It began with a series of everyday, middle-aged cliches. Stress at work, no time to rest at home - days stacked upon each other so quickly that I didn't have time to notice the foundations crumble. And when I finally noticed the cracks emerging through the plaster, I set to repointing rather than putting in the supporting joists that were needed.
I've always been great at maintaining a brave face, but as my inner self crumbled away I accepted the pain from keeping up my rictus smile as nothing less than what was due to me. And the colour of those days covered my eyes, so that whether I turned behind me, or looked to my future, all I saw was covered in dust. And the days kept passing. Until one day, I sent my husband and kids off on a jaunt, and took myself off to try to find a patch of colour to call my own. I searched the city streets and parks, but my favourite haunts offered no comfort. I hit the shops, hoping that the cheap thrill of consumerism would offer me a brief lift, but found only the jagged, static notes of a growing panic which wouldn't die down. And then I found myself on a hospital trolley. Even there, I kept my mask of denial firmly in place. Once I'd been reassured that the children were sorted for the night, my main concern was how I'd manage to let work know that I may have to swap my days around, to get some rest. I was genuinely astonished when a pleasant, bearded social worker (I idly assessed his skills and decided he'd be an asset to a team and considered a move into managing acute social care teams) looked me square in the eye and tore down all of my facades. He told me in no uncertain terms that I either went to a mental health unit voluntarily, or under section. This news sent a whirlwind through the heart of me and spun the pieces to the far corners of the dingy room. Although, strangely, no-one else seemed particularly surprised. The following week is mostly lost to the dark. Flashes sometimes break through, and steal my breath in a rush of fear. The hand of the fatherly taxi driver who took me on the sixty minute drive to the unit holding my notes to pass over. The grave face of the sweet young doctor as I struggled to articulate my history. My husband's careful, calm exterior, which I knew contained a seething mass of shock. The absence of my children ripping like a raw pain through the fog of the days. Fellow patients mistaking me as staff (the health professional in me expressing itself in my stride, so it was only as I drew close, and they saw my face, that they realised their mistake). The long hours of tears through the gloomy days and wakeful nights, hiding behind my curtains, listening to the rattle of the blinds separating me from freedom hiding the summer passing me by outside. The first splash of light came in the shape of a fag break. As a non-smoker I hadn't realised that I was allowed out for these. One of the women in my bay had been keeping an eye on me. She'd sussed my rookie status, and seen quickly past the remnants of my façade. She'd helped me to find towels, even though she couldn't wash. She'd come to hug me when my sobs wracked the ward awake in the long exhausting afternoons. And now she took my hand, put her right-hand headphone in my ear, and dragged me outside to listen to rock music in the sun. We head-banged carefully, keeping time so that the ear pieces didn't dislodge. The light warmed my face, and the swifts shot like arrows through the sky. A smile found my lips, worked it's way inside. It came to me that I'd hit my rock bottom: I always feared psychiatric care more than prison. And I realised that it wasn't that bad. I'd survived it. I'd even made a friend.
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AuthorJo used to described herself as many things; currently, she is ArchivesCategories |