I've not posted on my blog for ages. Thought I'd write an update for you all, and start telling my story again.

My last post finished where I had just been admitted to a psychiatric ward after taking an overdose.
At first, I refused to leave my room, and simply lay motionless on the bed. I refused food and drink for the first 24 hours and refused to speak to anybody. It was such a scary thing - I'd never been in a psychiatric unit before and I just didn't know what to expect.

At that time, it was still acceptable to smoke in and on the hospital grounds. This unit had a smoke room, and the only reason I ever left my room in the first day or so was to go to the smoke room, each time wishing that it would be empty.
After a few times of going, the inevitable happened. Somebody was in the smoke room. I sat down and didn't say a word. And then the young lad asked me my name. He was about the same age as me at the time - 18. He seemed nice and it made me feel a little bit more confident now that I had spoken to another patient.

After a few days I had pretty much settled in on the ward. The staff were really good and were always around to listen if anybody wanted to talk.

I felt really low for quite a few weeks until my moods then started going up and down. For the psychiatrist it was all about getting my medications right. For the nursing staff it was about being open and honest.

I'd been on the ward for a few weeks when one day something happened. Up until this point, nobody including myself had any idea what was causing so much distress. I remember walking down the coridoor towards the smoking room, when suddenly an image flashed in my mind. It only last a few seconds, but what I saw sent chills down my spine. That was when I realised what the real underlying problem was. Childhood abuse.