Hospital was scary. I had never been admitted to a public psych ward before and was used to the luxury of my own room. I was tired and didn’t want to get out of bed but the nurses insisted I did, much to my ire. On the first morning I was there I missed breakfast and expressed my anger at this by throwing the whole metal breakfast trolley down the hallway with a smash.

‘Get out and talk to the other patients,’ I was told. I looked around at the bunch of freaks and nutters around me. ‘I don’t belong here,’ I thought. After a week or so the medication kicked in and I was sleeping normally again while the Lithium calmed my frazzled nerves. Forced to interact and attend craft classes and the like I slowly emerged from my angry shell to communicate with my fellow inmates. Most of them were also bipolar, with a few schizophrenics and a couple of drug-induced psychoses thrown in, too.

I discovered something amazing: I overcame my initial prejudices and got to know these people, as they too overcome their fear and attempted to connect with me. They shared their stories, their struggles and their triumphs. They told me what had got them through, how the system worked, how to make it work for me. But mainly they taught me that compassion and understanding were the greatest gifts we could offer another human being, and they showed me by example. I swear that I was healed more, and cared for better and learned more from that bunch of crazies than I did from any of the medical staff while I was in hospital.  I am forever grateful for that opportunity, and to them, wherever they are now.