Maria Katsonis - The Good Greek Girl

The Good Greek Girl

From the halls of Harvard to the beds of the psych ward.

by Maria Katsonis

First published by Jane Curry Publishing 2015

PO Box 780, Edgecliff, NSW 2027

AUSTRALIA

www.storyworkspublishing.com

www.janecurrypublishing.com.au

Copyright Maria Katsonis 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any other information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

National Library of Australia cataloguing-in-publication data:

Author: Katsonis, Maria

Title: The Good Greek Girl

Subtitle: From the halls of Harvard to the beds of the psych ward.

ISBN 978-1-925183-04-7 (Print Edition)

ISBN 978-1-925183-19-1 (Epdf)

ISBN 978-1-925183-24-5 (Epub)

Memoir, mental health, self help

Cover image: iStock

Back cover portrait: provided by author

Cover and internal design: Deborah Parry

Editorial: Catherine McCredie

Production: Jasmine Standfield

To Harry and Nikolas

AUTHORS NOTE

In writing this book, I drew on memories, and clinical notes from my hospitalisation. I also consulted a number of people who appear in the book. As memory is subjective and fragile, I acknowledge that the book reflects my perspective and interpretation of past events. All patient and staff names in the hospital section have been changed to protect peoples privacy as have some names in other sections. Some events have been condensed.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

D ID you hear the one about the good Greek girl who walked into a tattoo parlour to celebrate the anniversary of her discharge from a psych hospital? No? Well, that doesnt surprise me, because its not a joke, there is no punchline. You see, its a true story about me: Maria Sophia Katsonis.

I was named Maria after both my yiayias (grandmothers) and Sophia after my childless great aunt. Sophia means wisdom in Greek and my mother always said I didnt have any. I suspect she would have referred to my decision to get a tattoo to prove her point.

A year ago to the day, I walked out of the Richmond Hilton as one of my fellow patients liked to call the private psychiatric clinic in an inner-city suburb of Melbourne. I spent five weeks there being treated for a crippling episode of depression, a time when I had lost my mind and the will to live. During depressions blackness, suicide became an alluring escape route but I fought back against its ready convenience. Now I wanted to commemorate my victory with a permanent reminder.

I took the advice of my personal trainer, who sported the stars of the Southern Cross on his hip, and went to Tattoo Art at the Windsor end of Chapel Street. The tattoo parlour sat alongside eurotrash boutiques, pawn-brokers and too-cool-for-school bars like Borsch, Vodka & Tears. This part of Chapel Street was the opposite of the oh so nice end in South Yarra with its high fashion and women in oversized designer sunglasses sipping soy lattes. Windsor marched to the beat of a different drum; a drum that pounded urban grit, populated by an eclectic mix of students, housing commission residents and the gentrified middle class like me.

Ordinarily I felt at home in this grunge, particularly on weekends with my close-cropped hair, single earring and toughchick uniform of black T-shirt, jeans and Doc Martens. Windsor was my type of hood. It brought me down to earth and reminded me of the days when I wasnt such a good Greek girl at least in my parents eyes. But now it was a weekday and I wore my work uniform: a tailored pinstriped suit, a handmade shirt with French cuffs and sterling silver cufflinks in the shape of starfish. I looked like I should have been hanging out with the chic ladies in South Yarra.

I walked up to the burly bloke behind the counter and tried not to stare at his full-sleeve tatts, intricate swirls and incandescent hues of carmine and indigo adorning the length of each arm. His menacing appearance put me even more on edge. I raised my voice so I could be heard over the hardcore thrash blaring in the background. I have an appointment to see Stooks.

The incessant buzz of the tattoo gun had the same excruciating effect on me as fingernails being dragged slowly across a blackboard. To calm my nerves, I inspected the old-school tattoo art adorning the walls, the sort you would find on a sailors beefy arm: serpents coiled around daggers, luscious mermaids sitting atop anchors and beating hearts inscribed with mother.

Stooks arrival interrupted my viewing. With his number-one buzz cut, full-sleeve tatt on one arm and wristband tattoo on the other, Stooks looked like he belonged in a heavy metal band. He took one look at the middle-aged, middle-class professional in front of him and said, Hi. Im Josh. How can I help you? Im sure he used the same polite demeanour with his mothers friends. I consoled myself by thinking he would have introduced himself as Stooks had I come on a weekend wearing my street gear.

I pulled out a picture of my custom design and we conferred on its precise colour and placement. Waiting for the gun to start, I focused on the poster of a bearded, tattooed lady in front of me and breathed deeply.

Anyone who tells you that being tattooed doesnt hurt is a liar. For the first few seconds I wondered what all the fuss was about until the hot searing pain set in. I felt the needles tear into my flesh, each agonising stroke leaving a trail of ink. It took everything I had to stop from leaping off the chair. I reminded myself I had chosen this. This was the price I had to pay for my anniversary keepsake. I clenched my fists and grunted like the tough chick I imagined myself to be.

After about ten minutes, something amazing happened. Endorphins flooded my body and produced a natural anaesthetic. I no longer felt any pain, just a dull scratch as the gun injected my skin with pigment.

Some forty minutes later, Stooks was done. He mopped up the blood streaming down my arm which obscured the finished art. With the blood gone, I could see the Greek letter delta () emblazoned on the upper part of my arm. Its outline was etched in a deep moss green and the curves shaded with brilliant emerald. It was a work of beauty that took my breath away.

I had thought long and hard about my choice of tattoo. Delta is the fourth letter of the Greek alphabet. Tattooing it on my body permanently connected me to my Greek culture, a culture I had once rejected but rediscovered through my mental illness. Delta is also the mathematical symbol for change, an emblem of how my life had changed irrevocably. In the space of five years, I went from graduating at Harvard to becoming a psych patient. I overcame the stranglehold of depression and chose not to die. Instead, I embraced life, only to discover I am a good Greek girl at heart, albeit an unconventional Greek girl.

This is my story.

PART 1