Magazine

Mental Hospital

I confess, I spent 2 days in a mental hospital. I’ll get the sad bit over so I can get on with the funny side of surviving a nightmare. I lost a baby girl under very traumatic circumstances. One day I was pregnant at a routine scan, a week later I wasn’t. I couldn’t cope and after 3 months I found myself in a mental hospital suffering from PST and postnatal depression. I also struggle with OCD (though not the kind that makes your house tidy, sadly). I couldn’t cope, I couldn’t function, felt very low and the only high I felt were the palpitations from a panic attack.

I needed a retreat, someone to talk to and some sedatives to let my brain rest for a while. I foolishly assumed that the ward I would go on would be like in Alfie, a place to recuperate. It would be a lovely peaceful place, on lovely peaceful grounds with little fountains, flowers and painting classes in the conservatory. I pictured myself being soothed with soft therapy, a quiet room and then flouncing to the art class in a floaty dressing gown. I would hug a warm cup of tea while chatting to an older soothing nurse.

No. In fact it was very much like a film, but not this one. It was as rudimentary as One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s nest- minus the shock therapy-and not as fun as Girl Interrupted. I did not meet any equally disturbed women who I had fate tempting adventures with. It was like being left in a room full of night bus passengers (of course me being one of them too). A loud ward with 8 beds. 8 beds occupied by 8 distraught souls, all of whom had souls that could snore-but not in unison, harmony or even in the same key. Then in the morning they would refurbish the bathrooms, the tiles dug up at 8am sharp. So, obviously, sleep did not happen.

There were not peaceful gardens as we were not allowed out. The art class was on a Wednesday and I regrettably had my breakdown on a Sunday. The TV only had 5 channels. The highlight of the stay was when a patient followed me around as he thought I was Jennifer Aniston because I talked like her. I was flattered. This place was looking up. Of course, just as I was getting settled, it was decided that I was in fact correct and the visit was counterproductive. My mum flew over to be with me, which is all I really needed. Looking back, I feel I should have maximised my time in hospital. It was a place I could have yelled at people for no reason if I had wanted. I could talk to myself, dance around the room, cry for no reason or be Jennifer Aniston. I have tried to do this since being released 6 years ago, but if you do this outside the ward, you end up back inside. And if you seem normal they don’t believe you. No ill feelings towards the NHS staff-they dealt with the unpredictable reactions from patients within a system of limited resources with ease.

I think that is why I have found comedy so liberating. People assume you have some issues or in fact enjoy your issues and actually want you to share them and have a laugh. In fact, if there were ever an application form to fill out for the position of comedian, I think it would say please only tick if you don’t’ suffer from any disorder found in the DSM IV. This is my balanced world. My reality is accepting the oddities and surreal paths my brain leads me down and trying to create a means of expressing them.

Courtney Cornfield

You can read more of Courtney's columns HERE

Pictured: One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest and Girl, Interrupted