Once inside, I felt frustrated and angry initally, especially with Mister PorkFace for putting me here.

[continued from part II]

I began pacing around the main room. They still hadn’t given me my phone back, let alone my laptop. For now, the only thing I was permitted to have were my clothes. I felt like they were punishing me.

Not knowing where to go or what to do, they showed me to my room. Yes, I had my own private quarters. I sat on the bed and looked around.

Everything, what little there was, was modern and lamintated. No real wood, no natural materials, fully synthetic surfaces. It all looked very sterile. That’s the only way I can describe it. Minimalist, solid and sterile.

There were bedside tables, but there was no drawers in them – they were just like these hollow, extruded square shapes, with a strong base for support, that’s literally all there was to them.

The bed was positioned perpendicular to the wall, like in a traditional hospital. But 90° opposite to what you might expect in a veritable cell, given the level of security elsewhere. Unlike in a hospital, this bed was rock solid, like it had been built into the very foundation of the building. It wouldn’t budge. Come to think of it, it looked a bit like a bed you might find in an surgical operating theatre. Even those appear to be more mobile I would think. More like the bed Frankenstein woke up on. Yes, exactly like that. Like it could support a 500lb man without any problem, but way too narrow to accomodate someone of that stature in any case. All that were missing were the straps going across it to physically restrain someone.

Rooms were very sparse indeed: just the bed dominating the centre portion of the room, the aforementioned bedside table, a type of wall desk with some open shelves adjoined to it (with no cupboard doors obviously).

Everything was a continual reminder, though, as to why we were there. Everything was specifially designed to minimise risk of either self harm or harm towards others. And I mean everything. There were no protruding door knobs or handles anywhere in sight. So people couldn’t injure themselves. And the reason I’m decribing this place in such detail in the first place, is because photographs were strictly prohibited (more on that below).

Interestingly, there was a separate ensuite in one corner of the room, with it’s own door. Despite that second door and its association with privacy, I could never have a shower longer than about 5 minutes before one of the staff knocked outside the main one to confirm my presence and ask whether I was alright.

Inside, the taps were designed very differently to what you might expect. It appears their design criteria included the inability to significantly harm oneself on them, or harm someone else on them (and that was definitely prioritised over their ease of use). As such, they were much harder to turn on and off than normal taps. I can’t remember now but I’m pretty sure that both the sink basin and toilet were not made of traditional ceramic materials as you’ve seen them in bathrooms elsewhere, such as stoneware, earthware or porcelain –but rather– solid metal. If you saw the design brief for this institution, I bet it probably would have read “f r a g i l e / b r i t t l e   m a t e r i a l s   b a n n e d   u n d e r   a l l   c i r c u  m s t a n c e s !”.

I’m pretty sure the mirrors weren’t made of glass, either. It was difficult to tell, because they were bolted to the walls with loads of torx screws. Nothing was left simply “hanging freely” on the walls. Nothing! Everything was either bolted down or else removed, so that people couldn’t throw anything of substantial weight around. It all gave the impression that they’d “been there, done that” with respect to any sort of problem breakages.

Signs on the wall stated that the rooms were “electrically protected”, whatever that means. I presume it means we couldn’t electrocute ourselves even if we wanted to. They didn’t trust any one of us. Not with anything.

Every night, the night shift staff would do their rounds and check on us to see how we were doing. Every hour they would come. All through the night; they’d shine a torch light into our rooms, right in our face. To make sure we were still alive, basically. Slightly annoying when you are trying to get some sleep in strange surroundings. Still, in many ways, it felt comforting, to be looked upon like that.

I thought of many ways I could potentially kill myself in there, as a last resort. Like hanging myself with the belt I was wearing, electrocution, or cutting myself by dismantling the two-blade disposable razor they had loaned me. All of the ‘obvious’ ways. And I even thought one not so obvious one: swallowing excessive quantities of plain old ordinary everyday drinking water. They hadn’t thought of that, had they? To restrict the flow of running water. Yes, if you are ‘clever’, there are always ways one can find to try to kill one’s self.

I’m not sure on what day it was, but on one of the days during my stay I had another, longer meeting with a different psychiatrist –via teleconference– with two others present beside me. This particular psychiatrist (let’s call him #2) had at least understood where I was coming from and why I was so depressed. I had told him about recent changes in my life and my concerns for the future of this world.

I asked them rhetorically: “why is it okay for this civilisation, this society, to act suicidally and yet I cannot even be permitted to have suicidal thoughts?”. There was no immediate answer. One of the Doctors nodded in agreement while continuing tapping away at his laptop. He didn’t look up. He just nodded and typed simultaneously.

And I told them all about why I was worried. Because here I had an audience. Even if it was only three people. They were three important people. Because if you know anything about this blog, then you already know that I am very concerned about the state of the environment. About what I would describe as a continual attack on nature — as if we were at war and it were the enemy. About what scientists are now describing as “the 6th great extinction”. About ‘development’ really being an oxymoron. And that we’re not separate from nature. That we rely on nature. That we humans still rely on nature. That we are still very much a part of nature. And that biodiversity inspires people — creative people. That much research, some of the best research, yes even with synthetic materials, relies on biodiversity. Biomimicry. That biodiversity provides eco system services. That it’s our life-support system. That ultimately we need biodiversity. That what we are doing, I believe, is not sustainable in the long term. That something has to change. Because civilisations rise and then sooner or later they fall.

I was hoping that it would all be written down and recorded somewhere.  That at least this one root cause of my depression would filter through all of our government bureaucracy — for someone even more important to read and evaluate at a later date. I told them who I was and that I even had a Doctorate in Materials Science. As if that somehow mattered more. I wanted them to know that this one scientist at the very least had reached his own personal limit. That maybe they would be seeing more and more of us. And then maybe something might be done about it.

The other nurse pulled me aside later on and said that he agreed with me about what I was saying. Number 2 had reccommended that I be released “either today or tomorrow” — but I found out later that he was overruled by number 1, the porky one.

Another day went by. I started getting into an argument with a totally *ignorant* security guard inside the psych ward about the state of the world. About how the natural environment was in decline. He was in classic state of denial and so I threw some hard facts at him. I wonder how long people can continue to fool themselves like this? I mean, surely some environmental news must penetrate through to them? Of course, all the patients know what is going on. And maybe that should tell you something.

Anway, I asked him how many scientists he had talked to. “None”, he said. “Well you’re talking to one now!”, I retorted. Was it arrogant? Yes. Yes it was. Very! But you have to remember I was literally at my breaking point. And I have become tired of being diplomatic and politically correct all the time. There’s simply too much at stake. I feel like I have my own “duty of care” so to speak.

Then he finally said: “Well what do you want me to do?!” (with a definite attitude, like it was a rhetorical question). ¹

My friend looked (glared) at me as if to say “Shut up! Don’t esculate the situation further! Think about where you are!!”. He was right. After that, I decided to totally back off because that is not the best place to lose one’s temper (if they have to, they’ll stick a needle in your butt to tranquilise you as they escort you to the so called “high dependency” ward). You can’t get angry because you are constantly being monitored. Well you can– but then there are instant repercussions for that sort of unruly behaviour. They don’t tolerate it.

I also thought about piling up some chairs and scaling the 20ft outside walls. But I was told by other patients that it only makes things worse and that’s when they would call the cops and/or drag me into what is called the “high dependency” section of the ward. If you did manage to escape they would only come looking for you at home. And so what’s the point?

[continued to part IV]