What's it like to be hospitalised? (Part two)

TRIGGER WARNING: Content that covers topics of self harm, suicide, hospital environments and family issues.

I was admitted on the Friday and had a review with the consultant on the Tuesday. I was at boiling point. I had been holding so much in that my kind and understanding facade was starting to crack. The consultant was one of the most dismissive men I had ever encountered in the mental health system. He asked me why I had been admitted to hospital and I explained I had been actively suicidal. He then proceeded to tell me that nothing was going wrong in my life so I had no reason to feel the way I was and promptly offered me no help whatsoever. How could someone that gets paid so much to care, simply not? I finally erupted. I don’t remember much of what happened next but I was seeing red. The rage prickled my entire body and I found myself shouting that they didn’t care and that I didn’t see a point to anything in life. I stormed out of the room and kicked the wall until I felt the anger subsiding. I don’t act like that, ever, but I felt I had been pushed over the edge by the complete lack of care.

I spent the rest of the day crying uncontrollably. I managed to sneak a plastic spoon which I broke in order to self harm. I hid in my room or in the toilet and cried so much my chest and face hurt. The world was a darker shade. “They don’t care, no one cares, they don’t care,” echoed throughout my thoughts. Before I knew it I was thinking about my how my dad left, how he never turned up for visitation, hours waiting by the window. Every single rejection in my life popped into my head. “You are nothing and you will always be alone, always be left.” I sat on the floor. I must have cried myself to sleep.

When I woke up it wasn’t so bad. All the emotions I had been holding inside had released. I made my way to the dining room and sat at one of the tables in a daze. I can’t remember what time of the evening it was, but the sounds were all muffled. I spoke to one of the other BPD girls who asked me what happened in the doctors meeting. I told her I just didn’t care anymore.
“You’ve just been defeated, haven’t you.”
She was right. I couldn’t fight anymore. I was totally drained from begging and pleading for someone to do something. From that moment on I felt lost. I knew I was going to be discharged in a few days, regardless of whether I was ready or not. It’s a shame that this has been a common occurrence for me. The doctors and nurses always try to convince me that there will be help on the other side, but community mental health services have been stretched to breaking point.

Going into my discharge meeting I had lost hope of receiving any kind of help. My partner had been invited to attend as often professionals will take what he says more seriously; It’s ridiculous. We were called in front of the doctor, the crisis team and staff from the ward. The doctor then proceeded to read all of my notes back to me, about why I was admitted and what I had done since I had been in hospital. He was literally reading from his computer screen and barely made eye contact with us.
“So she’s been taking part in ward activities.” He said.
“Umm, no I haven’t.” I interjected.

He peered over his screen at me in a disgruntled fashion.
“I haven’t taken part in any activities, because there weren’t any.”
He was practically fuming. “Well that’s the nature of this ward.”
“It’s okay, I just don’t want you to put down what I haven’t done.”

Honestly I’m not sure I ever saw a doctor lie like that so blatantly. The rest of the exchange was a chilly one indeed. After he read out my notes, very matter of factly, he moved onto saying that he would be discharging me with no further support. My partner tried to argue the case that if I didn’t get any help from the crisis team or a community team, that I would be back through the door a few months down the line. Now my partner is a very skilled critical thinker and can easily hold his own in a discussion. However, he was simply brushed aside and we were simply asked to leave. I honestly could not believe the unprofessional attitude of that consultant.

Though I was upset I would be receiving no support, I was so glad to walk out of those doors. Inside hospital I felt I was treated like a child; told when to eat and when to sleep. I found myself regressing back to a childlike state to match the environment. Admission to a short term facility will likely not be therapeutic. However, it is important to realise if you are in an unstable and unsafe place, then admission might be your only choice. I used it as it was intended, as a place of safety, where it was harder to make the poor decisions that might cost me my life.

My intention was not to provide a negative view on NHS short term psychiatric units, but a realistic one. I would like to say I’ve had different experiences that were more therapeutic, but the only one was my first admission, which was onto a different ward. I have heard from others that long term admission is often more beneficial, if that is what you need. Personally I would say that if you need a short term admission then simply treat it as respite. A few days where you can fall apart and then put the pieces back together safely.

Lastly before I end, I want to briefly mention the sorry state that our mental health services are in. Hospitals rarely have beds and there is little funding for activities, community teams are pushed to their limits and there is a dramatic shortage of registered nurses, thanks to tuition fees being raised to ridiculous levels. There is more money available and clinical commissioners and associated politicians, need to be thinking of the long term effects to services. You have a say in what these people do, to what is one of the most vital services in the UK. Treatment should always be free at the point of care and available to all, not just those who are rich enough to afford the private therapy costs. Read those party policies and manifestos, get out there and vote.