Laudus Himself

Please read the other posts from the Emergency Department  Eight days in Bay 13 of the Emergency Department. Frustrated, mad and upset at once. A mental health bed waved at me, a glimpse of the future. Titillation. The false dawn. A bed in another Trust had been dangled like an eight day old carrot. A carrot another donkey had got to first; hoisted from my hooves and leaving me biting at air like an ass. It all made me feel as if I had to be wailing, shitting in my hands and clapping to get the help the hospital had repeatedly told me I needed. I was lower than I had been since about day two when I had begun to adhere to my captors. Bottoming out, sad and angry at the system. I am sure my face flared when told the bed was gone. It occurs to me at this point how hard I have tried to avoid mentioning crying, both at the time and while writing this. Tears happen. Tears hurt. After more than a week of teasing and taking bad news I fought tears back with anger alone. I still ...

Please have a look at the earlier posts from The Bastard Noose My wait in Bay 13 of the Emergency Department was stressed not only by not knowing when it would end, but by constantly being told it was close to ending and it not ending. The concept of time was largely lost with no daylight. Time was dictated by the arrival of the friends and family I was slowly realising I am very lucky to have and, yes I’ll admit, a watch. As days wore on and my expense and tying up of resources became more of a stress on the Trust who cared for me, there was no shortage of tension. Mental health, or really any, beds are hard to find. I was told that a lot. I understood, I got it after about day three. Used to the frequent drawing of my curtain by someone looking for another patient or just checking I hadn't done a runner (an idea which left me so fast I'm definitely a candidate for Stockholm Syndrome), I didn't flinch when a man came in with a clipboard to enquire on my happines...