The Rivers Clinic

This is part of a long auto-biographical...mess that I'm making. 
All of the place names have been changed for privacy reasons. 
I just want to make a trigger warning here, there is mention of suicide,
My visit to The Rivers Clinic was the result of desperation. I wasn’t
well enough to be at home, the sub acute ward couldn’t take me,
and the acute ward made my parents cry. 

I was in the Mental Health Assesment Unit, which was a small part of
the Accident and Emergency that had a lot of locks. So many locks.
There were only 5 beds, all confinement style, that is, bare room,
double locked door, mattress on the floor. I was brought in and
placed before the TV while an ice addict violently raged down the
corridor. From memory I think we were watching M*A*S*H. 

My parents and I hadn’t really considered the possibility of
private treatment because there was no open private psych ward in Canberra.
But it occurred to us that there were probably plenty of treatment centres in Sydney that would take me. The psych registrarat MHAU suggested that we try The Rivers Clinic because it was brand
new. We called them that afternoon, and they told us we could have a
bed as early as tomorrow morning. I wasn’t allowed home to pack
a bag, so I stayed in the nut house while my parents went home, ready
to whisk me away in the morning. 

The Rivers Clinic was out in the western suburbs of Sydney, which was
not at all familiar to me. The hospital was the only building in
amongst paddock upon paddock of tall grass and burnt out cars. The
building rose out tall and shiny. It was a little smaller than I had
expected, but inside the hospital it was exactly what I had expected.

We walked in to the reception of the hospital (I’m not even
sure that hospital is the appropriate word) and the receptionist was
waiting for us. The room was clean and white, with a tall ceiling and
fancy furniture. I filled out the paperwork about medications,
allergies, drug use and dietary requirements, and was told that I
would be assessed later. 

The dining room was just down the hall from the reception, and they
took us inside to meet the chefs and the dining hall staff. The head
chef had a funny hat, and I filled out a gourmet menu that included
entrees and dessert. I looked around the dining hall and spotted a
large clock on the wall made from knives and forks. I knew then that
I was playing a whole new game.

My room was a double room that looked like a twin hotel suite and I
was sharing with a music teacher with flaming red hair. She said she
had bipolar, and expressed how glad she was that I wasn’t
‘crazy’. I thought ‘crazy’ would be a
condition of entry, but apparently not. I met the nurses and found
the medication room and did all of the boring clinical stuff like
urine tests and tummy poking. Then I was given a timetable, and told
that I didn’t have to attend groups today, but as of the next
morning it would be compulsory. Failure to attend group was grounds
for discharge. I wasn’t pleased. 

I felt so lost and desolate. I’d resigned myself to spending
time on the acute ward, and I was sort of looking forward to being
left alone and being allowed to be completely, pathetically, useless.
The acute ward was a scary place, but it was sort of the floor that
you couldn’t fall below. 

This place was something completely different.

Morning began with a meeting of patients before breakfast. At the end
of the meeting everybody said ‘Don’t worry, be happy!’
in unison. That was probably the scariest part of the whole
admission. 

Group was carried out in conference style rooms by psychologists.
Everyday I had Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, Acceptance and
Commitment therapy, Dialectical Behaviour Therapy, and a choice of
art or horticulture therapy. To give credit where it’s due, I
really did learn a lot in the 28 days that I stayed there. I might
not have been able to apply it all at the time, but over time it
leaked in to my brain, and stretched out its cheery little roots. 

The food was great, I got to eat almost every fruit under the sun,
there was a coffee machine, the hot food was restaurant quality, and
the company, well, what a bunch.

These people were not psych patients. That was made abundantly clear
to me. These were sad people and anxious people who were all on a
mental health retreat. They all wore proper clothing, they all made
eye contact and said hello, they all sat still in therapy groups and
participated nicely. They were all very nice. Very nice. But at the
same time exceptionally annoying. 

The majority of the patient population was made up of people around
my age who could not make it any more clear just how rich they were.
Some of them had the coveted single rooms which cost an extra $200 a
day. That’s on top of the $1000 a day your health fund was
forking out. They dressed like everyday was a fashion parade, and
smoked classy little cigarettes out of their classy little cigarette
cases in the back of the yard, talking like grown ups. I was looked
upon as some kind of alien from the very beginning, partly because I
was from Canberra, but eventually because they saw that I was rotting
inside. I was trembling and sweating, my bloodshot little eyes
darting about on red-alert. At that stage I was still compulsively
pulling out my hair and rocking gently all the time. I was capital C
Crazy, and I couldn’t hide it.

My psychiatrist was maybe the most personable psychiatrist I have
ever had. He prescribed lots of nice drugs, drugs to keep the crazy
away. I was taking anti-depressants made in the 70s with Valium,
anti-psychotics and mood stabilisers. Valium always makes for a dizzy
little time, but it was just as addictive as they said it was. At
this ward we all lined up neatly to take turns getting our meds at
8AM and 8PM. Or for those of us who were drugged out of our brains,
8:00, 12:00, 4:00 8:00 and 10:00. It was a hefty regime. 

I do think I’m being slightly unfair here. I did meet a few
lovely people. Some of the patients were a little bit older and on a
more sedate level than the people my age. They were very kind to me,
and they talked about nice things like spirituality and peace. And I
don’t doubt that they were sick, I’m sure they all were,
but it felt so strange, sitting down to dessert and talking about our
hobbies. I was so muddled, calmer, but muddled. My head was in a
messy state and I was far from home. My parents visited on a Saturday
once, and then drove home to Canberra. The distance from the people
in my life was not a bad thing at the time. I needed space. Space to
figure out just how crazy I had become. 

I returned home from The Rivers Clinic at Christmas time, tanned and
smiley. I had my pills, I had my relapse prevention plan and my
crisis management plan. I settled in at my Mum’s house, played
families over Christmas, and then one month later, a week before my
20th birthday, I decided to die. And I got pretty damn
close.