Sly Saint
Senior Member (Voting Rights)
Telegraph article from 4 months ago
The truth about life on a locked eating disorder ward (msn.com)Holding my mouth to the one-inch window gap, I took a desperate breath in, swallowing the fumes from the outside vents that amounted to all the “fresh air” I would be getting that day. A banging came from behind the door of the bathroom, then a voice: “I don’t hear the water running. You’ve got three minutes left!” I inhaled again, turned around, and let the drips from the shower head wash away any tears, before the healthcare assistant knocked again to tell me time was up. I wrapped a towel around me, asked her to let me out, and stepped back onto the inpatient ward, my timekeeper locking the door behind me.
A few days earlier I had closed the door to my own flat, trading it for a temporary life under lock and key in an eating disorder unit; where doors don’t have handles, bathrooms are a privilege, and – though you may walk in freely – you must jump through hoops to walk back out.
I had arrived, ostensibly, by my own free will, after receiving an email at work from my psychiatrist – addressed not to me, but to my GP and parents. Admittedly, it wasn’t a surprise. Having been treated as an outpatient for an encroaching eating disorder, I’d been losing weight and verve in tandem, but I had never lost my autonomy. Until now, that is, when I was being spoken about, not to.
“Charlotte herself cannot make an informed decision,” she wrote, explaining that – divesting herself of my care – she had requested an urgent admission at my nearest NHS inpatient ward. It is true that I was sick, 29 years old and fighting a losing battle against a mental illness that had left me severely underweight and ridden with anxieties that festered for almost a decade, sparked by anxiety and OCD. It’s also true that, until that point, I had resisted inpatient treatment, deterred by a mix of fear, fatalism, and, in fact, a former 10-day stay at a facility, during which time my neuroses had multiplied. But once that email was sent, I was, officially, a passenger, cc’d into my own life story. And, with full encouragement from work, friends and family, I surrendered.
Twenty-four hours later, on a scorching July day, my mum and I arrived at the hospital grounds in north London.,.......
The door had a window, ensuring surveillance. A plastic, half-length mirror – which, crucially, couldn’t be shattered – offered up a bizarre, distorted reflection. And screaming cries could be heard from next door, which made me shiver in the heat.
Two healthcare assistants arrived to search my belongings, confiscating nail scissors, tweezers, a razor, even a Smints dispenser, as if I were a prisoner reporting for incarceration. I was given a “welcome pack” with “guidelines for community living”. Visiting hours were restricted, room checks were at random, bathroom use had to be requested, and a detailed dress code forbade long-sleeve tops, hoods, pockets, hats and bags at the dining table, presupposing any attempts to secrete food. But it was one particular caveat that left a bad taste in my mouth: “Doctors and nurses retain the right to section a voluntary patient under the Mental Health Act.”
To be clear, I do not wish to denigrate inpatient treatment, nor the NHS, which ultimately saved my life. Indeed, five years on since my admission I am a passionate advocate for medical intervention for eating disorders. However, there is a crucial difference between lack of resources, and lack of empathy and awareness from the bureaucracy at large, and it’s the latter which proved to be the most trying during my eight weeks inside.