For other posts from the ED- take your pick I’m rather proud of my ability to find humour in things others are reviled by or at least uncomfortable with; it has certainly helped me throughout my time in hospital and beyond. In all of life’s ups and downs, seeing the funny in something can be the slither of hope. If I can still laugh, I can still live. With that in mind, I bring you the tales of Barbara and an unnamed gentleman, both of whom I came across in my first twenty four hours in Bay 13. Stories I could twist any which way, but will try to find the funny in. While I hope Barbara (not her real name) and the man I describe are well now, I also hope my lottery ticket wins next week. My troubles felt as if they paled in significance with those of the poor souls who wandered or were escorted through the ED. It made me feel sane, then guilty for being that selfish. Every person has layers, levels, branches. Only it seemed the leaves were falling from many of these poor tree
In the morning the policemen went to open the cell, there was all manner of noise and banging coming from it. On opening the door they were knocked aback by the odour of excrement, and then physically by a fattened pig charging past them, snorting its fat head off. The man was nowhere to be seen; quite a mystery! The police captured the pig and it was sent to a farm to roll around in muck for the rest of days, for after all it was no better than a beast, and beasts are happy in muck.
Popular posts from this blog
INTRO HERE Foreword: This series is essentially a journal, written from notes and based on my perspectives at the time. In order to explain, I hope to help you understand. I do not always come across well, and I am aware of that, but it is only fair as I will be honest about those I met, too. This first part is dark, and I don't apologise for that because this was the darkest part of my life. I have to portray that fairly. This isn't over, but I want it to be clear that I am not in this place now. I wouldn't be putting this piece out if I didn't feel strong enough to talk about it. Part 1: Admission When you try to kill yourself, the last thing your confidence needs is to be so fat that the noose snaps. Smoking my fifteenth, or possibly fiftieth, cigarette of the day, I thought about just walking away. Running, if my legs would let me. The south circular, a famous river of smog which creeps through London like a diseased artery, never looked so enti
The Bastard Noose Mental Health Ward: Food, Family, Friends My Grandad O'Reilly, apart from being the reason I can never spell my mother’s maiden name, had an important saying: Faith, Family, Friends. It is a good mantra and one I hope to adhere to as closely as I am able. My problem is that I’m an atheist, but I’m just about grown up enough to appreciate how important faith is to a lot of my family. I wanted to replace the F of Faith, and I decided on food. No, I wasn’t going there, get your mind out the gutter. It’s probably pretty obvious if you’ve read the other The Bastard Noose entries that I love food. Eating and cooking (particularly cooking- I’ll happily make food and not eat it) are things I enjoy extremely. Obviously making meals, past lukewarm posh Pot-Noodles, was not an option on the ward. I’ve talked about the ubiquitous cabbage and even toast had to be prepared by someone who wouldn’t try to eat the toaster, or however you kill yourself with a toaster. Recently, a f