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FEB 1st 2018

“Sorry I’ve not wrote a journal entry since November 2018 the reason being, I was put on new medication at the end of November and by mid December I was having a very bad reaction to them, so much so, I was quickly taken off them.

As with medication each patient reacts differently to whatever is administered to them and the adverse effect it had on me coupled with some recent bipolar episodes means it has taken me the last four months to get back on track.”

THURSDAY 1STFEBRUARY 2018

6.30am. Blood pressure test time this morning is a little later than usual. It’s a very cold morning on the psych ward making it even more difficult to get out of bed.

Thankfully I got moved out of dormitory one (the critical at risk room) to the tranquil much more peaceful dormitory three room full with six patients, including me, that are classed as stabilised and not a risk to themselves or others. The dorm reminds me of 35 Bright Road where I lived during my DJing career in the early nineties when we’d had one of our special pill sessions (Dennis The Menace, Love Doves, Mitsubishi’s) lasting a few days.

We had all peaked many times in the first 24 hours to where after that it was pointless throwing anymore down our necks (but we did) because there were no more rushes, only entering into a surreal world, another dimension of a totally spaced out ecstasy sensation. A journey deep into our minds and bodies.

I plateau into a wonderfully relaxed world where everything is made out of Marshmallow, the sun shines hazily, a gentle breeze caresses my body and I float to wherever my mind takes me. A beautifully benign world of mystery.

Dormitory three and it’s weird somber mood reminds me of that beautifully benign world and even though drugs are heavily involved, the ones I’m on now are legal, aimed at helping me with my bipolar.

Even though I’m still taking 400mg of medication at night, I’m not having a goodnights sleep waking up feeling like a gang of frogs wielding baseball bats has jumped me.

7am. Two bowls of porridge accompanied by a small bread roll followed by my morning medication.

7.15am. I jump back into the warmth of my bed to grab a few more cheeky winks. It’s Baltic in here!

8.45am. Shower time!

9am. The Swat Team has been called and is now on the ward. Hey everybody it’s…O.T. Time!

“You know the drill you fuckin’ nut jobs”.

9.10am. We all arrive at O.T. down on the third floor where I chose my seat grab the English newspaper and read it for the next thirty minutes before we all do our stretching exercises together. Once that has finished I’m straight over to use one of the three computers to get online – The Guardian Football – A little anticipation, click of the mouse, fuck shit bollocks we’ve been beaten by Spurs 2 nil.

English football today in the super lucrative Premier League has almost certainly disappeared as a competitive sport and it’s sickeningly sad, filled with no loyalty or commitment.

Manchester United (my team) is a fucking disgrace and the players together with the manager should be ashamed of themselves and riddled full of guilt. It doesn’t matter to the players and manager because win/lose/draw they will get paid a ridiculous amount of money as stated in their contracts, and let’s not talk about the insane sponsorship deals they get paid too.

Premier League Football has been so governed by money over the last ten years it has spawned no loyalty with players on their ludicrous wages and astronomical transfer fees, leaving these prima donna superstar football players out of touch with reality. I’m hoping soon the fans will revolt.

The amount of money Manchester United and the other Big Five clubs have spent on players over the last year alone is unbelievable, then couple that with the players exuberant wages – result is eleven strangers who couldn’t give a shit supposedly playing football on the hallowed pitch of Old Trafford, the home of my beloved Manchester United.

Football is a contact sport but the referees are taking the physicality out of the Premier League so much so, that shortly blowing at an opponent will get you a yellow card.

As the famous football quote goes…

“Some people are on the pitch. They think it’s all over. It is now!”

Rant over. Fuckin’ beaten 2 nil by Spurs. Grrr!

11.15am. Swat Team is here, I feel safe now as we are escorted back to the seventh floor with the rest of the male nut jobs.

11.30am. Lunch. Two scoops of mashed with potato pork in sauce and cabbage. I’m beginning to like the food now, or is that thought caused by the medication I’m on?

Midday.  Cassie makes her regular call from Denver, Colorado and hearing her voice turns my cloudy day brighter, temporarily taking me away from all the madness of the ward. I luv you so much baby. xXx

1.30pm. I’m a little low on supplies today after nobody visited me last night leaving me feeling hungry because, the three meals I get each day is simply not sufficient making me reliant on my kind friends for extra sustenance.

2pm. Operation O.T. again! The afternoon session! We are led down like criminals by two male staff members to the O.T. room where I say a quick polite hello then swiftly head straight for one of the computers spending the next hour reading the news from The Guardian. It’s quite an arduous task to read because of the meds, as I drift aimlessly in my mind forgetting what I’ve been reading and end up re-reading the same paragraph three of four times.

3pm. I decide to get some A3 paper and a big box of coloured pencils because I want to do a piece of graffiti for one of the patients I call “Ching”. I’m not certain of his real name even though I’ve asked him a few times so I’ve now come to the conclusion, neither does he.

4pm. Leave O.T. quick march! 1.2.3.4…1.2.3.4…into the lift and up to the seventh floor, home sweet home.

5.30pm. Dinner Time. Two scoops of mashed potatoes with fish in sauce and cabbage.

6pm. I decide to sit down in the lounge after dinner because everyone seems to have gone to bed and the quietness on the ward during the day is a rarity and something to cherish.

6.30pm. I’m now in the lounge sat on one of the comfortable purple sofas (yes, purple!) with my hands retreating up my sleeves trying to stay warm due to the cold weather.

Still nobody moving around on the ward so I take the opportunity to change the channel on the TV to the English speaking channel “Pearl”. I can understand, I can understand!

7.30pm. Medication followed by hot, warm or cold milk. They tell us it’s warm but it’s always cold, do they think we’re all crazy?

Milk time is a strange procedure. First we have to sit quietly while one of the doctors calls out our names, which is always in a random order each day. Once your name has been called you get up from your seat (quietly) with your paper cup or bottle of water and make your way to the medication trolley where one of the six doctors or nurses administer your medication. Next put the meds in your mouth take a sip of water then open your mouth to show the doctors and nurses you’ve swallowed your meds, whereby a nod of appreciation means you can trundle back to your seat.

This procedure is done every morning, lunch and dinner and never fails to put a smile on my face because it always reminds me of the film “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest” and the classic character Nurse Ratched in the psychiatric treatment centre calling out on the wards microphone, “medication time, medication time!” I still say it to this day when I’m at home taking my meds and it always makes Cassie giggle.

After all the patients have been administered their meds the medication trolley slowly turns to head out of the dining room door, as it is doing so certain patients are already priming themselves for the short sprint to the kitchen hatch where the milk will be served. They want to be first in the queue to get the warm milk as the stragglers get the cold milk. The dining room door shuts, the kitchen hatch opens and a mini stampede happens as the patients jostle to get to the head of the queue for their fill of warm milk and biscuits. Once or twice I’ve simply sat in my seat and chuckled as the melee unfolds.

Back to their seats they go to guzzle down their milk and scoff their biscuits in preparation for a refill and or a few extra biscuits. I can honestly say they are the best custard creams I’ve ever tasted. Hehe!

8pm. Cassie calls which is always lovely but our call is sadly cut short from a sudden surge of patients gabbing away loudly in the dining room where the phone is situated. All my love beautiful. X

9pm. Last medication time of the day as all the patients gather quietly in the dining room ready for our night time dose of meds. Once our names have been called I can slowly see creeping over the horizon, a Roberto Duran uppercut. KO’d!

Goodnight.