40 days in hell

1995, 1996, 1997, 1998, 1999, 2000 belly breaths, 2000 belly breaths just to be able to fall asleep, to not have a panic attack, to get through the night without killing anyone or starting shouting or destroying my room. Stay good, stay calm, keep your manners so you can get out of this. It's three in the morning, I've ended up in hell and I was hoping for finally some relief from a life of fighting and surviving. A prison of 40 days, without professional help, in a sick psychiatric facility that no longer knows why it originally started. There is no love in the crisis department of Melle, there is no love in psychiatry in Belgium, it has become a factory where people are no longer people. The distance between psychiatrists, psychologists, nurses and patients is inhumanly great. I feel contagious, I no longer feel human, I feel trapped in a sick system that perpetuates itself. I feel lost, lost forever, and forever is a very long time. The first night wasn't too bad, I was still numb from the amount of tranquilizer pills I had taken the day before. A cry for help. I thought, everything will be fine, people will take care of me here, they will follow up on me and they will ensure that I no longer suffer as much as the months before. I am going to be treated like someone who has cancer or has just had a serious accident, with an incredible dose of professionalism and tailor-made care. But where people with cancer or a serious accident have physical pain, I have the disadvantage of having psychological pain. And psychological pain is in your head, so you do it to yourself. The reality was far away from what I had hoped for. I had ended up in hell, and I thought I was in hell for all of it. Psychiatry has a problem because the 'patients' are not allowed to eat together with the nurses, because the nurses have different toilets than the patients, because they are criminalized because of problems they never asked for. I was in Melle, in the crisis department. After months and months of suicidal thoughts, I had an appointment with Dr. on Wednesday February 14th. Chirp of St Camillus. After a long look and moving things and giving me priority, she had a place on the Friday before an eight-month long admission to the DBT department. In the meantime, I had been drinking alcohol, smoking and eating tranquilizer pills like candy for months. I told Dr. Chirp that this definitely wasn't going to work for me. First of all, I'm autistic and a new place always gives me a lot of anxiety. And I already had so much fear. Without some medication I would not be able to relax, could not sleep and eventually had panic attacks. I know myself well enough, take it from me. Dr.'s answer Chirp was: “Not sleeping for five nights isn't that bad, is it?” Well, no, not sleeping for five nights isn't that bad, but having panic attacks, anxiety disorders, nightmares, having Pavor nocturnus, well, that's different from just not being able to sleep. And so it was that I arrived at St-Camillus that Friday in good spirits. In the afternoon I ate something there, I was introduced to something, everyone was smoking, and around 2 p.m. I went to ask if I was going to get something to calm down a bit. You know, I was taking about 3 Valiums a day, 3 Temestas a day, Rivotril, antidepressants, hydrocortisone, DHEA, two bottles of wine, and so on. Now suddenly not giving me anything to calm down was a recipe for disaster. At 4pm I went to ask again but the answer was no. And I had Dr. Tjilp explained so well and said that it wasn't going to work for me this way. And so I left the DBT department of St-Camillus at 5 p.m. I was asked if it was safe to let me go home. WELL OFF COURSE NOT. Of course it wasn't safe. I had hoped to get help, I had Dr. Chirp warned, but rules are rules and it's the same for everyone. Tricks. And so I sat back home on Friday evening, completely disillusioned, disappointed, ashamed of myself, a loser, and by Monday morning I was ready to die. I then took a bunch of pills, knowing full well that they weren't going to kill me. A message to my ex was enough to start the process of collocation. Internment. Humiliation. At 5 p.m. the police were at my bedside and I dutifully went along. I wanted help, I wanted to get away from this constant hell of fear and tension and suffering. I was transferred by the police to Melle via the University Hospital. The first night went smoothly, the second night all hell started. And the counting. And the bladder infections from fear. During the day it was survival from one cigarette to another. I need someone to explain to me why in psychiatry you are not allowed to drink a glass of red wine in the afternoon, but you are allowed to smoke completely cancerous all day long. Makes no sense at all. Melle, Tuesday wasn't too bad, I don't remember much either, but these are the things I do remember that were scandalous:

• Luggage belonging to family or friends was not checked. Not from me anyway. Suddenly there was a glass night lamp next to me on my bedside table. Enough glass to slit 9 wrists and your throat. Unbelievable. Luggage was simply not checked. 3 weeks later in St-Camillus it was completely different, the smallest glass or plastic bottle was not allowed there. *Dr. Loerens never came to visit all her patients in the morning. The day before you had to indicate during the opening of the day whether you wanted to see the doctor. Many people naturally wanted to see the doctor, everyone actually wanted to see the doctor. But the next morning it was a sad sight. The people gathered at the entrance, waiting for Dr. Loerens came by after the morning meeting, pleadingly asking if they could speak to her. This is how I felt treated, like a beggar who had to beg to see his doctor, like a leper who begged for some love. There was no love in Melle. Dr. Loerens said that we should talk to Maggie De Block so that more budget would be released for psychiatry. I thought, maybe Dr. Loerens tries to do one job well instead of 4 poorly. Dr. Loerens, here you are, you came close to killing me. You're not a good leader, you're not doing your job properly, and you've forgotten that your patients are the reason you work there.
• In the Melle crisis department there are rooms with 3 beds, rooms with 2 beds and rooms with 1 bed. How can you not have a separate room in a crisis department? If they had put me in a room of three, people would have died. I needed rest, I had been begging for rest for months, and then in Melle you could well end up in a room of three with two fellow 'patients' who might suddenly start yelling or screaming or crying at night. Jesus Christ. As if you were in intensive care in a hospital with three to a room.
• There is a courtyard in Melle, and it really resembles the courtyard of some prison, with iron walls up to 5 meters high, barbed wire, ... And okay, fair to say, there were people for whom that barbed wire was certainly necessary. But perhaps there should be two types of crisis departments. I know a lot. I'll tell you about St Camillus later, a completely different feeling. Completely different.

So it became Wednesday and I was still trapped in a total trap of unspeakable fear. I couldn't sit still for five minutes, I lived from one cigarette to another, I felt like the lowest of the low, ashamed, and there was no one to contradict that. People who smoke all their lives and then develop cancer can count on more compassion. Even though it is 2019 when I write this, even though there is such a thing as red nose day, it is and will always remain a terrible taboo. Mental suffering is a joke until you suddenly experience it yourself. Depression is a joke until you suddenly experience it yourself. Burnouts are devastating until you suddenly experience it yourself. It was Thursday and I had an appointment with the justice of the peace on the grounds of Melle itself. I see my lawyer fifteen minutes before. What an absolute joke. The real lawyer assigned to me didn't even show up. It was an intern or someone in training. In any case, it was nothing more or less than a formality. A woman who was a patient there had already told me beforehand that you get 40 days anyway. Anyway. Everyone. Without exception. Putting money in their pockets. Making money from the misery of others. Money from our society at that. Money that people work for every day. And I just have to be good, because I thought, if I'm good, I'll get out of here. Our society of fear, it is terrible, how we continue to endure, how we do not all revolt, how we all become poorer day after day, and how 1% becomes richer and richer. 40 days it was. I thought, I won't survive another day here, and now I have to endure this for another 40 days. Can someone give me morphine? Can someone knock me out? Can I just shout out somewhere that it won't work anymore? Can I be a human being somewhere? Can someone please tell me if I have ended up in the worst nightmare? Can someone show me just a little bit of light? Are there people here on the other end of the line? I write this down for all the people who are still stuck in psychiatry in Belgium (and probably elsewhere) today. It's terrible. Nurses, doctors and psychologists are no longer concerned with the human side of things. They are extinguished, they have become hard, a bit like the people who have to slaughter animals day in and day out. In the long run it doesn't matter to you anymore. It no longer matters to psychiatric care providers. I write this for all the people who are now in psychiatry, revolt, don't be afraid, don't be good, if you have money, sue them with everything you have. Because that's kind of the problem, you see. People who end up in psychiatry usually have no money left, people who end up there usually do not know their rights, people who end up there are afraid and nod very kindly yes to the doctors and nurses. It just has to be done. Do your job well and don't do it. Friday. I look at my cell phone. How far is the motorway... I can walk quickly, I am a physical education teacher, I can walk straight to the emergency services. And I throw myself under a truck. End of story. Do you know how many people try to commit suicide in Belgium's psychiatry every year? 764 in 2018. And those are just the reported attempts, of course. That's almost 2 per day. Time for savings, Maggie De Block, I think, time for savings. We go outside, go for a walk, I think, let us wait, let us wait another day, maybe a miracle will happen, I don't know. But before I know it I'm back in my prison. And the day continues. When I think back to that time, I immediately become happy again. I mean that. Not only did I feel really bad at the time, I had also ended up in a terrible place. In hell, downright hell. I have two diplomas, I am a Physical Education and Industrial Engineer, I have done camps, I have been a camp leader, I have been a monitor with the CM, I have taught the deaf, the blind, the mentally retarded, seniors, children, toddlers, young people, .... I know something about life and I also know that they are doing something wrong in psychiatry. And they shouldn't look at our government or Maggie De Block or that there is too little money. I don't give a shit. If you're in that kind of work, first and foremost, you're doing your job well. If you work with people, if you work with children, if you work with the elderly, then you are doing your job well. Then you have no choice but to do your job extremely well. If you work in psychiatry and you don't check baggage, causing a glass lamp to end up in someone who has had suicidal thoughts for months and months, then you are a fucking loser and you can be fired, work pressure or no work pressure. People today only want to sit at home in their couch, people today only want to be able to buy things, people today want change but do not want to change themselves, people today go to work in psychiatry and are then surprised that they have to be human. Friday evening. The psychologist, in training, comes to me. She says: "I have good news. You can go home tomorrow from noon until 7 p.m. You have to return in the evening, but if everything goes well tomorrow, you can go back home on Sunday until the evening." I don't know what to say. A few hours ago I wanted to run away to the highway and throw myself under a truck. I say to the psychologist: "Would you please take away the glass lamp in my room, I'm afraid I might do something to myself." HELLOOO, doesn't that ring a bell, isn't that some kind of silent hint somewhere... "Ah, I'll pass it on to the nurses." Wadddeeeee? She went to report it to the nurses. Which never happened, of course. The lamp was still there on Saturday morning. Apparently suicides probably never happen there... or at least they do...  dipshits. I lay awake all night. I spent the whole night thinking about how I was going to end it at home. I didn't sleep a wink. Then, that night, I was definitely not Lieven anymore. The months before I was no longer Lieven, that week I was less and less Lieven, and that night before Saturday I was on edge, I was sober, and I had no intention of ever returning to Melle. Those four days in Melle had been the most terrible of my entire life. And no one had bothered to ease the pain. Dr. Loerens had not come every morning to see how I was doing, to nurses I was an animal with a number, and to the outside world I was a problem that had to be ignored. Saturday morning, 6am, the room where everyone can smoke themselves to death opens. Finally a cigarette. After lying awake all night. GOD DAMN IT WHEN I THINK BACK ABOUT THAT PLACE. Actually, psychiatry should be able to give people some kind of safe haven, a place to which you can return when things get tough, but that is absolutely not the case with me. I'd rather set myself on fire than ever have to go back to a place like that. To this day I can still become incredibly unhappy, incredibly lonely, feel terribly bad, but when I think back to those four days there in Melle, well, a smile almost appears on my face. Psychiatry in Belgium is more of a deterrent. If they had to work like this in hospitals, everyone would think twice before having surgery. Saturday. Now comes the hard part. Now comes the blood, the loneliness, the dying, left for dead,...

Flemish psychiatrists sound the alarm: 'People commit suicide because they do not receive the right care'