2023-07-11 12:42:27
My left arm hurts. I try to turn in my bed to find a more comfortable position, but nothing works: the white straps around my belly, my feet and my hand are too tight. At least one of my hands is free, so I can look at my kids’ pictures on my phone. I miss them so much. I am in restraint, for the third consecutive day, in the protected psychiatric unit.
Before the age of 29, everything was fine. I had a happy childhood, I was always at the top of my class, I succeeded in my studies, met my husband and had two healthy children. My first daughter was born while I was doing my master’s degree. I thought it was quite possible to reconcile career and motherhood. I managed to get my degree and later started a PhD in neuroscience. After a year, we decided to have a second child.
The image of the mother who stays at home with the children did not correspond at all to the idea I had of myself. Four months after the birth of my second daughter, I returned to work. I didn’t want my thesis to suffer from my status as a mother. Especially when I saw my male colleagues progressing while I stayed home with the baby.
Protect me from myself
Six months later, severe depression and borderline personality symptoms hit me hard. I self-harmed to relieve the pressure on me. I didn’t want to live anymore. I was admitted to the protected unit of a psychiatric hospital in Ile-de-France. To protect me from myself. We were protected there by depriving ourselves of everything: sharp objects and glass of course, but also telephone and charging cable. After cutting myself with a tube of toothpaste, they also took away my last personal items, from the toothbrush to the pencil.
We were dropped off our clothes and given a sort of blue uniform. I felt like an inmate. Punished for losing control of my emotions. Of course, that wasn’t the point, it was to ensure absolute patient protection, but for someone who had always had complete control over his life, it was torture. During the day, we could basically do nothing but read – for which my concentration was too weak –, watch television or chat with the other patients.
I made surprising encounters during my stay there and I met people I would never have approached in “normal life”. I learned that anyone could find themselves in such a situation. It doesn’t matter if someone is poor, has lived in difficult conditions since childhood, or has had a successful career. In the face of mental disorders, everyone seemed equal.
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