CHAPTER 90

2025-09-26

Life inside a psychiatric hospital is as plain as water—perhaps deliberately so.

Living in a psychiatric ward brings complicated feelings and a restless mind, but daily life itself is simple and uneventful, even dull. Patients are admitted because of emotional, psychological, or psychiatric conditions. They cannot, and should not, be further agitated. Perhaps that is why life here is kept so bland.

Routines are fixed: medication at set times, meals in fixed portions. Within this protected environment, patients settle down and stabilize physically and mentally, while the medical team conducts consultations to determine causes and draw up treatment plans.

When I first arrived, I had no mood to entertain myself. A few days later, as I calmed down, I began to look around for recreational facilities. Two rooms were provided for leisure. One had a large television with videotapes, benches along the sides, and coffee tables with chairs behind. The other contained a few books and board games—though the choices were limited.

I picked up a hardcover book to read in my room, but the first chapter opened with a murder case. My nerves were already strained enough; I didn’t need more stimulation. I put it aside. The videotapes were old and worn, so I had no interest in those either.

With such a plain lifestyle, plus a change of medication, my mood gradually stabilized and began to improve. My days took on a rhythm: wake up, wash, have meals, see the doctor, undergo checkups, and stroll along the hallway. After lunch there were group activities, then visits from relatives and friends, followed by dinner. Evenings meant half an hour of light recreation in the common room, then a shower and personal hygiene. Before bedtime, snacks were distributed. I always chose the more “filling” ones. After that, I would rest in bed. Lights dimmed at nine, and were switched off completely at eleven.

Among fellow patients, I met five of Asian descent:

An elderly man whose room was messy and who often slept.

A talkative young Chinese man who told me he had just broken up with his girlfriend.

Lun’s roommate, lively, a big appetite, fond of scalding hot tea, and requiring constant supervision.

An auntie, whose breakfast I once ate.

A round-faced woman in her forties, neatly dressed in her own clothes, always clean. Her eyes looked vacant, fixed straight ahead, as she paced the corridor day after day.

Once, she and I were the last to enter the dining room, leaving only the two of us. She asked me, “Does your wife visit you every day?” I said yes. She replied, “That’s very good.” It turned out she had been quietly observing other patients’ situations, yet since her admission she had never once received a visitor. We were actually neighbors, and she had previously stayed in another facility that housed more stable patients. I remembered what my doctor had told me: if my condition improved but I was still not ready to return home, I might be transferred to such a place. At the time, I wondered how long I would have to stay—months, years?

I also recall that midway through my stay, doctors mentioned electroconvulsive therapy. Later, they canceled it, deciding it was unnecessary.

I was grateful for friends and relatives who visited, some even helping bring my wife to the hospital. Friends later told me I had looked very restless and exhausted in the early days. In truth, I had constantly worried that after visiting me, my wife would be unsafe going home late at night—thoughts that now seem almost delusional.

There was one bright moment. In the middle of my stay, a young girl was admitted. She was a friend of my friend's son, who knew I was in the same hospital. He visited both his friend and me, bringing me a touch of warmth and light in an otherwise colorless life.