The Ward

The ward is loud. It is more unsettled. Outside my door there was a girl self harming. Next door one is screaming at the voices in her head. One of them says if she burns herself the voices will stop for an hour. Then there's C, a young girl who's been here at least a month. She has constant conversations with her friends Satan, God and Nigel Someone. She's showing more of an interest in real conversation so I guess she's slowly getting better. There's the lady who packs up her bag to go home every morning and shouts and swears when the Dr won't see her to discharge her. Then there's the criers. Or the quiet ones who sneak out for meals (or not at all in my case). Some staff are nice, but they lose patience easily. It's difficult to have a 1:1 because nothing they say can make it better. I've just come across an HCA (obviously agency) who put the bp cuff on upside down. I had to turn the machine on. I then reapplied my own bp cuff. She placed the sats probe on my finger and didn't turn it on. I did that. She then misreported my pulse rate by reading the sats reading. Considering last night my heart rate was 150 and tonight 117 that's a fairly significant error. She wouldn't let me help her with the thermometer. Repeatedly shoving it deeper into my ear before deciding it must be the batteries. Another member of staff came in and got it first time. Rooms have no cards, no flowers or teddy bears. No reminder from home you are loved and thought about. That you are in fact a sick person receiving treatment. Treating the mind is a slow a difficult task. If only a plaster cast and a few weeks rest could do it. It feels very lonely here. No comfort. A cuddle or a handhold would be nice. Last night it was strangely comforting being held tightly round each wrist whilst a doctor and hca tried to take an accurate pulse after I collapsed. Perhaps their should be huggers in psychiatric hospitals. Especially for people with few visitors. I'm a great fan of the hand hold. It was something I found very comforting about my best friend. Her hands were always cold and holding them to cry or pray was nice. My favourite time of day is the late meds round. When finally I take a large dose of sedative alongside my usual meds and pass out into a dreamless sleep where for a few hours I completely forget I have been locked up and abandoned in a living nightmare. I'm trying to cope by pretending I am not here, spending most my day lying on my bed trying to sleep to forget, or trying to imagine life how it was. Often I find this hard and without a Netflix box set or bbc1 morning tv I quickly turn to how I could get out of here. Begging. Lying. Neither work. Which leaves me feeling I cannot survive another day. Another day so weak, powerless, unloved and alone. Aware of being an inconvenience. Another day painfully aware of how far I have to climb and how things may never return to normal. Nobody believes me another day might kill me. It feels like it might. I keep considering asking if one of the schizophrenic patients would get satan or nigel to come and finish me off in the night. Then I pray. Nothing but "help me. Please take all this away'. No relief comes. When I wake I don't have my husband spooning me, or a wriggly little boy stroking my hair. I'm still here. Stuck. Again.