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30Mar

I wake up from a long deep slumber, I’ve been sleeping in a large comfortable double bed. I’m not at home because my room is only home to a childlike single. The room I’m in is similar to a medium starred hotel room, the kind I imagine that business men and women crash into after a long day of city work. It has a desk and an ensuite, and a beautiful large window. There’s not a feel of ‘ikea’ about the furniture, so it must be a nice place. I didn’t sleep well, and feel quite drowsy. Frequent interruptions from the staff disturbed me at regular 30 minute intervals. I soon learned that this inevitable annoyance was less invasive if I slept with my face uncovered by the blankets and facing the door. This way had the downside of the hallway light hitting my face every time the door opened, but at least the night staff felt no need to gently peel the cover away from my face, and peer their own right against mine. I did consider whether I would rather have a pulse monitor on, at least then the rhythmic beeping would announce my ‘aliveness’ for me, and I might be disturbed slightly less. However, this is not a hotel, or even a hospital with heart rate monitors. I am sitting in a private psychiatric hospital called ‘The Priory’.

Evidently, I have slept past breakfast, but this causes me no disappointment. I am thankful that the nurses allowed me to sleep in as I have very little motivation to leave the bed, let alone the room. I faintly remember being roused in the morning at the change of shift, to ask what I would like for breakfast. I replied nothing, I wanted them to stop waking me up and disturbing me. Beside me, rather disturbingly on the bedside table furthest from the door, is a tray. There is a banana, an apple and a pastry. I don’t remember anyone bringing this. It feels violating that anybody and everybody can walk into my bedroom. I make a point to remember where I am and try to forget the idea and the comfort of personal privacy.

I am nervous to go to the bathroom, as I haven’t yet checked whether there is a lock on the inside. I also must time my shower perfectly. Based on what I learned about the staff behaviour last night, I doubt anyone would think twice about barging in while I am in the shower, and I am not sure whether a verbal affirmation would convince them that I am, indeed still alive.

I walk back into my room and change as quickly as a pubescent high school student in the P.E. changing room. I wish people would knock. I make my bed. I don’t eat the food, but contemplate what I am supposed to do with it, would the mystery room service person return to take it back? I am not smoking at the moment, currently I cannot remember what drove me to stop as there is nothing I wouldn’t do for a cigarette right now.

The day is passing slowly, nothing eventful occurs. I am beginning to recognise the faces that pop through my door, there appears to be a repeating pattern. A few of them make half hearted attempts to rouse me out of the door, to meet the other patients. I have no interest in doing so, I would not know how to behave around them. I am not depressed, I am disgruntled at being here. A nurse comes in to visit me and have a little chat. I’ve been having a lot of those over the past couple of days. He’s a middle aged man, with a face that I can’t read. His lips are slightly too large for his mouth and it affects his London accent more than mildly. I’m straining to understand the questions, but he seems friendly if not a bit patronising. The conversation is inconsequential. My doctor is not working this weekend and nothing about my treatment and care can be changed until he returns. I am not allowed to leave for any reason.

There is nothing to do here, I have spoken to my mum, or she came to visit. There really is no difference. I could get my books out and start revising, but I’m not in the right mind set. I’m agitated and stressed, this would all be a lot easier from home. Lunch has come and gone, I snuck downstairs and picked at a salad. I sat on my own and exuded no signal of wanting the people around me to join. Dinner is going a similar way. The food hall has such a mixture of smells it’s making me feel unwell, like all the bright and beautiful colours mixing together to form sludge. Nobody stays here for dinner unless they are inpatients. There is a long table opposite me, reserved for the eating disorder patients. Its empty, but I am here early. There are small bundles of people who appear to know each other, some are talking and some are simply using other peoples company to guard themselves from prying eyes and loneliness. Its not busy here, and mostly women. There are a few people who visibly appear unwell, through the pain on their faces and the outfits they have managed to put on, but mostly the people here appear like I do. Entirely normal.

There’s a television in my room that I am looking forward to getting back to, so I eat my meal quickly with my head down and make my way back to Upper Court, my ward. In order to get inside I have to press a button on the intercom, and wait while it makes the most grating and inconceivably annoying noise. Eventually the noise will stop and I will step inside, turn up the stairs and then into the first door on the right. My room. I am lucky that I don’t have to walk past the nurses station, or any other door in order to get back, I do not want to talk to anybody. Not today.

My first day has ended. How many more?

Borderline Bella – the continued story and other articles related to BPD and mental illness is available at www.borderlinebella.wordpress.com

  

Annabel Swatman

Hello everyone, my name in Annabel aka Borderline Bella. At the age of 18 I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) after a series of mental health crises that landed me in a psychiatric hospital. Now 3 years later, I am back from University (minus the degree) and beginning to explore and unravel the ‘crazy’ journey that I’ve been on. The focus of my articles will be topics around mental health and BPD in particular, with a mixture or personal stories direct from my own experiences, and explanatory articles covering a wide range of topics. You can read more about what lead me to a hospital admission and my subsequent recovery, as well as get more informed about BPD by visiting my blog; www.borderlinebella.wordpress.com

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