Once upon a time there was a perfectly sane princess, forced to be in an institute full of people related to the Queen, knew 2 Pac and whose fathers were hyena’s.
She was locked away by her evil step parents, in a Dickensisen esque institution. In this awful, ex-prison, overflowing with incredibly sick patients, conversing with Jesus, whilst insisting their devotion to the church of Satan.
Locked away, where I shouldn't be, lacking a companion to engage in the simple necessity of conversation. Staff attempted to talk to you, but without fail Mad M would attempt to enter the men's corridor, smoking and they would dash off to prevent her attempting to have a nap in one of the male rooms. Or crazy K would torment some innocent target. Or Nit Picky G would call an ambulance. I could go on. Needless to say, no one sane would talk to her. They were too busy stopping the insane from destroying the place
I allowed my parents to visit on day two. They were fully aware of this fact. This was no place for a drug addict. I needed rehab or detox. Not a mental institution. I knew I was in crazy town. I would get no treatment to deal with my admittance. This is a clear breach of the mental health code of practice. No Win fee anyone?
Desperate for them to see this was far from appropriate. My drug addiction, ADHD, self medicating, nothing to do with the reasons for having me locked away, would be addressed. I hoped home treatment would be agreed and would have refrained from daily intravenous drug use to have assured this.
Instead of taking me out of this hellish prison they reinforced their lie that their cruel actions where nothing more than a mirage, created by my poor sick brain. As they were kind loving people incapable of such hideous actions.
My heart and soul sunk. They didn't even have to admit to it, but the lies broke me a little bit more each time.
I was there as I believed they we're surveilling me. I have evidence of people tracking my movements and evidence there was some kind of sick Big Brother CCTV installed in my home and theirs.
Upon me looking out my window or leaving my house the local community would snap into some The Trueman Show type acting.
What my sick family was doing was big. Big enough to have me locked away unlawfully.
I decided to make the most of my time imprisoned in this institution by spending my time using ethylphenidate intravenously psychosis free (bar the annoying niggle via my bedroom window... Yeah psychosis, only from outside my window! Yeah that's authentic! Go Mum and Dad).
Upon admittance I was rather annoyed that I hadn't attempted to hide my works.
Their half are searched upon arrival meant I was able to use ethylphenidate stashed in my one bra cup and the benzodiazepines firmly stashed in the second. I simply refused to have the doctor do the medical, claiming I was too upset. This allowed me to go to my room. There on I hid this in my food packets.
And although I had a resolved result to utilise my detainment to wean myself off. I was never using less than 1 g a day as per before my detainment. New works (Needles and syringes) quickly arrived.
However due to the amount of time the real crazy's required from the staff, sneaking some fresh works in was child's play.
Day one I inhaled the ethylphenidate from my bra, after my parents and their refusal to remove me from this hell. Then when the works arrived I went straight back to my 1 gramme daily intravenous habit. To be honest, without this helping me through this unbearable misery, without a doubt, suicide upon discharge would have been inevitable. This saved my life.
The ethylphenidate numbed the indescribable aching cascading from my heart, through my veins, to each millimetre of my skinny, malnourished body. I kept hearing my mother's lie to the doctor and social worker 'SHE THINKS I'M FILMING HER'. How I longed for 'yes we'll treat her at home' instead.
This resulted in such chronic depression I feel suicide (remember I had a bag full of antipsychotic and benzos) would have been my only other choice to escape.
My mother shouted her lies to the people responsible for removing my freedom unlawfully. I found my mother tended to shout a lot when it came to telling lies. Unlike my father who would faff around in an anxiety ridden haze before moving on to 'Let's Shout Coz We're Crap Liars'. She clearly forgets psychosis would respond to requests earlier on.
This hurt. Like most junkies I'm where I am because I struggle to cope with huge amounts of pain in my less than perfect life. Creating more hurt will definitely not encourage me to use more. Nope no. I'll definitely stop using. Yeah right that's sarcasm.
I was able to use freely bar the odd annoyance when in my bedroom. So simply I often used and left immediately to prevent this annoyance. Having seen my father, brother and his girlfriend or how I like to refer to them, Sir Cuntalot, Fat Cunt and Nice But Dim, walking back to the car park and the odd noise whilst in my room.
The only ‘psychosis’ I experienced was Hearing the fat cunt, Sir cunt a lot and nice but dim outside my bedroom window. I also saw Sir cunt a lot and nice but dim walking to the car park. I saw fat cunt doing the samBar that, I was banging up to my hearts content and psychosis free.
Finally I only heard it when my bedroom window was open. Almost as if it was human created, not created by my brain. That would mean unlawful sectioning (Legal help gratefully accepted)
I now realised why they had been so eager to see which room I was in. So they could continue to torment me whilst locked up exactly where they wanted me to be.
But bar this pathetic attempt at making me think I was mad, I was 'psychosis' free and banging up more than when I was on the outside.
Weird how my psychosis can be turned off by shutting a window or leaving a room. Yeah psychosis! Go thickos!
The only other psychotic episode was seeing the sanitary box emitting a white flash. And then a red then white flash on the bugged mobile phone - across from the camera.
Karma was watching over me though. Whilst the three Cunt-a-teirs tormented me, my mother suffered a heart attack (because of me she would scream in my face at a later date). After being subjected to their cruel actions this gives me immense pleasure.
Anyway psychosis over back to the nut house. After day one and my parents realisation this was not a suitable place for a junkie, I would get no treatment over my ADHD, self medicating, addiction therapy etc. a man in a dressing gown appeared.
Labelling him another nut nut, I spoke to D, a long termer with a section 17 implemented meaning day release.
Finally, on day 3, after my parent’s one and only visit, in comes S. He looked the part, wearing a ladies dressing gown and pyjamas. I assumed he was another nut job.
It much later, he was playing music in the smoking area did he catch my attention.
'My love
Your love
My love
Ohhhhhhh'
The lyrics of a garage tune I remembered. I started singing along. It was followed by a favourite, 'Do You Really Like It' by Pide Pipper and the MCs.
I sang each lyric with Nit Picky G getting more and more excited with my ability to sing along.
'What else you got on there' I said approaching. He had a few garage tunes I loved and my theme tune! Stan by Eminem. I demanded he played the latter.
'Coz that shit helps when I'm depressed
I even got a tattoo with your name across my chest
Some times I even cut myself to see how much it bleeds
It's like adrenaline the pain is such a sudden rush to me'
‘Sometimes I even cut myself to see how much I bleed,
It’s like adrenaline the pain is such a sudden rush to me’
‘Bout that guy who cudda saved that other guy from drowning, but didn’t. And Phil saw it all at the show who found him, that’s kinda how that is, you coulda rescued me from drowning, now it’s too late, I’m on a thousand downers now and I’m drowsy’
He introduced himself as S and seemed impressed at my version of Stan, belting out both Dido and Eminem.
S, like me, there for an overdose. Like me, benzos. He had fag burns all over his hands from stubbing out his fags. He had real moments of what sincerely appeared to be real depression and did seem a genuine patient until my discovery upon discharge.
S entertained me with tale of his cocaine fuelled past, joined me for an evening joint daily and spoke of his time on Roehampton's nut wars at Queen Mary's.
We both shared a love of drawing and when not smoking a sheet of A4 could pass away an hour of time. Which when in a place when time stood still, meant more than I can give it credit for.
That’s not where the similarities ended
- music
- self admittance for and OD
- likes drawing
Things that didn’t add up
- did actually seem depressed
- stubbed fags out on his hand
- short stay
- depression
- smoking weed with me (staff never checked my grinder, filled with weed)
- talked about cocaine and benzo use
- talked about personal life
S is still questionable over his authenticity. He has spoken about the nuthouse in Roehampton.
However he gave me a companion and I was grateful.
I wouldn't have questioned S if it wasn't for Glen who appeared the day after, overdosing as well!
The following day Glen arrived. We spoke on his second day which was my day five
- In for OD
- sad
- artistic
Weird
- very short stay
- said little about his personal life
- not Depressed
- to nice
- gave me band, lighter and ring
- He lied that MI5 checked my house and there were no cameras
- freaked out when I discovered surveillance equipment
- Bank statement showing £900 paid by the Home Office
-‘ said he would help with my home and screwdown the floorboards but he didn’t
Also
- he was nice and believed me when most people didn’t
- He was kind and let me happiest place in the queue when we queueing for lunch
- intimidated the strangers that was stalking me
- heart weird but he was okay with me banging up
This raised alarm bells now I am looking back in retrospect.
Glenn and S provide much relief from the boredom. S even wore my onesie. Reminiscent of L doing the same in Dove Ward
We had all been admitted for overdosing. I found out cleanse reason was floxacillin (Prozac).. I found it hard to believe as this causes serotonin syndrome so you would be shaky have tachycardia and be anxious. Anyone who went through this syndrome to severity would definitely die.
They did provide a welcome break from the shuffling brain dead other in mates.
S even wore my onesie for a joke.
Glen was homeless after Springfield and abused my good nature.’m however Wednesday I was given leave from 6 PM to 8 PM on Thursday and 8 PM to 8 PM on Friday. I had an appointment on Friday at 10 AM and I was officially discharged.
It was clear there was no question With regards to my mental instability. I was sane.
As I waved goodbye to Springfield I also waved good bye to my freedom and privacy.
Friday night they try to detain me. I have not been staying at my parents house from Wednesday to Friday.
Clearly my parents had played that old ‘we are concerned devastated so try to make her stay’ card. I pro tested using my discharge. The Junior nurses cannot overwrite a decision made by the senior psychiatrist. Then it was suggested that I stayed as a voluntary patient. I refused and the guise of staying at my mummy and daddy‘s house. I was free, but imprisoned. No longer a detailed patient on section 5 but imprisoned as it is of my intravenous ethylphenidate vanished.
As I waved goodbye to Springfield, I also waved goodbye to my human right of privacy.
Although this was the last I saw of S, Glen had a plan to remain a constant in my life. His intention where to get a perfectly sane human, sectioned again for the highly illegal reason of using drugs intravenously.
As you'll know from my previous Springfield Spy post, Glen's story didn't add up. Then I found his spy book.
Then the penny dropped. My parents realised Springfield wasn't suitable, there was no other 'normal' people like me, and two people who overdosed turned up.
Neither S nor Glen denied my initial accusation of them being spies.
So welcome to my sick world. I'm sure you can share my sentiments of hatred towards my family.
I will never love them again.
