I am entitled to proper bereavement support at the moment, incarcerated as I am on this pressure cooker ward without leave.  I must be.  Why aren’t I getting it?  This whole situation is sick and surreal.  I am desperate.  I want to cry and scream and wail, as so many bereaved people do, I have heard.  I keep holding it back.  If I were not being mistreated I wouldn’t feel like doing any of that, anyway.  So I am not going to do it with the people who are already failing and mistreating me and are not there for me, in any deep and relaiable way.  I’ve had so many staff here who, when I say I am being harassed and picked on, up goes the wall, immediately.  “No one here would want to do that to you”.  The news is a steady trickle of situations like this where that happens, and they are only the ones who get caught.  I am locked in here against my wishes.  Abuse number one.  I am locked in with the situation, the only place I can go is the enclosed garden for some air, which helps a bit, sometimes.  But being locked in with no say about it, and the way people define me, I am as helpless as a child.  We are told that if a child says they are being abused we should take them seriously.  Some kids play that, you know, just like some adults do.  I have no more power than a child here, and if I say to a member of staff that I am being abused or picked on and their immediate response is I can’t be, no one would, that is frightening and isolating.  It adds a different kind of abuse all of its own.

When I was still in junior school my grandad hit me once and made a blood clot go into my eye.  I said to him, ‘I’m going to tell everyone at school that you did this’.  They asked me and I told them.  No one did a thing.  I’ve only just thought recently, unless it really was just the time I lived in then, someone really should have done something.  Just the same as someone should here.  In those days my teachers liked me.  My headmistress even let me answer the phone for her at lunchtime when she wasn’t there.  But they did nothing to help.

That reminds me, one Sunday night at Talbot Street the phone rang near the beginning of a service and I was still downstairs.  I went and answered it to try and help.  This man started talking to me about masturbation.  I must have been about 13-14.  I think he said it was a problem for him.  I didn’t even know what it was.  I asked my older friend and mentor what it was and she told me she didn’t know.  But this lady must have been in her 30s at least.  I find it hard to believe she did not know.  He was on the phone with me for 15-30 minutes.  I can’t remember any more of the conversation than the subject.  But anyway, that is all beside the point.