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…
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