A Stay in the Mental Health Unit.
I have taken a break from writing on here for a little while. I found it was slightly triggering, so I stepped away, but am now back to write a little bit more.
This post is about my stay in the mental health unit, something I never thought would happen to me.
January 2014. I had been going backwards with my progress. The agoraphobia was having more of a grip on me. Things at home were not great. I felt like I was walking on eggshells daily. I woke up every morning, and before I even opened my eyes, I was scared. Scared that I knew I would be moaned at all day because of my inability to live a normal life. I would be criticised for things that I said or did. I hated the thought that I had another day to struggle through.
A massive panic attack hit one day. Not one of those ones that you could breathe through, or use mindfulness to combat. Not even one that my PRN dose of diazepam could beat. I felt doomed. I was terrified. I felt like I broke.
I made contact with my GP, who advised a change in my medication. I was taking paroxetine for anxiety, and he suggested mirtazapine. Now, I know anyone who is reading this and has experience of medications for panic disorder will be groaning at this decision. But I went with it. Surely the GP knew best? He also referred me to the crisis team at the local mental health trust, who came out the same day to see me.
As advised, I cut down on the paroxetine by 10mg a day over 4 days until I had stopped it, and started the mirtazapine.
One of the problems with SSRI's, and medicines for anxiety, is they often have horrible withdrawl effects. Paroxetine is renowned for this, and I now know that it should be tapered off incredibly slowly, sometimes as slowly as 0.5mg a week. Going from a dose of 40mg to nothing in four days, was just asking for trouble. And trouble is what I had.
One day, I was done. I didnt want to be here any more. I couldn't cope any more with waking up like I was, scared of what the day held. My anxiety was constantly high. I felt like shit following the rapid stopping of the paroxetine. The mirtazapine helped me sleep, but I also started piling on weight, became snappy and aggressive, and was just miserable.
I wrote a note. I made funeral plans for myself. I detailed where I had savings for the children and how it could be accessed. I wrote to my parents, apologising, and telling them it wasn't their fault, and I hoped me going would finally bring them relief from having to cope with me and the illness I had been suffering for so long. And also that I was at peace from my decision, and I was looking forward to finally being at peace and not being scared anymore. Death seemed like utopia. Freedom from the anxiety. Freedom from the fear. Freedom from the dark thoughts and feelings.
I left the note beside my bed, grabbed a rope from out of the shed, and jumped in the car with my labrador, my best friend. I drove a few minutes to the park that had a forest area. It was an area I had taken the dog to several times before. It was somewhere I felt at peace. Just sitting on a log in the middle of the forest, surrounded by nothing but trees and wildlife.
So there I am. Sitting on this bloody log. I had sat here so many times before. Only this time, I felt at peace. I didn't fear what the next week would bring. I didnt fear what the next day would bring. I didnt even fear what the next hour would bring. Because there would not be a next week, a next day, a next hour. There was nothing to be scared of anymore. It was a remarkable feeling of freedom. I smiled as I thought of my children, finally being placed with a family that were desperate for children. The life they would lead, having parents who were normal. Who were able to take them on holidays, do activities with them, and lead a normal home life. I thought of my parents, who would finally be free of having to deal with me and my problems. Everyone would be better off. Everyone would be happier. I would be at peace.
Obviously, I am writing this. I am still here. I can barely recall what happened whilst I was in the forest. But something I do know, is that I found myself sectioned under the mental health act. I was allocated a bed at the local mental health hospital.
I was driven to the hospital. It took a long while to get there, as I kept panicking and having to stop and turn around on the way. It was one of the scariest journeys of my life. I knew where I was going, I knew what it meant. But I knew I needed to do it.
The mental health unit was a new building, built on the site of the main general hospital. I was shaking so so much as I arrived. I entered reception, and looked around. The building was nice. It was airy, bright, resembling a large wooden lodge.
I was met by a nurse, who took me to the main building. We went through several doors that needed swipe access by card, or an entry number to open. They were always locked behind us. I felt my anxiety creeping up more and more. I didnt want to be here. I wanted to run. I wanted to be back in the safety of my home. But my home wasnt safe. I didnt want to be there either. This was a make or break situation, and I knew I had to do it.
We entered the main hospital, up a flight of stairs. All the time, I am marvelling at the bright airy unit, nothing like the institution I was anticipating. We got to the ward doors. I knew this was it. I knew once I went through those doors, I was in an acute psychiatric unit. A mental health ward. The cuckoos nest.
I stepped through the doors, and was taken aback. There were people. Obviously I expected people, but not people like these. I expected zombie like people. Bedraggled people. People with dead eyes. The ward was nothing like a hospital ward. It was like a community centre. A large open plan dining area, a roof terrace with box planters and patio furniture. A comfy seating area with a large flat screen TV. People were walking around freely. No straight jackets or medical equipment in sight.
I was taken into a small room where I had an initial assessment. Blood tests, weight, height, blood pressure, medical history etc. Then a spoken assessment by a nurse, who then went off to find the doctor. I had to go through exactly how I felt. What had been going on, what I was doing in the forest. Whether I had suicidal plans. The doctor entered the room, and told me I would be held at the unit on a minimum 72 hour hold, for an assessment and treatment plan to be drawn up. The mirtazapine was stopped, and paroxetine recommenced.
I was given a short ward tour, and shown to my room. My bags were briefly looked through, and things like my phone charger, any medicines including paracetamol and asprin, and anything with a cord or lead confiscated. I could charge the phone, but had to ask one of the nurses to pop it on charge for me. I was, however, allowed to keep my bags, including a carrier bag I had inside one of them, and one with a 3foot long shoulder strap. The confiscation and search seemed futile when I was still very well equipped with things I could use should the urge take me.
I entered my room. It was like a wooden villa. A massive wooden villa, granted, but the building reminded me of being at Centerparcs. My room was nice. They are all the same, and nothing like what I was expecting. No open or mixed wards. There were single rooms, decorated really nicely, with a small desk and chair, a single bed, built in wardrobes and drawers, and an en suite shower room. It was more like a mid-grade hotel than a hospital. It was comfortable. You almost forgot it was a psych unit, and that you were locked in there.
My room was on the first floor, with a view of a courtyard and grassy area outside. Also virtually directly outside my window, was the maternity unit. A massive, imposing building that is visible from miles around due to its size. It was literally right outside my window. I spent half the night just sitting and looking out of the window at the ugly old building, wondering what my friends and ex colleagues were up to in there, wondering who was on the night shift that night, and whether it was busy, and generally just reflecting on how seemingly one minute I was working in that building, in a job that I loved, whilst occasionally catching a view of the large wooden building that was the mental health unit, and now all of a sudden, everything was flipped on its head. I was now in the large wooden building that was the mental health unit, and looking up at the maternity building. How did this happen to me??
I sorted my bits out, settled down, then I was alone. There was a bookcase in the main dining area, so I went and took a book to sit in my room and read. A Boy Called It. Such a sad story. One of those books you couldnt put down. I waited all night for someone to come and see me. I hadn't had my medication that night, as they had taken it during the search, and it now needed to be prescribed and dispensed by the staff. I went to find a nurse, which was no mean feat considering they dressed casually, and I could barely differentiate them from the patients. I said I hadn't had my medication, and she assured me she would be in soon with it. I was anxious about missing it, because it includes an anti seizure medicine, that I really suffer from missing.
It was getting later and later, and still no meds. I am messaging my mum, she is worried about me being in the hospital, it devastated her. I told her I had not been given medication, and had simply been left in my room with no one at all coming to see me since I had been there. I started to wish I was at home. I had entered the hospital with hope that they would be able to work out a treatment plan and that this may finally be the end of my problems. It was now seeming as though I was simply dumped there in order not to be able to be a danger to society or myself.
Morning came. I didn't get the meds. I also didn't get them that morning either. I was on the phone to my mum and sister a lot, and Tommy, telling them that wasn't staying here, I wanted to come home, it was pointless. I felt I was worse off in the unit than I was at home, and just had to get out.
Visiting time wasn't until 5pm. They were not allowed up until visiting hours commenced. Tommy agreed that when he came up with my mum, that they'd speak to the staff and I'd go home with them.
Breakfast time was 0830-0930. I stayed in my room. The day staff came on shift, and my allocated nurse popped his head in my door and introduced himself. He had a little clip board, and asked whether Id had breakfast. I said yes, despite having not left my room. He ticked something on the clipboard, and off he went. I thought to myself how easy it was to lie about having eaten, with the staff just taking your word for it. The same went for lunch. I said I'd eaten. I got a tick on my chart. Truth was, I felt too ill to eat. I was too anxious to leave my room. I just wanted to sit on my bed with all my stuff packed up, just watching the time pass until visiting hours.
At about 10 past 5, a nurse popped her head around the door and said I had visitors, who were in one of the small meeting rooms waiting for me. I left my room and sheepishly walked past the dining area, where there were lots of people, patients with their visitors. I felt like everyone was staring at me as I walked past with my bags. I got to the meeting room, opened the door and saw my mum and Tommy sitting there. I smiled and chirped 'Right come on then, lets go'. My mum said nothing, just looked anxious. Tommy finally piped up with 'We are not taking you home, we think you need to stay here'. Well. That was it. The tears started. I started yelling, shouting that they promised they would be taking me home, I stormed out of the meeting room and slammed the door behind me, shouting at them that they may as well just go home if they weren't going to help me. I stormed through the ward, wailing, slamming every door I went through, ignoring the staff as they tried to speak to me as I marched past them.
I got back to my room, closed the door, and jumped into bed, pulling the covers over my head, and feeling so let down. So betrayed. How could they let me stay in this place? How could they not take me home when I asked them. How could they think I was better off being locked up in the nut house?
A nurse eventually came in and spoke to me. She had already spoken to Tommy and my mum and they'd told her what had happened. She coaxed me back into the meeting room, where we all sat and had a discussion. I agreed to stay (not that I had a choice!), and calmed down. I panicked massively when it was time to leave, and had to be given diazepam before they went. I was terrified of being left on my own again. I just wanted to be at home.
Another tick on my chart as I lied about having eaten dinner. That night, I was given medication as prescribed. It was now over 24 hours since I had been there, and I still hadn't seen a therapist or doctor since my admission. There didn't seem to be much of a care plan being made.
I lay in bed reading my book, and watching programmes I had downloaded onto my tablet from BBC IPlayer.
The next day, I was told I had an appointment on the ward with a consultant psychiatrist. I was able to phone my mum and Tommy and tell them, and ask them to come up to attend the appointment with me. Mid afternoon, I was taken through the ward and into a separate area of the hospital, and into a very large meeting room. Sitting on one side was the consultant, with two other people. I entered and sat in front of them, with my mum and Tommy on either side of me. We went through my history and why I was at the hospital. Discussions were had, suggestions were made for treatment, and I was allowed off the ward. I was told I could go home. I didnt need telling twice. I grabbed my things and was off. I got home and wanted to kiss the ground. I was so relieved.
Later on that night, I received a phonecall from the hospital, asking where I was. When the consultant said I could go home, she actually meant I could leave the ward for a few hours, go home or go out for a bit of normality, but was still an inpatient, and was due back on the ward at 6pm. Neither me, my mum, or Tommy knew that, none of us were told.
I told the nurse on the other end of the phone that I felt better, and didn't need to come back to the hospital. I said I was fine, and was happy to stay at home. To my disbelief, she simply said 'OK, that's fine', and that was the end of the phonecall. She said someone from the home treatment team would contact me the following day, and that someone could pop up and collect my things when it was convenient.
The home treatment team never made contact. And obviously, I was not fine. A two night stay in the unit, with no care or treatment plan, and no follow up clearly wasn't enough to fix me. I was still just as broken. The only difference was that I was pleased to be home with my dog, and somewhere familiar.
Less than two weeks later, I was back at the hospital. Sectioned. Again.
My second stay will be in a new post. I Promise not to leave it so long when writing that post. I spent a little while not wanting to think back to my time there, and being unable to do it without feeling anxious, but I think I am past that now so will be able to post part two of my stay at the unit soon.
Thanks for reading, take care of you.
Kirsty,
Edited to add...
I've just remembered, the forest I take my woofer to, and where I sat and reflected on life (and continue to do so even now!) is the banner picture on my Twitter. It has been since I set Twitter up. Its strange, but its quite a special place to me. The picture can be seen here. for anyone interested!
