7/7 on a psychiatric ward / 7 July 2015
I remember 7/7 very well. I was an inpatient on a psych ward at St Thomas Hospital, and out of nowhere there were convoys of ambulances streaming in the A&E dept of the hospital. There were no more red double decker buses going over the bridge.
My mum texted me that there were a series of bombs on london transport. I went into a ward round and maintained the belief the world was too painful to live in. It was an inappropriate response apparently.
They didn't show me humanity. That came later that day when a woman most of the staff thought was a lost cause with no life behind her eyes (I knew differently) made every staff member who couldn't go home a cup of tea or coffee and gave them a reassuring pat on their backs. Her kindness saved me that day.
The world outside the ward had the most screams that day. We didn't seem so mad. New madnesses were created by the trauma of that day. A new bloom of nightmares and pain.
I was locked away. What could I do but seek light on the ward.