Promoted as a place to keep you safe and help you get better, psych wards are a well known thing to people who struggle with mental health and those who don’t. But what are they actually like?
Often, I see the glamorisation of mental health facilities on social media along with phrases such as, “they must be just like a summer camp!” or “grippy sock vacation!” and quite frankly, it infuriates me. They are no such thing.
Below are my experiences from being in a mental health hospital.
Trigger warnings: talk of self harm, details around self-harm, including self-harm methods, eating disorders, suicide, self-induced coma, mistreatment by staff
At the age of thirteen, I was admitted to a psych ward due to my eating disorder. Stupidly, I had believed the romanticisation I’d seen on places such as ‘TikTok’ and ‘Twitter’, now known as ‘X’. I’d been fooled into believing that my stay wouldn’t be the most traumatising thing to happen in my life and I'm positive a lot of other young people have been too. When you’re ill, all you want is to get worse and worse and when you’re able to access everyone online talking about only their positive experiences with institutes, it then becomes a goal.
“I’ll be ill enough if I get in there.”
But you never are. There is no such thing as feeling as if you’re sick enough when your mind is a web of negativity. It becomes an unachievable chase to become the worst you can be. You never feel validated. You never get to a point when it’s finally enough. The best thing you can do is recover and, despite what people say, being in a psychiatric ward is the biggest obstacle that can stop you.
During my first admission, I cried for a week straight, everyday, every night. I was scared shitless of the environment I had been thrown into. Since it was 2021 at the time, before I was allowed out in the day area to meet the other patients, I had to quarantine in my room for three days. All I heard during those days were the screams, banging and alarms that paint my mind to this day. After finally being allowed out, I saw what caused all the loud, overwhelming noises: patients smashing their heads against the walls until a patch of red was imprinted on the drywall, wrapping their own socks around their necks in a desperate attempt to end their suffering, trying to choke themselves with plastic and being held down by adults on the hard, cold ground.
I’ll never forget when I started picking up the other young people’s habits and I was mocked in front of every single one of them by a staff member who didn't even work there.
I’ll never forget when a staff member hated me so much, he egged me on to harm myself and yet he still had permission to come back.
I’ll never forget being laughed and pointed at by several staff members calling me a baby for self harming.
I’ll never forget when one of the cleaners took his time to talk to me when I was having an incident and not receiving any support. How he said that he sees the mistreatment. How he’s working towards getting a job in a place like this so he can truly help.
I’ll never forget how the staff members told him to stop talking to me and just do his job, leaving me to drown in my misery once again.
Progressively, I got worse and ended up being transferred to a low secure unit.
There was no such thing as privacy there. I got watched using the toilet, watched showering, I was unable to go into any rooms, including my own bathroom, without asking someone to unlock it. Being locked in the dining room and plastic cutlery became my new normal. My phone was also taken away - they had a system where they sent phones to a forensic team so you couldn’t actively engage with anything online or over messages.
Every single day there was an incident with at least one patient and with it were the blaring alarms. You had to sit and watch. There were no other rooms you could go into as they didn’t have the staff to watch us all and ‘deal with’ what was happening at the same time and bedrooms were restricted during the day.
I can now never hear an alarm without seeing them.
One day, a patient, a young girl, managed to succeed. She went into a coma and died months later. I feel no guilt at all when I say it could have been prevented. She was on a one to one (being watched by someone constantly) but after a few incident free days, they took her off. It usually took MONTHS to get off of observations at that place and even when you are, you’re not allowed in a side room by yourself. Yet what did they do? Left her in one by herself. Five minutes was all it took for her to rip her shirt and use it as a ligature. Five minutes was all it took for her to fall into a coma. Doctors and police officers rushed in, the only person not present being our own ward doctor.
I still get angry thinking about it.
We were urged to go down the bedroom hallway to get away from the situation but I ended up going into a different side room because my anxiety wouldn’t let me be with all those people in such a small space. The room I was in had windows to the day area. I watched as they wheeled her out. Horrifyingly, all I felt was numb. The following days consisted of patients trying to follow in her footsteps. Mealtimes were often interrupted by someone in the corner trying to end their life, so upset about what had happened. And there I was, feeling nothing. I felt like a monster.
I know now that my mind was protecting me by blocking out my emotions but there are days I still feel monstrous.
I went in with one issue and left with several.
Another big thing was when I got discharged. My newfound freedom felt like too much. Too big of a thing for me to get a grasp of. I did, though, in time.
Are there moments I wish to go back? Unfortunately, yes. I have yet to dispel that compulsion to be ill. But they are just moments. Fleeting moments. All it takes is for me to think about my experiences to realise the absurdness of my silent wish.
Psych wards are not what they’re made out to be online and it’s dangerous, harmful, for people to act as if they’re a joke. While my aim writing this isn't to scare anyone off from getting the treatment they need, I refuse to sugar-coat or be quiet about the hell I've witnessed.
Mental health struggles are personal, and each journey is unique. My experience in psychiatric care, though deeply painful, ultimately shaped my path toward recovery. If you’re reading this and feeling overwhelmed, please know that you are not alone, and help is available. Recovery is possible, and reaching out for support is a courageous first step.
If you or someone you know is struggling, here are some resources that can help:
- National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (USA): 1-800-273-TALK (8255)
- Text HOME to 741741 for free, confidential crisis text support (USA)
- Samaritans (UK): 116 123
- NEDA Helpline (Eating Disorders): 1-800-931-2237
- Mental Health Foundation (UK): Mental Health Support
Remember: Seeking help is not a sign of weakness but instead, it is a testament to your strength and resilience. You deserve to heal and there are people out there ready to support you through it.
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