Life Interrupted | Life in a psychiatric facility #3

If I were to pick a time when my worst nightmare had become reality, it would have been on the 29 January 2017, around 2130 hours. Week three, confined in the facility.

I had been changing medications from one week to the next. The pills were taking a toll and I was a shadow of my former self; a zombie, the undead. I slowly shuffled around the facility, drugged and breathless. I felt nothing but exhaustion. I turned up my headphones and played Rue de Cascades for the fourth time but it was no longer energising me. I walked towards the medication counter and slouched lifelessly into the hard, torn, brown pleather chair.

Then it hit.

Like a thunderbolt striking a live wire, I was paralysed; my vision became dazed and distorted. What was happening? Had my brain finally snapped? Was it the pills? I was shaking uncontrollably.

I blacked out.

I woke on the floor. How long had I been out? I gasped, overwhelmed by confusion and exhaustion. I then realised I’d had a seizure. And yes, damn, I had wet my pants.

I lay on the ground, managing to shout “Help!”

Nurses quickly ran to my side. I continued to shake. I was convinced that this was it. I was going to die here. I was going to die in this hell. But worse, I was going to die in a pool of my own pee.

Nurse Blou stuck a little white pill under my tongue.

“This will help in about thirty minutes” she said.

Valium.

I glared up at the medication window. There was a sign plastered on the door. I could just make out what it said. ‘Pease wait for assistance patiently’. I cringed at the spelling error, whilst perplexed at the concept of patience when one feels like they are in the midst of dying.

Then, overwhelmed, I zoned out. I remembered an earlier visit from my father. He had given the type of hug that pumped love through my left heart ventricle, filling my body, then pumping love out of the right.

I wasn’t going to die.

The nurses helped me to my feet and then sat me back down on the chair. They searched for a wheelchair. No luck.

Defeated, I was wheeled to my room on a toilet commode, wee dripping down my left leg, just like bread crumbs onto the stark vinyl floor.

I am currently working on a book regarding this topic. Any comments on this piece would be greatly appreciated. I’d love to hear from you.

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3 thoughts on “Life Interrupted | Life in a psychiatric facility #3

  1. Hey beautiful,
    Such an honest recount. I remember the day, I spoke to you not long after that. Don’t forget to tell people that in that darkness and daze came tremendous healing. Each day you worked off another layer ! Some layers were harder than others.

    You are an amazing person. Your transparency in this process will most certainly help others.

    I can’t help but think if you went into detail what it feels like to be depressed or anxious, and went into detail about what support looks like during those times. It would help not only people experiencing depression but those who are the support people.

    Well done chels x

    Sent from my iPhone

    Like

  2. I agree with everything Catherine and Chris said above. This is a great account of what you have been through and you are a wonderful writer. I can not wait until you finish the book. This is so helpful to sufferers, families and the general population. Love it xxxx

    Like

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