User submission

I Was 27 The First Time I Died

I was 27 the first time I died.

I had taken a whole packet of sleeping pills and didn’t expect to wake up. However, my parents found me, and as it turned out, got me to hospital just in time. I had to be resuscitated. There was no blinding light or conversations with long-dead relatives. Just the deepest, darkest black that you can imagine. Physically, I recovered. Emotionally and psychologically, I was a mess.

Admission to the local Psychiatric Ward was standard practice for someone in my condition. Somehow, I managed to avoid being ‘sectioned’. This is where you are assessed by two doctors and if they agree, you are forced by law to stay in hospital for a minimum of 28 days. Sometimes people call it ‘being committed’. If this happens, you have minimal rights and cannot leave the ward. I was scared and vulnerable, expecting it to be like One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, or some dark, musty institution straight out of a horror movie, staffed by stern orderlies with a threatening aura.

It wasn’t. They weren’t. Right from day one I felt cared for and respected. The nurses never did anything or even approached me without first asking if it was ok to do so. They couldn’t have been further from the stereotype and showed what appeared to be a genuine concern for my wellbeing. As a new patient presenting as I did, I was on suicide watch which meant that a nurse would look in on me every 15 minutes or so. It was intrusive but I slept through most of it and, in a way, it made me feel safe, just knowing that somebody cared.

As it turned out, they had a lot to deal with. The hospital could house 22 patients and was usually full with some patients leaving as others arrived. The range of patient needs was diverse and demanding but the staff took it all in their stride and never appeared flustered or stressed, though I am sure they were at times. Some patients got angry without provocation, some were off in their own little world, having imaginary conversations with imaginary people and some appeared completely without symptoms until you got talking to them. One guy was just the sweetest-natured person that you could ever meet. He took a shine to me and liked to call me ‘bear’ – I’m a big guy with a beard. One day, he gave me two buttons with the gravitas of a man bestowing the greatest honour in the land. I was touched and still have them. Usually though, I kept to myself, rarely venturing out of my room. I filled my days listening to Queen, Pink Floyd (Comfortably Numb!) and Bowie and watching videos on my phone. Later, I would enjoy walking through the beautiful grounds crying quietly to myself as I listened to The Show Must Go On. It really is amazing how music can touch the soul in the way it does.

The ward was strictly no smoking so we were allowed a supervised 20-minute break in the outdoor courtyard in the middle of the ward every few hours. As patients recovered they were allowed ‘leave’ to walk in the grounds or even to go to the shops sometimes for 20 minutes, sometimes as long as 6 hours, but you always had to return. Failure to return would result in the police being notified that a patient had absconded and a very speedy withdrawal of privileges.

The rooms were well furnished in a minimalist style with a single bed, desk, shower and toilet. There was no door on the toilet or shower so it was always a bit of challenge trying to time it just right between ward rounds (where staff check what you are doing and that you are ok) so that the staff did not have to suffer the experience of seeing me sat on the loo!

The room had one window which opened but was blocked by a grill to foil any escape attempts. It didn’t let much air in but it was better than nothing. HANDY TIP: If you’re going to end up in a psychiatric hospital do it in the winter when it’s cool and not the summer when it becomes uncomfortably hot.

The bed was built-in and fixed to the floor with a plastic covered mattress and duvet. They were comfortable enough but all that plastic made them unbearably sticky. The pillows – and you had to beg, steal and borrow to get an extra one – were also covered in plastic and thin enough to fit in a toaster, though I never actually tried that. Ironically, I was prescribed sleeping pills (Zolpidem) which meant that sleep came a lot easier.

The stereotype dictates that the common room is full of agitated, rowdy patients, enjoying pillow fights in a cloud of feathers. The reality is that most patients are quiet and introspective. Yes, you get the odd one who is a bit louder than the others but the staff always try to calm them down, with words or with drugs. Occasionally, a patient may become a danger to themself or to others and they are escorted to ‘isolation’ to calm down. This is just a simple room with a mattress where patients can reflect and settle down. They are supervised when in isolation to ensure their safety.

Meals were served at regular times and there was always a good choice including curries, sandwiches, pie, mash, veggies and such delights as spotted dick, sticky toffee pudding and jam roly-poly with custard for dessert. It’s worth going in just for the food! 10/10 would recommend.

Medical reviews were carried out on a weekly basis. It was a bit daunting at times as you would go into a room with the psychiatrist, nurse and up to four students so if you were an introvert like me it was sometimes a bit daunting. This meeting was where your future was decided. Whether you would be able to go home or have to remain on the ward. Medication was also subject to review with some being increased and some decreased to try to achieve the desired effect. Failure to mention something important would mean that it was another week before you could bring it up again.

Personally, I have been admitted to psychiatric hospital five times with the average stay being around 5-8 weeks. People often ask if it’s like prison or whether it’s boring on the ward. In my experience, you only feel boredom or time passing slowly when you are well enough to go home. The rest of the time it is just a battle with your own mind. Constant ruminations and thoughts of self-harm and suicide. When that subsides your brain starts to take more of an interest in life and what is going on around you and as the internal dialogue diminishes, so comes the boredom.

I hope I have busted some myths and given you an insight into what ‘mental hospital’ is really like. If you have any questions, I would be happy to answer them in the comments. Don’t forget, there’s no such thing as a silly question.

Much love and thank-you for reading. I hope I haven’t bored you to death.

Jonathan