Being sectioned
How I Got Locked Away In A Psychiatric Hospital
Schizo and scared — I thought my mum had a gun
In the US, the term is ‘involuntarily committed’; in the UK, it’s ‘being sectioned’. A more palatable way of saying:
‘being locked up in a secure psychiatric hospital, against your will’.
Either way, none of the labels do the experience justice.
Here’s my story; I remember it well.
I was psychotic, paranoid, and delusional. For me, this isn’t so abnormal. My sporadic psychotic breaks with reality had been occurring for over fifteen years by then.
On this occasion, my partner, Chantelle, struggled to cope with my escalating paranoia. She’d taken me to my parents for some relief and support.
Not long after we arrived, I overheard Mum, Dad, and Chantelle whispering — colluding against me.
As I confronted the conspiring threesome, Mum pulled something from her pocket. I was sure it was a gun. In my delusions, Mum always transforms into a terrorist, intent on killing me and destroying the world.
I forcefully pushed the gun out of her hand.
Mum wobbled slightly and retracted her arm; her expression said it all — total shock and utter disbelief.
You see, I’m usually very placid, a bit of a sensitive soul. I wouldn’t hurt a fly. I even have one of those boxes for humanely removing spiders from the house.
Shoving Mum (clasping a snotty tissue rather than the imagined gun) was the equivalent of shouting:
Wahhheyyy everybody, grab your coat-tails! Jan has well and truly left the building. It’s all downhill from here!
And it was.
Seconds later, Dad and Chantelle were bundling me out of the apartment and into the car. They’d clearly decided I was a threat to Mum.
Where were we going? Silence.
We came to a halt in front of the Hospital’s Accident and Emergency Department.
Huh? I needed a Psychiatric Hospital. Not a normal hospital.
A short, stout woman, half hidden behind the wheelchair she was pushing, appeared at my car window. “Come on, Jan, get out of the car”. What??? She knew my name? My paranoia levels increased another notch. And why did she have a wheelchair? I could walk perfectly well!
Dad and Chantelle pleaded with me to get out of the car. They were eyeing me warily, unsure of how I’d react.
They should have known better than to think I’d trust this random woman in her pathetic nurse outfit. There was no way in hell I was getting out of the car.
Ten minutes of useless coaxing followed until the fake nurse wheeled her chair back through the sliding doors. Dad turned the car around, and we were on the move again.
When we next stopped, it took me less than a millisecond to grasp where we were. The Police Station. This upped the ante somewhat.
My alarm skyrocketed.
What the F were they going to do to me at the Police Station?
Chantelle went inside whilst Dad and I waited in the car. Dad said he was hopeful there’d be someone who could help us.
Help us? Errrr…how?
I lowered the window and stuck my head out; the car was filling with a noxious gas. Were we being poisoned from the exhaust?
My chest was tight. Was this a heart attack? I gasped for air.
A lady in plain clothing came out from the Station. I could see her ID badge with photo hanging from her neck.
She kept her distance and quizzed me from about five meters away — asking about my frame of mind, whether I felt suicidal, and what medication I was taking. She seemed interested. Maybe I could trust her.
The smell of gas was now overpowering inside the car. I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I decided to take my chances with this nice lady. I got out and gulped down fresh air. I didn’t notice the two burly police officers until they were too close. I’d let my guard down. Stupid.
They grabbed me and shoved me head-first into the back of a van while I lashed out and kicked at them. The door slammed shut.
It reeked in there.
This was the end. I knew I was going to die alone in that gas chamber. I could see the vapour hissing out of the walls, hanging in the air, poisoning my lungs.
Why had Dad and Chantelle done this to me?
I threw my full weight against the doors, pummelling with my fists and shrieking at the top of my lungs.
The van accelerated away from the curb; the momentum tipped me sideways into the wall.
I screamed for the invisible drivers to stop. They ignored me and sped up.
If I could have jumped out of that moving vehicle, regardless of its speed, I would have.
I was rapidly losing consciousness, growing more delirious by the second. What had I done to deserve this? Why were they killing me?
I came to as the vehicle stopped. The doors opened. I looked out from my position on the floor: uncomprehending, stunned, confused.
How was I still alive?
Chantelle climbed inside. She helped me out of the van, offering me her arm to lean on. Meekly, I complied. We appeared to be at a Psychiatric Hospital.
We were ushered into a small, stuffy, and stale-smelling room. Dad announced experts were on their way to conduct a psychiatric assessment. I’m not new to assessments. For those who haven’t had the pleasure — picture a job interview conducted by a five-strong panel — and now increase the pressure tenfold. Your liberty is on the line, instead of some poxy job.
My stress levels soared.
The one tiny window opened barely a crack. There was little chance of fresh air and absolutely no chance of escape. I started pacing. Dad and Chantelle watched me like hawks. No one spoke.
An hour passed.
I began to suffer visual hallucinations. I saw Mum hurrying in and out of the nearby offices. I could see her clearly, rushing past. Was she coming to get me? Was she planning to blow us all up?
Another hour passed.
And another.
My body had been in constant and extreme fight-or-flight mode for hours. I was feverish, my face hot, my hands cold and clammy. All my senses were heightened. I could hear people talking on the other side of the wall.
Just over four hours after I’d arrived in the police van, five unsmiling medical professionals filed into the tiny room. They sat in a semi-circle, and I was directed to stand in front of them. I felt exposed, twitchy, and shivering. I pulled my hood up over my hair and prayed this would soon be over.
I kept my gaze down. They were all very untrustworthy, unsavoury-looking characters. One doctor had a strong accent and could have been Arabic. My terrorist delusions went into turbo-drive.
It’s not easy to answer questions and assemble coherent sentences when you’ve not slept for days. I was suffering acute anxiety. My mouth dried up. Words are impossible when there’s no saliva. Things were not looking good.
The ensuing twenty minutes resulted in a painful start-stop interrogation. Eventually, one lady offered me a glass of water. I didn’t like her. And I didn’t want the water she was forcing on me. A drink like that is so easy to spike. Was she trying to poison me?
And so I pushed her away too — at the shoulder. Almost exactly as I’d done with my mum earlier in the day. But this time, I used force. This lady properly fell over. Flat on the floor.
Shit.
Her colleague rushed across to help her to her feet.
With the benefit of hindsight and sanity, I can see that of all of them, she was the nicest. She cared enough to want to alleviate my suffering. She could see how grueling it was for me to speak. Unfortunately, neither hindsight nor sanity were available to me at that moment.
There was a commotion behind me. Before I could turn around, I was jerked off both feet and thrown forward onto the floor. A heavy hand squashed my left cheek against the cold, gritty tiles. My arms were being yanked backward. Someone else was pinning my legs.
WTF? I didn’t understand what had happened but figured something worse would occur unless I acted swiftly. I fought them off, kicking and screaming like some wild caged animal.
I didn’t stand a chance. There were four big policemen versus me — not really a fair fight.
As they handcuffed me, I surrendered, defeated. My arms were bruised, shoulders wrenched at their sockets, legs numb. As I lay there panting, I could hear them radioing for backup.
Backup? Seriously? I was lying flat on my stomach, pinned to the ground, my wrists in metal cuffs behind my back.
What did they think I could do?
The lady with the water and the other doctors had disappeared. Dad and Chantelle looked on, horrified.
Interview over. Freedom lost. Fate sealed.
