'I spent 12 days in a psychiatric ward. Here's what they don't tell you about it.'

Content warning: This post includes discussion of suicide that may be distressing to some readers. 

The nurse asks if I have anything sharp on me and I produce a pair of scissors from my underwear. The rest of my belongings have already been inspected and confiscated.

There’s no door on the toilet cubicle but she turns away while I pee into a cup. I hand it over, steaming liquid a lurid yellow, and she says I’m very dehydrated. I admit which drugs I may or may not have ingested over the last few months.

Watch: How to talk to people with anxiety. Post continues atfer video.

She says I’m not allowed to stay in my room between the hours of eight and four, but since I’ve just arrived she’ll leave me to get settled in.

A wire grid covers the window, which looks out onto an Aldi car park. I shut the curtains even though it’s early afternoon.

For the first 24 hours I’m on 15-minute checks, which means someone making sure I’m not dead at quarter-hour intervals.

That night the walls close in on me. I throw furniture around my room and a member of staff hisses for me to stop. I hide inside my wardrobe.

I’m turfed out of my room at 8 am. 

I’m scared of the other women and avoid the canteen, opting instead to curl up on the window seat outside my bedroom door. 

The ward is all natural light, beech wood and pastel walls ‒ not like in Girl, Interrupted. It wraps around a pretty garden where the other women smoke.

The nurse brings me a cheese sandwich and persuades me to tell my parents where I am.

I’ve been suspicious of medical professionals since my diagnosis four years ago, the temporary relief outweighed by the results of a quick Google; they do not like people like me.

She says she’ll charge my phone because she can’t leave me alone with the cable.

That night I’m handed a sedative.

My head rests awkwardly on the inflatable pillow I can’t smother myself with.

Most of the night staff check on us by bursting into our rooms and switching on the main light, but one peeks through the little window and shines a torch in my direction. "God bless you, love," she says.

I listen as more footsteps thump down the corridor before realising it’s my heart beating in my chest.

A nurse brings me a novel from home and I read it from my window seat. The patients in the garden throw their cigarette butts on the ground.

My young neighbour howls as she’s locked out of her room so I sit on the floor and hold her hand. I learn that staff call her Piggy Bank because she swallows coins.

My parents arrive laden with gifts and my companion of 24 years, a bedraggled yellow stuffed monkey. 

A nurse persuades me to shower. My bedroom doesn’t lock from the inside and my bathroom doesn’t have a door, so I’m nervous she’ll burst in while doing her checks. I change my clothes for the first time in days. Another nurse doesn’t recognise me after a wash.

I ask to see a psychiatrist and am told I’ll have to wait because there aren’t enough to go around. 

At night The Drugs Don’t Work by The Verve emanates through the wall.

My parents drive the four-hour round trip to see me 11 days out of 12. I respond to their questions with one-word answers, and my arms hang limply at my side when they hug me goodbye. I feel unloved on the one day they don’t come.

Listen to No Filter where Mia Freedman is joined by Honor Eastly. Honor has dealt with mental health issues since she was a teenager and at 25 she found herself admitted to a psychiatric hospital. Post continues below.

Lunch is a ready meal eaten with plastic cutlery. Choosing my options from tomorrow’s menu becomes the high point of the day. 

There’s a gym on the ward but a lack of staff means it’s locked for the duration of my stay.

The art room is opened on one occasion and we help a pensioner named Marie make invites for her wedding. 

That night in the common room my neighbour Cheryl plans a hen party for Marie, which staff swiftly put a stop to. Only then do I realise Marie is not getting married.

Marie has taken a shine to me and parades me around the ward. The cuts on my arm have begun to scab and she tells me to stop picking them.

I feel safe locked away from the rest of the world and wish I could stay forever.

If you think you may be experiencing depression or another mental health problem, please contact your general practitioner. If you're based in Australia, 24-hour support is available through Lifeline on 13 11 14 or beyondblue on 1300 22 4636.

Feature Image: Getty.

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