As I write, it is medication time in my hospital ward. With echoes of ‘One flew over the cuckoo’s nest’ we all queue up (how very English) to receive our meds. It is an humbling experience. 

From our disparate backgrounds, we are closely united as we wait to receive our meds. The bonds of friendship are genuine and intense. Rarely have I experienced such care and concern from people I’ve only known for a short time.

We chat openly about our meds, comparing their side effects and efficacy. We debate whether or not to take a Zopiclone (sleeping tablet) – we decide we will – sleep is essential to getting through tomorrow. Progress is slow – we each have a long prescription which needs to be carefully administered – but no one minds. 

We talk about the day past, gently enquiring about each other’s struggles and celebrating each other’s progress. The atmosphere is gentle and deeply sincere. The openness and honesty are remarkable and a welcome contrast to the norms of daily life.

Eventually it is my turn at the dispensary. I am greeted warmly by the nurse who asks genuinely about my day and how I’m feeling. Then the large pot of drugs is prepared. I used to be very fearful of taking medication – now I submissively take what is given to me. No, submissive is the wrong word. I thankfully take the meds, aware of my brokenness and of my need of help, and trusting my psychiatrist’s skill and compassion. 

With meds gratefully consumed, it is time to bid ‘night, night’ to one’s compatriots and to head to bed before the Zopiclone kicks in.

So ends another day in my psychiatric hospital – a day of triumphs and setbacks, of insights and frustrations. A day when the skill and care of psychiatrists, nurses, therapists and ancillary staff have carried me one step closer to wellness.