At 32, I was given a choice: go to hospital every day – or risk a long wait to become an inpatient. Could I face down the demons that had stalked me since I was a child?
I throw the bread. It misses the nurse and lands in the metal sink with a pathetic thud. I run out of the kitchen, through a door labelled “quiet room” and kick a beanbag. I kick it again and again, until all I can see is the red fabric and white wall blurring into pink. I want to smash something, I want to break things until I collapse with exhaustion and never wake up.
But psychiatric hospitals are built to stop people like me doing that. No door handles or light fittings; no sharp objects or windows that open more than an inch. It is March 2017. I used to have a job, a life. Now, I am a 32-year-old woman who isn’t allowed to be alone with a pair of scissors.
