While the world was locked down I was locked up in the name of my safety…

This blog is written by Rosie, a Just Treatment supporter based in London.

At age 23, during the second year of my doctoral studies, my life took a dramatic turn and I found myself going from trainee psychologist to psychiatric patient.

Years of repressed trauma, undiagnosed autism, intense masking, and unhealthy coping mechanisms had built to a crescendo, and I was existing in a constant state of crisis. As a result, I spent much of 2020 -2022 in and out of general and psychiatric hospitals. While the world was locked down I was locked up in the name of my safety.

Despite this, I felt anything but safe while detained. I could write an entire book on the horrors of hospitals and how systemic failings nearly cost me my life, but here I will just share the first time I was detained under the Mental Health Act. While this was one of my shortest admissions lasting just 24 hours -aside from the week I spent in general hospital awaiting a psychiatric bed- it was intensely traumatic and a baptism of fire beginning years in the mental health system.

In December 2020 I was in a general hospital ward, medically fit but unable to leave; I had been detained under section 2 of the Mental Health Act following a suicide attempt and was awaiting a bed in a psychiatric unit where I could be held for up to 28 days. I was terrified, agitated, and still intensely suicidal. I was with a staff member 24/7 due to the risk I posed to myself and I had no idea where or when I would be sent away to the psychiatric hospital. I just had to wait for the bed manager to inform the ward that I had been assigned a bed.
As an autistic individual, I found the unknown immensely distressing. The call eventually came in the middle of the night and everything happened so quickly from that point.  All of a sudden, three strangers dressed in green paramedic-like uniforms were in front of me informing me I had 10 minutes to pack up my things and come with them otherwise they would use force. I was beside myself, I had no idea who these people were or where I was going and absolutely no autonomy.  My distress was fast building to a self-destructive meltdown. I was given a sedative and a pep talk from the nurse on the ward and reluctantly went with the secure transport crew. 

The ride to the new hospital felt like a strange dream. I had been told which hospital I was being sent to, but between the emotional distress, medication, and sudden uprooting in the middle of the night, I had no idea where I was. All I knew is when we stopped I would have to go with the secure ambulance workers or face the use of force. When we arrived I was handed over from the secure ambulance crew to staff from the acute ward. I was taken through a maze of corridors and locked doors and I remember thinking it would be impossible to find my way out. After my belongings had been searched, I was taken through more locked doors to the darkened ward. I was sitting on a plastic mattress in my sterile room trying to make sense of my new reality when another patient burst through the door and lunged towards me. My screams were joined by the sounds of alarms and hurried footsteps as staff came to intervene. I learnt then what was meant by ‘force’, as the other patient was wrestled to the floor and dragged away from me by staff and taken out of my room. 

At that moment the sheer terror I felt was like nothing I had experienced before, all I wanted to do was escape. I left my room in an effort to find a way out but was met with locked doors and dark confusing corridors. I remember becoming overwhelmed with terror and falling to the floor while screaming uncontrollably. I was approached by a member of staff who told me if I kept screaming he would put me in seclusion. He sat me at the nurses' desk and handed me a colouring book. While I was attempting to self-regulate, he started pointing out individual self-injury scars on my arm, commenting on the severity and asking how many stitches they had each required. I couldn’t help but wonder why on earth he was so interested in the specific details of my history of self-injury, but with the threat of seclusion and the use of force fresh in my mind I simply answered his questions and continued to colour. 

My ordeal at this ward came to an abrupt end the next day. I finally had the opportunity to see the consultant and hopefully get some idea of what exactly was happening to me and what treatment or support I could get so I could return to my life. 

I was given no answers. I was given no new support. I was ignored when I raised questions about my new diagnosis and instead was told that people with Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder don’t do well in hospital. I was discharged that same day with no discharge support. I had endured an intensely traumatic 24 hours for nothing. There was no hope. The path my madness had taken me down seemed to only have two destinations: detention or death. My very unwell brain took the horrors of hospital as evidence that I needed to ensure I ended up at the latter destination and less than 2 months after my discharge I very nearly lost my life to suicide.

Unfortunately this was not my only experience in hospital and I would go on to have a further 4 admissions, all while detained under the mental health act. I am now happily almost 2 years out of hospital, but my experiences there still impact me every day. Patients in psychiatric hospitals are punished, sedated, restrained, and forgotten. The general public needs to be made aware of what goes on behind the walls that hold some of the most vulnerable people in society. Let's talk about the systematic abuse of mental health patients. Let's talk about what actually happens when you ask for help.  Let’s demand a radical change.