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...

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 ...

This isn't just food. This is NHS food. Subtitle: The Little Things for earlier posts, click here I'm told my The Bastard Noose posts are all a bit sad and depressing. Can't think why. Because I’m so desperate for affection I promised a lighter post, so I thought I'd run through the facilities in the Emergency Department. Obviously it isn't a hotel (at least, not until the building is inevitably sold off and restored as a “boutique resort” with ironic medically themed rooms and the birthing pools turned into jacuzzis), but I was there for eight days which is longer than I’ve stayed in most hotels. In the spirit of a happier tone on my part, here is a breakdown of the ED’s hospitality in case you ever have to spend a night or more(!) in a bay there. Or really in any hospital ever, for anything. Private hospitals don't count, obviously. They have a much nicer atmosphere which you are more likely to die in. The Room A room that isn't...

  "It's a facade, and it's exhaustive" Eminem ( Walk on Water ) Intro / Admission / The ED I'm aware this is another one from the ED, and is a bit of a wandering piece- but my more concise draft got deleted accidentally (by me) and I wanted to post during Mental Health Awareness Week. The Bastard Noose's first section was always meant to be a series set in the ED, a long form story told piecemeal, with one revelation intended for later being that the ED wasn't a stop gap. It wasn't the brief transition between crisis and care. I spent eight, interminable, odd, yet at times very loved days in that booth. Trying to recover or remain or whatever the hell I was there to do while daily being told about the awful bed situation for mental care was taxing, I won't lie. Eight days. That was supposed to be a reveal in a few posts, but it didn't feel right to keep dragging it out. Once I'd told the ED part of my tale, plan was t...

Previous posts: Intro / Admission This isn’t a story. There isn’t a beginning, middle and an end; however much I try to frame it like that. There definitely isn't an end, at least not one you'd like. These posts are thoughts, experiences and emotions told in whatever way my vocabulary and mood will allow me. Emphasis and tone will shift and I hope there’s something good about that for you. Roll right up, a surprise every time. After my admission to hospital, the Emergency department became my new home. The sick, the old, the lonely and the drunks. The mentally ill, too. It was frightening frankly. Luminous and illuminating, the Emergency Department (ED) saw me quickly in a bay and assessed. Assessed, re-assessed, and once I'd accepted the idea of staying, wired up. Plugged in to some delicious saline-solution- water in my veins. Those awful, blue reminders of my failure drank like a rummy on shore release. They were thirsty; my heart rate was up and I was dehy...

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 enticin...