When I finally told someone I was afraid I might hurt myself, I thought I was doing what everyone says to do: “Ask for help. Tell someone. Don’t suffer in silence.”
I didn’t expect to end up handcuffed in the back of a police cruiser, stripped of my clothes, my rights, and any remaining dignity.
I had been struggling. Sleep-deprived and in the throes of a bipolar mixed episode, physically wrecked by chronic illness, and stressed to the max. I didn’t want to die, living had just become too painful. When I finally said it out loud, honestly and clearly to a psychiatrist in the ER, I wasn’t in any immediate danger. I was asking for help early, while I still could.
The plan was agreed on with the consulting psychiatrist: a voluntary admission to a reputable hospital with a decent psychiatric unit. We even made a list of hospitals I was OK with, and two I absolutely was not.
I knew from personal experience as a peer support volunteer that one was poorly managed, unsafe and chaotic. The other was underfunded and more like a holding pen for people. I wasn’t asking for five stars; I just wanted to avoid any more trauma.
