86 Hours in care

In June 2016 year I was sectioned under section 2 of the mental health act.  How exactly this came about is still a cause of mystery to me, but it sparked a series of events that would see me sectioned twice more over the next few months and 4 more times after that over the coming years.

This is a long read but these are the notes I wrote at the time of that first sectioning.

I entered A&E well rested and well fed, 24 hours later I left on the verge of passing out from starvation and exhaustion.  The way I was treated as a mental health patient in A&E very nearly lead to me running away and finding myself on the streets with nothing.  This is not to say that they treated me badly per se just left for almost 24 hours with little insight into what was going on or what was causing the delays and given conflicting information then assessed in just a few short minutes where they spent longer talking to my parents than to me.

During the 10 minute assessment which happened after I had already been there for 20 hours it was decided that I needed to be taken to a ward for further assessment, something that wasn’t portrayed to me until several hours later.  At the point where being taken to the ward was mentioned I freaked and ran from the A&E department with nothing, leaving my bag and phone with my parents.

I didn’t run from the hospital grounds, I ran as far as the carpark, hoping that my parents would follow me and take me away from there. They didn’t. Instead I ended up being forcibly manhandled into a hospital ambulance taxi and taken to one of the most terrifying places I have ever been.  To this day I wonder what would have happened if I had kept going and strongly feel that many people with less strong family ties or who were closer to home or more used to being without cash would have kept going, finding themselves on the streets, hiding from the police or anyone on authority for fear of being taken back.  As a highly educated professional with a good job, a nice home, a large group of friends and a generally supportive family, I found myself minutes from being on the streets.  And that was just the start, the ward scared me so much and crucially the decision to take me there caused me to miss a very important work meeting and a comeback photoshoot to end all comeback photoshoots.

Work was the only thing I felt I had left after a separation where I had fled the house I shared with my husband with nothing but a suitcase at the very end of my tether.  I had made a mistake, the week prior I had managed to get myself arrested after starting to date before I was ready following the separation earlier in the year.  My parents were understandably worried, their quiet, studious daughter was all over the place.  I don’t blame them for panicking and thinking that my distress at potentially being late to meet a friend at my place was too extreme.  I don’t blame the mental health services, they say a distressed person who wanted nothing to do with a family that clearly cared about her, they didn’t want me going it alone.  I do blame the cuts and a lack of resourcing and the trauma of being within a mental health ward when I wasn’t sick.

I was in the ward for just four days and three nights and in that time I became so scared that I felt judged for every aspect of my character.  Whilst there I kept a diary on kitchen towels written in biro.  A diary I kept hidden in the lining of my coat, convinced it would be confiscated if found.  How much of this was paranoia and how much was true I still don’t know.  When a distressed person is thrown into an environment with people with very complex and varied mental health needs, it is easy to listen to their beliefs and absorb them as your own.  What follows are those notes edited to avoid repetition and improve grammar.  I’ve also filled out with longer notes written in retrospect.  When first in the ward my loyalties were entirely with the patients and the staff were my enemy, having spent longer in the wards I now see the staff as generally well meaning and hard working people in an underpaid and overstretched profession.

So I was sectioned essentially for shouting at my parents.  Parents who had promised me that if I went home for the night they would take me home to Stevenage for 1pm the next day as I had a friend coming all the way from Norwich to take me to IKEA.  Parents who then renegaded in the promise.  A large part of the section justification was based on an assentation that I was acting out of character.  This was a fact that made me very angry for a long time.  From my perspective, out of character was good.  From around the age of around 13 I had felt very insecure and depressed and had spent much of my life trying everything I could to make me feel okay around people.  Out of character me was someone who for the first time in her life had drive and ambition and a sense of purpose and being.  My family fought a lot when I was growing up, they didn’t mean to but life is hard at times and it is amazing how much events that you think you are over still affect you many years later. 

What affected me most in the run up to being in the ward was the amount of people who seemed to be on my side, thinking that what was happening was a gross misconduct but who did nothing.  The staff at the hospital who refused my requests to talk to someone who could discharge me, to the lady with assessment team, who just stood there on the verge of tears as I negged her to get the two men back so I could talk to them further and get everything cleared up but did nothing, to the nurses in the ambulance.  To be fair to them they did allow me to stop off at a service station to buy some food and have a smoke and they did put in a good word with the ward, requesting me not to be medicated, but at the time all I wanted was for someone to stop it from happening.  By the time I arrived, the ambulance staff were helping me with contacts about who to complain to but none of it did any good.

This whole year has been a journey to fix my family relationship issues resulting from that day.  I have never felt so betrayed by anyone, no even my estranged husband as I did by them that day.  When my mother turned up to the hospital that day she brought with her a short stay wash bag, showing that they did not at all believe that they would be taking me home with them.  In hindsight maybe it was the right decision but it overlooked how terrifying the wards really are.  A place where people are meant to go to recover from mental health issues but which if anything in reality make them worse.

——–

The ward I was taken to is allegedly one of the best in the country.  It’s certainly one of the newest and most modern, but what it has in terms of courtyards and individual on-suite rooms, it lacks in facilities, staffing and most distressingly anything to do.  The book shelves are empty, there are a series of fairly bad puzzles and limited games resources.

The day staff terrified me and in fact the only staff I appreciated were the trainee nurses who visited to do blood pressure and so forth. 

I’ve been very torn as to whether to write this or not.  Some of the staff are truly terrible, the younger generation of staff mean well and are very nice but they’ve never been a patient.  They’ve been taught about mental health within the confides of the current day thinkings on the subject and they are doing their job wonderfully.  But what if the current modern day thinkings are wrong?

What if, what is seen as mania is actually just frustration or enthusiasm.  There’s a girl in there, when I first met her she was talking about how much she wanted to be a broadcaster, her ranting as I saw it was because she couldn’t understand what she had done wrong and why everyone was attempting to prevent her from achieving her dreams.  By the time I left after the staff had got to her, she was resetting her phone, removing all remnants of her old life and was adamantly saying that she did not want to be a broadcaster.  This was particularly frustrating as on that phone was a recording to back up my claims. In my opinion, these places take kind and driven individuals who are too honest to play the games of life and crushes any fight out of them.  I however don’t want this to be a piece on my opinions.  I just want to present what I saw and heard as a patient there and let you make up your own minds.

There was no paper and no pens there, I managed to borrow a biro off one of the other girls, it was a mixed ward but most inmates, I’m going to switch to calling them inmates now, it felt more like a prison than a hospital, were female.  So I borrowed a biro and never let go of it and I wrote a diary on kitchen towels that I then hid and smuggled out in the lining of my coat pocket.

Names have been changed to protect identities and in some places the original words have been refined, but other than that, the below is a chronological account of the four days I spend in Swift Ward Redditt.  There are also a couple of really weird things that happened that I even myself don’t know what to make of, I thought about leaving them out as they could distract the debate but if I did, I wouldn’t be presenting the whole story.   I present the course of events without comment for the reader to decide what they make of it.

This first post is out of order, but I think it is a key one to start with:

I’m feeling suicidal now.  Two days ago I was on the biggest high of my life.  I’d had a fascinating week and managed to stay safe.  I’d learnt a huge amount about the world and about myself.  I’d possibly unravelled the secrets of human society and why it is full of so much anger and so much pain.  I had a career path mapped out.  I had an epic comeback photoshoot mapped out and most impressive of all, I’d managed to somehow pull off an enjoyable evening in with my mother.  We’d gone through her old clothes and have found some stunning pieces for both general wear and the shoot.  I was feeling loved by friends, appreciated and was looking forward to the future.  In the short term, I was particularly looking forward to meeting my friend Z that I hadn’t seen in a long time and finishing off my flat, all set to go to work on Monday.

Two days later and I’m feeling suicidal and the itching to slash my arm has returned again.  As I lie on my bed writing this, the only thought I can feel is sadness.  Sadness at the life I have lost and sadness at the state of mental health care in this country.

So this is the story of how I, an educated professional almost ended up on the streets with nothing but the outfit I was wearing.

05/05/16

I’ve been given no information. 

Shaving is supervised, that sort of makes sense

I do not know for example how laundry works

I do not know the name of my consultant.  I do not know when I’ll next be seeing him.

An old lady in the corner screams out “I know what I did, I know what I did, I’m in the worst place in the world.”  She spots a nurse passing and instantly shuts down and stops.  She recons she’s a sex maniac, previously she stated that she was a mass murderer, I highly doubt this.

These early notes were rushed.  More a small collection of facts on the people I was talking to, written while talking to them.  I soon learnt to just listen then return to my room to write the notes up.

Lucy: Has been here for three weeks.  She was collected from her home for not taking her medication for schizophrenia.  She has lived in Stevenage for 32 years and is originally from Hitchin.  She has not been told why she is still here or when she is likely to be released.  Like me, she has no idea how laundry works and no one has explained it to her.  Her son and husband come to see her once or twice a week.  Her son works on the busses.  The just came round to her house and took her into hospital, she wasn’t feeling bad at all.  Her mum and dad are dead and she doesn’t get on with her mother-in-law.  She’s been ill for about 3 years.  She used to have Gerbils.  She’s been in and out since she was 28 and has never been offered any counselling during any of the visits.  She was department head at Boots Chemist for 10.5 years and has since worked for Tesco and Toys R Us.

Peter: Barricaded himself into his home, then was scared to go home.  He genuinely believes that he’s paranoid (I think that’s just because people have told him he has for so long, but that’s my opinion only).  Has never hurt anyone.  Apparently he’s a risk to himself, he was sleeping rough.

John: Has been here for 4 days he things, he keeps phasing in and out and isn’t sure.  He’s on meds that he doesn’t think are helping with his depression.  He mostly locks himself in his room.  Is disappointed that the nurses don’t seem to do anything, this is very true they don’t.  He expected a wider variety of books and some kind of gardening activity or something.  He feels the place is making his mental health worse, especially paranoia.  There are big circular mirrors in the top left corner of all rooms, why they are there is not clear, believes they are probably camera.  Also some of the ceiling lights have green lights in them and then they’re off an obvious mechanism.  Again believes there lights to be camera. (John is not the only person to have mentioned these thoughts about cameras being everywhere and the place making their paranoia worse)

So Cain came to visit today and caused me to lose my phone.  I grant that maybe I should have put something on Facebook that I shouldn’t have done.  The details of a woman who is in here and is terrified for the loss of her life outside.  What I don’t understand is why he felt the need to tell the staff.  Why he couldn’t have told me and just asked me to take it down.  I am now really alone.  I didn’t take enough numbers.  I don’t for example have my best friend’s number, I would like to get this.  I don’t know who to call when I finally get out.  I have no idea who to trust now. I’m scared now.

I asked Cain to go and get me some clothes.  I have none here, especially none that I feel comfortable in.  I’ve just been told he’s not coming with them until tomorrow, it made me cry on the social worker.  She asked me if I wanted something to help calm me down?  Yes, that would have been lovely, to have somewhere quiet to go and chat, to be able to cry and let it all out and someone to listen to it.  But they didn’t mean that.  They meant, pop some pills and shut up.  Why is the first resort always pills?  Oh you seem to be upset or angry or anything other than a zombie and the answer is always, take some pills and get over it.  So no, I don’t need any pills.  I need to be listened to and understood.  There is no therapist here.  I was speaking to a woman earlier, she’s been in and out for 28 years.  At one point she was a department head at Boots store, a job she held for 10.5 year, recently she’s worked at ToysRUs (I don’t know how to type a backwards R) but recently she’s been out of work a while.  Again the reason that she’s here is that she stopped taking her pills.  Apparently they turned up at her house and took her.  She had felt fine and had done nothing to endanger herself or others.  Her son is a bus driver. I wonder how many of the staff know that.  She’s been here three weeks.  She has been told nothing of what is going on.  She doesn’t even know how the laundry works, which is a shame as I was hoping that someone would be able to tell me that.

I tried to ask about getting permission to join the smoke break outings, this is something that can apparently take some time.  I guess I’ll discuss it with my consultant tomorrow.  A consultant that I don’t know the name of and indeed know very little about.

So apparently my behaviour is manic, I call it driven.  When you want something a lot, it becomes important.  When something is important, you become emotionally attached, you cry or scream when stuff gets in the way of your goals.

06/06/16

Fuck me, talk about weird.  I just had a long chat with a lovely girl called Jasmine, a girl that is wondering which meds will successfully remove her mania.  I’m sat in bed feeling down and deflated rehearsing my speech to the consultant saying that I feel down, I feel sad and deflated, that my manic episode is over.  Generally feeling very sorry for myself.  At that point the shower turns on on its own.  It’s a massive shock and really kinda scary as it’s operated by a manual push button.  I didn’t push it and there’s no one else in the room.  Initially I’m scared, that really is weird but after a while a smile starts to spread across my face.  I take it as a sign.  A sign to get up, get clean and you can do this.  I’m mid writing so I ignore it for a while, then the urge to jump in the shower, clean and put on fresh clothes becomes too much so I head out of bed, peer cautiously round the door, half expecting to be scared out of my wits as my general scepticism towards ghosts is abruptly halted.  There’s nothing there, though the shower does turn itself off at this point. Naked I return to bed to finish my writing.  I’m done now, I wonder if it will turn itself back on for me.  I’m guessing I’ll have to do it myself this time.  I have no idea what that was, maybe an electrical fault but it felt like something somewhere is looking out for me and wants me to keep going. (Apparently they do this from time to time to prevent legionnaires disease, it’s damn scary though)

Written on the inside of one of the books on the bookshelf, I don’t have a camera any more so will have to transcribe it.

“Do you feel you can trust them? Do you feel that your voice is being heard, you are lonely, do you feel neglected not sure who you can turn to?  If you have read this do not cry.  I feel your pain, you have been through a lot, you are not alone. God bless you Debbie. Xxxxxxxxx

12:30 they are planning on torture.  I don’t feel safe here – have been followed here by the government.  I was tortured at Kingfisher Court several times”

Inside on the first few pages, a word is written at the top of each page.  They read in order.

“NEGLECT

TORTURE

CONSPIRACY

CORRUPTION

REVENGE

MURDER”

On the back it reads

“Conspiracy against me.  There is corruption in the mental health services.  I am a victim of government conspiracy several times, they tried to kill me.”

One of the first stories I heard when I arrived was about a girl who was apparently there a couple of weeks ago and had apparently tried to run away and was now dead.  I never got the details.  I do not know what to make of it.

There’s nothing for people to do here.  We were given a feedback form asking us to rate our satisfaction with among other things, the level of physical activities provided.  There are none.  This morning many of the girls were asking if it was possible to go for a walk.  The request wasn’t so much denied as ignored.  The question was side-stepped.  No explanation was given as to why this wasn’t possible and no information about when it may be possible was given (as it happened they did get a brief walk in the afternoon).

Apparently there is a gym on one of the other wards, Jasmine, a fascinating girl, I’ve given her my number, I hope she uses it one day, is desperately trying to lose weight.  Apparently she’s lost 18lb recently and she’s proud about that and now that she is here she is worried about maintaining the weight loss.  She reminds me of me while I was on my bender, or in fact a more out of control version of me in general.  She’s forthright and honest.  She knows when stuff isn’t right and she’s not afraid to tell people about it.

There are no counsellors here, seriously a home for mental health problems and there are no counsellors.  Not even that, there are no timetables, we just sit around waiting for the opportunity to see the assessor.  There is no information about what the criteria for release is.  Yas has been saying that you just have to admit that you’re mentally ill, tell them that you’re manic and agree to take your meds.  I’ll say anything to get out, I’ll admit I had a manic episode, I don’t feel I did, I felt I was learning.  Mania and enthusiasm, or maybe the correct word is drive, are the same thing, the only difference is self-control.

I‘m glad I’m here in some ways. Jasmine is suffering at the moment.  Everyone is suffering. Paranoia is everywhere so much so that I have just hidden my writings as I’m sure they would be confiscated if they were found.  The staff act more than prison wardens than counsellors (man I repeat myself a lot).  The evening staff are better, they try and chat and be nice but they shut down at any sign of emotion and offer you meds instead.  The day time staff are down right scary.

I liked the mania.  I saw it as awesome. I saw it as after 34 years of struggling, of supporting others and not thinking of myself, as my time to push and achieve and think about me.  But maybe I did take it too far.  Maybe it did have the possibility of turning me into a nasty person.  I don’t know.  I’m going to sleep.

There are two girls just arrived sitting on the table across from me, one was screaming as she came in.  They can’t be more than about 16.  On the table between them is a box of those rubber band things for making bracelets.  Noone is talking to them and creepy eye dude is pacing around ominously.  They look lost and confused and scared.  I think I’ll go and say Hi, I don’t really feel like it right now.  The visit from the brother-in-law today upset me.  He told the staff about my Facebook posts and now they have taken my phone.  I don’t know why he couldn’t have spoken to me about it first.

Patricia, the constantly talking woman has just walked past and told me I need an advocate and to calm down.  Right now, I couldn’t be any more calm.  Right now, I feel I have no family.  My family abandoned me two days ago.  James and his family abandoned me at the point that I left and the countless friends that I have supported over the years seem to all think that I deserve to be in this place.

Noone seems to know why I am here.  I was just speaking to an old guy, I asked him why he was here.  He said because he has stopped taking his meds.  I asked if he has done anything since he stopped taking them, he said no. I asked if he had done anything ever, he said no.  Now of course we’re talking to people in a mental health unit but it seems to be a common theme and I believe him.

There is a simple question, that most people don’t seem to know the answer to.  Why?

 07/06/16

So I had my second consultation today, it went well I think and there’s a good chance that I will be released tomorrow.  There was one interesting point that came up.  The consultant stated as if doing me a huge favour that they had decided not to put me on meds, he carried on to say that if they wanted to, they could forcibly put me on meds and they would legally be within their rights to do so. So I will have to look that up to see if it is true but I imagine that it probably is. Having confirmed with my brother in law who is an occupational therapist, this is true. This brings me nicely onto the subject of Julie.  Julie is a zombie.  She walks around in a daze.  Her eyes are glazed, she shows no comprehension and can’t even work the door pass which is a contactless just wave in over the sensor jobbie.  Most of the time she just sits with her head down.  She never says anything and I’ve never seen her have a visitor.  I tried to talk to her once, she lifted her head and my eyes met an expression of, well of I don’t know what, a mixture of pure psychopathy, confusion and fear, it was scary as much as pitiful.  Pauline had better luck talking to her but even she struggled to get more than a couple of words out.  Noone talks to Jenny, neither the patients or the staff, although the patients do try to and always keep an eye out for her.  Jenny smokes or at least tries to, the inmates keep an eye out for her and try and help her, they offer her help with her lighter and help her navigate, in general they ensure that someone is keeping an eye on her. Where was I?  Oh yes, no one talks to Julie, neither the patients or the staff, she just exists, nothing more. 

There was an old lady here yesterday.  She was going on and on that she was the worst person in the world, saying that she was a mass murderer which I highly doubt and a sex fiend, which I could imagine.  I replied with “girl, who isn’t, get you, so am I”.  She was very agitated throughout the evening and the doctors (nurses? Staff? No one knows what qualifications anyone has) took her away.  I have not seen her yet today, I have another 24 hours to get through, I do not feel safe here. 

At least I have permission to smoke now, I made a bargain that I would be happy staying another day if they gave me my section 17 to allow me to go outside.  This has possibly made things more tense.  There is a girl called Annica who has been here longer than me who still does not have hers.  No one has explained to her why not or how long she is likely to have to wait, getting mine after a couple of days has led to a feeling of unjustness, which I have to say that I agree with.  It is important that I don’t antagonise anything this evening.  It is important that I get out of here so that I can share the story and help these people.  I feel I will have to hide my notes well to ensure they are not confiscated.  The lining of my coat should work well. Good job the lining in the pocket broke ages ago and I’ve never got round to fixing it.  That makes life easier.

Found written in the cover of a book on the book shelf (which has very few books on it)

“Dear Peter,

I hope you love me, I really do.  You have helped me in so many ways. You have guided me through my difficult times and you are a life saver xxx

From J xxxx

I hope you do not know meet my family Ever

LOL

I believe I can fly”

If I don’t fluff it, I’m out tomorrow.  I’ve already fluffed it slightly and lost my biro, I think I lent it to someone, that was silly.  I need to stay calm, be out and about enough to seem normal but take myself away when I feel the tension rising.  One wrong move and I’ll be stuck here, and while I’m stuck here, I can’t help.

I hope Jasmine comes down to see me again, she has a friend who is a film maker, making a film called “corruption is everywhere”.  I want his contact details, I also want to borrow her phone to get Cain to bring biros. Lots of biros.  There’s a 15-year-old here you now.  She just sits in a chair on her own looking stoic.  I’m very impressed with her but it’s terribly sad.  There’s also a girl sat on a table on her own with her head in her hands.  No one is talking to her or supporting her.  The inmates (I’m still sticking with that term, it still feels more like prison than hospital) will embrace her in time, but surely that’s the staff’s job.

I’ve written a lot about the negatives of this place.  It’s time for a shout out for the positives.  The night shift has arrived.  The night shift is infinitely preferable to the day shift.  When the night shift arrives there is a noticeable sigh of relief and the nurses are welcomed warmly and with joy, the qualified nurses are kind and caring but the real shout out goes to the trainees.  They are attentive, smiley, helpful and kind and they give me great optimism for the next generation of healthcare officials.

08/06/16

I don’t know what to do about my mother.  The left-hand side of my face is falling to pieces, my eye is puffy, the skin is itchy and falling off.  My skin has always been sensitive, she knows this.  I have found a skin care regime that works.  It’s a simple one, Neutrogena clean and clear spot stress control and the body shop Aloe Vera toner and day cream (I found out today that the body shop in Stevenage has shut, this is very sad). For years my mother has been trying to make me use the fancy skin care products that she likes, Liz Earl and whatever. For years I’ve been going “yeah yea, no they’re nice” then ignoring them and using my own products.  Now I’m stuck here and don’t have access to my own products, my eye is swollen, the skin around my ear is raw and the whole of my left cheek itches.

There are many other things that show they pay absolutely no attention to who I am or what I like.  In the bag of additional things that they brought up was a 2ltr bottle of Pepsi Max and two large bags of Walkers ready salted crisps.  I drink diet coke and think ready salted is the blandest flavour imaginable.  Cheese is my preferred crisp flavour but really anything other than ready salted.  This is hardly a secret that I’ve been keeping from them and you would have thought that after 34 years they may have known these things and taken them into the time to get it right.  Also I still don’t have any of my own clothes.  I sent a list of requested items and my house keys off with Jez. I didn’t have to give them to him, Tina had already offered to pick some things up for me.  I thought as Jez was up here and it was a long way from home, he would round trip to my house and collect my stuff that evening.  There wasn’t much, some clothes, a bra, some facewash, a couple of books and ideally my laptop, although to be fair, I’m rather liking the pen and paper towel method.

I lost my biro yesterday and this morning, there was a biro on one of the tables.  Not the same biro but a biro nevertheless, there are no pens in this place and it was just there, just what I needed.  A superstitious person could start thinking that the universe is conspiring to help me, but I don’t want to get ideas above my station.  Anyway, so despite apparently being worried out of their minds about me.  They weren’t able to take the time to actually think about what I may need.  They pack me off to this place and then leave me.  They convince me to give my keys to Cain, meaning no one else can get into my flat and then don’t instantly go round to my flat.  Susan’s phone is still in my flat.  She needs it.  Tina would have collected it and found a way to send it to her.  Danny’s motorbike is still at my flat.  Sarah would have coordinated a way for him to collect it.  My mum when I showed her the messages from Danny in an attempt to explain how I was feeling, read them and then said “he doesn’t know you at all”.  Danny knows me better than anyone in the world with the possible exception of Charles who I still can’t decide whether he’s a genius or an idiot with unintentional wonderful consequences or actually just a jerk.  Anyway, I’m getting angry and confused, I’m going to discuss this with the nice coordinator later. (I decided that not discussing any of this was a much better tactic).

I just came across a great quote in The Alchemist but Paulo Coelho which I thought seemed appropriate to share.  The alchemist has shown tradesmen the elixir of life and the philosopher’s stone, when asked why he showed them as there was a risk they would be taken from him he replies, “To show you one of life’s simple lessons, when you possess treasures within you, and try to tell others of them, seldom are you believed.”

It rings very true for most of the people stuck in here.  The 20-year-old who is mid-uni and pregnant, who just wants to defer her course for a year so she can keep the baby, who states openly to her parents “When have I ever failed? When have I ever given up?” and whose parents like mine are too concerned by their own prejudices and fears for her wellbeing to listen to her words.

Or the 15-year-old who stoically supports people decades older than herself while asking for nothing in return

Or the lady who was having a breakdown so decided to try and help herself and got accepted as crew on a round the world sailing trip but was sectioned before she could take it up.

Or the guy who got in trouble after issues with a drug addicted woman, who when talking to the hospital and police used the word “girl” and has since been treated like a paedophile. The woman was 40.

And of Rachel who all she wants is a fucking cigarette, who is hurting herself by slamming herself against walls.  Who at the same time as screaming is apologising for screaming: “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to shout at you. I don’t want to hurt myself, I don’t want any more bruises, all I want is a cigarette so I can sit in the garden and calm down.  Is that too much to ask?”  Well is it?

Places like this cause more emotional stress than they solve. Cigarettes calm people, like them or not, there’s a reason they have been so popular throughout history. Denial in general is both a powerful aphrodisiac and the worst thing in the world.

I do wish Jasmine would leave me alone.  I need to be calm before my consultation.  Apparently I’m “a bit weird but she likes me”.  I like her too and right now, she needs me more than I need to get out.  The nurses have just turned up in my room with meds.  Things were going well.  We were talking about Buddhism and the Dali Lama, she was calm and happy and relaxed.  As soon as they turned up she got agitated again.  She knows what she needs to do.  She asks the right questions, she just wants to be understood.  She wants to know what the red edging on the uniforms means.  Apparently white edging means healthcare assistant, she knows that.  The staff nurse won’t tell her what the red edging means.  All she wants to know is exactly what the nurse’s role is and whether or not the nurse is licensed to give her drugs.  The nurse refuses to answer and the lack of understanding is distressing Jasmine.  That’s the key point, the people who are freaking out are freaking out because they don’t understand, because they feel ignored, because they ask simple questions, like “what are your qualifications” and they get no answers.

Oh my god, weird stuff really does keep happening.  Jasmine’s phone recorded the whole lot.  We have a recording of the last 16 minutes of conversation, we have evidence.  Neither of us actively turned the phone onto record.

Additional Note:  Sadly the staff got to Jasmine before I did and she factory reset her phone and wiped the recording, I should have got her to send it to me there and then.  I now don’t have evidence just my notes.  Notes that could be interpreted as the paronoia or a mentally ill person.  But I’m not mentally ill, I was never medicated, the whole reason I was there was a farce and these notes are a factual description of what happened not the ramblings of a paranoid mind.

08/06/16

The no smoking policy here is absurd.  A new woman called Harriette arrived last night, this morning she was crying in the Kitchen.  She’s been in and out of these places many times and is extremely distressed, all she wants at the moment is a cigarette and to go home.

Honestly you drag people in from wherever you have dragged them in from, with probably no real explanation as why, chuck them in some cell, tell them nothing of what is going on and then deny them the simple right of being allowed a smoke to calm down.  However much they may smell and cause cancer, they calm the body and mind and stress is a far bigger killer than smokes.

Anyway, Harriette is sat on the floor at the end of the corridor screaming that “I don’t want to be in these places any more”, “just knock me out”, “I’m tired of being treated like a fucking Guinea Pig”, “I just want to go home”, “I don’t care anymore”.  What happens here, I assume is endemic everywhere.  There is a “nurse”, or let’s call that guard stationed outside Jasmine’s room this morning.  He’s probably been there all night.  God knows what they’ll do to her or have done but as I mentioned before, they are apparently legally entitled to forcibly medicate.

It just carries on, Harriette is now wandering around the living room muttering to herself “don’t cry, don’t cry, hold it together.”  People know that you can’t cry, you can’t scream, you can’t show emotion at all. Note: As I said the evening staff are nicer, though they also don’t deal with emotions well.

I was released on day four with a problem.  Previously all that I had cared about was building a database to help my company with its configuration control problem, now I strongly felt a need to tell my story.