Sectioned Under the Mental Health Act. Part 2.

Back into the Mental Health Hospital.

Well. My discharge from the psychiatric unit was too soon. I was supposed to have follow up support at home. It didn't happen. I didn't hear anything else from the mental health team, until two weeks later, when I was back on the phone to the crisis team, struggling with life again.

 

It took ages to get to the hospital. My agoraphobia meant it took several attempts for me to get there. I had to keep asking to turn around and go back home again, and try again once I had calmed down a little bit.

 

I enter the unit. The wooden lodge was familiar. I knew the routine this time. I waited for a doctor to come and assess me, I had a physical health check, I had my bag looked through and any medication and anything that could form a noose was removed. I was taken to my room. The place of safety I voluntarily went to.

It was late at night by this time, so I settled in my room, setting out my belongings, making it as homely as you can possibly make a room in a psychiatric unit. I was more settled this time, and much more willing to engage and attempt to get the help I knew I needed.

Morning came round. I woke up early as someone came in to administer my prescribed medication. This was medication I had been prescribed by my GP previously. There is a common misconception that when you enter a mental health unit, they 'drug you up'. This is completely untrue. If anything, they go as far as possible to avoid giving medication, apart from previously prescribed medicines. I think the focus has shifted in mental health services now, away from medications, and on to more talking therapy, CBT and mindfulness etc. I know to some who are really struggling, that all sounds like a gimmick. But stick with me here. If medicines are needed, they ARE prescribed. I was written up a prescription for diazepam, to be given on an 'as needed' basis. There are also stronger meds that the staff can give if completely needed. And they will give if needed. They're not there to deny you access to what you need at that time. But they are there not just to get you through the blip in your life, they are there to help you look long term, and make sure you are better equipped for your entire life. Not only the few days you may be in the unit.

Despite my intention to engage fully during my time there, I did lie about having breakfast. Although in my defence, I don't have breakfast at home either. A nurse came round and told me I had been booked in to see the consultant that morning. Anyone who is admitted will see a junior doctor when they arrive, and then see a consultant when they are available, usually within a day.

A therapist came round, and gave me a time table of what was on during the day. Things such as art therapy, CBT, aromatherapy, reflexology, peer support sessions and an organised walk off site. It reminded me of being at Centerparcs again, planning your activities for the day.

I had a shower, got dressed, then ventured out of my room. I went to the communal area where there were sofas, a flat screen TV, a playstation. There were a few people sitting on the sofas watching Sky News that was on. I cant remember the news of the day, I was too self conscious sitting there worrying about people looking at me, and what they must have been thinking. I know now, that that is just classic social anxiety and low self esteem that made me think like that. I am sure they were there thinking exactly the same as me!

A lady came and sat down next to me. I thought she was another inpatient, but she was a nurse. The staff all dress casually in order to break down any barriers that come with wearing a uniform. The idea is that they look like a normal person, like you and me. There is no visible hierarchy, no 'them and us'.
We struck up a conversation. She asked me about what bought me there, about my life, we spoke about the weather, local events, holidays. She wasn't giving me therapy or trying to counsel me. It was just a general conversation between two people. It turned out, that we had a lot of mutual friends. She was a nurse who did two years of midwifery at the same unit I worked at. So we knew a lot of the same people, and we spent a very lovely time, with her telling me funny and poignant stories of some of the people we had both previously worked with, reminiscing about our respective times at the maternity unit. It was nice.
I went back off to my room, and was soon called to see the consultant. I was taken to the 'art room'. I entered and saw the consultant with a junior doctor with her. I looked and admired a lot of the art work that had been done in the room. There were some real artistic people in there!

The consultant looked me up and down. I sheepishly sat there. She flicked through my notes, talking out loud to herself. Then she gave the notes to her junior, and turned to me.

"So. You are here because you had a panic attack??"

 

I suddenly realised that this consultation wasn't going to go well. I explained my history to her. I told her that it wasn't just a panic attack. That it was innate anxiety. That I was severely agoraphobic, that I panicked to the extent that I believed the only way I could ever be at peace, and be free of this horror, would be to not be here anymore. I told her, I went to bed every night feeling relieved that I had managed to make it through another day. That the fact I was still living and breathing was a positive result for me. And that I woke up every morning fearful. Not just a little bit worried. But terrified that that was the day I was going to die. That I would finally reach the point where I just couldn't cope any more, that I just wanted to be free.

I felt the anxiety rising. I felt about an inch tall. I felt like SHE wanted me dead as she turned to me and said;

 

"We do not have the resources here to deal with people who suffer from anxiety. I don't know why one of my staff would even consider admitting you because of a panic attack. I am going to arrange your discharge, you shouldn't be here"

 

I wanted to scream. I SHOULD be there. I am there not because of a panic attack. I was there because I would rather die than have to live any longer like I was. Did she think I was there for fun? Did she think I thought being sectioned would just mean a nice little holiday? Or that I thought it would be a nice place to go to just chill out for a bit?

 

I went back to my room, and sat and mulled over it all. The only place I felt I could be in order to save my life, and I was just told that I would be sent home, I shouldnt be there, that it was a place for 'other people'. What is a psychiatric unit for, if it isn't to keep people safe from themselves? I am 100% convinced, that had it not been for my admittance to the unit on the two occasions, that I most definitely wouldnt be here now. Surely thats the whole idea behind  the unit? Apparently not!

The nurse I spoke to earlier in the day came round to see me and asked how I got on with the consultant. I told her how it went.. She sat and spoke to me, calmed me down, helped me relax. I really didnt want to be discharged. I wanted to stay there. I wanted help. I NEEDED help.

 

I spent the afternoon in a therapy session with five or six others. It was anxiety inducing, but as the lady who was running the session said, we are all in the same boat. I actually found that bit of therapy really quite helpful. It was brilliant at helping me see things in a different light. At changing my interpretation of things. Of helping me see things rationally, rather than in my skewed light. It was just one session, but I firmly believe that a regular therapy session like that would help immensely.

 

Dinner time came round. I reminded myself that I was going to engage. So out of my room I went, and off to the dining area I went.

There were several tables with chairs around them. There were people sitting alone, people sitting in groups. It was almost like a works canteen. I went up to the window where the food was served from. I observed the plastic knives and forks on the side, thinking it was like being a small child again, and not being trusted with real cutlery. No disrespect to the NHS, but the food looked absolutely grim. There was no way I would be able to eat it. Not because I am a snob, but because there were two options, neither of which I could eat even at home, or in a michellin starred restaurant. I told the server that on second thoughts, Id pass on dinner. Bless her, she said she didn't blame me, and popped off to the fridge, bringing me back a sandwich and fruit. That was more like it! I considered going back to my room to eat, but I decided to sit at a table. I sat alone as I picked at the sandwich, again thinking that all eyes would be on me. But of course, that was my interpretation. They weren't. Everyone there had their own worries and problems. None of them were interested in what I was doing. They were all doing their own thing.

Visiting time came round before Id even really settled at the table, and so I didn't get much of a chance to sit and eat anyway. The visitors are not allowed in patients rooms, so they sit in the communal room where the TV is, the dining area, or in a private room like the art room I was in earlier.

 

Visiting time also meant it was time for me to go home. Well, it should have been, although I had to wait and wait for medication to be bought up from the pharmacy.

 

A few hours later, a bag of 5mg diazepam to be taken 3 times a day, and a copy of my discharge summary in hand, I bid farewell to the wooden lodge, feeling more then a little let down, and knowing I was very unlikely to be back. This was it. Kill or cure.