Content Ramblings on a February weekend morning

It’s Saturday morning, the birds are chirping…nothing is yet set in stone (apart from the mild inconvenience of not being able to vacuum until 10am!) the sky hasn’t decided whether it will be gloomy or bright. This is when I’m at my calmest, my chest isn’t screaming, my concerta is at its sweet spot. My brain is focused… contently pottering around planning my chores. I have been up since 3am… I have cooked my 14 fur babies chicken, brown rice, veg and eggs. I have changed the cat litter boxes, I have 1 wash in washing machine and 1 in dryer. I have bought my sister in law her Birthday present, she loves Nature photography so I have bought her a book on it. It will arrive on her Birthday tomorrow… I feel relieved and even proud that I fulfilled my responsibility to communicate my care for her in a socially conscious way even though I wish it could be more spontaneous but even if it was acceptable to be more spontaneous the truth is I may not seize or have the opportunities.

In this almost content state I feel less pressure to hold myself to account for my presentation during what I call “ Working hours” I don’t tend to allow myself the same reprieve inside those hours. Because I can’t slip, I can’t either vocalise or even internally cut myself some slack. My sensory overload is debilitating, it’s torture, to the point that residing inside a human body is a constant aggravation.

Agoraphobia is the fear of open spaces and I have a diagnosis of it. I meet the criteria for symptoms but I don’t fear open spaces. I fear any spaces where’s there’s people, and judgement and toxic emotions. Fumes and manmade sounds and unnatural light. They culminate and attack me: like banging on those unbreakable windows they have in hospital wards: they bend and reverberate… I feel surrounded by the noise and the sensory discord of almost but not quite physically pain!

I love nature. I love the spotenity and the honesty of primal animal instincts, the innocuous malice free,take what you need not what you want of nature. I do agree that agoraphobia is triggered by the fear of lack of control and a feeling of necessity to control ones environment.

Body of Anger

I feel like my rage has evolved into a separate entity, it’s got its own physicality.

Some people say anger is protective like a shield but for me it’s crushing and cumbersome to wield.

I clasp it tight against my chest, my knuckles clenched till they turn white. I hold my breath so I can’t breathe subconsciously incapacitating its ability to flee, desperately trying to prevent it toxicity, prevent any dent in society,

there is no personal gain for me, no acknowledgment from the community, just continued disdain for my perceived inadequacy, but still I do it all the same its important to me that my moral compass remains.

So I seize my breath and pin my body to the bed, in my head I scream and resist the failing and the wailing, the physicality of my pain envelopes me, there are no words bold and thick and ugly enough to articulate my torment in a socially acceptable way I just have to hold my breath and fight the urge to let my anger become a physical entity.

Into the fires of Mordor

A little about my experience in a secure children’s home called Swanwick lodge, I had been a resident there for the previous 9 months. The majority of my time had been spent in isolation, intermittently earning the right to spend a hour in the evening locked alone in the bedroom corridor watching a tv placed on a small table with a hard chair in front of it but for the most time I was locked in a bare room, the furniture was hard bases moulded into the floors and walls and there was a shower room connected with a door that could be locked back or shut. So there was no need for me to even be taken for a shower and time out for fresh air or exercise was a privilege that was not even considered. My meals were finger foods served on paper plates and delivered by 3 staff while I was ordered against the wall. The plastic mattress and thin sheet was removed by 3 staff every morning at 7.45am and the air conditioning was left to blow, the windows had blinds in the plastic glass which were permanently closed and when I had clothes to wear they were ill fitting vest tops and shorts.

My crime? Being suicidal, being autistic, being traumatised, being a child unable to process her traumas, angry at her abuse, full of self hatred. I was on a Welfare order because of my self harm, sucidality and impulsive and I admit sometimes dramatic behaviours.

In this unit I was left to tie ligatures untill my nose and eyes bled and my face was mottled from burst blood vessels, staff would run in as I was about to pass out, painfully restrain me in what were apparently considered painless holds, pull, tug, cut off the ligatures and run out leaving me gasping and distressed on the floor and adding a further 24hrs to my solitude, I would punch my face, smash my head against the walls, I would gouge my skin. I would tie ligatures repeatedly with every scrap of clothing untill I was huddled under the desk in what I hoped was a blind spot as male staff peered through the hatch in the locked door. It was torture, the memories of abuse and rapes coursed through my head and my chest screamed in agitation. I would cry and scream to no avail, I would thrash and try to escape, run out the door at any opportunity with little success. I became like a animal, feral. I was not comforted, I was not treated with compassion.

I blamed my own behaviour for my treatment, I believed I deserved it, I believed I deserved to hurt, I was so ashamed of myself, I needed to die because I was such a bad person and caused the world and everyone around me harm…I still believe this even now.

It was a torturous 9 months I now wonder how it was suppressed but then I discovered that unlike children sentenced through the criminal justice system children given welfare orders do not have time spent in solitary recorded and sent to the ministry of justice in effect this allows the most vulnerable children, normally care children, normally abused children, normally children suffering from mental health issues and whose only crime as it were was to be unable to process their traumas in a ‘civilised manner’ so these children can be restrained repeatedly, and secluded indefinitely without anyone regulating or over seeing it.

Some of you may believe, as some part of me still does that it was the only way to manage my maladaptive behaviours, Maybe your right I just don’t know. All I do know is that every second was breathy agony.

Recovery: The blank slate

This is my musings on what Recovery encapsulates for me:

Your born like a blank sheet of paper, sometimes the edges are already a bit frayed from being pulled out the package with undue care or the package being handled roughly in transit.

But there’s a sense of excitement, it predominantly fresh, and you get your favourite pen, and you start writing on it, at first you take time to make sure your handwriting is neat, your sentences straight and coherent.

But as time goes on you become distracted, you get bored, multiple information causes confudlement, you may have to cross out, under light bits of the story.

As you progress it starts to lose it crispness, you feel disillusioned, you start to be a bit careless or those around you see the deterioration and the gradual, they don’t realise the importance of that paper to you or they take advantage, they see it as scrap paper.

Doodles and hastily written notes corrupt your carefully written script, the paper is put here, put there, gets grimier, gets more damaged as time goes on. You start to care less and so do others so you put it in unsafe places, others pick it up and add to the scribbles

But in the back of your mind you realise there’s important information, that no matter how frayed, no matter how or why another person has added to it, either negatively or positively it still predominantly holds your script.

Then something major like liquid damage occurs, sometimes a direct result of your own or positioning or a careless mishap, or malicious act by others

For a while it seems irretrievable, and you sit for a few minutes while it disintergrates before your eyes, you only have a few moments to decide whether it’s worth saving, whether it’s strong enough to take the transit to the safety and possible revival of the radiator:

Yes you think, you peel it from the surface you handle it with utmost care, this is your script and there’s important information worth saving the ideas and morals with in can never be saved.

You drape it over the radiator, you put it where you can’t see it directly but it’s there, in the corner of your eye, you wait and wait for it to dry out, it looks imperfect, it takes longer then you expect, it takes up space and makes the place look untidy, you can’t bear to look at it and at times you want to just give up and throw it away.

Maybe you could rewrite you think, but deep down you know that script was the essence of you and a copy won’t cut it.

Eventually you get tired of seeing it draped, useless and untidy on the radiator so you prematurely take it off and try straightening it out but it wasn’t dry enough and you feel disheartened as it seems to disintegrate even more in your hands, despite the time and care you’ve committed to it

You throw it away in disgust and frustration but not somewhere it can’t be retrieved because in the back of your head you know it’s important and irreplacement and worth keeping, you know one day you will need to go back to it.

You try rewriting your script on different paper in different but all are distractions and don’t seem honest or encompass what that first script did, it’s all superficial.

So every now and again you go back to your paper, your script each time attempting to smooth it out, sometimes you go in too heavy…it’s not quite dry enough, sometimes you don’t spend enough time smoothing it out, you get called away.

Eventually it reaches the point where you can clearly see the information, the essence of your script…it’s there…the key points are there but the paper is still watermarked and frayed and imperfect

That frustrates you more the initial damage because you realise that despite your commitment and care and investment in this script it is flawed…you feel bitter because those around you didn’t respect that paper and added to the disfigurement treating it with reckless or malicious disregard, you realise that in hindsight you may of contributed at times in response.

But eventually you realise how important it is despite what you and may believe is imperfect, it was actually more resilient then expected, it still has your script on it, it still holds and can convey the information, you and those around you just have to handle it with more care, maybe peer harder to decipher.

So you put it in a clear plastic wallet, you display somewhere safe, you make sure it’s not needlessly exposed to the elements and you take your time to explain and help others decipher it, sometimes it’s feels like code. Some people write it off for its imperfections but others are impressed by the essence and celebrate it.

You yourself still look at in regret sometimes, you know that it can never fully be removed from it’s protective casing but it’s transparent and shines through.

Sometimes recovery is being strong enough to accept that you will never fully recover, that even though it’s exhausting breathing and intermittently functioning has to be good enough…hoping that others will see through your imperfections perceived or otherwise, but predominantly fighting the regret and realising your still you…there’s still space on the page, there’s still a knowledge and script that can’t be unwritten….I guess that’s hope!

My undignified Depression

My understanding of Depression has totally changed in the last few years. The saying that you can never fully empathise with something unless you have experienced it is totally accurate. I liked to think that I was a sympathetic and non judgmental person. But I’ve come to realise that subconsciously I still harboured misconceptions: I believed I was protected from depression: that if I became depressed I would just kill myself. I was under the impression that the most clinically depressed people would be in hospital.

In the last few years I have realised how wrong I was. Amid the Pandemic I had to quit my job due to poor health, I attempted and failed at a suicide attempt. I have been under mental health services for a long time. I do not live near family and have very few friends who I communicate regularly with. With the loss of my job I lost structure, support system, colleagues, with the pandemic, I lost my Mental health Support, no physical visits and I had recently been switched to a support worker who I had not a built a relationship with so Was not comfortable talking on phone with. I sunk into deep depression. The kind of depression that I had always believed I would be protected from because I would just kill myself. But in reality I didn’t have the energy: even the thought of all the things I needed to prepare for a attempt: cleaning my flat, washing myself, putting clean clothes on, writing a suicide note that explained my reasoning but at the same time didn’t blame anyone, discovering a way that my animals could be found in a timely fashion…tricky as I was so isolated that unless I was quite blatant it was unlikely anyone notice my absence for potentially a week and unlikely to physically check for maybe two. Even mustering up the energy to hunt down pills to take or even a glass of water to take them with exhausted me. I got skin infections and medical issues, pressure sores from not washing, so I remedied that by not wearing clothes most days, I was too exhausted & numb & heavy to leave the bed, I didn’t even listen to music, it was suddenly too painful. I started to defecate in the bed, filled with self hatred, and I mean I was fully conscious I was doing it…I facilitated it by putting towels on my bed, wearing no underwear to make it easier, putting towels on the door by the side of my bed to half crouch over the side and piss! I had lost all respect & dignity I wasn’t catatonic maybe I had a form of dissociation with reality and what was socially acceptable but throughout my entire depression I’m confident if assessed under the mental health act I would be deemed to have capacity. A simple reply text or a 5 minute phone conversation was enough to provide proof of life to anyone who did try to contact me.

And this is reality for some people, the raw, shameful, disgusting reality. I was saved by my one protective factor: my Furbabies…I would of happily disintegrated in my own filth, I would have died, of malnutrition, dehydration, sepsis or merely a broken heart if it wasn’t for them. If I didn’t need to fill up their food bowls, so I had to do a 3 weekly online shop, to fill up their water, so I would chug a pint of water down my throat and grab a pack of cheese-strings from the fridge to take back to bed. So every few weeks I had to have a wash, pull on some clothes, take the bins out and open the door to the delivery drivers. I was lucky, I am lucky. And some days those brief interactions would make me feel a bit better after…I would spend some time in the living room, I might reach out to a friend, I might order a takeaway or make a coffee, I might clean my flat. But it is disturbing how easy it is nowadays to disappear, how easy it is to withdraw, how easy it is to lose yourself and disintegrate to the point of defecating in your bed, how a few minutes of communication a week, maybe a change of clothes and a quick spray of deodorant is enough in this day and age to hide the full extent of someone’s depression. All you need is the ability use a bit of tech, the capacity to not answer your door naked covered in shit or mention over the phone you are not even leaving the bed to toilet.

I can’t remember how things started to improve….but they have, I don’t spend my days in bed, I change my clothes and strip wash every few days. I talk and interact with friends everyday….I have physical appointment with my support worker every week…I’m now Agoraphobic and I’m still on the road to recovery but things are a lot better, I think the more interactions I had brought me back to reality, because I was not without shame…I did actively hide the most disgusting parts. But I just wanted to raise awareness that people aren’t always receiving the help that you think they are. And that also people suffering from Depression are pretty good at hiding it. But also the disturbing reality of how easily in our society it is too do that.

Solitary in Secure!

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Solitary confinement –WikipediaThe UN Special Rapporteur on Torture and other UN bodies have stated that the solitary confinement (physical and social isolation of 22–24 hours per day for 1 day or more) of young people under age 18, for any duration, constitutes cruel, inhumane, or degrading treatment.

I was 17 years old when I endured a 9 month stay in a Secure Children’s Home near Southampton, I was imprisoned by the Family Court in Alton under a Welfare Order initially for 3 months, extended every 3 months for a further 3 months. A Welfare Order is imposed on Children in the Care system who have not been criminally convicted of a crime but are perceived to be unmanageable in the community due to reasons such as absconding or disruptive behaviour in their placements, engaging in self-harm, suicidal, or risk taking behaviours. Refusal to attend school or at risk of engaging in criminal activities. In some cases as a young person can be held in these units up to 72 hours without a Court Order Young people can be held for a few days purely because no other placement can be found quickly enough.

Secure Children’s homes are primarily to accommodate children aged between 10-17 sentenced through the Criminal Courts. They have higher staff to resident ratio & generally cater to younger YPs with vulnerabilities. Whilst I was there average age was 14, though there were a few 13 year olds & one 12 year old, there were sometimes 15 year old boys but they had often been identified as vulnerable and always had the threat of being transferred to a Secure Training Centre or Young Offenders institution hanging over them if they caused trouble. Girls tended to be older 15/16 even 17 year olds. Staff wore their own clothes and were described as Social workers, they had a belt with keys, walk-in talkie and alarm around their waists. The Secure Children’s home I was sent to had two beds reserved for Children on Welfare Orders. The rest were for Children sentenced through the criminal justice system and were often there for serious or repeat offences. Ironically the repeat offenders were often sentenced to less then 3 months & chance of release at halfway point. Even one of the lads with the most serious offence was out in 8 months.

I was sent by the family court in 2003 at 17 years old, It was not my first stay, I had had a previous 3 stays all less then 3 months in the previous 18 months. The previous 3 hadn’t been too bad, my behaviour had been passable, I’d attended education, the gym. The structure had helped me and I kept my head down. This time was different though, I was unwell, traumatised by exposure to severe sexual assaults, I’d experienced gang rapes, grooming, being mugged on two occasions one where sexual assault was the primary objective and stealing my phone was to prevent me calling for help. I had been beaten by a man with a crowbar and was in the process to go to court to give evidence to hopefully secure conviction for GBH with offensive weapon, my assailant was looking at 5 years (charges got dropped because I was in secure and could not attend court so was seen as unreliable witness) I was angry and suicidal. I was off medications.

I remember what I got secluded for, it was for swearing in a sentence and being told to go to my room. I refused, I couldn’t face being alone with all my thoughts, all the memories with no distractions. With my chest screaming and nothing to pacify it, our rooms were bare at best of times. I was pre-bronze so a part from my mattress and duvet, pillows and a few books I had nothing. And I wasn’t convinced they wouldn’t remove them. The Order was repeated, I refused then one of the male staff grasped my elbows in a basket hold I think it’s called from behind and restrained me to my room. The restraint is not meant to cause pain, but believe me it does, it fucking kills! I was then held facedown bent over the bed whilst my duvet, pillows and books, were removed. I was then released and they ran out. Restraint meant the start of 24hr isolation, they had left my mattress but I just used it to obscure the viewing panel so they came mob handed and removed it from the room. I spent a while banging and kicking the doors and windows but soon got bored. Traumatic memories started to overwhelm me, I can’t describe them but I just needed them to stop, I’d hit my head, punch the sides of my temples to try knock myself unconscious getting angrier and angrier at myself as my attempts failed, I’d goad myself start smashing my jaw and face, fucking coward fucking coward just like when they fucked you, didn’t fucking stop them did you! Fucking coward! Over and over again! Staff would peer in through the viewing panel , warning me I would be in longer the more I continued, a few attempts were made to engage me but they were aggressively framed: “What’s up with you? Why are you behaving like this? No need for it!”I couldn’t ever see their facial expressions, they had taken my glasses, and their voices always sounded hostile to me. Soon they gave up and I couldn’t keep punching myself….it hurt too much. I moved on to searching the room for anything that could be used to cut with…I tried the plug sockets for any loose screws, or odd bits of plastic on the floor…literally anything. Every time I injured myself, every bang, punch, cut, ligature restarted the 24hr isolation in room.

I could see no way out, my self harm became suicide attempts with ligatures, it was bleak…my matteress and bedding were taken out early morning and not returned until 9pm. I used my clothes, eventually they would leave me with minimal clothing, ugly thick shorts, muscle tops with no bra which left me self conscious as my side boobs were visible….no socks, that progressed to no clothes for hours at a time….I would huddle in a blind spot under the built in plastic desk, male staff were still being allowed to do my checks, they would bang on the viewing panel on the door, they would open the blinds in the window from the control button in the locked cupboard next to my room and a member of staff would peer in from outside, often male, sometimes the other YPs would be outside playing, I couldn’t see how much they could see of me as I huddled partially or completely unclothed. The staff would speak to each other through their radios and if I could hear them say things like: “Yeah she’s tied a ligature, yeah leave it she ll take it off when she wants to.” In a almost bored tone. And sometimes I would but not always and not before my nose bled, sometimes even my eyes, my face became mottled and purple and my nose became snuffed & bunged up and breath painful and rugged. Sometimes they would rush in & drag me out from under the desk, pin me facedown, yanking the ligature roughly and cutting off with ligature cutters, running out straight after leaving me gasping on the floor. The lack of compassion left me feeling worse. Sometimes they would leave me with a ligature until I passed out, they would actually stand at the viewing panel banging to try get a response gloatingly saying “I can hear your still breathing, we re not going to come in and cut it off, we will just wait till you pass out, it’s easier that way” a few times when I passed out the deputy manager would be there when I regained consciousness, they would sit me up on the bed base one either side of me, someone would get me a drink, and the deputy manager would speak softly to me while I cried, the scare always made me more pliable, She would promise me if I kept safe for a few hours she would let me have a book. They never took any obs or called a dr but they would talk to me a bit longer. And the near death experience always shook me up and rid me of my suicidal and self injurious urges for the rest of the day. I just felt incredibly numb and tired.

As weeks passed into months I became increasingly desperate, I ripped up the carpet, I managed to get the metal plug socket off the wall, I harmed myself with my barehands, I attempted to run out the door whenever they opened it. They would keep cold air blowing from the vents, I was always freezing, the only furniture to sit on was the solid built plastic bed base, it made my bum numb, and was cold and uncomfortable. They started to play classical music on a radio outside my room despite me telling them it triggered memories of past abuse, they laughed as I literally ran at the walls and screaming while it played. For days at a time my only interactions were restraints to remove ligatures, 3 staff coming in ordering me to face the back wall while they bought me finger food on paper plates, or came in to drag me off my mattress & bedding at 8am which they didn’t return until 9pm, or to put a squirt of my toiletries on the sink base or give clothes. I became increasingly feral. Every few days a member of staff called Maggie would come play cards with me for 20 minutes or so, I treasured those minutes, she would leave the pack of cards and had taught me how to play clockwork orange, the moment I self harmed they would be taken out again.

I wasn’t allowed out for exercise or fresh air and there was a en-suite attached to my room that could be locked back or shut. The water could be turned off from the locked cupboard outside my room and the water was tepid. I had no phone access but I had no one to phone anyway.

About 5 months in they called the duty DR for me, he came and gave me a IM of Respiridol and said I needed to be sectioned but there were no adolescent beds, The deputy manager said she had called him because I was having what appeared to be an psychotic break, it’s fuzzy something about Bob the builder but I don’t know what had got them so worried as I had been pretty fucked up for the previous 5 months. He put me on 3mg of Respirodol but I was taken off it after 6 weeks after a ECG among other dangerously adverse reactions.

Eventually 4 months after being assessed and Section 3 recommended I was transferred to a Medium secure adolescent hospital….weirdly I didn’t want to leave, there were staff who had tried to make things better for me, sneaking in a book, or snacks, Maggie had played cards, one of the male staff was quite nice and would speak to me during checks. One of the female night staff would sometimes comfort me if I had flashbacks at night.

But a lot of it was torment, I’ve wondered how they got away with it, but then I discovered restraints and seclusion’s were only reported to the Ministry of Justice and only for the YPs serving Criminal Sentences. Despite paperwork being completed it was not regulated by anyone! Those on Welfare orders did not have anyone checking that seclusion was not being overused, that restraints were not inappropriate, that medical advise was sought after suicide attempts. That we were not being subjected to punitive regimes due to our disability’s like Autism/ ADHD, or due to mental health related symptoms! Fucking ridiculous!

I’m not sure how much has changed since 2003, all I know is the memories I have from that experience still haunt me. My heart pangs when I remember being left bloodied sobbing partially clothed on the floor and the long hours left with my pain and confusion. Why me why me why me! Arghhhhhhh! I internally recoil when I think how feral I became.

Unfortunately the hospital was not any better TBC thank you for reading please leave a like or comment if you can.

Written 4/04/21

Hear me out!

Often those with chronic Mental health issues are faced with scrutiny. Scrutiny over nearly every aspect of their lives and presentation, their appearance, their immediate environment. “How can they live like that?” “Why do they not take more pride in their appearance?”

Imagine years spent in institutions where you had no access to razors, make up. Had to ask permission or earn the right to have unsupervised access to a hairbrush, toiletries, even sanitary towels? Tampons and aerosols/ perfume were strictly banned. Had to earn the right to have a few minutes unsupervised in the shower or bath, where the water trickles in 15 second increments for a regulated allowance of repetitions and is always tepid. Yes earn the right! Because often at first you were forced to shower under supervision and even while unsupervised you are so afraid that the door will be opened by accident you wash hastily or in a swimming costume freezing and holding your breath at every noise outside the door.

Imagine your institutionalisation has commenced during adolescence: precious years of self exploration, where hormones and hair develop, when your peers in the community are discovering make up/ self grooming, learning how to shave/ put in tampons. Adapting to wearing a bra. Whilst you are rarely allowed to wear a bra, a hoodie, clothing with certain buttons/zips/laces. You are only permitted to lounge about in sweatpants, in your deepest distress you are often left on the floor of a ‘safe’ room in a dirty ligature proof blanket or ligature clothing rancid and stained with blood and other bodily fluids as they are difficult to wash and underwear is not permitted.

“How can they live like this?” Some ex psychiatric patients have been left in cells/ safe rooms days/months/years on the floor, under a blanket with a kidney bowl to toilet in, with finger food served on paper plates, many units force patients to wear minimal clothing. Rooms are often bare, mattress are thin wipe down plastic on hard bases, duvets are wipe down and duvet mattress are not always provided or allowed. The right to have personal belongings such as teddies, toilet Aries/ clothes/ books is not a right it’s a privilege which is hard earnt and is taken away as punishment. Photos/posters etc if allowed are designated to a small area of the wall. The quantity of these items is regulated and if exceeded the surplus is thrown out if no other storage is available.

Ex psychiatric patients are often used to drinks times/meal times, plastic cups, utensils, meal times are often tense affairs where the food is unsatisfactory, patients are forced together at uncomfortable seating arrangements. And staff are on high alert. Years after leaving hospital patients can find the heaviness of metal cutlery and plates unnerving and cumbersome. Hot food/drinks can be intolerable after years of lukewarm temperatures.

Personally leaving hospital at 21 years old after being institutionalised since 16 years old was a shock. I had had no access to youth culture, I had had no access to make up, underwire bras, heels, hoodies, razors. I was not on the internet, even magazines were limited. I had not had access to healthy food or chances to make my own drinks. I was deemed functional because I had earnt the privilege of being allowed my hairbrush, toothbrush, shower gel, shampoo in my room, 1 of each! I was not clued up about conditioner! I was released in sweatpants which had expanded with my weight, weight gained through anti-psychotics, lack of access to exercise and comfort eating. I was released to the first hostel that would take me, I was released to a part of the country I had never been before, with no support network with no way to contact my friends who were still in hospital. I had no social skills, I had little education. I was treated with disdain by peers, I was treated with disdain by professionals.

So when you comment how can someone live like that? Because they have a mattress on the floor, no duvet covers, only a couple of plates/cups etc. Maybe they don’t always shave, or condition, use make up, maybe they don’t wear a bra or matching socks. Maybe they eat with their fingers or their hygiene is not up to your standard. Think!

When you’ve been left on a dirty hard floor under a blanket in a tiny cell with both your toilet and paper plate inch’s from your face for hours, days etc.

When you’ve been forced to wear minimal clothing and have never learnt or had access to anything above basic hygiene necessities.

When anything and everything feels like it can be taken away.

When you still have flashbacks from institutions, when you still mourn your lost youth, when you still feel the derision and the injustice of that derision from a community who kicked you to the kerb. Who expect you for the few minutes they pay attention to you, they expect you to be perfectly groomed and environment immaculate before they leave you to your torment and isolation these things are not your priority…survival is your priority!

Instead of looking down realise your privilege! Vent over!

Solitary in Secure!

Solitary confinement –WikipediaThe UN Special Rapporteur on Torture and other UN bodies have stated that the solitary confinement (physical and social isolation of 22–24 hours per day for 1 day or more) of young people under age 18, for any duration, constitutes cruel, inhumane, or degrading treatment.

I was 17 years old when I endured a 9 month stay in a Secure Children’s Home near Southampton, I was imprisoned by the Family Court in Alton under a Welfare Order initially for 3 months, extended every 3 months for a further 3 months. A Welfare Order is imposed on Children in the Care system who have not been criminally convicted of a crime but are perceived to be unmanageable in the community due to reasons such as absconding or disruptive behaviour in their placements, engaging in self-harm, suicidal, or risk taking behaviours. Refusal to attend school or at risk of engaging in criminal activities. In some cases as a young person can be held in these units up to 72 hours without a Court Order Young people can be held for a few days purely because no other placement can be found quickly enough.

Secure Children’s homes are primarily to accommodate children aged between 10-17 sentenced through the Criminal Courts. They have higher staff to resident ratio & generally cater to younger YPs with vulnerabilities. Whilst I was there average age was 14, though there were a few 13 year olds & one 12 year old, there were sometimes 15 year old boys but they had often been identified as vulnerable and always had the threat of being transferred to a Secure Training Centre or Young Offenders institution hanging over them if they caused trouble. Girls tended to be older 15/16 even 17 year olds. Staff wore their own clothes and were described as Social workers, they had a belt with keys, walk-in talkie and alarm around their waists. The Secure Children’s home I was sent to had two beds reserved for Children on Welfare Orders. The rest were for Children sentenced through the criminal justice system and were often there for serious or repeat offences. Ironically the repeat offenders were often sentenced to less then 3 months & chance of release at halfway point. Even one of the lads with the most serious offence was out in 8 months.

I was sent by the family court in 2003 at 17 years old, It was not my first stay, I had had a previous 3 stays all less then 3 months in the previous 18 months. The previous 3 hadn’t been too bad, my behaviour had been passable, I’d attended education, the gym. The structure had helped me and I kept my head down. This time was different though, I was unwell, traumatised by exposure to severe sexual assaults, I’d experienced gang rapes, grooming, being mugged on two occasions one where sexual assault was the primary objective and stealing my phone was to prevent me calling for help. I had been beaten by a man with a crowbar and was in the process to go to court to give evidence to hopefully secure conviction for GBH with offensive weapon, my assailant was looking at 5 years (charges got dropped because I was in secure and could not attend court so was seen as unreliable witness) I was angry and suicidal. I was off medications.

I remember what I got secluded for, it was for swearing in a sentence and being told to go to my room. I refused, I couldn’t face being alone with all my thoughts, all the memories with no distractions. With my chest screaming and nothing to pacify it, our rooms were bare at best of times. I was pre-bronze so a part from my mattress and duvet, pillows and a few books I had nothing. And I wasn’t convinced they wouldn’t remove them. The Order was repeated, I refused then one of the male staff grasped my elbows in a basket hold I think it’s called from behind and restrained me to my room. The restraint is not meant to cause pain, but believe me it does, it fucking kills! I was then held facedown bent over the bed whilst my duvet, pillows and books, were removed. I was then released and they ran out. Restraint meant the start of 24hr isolation, they had left my mattress but I just used it to obscure the viewing panel so they came mob handed and removed it from the room. I spent a while banging and kicking the doors and windows but soon got bored. Traumatic memories started to overwhelm me, I can’t describe them but I just needed them to stop, I’d hit my head, punch the sides of my temples to try knock myself unconscious getting angrier and angrier at myself as my attempts failed, I’d goad myself start smashing my jaw and face, fucking coward fucking coward just like when they fucked you, didn’t fucking stop them did you! Fucking coward! Over and over again! Staff would peer in through the viewing panel , warning me I would be in longer the more I continued, a few attempts were made to engage me but they were aggressively framed: “What’s up with you? Why are you behaving like this? No need for it!”I couldn’t ever see their facial expressions, they had taken my glasses, and their voices always sounded hostile to me. Soon they gave up and I couldn’t keep punching myself….it hurt too much. I moved on to searching the room for anything that could be used to cut with…I tried the plug sockets for any loose screws, or odd bits of plastic on the floor…literally anything. Every time I injured myself, every bang, punch, cut, ligature restarted the 24hr isolation in room.

I could see no way out, my self harm became suicide attempts with ligatures, it was bleak…my matteress and bedding were taken out early morning and not returned until 9pm. I used my clothes, eventually they would leave me with minimal clothing, ugly thick shorts, muscle tops with no bra which left me self conscious as my side boobs were visible….no socks, that progressed to no clothes for hours at a time….I would huddle in a blind spot under the built in plastic desk, male staff were still being allowed to do my checks, they would bang on the viewing panel on the door, they would open the blinds in the window from the control button in the locked cupboard next to my room and a member of staff would peer in from outside, often male, sometimes the other YPs would be outside playing, I couldn’t see how much they could see of me as I huddled partially or completely unclothed. The staff would speak to each other through their radios and if I could hear them say things like: “Yeah she’s tied a ligature, yeah leave it she ll take it off when she wants to.” In a almost bored tone. And sometimes I would but not always and not before my nose bled, sometimes even my eyes, my face became mottled and purple and my nose became snuffed & bunged up and breath painful and rugged. Sometimes they would rush in & drag me out from under the desk, pin me facedown, yanking the ligature roughly and cutting off with ligature cutters, running out straight after leaving me gasping on the floor. The lack of compassion left me feeling worse. Sometimes they would leave me with a ligature until I passed out, they would actually stand at the viewing panel banging to try get a response gloatingly saying “I can hear your still breathing, we re not going to come in and cut it off, we will just wait till you pass out, it’s easier that way” a few times when I passed out the deputy manager would be there when I regained consciousness, they would sit me up on the bed base one either side of me, someone would get me a drink, and the deputy manager would speak softly to me while I cried, the scare always made me more pliable, She would promise me if I kept safe for a few hours she would let me have a book. They never took any obs or called a dr but they would talk to me a bit longer. And the near death experience always shook me up and rid me of my suicidal and self injurious urges for the rest of the day. I just felt incredibly numb and tired.

As weeks passed into months I became increasingly desperate, I ripped up the carpet, I managed to get the metal plug socket off the wall, I harmed myself with my barehands, I attempted to run out the door whenever they opened it. They would keep cold air blowing from the vents, I was always freezing, the only furniture to sit on was the solid built plastic bed base, it made my bum numb, and was cold and uncomfortable. They started to play classical music on a radio outside my room despite me telling them it triggered memories of past abuse, they laughed as I literally ran at the walls and screaming while it played. For days at a time my only interactions were restraints to remove ligatures, 3 staff coming in ordering me to face the back wall while they bought me finger food on paper plates, or came in to drag me off my mattress & bedding at 8am which they didn’t return until 9pm, or to put a squirt of my toiletries on the sink base or give clothes. I became increasingly feral. Every few days a member of staff called Maggie would come play cards with me for 20 minutes or so, I treasured those minutes, she would leave the pack of cards and had taught me how to play clockwork orange, the moment I self harmed they would be taken out again.

I wasn’t allowed out for exercise or fresh air and there was a en-suite attached to my room that could be locked back or shut. The water could be turned off from the locked cupboard outside my room and the water was tepid. I had no phone access but I had no one to phone anyway.

About 5 months in they called the duty DR for me, he came and gave me a IM of Respiridol and said I needed to be sectioned but there were no adolescent beds, The deputy manager said she had called him because I was having what appeared to be an psychotic break, it’s fuzzy something about Bob the builder but I don’t know what had got them so worried as I had been pretty fucked up for the previous 5 months. He put me on 3mg of Respirodol but I was taken off it after 6 weeks after a ECG among other dangerously adverse reactions.

Eventually 4 months after being assessed and Section 3 recommended I was transferred to a Medium secure adolescent hospital….weirdly I didn’t want to leave, there were staff who had tried to make things better for me, sneaking in a book, or snacks, Maggie had played cards, one of the male staff was quite nice and would speak to me during checks. One of the female night staff would sometimes comfort me if I had flashbacks at night.

But a lot of it was torment, I’ve wondered how they got away with it, but then I discovered restraints and seclusion’s were only reported to the Ministry of Justice and only for the YPs serving Criminal Sentences. Despite paperwork being completed it was not regulated by anyone! Those on Welfare orders did not have anyone checking that seclusion was not being overused, that restraints were not inappropriate, that medical advise was sought after suicide attempts. That we were not being subjected to punitive regimes due to our disability’s like Autism/ ADHD, or due to mental health related symptoms! Fucking ridiculous!

I’m not sure how much has changed since 2003, all I know is the memories I have from that experience still haunt me. My heart pangs when I remember being left bloodied sobbing partially clothed on the floor and the long hours left with my pain and confusion. Why me why me why me! Arghhhhhhh! I internally recoil when I think how feral I became.

Unfortunately the hospital was not any better TBC thank you for reading please leave a like or comment if you can.

Written 4/04/21

How things are at the moment is obviously not sustainable. I’m hurting others are hurting. I can’t escape from the past and there is no help available, it doesn’t matter how hard I try. I’m done.

Self absorbed?

I’m sitting here on my sofa amid a Pandemic and I don’t care if catch it and die. I care about how it’s thrown my stability. I care that today I’ve woken up with a lump in my throat, with eyes already tired from unshed tears. Curled up on a stale sofa in a stale dressing gown with my stale body un groomed and clogged up with shitty food that has no nutritional value and I’m just shovelling in to try fill the emptiness but instead it’s just cementing it. I can’t go to work until Saturday, the longer I’m away from others the more I’m disappearing, I’m finding it harder each day to fight my demons. Both my internal and external world are becoming scarier and intermingled. I’m finding it difficult to find reasons to stay alive. I can’t stand the stuff in my head for much longer and now I have the added shame that my preoccupations with my own struggles are self-absorbed. Everyone’s going through anxiety at the moment I understand but that doesn’t mean people’s pre existing conditions have gone away…if anything they ve excerberated. It’s not worth struggling with the flashbacks and dissociation and traumatic scenarios that I have without human connection, without my job and the productivity, without stability. I’m floundering but I guess I’m not alone in that. But please if someone reaches out to you don’t minimise or devalue…don’t just say well everyone’s anxious at the moment…they probably been holding it in out of shame and fear of that reaction.