Ellen's Story

For our Better Care = Safer Care campaign, Ellen reflects on her experience of being admitted to mental health hospitals four times since 2011. While there have been moments of genuine care and compassion during her admissions, there have also been times when she has felt frightened, unheard and completely alone.

Trigger Warning: detainment, restraint, forced medication

My first admission was in 2011, when I was 20 years old. I was at university, deeply unhappy and struggling with suicidal thoughts. Things then escalated into a breakdown and I was sectioned after experiencing a psychotic episode. Later, I was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder.

That first hospital stay wasn’t as bad as I feared. I was very unwell and, at times, resistant to medication. I remember being pinned down when I refused it and being injected with the medication, which was frightening, but at other times the staff were kind towards me. There were activities every day and I felt looked after. It felt like there was a structure and that people genuinely cared.

By my second admission in 2014, things had shifted. I went into hospital voluntarily after being advised by the mental health team at A&E. I stayed for about a week but noticed a serious lack of support. You were mostly left to look after yourself. There wasn’t much to do, and very little meaningful interaction.

Then came 2022, which was by far my worst experience. I was sectioned again and taken to hospital. Five policewomen and an ambulance came to get me. It was overwhelming and traumatic from the start.

On the ward, things only got worse. Staff didn’t listen to my parents, who were trying to advocate for me. I was put on multiple medications that made me feel worse, not better. When I tried to leave, staff took my belongings and restrained me. I was pinned to the floor by five people and placed in seclusion.

Seclusion is something I will never forget. I was left in a bare room with a plastic mattress. I had to ask for food. No one told me where the toilet was. The shower was freezing, there was no soap, no towel - I had to dry myself with my clothes. There was nothing to do, no one to talk to. I felt completely alone. I remember thinking: how is this supposed to help me?

At one point, I had calmed down, but I was still treated as though I was dangerous. I felt stripped of my dignity and my rights. I wanted to appeal my section, but access to support was limited. My dad supported me as much as he could, but it was a long journey for him and I felt incredibly isolated. I spent ten weeks in that hospital. I came out feeling less like a human being.

My most recent admission was in 2025. I went in voluntarily because I could feel myself becoming unwell again, mainly due to lack of sleep. Despite going in voluntarily, I was threatened with being sectioned under Section 5.

What struck me most this time was the loneliness. I was allowed my phone in the hospital but made no connections with others on the ward so felt very lonely. There were no real opportunities to talk or process what I was going through. It was one of the worst experiences, not because of what was done to me, but because of what was missing.

Across all my admissions, one thing stands out: the lack of therapeutic support. There was no consistent access to therapy, no-one sitting down with me to really listen or help me make sense of what I was experiencing. There was very little to do and only one occupational therapist, but not enough to keep people engaged. The days felt endless.

Seclusion, in particular, needs to change. I understand safety is important, but the environment doesn’t have to be so cold, so dehumanising. It should feel safe, not punitive. Staff training is also crucial. Some staff were kind and compassionate, but others didn’t seem to understand what it feels like to be in that state. That lack of understanding can make everything worse.

What would have helped me? Being listened to. Having access to therapy. Activities to give structure to the day. A safe, humane environment. And better communication, especially with my family.

I now have an advance statement, something I didn’t have before, which outlines what works for me and what doesn’t. That alone has made a difference. But it shouldn’t take years of difficult experiences to get to that point.

Living with a lifelong mental health condition means I know I may need support again in the future. What I hope is that, next time, that support feels like care, not containment.

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