I don’t know how to start. I don’t know where to start. I am having some trouble catching up with myselves and organising my chaotic memories into some kind of narrative.I find myself in hospital again, in the same ward, in the same damn room. I have been here a week now. I am on a section 3. How the fuck did that happen?

This time last week I had just arrived. I was wearing hospital pyjamas and hospital socks. I hadn’t bathed for 4/5 days. I had been in the general hospital following an overdose that I don’t remember taking. The ambulance, A&E, being admitted to the medical ward – it’s all gone! I have a vague memory of waking up sometime on Wednesday, needing a wee and trying to get up but being unable to because of all the wires and drips and monitors I was attached to. Then waking up again, and eating something. Then it was Thursday.

They cleared me medically on Thursday, but I had to wait until the afternoon to see the psychiatric liaison chap. We had a chat and then he went away and I did more waiting. When he came back he said they wanted me to be admitted to a psych ward, and that if I didn’t agree they would organise a MHA assessment. So I said okay.

There was no psych bed on Thursday. There was no psych bed until Friday evening. I wanted to go home. I was feeling frantic about having no clothes, no shoes, and none of my stuff, not even my house keys. I spoke to someone else from psychiatric liaison and he seemed very understanding, but the message was the same – if you try to leave we will section you. “Psych beds are like gold dust” he said to me, “and the nurse who assessed you and your CPN think you need one”. So I was taken in a wheelchair through all the endless corridors of the huge hospital, and out into a waiting ambulance, which brought me here.

On Saturday I asked if I could please go home for a couple of hours to gain access to my house and fetch my things, promising to return. They called the duty doctor, and the duty doctor put me on a 72 hour section.  My keyworker went out to buy me some toiletries and knickers, and I ordered some new clothes to be delivered the next day. So at least on Sunday I was able to have a shower and change out of the hospital pyjamas.

Monday I was assessed under the MHA and put on a section 3, even though I said I would stay informally. They said they thought there was a risk I’d change my mind. I also saw my psychologist.

Nothing happened on Tuesday (well, not externally anyway).

On Wednesday my OTA came to see me in the afternoon. In the evening I had a talk with my keyworker about the whole “different selves” thing.

On Thursday my OTA took me back to my house and we met a locksmith there – who was lovely. I was able to collect some clothes and the things I thought I needed. In the afternoon I went with another member of staff to pick up the keys for the new house. In the evening I was exhausted, having hardly slept since the artificial sleep of the overdose.

Today I saw my CPN and we talked about dissociative disorders. I also went to a “cafe group” at the OT department and acted like a totally manic loon. I’ve been doing rather a lot of that this week.

That’s the bare bones of the story. It hardly captures anything – but it’s all I have the energy to write tonight.

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