Ward 21: What it’s like to be in a Palmerston North Acute Inpatient Ward

“You will come under the Mental Health Act. I will read you your rights, and then we’ll get you along to Ward 21.” 

I was sat in a small room, crashing back to earth after a suicide attempt, nervous and exhausted and cold. I could barely take in any information of what I was hearing – I still don’t know what my rights were, even though they were being read out in plain English in front of me. Then someone, whose name I don’t remember and whose face only vaguely, stood up and I followed. 

After being led through the maze of corridors and hallways in Palmerston North’s hospital, I was eventually sat down in a square room on a soft orange chair. I don’t remember there being any windows. One wall had wallpaper depicting a natural, forest setting. It was clear someone had tried to rip some of it off. 

Someone came into the room with a very wide I’m-here-to-help-you smile. It was so obviously acted and forced I almost laughed. He asked to take a few of my belongings – my wallet, my phone, my belt and shoes. I was left with just the soft clothes on my body. “So you won’t try and hurt yourself with any of it. We’ll give them back when you leave.” 

The first time I was left alone was when I got into my room, in the high needs unit. The ‘sheets’ were soft fabrics that you couldn’t really fold or twist. There were no shelves – just one solitary indentation in the wall. 

This room did have an en suite, of sorts. At this time, it was quite late and I needed to use the toilet. There was a lock on the door, but it was munted, perhaps slammed on the doorframe a few too many times. 

“This door doesn’t lock,” I said to the smiley man. 

“Yeah, it doesn’t really do that.” 

Right. 

I managed to do my business and then go to bed. While I was there, the smiley man came back with some other lady I hadn’t seen before, and haven’t seen since. She put a pill in my left hand and a cup of water in my right. The drug had some long name I couldn’t remember. I sat there, remembering my mother telling me not to take drugs from strangers before Rhythm and Vines. 

“It will help you sleep.” 

I didn’t realise you could be diagnosed with insomnia that quickly. 

When I think of my four-day stay in Ward 21, I don’t think of the suicidal emotions that led me there. I don’t remember the blank, medication-induced stare of the other patients. I just remember how fucking bored I was. There was absolutely nothing to do. 

Thankfully, the nurses are aware of this. I was provided with three photocopied crosswords. Nice. Sucking at crosswords finally had a use, because all three of them needed to keep me occupied for up to a week. 

The high needs unit, where I spent my first day, had a TV eternally set to Channel 1. Seven Sharp isn’t that bad, but not really my cup of tea. But after struggling with 13 down (beautiful, sleek [7]) for ages, it was a godsend. For half an hour. 

In the general inpatient ward, there is an Xbox One. There were four games to choose from. You had to book a half-hour session with it, and generally that day and the next would be fully booked out. I had a glorious 30 minutes with FIFA 16. 

I won’t talk much about the hospital food – partially because it’s better than my own cooking and I’m jealous. Margarine on toast goes well with antipsychotics. 

In the words of my favourite step sister, “I hope mum and dad don’t find out.” My parents live out of town, and I had managed to hide my stay in Ward 21 from them the whole time I was there. Generally, when someone is discharged from an acute mental health ward, they’d need a close relative to be present at the discharge meeting to ensure that person has a support system outside of the ward. 

The nurses impressed on me that I really should contact my mother, that she would be worried for my safety, and that my relationship with her can’t really be all that bad. I said, “Maybe. I don’t know.” I wanted to say, “Get fucked.” 

What I wasn’t told, what I should have been told, was that I could have literally anyone at this discharge meeting as long as they said all the right things, like “I’ll check in with him once in a while”. I didn’t learn this until day three in the ward. It would have saved everyone a lot of time. 

I managed to rope in a friend, who was an absolute top cunt and took time out of his day to come to the hospital for me. He said things like “I’m confident he’ll be safe”. We were out of there in half an hour. Josh, if you’re reading this, you’re a top cunt. 

And if you know a Josh, tell him he’s a top cunt. 

Tell everyone they’re top cunts. 

If I felt like a top cunt, I might not have ended up in Ward 21. 

If you or someone you know is struggling with mental illness, reach out to the following places: 

Lifeline – 0800 543 354 (0800 LIFELINE) or free text 4357 (HELP). 

Suicide Crisis Helpline – 0508 828 865 (0508 TAUTOKO). 

Healthline – 0800 611 116 

Samaritans – 0800 726 666