Barbaric, uncaring, imposing grey building – something out of “The Dark Ages” – St. David’s Hospital.
During my stay in St. David’s Hospital over 30 years ago, in Skomer Ward, I still have vivid memories of the place and the people.
Initially, my parents, desperate for help looked to the “so called professionals” – in particular my Community Psychiatric Nurse (CPN) and my GP at the time, who in conjunction suggested a stay in hospital for me.
My parents who were unaware of mental health issues or the mental health “system”, thought that the “so called professionals” knew best and agreed to allow me to go into hospital, which was something my parents later regretted.
I was taken to Skomer Ward and placed with other people who seemed “alien” to me, and I remember living in a dormitory style ward. I also remember mainly eating small white bread rolls, as I did not like much of the other food provided.
There was one “large lady” patient who looked forward to my father visiting the ward so she could scrounge cigarettes off him during visiting time.
All the patients in the Hospital were “vulnerable”, but some more than others, like myself, who could have been taken advantage of, not only due to not knowing “the system”, but by other patients, as well as staff members. While other patients seemed to already know “the system” and “the routine”.
Other patients were willing to comply and take their medication, as it seemed the “highlight” of the day for them when the tablet trolley came round. I, of course, being into “herbal medicine” at the time, pretended to take my medication, but kept it under my tongue and spat it out later when no one could see what I was doing. I had hoped to train as an Herbalist eventually, but this dream never came about in the end.
However, after a while, I realised that I needed to take my medication to “comply”, “get well” and to get out of “the hospital” in order to get myself home.
“Stelazine” was the medication of choice over 30 years ago, with the crippling side effects of “Parkinsonism”, which in my case caused very painful legs. I used to lie on my bed each time I was given my medication and cry due to the pain in my legs until the medication had “worn off”.
My mind felt like an “empty balloon” above my head and the pain of the headaches I endured was “unreal”.
I used to think that I had to live the rest of my life like that and in pain. In fact, I thought and believed I would have to spend the rest of my life in St. David’s Hospital through no fault of my own.
One day, I became agitated and had a “little shout” and the male nurse on the ward said to me “You will always remember my name”. He chased me down the corridor, threw me on the floor face down, pulled down my knickers and injected me in my bottom. I do not know how long I was sedated for, but thankfully, I did wake up and will always remember this incident and the nurse’s name.
This incident made my illness a lot worse, as I became “unwell” in the first place after being assaulted in my first year as a student in Cardiff.
In fact, it seemed accepted in those days how staff were “allowed” to treat mental health patients and at the time I accepted it too, but others now would see it as assault in 2021 – as I do now.
After the incident with the male nurse, I tried to phone home to ask my parents to “Get me out of here” ie away from the hospital. At the time I felt very strong and although I was very small, I managed to rip the pay phone off the wall, and in those days the phones were very large and heavy.
One night, I fell out of bed and crawled out of the ward into the corridor, as the medication made my legs so painful and my body stiff. I called for help, but no-one came and as it was around Christmas time, all the hospital staff were laughing and joking in a room down the corridor.
So, I spent the night on the floor in the corridor until the morning, when the medication (Stelazine) wore off as I could not get back into bed.
One of my fellow patients (or ‘inmates’ it seemed to me as we were treated like criminals most of the time and questioned even though we had done nothing wrong, but were ‘unwell’) – she encouraged me to have ECT (Electro-Convulsive Therapy or Electric Shock Therapy) as she felt it helped her.
I did not know what ECT was at the time, but it scared me, so one night I got up and went into the office and looked up my files. There was no security or privacy of the files and again no staff around. So, I was able to access my file and could see that I was due to have ECT the next day.
The next day, the staff were taking me down the corridor to the ECT Room – it was so near and yet so far. Then my father appeared in the corridor and said he would take responsibility for me and take me home.
My father said, “I only have one daughter and I am not leaving her in this nuthouse”.
Prior to this the hospital staff did “section” me under “the Mental Health Act” – possibly after the incident with the male nurse, but my father overruled this and signed to take me home. While my mother took on the duty of being my carer at the time. In fact, my mother needs a medal for taking on this role at times.
I also tried to “escape” and tried to get home, but the hospital staff warned and scared me, saying that if I went outside the brick wall boundary of the hospital, they would phone the Police and “track me down”.
Being sensible as ever, as I did not want a criminal record, instead I just kept going and looking over the wall hoping I would get home soon.
During my time in the hands of Psychiatrists with the blatant stigma surrounding mental illness over 30 years ago, I was told that I was not allowed to have children of my own with my diagnosis and on my medication.
This, I thought was “fact” and stayed with me throughout my life and I deeply regret not having children of my own. Especially, when I see many women now in the community with mental health issues of a similar age to me now, who have children of their own.
I have always worked hard to support myself thinking no-one would marry me or that I would ever have children of my own.
My St. David’s Hospital experience at the tender age of 20 affected not only me but my family for life.
There was no “caring” or “someone to talk to” or Occupational Therapy activities (OT) in those days – just painful medication, outdated treatments, as well as stigma and discrimination.
My mother also took me for an EEG (Electroencephalogram) in the grounds of St. David’s Hospital, which was “barbaric” as my head was already in so much pain. I remember electrodes being placed all over my head with hot molten wax to stick them on. I was screaming in pain and being held down in the chair by staff members. (Nowadays they use a skull cap). Afterwards my long blonde hair was “ruined” as we ie my mother and myself, could not, wash out the paraffin wax. My mother, to this day, vividly remembers the image of me being in pain and suffering that day.
St. David’s Hospital is still remembered in my eyes – not with “rose tinted spectacles”, like some of the other accounts I have read – but with the “stigma” attached to the hospital which can only be described as something “out of the Dark Ages”.
There was no respect, no support, no care, but most importantly, no love.
I will always be grateful to both my parents – my father, for signing to take me out of St. David’s Hospital and bringing me home and to my mother, for her care, support and devotion over the years.
It is only now after 30 years in the mental health system that we as a family realise help is now available.
The second time I had to go into a mental health hospital was after my father died in 1997 and this was in Teilo Ward in Glangwilli Hospital also in Carmarthen.
I remember this also as a bad experience, in that there was no occupational therapy available and the only thing the patients seemed to look forward to was this time queuing up for their tablets.
There was an older male patient on the ward at the same time as me and for some reason he took a dislike to me, so I dreaded queuing for my mediation.
On another point, I am not sure if initially I was on 24/7 watch as I was so upset and distressed at losing my father, but a very young, good looking male nurse would sit inside my bedroom at night for some reason. It was never explained to me why – whether it was for my own safety from other patients or possibly they thought I may harm myself; I will never know.
As I was already wary of men due to my past experiences, I was understandably not going to be able to sleep with this male nurse in my bedroom.
In Teilo Ward, it was not a dormitory style ward, but single, individual bedrooms. However, you were allowed out with permission from the ward and in fact I attended a Job Club and even had a job interview while in hospital as I felt under pressure to support myself.
The bedroom doors could not be locked if you went out and there appeared to be no respect or privacy of your personal belongings and someone in fact kept stealing my underwear which made me feel even more vulnerable.
I did try to escape – Firstly, out of the bedroom window, but it was too small, and I only realised how much I had bruised myself when I asked if I could possibly have a bath via a staff member.
This escape attempt was quite soon after I was taken in voluntarily to Teilo Ward, after I agreed with my mother to go into hospital as I was so distressed after losing my father.
On another occasion, I walked out of Teilo Ward and escaped and caught a bus home. However, when I got off the bus near my home, a car pulled up in the layby and it was two nurses from Teilo Ward. They had followed me and then took me back to hospital. Thankfully, the nurses did not get the police involved.
My allocated nurse in Teilo Ward gave me my medication, which in 1997 was still Stelazine, which again caused pain in my legs, although they had another tablet to take at the same time, an “anti-Parkinsonism” drug. But my legs were still in a lot of pain and I would cry in pain until the medication wore off.
Another Nurse, who was in charge of administering ECT was actively encouraging me and others to have ECT – which I thought must have been an outdated practice by now.
In fact, there was a separate little building for ECT treatments on the edge of the grounds of Glangwilli Hospital.
I went for a walk there one day to look at the building wondering what “horrors” lay within those walls having researched ECT since my stay in St. David’s Hospital.
My experience of mental health hospitals made my condition a lot worse, due to the way some staff on wards think they can treat mental health patients.
In fact, on 24th November 2020 the television news stated:-
“Staff treated mental health patients like animals in Bangor Hospital”.
In fact, The Welsh Government had to take control over the hospital as staff were unable to cope themselves.
I only wonder how many other patients suffered abuse, assault or neglect like myself. I accepted it at the time but not anymore in 2021.
As for “care in the community” – this too is very “hit or miss” depending on the person allocated.
I feel like I have been misled by the “so called professionals” and that they use “knowledge is power” over you, which is wrong in my eyes.
The “Professionals” also have a tendency to ignore their patients thinking they know best, which has the effect of patients losing trust in humankind in general.
In 2021, there is a lot of emphasis now on “Recovery” and “Empowerment”. However, over 30 years ago – you as a mental health patient were considered “ill for life” and “on medication for the rest of your life.”
In fact, I had never heard of the word “Recovery” or “Self-Management” until I went to volunteer for “West Wales Action for Mental Health” (WWAMH) in 2017.
As a patient who is mentally or physically unwell for that matter all the individual wants is “a better quality of life.” And ultimately there should be some emphasis on the individual gaining “Recovery” and taking control of their own life.
In recent weeks in 2021, some “unkind” people have commented that I don’t exist and although this is hurtful, I do exist and I am still on this journey of life having heard “voices” for over 30 years.