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When Donna Taylor was three years old, her life changed. Her father disappeared from the family home, leaving Donna’s pregnant mum to care for Donna and her three older brothers. Shortly after her father left, Donna’s mum attempted to take her own life and was admitted to a psychiatric hospital. The four children were placed in care.

When Donna’s mum came out of hospital, the family struggled to find a suitable place to live and even spent several nights in the car. Eventually, they found a permanent home and Donna’s mum settled into a job. 

But the stability didn’t last long. Donna’s mum started seeing Ray, who was an alcoholic. The relationship was volatile and Ray was sometimes violent. Ray also had an uneasy relationship with Kevin, Donna’s brother. Kevin struggled with the situation at home and developed a drug habit. The arguments and Kevin’s descent into addiction attracted the attention of the police – and the family earned a reputation that was difficult to shift. 

Donna’s teenage years were blighted by melancholy, which made it difficult for her to leave the house. Her attendance at school was patchy, but she found the strength and determination to get a job. She also met Tony. When they moved into a new home together, Donna felt as though she could leave behind the poverty and disappointment of the past. 

When Donna found out she was pregnant, Tony reasoned that they were not ready to have a baby, which resulted in the decision to terminate the pregnancy. Donna suppressed her own doubts but was later filled with regret. The relationship with Tony began to buckle under the strain of grief and ended when Donna discovered his infidelity. Donna retreated from the world, seeking solace in isolation and darkness. 

The intervention of Donna’s family prompted a visit to the GP, who prescribed Prozac. The support of her employer enabled Donna to continue, and progress, at work. Then, one day, her Mum arranged a date for Donna. Hassan offered the promise of a future and the couple were married in 2003. But Donna soon noticed a change in Hassan; he became forgetful, losing track of time and place. Hassan was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s – a diagnosis that was later withdrawn. 

The diagnosis was a shock. Donna put all her time and energy into researching the condition. But the sleepless nights took their toll on her mental health, and she became convinced that she was being spoken to by a higher power. Unable to distinguish between reality and delusion, Donna was admitted to a psychiatric hospital. After a brief stay, she discharged herself and went back to the family home, where she tried to take her own life. 

With the support of medication and mental health services, Donna returned to work. But the stability was threatened by Kevin’s continuing struggles and the death of Ray. Donna experienced manic episodes, followed by intense depressions, and was eventually diagnosed with bipolar affective disorder. 

Donna’s condition was monitored and managed, and there was a period of relative calm. But when she decided to stop taking her medication, partly because of its impact on her physical appearance, things started to unravel. An intense period at work seemed to trigger another episode of hallucinations and paranoia. Donna ended up back in the psychiatric hospital, where she was detained under the Mental Health Act. 

When she came out of hospital, Donna made changes to her life. Acknowledging that her mental health must take priority, she drew up a comprehensive plan to manage stress and learned to recognise the early warning signs of her deteriorating mental health. She also changed her job, finding employment at the psychiatric hospital where she was once an inpatient. Donna is still working at the hospital, and hopes her story can remind others that there is hope after despair. Donna talks to Healthcare Counselling and Psychotherapy Journal (HCPJ) about her experience. 

HCPJ: You experienced trauma in your early life – your father’s departure from the family home and your mother’s suicide attempt. How much do you think those traumatic experiences affected your mental health? 

DT: I think early-life trauma can have significant and lasting impacts on mental health, possibly affecting brain development. I also believe it can increase the risk of developing conditions such as depression, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and anxiety, particularly if the trauma is not addressed. 

HCPJ: Do you believe that the environment has an impact on mental health? I am thinking about the financial hardship and the period of homelessness. 

DT: Yes, I believe the environment has a significant impact on mental health. I experienced overcrowded living conditions and poor quality housing. I would also cite family dynamics and relationships as major influencing factors on my mental wellbeing. 

HCPJ: You have lived with addicts: your brother developed a drug addiction and your motherʼs partner was an alcoholic. How do you think addiction affects mental health? 

DT: There is no doubt in my mind that addiction affects mental health – not only the mental health of the addict but also of family and friends. Addiction can both cause and worsen mental health problems; mental health conditions can also increase vulnerability to addiction. 

HCPJ: Do you think society does enough to support people who struggle with addiction? 

DT: No. There is a shortage of treatment facilities and qualified providers. In my opinion, the criminal justice system also prioritises punishment over rehabilitation. But there is growing recognition that addiction is a health issue that requires medical intervention. 

HCPJ: You write in the book that you feared becoming a ‘revolving door’ patient. Could you say a little bit more about your fear? 

DT: It’s scary to think that you could be caught in a cycle of psychiatric hospitalisations. I work in a psychiatric hospital and I see patients who are admitted, stabilised and discharged, only to return a short time later. 

HCPJ: Several times in the book you talk about the purpose and structure that regular employment can offer. Is that still important to you? 

DT: I believe that daily routine and structure contribute to psychological stability. My job also gives me purpose and keeps me grounded. 

HCPJ: Human connection also seems important to recovery. Would you agree? 

DT: Yes, human connection plays a vital role in mental health recovery. Emotional support and validation can reduce the feelings of shame and isolation that often accompany mental health challenges. Friends, family or support groups can also help with daily tasks and offer different perspectives, which can challenge distorted thinking. 

HCPJ: You take medication for your bipolar affective disorder. How important is the medication to your mental wellbeing? 

DT: My medication helps to keep me well and able to live a reasonably normal life. I dislike the side effects of some psychiatric medication, particularly the weight gain. But in the end, my mental stability is more important than my weight. 

HCPJ: You donʼt really mention therapy in the book. Have you been to therapy? If so, did you find it helpful? 

DT: Yes, I have attended cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT) and counselling sessions. I found therapy helpful, as it gave me the opportunity to offload, understand my condition and learn different coping strategies. 

HCPJ: Do you think there is still a stigma around mental health? 

DT: Yes, despite significant progress in recent years. Many people still feel uncomfortable disclosing mental health challenges to employers, fearful that it could affect their career prospects or how they are perceived by colleagues. People can also struggle to open up about their mental health in personal relationships, perhaps because they are worried they will be seen as ‘weak’ or ‘unstable’, particularly in cultures where mental health discussions have traditionally been taboo. I think it can be particularly challenging for men to seek help with their mental health. 

HCPJ: Are there any ways you think that mental health services could be improved? 

DT: I think more funds should be allocated to mental health — and that mental and physical health should be treated equally. I would also review ‘revolving door’ patients, to determine why some patients keep coming back, so we can come up with ways to prevent re-admission to hospital. 

HCPJ: What would you say to others who are experiencing mental health difficulties or suicidal thoughts? 

DT: Don’t act upon suicidal thoughts; time passes and circumstances change. 

HCPJ: Is there anything you would say to therapists who are dealing with clients who are suicidal or severely mentally unwell? 

DT: I would suggest that every therapist should have in place clear safety protocols and crisis plans, including a rigorous risk assessment and up-to-date record keeping. I would also ensure the client has access to crisis hotlines and emergency resources. 

My story 

In an extract from her memoir, Donna Taylor writes about the events that led to her admission to a psychiatric hospital 

As the nights wore on and sleep continued to elude me, the boundaries between reality and delusion blurred. On the fifth night, my behaviour took a turn for the bizarre, a testament to my fractured psyche. In the dead of night, I moved with an almost frenetic energy, fuelled by a desperate need to cleanse the world around me of its perceived evils. 

With trembling hands, I wielded a bottle of water as if it were holy, its droplets a sacrament to cleanse the tainted air of our home. With each invocation of the Lord’s Prayer, I sought to banish the darkness that clung to the walls, my mind consumed by the memory of past traumas. 

In my distorted reality, the misery and violence that had once plagued our home now manifested as an evil presence that lurked within the shadows. Driven by a firm belief in the righteousness of my cause, I reached for the battered gold crucifix that had once belonged to Nan. Faith illuminated the path forward. 

When Mum returned home, I was crouched on the floor like a wild beast, my eyes ablaze with a primal fury that seemed to defy all reason. ‘Oh my God, Donna,’ she exclaimed, her voice trembling with fear and desperation. ‘We need to get you help, now.’ 

Journey to hospital 

As we embarked on the journey to Prospect Park Psychiatric Hospital, the world outside seemed to warp and contort, its familiar contours twisted into grotesque shapes. But I clung to a conviction that our destination held the promise of salvation. With each passing mile, I felt the hand of God guiding us forward. 

At the hospital, I was filled with a sense of euphoria at the anticipation of meeting my maker. When we were ushered into a room, I was met by a psychiatrist. ‘Are you God?’ I asked her, my voice trembling with awe. ‘I am Jesus,’ I proclaimed. ‘I am here to save the world.’ 

As we made our way to the ward, I sensed a malevolent presence lurking in the shadows. In that moment, it felt as though the demon that had haunted me in the living room had returned, its grip tightening around my soul. The urge to purge myself of its influence consumed me, a desperate desire to rid myself of the darkness that threatened to engulf me entirely. ‘Come on, love,’ my mother’s voice cut through my terror, pulling me back from the brink. ‘We’ve got to go to the ward now.’ 

I followed her down the corridor, my movements disjointed and animalistic, like a creature possessed. As we approached the waiting doctor, I felt the weight of impending doom pressing down upon me. The door to the ward loomed ominously in the distance, like a gateway to the abyss. ‘Mum, please don’t leave me,’ I pleaded, my grip on her sleeve tightening. Despite my trembling limbs and racing heart, she pressed forward, her reassuring presence the only anchor in the swirling chaos of my mind. 

As we entered the room, a new wave of terror washed over me; the walls closed in on me like the jaws of some unseen predator. In a crazy outburst, the words spilled from my lips, a twisted confession torn from the depths of my fractured psyche. ‘I’ve been raped by the devil,’ I cried out, my voice echoing off the sterile walls of the room, each syllable laced with raw anguish and despair. Before I knew it, I was surrounded by hospital staff. Needles pierced my skin, drugs coursed through my veins, and the world faded into darkness, as unconsciousness claimed me at last. 

In my manic highs, I became convinced of my divine purpose, certain that I had been chosen to bear a child, who was destined to save humanity. My longing for motherhood morphed into a delusional belief that I carried the offspring of God within me. At other times, I found myself consumed by the belief that I was the Messiah, my hands bearing the phantom wounds of stigmata, a testament to my divine nature. As I grappled with the chasm between reality and fantasy, I clung to the fragile threads of sanity, praying for deliverance from the darkness.

Venturing out into the communal areas, I encountered my fellow patients, each grappling with their own demons. A middle-aged woman approached me, her eyes filled with a mixture of confusion and concern. ‘Oh hello,’ she said. ‘You really frightened me when you came in. You kissed me on the cheek and told me you loved me.’ I couldn’t recall the encounter she described, but I remembered that I was here for a reason. God had chosen me to save the world from an impending catastrophe. In the crucible of my delusions, I found purpose. 

I noticed a nurse, slipping into the staff room. I darted after her, my hand catching the door. ‘You can’t come in here; it’s staff only,’ she declared. ‘I am staff!’ I retorted. Didn’t they understand? I was on a divine assignment, an emissary of a higher calling. I was working for God, tasked with a mission of utmost importance. I attempted to shoulder past her. ‘You must let me through!’ I insisted, my voice edging into desperation. My plea seemed to summon a force against me. Staff members materialised, as if mobilised by an unseen alarm. They converged on me with a practised efficiency, their hands firm and unyielding. I twisted and turned, a wild tempest of limbs, fuelled by a blend of panic and an unshakeable belief in my cause. 

Then, a sharp pinch in my thigh; the cold kiss of a needle. As the liquid fire spread through my veins, the world began to dim and my struggles faded away. The last thing I felt was the embrace of oblivion, as everything went to black. In the ensuing days, I discovered a sanctuary within the hospital’s walls: the chapel. It became my refuge, a place where I could lay bare my soul and seek solace in prayer. 

Derek was one of the patients at the hospital. A frail, elderly gentleman, perpetually in an anorak, despite the controlled temperature. Wherever I went, Derek was my shadow. Our friendship became not just a comfort but a lifeline, affirming that, even in the most unlikely places, companionship and understanding can flourish. I found solace in tending to Derek, a tangible way to anchor myself against the pull of my own disarray. 

I took it upon myself to cut Derek’s food and to prepare for him a peculiar concoction that was his favourite – a blend of tea and coffee. Within the walls of our temporary home, this odd mixture became a symbol of our shared defiance against convention, a small act of rebellion that made sense only to us. It wasn’t long before I, too, found comfort in this unique brew, a testament to the ways in which Derek had influenced my life. 

Ward transfer 

The news of my impending transfer to another ward struck with the force of an unexpected blow. The doctors’ explanation did little to ease the pain of separation from Derek; an administrative oversight had placed me in a different ward. The thought of navigating the days ahead without Derek filled me with a sense of desolation. The hospital, with its endless corridors and sterile rooms, seemed all the more daunting, a labyrinth from which the path to healing had become uncertain. 

I sought out the doctor and asserted my status as a voluntary patient, clinging to the sliver of autonomy it afforded me. The doctors, perhaps sensing my resolve, underscored the importance of continuing my medication regimen. They laid bare the diagnosis: a hypomanic episode with acute polymorphic psychosis. The term ‘revolving-door patient’ echoed in my mind, a future I was determined to avoid. The home care team, a group of diligent guardians, ensured I remained tethered to this newfound stability. Yet, my psyche remained a fragile construct, teetering on the brink of disarray. 

The presence of Ray and Kevin at home became a source of constant agitation. No corner of my world offered solace or respite; I was adrift, longing for a haven that seemed ever elusive. Witnessing the detrimental effect on my fragile state, Mum took a stand. Her directive for Ray and Kevin to leave was a declaration of her priorities, a clear assertion that my wellbeing was paramount. ‘Why should we go?’ Ray shouted, drunkenly. ‘Because Donna’s been really unwell, and she can’t cope with this anymore,’ Mum replied. ‘Well then, she’s the one who should go,’ Ray said. ‘Lock her up!’ 

His words highlighted the stark contrast between those who truly understood the nature of my struggle and those who, either through ignorance or indifference, refused to acknowledge the gravity of my condition. The suggestion to exile me, to send me back to an institution, was a chilling reminder of the stigma and misunderstanding that still surrounds mental health. In that moment, the battle lines were drawn, not just within the confines of our home but within the broader context of my journey towards healing – a journey fraught with challenges but also illuminated by the possibility of finding a true sense of belonging and peace. 

Uncertain future 

Mum’s unwavering stance eventually led to the departure of Ray and Kevin. But their absence did little to alleviate my own internal battles. As I languished in my bed, the echoes of the past mingled with the dread of an uncertain future, drawing me deeper into despair. The future, once a horizon teeming with possibilities, now appeared barren and devoid of hope. 

In a moment of sheer desperation, overwhelmed by the bleakness of our situation, I found myself voicing a thought that had taken root in the darkest corners of my mind. ‘Hassan,’ I begged him. ‘Let’s just end it now. We can gas ourselves in the car.’ The suggestion to end our suffering, to seek an escape from the pain and uncertainty, was born from profound despair. Yet Hassan’s response, a silent but firm refusal, was a testament to a will to endure that I had struggled to find within myself. 

Hassan’s decision to share my proposition with the care worker was a pivotal moment. It was an act of intervention, a plea for help on my behalf that I couldn’t voice myself. It was a crucial step towards seeking the support necessary to navigate the treacherous waters of mental illness. But it felt like a betrayal at the time, and I decided I would have to find a way to end my suffering without Hassan. 

The note I penned to Hassan was both a farewell and an apology, a final attempt to articulate a pain that had grown too immense to bear. With each word, I hoped to convey a love that remained untarnished by the darkness that had enveloped my mind. 

The concoction of psychiatric medication seemed to offer the promise of release. As I settled into the bath, the warmth of the water enveloping me, a calm took hold. The act was a resigned acceptance of defeat – an overwhelming desire to escape a world that had become unbearable. 

The doorbell was the inadvertent saviour that pulled me back from the precipice. It was the home treatment team. If they discovered the note I had left on the side table, they would likely decide to readmit me to Prospect Park Psychiatric Hospital. With every ounce of willpower I could muster, I dragged myself out from the water’s embrace, destroying the tangible evidence of my intent, before succumbing to the overwhelming lethargy that had begun to claim me. 

I woke in an unfamiliar environment, with the concerned face of a stranger hovering into view. The question: ‘Am I in heaven?ʼ, reflected my longing for peace, for an end to the relentless turmoil that had characterised my existence. His reply, though gentle, anchored me to a reality I had sought to escape: ‘No, you’re in the Royal Berkshire Hospital.’ 

The disappointment that welled up within me was not just because my plan had failed, but because I had returned to a life that seemed devoid of solace or understanding. Yet, this moment also represented an opportunity to confront the pain and despair. It was a chance to recognise the presence of individuals who were invested in my wellbeing, even when I had felt most alone. The care worker’s timely arrival, the medical staff’s efforts to stabilise me – all were testaments to a network of support that existed, even in moments when it felt like all was lost. 

Reaching out for help 

My experience served as a catalyst for initiating crucial conversations about mental health, shedding light on the profound importance of reaching out for help and addressing the underlying causes of despair. This period highlighted the intricate and complex nature of the journey towards mental healing – a path often marked by numerous setbacks, yet also highlighted by significant moments of intervention, understanding and compassionate care. 

This pivotal event in my life brought to the forefront the reality that mental wellbeing is not a destination, but a continuous process that demands patience, resilience and the courage to confront your deepest fears and vulnerabilities. It emphasised the need to dismantle the stigma surrounding mental health issues and create an environment where seeking help is not seen as a sign of weakness but as a step towards recovery and self-discovery. 

The aftermath of this challenging time was filled with uncertainty, yet it was also imbued with the potential for profound personal transformation and a renewed hope for the future. It opened up avenues for deeper introspection and a better understanding of the intrinsic value of life, highlighting the possibilities for positive change and growth. 

This phase taught me the importance of nurturing your own mental health, of being kind and patient with yourself, and of the power of supportive relationships and open communication in facilitating healing and fostering a stronger, more resilient self. 

Each step forward, no matter how small, represented progress and a commitment to a healthier, more hopeful future. It was a journey of rediscovering joy, of opening up to love and possibility, and of stepping boldly into a future where mental wellbeing is prioritised and cherished. 

Extracted with permission from Show Me Heaven, published by Arkbound. 

Healthcare Counselling and Psychotherapy Journal, April 2025