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.