An excerpt from a story by writer and resident, Emma Monde
Reader trigger warning: This story contains details of mental health experiences and treatments which could be distressing for some readers.
Two weeks ago now I self-admitted to Gosford Hospital after being picked up by my friend, Christine, at Wamberal Beach. I was crying all the time and incoherent, my head filled with dark thoughts of ways to make it all stop. As I sat on the sand in front of the Surf Club, I felt like I was encased in chain armour and it was hard to breathe. I was feeling dizzy and raucous sobs would blast out from my chest, when the sadness at the way my life had gone, could not be supressed. I was hurting, it was deep, I was melting down and I hoped my meltdown would merge into the sea.
Christine arrived and I gave her the keys to move my car under shade and lock it up. She bundled me into the passenger seat and gave me a light blanket to put over me, as in spite of the 30 degree Celsius, sunny day, I was shivering. We went straight to Triage and two doctors, psychiatrists, one female, one male, were introduced to me and asked me a multitude of questions. I was suspended in a fog; their faces seemed devoid of expression; from the inside, my face felt like a death mask.
聽A room was found for me on the Mental Health Ward, I was in luck, a patient had just been moved to a stricter facility after suffering another psychotic break. A male nurse called 鈥楤ibbin鈥� from India, and a female nurse from Zimbabwe, called 鈥楴onto鈥�, asked for my handbag, and proceeded to take my mobile phone and the contents of my wallet, including my Eftpos card, a $20 note and loose change, and put the contents of my handbag in a plastic bag. They asked me to sign various forms to state that I was voluntarily admitting myself into care.
They then walked me to a large, recreational space, a courtyard with some large potted plants, idyllic, till I noticed two imposing and tall metal gates. The nurses left me to finish the paper work and assured me, they would be back soon to take me to my room. I immediately walked up to those gates, and to my consternation, discovered that they were locked. I realised I was now in an area of mid-level security and that I had possibly been transported to the real hospital of 鈥淥ne Flew Over the Cuckoo鈥檚 Nest鈥�.
A dishevelled woman, about 50, was sitting on a bench with a young man, who I assumed was her son. She waved at me to come over and sit with them. As I approached them, she called out that she had done the same thing as me when she first arrived, three months ago, she鈥檇 gone up to the gates and tried to open them. She then laughed wildly; her eyes darted all over the courtyard and I was uncomfortable.聽 I found out later that Suzanne was having Electro-Shock Therapy and that she could be violent.
There were young and old on that ward, women and men. Some, like Carmel, were on heavy medication – her body twitching involuntarily and her movements jerky; her eyes moving constantly could not hold her gaze. Two days after I met her, she was moved from the ward to a higher care facility, as her meds were not working. Another woman, who looked like a cherub, Zanthie, had been sectioned by her son, who lived with her, after she had a psychotic break and crashed her car after voices in her head told her to do this.
Two weeks later, I walked out of the facility, relieved that I was free, and I could reclaim some sense of normalcy in my life. I never regretted self-admitting, it saved my life, as did the meds. I return to Wamberal Beach and look out to sea, at peace.
