In case I didn't hate myself enough, the nurses made it very clear to me that I was a bad BAD patient. I think maybe I made no sense to them:
their labels did not fit me
their treatment did not affect me
their best efforts could not change me
Imagine if someone had a broken leg, and came to the hospital to be treated for bone cancer. I was not mentally ill. I was emotionally injured.
So when they gave me antipsychotic medication, it did not stop the cutting and burning. When they punished me by refusing to dress my infected burns, it did not help. When they told me that if I trusted them, if I complied with their treatment, if I followed their rules, the cutting would stop, I was not reassured.
My injuries needed to be bandaged with love, examined with respect, medicated with compassion and kindness. But there was no medicine of that sort on Ward L3.