Hospital Diaries: Experience With Psychiatric Wards

When people hear the words psychiatric hospital, they often imagine scenes from horror movies — cold, sterile rooms, restraints, and screaming patients. But the reality is far more nuanced. I want to share my honest experience of being hospitalised for schizophrenia. It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t glamorous, but it wasn’t all horror either. It was something else.

The First Admission: Fear and Confusion

I still remember the first time I was admitted. I wasn’t sure what was real anymore. My thoughts were racing I felt like I was living in a different dimension. I didn’t think I was sick — I thought the world was. Being taken to the hospital felt like betrayal at first. I thought I was being punished or locked away.

The check-in process was clinical: intake forms, security checks, and being asked to surrender anything that could be considered dangerous — even shoelaces. I felt stripped not just of items, but of my autonomy. That hurt. But in hindsight, it was done to keep me — and others — safe.

The Ward: A World of Its Own

The psychiatric ward operates under its rhythm. Time moves slowly. There’s a strict routine: wake up, meals, medication rounds, group therapy, free time, lights out. The repetition is meant to stabilise — to create predictability in a mind that often feels chaotic.

At first, I felt disconnected. Some patients were withdrawn, others were loud and erratic. I saw people pacing, mumbling, crying, laughing to themselves. And I realised — I was one of them. That was hard to accept.

But slowly, I started to see the humanity behind every face. We were all hurting in different ways. I spoke to people with depression and bipolar disorder. There was camaraderie in our shared struggle. It helped to know I wasn’t alone.

The Staff: Angels, Robots, and Everything in Between

The nurses were the backbone of the ward. Some were incredibly compassionate — they’d sit with me when I was crying, offer gentle words, and listen without judgment. Others were more detached, burnt out perhaps, going through the motions.

Psychiatrists came in once a day for brief check-ins. It was a strange power dynamic. They decided what medications I’d take, how long I’d stay, and whether I was a danger to myself or others. I didn’t always feel heard. But I do believe most of them were doing their best.

Medication: The Double-Edged Sword

Starting antipsychotics was terrifying. I didn’t believe I needed them. But slowly, as the fog began to lift, I had to face a difficult truth: I was unwell, and the meds were helping.

Side effects were rough — drowsiness, weight gain, restlessness. But so was psychosis. I had to find a balance. The hospital gave me a controlled environment to adjust to the medication and learn what worked.

Therapy and Groups: Mixed Bag, Honest Moments

Group therapy sessions were unpredictable. Some were awkward, others deeply moving. We’d talk about emotions, coping skills, and trauma. At times, I learned more from fellow patients than professionals. There’s something powerful about shared experience.

Art therapy gave me a voice when words failed. Drawing, painting, journaling — these became tools of expression and healing.

Discharge: Leaving But Not Leaving It Behind

Leaving the hospital was a mix of relief and fear. I was glad to be going home, but also scared of facing the world again. In the ward, everything was structured and safe. Outside, life was messy.

I left with a treatment plan, follow-up appointments, and a bag full of medication. But I also left with something more important: a sense of hope. Recovery wasn’t going to be linear, but it was possible.

What I Learned

• Psychiatric wards are not prisons. They’re imperfect, but they exist to protect and stabilize.

• Mental illness does not discriminate. I met people from all walks of life: students, artists, teachers.

• Compassion saves lives. A kind nurse, a fellow patient’s story, a therapist who listens — these things make a difference.

• Healing takes time. There’s no magic pill. Recovery is a journey, not a destination.

Why I’m Sharing This

I want to break the silence around psychiatric hospitalisation. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. If anything, it’s an act of courage — to get help, to stay, to heal.

If you or someone you love is facing the prospect of being hospitalised for mental health reasons, know this: it’s not the end. Sometimes, it’s the beginning of coming back to yourself.