She was too chirpy for my taste. I hope you settle in well with us. Her grin was as fake as her long eyelashes.

I looked around at the Day’s Hospital lobby. The colorful cushions, the smile on the receptionist, the flat TV displaying a parade of professionals with forged happiness and crappy suits…I was instantly depressed.

So…is this the place where I’m supposed to cry every time we bring up my daddy issues and pretend I don’t hear voices, cut myself, love to drink, or feel suicidal, so that I can be released as quickly as possible?

My mom blushed from her neck to her forehead, quite the challenge given her tanned skin.

No, young lady, the director said in a polite, but firm tone. "This is the place where you will learn the meaning of the word respect, both to yourself and to those around you." My mom instantly loved her, which meant I had to feel the exact opposite. Damn stuck-up, know-it-all psychiatrists.

The receptionist gave Doctor Whelan a blue folder. Were their smiles glued to their lips? That couldn’t be normal. Not that I was the expert on normal or anything.

This will be your schedule. The director handed me the folder. Day Hospitals implied that patients had activities from the morning to the afternoon, but they were allowed to sleep in their own homes. Medication and such nonsense was also handled by the staff. I hope it suits your needs. If ever you encounter any challenge or discomfort, please do not hesitate to let me or any other members of the team know. I mirrored her fake grin, while my mother nodded forcefully. Great.

Monday morning: outdoor physical activities. As if I needed any other reason to despise Mondays.

Tuesday morning: art therapy. That didn’t sound so bad.

Wednesday morning: yoga and meditation. If they made us wear robes and leggings, I would make them swallow the mats.

Thursday morning: family day. Ding ding ding! We’ve found the winner for worst nightmare!

Friday morning: group therapy. Okay, rephrasing that last statement. Friday might have been a Freddy Krueger kind of nightmare.

And then individual therapy every afternoon, with Psychiatrist, Psychologist, Occupational Therapist and Social Worker, in that blessed order. And the icing on the cake…a movie session on Friday afternoon! Why didn’t I just die?

I turned to my mother and mumbled through gritted teeth. If you get me out of here now, I promise I’ll clean the house without setting it on fire. She slapped my arm and gave me a tiny push.

She’s ready, my mom said to the director. Behave, you little rascal, she half-joked. Please, do it for me. She gave me a peck on the cheek and tried to hide her tears as she exited Hell’s lobby.

Good, follow me Lucy. Is it okay if I call you that? I hate you.

Yes, Doctor Whelan. Is it okay if I call you Lucifer?

She showed me the common dining room, the movie room (1998 called, they want their TV and VCR back), and the rooms for art therapy and group therapy. Yoga and the physical activities were held in a large park outside the building, with a small pond shaded by the canopy of a Weeping willow.

Breakfast is at 8.30 am, lunch at 12.30 and then a snack at 4pm. Do you have any questions so far? I was wondering if people preferred to drown in the pond or to hang themselves from the tree, but I figured Doctor Whelan wouldn’t take too amicably to my curiosity. I shook my head.

I will show you our offices now and then lead you to your room so you can unpack. You’ll be pleased to know that since we are a Day care facility, you won’t have a roommate for the week you are staying overnight. Delighted. I stuck to nodding. The patients are having breakfast at the moment, but you’ll be able to join them at 10am for the Pilates session in the garden. I’ll see you at 2pm for our first meeting.

I tried to speak, but no sound came out. Maybe she had put a spell on me. I cleared my throat. What am I supposed to do in my spare time?

She gave me that huge smile that I already hated so much. Anything you want, of course, within the rules. We have quite a vast collection of movies, books and board games, and you can always try to socialize with the other patients.

I don’t know what tempted me more, if playing chess with one of the Schizophrenic’s voices or Cluedo with a real psycho killer. The safest option would definitely be to watch Rainman or Forrest Gump with the retards.

I unpacked as slowly as I could. The room was medium-sized and quite lively, thankfully the bed beside mine was empty. Although I regretted I wouldn’t have a partner-in-crime. Maybe she could have been a cool Bipolar chick who would help me nick a box antipsychotics and escape this pothole.

At 9.55, a nurse came looking for me. She wasn’t grinning as forcefully as the director or the receptionist, quite understandably. Who in their right mind would want to rally around schizos, psychos, bipolars, addicts, and autists like damned cattle? Her name was Dana. She led me to back yard without uttering a single word. I definitely liked her.

OH MY GOD. At first glance, I spotted at least two dozens of people lying on the grass with their legs and arms outstretched. It was a sight I would never forget, especially because half of them were doing it completely wrong, and the other half was just muttering to themselves. Welcome to aerobics for the crazy.

Okay people, listen up! the instructor yelled. Don’t get your hopes up buddy, they were probably more interested in the chit-chatter going on in their own heads. Cleveland blessed us with this lovely day in the middle of May, so today we’ll do a little cardio. Good, maybe I’d die of a heart attack.

I have to say, this was quite a lot of fun in a twisted kind of way, a guy said to my ear when the session was over. Sweat was trickling down my freckled forehead. My ginger curls were pasted to the sides of my face like I had never moved a limb in my entire life before. Well, probably I hadn’t.

Oh yeah, nothing beats jogging with a bunch of wackos, I responded, still gasping for air.

He laughed softly. Well, you can’t be too…right up there yourself if you are stuck here with us. He pointed at his head.

I raised an eyebrow. You’d be surprised. He wasn’t exactly good looking, but he was tall, very tall. Later on in life, as I would try to remember his face when I missed it, he would look like the most beautiful man on Earth.

I’m Will Cadillac. He outstretched his hand. Recovering addict.

Lucy Skye, Borderline Personality Disorder with a tinge of micro psychotic episodes and a pinch of suicide attempts, I shook his hand. He didn’t seem surprised by my response.

Lucy Sky? As Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds?

I gave him the finger as we gathered our mats and proceeded to the common room. Ha-ha, Will Cadillac. You are full of cheesy clichés, aren’t you? A 20 something year old admitted for drinking too much so that he could rebel against his parents and appear to be cool with his loser buddies?

We slouched in a double couch, where a nurse handed us two cups of iced tea. The rest of the crazies had already taken what I assumed were their usual positions around the room.

Wow, you suck at reading people, he snickered. More like a 22-year-old who started liking codeine, clonazepam and muscle relaxants a little too much to deal with his crippling social anxiety and the sudden death of his parents in a car crash.

You are pathetic if you think that will make me feel sorry for you, I scoffed. "And who gets