Depression, Mania, Mental Health, Section 2 Mental Health Act, Texas 2012, Travel, Uncategorized

From Paris with Love

Posted on January 1, 2023April 16, 2026 by David Clifford Stent

It has been over 10 years since I was sectioned under section 2 of the Mental Health Act. It was the most difficult experience of my life. The deep resentment for myself after a period of mania was debilitating. Back in 2013, I found myself at the mercy of a cold Psychiatrist, a warm Nursing team and dated Legislation that has been in use in the UK since 1983.

It was a long road that led up to me losing my freedom. A road leading all the way to St Catherine’s Hospital – in the town where I grew up, Doncaster. Looking back now, it is sobering and frightening to think about the situations I found myself in. I was always one second away from irrationally lashing out. Putting my foot down and undertaking on the hard shoulder. Spitting an insult at anyone that crossed me. An eventful period but for all the wrong reasons. I hurt a lot of people and I lost a lot but eventually, I have gained an insight into something at the time I was ignorant of.

In the time since the Mental Health Team in Doncaster found a combination of medication that relieved my symptoms, the world has continued to recognise the importance of good Mental Health. Recently my Chief Information Officer was out of the office for two days on a course, Mental Health First Aid Training. Knowing what his salary commands, two days of the CIO not on email or available by phone shows how seriously businesses are now taking Mental Health. This is positive. We met up and had a chat about my condition and he has been extremely supportive.

It is of course Mental Health Awareness Week and I wanted to make sure I shared my experience. Of late I have read articles online about anorexia, depression, crippling anxiety, personality disorders and the experience of being sectioned. I felt the need to write down my experience with Mental Health, which explores the danger of mania and depression. Having had seven healthy comparatively incident free years, now feels like a good time to detail an account of what it was like living through a mental breakdown, the chaos of mania and the living hell that is depression. I hope you the reader will think about those around you, that friend or family member that is having a tough time and hopefully if needed you will encourage a conversation.

The black Labrador, my Churchill reference, first wandered into my life when I was a teenager. I didn’t know what this was in my youth, I would go through periods where I would struggle to motivate myself, struggle to find enjoyment, struggle to sleep and overthink almost everything. It didn’t have a name, but it was there. Whilst I was travelling after graduating from University in Newcastle the dog appeared again in my life. Depression hit me hard. I knew the trigger but I didn’t know what to do. As I lay awake in a backpackers hostel in Cairns Australia, I felt broken and wondered what the hell was happening to me? I couldn’t snap out of it. It wasn’t sadness. More a feeling of emptiness. Uncomfortably numb. Considering I’d spent the previous nine months saving up for the trip, working two jobs paying barely more than minimum wage, the timing was unfortunate and expensive.

What had been a routine call to my mum to update her on my trip left me feeling lost. The 8^th of May my parents’ wedding anniversary. I had called to say I remembered and to see how she was, having lost my dad suddenly back in 2002, I felt it important that I recognise what to most was just another day. Out of all our family, my mum being one of eleven and my dad being one of seven, sadly no one else had remembered. This wasn’t intentional of course, I know life moves on. My mum was upset. This hurt and in turn it hurt me. I hung up the phone and covered myself with a dark cloak. I couldn’t take it off.

For weeks, I tried in vain to pull my socks up, get it together to hold my chin up. I failed. My friends who were having the time of their lives, grew increasingly frustrated by my despondence and they didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know. I had to get help. I hadn’t slept in several weeks and I felt like I was stumbling through each day and enduring each night. A shadow of the lively lad excited to see South East Asia and Australia. I was now unable to experience new places and meet new people. I couldn’t find enjoyment in anything. Chatting to my friends was all of a sudden alien to me. I had lost the ability to communicate, I was ashamed. I felt as though I was wasting my opportunity and I didn’t know what to do. United won the Champions League against Chelsea in Moscow back in May 2008. I watched the match on a boat in the Whitsundays, but I didn’t enjoy it. I watched out of habit if anything because it is what I always did. The result should have seen me running amok, shirt off hugging strangers chanting ‘Viva Red Army’. Instead, for me at least it was another sombre affair. A live production I was an extra in.

Encouraged by the strongest person who in time would become my girlfriend, I decided to leave New Zealand which was next on the travel itinerary. My family were as always great support and asked that I speak to my GP. I did and he prescribed me Citalopram. It was remarkably easy. A concern really looking back. It took time but after a month of lying in bed through the summer days, darkness around me. The sunshine started to light the fabric of both the drawn curtains and my mood. The first thing that suggested the medication was helping was when I began looking forward to things again. I can’t remember what it was thinking back, but the event was probably something trivial to most like a meal time or seeing a friend. My recovery from this point was quite remarkable in hind sight. I went from being bed ridden with debilitating depression in June, living my days in my mum’s spare room staring at the four walls. To starting a Graduate Programme in October. Travelling to London and then a further two weeks training in Chicago. I felt positive. I was a little apprehensive and sad to be leaving those who had supported me, but it was only five weeks and I would be home at the weekend when I was back in the UK.

I completed the training meeting some new friends and started work at the company’s offices in Manchester, my first client was HMRC in Newcastle. What a stroke of luck. I had friends in Newcastle and it was a second home for me. I jumped at the chance to return there with a few quid in my pocket. My dance with depression was a distant memory now and I thought Mother’s Little Helpers were the best thing since John Terry slipped on the penalty spot on that famous night in Moscow. Viva John Terry! I was back. As with most mental illnesses often the first diagnosis requires a review, I didn’t have one. As much my fault as that of my GP. I surpassed what was normal, my mood heightened for long periods. Over the next four years I flirted with Mania on an almost daily basis. I was susceptible to depressive episodes but for the most part I lived through hypomania, long periods of mania that could go undetected to those around me. For those times when my synapses weren’t devoid of serotonin, I would continue to flood them with my morning’s dose of SSRI’s. Overloading my brain. The best comparison I can give is it feels a little like taking MDMA, but for days on end, no let up. I could run 5km in under 18 minutes after only a couple of weeks training, boundless energy. Gym every day. I could talk and drink for England. I would bounce out of my bed in a morning and find myself throwing up after a run around Regents Park in London trying to beat yesterday’s personal best, before heading into the office.

I don’t have the time and you certainly don’t have the patience for me to document all the stupid things I did. It was a very precarious time. I tested my own resolve, the resolve of the people who loved me. Thankfully I didn’t find myself in front of a magistrate or worse. I had my jaw broken by a delightful fellow after picking a fight on a football pitch. I stole a car whilst dressed up as a 1970s Australian rugby league player on a night out in Manchester to get home from Stockport. I found myself scrapping in the toilets of clubs on several occasions when a stranger would marginalise a friend. I pushed the envelope, turning up at work with bruises and cuts on my knuckles. My family and friends became accustomed to irrational outbursts, embarrassing displays of me losing my temper. On one occasion I was ready to go toe to toe with a guy in the middle of a dual carriageway after slamming my brakes on, he had cut me up at a roundabout, how fucking dare he! Did he know who I was!? My mum who was sat beside me talked me down. A collectors item. All this complimented by impulsive thinking and my speech running at a hundred miles per hour. Promiscuity ran with me as did drinking, gambling and recreational drug use. It did tune me in when I chewed my chin or so I thought. I was a ticking time bomb.

I ruined the relationship with my girlfriend. She wasn’t aware of my indiscretions, but I decided in my heightened mood that she wasn’t the one for me. I wanted to be single. I moved out of the flat we rented in Leeds where I was now living in 2012 and looked forward to a trip to the US with friends across the Southern States. The mania was becoming unmanageable. Having a gun pulled on me whilst stumbling into the wrong RV at 4am in a campsite in Houston Texas, dressed as a Tour de France cyclist certainly sobered me up. Sadly it didn’t sober me up for long enough. The next day I was unloading a compressed Uzi and I wouldn’t recommend it in the midst of mania. I would get very down and cry most evenings aghast at my behaviour then recover, sleep for a few hours and do it all again. I returned to the UK and continued to self-destruct.

Over the festive period in 2012 I ran out of fuse. For those of you reading this that have experienced mental illness yourself or know someone who has battled with it. You will not be surprised to learn a huge issue in my life was social media when I was manic. I am not proud of my actions, but I disclosed indiscretions with no regard for those reading online. Facebook posts would be my downfall. I disclosed things that left me distraught once my mood dipped. I still to this day shudder embarrassed to my core when I think of what I posted online. Girls I had slept with. Girls who were close friends of mine and my ex girlfriend. Some tales I thought were true, which turned out to be fabrications and at the very least exaggerations. Laid bare for all to see. This set off a chain of events that I was never able to recover from. I lost many good friends.

I was sleeping very little as I have mentioned during this period and my brothers took me one night to A&E when I flirted with psychosis, thinking I could hear my late uncle who took his own life at 18. A week’s worth of zopiclone for sleep then back to it. Back to drinking too much until I hit reset and then up at 4am absolutely wired. Writing nonsense online. I was unable to listen to a rational point of view. This was my new normal.

Having destroyed several relationships, I had little remorse. I was in the right. They were in the wrong. It was from here things unravelled. Paranoia from lack of sleep and my deteriorating mental state saw me making more stupid ill thought out decisions. Psychosis was setting in for the long haul. In one final attempt to atone for my infidelity over the Christmas period in 2012 I visited a supermarket and attempted to buy my ex-girlfriend several boxes of champagne, pathetic isn’t it like some sparkling wine would do it. Christ himself pouring it into a chalice wouldn’t have done it. This plan didn’t materialise as my gold corporate Amex was declined, I’d hit my limit in more ways than one. The £1400 leather jacket I had bought the previous day in a department store in Leeds wasn’t the best way to spend the best part of a month’s disposable income, nor was laying the draw on a football match for 3 bags as the liability, it of course ended 0-0. I was out of luck and out of time.

Over the years that led up to this I had been the master of disguise. Taking my daily anti-depressants but now my ability to mask what was going on behind the eyes began to wane. I decided in a second one morning to visit the tomb of Oscar Wilde in Paris. Alarm bells would have been ringing had my friends and family not been accustomed to ridiculous behaviour previously. Anyway they didn’t know this time and I could no longer trust them. I’d never been to Paris after all. Into the car I jumped on New Year’s Day after waking up in a living room in Leeds City Centre following a night out. The living room I had stirred in was owned by a friend of another former friend. She walked away like so many others because she did not want someone so volatile to be around her and her little girl. I couldn’t argue with this and have never tried to. I was far away. The girl whose flat I woke up in enjoyed wearing what I thought was a lot of makeup. Before I left her flat I scrawled in large letters using her eye liner on the bathroom door. “You need makeup like I need a psychiatrist!!!’. Ironic. This went down like a shit sandwich as you might have guessed.

I started to think someone was following me. For my trip to France I wouldn’t take the obvious route down the M1 to Dover. No, stupid like a fox I would take the A1. In the grip of a panic attack I thought they would track my phone. I pulled over next to a post box, in went my phone and then ripping the number plates off the car I continued to drive south a little calmer. Invisible. I thought I was being covert. I was a flashing alarm siren blaring. I was in a Black BMW travelling as fast as the car would allow me to down the A1, no number plates and quite honestly no chance.

Paris had to wait. I got as far as the M2 near Maidstone when I totalled the car. The attending traffic Police Officer did me a big favour in writing the write off was a result of ‘swerving a fox’ on the Crime Report. Thankfully the Insurance paid out. I was taken to hospital in the back of a mode of transport I would get accustomed to, ambulance. I was lucky, the fact that I walked away from this was a miracle and thankfully I didn’t hurt anyone else. The Doctor’s face when my blood and urine samples came back clean there was an expression of surprise and confusion. I was in the grips of full blown Mania. What happened next could have had repercussions for the rest of my life and had it not been for another incredibly astute policeman, I think it would have. The experience would have seen me surrender my career at the very least. I can only think he had already attended the course my CIO had recently been on. I was discharged from the hospital in Kent, I had no money, PP Pat and Jess had my phone and my car a crumpled mess kissing the crash barrier. I was past the point of no return, oxygen masks deployed, going down quickly. Finding a dual carriageway near the hospital I wandered down the hard shoulder until I found a 24-hour petrol station. I walked in and politely asked the attendant working if I could have a glass of water as I was thirsty. It had been a long time since I had drank anything, a simple thing you forget to do when manic, the mind is such a powerful bit of kit. It was days since I had eaten, simply hadn’t had time to give it a thought.

The only phone number I could remember was that of my ex-girlfriend. It was the early hours of the morning on the 2^nd January. Considering I had humiliated this girl and betrayed her several times over. Broken her heart then rubbed her nose in it. The fact she answered the phone in the first instance without telling me to get fucked was a small victory of sorts. I begged for her to come and collect me from Kent. Her family thankfully helped her see how ridiculous this request was. My overactive mind served up a memory to me as the phone line went dead. The police officer that attended the car accident did offer me transport back home if I needed it knowing my predicament. Now, what he offered me and what I heard were two completely different things. I asked the attendant in the petrol station if I could again make a phone call. She was extremely polite and handed over the phone.

I dialled 999 and got through to the Police. When I explained the situation, the lady on the other end of the phone abruptly cut me off. ‘Stop wasting my time’. I used to think the police were a lot of things but a glorified taxi service they are not. I called back. A different lady answered, again I made my case for a lift home, citing the police officer from earlier in the day. I was met with the same response. At this juncture I threatened if she did not oblige, next time I called, I would get someone to come and collect me. She cut the call. For the third time I punched in 9 9 9. I got a response.

One of the officers that attended the petrol station with several colleagues from the Emergency Services noticed my behaviour was erratic. I wasn’t quite grasping the enormity of the situation, claiming I was in possession of an explosive and then trying to make small talk was rather unsettling. I chatted at length to the two officers who took me in the back of their car to the police station. I remember one of them was a West Ham fan. ‘They won the World Cup in 66 for us they did!” I spent the night in a cell. Wasting so much of the Emergency Services time and resources wasn’t my finest hour.

In the custody cell I didn’t sleep despite being exhausted. Falling further into psychosis. The officer attending the cells gave me a book to read. I stayed up all night and ripped pages into small pieces and placed these around the floor of the cell, creating messages for the camera lens above me. No one was watching. I could hear them and see them. In the morning my older brother and mum arrived, they had travelled through the night driving 200 miles to pick me up. The journey back home was tragic. I was erratic, shouting, crying, laughing, hysterical, hearing things, seeing things. It took us over four hours and I can honestly say they were probably the most harrowing four hours. There was no manual for this.

I would scream at my mum when she tried to reason with me. I wouldn’t trust anyone not even my closest family. The police were called again as soon as I was home. When the police arrived, my family asked them to take me somewhere where I could get help. I went in the back of another police car with my brother to Doncaster Royal Infirmary where my family sat waiting for a Psychiatrist to attend. It felt like five minutes to me but it was hours. I heard a pair of teetering high heels at one point, I knew these were those of my ex-girlfriend outside in the corridor, she had come over from Leeds. My mum kindly asked her not to come into the room as it would be too much emotionally for me to deal with. Even with my behaviour, what I had done, the people I had hurt my family and friends were still in my corner fighting for me when I couldn’t. I was single handedly taking my life apart piece by piece. When the Psychiatrist arrived he informed my family there was nothing he could do. The beds were all taken.

Think about this for a second. Think about this when you cast your vote. In my hour of need our health service were having to turn me away. How many people each day get turned away? I will never forget my brother breaking down in tears when he heard this. He was desperate. We were all desperate. On seeing his tears the Psychiatrist left the room. He returned a short while later when he had managed to pull whatever strings can be pulled in the UK’s underfunded, oversubscribed Health System. Some other person was turned away. He had found me a bed. For the first time in a long time I was safe.

I lost count of the number of Police Officers that saved my life. The numerous nurses I met along the road that saved my life. The Psychiatrist in Doncaster Royal Infirmary and the Psychiatrists at St Catherine’s all played a part in saving my life. Not for the first time my family and friends saved my life. Not for the last time the Mental Health Act saved my life.

I resent myself a lot less these days, it has taken years. I am not trying to absolve myself of the pain and hurt I caused a lot of people throughout this period of my life by writing this, far from it. I was a horrible version of myself. When I came out of the other side sorry simply wasn’t enough for a few people. It would be wrong for me to blame my illness and medication for the mistakes, a joint effort combining the hedonism of youth with a trauma response that kicked me out into the world and I couldn’t cope. I am responsible and where I wronged people I have tried to make amends. In many cases this has meant walking away as I said, leaving people to move on with their lives. I have good memories of times before my mind unravelled. This whole experience serves as a reminder to myself to be vigilant. To make positive choices. To speak to my psychiatrist. To speak to my friends and family. To exercise. To give that pub lunch after the big night out a miss. To look after myself for the alternative is a reality I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy and believe me, after this period of my life I have a few.

Why write this at all then? Writing it down is cathartic and it keeps me honest. Sharing is what is encouraged to remove the stigma of mental illness. I know I am extremely fortunate to be in a position to do so. I work in a company that is extremely forward thinking, to be able to share my journey. I hope it goes some way to helping someone. Please share if you know someone who would benefit from reading this.

I made it to Paris a few years ago and no, I didn’t drive.

To love yourself is the beginning of a lifelong romance.

– Oscar Wilde

When we remember that we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained

– Mark Twain

Mental Health

What goes up must come down…(1 of 4)

Posted on April 1, 2023April 16, 2026 by David Clifford Stent

It is now just under 10 years since the shit really hit the fan. A Crescendo at the end of an extended manic Concerto. The final movement closed with a complimentary 3 and half week stay in Doncaster’s psychiatric unit. Paid for by you, the reader. Thank you. I want to recount my experience of mania in St Catherine’s Hospital, Doncaster and the inevitable depression that hit me like Tyson – both Mike and Fury.

The first memory I have was on check in, talking to another patient in the waiting area, before I was seen by the psychiatrist / responsible clinician. Not ‘a few sandwiches short of a picnic’ more ‘where’s the fucking sandwiches Dave?’.

My mum, older brother and Uncle all sat on the edge of their blue plastic chairs watching, despairing as we bounced off one another. Referencing conspiracy theories we’d read, one I remember was the Catholic Church controlling the masses over the centuries. And, how clever it was for the devil to trick the world he didn’t exist.

Encouraged by my new neighbour, I scratched my name into the fading emulsion on the hospital wall, complete with a date stamp. Apparently, this was the initiation ceremony for all new patients. It would serve as a reminder further down the line of how long I had been in limbo. I was riding the crest of a manic wave and the batshit bastard sat opposite was more than happy to oblige. I had arrived at the hospital to be greeted by one of this guy’s warmer characters, thank the Lord. He got aggressive a little later into my stay. We were chatting at lightning pace about Lucifer and the absolute ruse that is Christianity.

‘My mum, practically on minimum wage, get this. Donates to the collection each week and they’re sat in the Vatican wiping their arse with Michelangelo’s best art.’

I wasn’t hallucinating / psychotic from the lack of sleep at this point. Previously in the midst of mania I was convinced I was the reincarnation of Christ. I would learn this is common. On one occasion I wandered barefoot down Old Compton Street in Soho, handing out ten-pound notes to those brave enough to take them. I was surprised at how hard it was to give away money. I can’t help but think had one of the medical professionals observing me then in my sessions had a little more insight back in 2011, I might have been spared the car crash in 2012. Foot to the floor. No seatbelt. Air bags deployed.

It wouldn’t have taken a psychiatrist to conclude I was in no fit state to be outside. Just short of a straight-jacket, I needed to be in a confined, secure space. When my ticket number was finally called, we had a good chat to the psychiatrist, no Billy Bear ham in this delicatessen but other cold meats were available. Off I went when quizzed. Rattling through stories from my recent past, answering the questions, providing anecdotes, opinions, a discerning warm smile and a laugh that would haunt my family. The stress etched across their faces would have broken my heart, had I been able to read the room not obsessed with the sound of my own voice. What the hell is wrong with them, I was having a great time. Aren’t we all having fun? They were being told I had to remain in the hospital until it was safe for me to return to the outside world. The psychiatrist couldn’t give a time scale, it depended entirely on my response to treatment.

That was it. My mum gave her permission, and I was handed over to the state. Detained for assessment in hospital. This wasn’t quite as fun as detention in school from what I remember. Throwing the rubbers at the teacher, playing nervous with Sarah Taylor. This was a brick through the classroom window. No hands up skirts instead someone screaming at the top of their lungs and a very peculiar smell emanating from the girl at the back talking to herself.

My family hugged me, said goodbye, and hoped I would find my marbles in time. I would be detained until my plane returned to the runway. I had been flying close to the stratosphere for a long time and I sit here writing this very fortunate and grateful to have a family that cared / cares so much for my welfare. Not to mention how lucky I was to get to where I was physically in one piece.

Section 2 of the Mental Health Act for those of you that don’t know is detention for a period of 28 days so that psychiatric assessment can be completed. You can leave prior to this, if given permission by the responsible clinician. I wasn’t that fussed. I was sure I could keep myself reasonably entertained, oh and they had a pool table. No chalk though, tips were fucked and a very old cloth, but still. Nothing screams ‘mental’ like trying to explain Killer to the opposition, who was trying to manage schizophrenic induced psychosis.

My room was a single bed. Not much to it with a little circular window in the door, so the nurses on suicide watch could make sure I was sleeping, rather than swinging from the light fitting. I obviously didn’t feel an assessment was necessary, I was agnostic of the approach to getting it, so I would stay for a few days. Do as I was told. This wouldn’t last. I thought I would be back out enjoying life come next week. I was at the back of the queue when they were handing out virtues and they had run out of ‘patience’ long before I got to the front. The few days would extend into weeks. My patience would be tested.

It is difficult to describe the atmosphere in the hospital. It wasn’t The Priory. Some patients were living through hell, some like me were indifferent, some clinging on by their fingernails to their diffusing sanity. Some sick bastard’s got pleasure from making the stay of others as uncomfortable as possible. Not to mention the handful of residents working the system, who preferred to walk the warm wards rather than the cold January streets. In a way you had to admire this as a freezing cold doorway was starting to appeal more by each passing hour.

The staff were overworked, tired, caring but most past the point of no return. Sad eyes. If you can’t look after yourself how on earth were you expected to look after others?

Getting time with the responsible clinician was like ironing fog. The building was tired. Not fit for purpose. Narrow bright corridors with bedrooms on either side of the walkway, forming a structure like a Mercedes Benz emblem, three-pointed star with locked doors. Only the staff were able to walk through the entrances unless the responsible clinician was happy that you were no longer a risk to yourself or anyone else. It was a single-story building, surrounded by fields with a delightful housing estate in the distance. Many in here were single, the only person listening to their story.

The queue for the medication room was unsettling. It was like the cast of Guess Who on downers. Alfred dribbling. Anita shuffling towards the door, head bowed. Bernard chewing his dry lips, eager to get the next paper cup of sedation to relieve him of his own inner dialogue. David wasn’t buying into this. Oh no, not this badger, it was the best I’d felt in years. My state of mind did not need to change thank you very much. I was bouncing off the walls and quite happy with this nurse Jessica. I didn’t know what medication she was handing out, but I knew I wasn’t swallowing it. White paper cup in hand, I would imitate the Walking Dead and tip the contents into my mouth. Under my tongue it would go. I would then walk out to the smoking area and spit the pills through the 12-foot metal mesh fence keeping us all safe. Good riddance sanity. Game of Killer Dave? Only if you put your cock away Paul!

My impatience was growing, I spent the first few days’ smoking and talking absolute shit to anyone that would listen (nothing new there then). This should have been a period of cooling down, reducing the altitude and lining up my approach to the runway. Only the medication wouldn’t make its way into my blood stream just yet, so up in the clouds I stayed, fuel light flashing, circling.

In this period, I had several interesting conversations; I remember one lad who was schizophrenic who spent most part of his day reading the dictionary. He explained the hatred the Welsh had for the English displayed by the dragon on their national flag, it points East towards England. Good point. I’d never realised that.

I requested cigarettes, chocolate and an unhealthy number of soft drinks. All other stimulants were out of the question. My mum would visit daily supplying sugar and nicotine.

Each day I would politely ask at the nurse’s room when I could see the Psychiatrist Dr Alikhan to discuss my release. Jam tomorrow. I couldn’t get a time and day out of them, it was pointless seeing me whilst my mood was elevated. I didn’t understand this. I got more and more agitated. I would wander into the TV room and observe three very sad looking comrades, they were watching the same channel hour after hour. Unable to change the channel on the TV and the remote was useless, no batteries. One of the younger patients with a catalogue of deep scars and scratches running down her arms had swallowed them earlier in the day, they might as well have run a shuttle bus to Doncaster Royal Infirmary.

I can’t remember how long it took for me to realise until my mania dissipated, I wouldn’t be seeing the psychiatrist again. I wouldn’t be getting out. This realisation slowly soaked through my overactive mind. After day four and the impatience evolved into frustration and anger. No one was listening to my requests; the pool table was covered in piss and there was shit smeared on the pool cue. Anti-social that Paul. Now what the fuck are we meant to do to pass the time, read the dictionary?! I stood in the smoking area; it was snowing. Paul was patrolling in his socks looking for unfinished cigarette butts,

‘Crash us a burn mate?’

‘After what you did to the pool table you can fuck off.’

I couldn’t do another day of this. The attack on all senses was getting too much. The place didn’t smell too pleasant, the screaming from other patients throughout the night was frightening and at the least fucking annoying. The food was atrocious. But the thing driving the frustration I felt most of all, was it was incredibly dull. I wasn’t sleeping much, but when I did I wanted a little peace and quiet. The only decent conversation I could get was with the underpaid nurses and they had no time for this. That evening I ran out of patience, it was Saturday tomorrow. I would leave.

The winter sunlight lit my bedroom and at 8am I woke and looked out of the secure windows to a lovely crisp morning. Brilliant. The patients would congregate in the canteen, sweet tea and toast with lashings of home brand margarine. Most of my comrades were sullen, eyes drooping like they’d lost their war in the darkness, fighting the effects of the previous evening’s sedation. Reality biting when it finally wore off. Despairing they would swallow another cup full. Rallying then for another day in paradise, they sipped their tea. I had a better Saturday planned. Once I’d escaped this god forsaken place, I would go secure some fun tokens from my Uncle Tony, I had nothing, no phone and no wallet. A haircut and beard touch up was top of the list. A cold pint of Guinness and a proper coffee.

Outside in the smoking area there were two wooden tables with short benches (these would be out of bounds later in the day), where you could sit and stare through the fence at the council housing. Never had it looked so desirable, like a bacon butty on the back of a heavy session the night before. Scaling the fence was out of the question, far too high and I couldn’t get any purchase on the metal. After I finished my last Marlboro Red, I dragged one of the tables under the overhanging roof. I jumped onto the table and with a better leap I grabbed the edge. Up I popped. Some slag had alerted the nurse or he had seen me? Feet in the blocks, he was out into the smoking area asking me to get down. I ignored him, walked across to where the fencing was close enough to the building and with another gambol, I reasoned I could clear the fence and make the grass beyond. Tom the nurse shouted at me not to do it. He was concerned for my safety, and this dulled my impetus for a second, i refocused, it wasn’t enough.

‘You’ll hurt yourself David.’

‘I’ll end up hurting myself if I stay here Tom!’

He was of course wrong. I made the grass comfortably, ankles intact. The pistol fired and out he came running from the building chasing me across the field. Not on your nelly Tommy my boy. Comfortably out running him I stopped after I’d crossed the perimeter of the grounds, he wasn’t legally allowed to continue the chase beyond the hospital boundary. Freedom.

Right then, where were we…

Fact not fiction, Mania, manic depression, Mental Health, Music, Political commentary, Section 2 Mental Health Act

down way below sadness (2 of 4)

Posted on March 10, 2023April 16, 2026 by David Clifford Stent

The walk from the hospital to the town centre wasn’t far and as I said, it was a delightful crisp morning. James, my cousin’s partner mentioned to our Emma, that he had seen me walking down Balby Road into town. He was driving past delivering a driving lesson. Emma replied to say that couldn’t have been me; he responded and said he’d just seen my double. Lucky sod. This was the first ring of the alarm bell, not loud enough just yet.

My Uncle Tony was going to be home, reliable old ‘Big Mac’ as my Uncle Paul calls him. I knew he would be sat with a cup of tea, fag in hand, picking out his runners for the day and his score cast for the football. As he answered the door, I hoped the news of my detention hadn’t made its way to Royal Avenue. It hadn’t. No questions asked, he handed me 40 quid accompanied by his customary warm smile, ‘Any time our Dave’. With a hand shake I was on my way into the town centre for a normal Saturday away from the chaos of the hospital ward.

First things third, I needed to address the fuzzy tennis ball look I was sporting. Into the local Turkish barber shop on the corner of Hall Gate and Silver Street I went. Relieving me of a fair chunk of my day’s budget, I walked my shiny upside down head across the town to The Tut N Shive for a pint of Guinness. Hardly St James place, but good enough. After this I ventured into the shopping centre and grabbed a coffee. As I waited on the slowest barista this side of Milan to prepare my latte, I had a flash of inspiration. I needed to scratch an itch and write. I didn’t have any means to do this. So, my next stop was the refurbished Apple products store a few doors down, in the French Gate centre. Got me a very expensive notepad. I don’t remember too much about the exchange with the assistant but, he was obviously desperate. After signing up for a finance agreement, credit checks complete, the mac book came with me for an hour at least. I was hungry. Low on cash after placing a sixfold acca on the Saturday afternoon football fixtures. Priorities.

I fancied filthy BBQ ribs from a bar / restaurant called Relish. As I sat waiting for my food I tapped away on my new laptop. It was early in the afternoon and there was one other table of people sat with me, relishing the overpriced frozen produce. The ribs were average, but like the Guinness it would do. Why do everything perfectly, if just good enough will do? I had no means of payment and decided I would try and do a runner, promising my future self that full payment would be handed over once I was sorted. My exit was met with stiff resistance from a very shabby looking 5 aside team made up of waiting and bar staff.

“I can’t pay I don’t have any money, well hardly any. You can have what I’ve got…”

I placed the shrapnel from my last fiver on the table and looked at the Captain. The young lad insisted I pay, otherwise I couldn’t leave. Not this again. Him not grasping this and me not grasping the rather embarrassing situation I had engineered, I proceeded to hand over the laptop and said, that should cover what I owed. Barging past them I left empty handed but with a full stomach and decided I would watch the rest of the afternoon’s football with Big Mac.

Jeff and Co tried enthusiastically to spice up a goalless draw in the Championship. As I enjoyed a cuppa, Uncle Tony told me my mum and brother were on their way. A Premiership fixture was about to kick off. They arrived, with very limited life experience to draw upon for this situation, beginning the difficult task of reasoning with me. St Cath’s was the best place for me. Right. You’ve fucking visited you bastards, stop lying. It wasn’t a surprise considering my fist few days in captivity had played out like some off the wall documentary; ‘Dispatches. Behind the hospital smiles, how not to run a mental health unit’. Instead of a calm, clean atmosphere, I was enduring chaos. I was contributing my fair share. This didn’t mean I had to enjoy it. As I tried in vain to reason with my family there was a knock at the door and the police arrived,

“You bastards” I mumbled looking down and tears started rolling down my face.

Again, I was faced with the choice between the hard way and the easy way, sensible thoughts prevailed. I was escorted out to another panda car and before I made my way back to my chaotic new normal. I let my family know how angry and disappointed I was in very few words as I left the red bricked terrace. Galvanised by my short taste of freedom, I was committed to continuing to ignore the medical advice, I kept spitting the medication through the fence. Would you swallow them? The list of side effects detailing everything minor from weight gain, high cholesterol to the major, increased risk of cancer. No, didn’t think so.

I wasn’t flavour of the week. The benches in the smoking area had been removed. Couldn’t give a fuck, Jones. Sit on the floor. I didn’t belong here, damage limitation until I could make an exit. As I thought about my next move, I watched a lot of snooker on the telly box and sat through some excruciating conversations. I thought I chatted a lot of shit, but the lad who I had met on my initial arrival was on a different level. Sociopathic. Not that I need any, he provided me infinite motivation to make an escape for the second time. Scaling the fence was going to prove tricky, keep it simple stupid. I had made a note that when the nurses finished their shifts, they always headed home through the same locked door. I hid for an hour or so in the last empty bedroom nearest the exit, evading the security camera. Sitting quietly I hoped this would be the last time I had to do this. Everyone would see sense and I could get back to dismantling my life. As the exhausted nurse walked down the corridor slowly making her exit at the end of a 12 hour shift, I quickly pushed through after her and made a run for the front exit of the waiting area and reception. It was security locked but with a desperate pull, the magnet didn’t hold, again I was out. Ankles still intact.

Cue mandatory Benny Hill music. This time out of the traps two nurses came after me, but with the adrenaline charging, I managed to comfortably drop a shoulder, step them and make my way to the perimeter. If you haven’t read what led to the visit to St Cath’s it was both literally and metaphorically a car crash over New Year in 2013. I totalled my car on a motorway in Kent, visited the local hospital and finally spent a night in a police cell for threatening to blow up a petrol station. Not my finest hour.

My mind failed me then, and it was failing me again now. In the midst of mania, exhaustion and paranoia, I arrived at the assertion and the local BMW garage thinking they should provide customer assistance and get me a vehicle so I could get the fuck out of Dodge.

Making my way there on foot I had to resist the urge to contact or visit my family or friends. They couldn’t be trusted. Again, relying on the kindness of strangers I got a sausage roll from the Greggs on Wheatley Hall Road opposite the showroom. Before I walked in wired and confused, I had a quiet word with myself. This was going to take some performance, this was no man’s land, every man for himself. Get a car then think about the next move David. Roger that, David.

I can’t imagine what the two sales staff told their significant others that evening because this was not covered in the training induction. Some claims will be false. I waited for a very long time; it was difficult. Finally, after a couple of hours I was invited into the office. Whilst waiting I had commandeered their IT system, on one of the Dell desktops in the reception area, I had posted some acute ramblings for the new screensaver. Lovely. Once I was sat in the office, I irrationally reasoned I was owed a vehicle whilst my car was being either fixed or written off by the insurance company. They of course didn’t agree, but they both they had both agreed that they had a duty to contact the emergency services. They stalled and I fell for it. Well played boys, bloody salesman eh! Not all shiny suits and stubble. My heart sank as I saw my panda car pull up in the car park. Sadly, I wasn’t leaving here in a Beemer, a short return to hospital in a Peugeot was the only option. I knew my latest escape had ended prematurely and in hindsight it was commendable that the salesroom staff did the right thing. Mental Health Matters and all that.

Hardly a welcome home party back at the ranch, I was simply shown to my room. The police wished me well and I was back to square one. I laid there, guessing how many times someone had soiled themselves in this exact position and how many times they had replaced the sheets. A couple of hours passed before there was a knock at the door. Ah, the men in uniform were back, made a mistake? They hadn’t.

“We’re looking for a set of car keys that have gone missing from the showroom desk you sat at this afternoon David.”

I claimed ignorance and let them search my person and my room. Should have put them in the bottle of Dr Pepper, fucksake. What’s the worst that could happen? I’ll tell you, another night in a police cell and a criminal record I reckoned. They couldn’t find the keys. Once again, I was offered the phrase, ‘We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way David’. Again, common sense prevailed. Quite amazing really. Having travelled the hard road a few times over the years, I decided as bad as the conditions of the hospital were, it was better than the alternative. What a fucking shitshow this was.

I walked slowly into the bathroom and put my hand down into the water in the toilet and reached up into the U-bend, through the water and handed the keys to the constable. I joked she’d be shit at hide and seek; she didn’t see this funny side. My latest escape attempt had been foiled, before I had the chance to head back and unlock my mystery motor.

The next day I was astonished. I had a reprieve form the nursing staff. I was surprisingly given a time and date when the responsible clinician Dr Alikhan would consult me. Result. This could be the golden ticket I had been looking for. You would be excused for thinking with two successful attempts and one unsuccessful attempt at escaping the delights of the psychiatric unit, the clear intention to play Grand Theft Auto through Donny Town Centre, I probably shouldn’t count my chickens. Ever the eternal optimist even in my darkest hour, I saw this as the perfect opportunity to convince the fully qualified psychiatrist with countless years of experience, that I was on the level. Confidence is just arrogance with a smile. The next morning, I requested the smartest clothes I had available from my family, they arrived washed and pressed. The following day at 2pm I would set out my case for release, bullet points prepared. Fucking clown won’t know what’s hit him.

My mum being the saint she is provided my new outfit for the meeting. It’s all about presentation, if you look the part, you’re more than halfway there. Sadly, this wasn’t business consulting. Oh, and never arrive at a meeting without a pen and some paper. Check. I sat on my immaculately made bed waiting for the nurse to call me to my probation hearing as early afternoon rolled in. Two o’clock came and went like the sanity of so many in the Cusworth Ward at St Cath’s. I tried to keep calm. Irritable and impatient at the best of times I snapped and marched purposely to the nurse’s office demanding an explanation. There I was in my dapper outfit, blue fitted jeans, a smart button-down red shirt, gold collar pin, grey moleskin jacket with Chelsea boots. All dressed up and nowhere to go.

My world was about to implode, again. The nurse updated me; Dr Alikhan would not be seeing me. I asked when then? She couldn’t give me another time and date. I was furious. No rearrangement, nothing. Had I not chased him, I would have been sat in there all day looking like I was attending a Bar Mitzvah in the canteen. I’ll show this cunt. He will come and see me. If he wants mental, I’ll fucking give him mental.

I had a new purpose. I walked back to my room. The shadows had started descending as had the red mist. I blocked out the viewing window with wet toilet paper, stuck it to the glass and I made sure the door was securely locked. There wasn’t a lock, I manoeuvred the bed into position and started to destroy the accommodation. The Wardrobe got it first, what did you say soft lad? Smashing it with my hands I tore off bits of plywood which I used to keep the encroaching nursing staff at a safe distance.

DON’T COME IN HERE, I’VE WARNED YOU.

Then the chest of drawers started shooting his mouth off. Against the window it went. Blood charging behind my eyes and thumping in my ears. I could taste the anger in the back of my mouth, metallic and bitter. I wasn’t finished. I ripped the radiator from the wall and started to take apart the piping with my boots, water seeping across the cheapest lino the latest Tory manifesto could afford. The nurses tried in vain to talk me down. Patients had started to be removed from their rooms. Some enjoying the spectacle at the latest patient to lose their mind. Cheering and laughing. Some screaming. As I said, it was a mundane existence. With the anger peaking I started to sled push the bed frame forcefully and repeatedly into the thick hardwood door and frame. BPM fully up over 180. I pushed until the door was forced out into the corridor and the splinters of the door frame were lying on the ground. I stopped. I came round from my rage hearing the emergency alarm siren blaring and no one was trying to approach now. The police might have well as set up a local post in the car park. I was calming down now there was nothing left, the bedroom door laid lifeless in the corridor. In fact, the room now looked like the Feng Shui was designed by the brains behind Woodstock ‘99.

This time when the police arrived, I knew I had taken it too far. There were going to be repercussions, no more second chances. I was face down arms and legs spread on the broken timber and splinters as they came in mob handed. I had no concealed weapons. I was quickly handcuffed, hands forced behind my back. As I was removed from the room I looked on at the nurses and felt ashamed, I’d seen this look before. Fear.

Walking out of the corridor of the Cusworth Suite, I was directed towards the modern-day equivalent of a padded room, one smash proof glass wall for observation and nothing but a small blue mat on the floor. Nothing else. I sat on the edge of the mat. A new nurse appeared, this one from the Mental Health Intensive Care Unit. I had just been promoted / demoted. I saw what was in her hand and I regretted my behaviour even more. She said very little. I begged her not to. But with the police still holding me down comfortably, she jabbed the needle into my thigh. My atonement fell on deaf ears, after the experience I had just subjected her colleagues, friends and the other patients to, I wasn’t too surprised. That was the last thing I remember before losing consciousness. Nunight.