Why I Would Never Voluntarily Go Into Hospital Again
I would have a tiny, cramped bedspace in a room with four other people, with only the privacy afforded by a thin curtain and nowhere to get any peace and quiet. If I woke up in the middle of the night, or very early in the morning, as I often do, I wouldn't even be able to turn the light on, let alone have a drink and a smoke. I would only be able to go down to the garden for a few minutes every hour, and sometimes not even that if the staff were busy. I wouldn't have access to a computer or the internet, and I wouldn't be allowed to do scraperfoils, which are providing my main distraction at the moment, because the tool would be judged too dangerous. The only activities available would be sitting on the uncomfortable furniture watching television, usually the soaps, which I don't like, or colouring in children's pictures with cheap felt-tips that are running out of ink, or completing the couple of ancient jigsaws with many missing pieces that I have already done several times on previous admissions. And maybe the occasional card-making session or Recovery group, complete with patronising tips on how to problem-solve, and set small goals, and eat healthily. The only food on offer would be disgusting, when I am already having problems with my appetite. I would be even less likely to have a shower or wash my clothes than I am at home, and no one would notice if I didn't. The staff would rarely speak to me except to call me for meds. I would feel caged, trapped, imprisoned behind that locked door.