The Nuthouse

Sorry, that's a very politically incorrect thing to call it but I have to keep it a bit light-hearted. There's a real stigma attached to having a mental illness and an even bigger one attached to being so bad you have to go into a psychiatric unit. Most people I know call it the nuthouse or loony bin. Terrible really in this day and age! I find it funny. I always think of " One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest " even though its nothing like that. Well,  not where I went anyway.

When I was discharged back home from the general hospital after my suicide attempt I had an appointment to see a psychiatrist the next day. I didn't want to go but I didn't want to make waves. All I wanted to do was to be left alone.

The psychiatrist was nice enough. I can't remember how it all came about but it just seemed out of the blue him suggesting I go and stay on the psychiatric ward for a few days. I said absolutely not, no way. How ridiculous . I know I did what I did but the nuthouse? No way. 

What came next shocked me more. He said I could go in voluntarily but if I didn't he would have me sectioned. So I had no fucking choice. 

I was allowed to go home and get some clothes and bits but I was accompanied . Probably in case I did a runner. 

For the first time I realised how serious trying to take your own life is. 

As I walked onto the ward I wished I was dead. How low could it get. My life was a disaster and I couldn't even make a proper job of ending it. I was scared and so alone. 

Someone showed me to my room. I shut myself in and closed the curtain on the window in the door. Two seconds later a nurse walked in, without knocking and opened it. " We need to keep that open " she said and walked out. Great, not even any privacy. I sat in the chair and cried and cried and cried.

It's amazing how quickly you get institutionalised and into a routine. Breakfast, therapy, lunch, free time , dinner, visiting, medication, bed. 

I had a named nurse who explained everything to me and in all honesty after a few days I felt quite safe. I liked the routine and I liked being looked after but I didn't like the feeling that I was a prisoner. Of course I'm sure I could have left if I really wanted to but it wasn't worth all the fuss.

The other patients were ok. Some were totally off the wall and some seemed like there was nothing wrong. There was only one incident that scared me. A young girl was trying to escape and bit one of the nurses. There were people of all ages and all walks of life. Mental illness is not choosy! 

There were some bizarre things going on. Lol they got me tearing up bits of tissue paper to make a collage....like in infants school.

I played table tennis , joined in with a quiz, drew pictures and smoked about a million cigarettes.

I wouldn't let anyone visit apart from my best friend and one of her sons. I didn't want people seeing me in there and I was starting to feel ashamed of what I'd done.

They let my sister come and take me out for the day. I loved that. It was the worst thing going back again and leaving her. 

The aim of my treatment was to get my medication sorted and to ensure that I wasn't going to try and kill myself again. In my mind I couldn't say if I'd do it again but I made sure every time I saw the psychiatrist I told him I was fine.

I can't remember how long I was in there for but when they said I could go home I acted pleased. The truth was by then I didn't want to go home and be on my own. 

It really wasn't that bad and it really did do me good. 

Sometimes when I feel really down and when things are getting too much, I wish I could go back.