Hittin’ it, not quittin’ it

Hello again, I’m back after a couple of months of being on medication that dispelled any creative urges, including the capacity to complain when being treated like dirt by mental health services. I suppose it’s a cunning plan on their part, dope you up so you no longer have the faculties to oppose their blatant bullying and discrimination.

I’ll warn you in advance, this is a long post, but it’s worth a skim till the end. ūüėČ

I’m afraid I’ve decided to join the mischief of rats leaving the sinking the Good Ship NHS, and through the kindness of strangers I’ve managed to raise enough for a few months private treatment at least. This blog post is just to let you know that I have no intention of deserting my brothers and sisters still dealing with the nightmares of NHS mental healthcare, I’m still here fighting for you.

And if you think I’m overestimating how awful Camden and Islington’s acute (emergency) mental healthcare is, don’t just take it from me. Here’s there full report on Camden and Islington Foundation Trust.

http://www.cqc.org.uk/provider/TAF/inspection-summary#mhcrisis

Now for those of you who can’t be bothered to go into the full report, I’ll summarise. Here are the ratings the Care Quality Commission uses:

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Camden and Islington Foundation Trust as a whole have been awarded a rating of “requires improvement”. The report details their findings in full.

Now, the bit that those poorliest are on the sharp end of, is the Acute Care division. This includes Crisis Teams, Psychiatric Hospitals, Psychiatric Assessment Teams (the ones who decide if you need the nuthouse following a suicide attempt) Recovery or Crisis Houses and short-term day hospitals. I’ve had the joy of being on the receiving end of all of these throughout my time in Camden.

The Care Quality Commission deems Camden and Islington Acute Services to be inadequate, the only area of the trust to receive this worst rating. So those in the most desperate need are receiving the worst level of service in the entire trust.

The CQC found:

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I’m not going to rephrase the report. It speaks for itself. What I will say, though, as a citizen and a taxpayer I have the right to raise issues when I meet with bad practice. This is not my subjective assessment, this is the objective ¬†assessment of the CQC.

I have been unlawfully detained on a ward because the doctor refused to gain my informed consent before admitting me as a voluntary patient. Once I was admitted I was told that if I chose to leave (“voluntarily”) I would be sectioned. I was literally sitting in the kitchen of a psychiatric hospital – their choice of setting, privacy presumably not being a priority – holding my iphone with the information page, published by their own trust,¬†showing them that their own laywers deemed my admission was unlawful. It made no difference. I had my human rights, my dignity and my chances of recovery stripped away by a staff culture that allowed an authoritarian contempt for patients.

At 9am the next morning I phoned Camden and Islington’s lawyers (as named on their own information leaflet), and was immediately summonsed by the hospital manager and informed that I was free to leave.

Of course, I tried to complain. To do so, I needed a copy of my medical notes which I had to obtain via a Subject Access Request under the Data Protection Act. Camden and Islington had 40 days in which to produce these, but informed me that ‘due to backlogs’ they were not meeting this statutory service standard. When I finally received my records, nearly four months had passed and I just wanted to move on.

On another occasion, I attempted suicide and was assessed as needing crisis care. When I arrived at the unit, I was told they would not treat me because I was obtaining medication via a private doctor. This is in direct contravention of  Section 3a of the NHS Constitution which states:

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Of course. I complained (can you see a pattern here?). But my complaint, researched and drafted weeks later when I was less ill, was useless to me on my discharge from hospital; turned away from Daleham Gardens Crisis House, still with bruises on my hands from the catheter and cuts on my arms and legs from my poor tortured mind. They let me walk away. They refused to treat me on the grounds that they could not manage the ‘risk’ of me receiving medication from another provider, but they were prepared to deal with the risk of letting a recently suicidal patient who had been deemed at need of crisis care, walk away to a home where I lived alone with no support or monitoring.

Of course, dear reader, I complained. In this case my complaint, again, heard some months after the event and way too late in the day to give me the help I needed at the time, was upheld. I was thanked for ‘bringing this matter to the attention of the NHS’.

On a recent visit to the same unit, I saw that they had updated their patient information to include the statements that ‘we cannot treat you if you are receiving private healthcare elsewhere’.

So the outcome of my complaint is they have acknowledged that they are in breach of the NHS Constitution, but instead of finding a pragmatic way of dealing with the fact that these days people purchase many things perfectly legally from online pharmacies, from hair restoring medication to the weight loss medication I was taking. Instead of responding to change, Acute Services have chosen to continue to ignore their own ruling bodies and operate as they please.

I wish this was the end of this catalogue of woes. But this years my mental health seriously deteriorated. I found myself accessing Acute/Crisis services more and more often, and eventually asked for a referral to one of the day hospitals, in this case the Jules Thorne day unit on the St Pancras site. I was offered care at Daleham Gardens, but since they had shown so little care for me in the past I had little confidence that I’d get fair treatment there.

I was assessed at Jules Thorne and although I found them a little less than progressive in their attitudes I agreed to give it a go. I was desperate for some help and I knew some services offered by the day unit (like art therapy) really did help.

A few days later I received a call from the person who assessed me who seemed hung up on a comment I had made. I’d asked her if it were possible to email (rather than phone) the service if I couldn’t make it in to the unit. The worker repetitively emphasised that ‘we are not an email service’ and although I understood that, I asked her if she could provide me with some policy or rationalisation for this, because it was something which has been accommodated at every service I’d ever attended in the past. Phone phobia is not uncommon with those with high anxiety.

The woman flat out refused to answer my question. I can only describe the conversation as akin to John Humphrys trying to get an answer out of Boris Johnson, with each of my questions being stonewalled. By this point I was appalled at the way I was being treated. I had briefly sat on the Board of Governors before my health deteriorated and was aware of how staff were supposed to be trained to work with service users in a respectful manner, and to be frank I would have been disgusted at being spoken to like this in a shop, let alone a caring institution.

The conversation reached an impasse, and I asked to speak to a superior. When the call came through, I missed it and so phoned straight back. I spoke the the deputy manager, Mary Hurley, who seemed almost hysterically angry with me. She asked me if I was suicidal and I replied I was, and yet she could not understand why I was upset that a staff member wouldn’t answer my question.

I replied that I could only make a decision about coming to work with the staff at Jules Thorne if I felt I would be treated with respect, and thus far I was concerned I would not be.

It was at this point she really seemed to lose her professionalism. She said (and I took notes, as I could barely believe my ears) ¬†‘as far as I see your expectations are unrealistic. I can see from your file that you have made complaints in the last about my colleagues’.

I was disbelieving; firstly that copies of complaints of a service that we know – through the CQC no less – ¬†to be inadequate, were being held with my clinical notes. The only reason for this that I can see is that it clearly marks me out as a ‘troublecauser’, and as a result prejudices my care. I was aghast that complaints we being held on my care notes (it’s explicit in the complaints policy that complaining should not influence future care) but Ms Hurley stated that she was no longer willing to discuss the matter, that she had been on the phone far too long and lastly the somewhat daft claim, repeatedly stated, that ‘you’ve phoned here five times this afternoon’ Once, Ms Hurley, once.

In a state of extreme distress, I asked to speak to another manager. I was told that Marian McHugh was based at another site and that the next manager up the line was someone called Lindsey Cole. I asked if I would be called back the same day and Ms Hurley said that was not guaranteed.

At a subsequent meeting some weeks later with Marian McHugh, she confirmed that she was informed that same day of the call with Mary Hurley of my wish to speak to a manager. However, she did not call. So Marian McHugh, service manager of the acute day units, chose to leave a suicidal person for a week with no contact Рshe could have even spoken to the crisis team and asked them to check up on me, but heard nothing.

She finally called me a full week later. You can imagine how I felt about the service by this point.

Result: Once more, I got no care. I’ve been too ill to complain, but as I recover, I shall raise my concerns once more. Sick of getting nowhere with the formal complaints department, I have arranged to speak to my MP Keir Starmer and will copy in that ¬†letter to the MP for Islington, Jeremy Corbyn. I am making attempts to meet with Richard Olszewski, the Camden Council Cabinet Member for Health and Social Care. I will speak to the Care Quality Commission and the Chair of the Board of Governors.

In 2016 the CQC damned Camden and Islington Acute Care with the worst possible rating they could receive, and yet they continue to fail the most vulnerable people in the borough.

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Just in case you’re interested in how Camden and Islington¬†should¬† be working, why not wade through a copy of their core values:

Our values

Our patients expect the very best levels of service, respect, dignity and compassion and as an organisation we are committed to demonstrating these standards all day, every day. Hundreds of staff and service users worked  together to create a set of values which make sure people who use our services  get the best possible chance of rapid recovery and receive the best care possible.

Our staff are committed to living and breathing our values, and everything we do should reflect them in full.¬† We also make sure that when we recruit people they demonstrate the right behaviours before joining our Trust. However, if staff don‚Äôt live up to our values, let us know ‚Äď and even better, when we do live up to them tell us how well we have done .¬† All feedback is shared with relevant staff and teams.

We have six values which ensure we are welcoming, respectful and kind.  Professional in our behaviour. Positive in our outlook. Working as a team C&I is your partner in care and improvement.

Our six values are:  

Welcoming

We aim to use the 3Ms when we welcome you:¬† ‚ÄúMy name is ‚Ķ , My role is ‚Ķ , May I help you?‚ÄĚ We will always be friendly and polite, calm and approachable, and ensure we make time for you.¬† We are accessible and open, helping you to access the right services at the right time so you have the best chance of recovery.

Respectful

We are respectful so you can feel understood and you feel like an individual.  We champion the rights of people with mental health problems.  As well as respecting your dignity and privacy we look out for the dignity and privacy of others, and speak up if it’s compromised.

Kind

We are kind so our patients feel cared for. When we are kind it means we are compassionate, helpful and encouraging.  It means we are patient and sensitive.  We go the extra mile to help and encourage others to do things for themselves.

Professional

By being professional we demonstrate our expertise and knowledge so you feel safe in our care.  It also means we constantly develop our own skills and ensure we and others have had the right training.
It also means we speak up if we see unsafe care, and learn from any mistakes.

Positive

We are positive ensuring we act as a role model and encourage positive attitudes and hope. We enjoy feedback on what we do, involving everyone in any improvements we make. And we deliver a consistent service, based on best available evidence.

Working as a Team

By working as a team we mean we work together so you feel involved.  We listen and communicate with each other, offering solutions to issues.  We look for opportunities and inspire others to achieve more. We listen even if the message is uncomfortable as we always want to do things better.

Our values are designed to drive up the standards of care across our Trust and to assure you of the quality of care and treatment you will receive as you journey to recovery. Our values continue to be embedded throughout our organisation and are part of our continuous drive and commitment to a values-led culture. This work is referred to in our organisation as ‚ÄėChanging Lives‚Äô.

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Diagnose and Treat…or Discipline and Punish?¬†

After just a week I decided to leave the recovery house. I’m not better since my admission; I’m worse, but I fear that being in the house was one of the factors in my deterioration.

When I was studying towards my PhD I became acquainted with a chap called Foucault, who had a lot to say about power and its role in modern society. By ‘power’ I’m not referring to the copper-plated buffoons in Westminster, I’m talking about the subtle mechanisms of power that make you lower your voice while visiting a church, or refer to your GP as Dr Smith whilst she calls you by your first name.¬†

Mental health treatment is a seething morass of such displays of power. To me, each transaction seems to be test in which the person in authority seeks to assert their power. You will receive treatment, but only if you’re humble.¬†

In crisis and require some diazepam? Turn up to the surgery, head bowed, in jogging bottoms and makeupless (for god’s sake don’t wear lipstick as this is a clinical indicator YOU ARE FINE). Utter your request in hushed tones, explaining you are desperate and you don’t know what will really help. It’s touch and go, but the diazepam genie may just grant your wish. Don’t under any circumstances be articulate. Don’t make your request calmly and confidently. For pity’s sake don’t point out that your consultant psychiatrist (who outranks them in their tinpot kingdom) has left instructions on your notes for you to be given diazepam in such circumstances. Because this is an affront to the power of your GP, and as a result you will be punished by them failing to find the letter supposedly held electronically on your patient records, a claim that they will need to speak to your psychiatrist directly and other such complicating factors. You’ll get your 5mg diazepam, but only after much anguish and a possible invocation of the Human Rights Act.

Such assertions of power – in fact lets call them what they are, micro-aggressions – were no less in evidence when I checked into Drayton Park, the crisis house in my London borough. If you’re not aware – crisis (sometimes optimistically called ‘recovery’) houses are places for people who would otherwise be in psychiatric hospital. I have been in Drayton Park before, and although it was not without its frustrations I found it to be a broadly positive experience. Having said this, I was really, really¬†reluctant to relinquish my liberty and go back there. By the time I referred myself, I was very ill indeed.

I asked my best friend to accompany me to the assessment, partly because my trust in mental health services to treat me fairly and with respect has been irreparably damaged after previous instances outlined elsewhere in this blog, and partly because I’m not good at showing my mental distress. Apart from a very tiny number of occasions when I’ve fully flipped, normally the anguish and turmoil is buried deep inside. I can explain it, by god I can intellectualise it, but I just can’t bloomin’ show it.

Seemingly this makes me a less credible candidate for crisis care, because following my assessment when I was offered a place, I was told that their decision to admit me was borderline because I ‘clearly found it difficult to show my feelings’ as if this somehow makes me less ill than someone running round naked screaming. It’s as if the concept of being high-functioning mentally ill has yet to reach Islington.

I was assigned a wonderful and highly-skilled worker, who unlike me had actually managed to complete her PhD; in a similar field to my own. As well as discussing my health problems and possible solutions, she also sympathised with my feeling of being lost in the mental healthcare system. Despite having a dual diagnosis of Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder and Bipolar Affective Disorder I’m not deemed ill enough for continuing support, but the drop-in type services which are being offered to me as an alternative are in no way suitable for my needs, because they focus on stuff I’ve covered comprehensively over the years: sleep hygiene, exercise, basic CBT and mindfulness.

Sadly my excellent worker was part time, so on her days off I was assigned an endless stream of other workers with whom I was obliged to have a one to one meeting with each shift. During the week I barely saw the same person twice. The team at Drayton are kind and committed but I found discussing how crap I was feeling depressing rather than helpful, and I dreaded the twice-daily meets. Often, because of my propensity to put on a brave face, I found myself smiling and making small talk in order to just tick the box of attending the session.

However, it was the regime of rules and surveillance that really made my stay untenable. I couldn’t bear the constant scrutiny and invasion of privacy. Strangers coming into your bedroom at midnight to (incorrectly) tell you you’d not taken your medication; being referred to as ‘non-compliant’ for choosing not to take a painkiller if I’m not in pain.¬†

I didn’t have the freedom to break in half a 5mg tablet of diazepam and take the other half if/when I needed it. It was take the whole pill and feel like a zombie or take nothing at all, and then risk having my script reduced because I wasn’t using it ‘as prescribed’. I’m used to managing my own medication to cope with both my moods and my chronic pain and having this taken away from me made both conditions worse since the rigid system allowed no room for me to alter my levels of meds to meet my needs (despite my psychiatrist being fully supportive of this approach).¬†

Because of the emphasis upon staff contact, I couldn’t relax, write or take a nap (which I sometimes need to do as my pain meds sedate me) because staff would come and knock on the door every couple of hours. I was constantly on a high state of alert knowing I could soon be interrupted.

One of my workers told me I shouldn’t sit alone in my bedroom, and when I said I didn’t feel well enough to be around other unwell people I was told to ‘sit in the cr√®che and watch TV’. I don’t watch much TV at home (OK, OK, apart from Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares), I’m certainly not going to sit in a playroom and begin now. If anything that’s more bonkers than the situation I’ve just gotten out of.¬†

Don’t get me wrong, I understand that every one of the rules I’ve complained about above is there for a reason, and the fact remains that Drayton Park remains a wonderful haven that provides help to a lot of people. But one of their core claims is to treat residents as individuals, and this just didn’t seem apparent in my case.

It also transpired that Drayton Park, despite its progressive ideology, is not immune to micro-agressions of power. I told my allocated worker I was leaving, explaining that it was nothing that the house itself had done but that I felt it wasn’t helping me. She was very regretful and kind, and said that a senior member of staff would want to come and discuss my decision with me; I assumed to get some feedback on my leaving and risk assess my departure.

However, in the twenty-five minutes I sat by reception waiting for my medication to be returned to me, no-one spoke to me. One of my key workers walked past me with no words, no eye contact, despite me sitting surrounded by my bags. By having the temerity to make my own decisions, it was clear they weren’t going to pay me the respect of wishing me well or even saying goodbye. Neither of the managers came out to see me, despite me being sat on the other side of their glass panelled office. I gained the strong impression that if I was going to make my own decisions, they weren’t going to bother with me. My kindly worker came to return my medication to me and I was outta there, in more of a mess than when I’d entered the week before.

Hospital Fun

My experience of being in the Royal Free hospital following an overdose.

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Theres not much fun about being in hospital, the exception being that this morning I got the see the Bristol Stool Chart in action.

Otherwise, it’s been a series of SNAFUs, FUBARs and other WWII based acronyms.

From my arrival at 6:45am A&E yesterday morning, my care has been nothing short of Bristol Stool.

Someone turned up at 8am and tried to¬†introduce himself but wouldn’t be specific about why he was there. He was wearing a lanyard from another hospital so I assumed he was on a placement of some sort. He¬†proceeded to sit at the entrance to my bay with his back to me all day. At no point did he mention I was on one-to-one observations (I was only aware of these happening on psychiatric wards) and when I was finally transferred to another ward I shook his hand to say goodbye only for him to say he was coming with me. He pulled up a chair within 50cms of the end of my bed, which felt like an uncomfortable invasion of my space. ¬†I explained I was extremely tired (after a night of overdosing, like durr) and wanted to go to sleep, so would be pulling the curtain round.

No, I was not allowed to do that, he replied. I had to be visible to him at all times.

No way, I said disbelievingly. There was no was I going to sleep with a complete stranger peering over me, especially one I’d only exchanged three words with all day. And where were these “vital” one-to-one observations when he’d dallied off for his lunchbreak earlier on? (there was no replacement).

We continued in much the same vein for a few minutes with me closing the curtain, him opening the curtain, like a really crap game of hide and seek. Eventually I asked to speak to the Duty Psychiatrist. They sent me a Psychiatric Nurse. I asked again, could I see the Duty Psychiatrist. Eventually I got to speak to the duty team and explained that I thought it was completely reasonable to want some privacy from the rest of the ward to go to sleep. Appaz not folks, hospital is the place where you arrive depressed, beaten and exhausted, only to lie in a brightly lit room with a complete stranger staring at you. I believe the NHS could probably have a sideline in teaching the Chinese more elaborate forms of torture.

The Duty Psychiatrist never turned up with what I’d asked for, which was written justification for my denial of right to privacy and a copy of the “hospital policy” where this information was iterated. Instead I found that my carer had changed shift and I got to close my curtain. Result! Victory had been brought about not by application of common sense or our of respect for me as a patient, but by complete inertia on the part of one bank nurse handing over to another and not bothering to let them know I was meant to be on permanent observations.

It would have been a victory, except new Registered Mental Health Nurse didn’t know how to work my drip machine, so I when unplugged it to go to the loo (as I’d been shown to do) and it kept bleeping , she told me it was my fault for a) not holding my arm straight; b) moving and c) not pressing the override button (I did say I’d been told – quite sensibly I thought – not to touch the buttons) but this was the sage advice of the trained professional.

The not-sage outcome was that actually the machine wasn’t drip feeding me, and I’d spent two hours without my medication. Way to go CANDI, you’re really maintaining that reputation for excellence and quality of care!

Things I learned today:

Don’t expect to be treated with respect as a mental health patient;

Don’t expect to be provided with written hospital policies informing you of your rights upon request;

Don’t expect your medication to be administered correctly.

Sadly, my experience went from bad to worse, but thats a tale for another day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

24 Hours in Hell

psych ward

 

I hardly even know where to start on what happened over the last 24¬†hours. After voluntarily admitting myself to a psychiatric ward at Highgate Hospital, I soon realised it was a frightening and unsafe place, with half-naked people screaming, spitting and shouting throughout the whole ward, and staff doing little too stop them. I’ve been on psychiatric wards before I moved to Camden – and yes, there are some extremely ill people in such places – but this was chaos.

I’d arrived at 6pm. I realise there are resourcing issues in the NHS and I realise this was the day of the junior doctors’ strike, but as it happens this ward did not appear¬†understaffed – when I arrived on the ward it had a ratio of 1 staff to¬†2 patients. What was obvious was a culture of contempt within the staff team for the service and for the patients, with one staff member standing around bragging about how she “couldn’t wait to get out of here in six months” Only one member of staff introduced himself to me. No other staff member¬†smiled at me or said hello. No one told me about meal times, medication rounds (in fact my medication was missed once – the staff seemingly forgot about me – and the other two occasions I had to chase nurses round the ward telling them I needed my meds – there seemed to be no system in place for dispensing meds at regular intervals), no one told me who staff were, I had my valuables removed with no receipt and was told I could not have them back, no one mentioned the role of care plans/keyworkers, who would be my assigned worker for the shift, where I could get a cup of tea, where the fire exits were…it was terrifyingly shambolic. I phoned my boyfriend in distress and he could hardly hear me over the cacophony of noise outside my bedroom.

I was especially afraid that I would not be able to sleep, as the ward had no sense of day or night. On previous wards I’d been on, evening staff had¬†a routine to create a calming atmosphere by dimming the lights, speaking more quietly, and even offering patients a milky drink. On this ward the staff walked around the bedroom corridors shouting to each other with no regard for patients who might be sleeping. The lights were glaringly bright and even though you could switch off your bedroom light, every half hour staff would remotely switch on a light in your room to check on you through the observation window.

At 10pm, unable to deal with the noise and threatening atmosphere,¬†and convinced¬†that being here¬†would not help me get better, I asked for my belongings and tried to leave. The person on the desk, who wore no ID – so I have no idea of their position, be it nurse or support worker – told me I couldn’t leave until I’d seen the doctor. I asked them if, (not having yet seen the doctor) I had been formally admitted to the ward. If I hadn’t, then I wished to leave.

I was not given a clear response. I was told “you need to be seen by¬†the doctor” but when I asked again if I had been admitted (as since I’d been on the ward I’d had no medical, been given no information and in fact nothing except a thorough search of my belongings and the removal of my phone and laptop charger, medication and anything sharp); the official simply repeated, you have been admitted because you are here.

I stood and “queued” at the nurses station for two hours until the doctor finally appeared. During this time I experienced¬†patients climbing on the nurses’ station, spitting in boxes behind the station, constant screaming and shouting and staff doing little to manage, calm or soothe distressed or angry patients.

At midnight I finally saw the doctor with¬†another ward official, who I had asked to be present as a witness. I sat down and ¬†again asked if I had been admitted as a patient to the ward. She replied “that’s what we’re doing now” so I said “well in that case, I don’t want to be admitted and would like to leave, please.” I explained that although I was very depressed and anxious the atmosphere on the ward was in no way therapeutic and was exacerbating my symptoms.

The doctor was adamant¬†that I could not leave until she had spoken to me.¬†I asked her several times for written information about my rights as a voluntary (“informal”) patient but she refused to give me them “until she’d finished admitting me”, despite me repeatedly saying that I wanted information on my rights before we continued with the process.

At 2.30 am, after the doctor had finished her paperwork she presented me with a factsheet on informal admissions. The first paragraph read “The patient must give informed consent to their admission. They must be informed of the restrictions that will be placed upon them BEFORE they are transported to the hospital ward”. This was my first sight of this information.

I told the doctor I hadn’t given informed consent and that I believed they were unlawfully detaining me. She responded by telling me that there was no way they would release me because it was the middle of the night (despite the fact I’d been trying to leave since 10pm, and my boyfriend, who I’d phoned in distress and asked to come and help me, was waiting outside in a cab). I had a “choice” of remaining as a voluntary patient or she would place me under a section of the mental health act compelling me to stay against my wishes. This section 5(2) of the Mental Health Act allows the hospital to detain you for up to 72 hours, and carries no right of appeal.

I realised I had no choice but to remain “voluntarily” ¬†but asked for it to be noted that I’d made the decision to stay under duress and headed back to my room. There was a patient asleep¬†on the floor in front of the¬†fire exit, and outside my bedroom, two patients were having a party, playing music and singing at the tops of their voices. When I said to the ward nurse “it’s 2.45am, how am I supposed to sleep?” he responded that “he’d ask them to turn it down” but couldn’t do any more than that.

The whole place was threatening and frightening and it was unbelievable to me that they’d place someone whose main presentation is anxiety into such a place.

At 9am the next morning I phone the Borough’s¬†Mental Health legal manager, who is¬†responsible for the Deprivation of Liberty Safeguards which relates to the section of the Human Rights Act that says you have the right not to be unlawfully detained.¬†He informed me¬†that by being threatened with a Section I’d been coerced into staying and that in fact the nurses had no authority to prevent me leaving when I’d originally asked at 10pm.

He phoned and spoke to the consultant who, although she advised me to stay in hospital, judged that I was not “sectionable” and was therefore free to leave.

The whole experience was terrifying and traumatic, and should never have been allowed to happen. Everyone I dealt with that night had a shocking lack of knowledge of, or regard for, patient’s basic human¬†rights.

 

 

 

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