We're in the midst of a huge, brilliant cultural shift. It’s never been more acceptable to talk about our mental health. And yet there is a gap in the conversation: last year, 49,988 people were sectioned (admitted to hospital for treatment of a mental health condition, possibly against their will, for anywhere from 72 hours to six months). Of that group, those aged 18 to 34 made up the largest proportion.

This is at a time when funding for mental health services has been slashed, leaving the NHS buckling under the pressure of soaring patient numbers. Campaigners, including the charity Mind, are calling for a re-injection of cash and to widen the discussion – so we asked three women how it feels to be admitted to hospital because doctors deem you a risk to yourself, or to others...

“A shortage of beds meant I was sent miles from home”

Kimberley Giles, 28, from Fife, was sectioned multiple times between 2014 and 2016. She has been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, generalised anxiety and OCD.

My voice was hoarse, but I carried on yelling: “I don’t want to be here! You should have left me alone!” My words hung limply in the air as the police car I was sitting in the back of continued on towards a psychiatric ward. An hour earlier, the police, my then-boyfriend and a stranger had persuaded me not to take my own life. Shortly before, I’d texted my family telling them I loved them and to always do their best. It was 2014, I was 23 years old and I’d been struggling with my mental health since I was 10. I simply didn’t want to exist any more.

Kimberley was sectioned multiple times in her early twenties Antonio Petronzio

For years, the world had felt too intense: I’d swing between laughing and then, just hours later, feeling completely overwhelmed by anger – even being lightly touched made me want to lash out. I have Borderline Personality Disorder, which went undiagnosed for years. It’s often accompanied by other conditions, such as OCD. I pull at my hair and eyebrows when I’m stressed – and when I was first sectioned, the symptoms had been getting worse.

On the ward, the team were reluctant to section me (possibly thinking that as I had somebody at home, I could be treated there), until my partner said,“I can’t look after her 24/7. She’s prone to self-harming.” So they issued me with a Section 2, meaning they could hold me in a secure hospital for up to 28 days. I tried to plead with the doctors, but they wouldn’t listen.



Straight away, all my belongings were confiscated. I felt a complete loss of identity, especially when they put me in a rip-proof tunic dress. The days felt like they stretched on forever: bar the odd activity, there was little to do. You might think you’d receive intensive therapy while inside, but in total, I probably only had two group sessions. The whole place smelt of fresh paint– the white walls had to be regularly redecorated because they were stained with blood or scrawled pen marks.

"I felt like I was being told off for being naughty when, in reality, I was really unwell"

I remember seeing one patient throw boiling water at staff, and others being restrained or sedated. I spent the majority of time alone in my room, staring at the cheap, green curtains or waiting for visitors. When anyone else tried to speak to me, I’d refuse – and when my family did come in, I apparently just rambled and ranted at them (my memory of this is patchy, even now). I slept as much as possible, partly to block out my surroundings but also as a result of my medication.

There were nurses floating around if you needed somebody to talk to, but they were usually agency staff, meaning there was little consistency. Once, when I had the sleeves on my jumper pushed up, a nurse said to me,“Oh, don’t you want to keep those covered?” referring to my self-harm scars. I felt like I was being told off for being naughty when, in reality, I was really unwell.

I was sectioned initially for wanting to hurt myself, and for two years I was stuck in a vicious cycle. I was an in-patient five times: my mental health would decline, I’d be detained until I could answer “yes” when asked “Are you able to keep yourself safe?” then I’d leave and it’d start all over again.

The first couple of times I was sectioned close to my home in Norfolk, but for my third admission, a shortage of beds meant I was sent to a hospital over 40 miles away, making it harder for people to visit me. That didn’t help – I already felt isolated from the world. The turning point came when I ended my relationship and moved to Scotland to be closer to my mum, who has been instrumental in my recovery.

Life is now very different. I still battle with my mental health, but my fiancé, who I met three years ago, is so patient and we have a baby boy – he gives me purpose and motivates me to take care of myself. I’m back at university, too. It’s amazing that people are discussing mental health more openly, but we need real action from those controlling the purse strings – not just words.

"I was sectioned one morning on my way to work"

Hollie Brooks, 30, from Essex, was detained for 16 days in 2017 after telling her therapist that she felt suicidal while suffering from PTSD.

It must have been around noon because I remember the smell of stale hospital food wafting through the corridors. My handbag, containing my laptop, weighed my shoulder down as I followed my regular therapist, tearful and afraid, wondering what would happen next. I’d just told him I wanted to end my life. It was a sunny July morning and I was only supposed to be popping in to Mile End Hospital to see him on my way to work, as an editor at a pop-culture website.

Hollie was admitted to hospital after having suicidal thoughts Antonio Petronzio

I’ve had various mental health problems since I was a teenager, but after a traumatic experience in my late twenties, it felt like everything in my life was held together by a thin thread, which had suddenly snapped. I’d been seeing my therapist for months, but hadn’t noticed any improvement –and my confession had meant he was required to take me for a psychiatric assessment.

I sat silent, not really understanding what was happening, as it was quickly decided that I wouldn’t be leaving. Staff said that if I went into hospital “voluntarily” it’d make my life a lot easier, so in a daze, I agreed. I believe they’d have sectioned me under the Mental Health Act had I refused.

They placed me on a female-only ward, with security-locked doors, and showed me to my room, which was reminiscent of a bare-bones student dorm. I was allowed to keep my phone (but not the charger, in case I used the wire to hurt myself), so I messaged my boss, to explain what had happened, and then my housemate, asking if he could bring me some clothes. During my time there, I’d spend hours making beaded bracelets. It was typical art therapy, and while it might sound pointless, the simplicity of it helped me to refocus my thoughts.

"I was awoken by alarms buzzing, staff running past my room and a crashing sound"

As it was summer, Love Island was on, and rather surreally, all of us patients would pile in on the sofas to watch it together. I became friendly with a few girls on the ward, many of whom had been sectioned in other hospitals previously. Some patients were older; there was an 80-year-old who would just smile and stare into space all day. Some were violent too – one night I was awoken by alarms buzzing, staff running past my room and a crashing sound. In the morning the TV was gone. A nurse said a new patient was admitted, but had grown aggressive and been sent to a high-security unit.

I don’t know how I’d have coped without anything to occupy me – staff were great at ensuring we had at least one activity booked in per day. I also had weekly visits from the assessment team, who would ask how you felt. They all seemed overworked, which at times made me feel like a burden, but I know that wasn’t really the case.

Being in hospital allowed me to start processing the trauma I’d been through – while some of the issues surrounding it weren’t in my control,I had the time and space to work on the things that were.

“I was convinced the nurses were poisoning me"

After a manic depressive episode left Luyando Malawo, 29, from Kent, with severe psychosis, she was sectioned for a month.

I could hear it, the radio newsreader saying that he’d been caught: the man who had sexually assaulted me six months earlier. It was May 2014, and the police had knocked on our door for an unrelated reason, but upon seeing them, I’d thrown myself on the floor, hysterically crying, then raced up the stairs and turned the radio on. My brain was muddled – I thought the officers were there to see me about the assault. My mental health had plummeted ever since it happened. I’d failed to hand in my university work, so had been told to leave, and was suffering with panic attacks.

Luyando took a long time to be diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder Antonio Petronzio

To keep busy and to prove that I was still strong, I started studying an online marketing course. Without realising it, I was isolating myself – I stopped going to work and to church, instead preferring to stay in my room, obsessively watching YouTube videos about becoming an entrepreneur. I’d do this until daybreak, then sleep until 6pm.

When I heard that news report (or at least thought I did), I tried to prove it to my mum by searching on Google for an article to back up what I was saying, but there were no results. My attacker hadn’t been caught. But in that moment I was so convinced he had been. The days that followed are a blur: I didn’t sleep at all, too terrified that if I did, I’d be kidnapped. I chatted away non-stop, updating my Facebook status with long, nonsensical messages. I was sure that I had built this incredible business empire, which had made mea millionaire. It’s clear now that I was in the grip of a manic episode – one that lasted for several weeks.

My mum could see something was wrong, so encouraged me to take sleeping pills, thinking that if I rested I might calm down, but I refused them, certain that they were secretly poisoned. Eventually, things got so bad that the community mental health team were called – at first, I was able to have a relatively normal conversation with them, but when they tried to leave, I sprinted into the kitchen and grabbed a knife. In my head, my life was a TV show, and this was merely following the script. The police were called, I was handcuffed – for mine and others’ safety – and put into the back of a van, then taken to hospital and sedated.



"I'd black out, then come around and see nurses. It took me a fortnight to understand where I was"

When I awoke, I had no idea whereI was. My memory kept blacking out – I’d come round in the middle of being bathed by nurses. I think it took me a fortnight to really understand what was going on. Another manic episode in there saw me believing that I was “queen of the universe”, so I was walking around the ward, demanding attention and telling everybody I was part of the black royal family. One of the nurses, who became frustrated, said, “Oh, I could just murder you!” which sent me down another path of paranoia. I took it literally.

My tongue dried up because I kept tipping my water away, in case it killed me, now convinced that the medical team were out to poison me too. Things improved when I finally started eating and drinking again, after a kind and patient doctor – who was coincidentally a family friend – sat down with me and said, “You’re ‘rapid cycling’; I think you’re bipolar.”

Looking back now, it’s clear to see my mood had followed patterns of extreme highs then very low lows for some time. It was then that I began to take medication that helped me to stabilise. When I was well enough togo home, I felt supported with a good amount of aftercare.

It’s not a race to recover: I utilised NHS services, therapy and group outings as part of my recovery for three years, but I know that’s not an option for everyone. Since then, I’ve moved area and have had to fight for the same level of support. It’s a postcode lottery. Although every person’s experience is different and it’s been tough, I think that people with, say, schizophrenia are far more stigmatised than those with bipolar. Access to treatment shouldn’t be down to sheer luck.

This article originally appeared in the March 2020 issue of Cosmopolitan UK.

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