Whatever medication I was given last night had knocked me out completely and I'm disorientated, extremely emotional, and in denial about being in a mental hospital. I can't believe it. I look around the room. It reminds me of a 3-star hotel with a three-quarter bed instead of a double. Like a travel lodge, but for mental patients; with half a bathroom door and no cabinets on the closets. There is generic wall art in my room and a shatterproof mirror. I happen to have the privilege of looking at a picture of a fish in water, which hangs just to the right of my bed. It is not serene; the fish looks lonely. I haven't showered, or brushed my teeth, or washed my face, or actually done anything other than roll out of bed, put on a coat to go down to the smoking area. As I walk downstairs to the basement, I notice the deep blue worn carpets, the cold office-like lighting, and stark white walls on which landscape photos hang. Continuing through the basement, there is a small gym to my left as I enter the corridor leading outside to the smokers’ corner. The gym equipment is basic, there are a few cardio machines and some blue exercise mats. Perhaps I’ll give it a go when I feel a bit better. I know I’m lying to myself. As I walk down the corridor, I notice it is covered with artwork from patients. ‘Artwork’ might be a bit of a stretch for some of the pieces. For the most part, I don’t know what I’m looking at. It fits the brief perfectly: psychiatric hospital chic - it is filled with chaos, colour clashes and bold lines. The cold corner outside with overflowing ashtrays is a welcome sight.

The hospital has general therapy sessions, where anyone in the psychiatric part of the hospital can attend. It’s colloquially referred to as psych-ed classes, eg healthy sleeping habits, emotional regulation etc. I have been told I’ll also be put in a smaller group for more intimate therapies; cognitive behavioural therapy and interpersonal psychotherapy. I have not been allocated a group yet, so I spend my morning wandering around, trying to orientate myself. The canteen is also located on the basement floor. It is referred to as a ‘restaurant’. It is, in fact, a canteen in denial with a superiority complex. It is only open at very specific times during the day. Dinner is served from 5pm to 7pm. This place is a confused medical hotel/old age home. Who has dinner at 5pm? I filled out a dietary request form on arrival for vegan food, so I have a look around at the prepared meals lined up for the lunch serving: spaghetti bolognese, roast chicken and some sides. I’m not hungry and the only thing vegan is salad. By the looks of things, I’ll be going on a diet. I get called up to see the ward GP. He takes my blood and does an ECG. It dawns on me that I am actually in a hospital, it is not a weird hotel/old age home, and it is certainly not a retreat.

Later in the afternoon I meet with one of the therapists who allocates me to a group. She is short, with grey hair and a demeanour that immediately makes me apprehensive. You would think that you get allocated to groups based your past experiences which may have caused or compounded your mental illness, or that you’re put with people who suffer from similar mental afflictions. You would be wrong. Allocation is based on capacity, if there is more space in one group than the other groups, that's the group you get allocated to. Bizarre and random, and as I found going to my first therapy session, incredibly frustrating and anxiety provoking. I attend some general afternoon psych-ed groups for the sake of killing time. I'm exhausted and I don't really care.