Catherine Cho - Inferno: a memoir

Praise for Inferno

Completely devastating. Completely heartbreaking. Written in luminous, spiralling prose Daisy Johnson, author of Everything Under

This book is utterly brilliant: poetic, truthful, frightening, clever. I held my breath at both the power of the prose and the writers unflinching honesty Christie Watson, author of The Language of Kindness

Compelling and exquisitely written. Catherine Chos eye-opening memoir took me into a world I knew nothing about Exceptional Ruth Jones

A fierce, brave, glittering book that charts with unflinching honesty the shift from one reality to another and the family ghosts that without always knowing it we all carry Rachel Joyce

A must-read for those looking to understand one of the darkest corners of the female experience Leah Hazard, author of Hard Pushed: A Midwifes Story

Ive rarely read such a powerful account of madness. Gripping, chilling and ultimately hopeful, this is one not to miss Lisa Jewell

Utterly compelling and beautifully written, Inferno is one of the bravest and most beautiful books I have ever read Alice Feeney, author of Sometimes I Lie

A powerful and poignant book. The difficult and haunting brutality of both psychosis and relationships was so beautifully and honestly portrayed Bev Thomas, author of A Good Enough Mother

I was hooked from the very start Catherine Cho does a great service to the cause of breaking down stigma surrounding mental ill health A beautiful book Alastair Campbell

Insightful and shocking Stylist Best Non-fiction Books of 2020

Triumphant Cosmopolitan Books Youll Be Reading in 2020

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First published in Great Britain 2020

Copyright Catherine Cho, 2020

Catherine Cho has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work

This book is based on the memories of the authors experiences. The names and other identifying features of some people, places and events have been changed in order to protect the privacy of individuals.

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

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: HB: 978-1-5266-1908-2; TPB: 978-1-5266-1905-1; EBOOK: 978-1-5266-1907-5

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For James and Cato, the light in my life

According to Korean tradition, after a baby is born, mother and baby do not leave the house for the first twenty-one days. There are long cords of peppers and charcoal hung in the doorway to ward away guests and evil spirits. At the end of the twenty-one days, a prayer is given over white rice cakes. After 100 days, there is a large celebration, a celebration of survival, with pyramids of fruit and lengths of thread for long life.

When my son was born, I was reminded of this tradition daily by my family and by my in-laws, because we were breaking all the rules. I took a shower after birth, ignoring the week-long rule of no water on the mothers body, and my first meal wasnt the traditional seaweed soup, it was sushi. We opened our doors, let in guests, bundled my son in layers and took him on walks in the falling snow. And then we did a fateful thing: we left our home.

My son was two months old when we embarked from London on an extended trip across the US. I had come up with a plan to use our shared parental leave to do a cross-country tour of family and friends and introduce them to our son. I didnt see why we had to pay attention to Korean traditions or superstitions, as I thought of them. As Korean Americans born and raised in the US, my husband and I had never paid much attention to the rules, and I had always thought our families didnt either. Except that suddenly, with the birth of a baby, the rules seemed to matter.

We had avoided any evil spirits from California to Virginia, but perhaps wed just been running away from them, because they found us at last at my in-laws house in New Jersey. My son was eight days shy of his 100-day celebration when I started to see devils in his eyes.

My husband would take me to the hospital emergency room; by then I would be screaming and tearing off my clothes in the waiting room. I was admitted to the hospital where I spent four days without sleeping.

In desperation the doctors gave me a cocktail of drugs that my body rejected; I still wouldnt sleep.

The decision was made that I should be admitted to a psychiatric ward. I was checked in to an involuntary psych ward in New Jersey, which is where I am now.

Its difficult to know where the story of psychosis begins. Was it the moment I met my son? Or was it decided in the before, something rooted deeper in my fate, generations ago?

My first memory of psychosis is the light.

A bright light. Im lying on a bed. The room is white, stark and plain. Im wearing a hospital robe; it feels like paper against my skin. I try to raise my arms, but I cant, there are restraints crossing my body, snaked around my wrists. The restraints are heavy and made of dark cloth, loops that cut into my skin. My hands are clenched. I notice that there are strands of hair in them. There are metal curtains around me; they fold like an accordion.

I try to lift my head, but I can only move it from side to side. I see a man, standing in the corner. Hes looking at a clipboard. He has dreadlocks and hes wearing glasses. He looks up and smiles at me gently.

Hi, he says. His voice is calm, grave.

Nmandi, I say, reading his nametag.

He looks surprised. Yes, Im Nmandi. Im a nurse here. He points to his chest.

Do you remember how you got here? he asks.

I shake my head. I dont know. I have a vague memory of tearing off my clothes in a hospital waiting room. I remember terror. I can still hear the sounds of screams in my ears. I think they were my own.

My lips are dry, and I try to clear my throat. I find my voice. I want to feel something certain, something to take away the fear. Nmandi is looking at me kindly.

Nmandi, do you believe in God? I ask.

He pauses, and he looks thoughtful.

Fiftyfifty, he says. But Im OK with that.

He walks over to me and takes my hand.

Do you see me? he asks.

I do, I say. And I do see him, in the fullest sense of the word. Hes Nmandi, the one who speaks with his hands. Someone who comforts those who mourn and helps those who are afraid. But I also know that he must be the archangel Michael, come to deliver us from the demons.

The rules of time dont exist in a psych ward. Each of us counts the time differently. There are some who count in days, others in weeks and months. And then there are those who dont count the time at all, theyve been here for so long. The ones who count in days, they are the ones who pace. I am one of them.

Im wearing foam slippers, pale blue with smiley faces on them, government issued. I claimed them from the bin, theyre now a treasured possession.

I walk past the glass enclosure of doctors, past the TV room where the sound of the 24-hour news cycle is blaring, past the activity room with the conference table, the hallways of resident rooms, to the heavily locked doors, and then back again.