Last night I dreamt so vividly, it took me a few moments
to realise where I was when I awoke – I was safe, in my own bed at home. I patted
the sheets around me and stared up at the familiar poster above me and lay for
a moment, thinking how very fortunate I am. The dream is a recurring one; I’m
in hospital again and being told that I’m unwell. These dreams scare the shit
out of me as they’re so terrifyingly similar to the real life process of being
admitted to hospital – lots of tears clashing with bouts of euphoria and a
whole heap of confusion. The dreams, of course, come whenever they please, but
seemingly when my worries about being admitted are heightened, when the effects would be deeply catastrophic
as opposed to a mere inconvenience. I remember I had one such dream last summer,
just before I travelled to Budapest on holiday; sobbing and sobbing I explained
“I can’t be ill, this isn’t happening… I need to go to Budapest” as gentle
voices informed me that I wouldn’t be making my flight. Of course, it was just
a horrible dream; I made my flight and had an incredible time exploring Budapest.
Recently I visited a friend of mine who remains in hospital.
I met her in early January of last year, in a local hospital, then saw her
again when we were both transferred to a hospital in Bradford. She was incredible
to me, sweet and funny, wild and rebellious, and basically kept me going when I
felt nothing but despair. I owe her so much. Since Bradford, we’ve taken
different paths. I was transferred (again) to a private hospital where I recovered,
and was released from. She isn’t quite there yet, which I struggle to not feel
guilty about. Last week I went to visit her in the local hospital where we first met. She was on a ward I hadn't seen since being a patient there myself. We sat together in an
outdoor area, where I could recall sitting with mum. We had tea
together in the dining room, where I had once eaten my dinner daily. So horrible and
vivid were the memories that came in a place of such significance, I blinked
back tears. I saw my old room, where I had struggled so awfully to make sense
of what was happening to me. Hospital is perhaps the strangest place to ever
live in, a kind of university freshers situation whereby everyone is completely
messed up.
I have so many strange memories of being in various
hospitals, stretching back to when Guys had a smoking room on their adolescent
ward and a worker there told me to take my feet off the sofa - “this isn’t your
home.” Didn’t I bloody know it. Similarly, in a different hospital and 10 years later, I crushed lavender in my palm and
inhaled that rather than smoke on one of my ‘fresh air’ breaks (I would take
every opportunity to leave the ward, which meant traipsing down stairwells with
all the smokers every few hours) and was told by the most jobsworth man ever
that that lavender wasn’t my property, it belonged to the hospital and I shouldn’t
touch it. My last hospital admission I became close to someone, stupidly close –
but that’s a story for another day. When he left, a girl in the room opposite
me bought me a chocolate bunny (it was approaching Easter) as she knew I’d be
upset. One of the first hospitals I was in at age 16, myself and a few other
patients barricaded ourselves into the communal room at bedtime until the nurses
had steam coming out their ears. You can have moments of glorious companionship
where you connect so powerfully to the people around you, or it can be the
loneliest place in the world.
That being said, I cannot imagine where I would be
without the treatment I received in hospital. It honestly doesn’t bare thinking
about. Certain people I met will stay with me forever, and although few of
those are professionals, it doesn’t mean that I don’t recognise the importance they
played in my recovery. Being admitted to hospital (which usually comes hand in
hand with being sectioned) is the stuff of nightmares for me, but it has always
seen me recover, whether it has taken weeks or months. Not everyone is so
fortunate in this. Over the weekend it was reported that Daisy Boyd, 28, has
died whilst in the care of private psychiatric clinic, Nightingale Hospital. I cannot
fathom how a tragedy of this scale has occurred in a place where she should
have been cared for constantly. Change is needed in these environments, and I hope
with all my heart it happens swiftly.
