TUESDAY,JULY30,2019 | THEGLOBEANDMAIL O A
I’
m joined by a bald man in dark sunglasses
known by the name of “Bruce” for some late-
night TV in the psych ward. Since his admit-
tance nearly a month ago, I haven’t been able
to catch a glance at his bare eyes. The sunglasses act-
ing as a kind of protective force field between him
and the material world. But who am I to judge? Only
a few months ago, I wore my boots to bed every
night. And you would, too, if a crime syndicate as
vicious as the Black Clan was after you. (How did I
know they were after me? Let’s just say they were
masters of the art of telepathy.)
As usual, we – the patients of the University of
British Columbia Psychosis Program – are huddled
around the TV. This residential care hospital is in a
locked ward on the second floor of a concrete build-
ing that is mostly filled with doctors’ offices. You
could walk by the building without even knowing
we are here. But we are here and right now, the cen-
tre of our lives isThe Food Network. We are watching
intently as a rosy old woman rubs salt on baked po-
tatoes. Her hands move quickly – a splash of oil, a
sprinkle of salt, then rub, rub, rub!
Vicky isn’t watching, though. Con-
stantly pacing, she yells curses as she
traipses past the door to wherever
she’s going. We all give her a glance,
but our eyes shoot back to the TV.
We are riveted by what’s happening
to the potatoes.
In different ways, all our lives have
fallen apart. I don’t know the stories of
everyone, but I do know why we’re
here. This is a provincial program and
so every patient here has already
failed treatment in our own commu-
nities. I spent weeks in a Prince George
hospital 800 kilometres north of here,
for example. None of us has had much
control over our lives since we became
ill. We don’t know what’s going to hap-
pen to us when we leave here or whether the voices
in our heads will ever give us peace. There is some-
thing mesmerizing about the woman on the TV,
who creates a culinary masterpiece from ordinary
ingredients, day in and day out.
I was 24 years old and just six months into my
postsecondary education when I began experienc-
ing psychosis, about a year ago. My aspirations to be
a sound engineer and song writer were completely
disrupted. I’ll never forget huddling on the sofa,
forcing my eyes to stay open all night long because
the Black Clan was threatening to torture me if I fell
asleep. You can’t get much homework done in that
state.
Toward the end of the episode, an older patient
jumps up and full-on sprints out of the room. I’m
not sure why, but none of us ask. It’s kind of an un-
spoken rule to keep to yourself around here.
Perhaps inspired by the elderly cook’s energy, I
decide to work on an assignment for an online En-
glish course I’m enrolled in. It’s been months since I
last looked at it. At the nurses’ station, I ask for a
one-hour pass, the maximum I’m allowed for an un-
accompanied leave, and also for my laptop. Most
patients use these passes for a smoke break, but I
need this one mostly so that I can access WiFi. A
nurse unlocks my computer from a cabinet and
gives it to me with a smile.
I find a place to sit in the lobby downstairs. The
lobby is intended for people who are arriving for
doctors’ appointments and is set up a bit like a hotel
lounge, albeit a slightly seedy hotel. I stare at the
screen. Try to make words pop up. Minutes tick by. I
try to collect my thoughts, but it’s like pulling flies
out of honey. They’re stuck. Is it depression? Or is it
the powerful anti-psychotic medication, clozapine,
that has also caused me to gain a lot of weight? It
could be both of these. Exhausted, I check the time.
Fourteen minutes are left. I’ve only got half a sen-
tence down. I type really, really fast. Four more
words! Time’s up. Back to my room. But first – a cig-
arette!
Outside, Gary is standing in front of the No Smok-
ing sign, where the smokers hang out. He immedi-
ately asks me if I like maps. I respond with a nod to
be polite, knowing that it’s a tactical error. The rest
of my smoke break is filled with Gary talking about
maps. Political maps. Topographic maps. Road
maps from before there were even cars. Luckily, an-
other patient comes outside and distracts Gary long
enough for me to make my escape.
In the morning I wake up to a mysteriously up-
beat piano tune as the sun slants through my cur-
tains. It sounds like I’m in a saloon
from the 1840s and I briefly wonder if
I’m psychotic again. The music is
blasting out of Bruce’s room. Bruce,
with his sunglasses, has always
seemed more like a Led Zeppelin kind
of guy than a tinkly piano guy. Later,
during a smoke break outside, I ask
Bruce about it. This may be the most
personal question I’ve asked anybody
here. He seems a bit apprehensive, but
eventually, he blurts out that the mu-
sic is a recording of his grandmother
playing the piano. As the days go by, I
get used to waking up in the Wild
West.
When my doctor first suggested
electroconvulsive therapy, I thought
that it sounded scary. And it kind of is scary. They
knock me out, put me into convulsions on purpose
and then wake me up and send me on my way. It
probably sounds like some kind of old-fashioned
exorcism, where they’re trying to cast the demon
out of you. But, do you know what? It’s working. My
depression is lifting. I don’t hear voices of the Black
Clan plotting against me anymore. Well, that’s not
quite true. I still hear voices sometimes, but they’re
not as distinct. And now I know they’re not real.
One of my TV buddies tells me he is going home
today. I reach into my closet for a jacket so that I can
walk him out. I feel a little sad and a little lost. Then,
my eyes are caught by my old, black boots in the
bottom of the closet and I chuckle. I remember ar-
riving in those boots, terrified of everybody and ev-
erything.
I couldn’t have imagined, then, that the odd cast
of characters here, with their outbursts and idiosyn-
crasies, could become my fellow travellers on this
unmappable path to health. Or that the staff, with
their rules and name tags, would become my confi-
dants and protectors. Before I came here, I might
have imagined that a locked ward such as this
would be some sort of nightmare, but it is a place of
comfort now.
I feel my sense of humour coming back. I feel my
future coming back.JeremySundahllivesinVanderhoof,B.C.THEVOICES
INMYHEAD
ILLUSTRATIONBYDREWSHANNONAfterfirstexperiencingpsychosisayearago,mydepressionislifting,
andIambeginningtorealizethecrimesyndicateinmymindisnotreal,
JeremySundahlwritesFIRSTPERSONNoneofushashad
muchcontrolover
ourlivessincewe
becameill.Wedon’t
knowwhat’sgoing
tohappentous
whenweleavehere
orwhetherthe
voicesinourheads
willevergiveus
peace.Haveastorytotell?Pleaseseetheguidelinesonourwebsitetgam.ca/essayguide,
[email protected]FirstPersonisadailypersonalpiecesubmittedbyreadersNEWS |O
n Tuesday night, CNN has its first Democratic presi-
dential debate, at 8 p.m., with another one on
Wednesday evening. Ratings for last month’s Dem-
ocratic debates on NBC, MSNBC and Telemundo
were excellent, signalling a significant public interest.
Another signal that the political debates are a boon to the
TV industry in the United States is the impact on the late-
night shows. On Tuesday, Stephen Colbert on CBS, Seth
Meyers on NBC and Trevor Noah on Comedy Central (Come-
dy Network in Canada) air live shows to feast on the Demo-
cratic debates on CNN. Usually, their shows are taped in the
early evening.
The emergence of leading Democratic presidential candi-
dates is important to the late-night hosts and their writers.
Because, really, they are all starting to look defeated by Do-
nald Trump’s presidency. Where once there was savage in-
dignation and searing jokes, there is now mere shocked–and-
appalled exasperation. The more outrageous Trump be-
haves, the less funny it becomes for Colbert, Meyers and the
others.
A few weeks go, Trump issued one of his stunning tweets
when he attacked a group of Democratic congresswomen of
colour, demonizing them as foreign-born rabble-rousers
who should go back to the “broken and crime infested places
from which they came.” There was almost universal conster-
nation, since Trump ignored the fact that the women are
American citizens and all but one was born in the U.S.
How the various late-night
hosts reacted was very telling.
Several fell back on jokes about
Melania Trump and her alleged
status as disgruntled wife, a near-
prisoner in the White House and
of course, foreign-born. OnJimmy
Kimmel Live,the host simply said
that Trump was “out of his mind
again” and showed a clip of
Trump telling reporters that the
congresswomen should leave the
U.S. if they don’t like living there.
Kimmel then joked, “As soon as
he said that, Melania started run-
ning to the airport.”
OnThe Tonight Show, Jimmy
Fallon joked that Melania Trump
asked, “Hey, how come they get to leave?” Then came an in-
teresting moment. “I don’t know what’s more shocking,” Fal-
lon said, “that the President sent a racist tweet or that we
won’t be talking about this in two days.” That garnered a very
muted response from the studio audience. Fallon looked at
the audience and simply said: “Too real? Okay.”
That’s the thing – as Trump hones his racist invectives for
the 2020 election year, he becomes “too real” for the late-
night comics. It is increasingly difficult to mock, with any
sense of humour, what is undeniably disgusting.
Trump had issued his go-back tweet on a Sunday and reit-
erated his comments on Monday. This gave the late-night
shows ample time to prepare their satiric ammunition. Yet,
by Monday night, Colbert was reduced to snarling at the cam-
era: “If someone is leaving this country, it should be you! And
if you’re looking for a new home, might I suggest that you go
to hell!” Meyers declared, speaking about the congresswo-
men: “This is their country and they are treating it with a lot
more respect and devotion than the racist gargoyle who sits
around tweeting from the back nine of his chintzy golf
course.”
It all amounts to a kind of baffled umbrage. For years now,
Trump has provided the late-night comics with tons of corro-
sive comedy material that has a cathartic impact for the audi-
ence. Now, he’s making them deeply uncomfortable because
it’s difficult to be funny when the comic and the audience are
actually unnerved by the President’s tweets, statements and
behaviour. Just as Trump instinctively browbeats opponents
with ever-increasing derision, the enlarging and expanding
of his race-based attacks has beaten down the late-night
comics. There are times, such as the occasion of his go-back
statements, when the lot of them look conquered. It has be-
come too real.
In September, there will at last be a new voice in late-night.
A Little Late with Lilly Singhcomes to NBC, airing after Meyers.
The Canadian-born Singh, a massive YouTube star, will be the
only woman of colour on late-night network television, an
arena dominated by white men. Maybe she’ll have a refresh-
ing take on current events and Trump, or maybe she will
avoid the topic. In the meantime, the existing late-night com-
ics are desperate for material offered by the Democratic pres-
idential debates.
Trump has overpowered them, as he had done to so many
others.
And with that I leave you for a break of a few weeks. Be nice
to each other and enjoy what you watch. I’ll be back at the
end of August.Trumphasbeaten
thelate-nightcomics
intobaffledresignation
JOHN
DOYLEOPINIONTELEVISIONAsTrumphoneshis
racistinvectivesfor
the2020election
year,hebecomes
‘tooreal’forthe
late-nightcomics.
Itisincreasingly
difficulttomock,
withanysenseof
humour,what
isundeniably
disgusting.TODAY’SKENKENSOLUTIONTODAY’SSUDOKUSOLUTION