Have I said too much? Have I said too little?

Have I said too much? Have I said too little?

Have I said too much?
Has inpatient admission become something I shouldn't touch?
There's this thing in this system, 
Where say too little, you'll be dragged, 
kicking and screaming on a section, 
something you said was flagged.
Or where you say too much, 
and they chuck you out left to fend for yourself,
with your mind a muddle, of your not so great mental health. 
However much of a risk to yourself you may be. 
It doesn't make sense and it's not always consistent.
But there it is, the UK's completely messed up system. 
And when you're in, you must not be deemed to high risk, a danger. 
Or otherwise they'll send you home 
saying inpatient doesn't work for you 
and you'll become a system stranger. 
But at the same time when you're inpatient
You are a risk, that's why you're there. 
With a bunch of thoughts, problems and anxieties, 
it's probably best to share. 
But then you have to learn to trust the staff,
to say when you're having a bad day, hour, minute. 
The trust building takes time 
and depending on how long your stay is,
can be the making or breaking of you.
Talk about it, people say, 
but sometimes that's the hardest thing to do.
How do you express something you don't understand, 
or how do you talk when talking seems to have got you nowhere or in trouble. 
Most people who have opened up have also been hurt and misunderstood.
They've done it before, and the backlash means it's not worth it, even if you could.
The system is flawed, whether you're in it, out of it or going back and fourth. 
You'll ask yourself everyday, have I said too much, have I said too little?
Inpatient, crisis team, day service, wherever you may be dropped into the system. 
Just know it's not magic, nothing is, not even hospital. 
The system is flawed, believe me, I know. 
It's certainly not family or friend, maybe enemy or maybe foe. 
Don't forget it's a system, not one person. 
So shout and scream all you like, make sure you are heard. 
Some people you'll trust, others you won't.
But just remember it's broken, you're broken, other people are broken. 
So all the lines into and out of the system have become completely blurred. 
But you've got this.
Hold onto trying to get what you need. 
But also remember with this messed up system,
you'll never know exactly where it will lead.

Written by Steph Corris - June 2019 - whilst inpaitent 

Here I am

Here I am

Here I am, scared of my own mind and what I would do if I were left alone. 

Here I am, silently anxious, over analysing each recent conversation I've had.

Here I am, surely they think I'm wasting a bed, I'm just sorry it turned out this way.

Here I am, the OCD monster in my head, stripping me of any certainty I thought was there.

Here I am, the A&E phone is ringing, no one is answering. Please someone pick it up. The noise keeps going. 

Here I am, waiting for a bed, there's a long wait they say. I don't think it's ever any different. 

Here I am, sorry I'm a waste of space, as people pour into A&E, surely someone is more deserving of my bed. 

Here I am, the urge to leave and try and hurt myself so strong. But I'm resisting. 

Here I am, staying put for now, I don't want to be sectioned so I must comply. 

Here I am, still scared of my own thoughts and the OCD monster in my head. 

Here I am, I don't know what's the illness speaking and what's just me. 

Here I am, still contemplating suicide, could even ligature right here, right now.

Here I am, I could just shut the door and do it and be found much later. 

Here I am, I MUST stop myself. Don't do anything Steph, you can't. 

Here I am, fighting to choose life, trying to climb out of this deep, dark pit. 

Here I am, I can't even complete suicide, do you know of how much of a failure I feel?

Here I am, wishing this was all over, not just for me but for all those around me. 

Here I am, I'm sorry, I really am, I don't understand this mess in my mind. 

Here I am, should have just done it, shouldn't I? Chosen something a little more 'final.'

Here I am, shouldn't have called the ambulance, should have completely emptied the pill box.

Here I am, convinced someone, everyone, is silently judging me. 

Here I am, angry, pissed off that I am here, angry that I clung onto that tiny thread of hope. 

Here I am, not knowing where I'll end up, a bed could come up anywhere. 

Here I am, knowing admission is not magic but hoping I'll find some hope. 

Here I am, why on Earth am I still here? I really can't find the strength to carry on. 

Here I am, hoping the 72 hour inpatient admission somehow changes my mind set. 

Here I am, taking up a bed in A&E I don't deserve, waiting for an acute bed I don't deserve. 

Here I am, dreaming of a time I'm not scared of my own mind. 

Do I even have control any more? 

Whose going to win? 

Steph, the Steph I am when I'm well or the anxiety and OCD monster that lives in my head?

Written by Steph Corris - 6th June 2019 - whilst in A&E

Different

Different

Well this is different.
Everything feels different this time. 
I don't need to, in fact, I shouldn't 
Pretend that all is absolutely fine.
It feels different, this admission,
it will be less than a week. 
And I know, and I'm really trying to concentrate,
to focus on finding the hope I desperately seek. 
Somewhere I've got to find the want, the desire
to live. So here I am, I must look hard,
I must remember that recovery is out there, 
that I can get better, they aren't just words on a card. 
If I say it to my friends then it applies to me too.
Those words, those encouragements. 
I must listen, they are for me. 
And as I am inpatient yet again,
even where you have this distorted view of reality.
I must know I can be free. 
Everything feels somewhat like a dream, 
like it's a different Steph sobbing and crying my eyes out. 
Well, actually, no, it's not a dream. 
I can pinch myself, and this nightmare, oh, it's so real,
without a shadow of a doubt.
The ward it's different to my previous two, 
I am no longer someone who knows how it works. 
As I try and adjust to new staff, new patients and new routines
I realise being inpatient somewhere different has next to no perks. 
I have to choose my actions and words carefully.
I have to prepare myself to go home from day 1.
I must choose to talk if I need help or I am going to hurt myself.
I must not, ever, run. 
The quiet here is quite unusual.
I'm really not used to quiet. 
I'm not sure I like it. 
I think maybe it gives my mind too long to overthink, 
over analyse and dig myself deeper into the dark pit.
That's whats happened at home, when I made a plan, 
a ridiculous plan that didn't even do anything at all. 
Oh man, I wish I'd planned it better. 
Wish I'd never called 999, 
Why would I do that when I couldn't even give the crisis team a call?
Absolute failure is what I feel, and maybe you'll argue with me, 
pleased I didn't finish the job. 
But me, I just can't even get that right. 
It will just be me, sat there, 
not going through with the thing I most want to do, having a sob.
When I cry get me out here I'm not even sure if my confused brain means it. 
Is this even my brain?
I sit here watching the sun break through the cloud, 
and I'm reminded of the saying 
'It's not about waiting for the storm to pass it's about learning to dance in the rain.'
And that is what I shall try, 
to dance despite the storm. 
To know, even as I sit in this deep, dark, cold pit, 
that there is sun coming, 
there is a way out, 
a way out into the warm.

Written by Steph Corris - 8th June 2019 - whilst inpatient 

Expectation vs Reality

Expectation vs Reality

Expectation is that I'll feel ready by Tuesday to go home.

Reality is that despite the support around me I'll still feel alone.

Expectation is that I could take my own life when no one is around.

Reality is that, her on jade ward, the likelihood is that I'll be found.

Expectation is that it's easy to talk to staff when you have something to say. 

Reality is you'll hide in your bedroom attempting to pluck up the courage all day.

Expectation is that I'll be completely honest with what my brain is doing. 

Reality is I'll do my best at hiding all the emotions that have been brewing. 

Expectation is that there is hope and that I can dig out hope from deep within me. 

Reality is I can no longer find any anywhere, hope is something I can't see.

Expectation is that I can keep myself safe here.

Reality is 2 ligature attempts in 2 days as I shed a tear.

Expectation is that recovery starts after I leave this place. 

Reality is that I'm unsure if I even want to be in this race.

Expectation is that I won't be able to laugh or smile.

Reality is that it is possible to do these things once in a while.

Expectation is that I can ask for help when I'm finding things hard.

Reality is that the struggle I've faced has left me permanently scarred. 

Expectation is you will make improvements whilst on this ward.

Reality is that you spend most your time here just feeling bored. 

Expectation is when you leave, you leave ready to fight.

Reality is there is none left within me, even when I try with all my might. 

Expectation is family and friends are enough to stop you. 

Reality is nothing is enough anymore, if only they knew.

Expectation is hard. Reality sucks. 

And Reality vs Expectation is bloody difficult for anyone to comprehend. 

Written by Steph Corris - 22nd May 2019 - whilst inpatient 

Coming Home

Coming Home

Nothing could have prepared me for coming home. 

2 months in hospital does something to you.

When you're home it's the little things that feel weird.

It's the ability to charge your phone whilst you lie in bed. 

It's the lack of a face at your door checking up on you every hour. 

It's the quiet of no alarms, no screaming and no arguing. 

It's the having to remember your keys when you go out. 

It's the ability to come and go as you please. 

Without the signing out, the description what you're wearing and the time you are due back all being written down. 

Nothing could have prepared me for coming home. 

It's the ability have free access to scissors, tweezers and nail clippers. 

It's the double bed and the lockable bathroom door. 

It's the lack of people to talk to who just 'get' it.

It's the sorting your own meds and not being called to the clinic door. 

It's the ability to do your own washing without needing to get staff to open the laundry room.

It's the calmness of the evening and the quietness of the morning. 

It's the texting of people checking you're safe now you're not kept in hospital wards. 

2 months in hospital does something to you.

Nothing could have prepared me for coming home. 


Written by Steph Corris - June 2019

The OCD voice

The OCD voice

When the OCD voice breaks in...
It's like a thief in the night 
and your immediate reaction is to freeze.

You alone don't feel able it face it,
you desire an army to be able to 
defeat them. But where's the army?

They are not there, because it's just you.
You vs the OCD voice, and you know
it doesn't belong in here.

But it's too difficult to fight them alone. 
So you listen. You listen carefully
and do exactly as the voice says. 

Because thats the way it's always been. 
The OCD voice who broke in
has always been the one who wins. 

You can't ignore it, trust me I've tried. 
You can't even distract yourself 
even when thats what the professionals suggest. 

You cave in. 
The rituals go ahead to quiet the OCD voice in your head. 
But listening makes the voice louder. 

There is no way of silencing it. 
You're in this pattern now.
Of listening, of doing what it says and then listening again.

There theres the "bonus" thoughts.
The ones thrown in for 'good measure.'
They just plague your mind for a long time. 

There is no shaking them off,
like Taylor would say.
Because the intrusive thoughts cling on. Tight. 

They convince you you've completely messed up.
Over and over again. 
They promise you've done something terrible. 

Nothing can fix this.
Nothing can convince you otherwise,
unless by now the army has awoken in your head. 

And then the army will challenge the OCD voice, 
and challenged it will be,
as you declare it's not all true. 

In fact, OCD, you tell a whole lot of lies.
And it's time for me
and the army in my head to face you.

This is not going to defeat me, 
OCD you are not going to call my brain home. 
You're here only short term. 

Good riddance, I shall say 
as I find the fight to face 
this monster, the OCD voice in my head.


Written by Steph Corris - June 2019

It's louder here

It's louder here

It's louder here.
I think, as I shed a tear. 

A bigger crowd.

Sometimes it's overwhelming, too loud. 

You are more aware of illnesses here.

Of people living in constant fear.

A fear of what's next, who will go. 

They can't do it anymore, putting on a show. 

There's section 2's, section 3's 

And informal patients, only 3 of these. 

People hurt themselves a lot. 

You have to create an inner cheerleader, a mascot. 

The sound of banging, either of a fist or someones head is normal. 

There's barely anyone here who is informal. 

The alarm will go off and people will run in.

Then theres the patients who follow, some of them all in a spin.

People queue for breakfast, lunch and tea. 

All people want here is to be free.

Free in mind and soul and free from it all. 

You so enjoy the conversations when your best friend gives you a call.

People don't want to be here, they compare it to prison. Trapped. 

Our brains each being attacked.

Attacked by mental illness. 

In constant fear that this illness will, one day, kill us. 

Part 2 of this inpatient journey, it's just as hard. 

Despite the kind thoughts, prayers and each and every card.

For which I am full of thank yous. 

This is a war, I have to tell myself, a war which I REFUSE TO LOSE. 

This is all very hard to deal with.

Hard to explain.

Hard to comprehend. 

My brain hurts. 

I don't know what else to say.

For today. 


Written by Steph Corris - May 2019 - whilst inpatient 

I am learning

I am learning

The noise is loud, beyond what you would expect from a 16 strong crowd. 

Your brain is a fog, above your head is a big black cloud. 

There is a new person in and a new person out practically everyday in this place. 

Concentrating on God in here, and focusing on His grace. 

It seems an impossible task. 

There isn't anyone who can continually wear their mask.

There is a mixture of people, a mixture of personalities. Sometimes they clash.

Friendships have begun and gone in a flash. 

The characters change, depending on mood. 

We gather together only for food. 

But other than that it's fractured. 

The conversations, the situation feels completely manufactured. 

People in, people out, people on section, not allowed out

People as informal, some of whom like to make a shout. 

People are ill, sometimes it's plain to see,

Other times they seem so free. 

It's not all sitting and crying. 

There is laughter too, it doesn't feel like every soul here is dying. 

Fun is had amongst the tricky situation. 

There's time to gel with people, and to embrace God's creation.

The stories told and untold are sometimes shared, but people choose how much they talk. 

Sometimes revealing their story as you, together, take a walk. 

The boredom is bad, there are puzzles, colouring and an empty garden. 

Oh, but if you are allowed you can have access to the 'therapy' garden. 

Do some basketball, ping pong or relive the childhood with Connect 4. 

Or just enjoy the Chichester sun with a sunbathe on the floor. 

Appointments are sporadic & without warning.

They sometimes are just sprung on you in the morning. 

You get told to see the doctor, the psychologist, the OT. 

The appointments are random, but theres a common thread, they're all about me.

The therapy room is relaxing but only open at a certain time. 

There is no routine, no plan, no communication, just what feels like an up hill climb.

Arriving was scary, you don't get told everything and you have to learn as you go.

But it's hard you know, 

to ask or say hello when your anxiety is sky high. 

New meds, changed meds, meds removed, meds that make you feel like you can fly.

You have to try and understand drug names,

and learn how to enjoy your leave even when it rains. 

You are called in for your meds, breakfast, lunch, tea and night. 

This is a big battle, I'm not sure I'm ready for this fight.

They don't wake you from your nap when dinner is served. 

Isn't this whole situation, this nightmare, completely and utterly absurd. 

I don't understand my brain at the best of times but I'm learning.

I make myself a promise, not sure if I can keep it, but I WILL NOT be returning.

I'm learning to just have time. 

Bored as I am. 

Hurting as I am.

I am learning. 

Written by Steph Corris - April 2019 - whilst inpatient 

Done

Done

The thoughts are loud today.

Have I caused harm? They say. 

You probably can’t tell

But my mind feels like hell.

The colour red haunts me,

When will I be free? 

I can’t do this anymore.

Death is knocking on my door.

I truly believe dying is better,

But there is a quiet voice screaming ‘don’t let her.’ 

I’m really trying to be strong.

But the voice inside my head reminds me I’m constantly wrong.

Please get me out of this nightmare.

I’m wondering if there is anyone who actually does care. 

Have I done something I shouldn’t have done?

This weight of OCD on my shoulder weighs a ton.

Anxiety is taking my life away, 

And hospital took away March, April and now May.

There is a price to pay when you are mentally ill.

It takes so much more energy than just taking a pill. 

I say I’m tired, but people don’t have a clue.

This craziness in my head, believe me, for me, it’s true. 

I’ve got to keep plodding on,

I’m screaming to myself ‘come-on!’

It’s never ever quiet in my mind,

But there is a peace that I’m longing to find. 

But where is it? I constantly ask.

I can no longer wear this mask.

It’s been too long,

Of trying to be strong.

Anxiety and OCD have ruined me.

Can’t you see? All I want is to be free.

If heaven is waiting, why stay here?

I can no longer live this life that is so full of fear.

Please, someone, just get me out of here.

Now. 

I can’t do this anymore. This is no fun.

I am well and truly and completely DONE.

Written by Steph Corris - 20th May 2019 - whilst inpatient 

Do you think less of me?

Do you think less of me?

Do you think less of me

Now you know I hurt myself?

Do you think less of me 

Now you know I’ve been in a mental health ward?

My brain tells me you do.

My brain tells me you look at me differently, think of me differently, treat me differently.

My mind tells me a lot of things and it takes a lot of energy to know which things are true.

Please don’t think less of me

Now you know I have OCD.

Don’t think you are the expert 

Because you keep your house clean. 

Please don’t think less of me 

Now you know I panic and breathe fast 

In the moments I feel scared. 

Please don’t think less of me 

Now you know generalised anxiety haunts me.

Now you know I’ve thought of suicide. 

Now you know I’ve cried out for help.

I think less of me. I think I’ve failed.

I know that crying out for help has made me feel less, inferior.

My brain is in conflict all the time. 

I think I’d be better off not here.

It takes a lot of energy to convince myself that life is better than death.

Do you think less of me

Because I’m an informal patient, and I’m choosing to be here, in hospital. 

Because it feels like it, it feels like I’m making a ridiculous decision.

It feels like I’m stupid for choosing to be safe. 

Do you think less of me, I ask, because it feels that way.

The way this place works.

And underneath this all I think so little of me.

I really need your help.

I don’t have the energy. 

I’m trying to fight.

Please just stand beside me and I plead,

Do not think less of me now you know more of me. 

Written by Steph Corris - 18th May 2019 - whilst inpatient 

My brain is being ripped to shreds

My Brain is being ripped to shreds

Have you ever felt like your brain is being ripped to shreds?

That anything you've ever thought or said is suddenly being questioned.

Not only by others but you start questioning every single thing yourself. 

Is this 'well' me or this the illness speaking?

You find things online you relate to more than anything.

And you question the professionals and the diagnoses.

But is a diagnosis even a diagnosis?

Maybe everyone is wrong.

Maybe everything is wrong.

You don't trust anyone.

You don't trust yourself.

You don't know if a thought is yours or the monster inside your heads.

Everything is being over analysed and it feels like your brain is being ripped to shreds.

Have you ever felt like your brain is being ripped to shreds?

That it's an all consuming black cloud, thoughts racing.

But the same thoughts over and over and over.

You can't escape the thoughts in your own head.

It's like you have 2 minds and one is constantly at war with the other. 

But you also know that one mind is infecting the other.

Drip by drip by drip. 

Then there comes a surge and you'll all consumed by darkness.  

Darkness that will not leave.

That there's only 1 way out and that's death.

So you dance with death. 

Overdosing, ligaturing, cutting deep.

And your dance with death, you don't know if it's yours or the monster inside your heads.

Everything is darkness and it feels like your brain is being ripped to shreds.

Have you ever felt like your brain is being ripped to shreds?

Like there's claws within your mind.

Clawing out the hope, clawing out the life, the light.

Things are never settled, there's a constant battle. 

You don't even know what 'well' looks like anymore. 

There have been far too many masks that have been worn.

Fake fake fake people scream, the monster screams. 

It's like they've put a tap in the back of your head, all hope has been drained out. 

You don't know who you are anymore because 'you' has been all clawed out.

Hope is non existent because of the monster inside your head. 

It's like claws in your head and it feels like your brain is being ripped to shreds.

Have you ever felt like your brain is being ripped to shreds?

You say too much and they think you're too capable.

But that's not always truth, for me it's like I'm being plagued by guilt. 

Guilt because this bad friend, sister, daughter,

This bad youth worker, nanny, Christian has caused endless trouble, turmoil and upset.

Selfish is a label I definitely bear. 

The guilt stops me, sometimes, but other times it doesn't win.

And so then you end up feeling guilty about feeling guilty.

And you don't know if the guilt is yours or the monster inside your heads.

And it's darkness and it's turmoil and it feels like your brain is being ripped to shreds.

Have you ever felt your brain is being ripped to shreds?

Because I have.
Have you ever felt like you have a monster inside your head.
Because I have.
Every single day. 
I wish it could stop.
I wish it would stop. 
I wish you could stop it.
I wish I could stop it.
Because it feels like hell.
When there's a monster inside your head.
When your brain is being ripped to shreds.


Written by Steph Corris - 11th June 2019 - whilst inpatient