themedicatedmindset

[themedicatedmindset]

Mental hospital stories 

I once accidentally handed over a patient… to another patient.

I was working patient transport, knackered, running on vending machine coffee and regret. I get to the ward, see a bloke in scrubs with a clipboard—classic nurse starter pack. I do the full handover, like, ‘Here’s Derek, he’s diabetic, he’s kicked me twice, he needs his meds by six.’

The bloke nods seriously. Doesn’t say a word. Just wheels the patient off like he’s got a pension and a lanyard.

Turns out… he was another patient.

I’d literally handed over a vulnerable adult… to a slightly more enthusiastic, institutionalised vulnerable adult. Basically NHS pass-the-parcel.

And the best bit? He took it seriously. He was like, ‘Right, we’ll get your obs done and see if the doc’s free.’ Like babes, you’ve just tried to set fire to a wet flannel. But thanks for stepping up.

In hindsight, they should’ve just sectioned me on the spot. Would’ve saved the NHS a ton of paperwork—and me two years of pretending I was fine.

Because here’s the thing—I used to drop people off at mental health wards, and I was convinced it was a trap. Like I’d be halfway through a handover and someone would go, ‘Alright love, your turn now. Hand over the ID.’

I’d leg it out of there like I was escaping Scientology. No eye contact. No sudden movements.

And then a few years later… I’m back. But this time, I’m not holding the clipboard. I am the clipboard.”

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A Day in the Mental Health Ward

“Mental health is such a taboo subject. People say you should talk about it, but the second you do, they run for the nearest exit. I never thought I’d end up in a psych ward. But in my defense, I also never thought I’d cry because my toast was slightly too toasted, yet here we are.

At first, I thought the mental health ward would be like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. People walking around like zombies, shuffling, staring at the wall, unable to tell the time. How mistaken was I! Because that’s actually the staff, not the patients. It’s a war zone in there, honestly.

I remember once there was a commotion in one of the lounges. Now, I love a bit of drama, so I did what any sane person in a psych ward does—grabbed some crayons and started colouring while eavesdropping. Turns out, the TV remote had gone missing. Now in normal life, that’s annoying. But in a psych ward, where there’s literally nothing else to do, that remote is our only connection to reality. This was the worst thing that could happen! Not because it was stuck on Capital Radio, playing extremely loud, but because I knew that remote could be anywhere, and the staff can’t possibly change the channel by the TV. That remote is the most important thing on that ward—it’s even more protected than the medication. I once asked for my meds, and the nurse said, ‘Sorry, I’m busy.’ I looked over, and she was on all fours, searching under the sofa for the remote. I could be losing my mind, but God forbid we lose the ability to watch Loose Women.”

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The Ward Dynamics

Another thing I noticed is that people with mental health problems love ordering food. There was this one patient who ordered a takeaway every single night. Where was the money coming from? Benefits? Black market meds? Had they secretly invested in Bitcoin? I asked them once, and they just winked. Now I’ll never know!

One time, there was a patient with one of those creepy reborn dolls—proper realistic, like it just walked out of Call the Midwife. Another patient hated it. One day, they stormed into the room, snatched the doll, held it up like Simba in The Lion King, and shouted, ‘This is what the lord calls Sin!’ Then they sprinted down the corridor like they were on a divine mission to rid the world of plastic infants. Staff eventually got the doll back, but honestly? I don’t think it was ever the same again. You can’t just survive an exorcism and go back to being a normal fake baby.

There was this woman on the ward who just refused to wear clothes. Like, fully committed to nudity as a lifestyle. Didn’t matter the time of day—morning meds, lunch, a fire drill—she was out there, starkers, like some kind of feral wellness guru.

The staff stopped trying after a while. They’d just chuck a hospital sheet over her like she was furniture they were trying to protect from paint splashes. It became a routine—she’d strut down the corridor like a pissed-off ghost, and someone would gently drape a blanket over her like, “There, there. Dignity is optional, but linen is mandatory.”

I admired her, in a way. While the rest of us were having breakdowns over burnt toast and missing meds, she was out here fighting for liberation, one naked lap of the ward at a time. Honestly? Iconic.

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Escapes and Relationships

Patients trying to escape happened on a daily basis. One patient tried to ‘escape’ by casually walking out the front door. Staff stopped them and said, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ They just shrugged and said, ‘Tesco.’ Honestly, fair enough. If you’re gonna break out, might as well get a meal deal on the way.

There was always one patient who somehow knew everyone’s medication better than the doctors. Like, I’d say, ‘I’m on Venlafaxine,’ and they’d nod, ‘Ah, SSNRI, watch out for the night sweats.’ Like mate, are you a patient or my pharmacist?

There was this one patient who fell in love with a pigeon that used to sit on the windowsill. They’d talk to it, feed it bits of their toast, and one day, they announced, ‘That’s it, we’re getting married.’ They even made a little ring out of a Fruit Pastilles wrapper. The pigeon never actually responded, but honestly? Probably the healthiest relationship in that place. At least the pigeon wasn’t trying to get a takeaway every night. 

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The Aliens and the Catheter

I was casually standing there, biting a polystyrene cup, as you do, when this woman burst in screaming, ‘THE ALIENS ARE COMING!’ Then, without hesitation, she grabbed a cup, started biting it too, and whispered, ‘This will protect us.’ I don’t know what kind of space warfare she was preparing for, but I wasn’t about to take any chances, so I just nodded and kept chewing.

One time, a patient just sat at the dinner table, completely unbothered, casually emptying her catheter like she was topping up a drink. No shame. No hesitation. Just a full-on medical procedure mid-lasagna. The worst part? No one even reacted. That’s when I realised I’d officially been there too long.

By the end of my time in the ward, I was starting to think maybe I belonged there. You get so used to the chaos, the strange routines, and the bizarre moments, that normal life just feels weird.

I remember one day, I thought I had finally cracked it. I was talking to this patient who was obsessed with escape plans—they had this elaborate scheme involving the fire exit, some string, and a stolen pen from the nurse’s station. But here’s the kicker—they actually managed to talk me into believing it might work. I started making plans in my head like I was really about to break out of Shawshank.

Then, as we were ‘plotting,’ the nurse walks by and says, ‘You two need anything?’

Without skipping a beat, this person goes, ‘Yeah, can we get some more pens? These ones are running low.’

Honestly, that was the moment I realised: we might all be a little crazy, but we’re all in this together. And at the end of the day, escaping wasn’t the goal. Surviving it was.

So now, whenever I feel like I’m losing it, I think back to that escape plan. You know? Just in case the pigeons are right and the aliens really are coming.

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Staff Support (or Lack Thereof)

Some of the staff were lovely, genuinely. But some of them? I wouldn’t trust them to water a plant, never mind care for people on the edge.

You’d press the buzzer and twenty minutes later they’d appear like they’d just woken up in a different dimension. One nurse came in once and went, “What do you want now?” I was like, “…basic human dignity?”

At one point, I cried for two hours straight in a beanbag chair and the only person who checked on me was the maintenance man.

There were staff who clearly hated us, like we were inconveniencing them by existing. I get it—it’s a hard job. But if you need to emotionally detach that much, maybe don’t work in a place full of people trying not to die. 

One staff member came with me to the hospital. As soon as we got there, she looked at my twin sister and—dead serious—asked if she was my mum. Off to a cracking start. Then, while I was busy reverse-engineering my insides into a sick bowl, she looked me dead in the eye and asked, “Are you okay?” Like girl… do I look okay? I’m auditioning for The Exorcist 2 over here. Meanwhile, she spent the rest of the time sipping coffee like she was on a brunch date with the tea lady. Five stars. Would recommend.

There was one staff member who, I’m convinced, didn’t come to work—she came for the food. She’d queue up with us like she was clocking in for her prison sentence, tray in hand, eyes locked on the beige slop like it was Michelin-starred. She once elbowed a patient out the way for the last jacket potato. I watched it happen. I thought, Wow… someone here really does need sectioning—and it’s not me this time. She even asked if she could have seconds once, while I was sat crying into a dry sponge pudding trying to remember my own name.

It was comforting, in a bleak way—like yeah, my mind’s in pieces, but at least I’m not fighting mentally unwell people for lukewarm mash. Not yet.

I once told a nurse I’m a paramedic, and she immediately asked if I could show her how to use a pen torch. A pen torch. As in… the most basic medical tool in existence. I was like, “Sure—this end goes in the eye, and this end goes in the bin if you’re relying on me for training.”

It was a humbling moment. Not because she didn’t know—because I realised I was now the most qualified person in the building, and I’d just cried for twenty minutes because someone ate the last bit of toast.