15 +16 th. December.

15/12/
12.00.
Had 10 hrs good sleep. Got up this morning and there was a fly in the room; an indicator as to the mildness of the weather. I managed to usher it onto the landing when I went to the toilet.
Feel better for a dump.
Am feeling very well this morning considering my chest was tight last night. I’ve had a bout of sneezing while the room warmed up so have decided to stay in, just in case.
Father phoned he’s been down for his flu and pneumonia jabs and they have to go to hospital tomorrow to see the specialist regarding my mother’s forthcoming operation.
Post man delivered yet another giro, which is unusual seeing as I usually receive them on a Wednesday; have three now to cash.
Had a preliminary play around with files and succeeded to transfer work to disc;
Did get the see administrator warning a couple of times but tried another approach and all worked well so feeling more confident now.
I received a reply from the Microsoft community regarding transfer problems; goes to show there are some helpful people out there.
Am surprised at how well I feel in myself. Straight out of bed washed and ready to go Yesterday I spent most of the afternoon proof reading and editing some 200 pages of text that I’d put together since August. Succeeded in altering it from works to word and joining on the 90 pages or so, which was, follow on work, diary style. If I continue today I should be able to over save the whole document.


16/12/2007 11:31
Did a helluva lot of work yesterday, proof reading and editing diary; enjoyed it.
Watched a couple of hours TV and made myself a sandwich before taking a bath.
Washed out my tracksuit bottoms in the bath and decided to finish off the last two inches of whisky.
Didn’t feel well so made myself throw up and went to bed, am not sure if the ill feeling was due to drink, could be the fact that I’ve chosen to go out by smoking a full pack of baccy; a brand which I’ve avoided for 20+ years because I don’t like it, or the amount of baccy smoked;
I have smoked possibly more than usual in an attempt to finish the pack and try again to stop.
I felt better after and that is all that matters.
My mind was active when I went to bed; I presume the volume of work read was still going round in my head, but eventually managed to settle down and have had a reasonable night’s sleep.

Today sees beautiful sunny conditions, have had to draw curtains to allow me to work without hassle.
Was going to go and do some shopping but thought otherwise when I realised it was Saturday and the shops will be busy, will leave it till Monday.
Have sufficient baccy left for today and plan to abstain when packet is finished; likewise, the only spirit left is a third of a bottle of Vodka and when that’s gone I aim to do without over the Xmas period.
I have no plans for Xmas save having a couple of good meals at my parents so there’s no need to re- stock up on spirits.
Drink no longer has any effect upon me,
Sad but true;
I cannot get drunk unless I drink cheap gut churning cider!
Half decent whisky doesn’t please me and Vodka goes down like water with little or no effect,

I did hold onto the hope that stopping the medication may allow the alcohol to have a hit but no sign of that happening. I see no reason to endure acid just for the sake of having a couple of shorts.
By New Year I could be a right boring bastard, non-smoker and perhaps non-drinker; won’t do me any harm.
I had decided last February on my birthday that this year was to be a year of change and hopefully that idea is reaching fruition, even though I am rapidly running out of time.

If I can improve my chances of regaining some form of improvement in my health then that will have to be the impetus to continue.
My confidence has returned; when I think back to my crack up I never thought I’d go near a computer again!
The thought of study frightened me in as much as I feared failure but now I am breezing through the majority of subject matter
It’s been about a week now since I took any medication and I have noticed a decrease in appetite, which will eventually filter through to having some effect on my waist/gut!
I realise that the possible outcome of stopping meds is another relapse, but I feel confident that if this does happen I will be able to cope and recognise it for what it is,
In other words I would not be frightened or ashamed to be re- admitted if treatment was deemed necessary.
I have felt no ill effects; have worked efficiently, felt a lot better, slept o.k.
No longer feel the urge to sleep on an afternoon, have not been dizzy and I don’t know if this is associated, but the headaches have disappeared.
As the year nears its end I now am beginning to feel strong enough to implement major changes in my life.

When I was sectioned twice in 12 months I was distressed, angry and confused, but I have come out of it a different person, very different I feel as if the last 12 to 18 months has been a period of maturity, almost blossoming.
The bad memories of the sectioning have almost disappeared and with it the nightmares.
If I hadn’t cracked up and been taken in hand I would still be living the lie; a lifestyle of make do and mend, pretending everything was o.k. When my life was to me becoming dull, unchallenging, unfulfilling.
No singular event can be pinpointed as the catalyst to my crack up, no one person to blame.

I had sought a life, which took me to the other side of the tracks, one that I presumed to be safer, more polite and possible rewarding perhaps even respectable.
I met different people, but the social structure was still there, prejudices, thieving, violence, (my dog being kicked to death did upset me!). Jealousy was rife.
I was unable to relax because the house was targeted at times by outside thieves and later by people I knew.
My friend of 20+ years who had become a companion was no longer able to keep up with me,
Unable to understand my aspirations, needs etc. hell I didn’t know half the time what I was aiming for,
Just knew that I wanted something different and I realised having money or a big house wasn’t going to help me to progress.
My Father summed me up when he said,
“Give it a few years and he’ll be bored”,
I suppose I reached a point when challenges were not enough to keep my interest and I realised that my life was going nowhere fast; I saw the options and alternatives available and none suited me.
I knew what I didn’t want, but couldn’t find an answer within the scope of my finances and relationship.

For years I suppressed my inner feelings and carried on as normal as I could be, taking interest in as many things as possible to pass away the time.

I don’t know when I realised I was simply marking time; possibly following my heart attack,
I’ve had several smaller ones and each one drove home the urgency to change my life, sooner rather than later!
I remember one day lying on the floor in the front room having collapsed.
I lay sweating, waiting for whatever was going to happen next, trying to relax and not panic too much.
My companion of 20 years simply carried on watching TV!
That event triggered a feeling in me that had been suppressed; resentment of a person,
For a while I was stunned, how could she be so apparently callous knowing my history?
Perhaps she wanted me dead?
If I’d died she would have had everything she ever wanted, house, fittings, and access to my savings.
Once seeds of thought like those begin to germinate no amount of work will dislodge them from the subconscious.
Her life was alien to me it was built around a large family and lots of children in particular; none of which I could be of use to.

My escape choice was to rejoin the crowd of men who drink regularly n the pubs and clubs, none of which I could converse with about computer issues or ideas.
I had to withdraw into myself and I did to the point of excluding all others.
I found myself a stranger who I befriended and came to rely on for intelligent and interesting conversation in return for generous amounts of alcohol and drugs.
We shared a common love for music, alcohol and drugs and he supplied me with “ideas”, in the form of recounting some of his adventures in a world so different from mine as to be exciting and interesting
He gave me food for thought; often inspiration but most importantly his failure to succeed gave me the insight into problems which I’d face if any of my projects were to blossom.
I began writing, I took an interest in music and learnt as much as was freely available about computer subjects that would possibly allow me to continue with my ideas.
I began to search everywhere and anywhere for inspiration, my workload increased almost daily and I enjoyed that because it took my mind off my own disillusionment with my life.

Relaxation was he and I sharing a bottle and a half-ounce while listening to music of all genres.
His experience of the music industry gave me the idea of trying to write scores for adverts and programs.
The book I was writing became fragmented and was becoming tedious, I was beginning to live his life and put some of the aspects of his life into the characters;
I knew that would be doomed to fail.
I began another book about my exploits with the computer; I described the depths of my investigations, the diversity of my study, often the seedier nature of the net.

At the same time I realised that to write a book I could only rely upon my own life to provide the content.

It took me a long time and a lot of thought and false starts before I remembered a conversation I’d had with an owner of a hotel in Scotland.
Someone who loved the area passionately and was afraid that development would be the only option left open to her if the future of the area was to be secured.
She was against any such plans but could see no other way to generate sufficient income to safeguard the future of the small area of Scotland she had come to love and wished to save.
She was a ceramic artist and a writer, not in the best of health and under pressure to allow development of her “little piece of heaven”.
I was intrigued when she informed me that she had paced an advert in the national press.
“Wanted someone to help save a part of Scotland.”
An antiques dealer from London had replied and that was how they as a couple began to work the area.
A fairy tale beginning to a story if ever there was one!

We spent the afternoon chatting, drinking wine and trying to think of ideas to solve her problem.
Her partner was at an antiques fair trying to generate money for alterations to the hotel.I say alterations when really I mean running repairs.
Despite its faults; the leaky roof, damp cold rooms, the hotel was set in idyllic grounds.
Her partner had managed the woodland well and the value of the end result in terms of tranquillity and peace could not be written on any auditors account ledger.
All this was in danger of being lost if the immediate area was to be developed.
At the end of the afternoon, sat beside the open fire in the company of three rescued dogs suffering from cancer she decided that she would dedicate the next four years to finding a solution.
She would craft some ceramics and try to generate an income from writing.

I, myself had nothing to offer except my computer expertise, I promised her I’d lend a hand with any proofreading etc. or help her with any problems associated with programs.
I told her I was busy at home but assured her that I ‘d give the problem some thought.
We agreed to meet again in four years time and see what we could come up with.

I spent the next few years working on the house and putting together a collection of computers, each built for a specific purpose. Be that music, study or entertainment.
I had began writing myself firstly as a means of keeping tack of changes made to each computer as I tried to put together a workable system, then as a form of relaxation by altering factual experiences into semi fantasy.
The struggle to marry components together and get peripherals to talk to each other became elements of an often-humorous continuing saga.
One night after we had contacted each other by e, mail I remembered my half promise to think about her problem and realised the four years were almost up and I hadn’t given here a second thought.
I looked at all the obvious ideas like making a web video to increase her trade but dismissed that as being counter productive; after all how could I go there and enjoy the solitude if the place was full of people?
Her struggles and initial good-hearted idea of saving the area was I thought perhaps sufficient basis for a short story.
If I included the way I met her, quite by accident after taking an unplanned excursion one day while fishing in Scotland I would be able to put some meat on the bones because I’d have something I knew about.
My own first impressions and the fact that I immediately fell in love with the place and admired their collective attempts to improve the area while keeping its natural beauty.
I had returned to the hotel a couple of times, sometimes alone and twice in the company of others.
On all these occasions there was snippets of interaction, which would provide material.
For example the “invasion” of gun toting club members who arrive with the aim of shooting everything in sight but when faced with a family of deer not 50 foot away from their cabin one morning forgot about all such notions and ended up shooting carrion on local farmland.
My encounter with a rolls Royce driving golf fanatic who had called in to stay the weekend after been at Gleneagles; obeying the orders of his wife who was preparing a celebration for his fiftieth birthday when he returned home at a time to suit her plans!

We interacted and he was amused at my attitude to life yet within a few hours was fishing along side me, something he had never envisaged himself doing.
We also shared a good bottle of malt to mark his birthday
On one occasion I was visiting on my own and I had the idea of making a video and using some of the naturally stunning woodland and Lakeland as a basis for jigsaws. The remainder of the material could be used as a promotional video if so desired.

I was also at the time working at home on my version of New Age music;
I wanted to break away from the normal music integrated with bird song etc and try to use the bird recordings as voices, which I would then have been able to manipulate at will by using a suitable computer program.
Unfortunately my stay was all to short because of my lack of finance and commitments at home.
I would have needed to stay a lot longer, possibly helped out with the woodland management and got to know the area inside out; perhaps more ideas would have come to me.
All the ideas I’d come up with were dangerous in as much as they were in themselves threatening to all I held dear about the place.
I spent hours sat beside the still lakes meditating, taking in the beauty that was clear in daylight yet just as beautiful in the depth of the dark night.
I remember sitting on a neglected bench one night beside the lake and almost felt the presence of previous occupants.
I imagined a soldier saying good-bye to his loved one before he went off to serve his country. I thought about trying to wind a love story around that theme. The grounds and house have remained unchanged for decades and would have suited the filming of any such episode on film.
Even as a sepia clip, which would put the building etc into character.
The isolation of the place would have made it ideal for anyone recuperating; it was the perfect place in my opinion to de-stress.
Apparently during the troubles in Ireland many of the personnel stayed there to recover from the horrors of the situation.
As a result of which any project needing heavy plant was usually supplied by one of the arms of the forces.
Exercises were carried out in the immediate area and thus the bond was kept intact.

I could have lived there quite happily if there had been something I could have contributed, I remember offering to work at whatever was necessary in return for my keep and permission to fish.
Many a time I return to the place in my thoughts; simply by shutting my eyes and relaxing, helped by the natural sounds of my music collection.
It was a place I could escape to when everything was getting too much for me to cope.
I had felt the same degree of relaxation while staying in southern Ireland but not the concentration of beauty in such a compact area of land.
I struggled with the book and it began to be fragmented as I followed different avenues of storylines only to come across dead ends.
Unfortunately when I was sectioned my self-confidence was shattered and everything I had strived to do was ridiculed.
The medical staff told me I was suffering from delusions.

They were trying to convince me that I was hearing voices, was in need of medication to remove my aspirations, which were in their opinion illusions of grandeur, figments of my over active, drug fuelled imagination.
My attempt to better my conditions by saving and buying a large computer monitor was seen as a sign of irrational behaviour in as much as it signified I had lost control of the value of money.
Apparently proven irrational spending is a sign of an impending mental illness!
I tried to explain what I’d striven for, for years, omitting the above, i.e. my writing etc. but to no avail. They couldn’t understand the progress I’d made with my computers and simply dismissed everything.

I desperately tried to hang on to my sanity by playing the keyboards which have always been a friend to me, but in the end they wore me down and I assigned everything to the local land fill site.
My computer hard drives, computers, keyboard, guitar, camera etc.
I threw them all out; they had convinced me I was worthless.
I now find myself doubting the medication given me!

Bitterness is an emotion I’ve had to try and fight theses last few months; gratitude for the present has so far been a strong enough thought to help me do it.
I will never be able to replace what I’ve lost, a lot of which would have been useful now to me, films of my times in Scotland and Ireland, holidays in Puerto Rico.
Drafts of story lines, poetry, all on the hard drive which I destroyed and threw away with all the other trappings which came with living in the last house.
What was once a place I enjoyed living in became a memory of bad times, a time of turmoil and upheaval.
One of the reasons I was sectioned was apparently because I was heard talking to myself!
How else is one going to use a Dictaphone to prepare notes and keep a check on alterations to a system in real time without having to break off to use a word processor?
Looking back some of the symptoms, which people thought they saw, can be easily explained by their lack of knowledge of the equipment I was using and their ignorance of my plans.

When I was admitted I had to appear before a panel;
I remember one of the panellists asking me if I still thought I was getting in contact with aliens! This is a respected member of the staff asking me such a ludicrous question.
I asked him why he asked such a question and he replied that my trick cyclist had informed me that I’d told her I’d been working on some equipment, which would allow me to contact others!
Of course I did, I’d been working on a P.C. based home entertainment system; which can be bought almost anywhere nowadays.
I was asked if I heard voices; I replied yes hundreds of them, my keyboard has them all in order.
I explained a voice to me is a musical instrument and I use them almost everyday.
No more a stupid reply than his previous question had been.
It was much later; after talking to some of the other patients that I discovered many had heard voices telling them to kill or do things such as go to the cliffs etc.
I was talked to as if I was an idiot, several other questions were posed and I began to rebel against their use of abbreviations;
I explained it was no use using such abbreviations if the only people who knew what they meant were medical staff.
One guy took the hump so I spouted a list of computer abbreviations at him then asked him if he understood…he didn’t, but continued to use terms unfamiliar to me.
I felt like one of the witches on trial during the dark ages.
They said I was talking too fast;
I replied I was welcoming the chance to talk to apparent intelligent people having only had the company of a Labrador for the past few years.
In hindsight I probably didn’t do myself any good.
Some of the questions were ludicrous in my opinion and I retorted by asking them equally stupid and some times deeply personal question in return; thus I made enemies.
I was frightened because I’d been taken in against my will and my future welfare, was in the hands of these people.
People who had separated me from my heart spray and put me in a stressful situation!
The one annoying thing about the first sectioning was I was told I would be there until
I realised why I was in there.
Jesus did I think about that! Every waking hour was spent trying to figure out why and who had put me there.
I asked repeatedly for answers; what had I done that had been so bad?
Who had I hurt?
Annoyed perhaps yes.
Hurt No.
A patient only sees the trick cyclist once a week during interviews I was asked if I had heard voices and would I accept that I’d spent my money frivolously.
I was told that until I admitted same they couldn’t help me!
When I tried to ask questions they were simply dismissed and I was told I would have to work that out for myself,
I apparently had the answers!
I have never in my existence put so much effort into trying to come up with answers;
the long hours working in my room paled into insignificance when compared to the hours of thought I put into the simple question of Why?

I tried to explain that I may or may not have had a mental condition when admitted but the treatment I was getting was pushing me to the limit.
I had spent the last few years at my limit and knew I was in danger of being pushed over.
Little wonder that the cyclist became the subject of all my anger and frustration.
I had been warned in no uncertain terms that if I showed anger and aggression I would be sedated so I had to fight hard to keep control of my emotions.
I eventually decided that the interviews were worthless; mere entries in her diary.
I tried to contact my Doctor but apparently once in, there is no contact unless requested from the cyclist.
I soon realised I was alone;
There was no one I could turn to because due to the lack of answers and the hours and days thinking about my situation I had become to suspect everyone, my doctor, my ex partner and even my parents.
Without answers I had to hold everyone suspect.
Hell what had I done?
If it had been something serious surely the Police would have been involved.
That was my way of thinking.
No one was close enough to know me or what I was doing so who had instigated this nightmare?
Questions, questions, questions, but no answers.
In the end I found myself hitting my head against the wall of my room.
It hurt!
I couldn’t play along with them because I didn’t know the rules.
I decided the only thing I could do was to hang on to my sanity at all costs and try to weather out the storm.
I turned to writing; they wouldn’t even give me paper and pen.
I eventually acquired some and wrote everything down which had happened in the previous few months; still there was no answers.
I really felt I was in danger of losing it!
At this time I was in a room at the end of the corridor next to the main entrance to the sleeping quarters.
There were three rooms.
Favourite choices, for placing possible rebellious patients; in case they needed sedating.
The doors were opening and banging shut every few minutes, which meant sleep was almost impossible; if one had been able to contemplate sleeping,
I was too distressed.
I was frightened, alone and desperate for help.
Help came, in the form of a sympathetic nurse who took the time to read what I’d written and talk to me. She had no answers but tried to explain what she thought was going to happen to me while I was in there.
My first night’s sleep followed our conversation.
The next day I decided to make the most of the time and look upon it as a holiday.
After a couple of days I was given another room, one of three along a quiet corridor away from the dormitory.
A male nurse showed me the room and remarked it would be quiet; unfortunately my neighbour liked to spend all the time in his room watching a 4” television, and he wasn’t quiet,
I was given a radio, the type that firms give away in promotions, I swapped that for a cd player but could only manage to find a couple of disks and they weren’t to my liking.

I phoned my Father and told him to go to Argos and get me a digital radio, I knew the shop had an offer on them and he agreed to bring it in that very night.
True to his word he arrived radio, batteries and a supply of fruit.
I re arranged the room so that the bed was nearer the power point and decided the place was becoming more homely.
I was given shampoo, toothbrush and paste and supplied with fresh towels every day if needed.
Room service consisted of cleaners who did their best to keep the cigarette burnt, stained threadbare carpets clean.
I loved the beds; each one had ample storage either side of the bed, which was itself on wheels.
There was a wardrobe a small bedside cabinet and that was the lot, what more could I want?
Three meals a day and if I behaved I was promised to be let off the ward under supervision to go to what is termed occupational therapy. That wouldn’t happen if I “kicked off”, or repeated what I’d done and tore a door off its hinges.
On that point, the doors in the place have been ripped off so many times that the whole length of the doors bear the marks of several attempts to relocate a new pair of hinges into a section of wood yet undamaged.
Fights among the inmates were regular and most items of furniture showed battle scars; often patients would take out their aggression on the windows, often succeeding in damaging them which is no mean feat considering they were glazed with toughened safety glass.
I had begun to settle down a bit and began to take an interest in my surroundings;
I could now spend time in my room with the radio loud enough to overpower the sound from the neighbour’s set up.
There were three baths, two shower rooms, all with W.C.’s
I inspected all of the bathrooms. They were indeed splendid.
Spacious and the baths were my favourite, cast iron 6 footers!
I found one which had an extremely powerful expelair fitted,

The nurse let slip that sometimes the staff use this particular room to have a smoke, as long as the fan was on and the door left slightly open to provide a draught there was little chance of setting fire alarm off; he told me.
I got some baccy. Booze and cannabis brought in by one of the other patients who were allowed the freedom to venture outside;
Laid in bath, joints ready rolled under towel on windowsill, door slightly open. I smoked three in quick succession without attracting attention.
The nurses do the rounds every hour, so with a bit of skill I could be innocently laid in the bath when she came to check up on me;
Very soon the staff learnt to ask without opening the door if I was indeed in residence.
A simple answer. “Yes, I’m fine” was sufficient; no need to stub out smoke.
I spent many a long hour in the bathroom; thankfully my Father had wisely invested in good quality batteries, so if I wanted sounds to accompany my sessions I had them.
I of course had to keep my dealer sweet so the half hour before lights out we would have a drink in my room.
Drinking wasn’t a problem as long as one didn’t overdo it, we later reverted to carrying bottles of vodka and lemonade around and drinking freely’
I did lose a bottle of whisky and a bottle of port, which I’d, bought for Xmas; both confiscated but no great loss.
I also learnt very quickly that locking a door didn’t guarantee privacy; one eager nurse opened the bathroom door and gleefully seized a small lump of cannabis that I had laid out on the linen basket next to me;
He never again found any of my stash, despite trying very hard!
Once bitten twice shy.
You soon learn, whom you can trust and who is unapproachable.
Both staff and patients.
Very soon I relaxed and got into the routine.
Up on a morning, if I felt like it, breakfast and then into exercise yard for early joint. Come inside and usually spend a while in smoke room, general crack, watching the staff watching us.
Back upstairs, pausing briefly to admire the artwork on the wall.
Hour in bathroom. Then back downstairs to wait for dinner.
Usually about this time of day someone is going to the shop so orders would be placed for booze or dope which was normally delivered before the dinner session giving one the chance to secrete same somewhere safe.
I will not say where I hid mine in case I have to return!
A patient would have to display obvious signs of intoxication before they would be searched so as long as every habit was moderated everyone was happy.
The staff would search you out each hour and make notes of where you were and what you were doing.
Tea. Coffee, milk was provided and often fruit, cakes and biscuits were available, care had to be taken when selecting cup or cutlery because the majority of the patients were none too clean.
I succeeded in getting a good-sized cup off one of the staff and kept it out of reach of everyone by keeping it on top of a bookcase.
Apart from the restriction to the ward, life could be sweet if one towed the line and behaved,
Easier said than done, when often as not there would be at least two or three patients feeling distressed.
Some would pace up and down aimlessly, others would sit for long periods of time all taking little interest of the one who chose to kick off until he succeeded in damaging something or annoyed the staff sufficiently to warrant attention.
Dinner was, as most meals were adequate and uninspiring.
Outside caterers provided meals, which were heated up to the recommended temperature and then dished out to the orderly queue.
I soon realised that by requesting bread five minutes before each meal and volunteering to butter same I could be at the beginning of the queue every meal, also gave me the chance to secrete away a few desserts if they caught my eye.
Stocks of butterscotch soon dwindled if I got the chance and often my wardrobe held enough food and fruit to keep me going through the night if munchies came on.
I also took any remaining desserts and placed them in our own fridge, others didn’t seem to have the same enthusiasm but the stock soon went.
Dinner for me; was taken at a leisurely pace; if all had been served, myself and my dealer would gladly accept seconds and take any fruit or dessert that may be left.
One of the patients spoke French so I’d try out a few phrases over mealtimes, other than that conversation was kept to a minimum.
Often well meaning light-hearted banter could lead to someone kicking off, so words were chosen wisely.
After dinner, a stroll in the yard, joint if I felt so inclined.
If the weather was fine I’d arrange the discarded picnic furniture into a group; a couple of us would sit, crack and smoke; drink if we had it and tuck into the desserts etc.
Often a Muslin lad would come outside to chant his prayers and we would listen to him then resume listening to my radio.
We had some pleasant times.
Life wasn’t all bad.
Other times the afternoon would drag.
Majority would return to their beds or sit and listen to the adverts for cut-price bathroom suites on the local commercial radio.
I often retreated to my bathroom.
Afternoons dragged for anyone who was confined to the ward, which most patients are when first admitted.
My first few days were spent on a roller coaster of mixed emotions ranging from hysteria to abject terror; mind overloaded with thoughts desperately trying to make sense of a seemingly impossible situation.
Visitors usually came on the afternoon and I’m sure some would have been shocked at what they saw; this was the time when people cracked, lashing out physically and verbally at anyone near them.
A very volatile time of the day.
Medication was handed out three times a day,
I have never liked taking anything that I didn’t fully understand so I was one of the awkward ones.

The majority merely meekly waited their turn and took whatever was given to them; some got agitated and tried to “jump the queue”, convinced their need was greater than the others and they were in peril of some disaster if not given their tablets immediately.
Often meds time resembled a scene from the Cuckoo’s nest, people wringing their hands, shouting, demanding their meds, pleading for them; running round shaking their arms, it was quite amusing if one could forget that you were also a patient.
You indeed shared some of their fears and anxiety.
I was given the choice; take the meds of receive an injection,
as it happens the injection was no great deal but when it kicked in!
I like some of the others was transformed into an old man shuffling aimlessly,
Often staggering, bumping into walls and any other objects, saying sorry to anyone I made contact with,
I remember one day myself and another guy in the same state were pacing up and down, we collided several times and apologised each time; finally we met and both agreed we couldn’t help what was happening and decided to sit on the floor next to a warm radiator till the effect wore off.
Seemingly unable to control ones movements and all power of thought gone.
Like being well stoned without the buzz.
I soon accepted the meds and duly waited patiently each time for my name to be called.
The hour before tea was usually spent in the smoke room; whoever wanted to talk would be allowed free reign.
Tales of exploits when younger, family stories, anecdotes, problems, even reports of what the voices were saying!
All was listened to, anything to pass the time.
Tea was usually rushed, why I couldn’t figure out; there was nothing pressing to get back to.
I’d take my time and stock up for the coming night time.
Last minute orders could be phoned to relatives expected to visit later, plans to order in meals were arranged,
There was no shortage of businesses eager to deliver, anything, fish and chips, kebabs, Chinese, Indian, menus were available and local taxi drivers delivered.
I’d have thought that orders placed over the phone from the local mental hospital would have been viewed with some suspicion, but most orders got through.
Bedtime was 11; the hours up to that time were long.
Just before eleven o’clock was also the time when the meds were given out, some patients would stare at the clock and ask any passing member of staff, “When are we getting our meds?”
I remember one night in particular when one of the lads had kicked off big style and the majority of the staff had been needed to restrain and sedate him upstairs,
As a consequence the meds were late!
Some of the patients were hopping about almost crying, pleading to be given something, anything.
At night time sedatives, sleepers and god only knows what else were given out; patients seemed to worry more about these than anything else dispensed during the day.
I never had any need for sedatives, relying on a few hours listening to music and a couple of late night smokes to see me through.
If I couldn’t sleep I would wait for the nurse to complete their round and go and sit in the bathroom on the windowsill, curtains wrapped around me to provide adequate draught for the extractor and have another J.
Thus my first week passed, confusion reigned in my head; not enough to not know I’d had each and every pouch of tobacco stolen from me!
A sad fact was that anything and everything was fair game;
All possessions, regardless of what they were had to be kept on one’s person all the time because they would disappear as quick as a flash if left momentarily unattended.
Cost quite a bit in lost shop bought tobacco before I was introduced to the Baron and enlisted same to look after my possessions, in return for the odd drink and smoke.
I also enlisted his wife to do my washing, not wanting to trust the laundrette.
She and her daughters were very friendly and used to visit every night bringing in anything we had forgotten or been unable to secure during the daylight hours.

There was a roof top protest while I was in;
A guy was distraught about not being able to see his family and decided to mount a roof top, a couple of others, youngsters, decided to make a break for freedom over the roof but the police soon brought them back.
I tried my best to quell my emotions and was rewarded with an escorted visit to the occupational therapy centre, which was in an adjoining building.

In this place were three or four members of staff, courses available included creative writing, art, numeracy, literacy, pottery, cooking.
The facilities on offer were designed to cater for most people, games to play, use of a garden, a fish tank to stare at, radio to listen to, pool table, three computers with limited access to the outside world, a guitar and a keyboard.
Best of all to me was the garden, in which one could roam freely without being watched too closely;
I love having a joint outside when the sky is blue and the sun is shining down.
The place was open two hours in the morning 10 till 12 and two hours in the afternoon.
I soon realised the opportunity of breaking away from the tedium of ward routine was too good to be missed.
I behaved impeccably and very soon lost my escort.

Some of the other patients had lost their social skills and were unable to interact with others and therefore, were not given the opportunity to use the centre,
I made full use.
I made myself useful gathering fallen leaves in the garden while enjoying a joint to put me in the mood to play keyboards,
I informed the guy in charge that his attempts to compost were admirable but he was missing out on a valuable source of nutrients, i.e. leaf mould; filled several sacks, improving the look of the garden in the process.
I dead headed flowers and picked up litter;
I was outside and felt the better for it. The majority of the time was spent monopolising the keyboards, I was at times enjoying myself.
The kitchen was used to teach people how to prepare meals for themselves, safely.
I volunteered to taste and on several occasions found myself the recipient of tasty home made dishes,
A good breakfast every day if I so desired.
The approach of the staff was admirable, if they didn’t have any awkward customers to deal with, then people were left to their own devices in their own choice of passing the time,
Instruction was on hand if needed.
Past projects were displayed and I was amazed at the quality of some of the work; artwork especially.
Thus the boring parts of my days, between meal times were filled,
I no longer needed to lie in the bath for hours getting wrinkled.
When the staff no longer felt I needed to be accompanied I asked for a favour;
to sit outside the ward on the bench,
I was granted my wish and the day after was told I could be allowed into the grounds if I returned.
I then had the opportunity to nip to the local pub and off license;
life was indeed getting better.
Spent a couple of nights in the nearest pub, very expensive, but a good collection of five good malts, three of which I hadn’t tasted before.

I felt strange in the pub; aware that I was indeed a mental patient yet sure I was no different from the majority of the other customers.
I sat under a speaker and listened to the piped music, enjoyed my drink and then dutifully returned to the hospital.
After a while the door staff got to know me and we nodded each time I exited or entered.
I also took my new found freedom as a chance to follow the seemingly endless corridors looking at the artwork, which is obviously on loan from some institution or other.
I did venture into other wards to see how others were “living”, much the same regardless of ward name.
There were the lifers, people who would never leave, fingers the colour of coal from nicotine, clothes dishevelled.
Some would gather each night in a corridor, perhaps a dozen or so and a local volunteer would organise a game of bingo.
They’d sit listening to sounds from a cd player then play bingo, prizes being a bag of crisps for single line and a mars bar for the full house, or a couple of cigarettes often as not.
There was a nice church, dark.
Quiet room with chairs along the walls and a hand crafted alter,
I went in once or twice seeking refuge from company.
Once got introduced to vicar, we chatted and he told me he had written a book while serving in the hospital,
I replied it would be quite easy, plenty of material walking around.
He answered, think so, why don’t you have a go?
(Possible ending.)

I seem to remember there is some more writing on disc, which covers some of the happenings in the hospital. Would fit in here.
15:47 another afternoon passed by, getting too dark to type comfortably, 14 pages. Not bad for a guy sat in a chair!

Did look for material but when I found it, it was in different format so wasted another few hours trying to make it useable. Will have to start again!