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My mental image of what to expect was based mainly on films like One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest and Girl, Interrupted; surely I wasn’t mad enough for that world of locked doors, maniacal nurses brandishing syringes and empty eyed patients shuffling along the corridors in slippers?How to talk to your child about mental healthWhat I found was both better and worse than I’d anticipated.Unlike many mental health inpatients, I was lucky enough to be given a bed in a hospital just a few miles from home.I was also lucky in that it was a newly built hospital, with single occupancy en suite bedrooms: more reminiscent of university halls of residence than the lunatic asylum I’d pictured.That’s where the good stuff ended.I’d obviously realised that my freedom would be restricted on the psych ward, but I, perhaps naively, hadn’t fathomed how much.Every half an hour, a nurse or healthcare assistant (HCA) would open my door to check I was safe.This was intrusive during the day, and even more so at night, when they’d switch the light on and, more often than not, leave without turning it off.The windows were covered with a mesh grille to prevent any attempts to escape.Anything I could possibly have used to harm myself was confiscated: my phone charger, my dressing gown cord, my tweezers.Even my shampoo and conditioner were locked away; if I wanted to wash my hair, I had to wait for someone to supervise me.In hospital, there was no need to pretend I was OK, no need to hide my scars or sugar coat my feelings.We inpatients had landed ourselves in hospital for a variety of reasons.I was deeply, suicidally depressed.Some were floridly psychotic, one girl to the point that she thought she was a dog and crawled around the ward on all fours.strain that the NHS is under was all too evident (Picture: Getty)My main survival strategy was to keep myself to myself, but there was a certain solidarity in being among other people who were in crisis.Whatever our diagnoses, we were all in the same boat.Nevertheless, the ward was explosive at times, something I found extremely intimidating.On one occasion, all hell broke loose when a patient was banned from using the microwave to make chocolate crispy cakes: a trivial matter that ended with the police being called and the ward in lockdown.I’ll admit I had my own irrational meltdown when, yet again, I went to get my dinner to discover all the vegetarian food had been eaten.That episode led to me being on 10 minute obs for the rest of the day and, believe me, there’s nothing fun about having an HCA following your every footstep and wedging your bedroom door open to keep tabs on you.While I was fortunate to be in a modern, well equipped psychiatric hospital, the strain that the NHS is under was all too evident in the staff and their attitude towards us patients.

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