I spent the last 2 days in general hospital, again. It’s still just as boring, the babies still cry just as loud, the nurses still wake you up at stupid times in the night to stick a metal probe-like object into your armpit. This was to measure my temperature by the way, it isn’t as alien as it sounds.
As much as I told my CAMHS worker that I was fine, my mood was slowly deteriorating and seems as I’m kinda bad at voicing how I feel to people, it was a bit of a revelation when I told my parents that I needed to go to A&E on Sunday night – around about 11pm.
Now if you’ve ever experienced A&E, you’ll know how incredibly tedious it is, especially when you are waiting to find out if you can have a bed and are desperately trying not to fall asleep. It also smelt strongly of weed. Clever idea to light up a joint right outside the entrance of a hospital full of police and security.
We were caught up waiting in a small, dull, white room complete with around 4 chairs and a lonesome bin in the middle of the floor. It became clear pretty quickly that we were in this room as a precaution; the walls were lined with an alarm. I was seen as a danger there, possibly to others but most likely, to myself.
By the time I got to bed it was 3am.
I cried a hell of a lot on Monday. CAMHS came to visit me, so I could explain why I had admitted myself to hospital. The fine line came when we finally discussed my options.
There was a scarily big chance that I could be sent back to inpatient hospital. Within that meeting, that seemed like my only option. I dreaded the idea of going home, so a Tier 4 bed seemed like the way I was headed.
Given 24 hours, I had to do some serious thinking. Can I cope at home? Will I put in the effort? Is a psychiatric ward really my last choice? Can I go back there?
By the evening I was in a better state of mind. Kurt came out of his way to keep me company for an hour, and Emily called me to give me some Charlie the Unicorn-themed words of wisdom. The main thing that helped me come to a conclusion was these two people. I wasn’t leaving the people I loved again. Once you’re in a hospital like Becton, it’s difficult to get out. No way was I putting my life on pause for a second time.
I’m strong enough to get through this.
By the time they came back on Tuesday, I was ready to fight for my freedom. We conjured up a fluid plan, changing my school hours, putting a care plan in place at home, going over my meds.
So here I am now.
All I’m trying to do is keep myself safe and keep myself at home. Because it’s situations like the one this week that really show me how much I must try if I want to stay away from the NHS’s firm grip.
Keep on carrying on,