A “Special”, that’s what you’re called when you are underage and admitted to an Adult Psychiatric Unit. I was 16 years old when this name was given to me first. My mother had driven me to A&E, a last desperate attempt to get me some help.
After relentless hours of survey’s and scrutiny I was dubbed to be in the Red Zone of danger and so I was admitted to the hospital’s Psychiatric Unit. It was strictly for adults but they made exceptions for children who were high risk and I was one of them. I was led down a flight of stairs to the basement of the hospital and through two security doors. It was late at night by then and though the rest of the hospital had been mildly quiet, this ward was not.
I was stripped of any sharp instruments on my person, all earrings, piercings and I even had my bra removed as the underwire was a possible weapon. This is when the term “Special” was fully explained to me. Due to my youth and my suicidal and self-harm tendencies I was to be watched 24/7 by a nurse. The seriousness of this didn’t hit me till the first time I had to pee or shower, the nurses gaze a constant prickle on my body.
It took 3 days before I was seen by a Psychiatrist. This was when the idea of moving me to an Adolescent Psychiatric Unit was first planted. I was horrified and scared absolutely stiff. Perhaps it was the fact that the closest one was two and a half hours away from my home, perhaps it was that when this had been briefly mentioned before, it had always been paired with the world’s last resort. Perhaps it was that whenever residential Psychiatric Units were mentioned among my peers they were always called “loony bins”.
At 16 years old all I felt towards the possibility was fear and negativity and now upon reflection at 19 years old all I feel is an overwhelming sense of gratitude, for without that Psych Unit I never would have made it to my 17th birthday.
Despite my own prejudice against the idea I saw no other option, they could continue to detain me on the adult unit but I was receiving no therapy there and it was not a long term solution. So a week later I sat with my mother in the car as she drove me to my new Psych Unit, to my Last Resort.
I won’t bore you with the details of my admission, more repetitive questions about my feelings and the oodles of therapy that had consumed the three years of my life before that. I was admitted officially because of my self-harm and suicidal tendencies and my recent confirmed diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder and a mild substance abuse problem. Upon my return to the outpatients CAMHS clinics I would be given the labels as a sufferer of Generalised Anxiety Disorder and an EDNOS (an eating disorder not otherwise specified) as well.
The unit itself was quite nice, the ambiance left wanting but the interior was colourful and splattered with drawings to create a youthful appearance. The facilities were pleasant and considerably better than the Adult Unit, we had a computer room, pool table, lounge, art room and many doors that held therapy rooms. My bedroom to an unassuming eye was simple and amiable. To a girl who spent most of her waking hours thinking about harming herself it was padded. A desk and shelving unit bolted to the floor, no chair, a single bed, high glazed windows that wouldn’t open and a white board with no markers. The bathroom was much the same, a wet room so there was no curtain rail and a simple toilet and sink. I felt lucky to be able to have a mirror. Our rooms were checked regularly.
There were three main things that saved my life in the Psych Unit;
Number one was my endearing and compassionate psychologist. For my personality disorder I need something called DBT (Dialectical Behavioural Therapy) and it is not widely available let alone for children. Yet here she was this amazing woman trained in exactly what I needed. I saw her three times a week and though I often came out furious or crying I had never felt so in-tune with myself and my illness. The folders she constructed for me still come everywhere with me.
Two – Those who were able to, attended school on premises, school had become an absolute torture for me and to be able to continue my studies in an understanding environment was an absolute godsend.
Three – Here I was surrounded by adolescents who were struggling just as much and more than I was, we weren’t allowed speak about why we were there, though some were obvious. The level of acceptance I felt was for lack of a better word absolutely beautiful. The thing we all had in common were our demons and illnesses yet here we all were talking about books and painting our nails and watching The Big Bang Theory on repeat. Nobody ever pried when you stormed out of group therapy or when seen with tears rolling down your face. The only acknowledgement was maybe a smile or a nod and that was it. Those faces I will never forget, those faces clear of judgement and full of empathy.
I spent 3 months in an Adolescent Psychiatric Unit and I don’t feel shame or embarrassment about it. How could I? It saved my life. It may have been a very serious Last Resort but it gave me the strength to get up and fight again and again.
If you need support please contact:
- Samaritans 116 123 or email jo@samaritans.org
- Pieta House 01 601 0000 or email mary@pieta.ie – (suicide, self-harm)
- Teen-Line Ireland 1800 833 634 (for ages 13 to 19)
- Childline 1800 66 66 66 (for under 18s)
- yourmentalhealth.ie
- Aware 1800 80 48 48 (depression, anxiety)
- National Suicide Helpline 1800 247 247 – (suicide prevention, self-harm, bereavement)