On the Ward- Abuse in the Mental Health System

In my last blog post I described how I was removed from my home  late at night without warning  by a locum social worker accompanied by an unfamiliar locum doctor and seven police officers in three cars. I still have been given no reason why it was necessary to send so many police, given that I have never been in trouble with the law, have no criminal record and am no danger to anyone (except perhaps on a rare occasion to myself). It was a truly terrifying experience and even the police admitted it was “overkill”.

As all the neighbours witnessed this I now avoid everyone and I can no longer open my own front door, I suffer nightmares and flashbacks and even writing this blog whilst it helps to share what happened , recalling it all is so difficult as it is almost impossible to believe that I was treated like this. 

But I was and every word I write is true.

At the hospital I was not interviewed or assessed in any way, I was told that the third doctor had seen enough and there was “enough evidence” to section me.

After I had been forced onto the ward and mocked by indifferent night staff, unbeknownst to me my son/ nearest relative (aged just 20) had arrived at the hospital and was requesting my release. He was tired, concerned and scared of a system of which he had no knowledge. He couldn’t speak to me because my phone had been confiscated and although I could hear it ringing constantly I was not allowed to answer it. My son asked  the woman on reception where I was being held and asked if he could see me.  The receptionist informed him that “visiting hours” were long over and refused to listen when he explained that he wasn’t a visitor and was there as my nearest relative to take me home.

Just as my son was beginning to panic the social worker appeared, he told my son “your mother is crying up there and pacing the floor, do you really want her home”? He refused to tell my son his rights as the nearest relative and told him to go home. The receptionist informed him he could visit at 2.30 the next day Saturday 31st January.

Reluctantly my son went home, he still did not know his rights or which ward I was on and spent an anxious worried night googling The Mental Health Act and trying to find out what he could do to secure my release.

Meanwhile on the ward it was now midnight, I didn’t know the name of the ward I was on or even what section I was being held under and I was becoming increasingly distressed. I asked the night nurse what was going to happen and she barked:

“the first thing that’s going to happen is that you will get in that room, stay in that room and shut up unless  you want six months not twenty eight days”.

How can a person who has chosen a nursing profession who is  paid to care be so brutal? I explained that I didn’t want to be on the male corridor and was told I had no choice, I pointed out that the room was filthy to which she responded:

 “oh so now you think I’m the bloody cleaner, if I were you I would shut up before we have to give you something to shut you up”.

So there I was in the middle of winter, miles from home on a male ward in a hospital I had never heard of being spoken to as if I was nothing. There was no orientation, no welcome, no offer of a cup of tea , no friendly face to reassure me, just nothing. I didn’t really even understand why I was there.

I was pushed into a room with a bare mattress and told linens and blankets would be provided the next day when the room was cleaned. This is when I was glad of my thick coat as I lay huddled beneath it sobbing and petrified.

I was so distraught that around 2 p.m. I could no longer breathe properly, as I have mild asthma and had no inhaler, I panicked thinking I was having a full blown attack. I told the male nurse on the door I felt unwell and he told me to calm down and “just do my time”.

My breathing got worse and I demanded to see a doctor, this was refused and it was not until the day staff arrived at 7a.m. That someone acknowledged that I was having breathing difficulties and finally called for a doctor. This was the only caring encounter I ever had on the ward, the doctor listened to my story, appeared genuinely concerned and informed me I was having a panic attack. She prescribed lorazepam which I didn’t want as I needed to be alert and feel in control of a situation that was rapidly spiralling out of control.

Once the doctor left  a day nurse came in and I told her that I had been brought in at night, had no supplies, no bedding and had been up all night freezing. She said I could call my son and ask him to drop off supplies at the reception desk but I wouldn’t be able to see him until 2.30. I was finally given my phone but not the charger and at last I could call home. My son was amazing, he had found out all about the Mental Health Act, had secured a solicitor  who was going to come to the hospital after the weekend and he had arranged to file for my immediate release.

Sadly we were told it would be 72 hours before his request would be considered and that the weekend didn’t count in those 72 hours. We were also told much to my horror that I wouldn’t see my responsible clinician until the next Friday as he was on annual leave and he was the only person who could make a decision with regard to treatment and whether or not I could be discharged from section.

In the meantime I was therefore to be held for a week’s observation with no treatment, no therapeutic interventions, no kindness and no food, as a vegetarian I lost so much weight as the meals were disgusting and I was too stressed to eat, the only cups we were allowed for example were cheap orange plastic mugs with teeth marks where patients had bitten into them. The conditions were Dickensian to put it mildly! I will not even attempt to describe the toilets or the so called “communal area”.

One of the first thing my son did was to buy some bottled water and a plastic drinking glass. He also brought bedding, and cleaning materials and a pile of books, we were refused access to wifi which seemed pointless and petty.

That week was the longest and cruellest of my life, I witnessed a thousand injustices and the constant goading of vulnerable people. The only good thing to come out of it was I discovered Twitter and met two wonderful women who were also sectioned in other hospitals and when 3G allowed we gave  each other mutual support. 

But still worse was to come……..

In my next blog I will describe how the night nurse I complained about informed me that it had been his duty to notify my employer that I had been sectioned with schizoaffective disorder.

This resulted in a medical suspension from a career I love and I honestly don’t know how I survived the embarrassment of my senior colleagues knowing this.

To be brutally honest although I am now back at work and that January night has long since passed, I don’t believe I will ever recover from my experience.

Life  seems pointless now and I feel degraded, ashamed, dehumanised and worthless. I’m struggling to see a future. I will always have schizoaffective disorder and I am now living in fear of another crisis