'I was afraid to check into a psychiatric hospital. It surprised me in the best possible way.'

I recently stayed at a psychiatric hospital. Since leaving, I've spoken to friends about my experience and I've realised there's still a lot of fear and mystery about these facilities.

I was in a private hospital. It's not the same as going into a public ward, but there are still no hooks on walls, no cords, two-hourly safety checks, and a series of other rules put in place by the nurses, who controlled most aspects of life inside the hospital.

It's still an institution.

But honestly, at times, it just felt like a school camp for sad people. Shared meals, card games, art, friendships and also a sense of community. As one man said to me, "This is my happy place".

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Lining up for meds is where a lot of socialising happens. Sleep was a shared challenge we all experienced. So, in the morning lines, we spoke about who'd had how much sleep, what we had planned for the day and how we were feeling.

It's the one place I've been where it's totally okay to not be okay.

As I started to get to know other patients, we'd use our day leave to go on little excursions together. Walks to the beach, night markets, one patient and I even planned piercings.

I had a camp BFF, another young mum. We'd sit together during group therapy and whisper and giggle. On bad days, we wouldn't come downstairs for group. But we'd always check in on each other. Do you need a coffee? Want to come browse Kmart? Do you want to just come sit outside in the sunshine with me?

Just like school camp, there were fads. Everyone got really into Lego when an Easter collection was released. Someone got their hair done, so then we all got our hair done. Suddenly, the corridors were full of freshly dyed blow-outs.

And there were romances. Even a love triangle with one man who I was sternly warned off.

I don't want to sugar coat the experience. Some sad, scary and weird stuff happened. The night before I came in, a man had been sectioned and involuntarily sent to a public psych ward. That threat hung over all of us.

And not everything was how it appeared on the surface.

One night, I stayed up late having a deep and meaningful conversation with another patient, bonding over a shared hobby. The next day, I watched her wander the hospital halls with a blanket over her head 'to stop the vibrations'. I later found her sitting, head in her hands, slapping the sides of her head to make the vibrations stop. She was a ray of sunshine during my stay, but also a reminder that some of us are very good at masking.

There was also a kind of unwritten rule that you didn't ask people about why they were there. Like it was rude or a bit inappropriate to ask about their treatment or diagnosis. People did, sometimes, disclose in group therapy.

I have bipolar. Once, in a group session, I shared that I was having an elevated episode, so they didn't wonder why I was doing laps of the room, talking a mile a minute and unable to sit still.

Things did get weird at times too.

Like when our class got interrupted by someone defecating in the waiting area. Or the man who got punched in the face after using a banana as a gun to 'shoot' a patient.

But there was also an excited group of 20-somethings in pyjamas, scurrying down the corridor looking for a private spot to play Cards Against Humanity.

Or a group of us who got stranded in the basement when the lift broke and had to navigate the staff-only areas to find our way back to the ward — laughing the whole way, like kids who've escaped the watchful eyes of camp counsellors.

The lifts were notoriously unreliable. I remember waiting one day with a caretaker, who said they'd be doing work over Christmas when it was quieter.

"Quieter? I thought the hospital would be closed," I said, aghast at the idea of anyone wanting to be here over the holidays.

"You'd be surprised," he smiled. "For some people, there's nowhere they'd rather be."

Soon after, I saw exactly what he meant. I'd left a therapy session in tears after seeing photos of my son's first soccer game, which I was missing. I was beside myself, but by the time I made it back to my room, I'd had three hugs and "You've got this", from people who were hurting just as much as me. The emotional generosity and camaraderie of other patients was astounding.

So, at times, it really was like a school camp for sad people. I don't say that to romanticise it or patronise inpatients like myself. 

I say it because there's so much stigma attached to mental health hospitals that means we often resist going in. But, if we leave it too long, the risk is that we'll hurt ourselves or end up in a higher-risk public facility, which requires even more resilience to get through.

I know this is a particular risk for women because that's who I was in the hospital with. I was surrounded by depressed, anxious, burnt-out and unwell mums — mums who couldn't even get a break while they were in hospital.

I remember chatting to one mum who'd used up all her day leave sprinting home to help her son finish an assignment. Or another, who discharged herself early because her husband needed her help to care for their two children.

Any hospital stay is hard, but for anyone who is unwell, my advice would be to take help and — if it's accessible and affordable for you (which I know it's not for everyone) — let go of the stigma and get treatment in a psychiatric facility.

Feature Image: Supplied.