Just before June, 2016, admitted myself to the Mater psychiatric ward because of a mood disorder that had been spiralling out of control.
I was the only out LGBTQI+ person on the ward: there were about 15 of us in total. It had a communal area, which was of no interest to anyone except Mick - a truck-driver who was trying to cut down on the smokes, and then there was the electric pulse of the psych ward- the smoking area, a tiny room with an odour of tobacco so dank it even got to me, a heavy smoker. It was nestled in the corner of the communal area, and practically all the patients - heavy smokers also would pile in first thing at ten in the morning when they opened the smoking room door after the medications had been doled out. listened to everybody’s story in that opaque room. Not long into my stay, was sitting in the smoking room alone, for once, lost in thought. Something must have given away the stifling depression was smiling my way through, since Mick, who kept himself to himself, came in and offered me a cigarette, lighting one up himself. Once he’d shared a bit about his depression, which was extreme and devastating, he asked me if knew anything about the ‘Black Dog’.
