What a Farce
Yesterday was one of the most frustrating and exhausting days I’ve experienced in a long time.
When you’re in a mental health crisis, you’re often told that asking for help is the right thing to do. Some professionals call it “self-rescuing”—recognising that you’re struggling and reaching out before things become even more dangerous. Others seem to have a different view. After what happened yesterday, I honestly don’t know if I’d do it again.
The night before, I’d spoken to NHS 111 and also reached out to the Shout text service because I was struggling so badly. At some point afterwards, the local police carried out a welfare check on me. They were kind, understanding, and advised me that I should call 999 for an ambulance.
So I did.
I wasn’t calling because I wanted attention. I was calling because I genuinely believed I needed help.
The ambulance eventually arrived around 15 hours later.
The paramedics who first attended didn’t seem concerned enough to take me to hospital for further assessment, despite how I was feeling. That left me feeling completely deflated. When you’ve finally found the courage to ask for help, feeling as though your concerns aren’t being taken seriously can be incredibly difficult.
Earlier that day, I’d also contacted NHS 111 and had been told to expect a callback within around 30 minutes. That call didn’t come until approximately 25 hours later.
When the clinician from 111 finally spoke to me, they felt I needed to be taken to hospital safely and arranged for a second ambulance. This time, the paramedics were absolutely lovely. They treated me with kindness, respect, and compassion, and I spent around three hours waiting with them in the ambulance before I could be seen.
Before being admitted into the Emergency Department, I was assessed in the Rapid Assessment and Treatment area (often referred to as RATS), where routine observations, blood tests, and an ECG were carried out before I was moved on for further assessment.
Looking back on the whole experience, I can’t help but wonder what message this sends to people in crisis. We’re encouraged to reach out and ask for help when we need it most, yet the reality can be long waits, mixed responses, and a system that feels overwhelmed.
This isn’t about criticising the individual staff members who showed me genuine compassion—they know who they are, and I’m incredibly grateful to them. It’s about highlighting how difficult it can be to navigate a system that is under immense pressure when you’re already fighting the hardest battle inside your own mind.
Yesterday left me emotionally drained. I asked for help because I wanted to stay safe. No one should have to wonder whether doing the right thing was worth it.
After several hours of waiting, I finally spoke to a lovely doctor who told me they wanted to keep me in hospital for a few days while they carried out further tests. I was relieved to hear that. I agreed without hesitation because I still felt extremely unwell, both physically and mentally, and I didn’t feel ready to go home.
Not long afterwards, I was seen by a member of the Psychiatric Liaison Team. For reasons I can’t really explain, I’ve never felt comfortable with them. My experience of that conversation left me feeling dismissed. I was told I was free to go home.
I left feeling confused.
One doctor had told me I was staying in hospital, while another member of staff was telling me I could leave. I didn’t know who to believe, so I did as I was told and left the hospital.
I caught the bus from Derriford into Plymouth city centre, but before long I began to feel unwell again. Unsure what was happening, I phoned the Emergency Department. To my surprise, I was told that I was still supposed to be in hospital.
They offered to send an ambulance to bring me back, but I declined and paid around £20 for a taxi instead. By that point, I just wanted to get back as quickly as possible.
When I returned, I spoke to the staff and, completely exhausted, eventually fell asleep while I waited.
I was later woken by a doctor. During our conversation, they took a photograph of my phone screen without asking my permission first, which left me feeling uncomfortable and unsure why it was necessary. After a brief discussion, I was told, “It looks OK to me. You’re free to go home.”
Once again, I felt confused, dismissed, and unsure what had changed.
As I was leaving, one of the nurses who had encouraged me to return asked, “What’s going on?” I quietly replied that I couldn’t cope with going home and that I wanted to end my life.
Those words weren’t said for attention. They came from a place of complete desperation. At that moment, I felt as though I had run out of options and didn’t know where I belonged or who was listening.
(Note pic, biker stopped on their way to Princetown, Devon). More details here.
