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My story from the beginning: or if you just want to know what a psychiatric hospital is like, start there

Its dark, cold, and late when I arrive. I'm greeted by a distracted staff member who sits me in the empty communal area of the all female acute mental health ward, she tells me she'll be back in a few minutes. I wait. I know the room is probably silent, but that doesn't stop the whispers in my head sounding like there is someone just behind me, who moves away as I turn to look. Perhaps an hour passes, when, without warning, a woman bursts in to the small room, she is wearing a hospital issue nightgown and her hair as wild as her eyes. She runs in my direction, grabbing the nearest chair she hurls it across the room. She gets through another before staff rush in to subdue her. My blood and her screams ring round my ears. She's shouting she doesn't belong in a mental hospital.

I think maybe I don't either.

My crisis doesn't look like throwing chairs. It looks like sitting on the floor, quiet. Crying is the step before, it's worse if I'm doing nothing. All I can do is wait, silently, for time to pass, and try not do anything I might not live to regret.

Just as I think this, another staff member comes and removes me. Taking me to a small room, she demands my bad, empties its contents on the bare table, and starts manhanding each of my hastily packed personal possessions. Turns out, if you want to, you can hurt yourself with nearly anything. So, for my own good, she says, she takes away most of my clothes(ligatures) my toiletries, mechanical pencils, spiral bound notebook. I don't feel anything until she takes my phone; like hollow pull of a chord unplugged within me. I'm walked to my room, but now my shoes don't have laces so it's tricky.

The room is clinically bare, with a hospital bed on wheels and plastic mattress in one corner, and a battered chest of draws in the other. My own room. My new home. It has a bathroom, with a press and hold shower, a toilet with no lid, and one of those plastic mirrors which distorts everything. I stare at my contorted face, as screams from another room lap over me.

Tonight I lock my door.

I don't sleep much. Between the noises inside and outside my head (not that I know which is which) I'm on suicide watch, so the staff open my door ever 15 minutes and shine a torch on me. Checks.

Breakfast is at 8am sharp. Served from a hole in the wall with a shutter. Porridge. The patients line up patiently.

After breakfast there's a community meeting. We have to go round the circle and introduce ourselves and tell everyone our favourite flower. One lady says her favourite flower is self raising. So she can make pastry.

I notice there are so many different types of people here. I learn that wards are governed by your postcode, not your mental illness. So people all types of illnesses are treated on the same ward. After my initial welcome with the chair throwing, I was nervous about meeting the others here. I worry they are dangerous.

In fact, they turn out to be some of the most interesting and sweetest people I've encountered. After going through enough to get you into a psych ward, you probably have to examine your humanity quite thoroughly. They are all ill, but generally thoughtful, reasonable and respectful, as well as being thoroughly interesting -What stories they have! Of course some are unpleasant to interact with, or completely disconnected in their own world, but they are often the most ill.

To introduce a few: (names and specifics changed) Lola paces the halls in her stilettos, dressed in full glamour like she's ready to be a contestant on 'take me out'. After dinner each day she has a shower, then come out her room in a towel and smeared make-up to do a dance and speak in tongues. Bea is a writer, but says the medication stifles her creativity, so to get it back, she uses crack cocaine. Upon learning I'm an artist, she insists I give crack a chance. Sammy loves flowers. So much so that every piece of her clothing is covered in ornate flowers, they don't match, but she doesn't mind. She smiles a lot. She's been in here a over a year. Ruth is stunningly beautiful, has the best cheekbones I've ever seen, and 2 PHDs to boot. Jackie, The chair thrower, will tell anyone who'll listen that she's trapped here because of a conspiracy theory by her Son. Zara is convinced another another woman on the ward is having an affair with her husband, she throws spaghetti over her at dinner, and is promptly moved to a different ward. Elizabeth doesn't look old enough to be here, she hasn't got a family home to go back to, she has to have a staff member with her 24 hours a day because she hurts herself and bangs her head against the wall. Fliss never says a word. The staff always try and take her food away before shes finishes because she takes so long, I feel protective of her, and don't let them until she is finished. She leans over to me and whispers the only thing I every hear her say "I know what you are: A magician"

Then there is this girl with blue hair, who carries her sketchbook everywhere, quiet but inquisitive, hearing voices, seeing things which aren't there, not knowing what's real, and wanting to die.

The second night I don't lock my door.

Ward life is pretty regimented, set meals, and three structured activities each day. From music, art, colouring, baking, news, nail painting, discussion, you are not forced to participate, but if you want a good report, and to get out, you should.

The ward is shaped like a spider, the communal hub and dining hall in the middle, with the corridors like legs branching off, they are long, cold, and dull beige.

Reality is still not conforming for me, and life is dark and hollow, and now a new hallucination has joined in; Bugs. On the walls, the ceiling the floors, one scuttles over the Doctors face as she's talking to me. But I am not scared of the bugs, I am more scared of having no phone, the disconnect and isolation, my old life is inaccessible. Did it even happen at all? There is one computer, which patients can use, but social media is blocked, and you have a staff member over your shoulder, looking at the pages you visit and writing down what you are typing. No one used the computer much. There is one wall mounted phone, which is almost always occupied, and the cause of the most arguments on the ward. There is a persistent humm of unreality which I don't know if it's caused by the ward or my illness.

There are two types of patients here (and generally in psychiatric hospitals in England) voluntary and involuntary. I am voluntary. Meaning I chose to be in the ward and, theoretically, can leave at any time. (However getting let out is another thing) Involuntary patients are held under the Mental Health Act, there are many sections of this act you can be detained with. That's why it's often called 'sectioned' Their stay is often longer, and not at their choice. It's done to protect themselves and/or others, they can be forced to take medication. If I hadn't gone voluntarily to hospital when I did, I probably would have ended up being sectioned. Even though I'm voluntary, the Doctor can basically keep me here as long as she likes. So things like behaving and 'playing well with others' are important, I don't want to be switched to involuntary; Which happens to Elizabeth as she wants to leave and staff wont let her, she gets frantic and upset, and the staff restrain and sedate her.

Really, these wards are a holding pens, there to catch the most ill. They offer a place, with basic needs cared for, but very few services or real rehabilitation. Chronic underfunding for decades has meant there are very few wards left at all, so only those with serious immediate needs get to access them. Beds are scarce, a week in and today one girl who is clearly still very ill is sent home so her bed could be given to someone else. No counselling or psychotherapy is offered to me, I don't even get to speak to my named nurse because she is so busy. There are obvious staff shortages, and because my crisis is sitting quietly, I'm not getting much personal support, staff help the patients throwing the chairs and banging their heads first (of course) But I am grateful for this place, I do feel safer, I know someone is on hand if I ever need, and I don't have access to much I could hurt myself with, the hallucinations are easier to control in here.

Another week inside, little improvement, I decide to try something I never have before. Medication. I've always wanted to avoid it, if I could, and work through things on my own. I worry the side effects will be worse than the illness, will make me less 'me'. But if the solution is death or drugs. I'll try drugs. I understand enough to know I need every help I can get now. For the first few days I'm tired, really tired, I don't come out my room much, and sleep a lot. After the initial wave breaks, I find a small shift. There are less bugs. Slowly the hallucinations lessen, and my mood also lifts, enough that I can catch my breath again, and steady myself, find some kind of grounding. It's helping. I am still me, and I still have to swim in the lake of darkness, but perhaps the belt of stones has been unfastened.

Two weeks later again and I'm sent home. Twice a day I get visits from the home treatment team. They give me my medication and check up on me. I can call them at any time.

Reality is starting to warp back into one I recognise, one I can navigate, one which is bearable to live in.

I find a therapist. Her frontdoor is exactly the same colour as my hair. Perfect. Now that's a connection in the world which is good

It's February 2016, I missed all of January, so I look at this as a new start, like my new year.

Peace, Love and Hospital Food,
Blue x

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Description

My story from the beginning: or if you just want to know what a psychiatric hospital is like, start there

Its dark, cold, and late when I arrive. I'm greeted by a distracted staff member who sits me in the empty communal area of the all female acute mental health ward, she tells me she'll be back in a few minutes. I wait. I know the room is probably silent, but that doesn't stop the whispers in my head sounding like there is someone just behind me, who moves away as I turn to look. Perhaps an hour passes, when, without warning, a woman bursts in to the small room, she is wearing a hospital issue nightgown and her hair as wild as her eyes. She runs in my direction, grabbing the nearest chair she hurls it across the room. She gets through another before staff rush in to subdue her. My blood and her screams ring round my ears. She's shouting she doesn't belong in a mental hospital.

I think maybe I don't either.

My crisis doesn't look like throwing chairs. It looks like sitting on the floor, quiet. Crying is the step before, it's worse if I'm doing nothing. All I can do is wait, silently, for time to pass, and try not do anything I might not live to regret.

Just as I think this, another staff member comes and removes me. Taking me to a small room, she demands my bad, empties its contents on the bare table, and starts manhanding each of my hastily packed personal possessions. Turns out, if you want to, you can hurt yourself with nearly anything. So, for my own good, she says, she takes away most of my clothes(ligatures) my toiletries, mechanical pencils, spiral bound notebook. I don't feel anything until she takes my phone; like hollow pull of a chord unplugged within me. I'm walked to my room, but now my shoes don't have laces so it's tricky.

The room is clinically bare, with a hospital bed on wheels and plastic mattress in one corner, and a battered chest of draws in the other. My own room. My new home. It has a bathroom, with a press and hold shower, a toilet with no lid, and one of those plastic mirrors which distorts everything. I stare at my contorted face, as screams from another room lap over me.

Tonight I lock my door.

I don't sleep much. Between the noises inside and outside my head (not that I know which is which) I'm on suicide watch, so the staff open my door ever 15 minutes and shine a torch on me. Checks.

Breakfast is at 8am sharp. Served from a hole in the wall with a shutter. Porridge. The patients line up patiently.

After breakfast there's a community meeting. We have to go round the circle and introduce ourselves and tell everyone our favourite flower. One lady says her favourite flower is self raising. So she can make pastry.

I notice there are so many different types of people here. I learn that wards are governed by your postcode, not your mental illness. So people all types of illnesses are treated on the same ward. After my initial welcome with the chair throwing, I was nervous about meeting the others here. I worry they are dangerous.

In fact, they turn out to be some of the most interesting and sweetest people I've encountered. After going through enough to get you into a psych ward, you probably have to examine your humanity quite thoroughly. They are all ill, but generally thoughtful, reasonable and respectful, as well as being thoroughly interesting -What stories they have! Of course some are unpleasant to interact with, or completely disconnected in their own world, but they are often the most ill.

To introduce a few: (names and specifics changed) Lola paces the halls in her stilettos, dressed in full glamour like she's ready to be a contestant on 'take me out'. After dinner each day she has a shower, then come out her room in a towel and smeared make-up to do a dance and speak in tongues. Bea is a writer, but says the medication stifles her creativity, so to get it back, she uses crack cocaine. Upon learning I'm an artist, she insists I give crack a chance. Sammy loves flowers. So much so that every piece of her clothing is covered in ornate flowers, they don't match, but she doesn't mind. She smiles a lot. She's been in here a over a year. Ruth is stunningly beautiful, has the best cheekbones I've ever seen, and 2 PHDs to boot. Jackie, The chair thrower, will tell anyone who'll listen that she's trapped here because of a conspiracy theory by her Son. Zara is convinced another another woman on the ward is having an affair with her husband, she throws spaghetti over her at dinner, and is promptly moved to a different ward. Elizabeth doesn't look old enough to be here, she hasn't got a family home to go back to, she has to have a staff member with her 24 hours a day because she hurts herself and bangs her head against the wall. Fliss never says a word. The staff always try and take her food away before shes finishes because she takes so long, I feel protective of her, and don't let them until she is finished. She leans over to me and whispers the only thing I every hear her say "I know what you are: A magician"

Then there is this girl with blue hair, who carries her sketchbook everywhere, quiet but inquisitive, hearing voices, seeing things which aren't there, not knowing what's real, and wanting to die.

The second night I don't lock my door.

Ward life is pretty regimented, set meals, and three structured activities each day. From music, art, colouring, baking, news, nail painting, discussion, you are not forced to participate, but if you want a good report, and to get out, you should.

The ward is shaped like a spider, the communal hub and dining hall in the middle, with the corridors like legs branching off, they are long, cold, and dull beige.

Reality is still not conforming for me, and life is dark and hollow, and now a new hallucination has joined in; Bugs. On the walls, the ceiling the floors, one scuttles over the Doctors face as she's talking to me. But I am not scared of the bugs, I am more scared of having no phone, the disconnect and isolation, my old life is inaccessible. Did it even happen at all? There is one computer, which patients can use, but social media is blocked, and you have a staff member over your shoulder, looking at the pages you visit and writing down what you are typing. No one used the computer much. There is one wall mounted phone, which is almost always occupied, and the cause of the most arguments on the ward. There is a persistent humm of unreality which I don't know if it's caused by the ward or my illness.

There are two types of patients here (and generally in psychiatric hospitals in England) voluntary and involuntary. I am voluntary. Meaning I chose to be in the ward and, theoretically, can leave at any time. (However getting let out is another thing) Involuntary patients are held under the Mental Health Act, there are many sections of this act you can be detained with. That's why it's often called 'sectioned' Their stay is often longer, and not at their choice. It's done to protect themselves and/or others, they can be forced to take medication. If I hadn't gone voluntarily to hospital when I did, I probably would have ended up being sectioned. Even though I'm voluntary, the Doctor can basically keep me here as long as she likes. So things like behaving and 'playing well with others' are important, I don't want to be switched to involuntary; Which happens to Elizabeth as she wants to leave and staff wont let her, she gets frantic and upset, and the staff restrain and sedate her.

Really, these wards are a holding pens, there to catch the most ill. They offer a place, with basic needs cared for, but very few services or real rehabilitation. Chronic underfunding for decades has meant there are very few wards left at all, so only those with serious immediate needs get to access them. Beds are scarce, a week in and today one girl who is clearly still very ill is sent home so her bed could be given to someone else. No counselling or psychotherapy is offered to me, I don't even get to speak to my named nurse because she is so busy. There are obvious staff shortages, and because my crisis is sitting quietly, I'm not getting much personal support, staff help the patients throwing the chairs and banging their heads first (of course) But I am grateful for this place, I do feel safer, I know someone is on hand if I ever need, and I don't have access to much I could hurt myself with, the hallucinations are easier to control in here.

Another week inside, little improvement, I decide to try something I never have before. Medication. I've always wanted to avoid it, if I could, and work through things on my own. I worry the side effects will be worse than the illness, will make me less 'me'. But if the solution is death or drugs. I'll try drugs. I understand enough to know I need every help I can get now. For the first few days I'm tired, really tired, I don't come out my room much, and sleep a lot. After the initial wave breaks, I find a small shift. There are less bugs. Slowly the hallucinations lessen, and my mood also lifts, enough that I can catch my breath again, and steady myself, find some kind of grounding. It's helping. I am still me, and I still have to swim in the lake of darkness, but perhaps the belt of stones has been unfastened.

Two weeks later again and I'm sent home. Twice a day I get visits from the home treatment team. They give me my medication and check up on me. I can call them at any time.

Reality is starting to warp back into one I recognise, one I can navigate, one which is bearable to live in.

I find a therapist. Her frontdoor is exactly the same colour as my hair. Perfect. Now that's a connection in the world which is good

It's February 2016, I missed all of January, so I look at this as a new start, like my new year.

Peace, Love and Hospital Food,
Blue x

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~Featured Artwork~