The Fall of Berlin 1945 by Antony BeevorThe Red Army had much to avenge when it finally reached the frontiers of the Reich in January 1945. Political instructors rammed home the message of Wehrmacht and SS brutality. The result was the most terrifying example of fire and sword ever known, with tanks crushing refugee columns under their tracks, mass rape, pillage and destruction. Hundreds of thousands of women and children froze to death or were massacred because Nazi Party chiefs, refusing to face defeat, had forbidden the evacuation of civilians. Over seven million fled westwards from the terror of the Red Army.
Antony Beevor reconstructs the experiences of those millions caught up in the nightmare of the Third Reichs final collapse, telling a terrible story of pride, stupidity, fanaticism, revenge and savagery, but also one of astonishing endurance, self-sacrifice and survival against all odds.
Life on the Psych Ward - C4
It was the end of April I spent the morning crying in my car on the way to work about the reason I had gone into medicine. As a child I had witnessed my Dad going through a severe depression, and not recognising it at my eight years of age, I had developed a yearning to reach out to others. My consultant colleague found me in my car; I was laughing incongruously about this revelation with mascara streaming down my cheeks. I still went to work and treated patients that day. My mixed affective crisis reached a climax a few days after and, exactly one year ago, I relinquished my house keys to my unconcerned housemate, packed my car up with every possession I owned and set off on a journey with an unknown endpoint.
Log in to view full text. If you're not a subscriber, you can:. Colleague's E-mail is Invalid. Your message has been successfully sent to your colleague. Save my selection. Lelliott, Paul ; Quirk, Alan. This review describes what life is like on such wards by presenting research findings primarily from qualitative studies.
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I have been hospitalized three times. I was given heavily sedating medication much of the time, however I will never forget what I went through. Instead, I was treated like I was a threat to others safety, as if I had done something terribly wrong. Instead of receiving care, my experiences left me scarred, stalled and aimless for years afterwards. My last psychiatric hospitalization was the most painful. I arrived, strapped into a wheelchair, to a chaotic psychiatric emergency room.
With Level One privileges at the psychiatric hospital where I was involuntarily committed in , the patient was allowed off the ward for breakfast. I chose raisin bran from a selection of preschool-sized boxes. I ate the cereal under supervision with a plastic spoon. I drank apple juice, which came in a plastic container with a foil top and a straw. There were patients who had been there longer, were well behaved, and yet also ate breakfast on the ward; signs hung on the doors of their rooms indicated that they received electro-convulsive therapy, and thus could not eat before their morning treatments.
The first time I was admitted to the psych ward, I was I was still a minor, so I had the benefit of boarding with the youth in the juvenile behavioral unit in the local hospital. The tell-tale behaviors of mania and depression were present in me, leading up to the admission. I simply had a sense of my life being cut short—a symptom of manic paranoia—which the hospital interpreted as a threat of harm to myself or others. This interpretation led to another tick against another piece of criteria for admission. She had met with us two or three times prior, but because I now needed around-the-clock monitoring, advised my parents to take me to the local hospital. They said I may be there for a long weekend; it turned out to be three weeks.