The idea of one person, or a group of people, diagnosing or pigeonholing another without taking the time to understand, or at times, even empathise, was something that really struck me during my second half of psychiatric care. 

During my time in the first facility, I found that no patient wielded any judgment over another, for the mutual understanding that every single one of us had good cause, to be there. This erased any questions or disdain regarding another’s condition.  

I had formed close bonds with four people during this time; most prominently was a lady in her early forties called Angel. She was a great confidant and mother figure to me. Another was Lyra; she was the same age as me, and together we combated the day-to-day monotony and deep sorrow, with talks of art, poetry, and music . We were allocated fifteen-minute leaves without the accompaniment of a nurse, which we would spend walking to the river across the road just to watch the water and talk. Although these leaves would be taken away from us eventually, it was a great comfort for both of us to find a kindred spirit.   

I was the first of this close-knit group to be transferred to a less secure facility; the nurses had noticed my running on the treadmill during the day and making art at night. I can only assume they needed to free beds and saw the improvements I was making. I was ecstatic, and on the morning of my transfer, I said goodbye to Angel, Lyra, my roommate, and the man I would create art with during the evening with a smile, interrupting one of the morning therapy sessions.  

“Thomas, please sit down, you’re disturbing the group”.  

I very happily stated that I was leaving and just saying goodbye to my friends. So, I grabbed my belongings and was on my way to the new facility, which I heard was great. Though anything would be better than this.  

Upon my arrival at my new temporary home, I was relieved to see staff walking the floors and not spending all day and night behind thick glass. They did have a secure staff room, but they would be out often with support workers, talking to patients, and regularly taking observations. Considering I had just come from a place where I had to ask my nurse mother if she could somehow remove my stitches, which had clearly been left in for too long, and the fact that this was only done by staff when she herself approached them, to be in a new facility that was clean and welcoming was heaven.  

I do not want to disparage the staff that cared for us in my first facility, but when I asked for my stitches out, my word meant nothing, and my mother’s meant something.   

I also now had my own room and bathroom. The staff would put on barbeques for friends and families of patients, trips into town to do shopping, daily activities, and access to psychologists and psychiatrists. Though through it all, I still felt empty, my mind could not shake the endless rumination and negative self-talk that had plagued me for so long. I would also soon discover that with these luxuries, the authenticity of one’s admission to the facility would be called into question by none other than those also facing mental health challenges, calling this place home.  

I made a good friend in Zane quite quickly; he was my age and had been hospitalised twice for addiction-related psychosis. He would often give me and the other patients advice on life choices, and the destruction caused by unforeseen or ignored negative life choices. Though to him and those who were close to him, he was just an addict. I found this troubling. Here is a man, not only trying to better himself, but others along the way, a man who could still not shake the label of ‘junky’. The first question people would ask him is, “Are you clean?” I thought this question was insulting, considering we were being kept in a facility, although less secure than my earlier one, you could not just leave to go and buy illicit material.  

Zane told me that when we were both back in our homes, his phone was always open if I ever needed him; he was not just an addict to me. 

One day, to my absolute delight, Angel walked through the door. I could not believe it. I gave her a big hug and made her a cup of green tea. She seemed happy, and we went outside to sit in the sun by the makeshift garden bed some of the patients and support workers had been attending to. She told me about her son, who was struggling to become sober and with his aggression. She said she wanted to read my tarot cards again now that we were in a new environment. Angel was clairvoyant, and her readings were a great comfort and honour for me to be a part of. Her care was immeasurable, but others in the facility would simply dismiss this great gift and passion she carried as delusions and a ruse. Not unlike Zane, I thought they were totally missing the point by judging and deciding the truth without any thought or effort into understanding them as people, more than their labels.  

A Blue-Ringed octopus is beautiful, but one of the most venomous creatures on Earth; a Vulture is not, but cleans up carcasses, which prevents the spread of disease. It is the idea of stigmatising via lazy misunderstanding that I was starting to notice and despise more and more during my stay. 

I have never been ashamed of my mental health. I only become frustrated with ignorant and ill-informed conclusions some people come to regarding someone else.  

There was a young boy of about 18 I never officially met. He would spend all day staring into space outside. It was like he was part of the furniture, a plant in the garden. When someone close to me came to visit and instantly concluded he “must’ve been brainwashed by a cult.” I could only shake my head with a mix of frustration and sadness. Who knew, let alone my visitor, what was going on in this young boy’s head?  

The morning after Angel arrived, I met her in the kitchen. She looked at me with a beaming smile, which I returned. 

“Someone special’s behind you.” 

I turned around to see Lyra. I was stunned. I gave her a hug, and although I still felt a great dark cloud following me, the sun was starting to shine brighter.  

Lyra and I spent every night outside, smoking our vapes under our shirts and talking until it was lights out at 10pm. It was in these moments that I saw her schizophrenia really show; it was breaking her down, but together we were each other’s leg-up and shoulder to lean on. 

I told her she could do anything with her life as long as she kept it; “You too, babe.”   

I felt like such a phoney, as I’d previously told her I had smuggled a scarf into my room, and although everything in the facility was designed to prevent patients from hurting themselves, I said I had found a way. We were totally comfortable with each other, and there was no judgment between us; only worry for the other’s wellbeing and future. 

So, when other patients would approach me and tell me I was being ‘duped’ by Lyra, I was understanding of their opinion but rejected it. Although she would often change her natural Australian voice to speak in English and American accents during the day, nobody saw what I had seen of Lyra and her schizophrenia in the nights, and what did she have to gain by duping me? Without each other, we would have spent much longer in care; we had nothing to gain from each other but positivity and shared support.  

It a lack of understanding, or patience to truly listen to someone, and to remove yourself from your preconceived ideas about what mental health is, is that I believe, causes so much division. Those who perpetuate the stigma around mental health, that those without mental health problems are stronger than those who have, are fooling themselves and must be mad.  

It’s interesting to me that most of the stigma I saw and have experienced regarding mental health is that those without it disregard the fact that what you’re going through or have gone through is ‘real’. For example, when I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, a close family member instantly told me that it must be a misdiagnosis. Regardless of all the psychologist and psychiatrist sessions I had whilst in care, hospitalisations, and behaviour patterns that perfectly fit the bill. Perhaps they were carrying the shame I didn’t? I don’t know. 

Again, I am not ashamed of my mental health battles, nor my time in care. In fact, I am thankful that I got to meet Angel, Lyra, Zane, my roommate, my friend I created art with, the nurses, and the simple understanding and empathy shared amongst a group of wounded though healing and strong individuals.  

As of the time of writing, I, Lyra, Angel, and Zane are out of psychiatric care.  

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Return to Go 

Poem by Thomas Hannah 

Mostly waiting, 

maybe for more sleep or the headache to pass? 

for visitors and leaves—swimming and shopping like normal people do? 

waiting to sell my snacks, quite a racket I’ve started in here—notes only? 

for Lyra to wake up or her waiting for me to wake up? 

waiting for a smoke, I never knew they could be so entertaining? 

waiting for Kane to finally trust there is no Chinaman in the roof spying on him? 

waiting for Angel to question the endless answer? 

waiting for Zane to finally get clean? 

waiting for Bev to stop carving into her supple skin? 

waiting for Sammy’s test results for the white spots on his lungs? 

waiting for Sally’s inevitable return from nowhere 

waiting for the Joker to stop cackling through the night? 

waiting for my Benzodiazepines to kick in their numbing hug and forgetfulness? 

One day the waiting will be over, and we’ll be free of this. 

(All names are pseudonyms). 


Thomas Hannah 

Blogger @poemstellium 

@brokesellout