(In)Firm 

“Although the breakdown of my psyche was over, and one’s mental health journey is never ending, the story of my hospitalisation and subsequent psychiatric care had only just begun. It was with the help of some beautiful souls sharing their suffering and those in the facilities caring for us that I soon would start rebuilding myself into someone whose self-hatred was no longer hidden in shadow but in light, without dominion. My love for others would not be diluted, but no longer be burdened by self-hatred.” 

Excerpt from ‘Monsters Grow in the Dark’. Thomas Hannah, for Poem Stellium. 

Once I had arrived at the first of the two psychiatric care facilities that I was about to spend the next six or so weeks in, I was disoriented. A prior surgery at my local hospital, the combination of mental and physical trauma, the necessary anaesthesia, the drugs to calm me down, plus the fact that was very late in the evening, had practically stupefied me.  

In saying this, I still felt a great sense of relief that I was out of danger and in a safe space. My darkness no longer needed fearing or hiding one cannot ‘fake it’ forever. There is no need to; I like to think we are all built with inherent self-preservation. If that means going through immense anxiety to ask for help, going through mental and physical trauma to ask for help, or being vulnerable enough to ask another if they need help, we all have a spectrum of emotions inside us that can be manipulated by nature and by nurture, for better or for worse. Once this is even slightly understood, one concludes that people can mostly be quite good creatures; this was the comfort I was soon to learn upon my hospitalisation. 

There were two sections in the facility: The locked and what the staff would call the ‘open’ area. Of course, we in the open area could not leave without permission, but were permitted to a small, grassed space, where I would often sit and write in the sun, as well as the treadmill, and therapy and walking sessions. I spent my first days drinking cup after cup of green tea, creating art with an older gentleman in a small studio-type space, with the oil pastels my mother would bring for me. These small comforts were starting to make me feel normal again; they gave me purpose, and sitting and talking with someone whose problems, although much different from mine, whilst creating together, was more than any drug could’ve done to calm me down.  

Of course, this was not a holiday resort; at times, you were so reliant on the staff to perform such menial tasks for you that you couldn’t help but feel tied down. One wasn’t allowed shoelaces, a phone charger, access to a computer, or in my case, those you are close to. For fear you might hurt them. This, to a degree, made sense to me; shoelaces and computer or phone chargers can be used as weapons. The facility had ex-violent offenders with the propensity for psychosis-induced violence. So, I thought that the staff, to some degree, were rightly concerned about the relationship between me and my friend Lyra. The lack of computer access to continue my studies, and the difficulties placed between a sincerely heartfelt and innocent relationship between myself and Lyra, made me understand why some patients were becoming difficult, and at times, acting out. 

There is much more of this story to tell, but the small comforts and potent relationships I took away from my first few days in the hospital. Sharpened and condensed what humanity and living are about. The feeling of the sun on your face, the idea that someone truly has your back emotionally, and you have theirs. Does it all come down to relatability? Perhaps. But empathy and sincerity, I believe, are always going to trump grandiose and shallow gestures.  

The symbiosis of my friend and me creating art together of an evening, Lyra and I talking about our plans once we were “out of here”, or even my roommate comforting me when my art supplies were stolen, and me comforting him when he would cry through some nights. These are the small things that make life big.  

It is when you feel you have nothing that you notice everything: you notice the beauty and the pain, and perhaps that is what finding your mind when you think it’s lost is.  

written by Thomas Hannah 

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