The Uniform

by Ferris Knight

They can’t tell me what day I was admitted, just that it was 71 days ago. So does that make it July 7? I don’t remember. That’s unsurprising, considering.

Packing, I took what I thought I needed for what I hoped was a maximum of a 24 days ago admission. Clothes, toiletries, some books, my laptop, a couple more books. But arriving here I realised I was missing something, and not just some shorter cords that wouldn’t be confiscated. A fluffy, name-brand hoodie that everyone knows, but this is not an advertisement.

I was admitted to a psychiatric ward to go through ECT, or electroconvulsive therapy. Medication wasn’t working, and I now had scars on my thighs that made me wonder how I’d ever tell someone I’d meet on a dating website. Sixteen years ago I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and this was my fifth course of ECT. That’s why I don’t remember. One of the side effects of ECT is memory loss. I just received a text from someone who knows me well, but I didn’t recognise her name. That, and as soon as it was over - later than originally planned - I secretly ripped off my hospital band, a way to imagine I wasn’t a patient, which had my admission date on it.

You’d think by now I’d know what to do, but arriving here, when I went out for a cigarette (vapes weren’t allowed, so I definitely did not have one hiding under my pillow that I’d snuck in, pressed under my breast, held in place by my bra), rain was a constant companion to the winter chill. There was no shelter, chairs regularly flipped to keep them dry when not being sat on, and birds in the gumtree closeby regularly shat on the ground or chairs.

Slowly, those who were there for awhile bought the hoodie. The psych ward uniform. One girl in pink with cartoon cats. One in pink. One light blue with unicorns. Two in different purples. One man in almost black with patterns. One man in navy blue, bought off eBay specifically because it was the uniform. And for a reason. Myself in grey, or light blue with love heart candies bought by someone who wanted me to be someone I’m not.

I imagine that some people buy these for the winter chill, not as a compulsory but as a luxury. That their idea of how to fill a suitcase is based on going on a holiday rather than an admission that you hide, pretending you’re downing cocktails of drinks rather than drugs.

I have had a bipolar diagnosis for sixteen years. When I’m manic I’ve been known to dance on freeways, hitchhike to another state, and on restrained episodes caught before they’ve gotten bad reorganise everything to alphabetical order, including in hospitals. When depressed I don’t shower, brush my teeth, and at worse self-harm (or even worse). And it’s important to be able to say that. I’ve lost track of hospitalisations and medications trialled.

But until we can talk about mental health freely, not just limited to, at best, perhaps the strength it takes to make an appointment but instead also including a crisis before it becomes an obituary, the psych ward uniform will continue to have a place in my wardrobe with the lie that I’m trying to conserve energy. Until one day, hopefully one day, no one has to lie about why they own the uniform.

Ferris Knight is a queer and disabled writer, producer and advocate from Melbourne, Australia.
They mainly write about their lived experiences with mental and physical health conditions, as well as queer politics, poetry and fiction. They have also worked with organisations such as Arts Access Victoria, The Dax Centre and Women with Disabilities Victoria.