The morning room
I can feel my right hand. Something scratching my skin. I’m waking up and everything is white. The ceiling, the walls, the sheets. My head is thick with sleep, my mind heavy and slow moving. I’m warm and lying in bed. A strange bed. The sheets are fresh and feel heavy and cosy. I have to blink a few times to see where I am. My vision is hazy and I panic for a moment. I have no memory of getting here. And I don’t know what here is.
I know I’m lying on my back because I keep staring at the ceiling. There’s a window on my right, high up and I can feel the daylight. It’s soft and quiet like morning. It’s Friday, someone said clear and distinct. A female voice. I sit up and look around but the room is empty. Hospital room.
I’m confused. How did I get here? I look at my hand, at the thing scratching the skin on my wrist. Hospital bracelet strapped on too tight. I tug it and soon I’m pulling and pulling until – the doors opens and someone comes in. A woman dressed in dark blue. There’s noise and bustle. She says good morning and tells me I’m being moved to another room. The sound of a chair being moved throws me. My head aches and suddenly I hear several voices talking at once. I feel crowded.
I remember walking out of the room and I knew I wasn’t dressed. I could feel the hospital gown flapping at my back and my bum felt exposed. I don’t remember what happens next, not in detail. There are fragments. Pieces of memory I see from the corner of my mind. A corridor. A short male nurse I later remember from the ward. A staircase. A bleeping sound. It was pandemonium on the ward.
I wallk in through the main entrance and I see a reception desk. It’s noisy and crowded. The short male nurse told me to wait here, my bed would be free soon. And then he was gone. I backed into a corner trying to get away from the shouting. I was clutching a green plastic bag containing my possessions. I had shoes on and I was dressed but I don’t remember how that happened.
There were no chairs so I sat on the floor with my back to wall watching the chaos at reception. A phone was ringing really loud. The receptionist was filling in a form with someone and they seemed lost in their own world. Next to them, an angry man was shouting at two members of staff, demanding his leave. Nearby, a couple were bickering over cigarettes. I didn’t understand what was going on or why I was here. None of my thoughts were connecting. They were like pieces of puzzle that didn’t fit.
A woman was sitting on the floor next to me. She was young and thin with curly ash blond hair and bony hands. She had a haunted look like she’d been silent and in the dark for years. I remember staring at her but she never looked up. Her head was resolutely down fixated on her small brown suitcase. She’s leaving, someone said, clear and distinct. A male voice. No one was there. I focused on the main entrance, watching people come and go. I tried to work out who was who because I wanted to do was do outside and have a smoke, and I wanted to go home.
The ward
Danube. Thames. Ganges. The wards are named after rivers. I’m on Danube ward and I’m in a maelstrom of I don’t know what the fuck is going on with me or anyone else here. I remember not feeling safe and I remember keeping a diary. There are men and women on the ward and a smokers balcony caged in by wire mesh. I smoke and staff won’t give me lighter. There’s a TV lounge. Someone keeps watching Homes Under the Hammer every morning. I rave in my room, I move the furniture around and I over wash hands, again and again. One of the guys on the ward wears glasses. He’s got dark hair and his parents visit. He tries to chirps me and I’m having none of it. I’ve got my back to the wall in reception and some guy insults me. I smack him with a book and suddenly there are bodies around me, three members of staff, maybe four. I can hear muffled shouts. Someone smells of sweat and starch. Day and night I walk the corridors trying to work out where I am and why I can’t get out. I’m a hamster in a horror movie. They won’t give me leave to go outside. I laugh and cry in my room. They ask me about hearing voices. I’m in a room and someone is typing loudly at a computer. I don’t tell them everything. I talk about my late husband and my late dad. My brother visits. There’s a meeting after art class and he’s talking. I keep looking at the clock. Watching it tick in slow motion. It stops the voices. My brother won’t let me out. I start crying and I don’t go to lunch. Ruby visits. Sonia phones. Someone peels an orange and the scent wakes me up. It’s the Notting Hill Carnival and I’ve been stuck in here since June. I’m in my room and I’m screaming out of the window. I’m trapped! They won’t let me out! Please help me! I think it’s 3am. I’m pulling left over pizza from the trash can near the art room and the whiteboard with blue writing. Night shift me the dirty woman. I refuse my medication, 3 times and each time they hold me down and jab me. I cry for days. I’m on a different ward. I don’t remember the name. It’s quiet and I get leave. Going to the local park and feeling the late afternoon sun on my face is magical. I’m allowed to have a lighter. A peer support worker helps me write a statement to read out. I’m in a room with people looking at me. I’m told I’ll be on a depot when I’m discharged. I know I’m not going to follow through on that. I have a choice in the community and no one’s going to jab me anymore. The day left hospital I’m carrying a green plastic bag containing my possessions travel home on the bus. That was in September 2013 and I’m still processing the trauma.
The Aftermath
It was my second episode of psychosis and I was discharged into the care of my local community mental health team. I had one-to-one psychology sessions, group work and medical reviews with a psychiatrist. I’d stopped taking the depot after 2 or 3 goes. It didn’t work for me. It made me feel muffled and apart from the world like I was walking through treacle. So my medical reviews were about trialling different medications until I settled on chlorpromazine.
At the time, my diagnosis was bipolar disorder. Fast forward 10 years to the present day and my diagnosis is schizoaffective disorder. I’ve had a good few relapses since 2013 but I’ve never returned to hospital.
The experience made me question the system and ask even harder questions of myself. Why am I so traumatized? I should’ve known what the system was like from my younger brother. He has crippling bipolar disorder and he had frequent hospital stays long before I was admitted. I should’ve learnt from his many times on the ward.
And then I think, why am I beating myself up? My trauma is valid and I’m learning to acknowledge that wholeheartedly. I had a horrible time in 2013 and I still have no memory of how I got to the morning room.
I remember what happened the day before. A bus ride with my laptop, mobile and a bag of possessions. I was distressed and on my way to my local community mental health centre. I was hearing voices and didn’t want to be alone. Two people sit with me. I’m in a garden and it’s sunny. How did I end up in the morning room?
Once again, fast forward 10 years to the present day. I’m a newly qualified occupational therapist working at a local community mental health service. When people walk through the door seeking help, I draw on the knowledge and experience of an on the ball multi-disciplinary team. There’s a peer support worker and a couple of staff members have declared mental health conditions. 2013 shaped how I view the system. I was a patient and now I’m a practitioner learning how to make the best of my experiences.
through the round window 