Raise the standard: poetry and artwork

chained is a poem by Emma, about their experiences in a CAMHS inpatient unit

In the depths of a mental health hospital's haze,
I found myself trapped in a disorienting maze.
The walls were sterile, the air heavy with despair,
A place where my trauma was meant to be repaired.

But instead, I felt lost within those confines,
Aching for solace, for gentle, understanding signs.
The staff rushed by, their faces tired and worn,
The system's gears creaked, where compassion was torn.

Each day blended into an endless blur of pain,
My heart heavy, burdened by the weight of my brain.
The stigma clung to me, like a suffocating cloak,
As if my struggles were nothing more than just a cruel joke.

I yearned for a sanctuary, a refuge from the storm,
A place where my healing could genuinely transform.
Where my voice would be heard, my story truly seen,
A space where empathy and kindness would intervene.

Change must come, like a gentle, healing breeze,
To dismantle the chains that bind, release the disease.
The approach must shift, to nurture and empower,
To treat each person as whole, allow them to bloom and flower. 

Let us break the silence, confront the taboo,
Open our hearts to the pain that others accrue.
Let compassion guide the way, for it has the might,
To shatter the darkness, ignite a hopeful light.

For within these walls, wounded souls reside,
Seeking solace, a safe harbour where they can confide.
We must listen, truly listen, to their heart's plea,
And rewrite the narrative, to set their spirits free.

Create an environment where love and respect prevail,
Where healing is nurtured, where hope will never fail.
A place where therapy is more than just a routine,
But an authentic connection, a lifeline unforeseen.

So let us strive for change, with relentless dedication,
To transform the mental health landscape, a vital foundation.
To build a future where these hospitals will be redesigned,
With empathy, compassion, and love forever entwined.

We must allow our voices to rise,
To advocate for change, to challenge the guise.
For in sharing these stories, we find strength anew,
And together, we can change the system, creating a world that's true. 

Enough yet is a poem by Imelda*, about their experiences in inpatient care.

*Names have been changed to protect this person's privacy.

have I tried moving on with my life

and not being defined by it?

I have tried nothing but, but

I'm not gasping through perspex now, but

I am in a way

and there's no threat of being IM'ed or restrained but

there is in a way

and it's barbed, tangled deep in my brain

two weeks at most, I thought

but how can I be assured

that indefinite sentences ever end after all

now each day, the reminders! such stupid ones, too:

crumbs on plates, rattling keychains, alarms, mid-2010s tunes

warped stretches of time with less than nothing to do

searched, weighed near-nude, no personhood, and

what since? moved cities, did degrees, cold and numb

look at this! I've achieved something but,

but for what? fight, flight, fawn, freeze, but

how I crave the relief of some dreams

or ambitions, some real goals, a future, an iota of peace, and

how many years since then? eight, give or take, but

even now if I lie there in darkness awake -

I'm sixteen again, back in that room, no escape, but

in reality, these days? I choose what I eat

come and go as I please

relieve myself privately - imagine such luxury! no one locks me in anywhere now, and

you know what? I'm the girl who respawned from nothing alone, so

perhaps in the course of another near-decade

I'll trust that my body is really my own

and that basic rights are in fact mine to claim

I'll stop fumbling my words as I try to explain

what went on

what it did

the inescapable pain

how I can't run from it, nor face it, make it just go away,

how I really truly do try to move on all the same.

Flash is a poem by Lyra. It describes the mental turmoil they saw when they were in an inpatient unit. 

You come at me with hell.

The devil greets my stomach

and chants a haunting melody.

She smiles.

A grin deadlier than sorrow.

She always smiles.

Heaving a ship with my own body weight.

The devil she pours through me like divine tainted water.

They storm in armed and ready.

A troop against a halo - we scream battle cries.

Apparently without war, there is no peace.

Or so it goes.

Lauren wrote this poem to go with a photograph their daughter took a few weeks before she got sectioned.

Before you got sectioned;  
We would go for drives up Abbotsbury Hill, park up, look at the crisp blue sea and count ships in the bay. 
You would snap photographs of sheep eating grass and I would watch you take them. 
We talked, breathed the fresh sea air and watched the sun set. 
And if mental illness had not stormed in and turned our worlds upside down, 
consuming your every waking moment; 
Stealing the last few precious years of your childhood 
you wouldn’t have been locked up like some caged animal. 
Dragged around, thrown to the floor, and pinned down for hours by 6 men lying on top of you, digging their nails deep until you bled,
and when you were too broken, injected.
Left in that empty room on that cold plastic mattress, 
alone within the walls that seeped fear and anguish. 
I would not have spent hours driving thousands of miles for just a few moments;
and meetings, tribunals, letters, radio station interviews, screaming help, please help, save her. 
Before you were sectioned;
We were just mother and daughter 
Spending time together, making memories on that hill. 
And we would get back into the car, turn to each other and say 
Let’s go home. 

Mae wrote this poem about their experiences in inpatient care.

at fifteen years old,

school with friends turned to a locked ward with strangers.

dance classes turned to doctors upping the meds again.

and again.

and again.

until i couldn’t feel anymore.

all i could do was sleep.

then they locked my room,

so sleeping was now on the floor in the corridor.

clinging to my teddies like a child again because they seemed like the only things that would keep me safe.

the people there didn’t keep me safe.

meals out turned into fortisips and tubes.

terrified of the nurses coming with blue gloves.

terrified of the clinic.

terrified of men holding me down

dragging me.

hurting me.

hands over my face.

over my mouth.

i couldn’t breathe.

they didn’t listen.

i tried to escape. 

i tried to end my life.

and when it failed,

they would scream at me.

“you selfish girl” 

“you stupid girl” 

“you will never get out of here” 

i still have nightmares.

every day. 

No support, just sirens is a poem by one of our supporters about their experiences.

Beeping of machines, sirens and alarms on repeat, 

Triggered my already raging PTSD endlessly - forever I couldn’t speak, 

Distress I couldn't and can never put into words. I can’t be heard. 

I tried to give my alerts to the staff with my room alarm, 

I wanted kindness, support and calm. 

They came and went, left me so drained and in more emotional pain, 

They didn’t support me, they just shied away. 

They gave me the blame and shame on top of my own I experienced - and experience - day after day. 

I didn’t shower or change,

One set of clothes exactly the same, 

No one helped or seemed to care, 

My hair I left untouched, unbrushed, 

Normally I’d have brushed it, wanting my personal appearance but I needed support to have dignity and remind me to look after my personal care.  

I needed looking after, support to brush my hair - but it just wasn’t there. 

Not enough art therapy, no support for me being unable to speak, 

I was trapped in by their responses to my PTSD, 

Alone, afraid, not able or given chances or ways to explain, 

My PTSD caused the staff fear and shame, assuming my special needs were to blame. 

My stay worsened my PTSD, 

Still living, still breathing, the effect forever was unseen.  

It’s taken me years to find the pieces of me. 

PTSD will remain forever in me, 

I wish during my stay that I had been seen. 

On a scale of 1 to 10 is a poem by Charley, about their experiences as an inpatient.

1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10
On a scale of one to 10.

1 day the institutionalisation began,

The IM hits my blood stream, slowly collapsing my screams and resistance,
or maybe just my consciousness,
in just 1 dose.

My detention approved by 2 or more mental health professionals,
screw AMP.

The paper in front of me
detailing the detention assigned to my distress,
section 3.

They don’t care for us, they are paid
to be here and hold the keys to leave
whilst we are here,
behind 4 locked doors.

5 days a week,
we are expected to interact
with Occupational Therapy and education
in between CBT homework and protected mealtimes.

The days begin to blur
between skipped meal and risk events
section, 6 months long.

Restraint often following the siren of the panic alarm,
7 strangers holding you down.
Just calm down!
How can you expect me to be calm?
Stop resisting!
If you let me die, I wouldn’t be resisting death
hands unlike yours that clamp down on my scarred wrists.
You are safe!
Safe? Yeah right, my friends have died in your hands,
the hands of the nurses meant to keep them safe,
that fell asleep while my friends began their never ending slumber
and end to their pain,
so please tell me how “safe” I am.
Let us help you!
No one can help me.

Surely this was all a nightmare,
sleep only 8 hours long,
even with the help of the PRN
that I didn’t request,
but you just thought I needed.

What kind of health care is this?
Only 9 staff on shift.

A drop of my hospital calculated portion of Fortisip,
10 bottles maybe more.

So, on a scale on one to ten.
I’ve always identified more with the scale then with the numbers,
unless you include my cyclical counting from anxiety.
In the end I will answer 5.
5 is a number so often ignored,
it falls in the middle,
nothing too severe or too trivial.
I will let you deduce the sincerity of my answer.

If I answer with the correct sequence of numbers to these mundane questions,
does it give you a clue
to decoding the cypher of my brains’ enigma?
Or could it be a hint,
for the code of the door that locks me in seclusion
after all my answers?
It could be anywhere between.

1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9…10.