![]() I moved again at 23, and there is now no hospital in north London I have not been treated in. At 20, I moved to Oxford and was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I was put on antidepressants and at 18 decided to move to Russia, alone, in a manic whirlwind, and had the time of my life. At 16, I dropped out of A-levels with incapacitating depression and barely left the house for nine months – the empty days stretching out while friends clubbed and kissed. In year 8, I spent so much time absent from school that a social worker was called. I have experienced mental illness since the age of 13, and have been in the psychiatric system for a decade. I am kept in a small room in A&E for 22 hours, before being found a bed in an inpatient unit. All of my possessions are taken away from me. I’m offered water when I arrive, but they don’t want the cuffs taken off, so the lead officer holds a cup up to my lips. The hospital is 10 minutes away but I end up in the van for 40 minutes, backed up behind ambulances. As if in a TV drama, my psychiatrist reappears in the gap between the doors before they clang shut. I say: I feel like this is totally a good time. A police officer says, now is not a good time. A woman searches me, running gloved hands along my calves. Three other police turn up in a van – seven now. ![]() It turns out this is exactly how it works. You can’t just say someone is sectioned and then they are sectioned. One officer who has done his Taser training threatens to section me if I do not stop struggling.Īs if you can just section me, I say. ![]() The four officers surround me at the building entrance. ![]() Then I make a break for it because, seriously now, I just want to go home. Tampons fall out, with four sad coffee loyalty cards, each with a single stamp. The police ask me to tip out the contents of my jacket. ![]()
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