Jordan Beaven

I’ve realised something recently and it’s hard to admit and sit with…

I don’t think I’ve processed what’s happened to me at all.

Because when you’re living in survival mode, you don’t sit there and reflect. You don’t “heal”. You don’t even feel half of it properly. You just… exist. You cope. You get through the day. You do what you have to do.

But over the last few days, it feels like my body has started screaming what my brain has been trying to silence for nearly 800 days.

The seizures.

The FND episodes.

The medical trauma.

The confusion.

The exhaustion.

The shutdown.

The sheer overwhelm.

It’s like everything I’ve been suppressing for so long has finally caught up with me, and my nervous system is basically going: “Nope. Not anymore.”

And I think what’s messing with my head the most is that I keep telling myself “there is nothing to struggle with”.

But that’s only because this has become my norm.

Because when you’ve lived in a hospital long enough, the abnormal starts to feel normal. The chaos becomes routine. The clinical walls become your whole world. And slowly, without even realising, you stop recognising how messed up the situation actually is.

But I need to say this clearly, loudly, and unapologetically:

Living inside a general hospital for the third year is absolutely fucking NOT normal.

It’s ludicrous.

It’s exhausting.

It’s dehumanising.

And it does something to you mentally and physically that people don’t talk about enough.

This is what institutionalisation looks like.

And the worst part? I think I’ve reached a point where I’ve surrendered to it.

And that’s not okay.

This is what being stuck in the system does to someone. This is what happens when you’re trapped in a situation for so long that you stop believing there’s an “outside” anymore. When you stop knowing what normal life even feels like. When you’re just… stuck.

I’ve spent nearly 800 days in a hospital bed.

800 days of my life paused.

800 days since I almost died.

800 days of being moved around the country from hospital to hospital.

800 days of waiting.

800 days of existing in survival mode.

And I’m sorry but this isn’t just unfair…

It’s wrong.

It’s not fair on the NHS paying for my bed.

It’s not fair on me having to manage this.

And it’s not fair on the patient who desperately needs to be admitted but can’t because I’m still here.

That fact alone eats me alive.

And I know some people will read this and think “well at least you’re safe.”

But being kept alive isn’t the same as living.

And I’ve only just started wanting to live again after years of battling mental illness. I’ve been given a second chance, and now it feels like my body is collapsing under the weight of everything I’ve survived.

The trauma doesn’t just disappear because you’re “still here”.

It stores itself. It builds. It sits in your body.

And eventually it comes out one way or another.

And that’s why I’m so angry when people act like mental health and physical health are separate.

Because they are not.

You cannot destroy someone mentally and expect their body to stay untouched. You cannot trap someone in survival mode for years and then be shocked when their nervous system starts malfunctioning.

This is trauma living in the body.

This is what being stuck does.

And I’m sharing this because I’m done being quiet about it.

I’m speaking with my voice as loud as I can because I want awareness raised, I want conversations started, and I want people to feel heard.

Because nobody should ever have to live like this.

And yes, talking about my experiences as a disabled, neurodivergent hooman might make some people uncomfortable…

But good.

Because what you call uncomfortable is someone else’s REAL life.

We don’t meet your standards.

We don’t fit in your little boxes.

We aren’t neat, simple, or easy to understand.

We are real people.

And we deserve to be heard.

Some people will call this uncomfortable reading…

I call it my life.

I didn’t survive everything I have just to spend my life stuck behind hospital doors.