Audio: Readings by the author
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People in Glass Houses:
April 1998: A doctor paid a visit to my house to gauge my state of mind. Following a fractious discussion I told him, in no uncertain terms, to leave. I’d withdrawn from neuroleptic drugs. For years I’d been prescribed Haloperidol; the side effects were intolerable, inducing Pseudoparkinsonism, accompanied by an impending risk of Tardive-dyskinesia [an irreversible disfiguring disorder causing uncontrollable involuntary movements of the face, neck, tongue, fingers and limbs]. Now I was experiencing cold turkey and resisting psychiatric intervention.
Soon after they were hammering on the back door:
‘Mr Shingler, Mr Shingler… open up!’
I was not going to let them in.
Then I heard the sound of wood splintering as the lock was prised off and the door forced open. They charged in, four police officers, a team of paramedics, social workers and a psychiatrist.
I was first taken to a police cell, and then the institution. I was tracked by a wall-mounted surveillance camera as I entered the asylum and ushered to an examination room where my physical and mental state was tested and assessed. The examining doctor asked if I was psychic, if I heard voices and had visions. Unwisely I said ‘yes’. Six pink pills were placed in the palm of my hand: Haloperidol 60mg. I was instructed to swallow. I was shown to a hospital bed - the bedclothes were imprinted with the words ‘Health Authority’. Thus began a period of eight weeks incarceration; detained under Section 3 of the Mental Health Act.
I attempted to orientate myself to a hostile and alien environment. I was placed on ‘Ten-minute Obs’, which meant I was confined to the ward, my behaviour observed and recorded around the clock at ten-minute intervals. Throughout the night my sleep was intermittently broken by a shadowy figure on ward round who would enter and shine a torch directly in my face.
The shabby dayroom was a communal space in which an endless stream of caffeine and nicotine were consumed - there was nothing else to do and nowhere else to go. Friendships formed between patients. A deep sense of connection existed between us in the face of adversity; a gallows humour prevailed.
Some of my fellow inmates had black circles the size of old pennies seared into their temples; marks caused by the high voltage current that ran to the terminals attached to the head during electric shock treatment. I learned that those undergoing such treatment were frequently forced to do so.
The ‘Electro-Convulsive Therapy’ chamber was located in the centre of the ward. Also situated on the ward, an ‘Observation Room,’ in which a two-way mirror was installed.
The rattle of pill bottles heralded ‘Medication Time’ as the drugs dispenser was routinely wheeled through the ward. We were rounded up and regimented in queues to receive our prescribed dosage four times daily. The administering of drugs began at
8 a.m. and continued to 10p.m. I refused to accept their tablets.
In the first week I witnessed three of my new friends being dragged to the ‘Seclusion Room’ to be forcibly injected.
By the end of that week, I was convinced every mirror in the hospital was a two-way mirror and that everywhere eyes were watching me. I feared I was next in line to have my brain wired up and be electrocuted. I felt threatened by the imminence of being forcibly drugged. I perceived the institution as a Nazi concentration camp and the staff as guards. I was also incensed at the inhumanity of a system that was cruelly failing my compatriots and myself at a time when our vulnerability and volatility should have been cradled and protected.
It was at this point the head of the Department of Psychiatry analysed me and insisted I take the drugs. I enquired: ‘why?’
‘Because I think you are ill.’ came the reply.
On hearing these words clinically induced paranoia and fury collided; I lashed out and punched the psychiatrist in the face. Immediately eight or so staff descended upon me as an alarm bell rang out. I was put in head and arm locks, pain compliance techniques were implemented, marched through a corridor to a cell, forced to the ground, stripped naked, my arse pierced with syringes, injected with a massive dose of neuroleptic drugs, and left, locked in the cell, utterly alone, terrified and traumatised as I began to lose consciousness … Medication Time ...
April 1998: A doctor paid a visit to my house to gauge my state of mind. Following a fractious discussion I told him, in no uncertain terms, to leave. I’d withdrawn from neuroleptic drugs. For years I’d been prescribed Haloperidol; the side effects were intolerable, inducing Pseudoparkinsonism, accompanied by an impending risk of Tardive-dyskinesia [an irreversible disfiguring disorder causing uncontrollable involuntary movements of the face, neck, tongue, fingers and limbs]. Now I was experiencing cold turkey and resisting psychiatric intervention.
Soon after they were hammering on the back door:
‘Mr Shingler, Mr Shingler… open up!’
I was not going to let them in.
Then I heard the sound of wood splintering as the lock was prised off and the door forced open. They charged in, four police officers, a team of paramedics, social workers and a psychiatrist.
I was first taken to a police cell, and then the institution. I was tracked by a wall-mounted surveillance camera as I entered the asylum and ushered to an examination room where my physical and mental state was tested and assessed. The examining doctor asked if I was psychic, if I heard voices and had visions. Unwisely I said ‘yes’. Six pink pills were placed in the palm of my hand: Haloperidol 60mg. I was instructed to swallow. I was shown to a hospital bed - the bedclothes were imprinted with the words ‘Health Authority’. Thus began a period of eight weeks incarceration; detained under Section 3 of the Mental Health Act.
I attempted to orientate myself to a hostile and alien environment. I was placed on ‘Ten-minute Obs’, which meant I was confined to the ward, my behaviour observed and recorded around the clock at ten-minute intervals. Throughout the night my sleep was intermittently broken by a shadowy figure on ward round who would enter and shine a torch directly in my face.
The shabby dayroom was a communal space in which an endless stream of caffeine and nicotine were consumed - there was nothing else to do and nowhere else to go. Friendships formed between patients. A deep sense of connection existed between us in the face of adversity; a gallows humour prevailed.
Some of my fellow inmates had black circles the size of old pennies seared into their temples; marks caused by the high voltage current that ran to the terminals attached to the head during electric shock treatment. I learned that those undergoing such treatment were frequently forced to do so.
The ‘Electro-Convulsive Therapy’ chamber was located in the centre of the ward. Also situated on the ward, an ‘Observation Room,’ in which a two-way mirror was installed.
The rattle of pill bottles heralded ‘Medication Time’ as the drugs dispenser was routinely wheeled through the ward. We were rounded up and regimented in queues to receive our prescribed dosage four times daily. The administering of drugs began at
8 a.m. and continued to 10p.m. I refused to accept their tablets.
In the first week I witnessed three of my new friends being dragged to the ‘Seclusion Room’ to be forcibly injected.
By the end of that week, I was convinced every mirror in the hospital was a two-way mirror and that everywhere eyes were watching me. I feared I was next in line to have my brain wired up and be electrocuted. I felt threatened by the imminence of being forcibly drugged. I perceived the institution as a Nazi concentration camp and the staff as guards. I was also incensed at the inhumanity of a system that was cruelly failing my compatriots and myself at a time when our vulnerability and volatility should have been cradled and protected.
It was at this point the head of the Department of Psychiatry analysed me and insisted I take the drugs. I enquired: ‘why?’
‘Because I think you are ill.’ came the reply.
On hearing these words clinically induced paranoia and fury collided; I lashed out and punched the psychiatrist in the face. Immediately eight or so staff descended upon me as an alarm bell rang out. I was put in head and arm locks, pain compliance techniques were implemented, marched through a corridor to a cell, forced to the ground, stripped naked, my arse pierced with syringes, injected with a massive dose of neuroleptic drugs, and left, locked in the cell, utterly alone, terrified and traumatised as I began to lose consciousness … Medication Time ...