The Cell

I am in a small room, lying on a small bed hastily dressed with a pillow and scratchy blanket. The previous hours have been a confusion of interrogations punctuated with long periods of waiting. For what, is unclear. Although now friendless, I am not quite solitary, with the constant movement of the silhouettes of security guards behind the open blinds reminding me that I am under constant guard, despite the presence of a closed-circuit television camera capturing every movement for an unseen audience.

The room is safe, which is to say a marvel in minimalist design. There is not a sharp surface, a fitting not securely bolted; there is a superfluous mirror of roughly polished stainless steel. The door handles curve and slope downwards towards the floor. There is no escape here.

Though the outside atmosphere does not penetrate this sequestered space, I know that it is late and dark outside. I try to sleep, but the overhead fluorescent lights illuminating my prison flicker and bore through my skill, inflaming the backs of my eyelids.

Snatches of sleep are punctuated by terrifying moments of lucid paralysis. An acrid chemical stench fills my nostrils and I am being electrocuted. I awake screaming and sweat-soaked, head buzzing. The silhouettes do not intervene. I wonder if I am imagining my animal cries. I lay terrified of the sleep I so desperately need.

*

The date is 27 October 2011. I have been admitted to Grafton Base Hospital having been found by concerned friends in an acute state of bipolar-induced depression: intoxicated, isolated and planning my demise. I am suffering self-inflicted cold turkey withdrawal symptoms from high doses of ‘non-addictive’ psychiatric medications. I receive no sedatives, no hydration, no food; little understanding. I am told by my treating doctor that I need to become more independent. If only she knew that my desperate wish to be so is what has paradoxically led me to my current situation.

I am in what appears to be the hospital’s only appropriate mental health bed, I assume for the safety of myself and others. The room is new, and presumably designed to withstand the throes of violent psychosis.

Within twelve hours, I will have been gently escorted from the premises by a friendly allied health worker and left to my own devices. There are no beds available at the two closest psychiatric hospitals, both located more than 100km distant. Though it is only implied, I gather that I am not sick enough to warrant treatment.

Thankfully for me, my own devices include two incredibly worried, caring and informed friends who rescue me, shaking and foundering on a bench outside the hospital. They take me to see my wonderfully empathetic General Practitioner who bypasses the public health system, booking me into a private psychiatric facility. My brother, a successful chef in Melbourne, drops everything to be with me. Selfless family friends take me into their home to ensure my safety until I can be admitted to hospital.

From the depths of despair, with the support of my friends and family, I begin to find the strength within myself to heal; strength fortified by weeks spent in the clinic, a life-saving experience.

*

I tell my story so that there may be some understanding of what it is like to suffer at the strangulating hands of mental illness, and because the support provided by our public health system simply isn’t good enough. Having found the strength to live, I have now found the strength to fight, that others not have to suffer the trauma I have faced. It is my greatest wish that my experiences can provide hope to others in crisis.

For those who are feeling helpless, please know that there is help to be found. Communicate with your family and friends; see your General Practitioner regularly; call Lifeline (13 11 14) – voicing the ruminating fears in your mind is the first step towards wellness. And invest in private health insurance: your wellbeing is worth it.