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The Psych Ward

When I was admitted nobody showed me around. Nobody told me you have to line up. So I didn't eat for the first couple of days. I was too scared to open my door. The ward was very unsettled. The nurses explained to my husband the ward was full of unwell patients and due to close for refurbishment. They were short staffed. There was no recovery group, art therapy or 1:1s. It was where patients cried and shouted, ran around naked stating they had been raped by staff. It was where nurses shouted "breakfast" and "medication" and shouted at you if you didn't come right away. It was a locked ward. The bathroom light was broken and a staff member told me I should shower in the dark or go earlier. After a few days I became less scared. I was moved to a shared room with a very quiet lady and our own bath. I started to draw and paint in the lounge, mostly bible inspired creations. I'd cry at visitors who came in looking worried and left with tears in their eyes as I sobbed to go with them. I became angry. How is this good enough? We were sick. We needed compassion not locking up and forgetting about. The naked lady made to wait, I gave her clothes. The girl too anxious to walk to the dining room I took her hand. The elderly lady who wanted to pray. We prayed. There were good stuff. A straight talking psychologist. An OT who gave me encouraging bible verses. One thing I learned quickly is when you are mentally ill is you don't have a voice. You are all considered the same. Mad. Not to be trusted. Needing to be treated like a criminal. Although this is less on the outside it is still very apparent. My views are not considered valid but my illness talking. Whatever I have to say is not important. You begin to feel you can't trust yourself.

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