LiesAndLigatures
Please kill me. Please? PLEASE!
- Nov 8, 2020
- 143
The following is something that I wrote recently, in an attempt to explain how I was traumatized by my past mental health treatment. There is some stuff that I still just couldn't bring myself to write, or even think about without flashing back to the horrors of that time in my life. Feel free to ask questions or provide feedback. Even though the note ends with a goodbye, I am still alive for right now. I'm sure the day will come when I post a "Goodbye" thread and take my SN, but it isn't today. And I'm still not sure that is a good thing.
To whom it may concern:
This is my final message to the world I have decided to leave. A world that hasn't been my home for a long time now. A place that I won't miss, even though it is all that I have ever known. A place where I am leaving others to suffer alone; and that is my greatest personal regret.
I could write out every terrible thing I have ever experienced. That I have ever done. But I will keep this brief. The stories that I haven't shared at this point will die with me. Instead, I will only share a cautionary tale, in the hopes that no one ever has to go through what I went through. A false hope like any other, because I know that change would require too many people to face too many hard truths. It is easier for society as a whole to brush these problems under the rug. To consider this note, and the actions that follow, as the final acts of a mad man. I'm prepared for that. But if we ignore the flaws of the systems currently in place, we will never evolve. More people will be hurt like I was, and I can't accept that without trying to speak up for them. Call me crazy, call me ill, tarnish all of your good memories of me by thinking that I am the one at fault for what happened to me. It doesn't matter, because I won't be there to hear it.
This is a story of psychiatric abuse. There are many such stories available online, and still the majority of victims are never really heard. We only hear the success stories. We hear how it can get better, how happiness is within reach, all we need to do is ask for help.
In the autumn of 2013, I asked for help. I was suffering from mild depression due to life events. I was having trouble in school, I had very few friends, and I was unable to see much of a future. Your typical teen story. Not ready to face transition, not knowing what time and life itself may throw at me. I cried a lot, I passively considered suicide, I even hurt myself sometimes just to feel like I was in control of my pain. But eventually, I thought I could see someone. Maybe to talk through my problems, come up with solutions and goals to live for, maybe just to feel like there were really great things out there that would eventually make up for life so far. I agreed to medication and therapy. Anything to feel better. The medication never really worked. It was difficult to take something every day when I felt no better. When all the pills did was make me foggy and upset my stomach. But still, there was hope in therapy.
The first couple of sessions were okay. I talked about my issues, got an impartial viewpoint, and finally thought I could trust someone with my dark feelings. Instead, I was labelled a "danger to myself". I was told I had to go to the hospital, to be admitted for inpatient psychiatric care. I had been assessed once already due to my foolish trust in a school guidance counselor. I knew that another assessment so soon would result in being locked away. So, I ran. I didn't have any plan, any idea what I would do when I stopped running. Then the police got involved, giving me no choices other than "Cuffs, or no cuffs?" So, I went with them to the hospital. Where, over the course of several hours, I was assessed and admitted to the local pediatric psychiatric facility. That was when things went from scary to down-right traumatic.
While in that facility, I was around patients who were violent and posed a risk to others. I was coerced, and sometimes forced, into taking a variety of very strong psychotropic drugs. I was isolated from my friends and family, other than our short visitation periods. I saw and experienced solitary confinement. They called it the "quiet room", even though an hour in there could make anyone scream in frustration. A small room with a cement floor, a metal door, and nothing but a 3-inch foam mattress. Where patients would sometimes have to spend the night, without a blanket or pillow, when the unit was understaffed for the patients who required "1-on-1" monitoring. And I saw worse. But the very worst part about my situation, without a doubt, was the lack of freedom. I had to get out.
I tried explaining that I was willing to do any outpatient treatment necessary, if I could just get out. I was denied. I tried telling the truth to the doctors, nurses, case managers, that feeling trapped and helpless was making me feel so much worse than I felt before. They saw this as a reason to keep me as a prisoner. They told me that everything I thought was wrong. They preached the efficacy of coping skills, and left us with hours and hours of nothing but talking to other patients and writing in journals. None of us could do much more than that anyways, with everyone experiencing side effects from their medications. Even though I was always foggy, I remember every detail of those days. Eventually, I learned that there was no way to get better in that kind of environment. I had to learn to pretend I was what they wanted me to be, and I eventually got out of my first hospitalization.
It didn't last long, and I was sent to another facility. Similar experiences, had to employ similar techniques to win back my freedom. This repeated multiple times, with varying amounts of time spent as a prisoner in my own home instead of in the hospitals. Every time I thought I found someone I could trust, they pushed me back into that hellish cycle. Assessment, varying amounts of law enforcement, inpatient, drugs, unempathetic doctors, abuse of power. Then lying and release. It was so easy to lie, but I wanted help. They hurt me so much, and each time I needed to heal even more than before. Eventually, the traumas and the risks outweighed any possible reward. Good mental health can't possibly come from a cycle of abuse. They made me experience isolation, cold-turkey withdrawal from benzodiazepines, dangerous people, and feeling trapped. At one point, I was even put in full transport chains for a 2-hour ride in the back of a police car. I was treated like a convicted felon, all for my thoughts and feelings.
When I stopped getting treatment, even though I had to fight really hard for that right, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. I would never have to experience those horrors again. I was free now, so the memories should fade. I could just try to live my life in a way that I enjoy. I functioned like that for a time. I got my GED to avoid summer classes, I worked really hard at a few jobs, I even started online college and maintained a 4.0 GPA freshman year. But the memories weren't fading. I still felt exactly the same as when I was trapped, even though I knew I was free now. When I saw the opportunity to get a job across the country, and with family nearby to boot, I thought it would fix everything. I would change my environment, and my mind would follow. But I didn't feel any different.
I drank and gambled to numb the pain. I felt powerful. No price was too high to feel like I was in control. It ruined me financially, but for the first year, it was actually worth it. My job was kicking my ass, I was doing 12-hour shifts 6 days a week, while also doing 18 credits per semester of online schooling, but I could blow off steam at the casino. I could decide my level of risk, and even if I lost some money, it was nothing compared to the things I had lost in the past. As with anything I do for too long though, it eventually took its toll. I could handle not having money when I was able to have fun, but eventually, it wasn't fun anymore. I had ruined my finances, all for something I eventually got tired of. And the dark thoughts became more frequent again.
After that, nothing helped with the dark thoughts. Things only seemed to stay the same, or get worse. School made it worse, so I dropped out. Work made it worse, so I stopped doing overtime, and eventually went on disability after the pandemic started. It was easier to say that it was all due to the stress of COVID-19, because people could actually relate to that issue. I could avoid telling them the real reasons. That my past was haunting me with panic attacks, sleepless nights, and vivid flashbacks. I found that cannabis helped with panic attacks and sleeping, but I still couldn't stop the flashbacks. Eventually, even cannabis stopped working, and all of my symptoms got stronger. I could still use a quick toke to make movies more interesting, but whether I was high or sober, the symptoms were unavoidable.
The flashbacks are too strong now. Every night feels like my first night locked on a ward. Afraid of every small noise, unable to sleep because I feel like a flashlight will be pointed at my face every 15 minutes. Every day feels like those dragging hours spent in the "Day room". It doesn't matter if I go for a walk, drive around town, or build something. It feels the same as doing nothing, so I would rather do nothing. Every time I have a panic attack, I feel like I'm about to be physically dragged to solitary, and locked away until I can pretend to be calm. Not a day goes by that I don't remember all those other patients. People who I met in a fog for a short period of time, and I somehow remember more about them than some of my own family members. I mourn for lost friends, and mourn for my own lost future. How am I supposed to fix this, when the "fixers" are the ones who broke me?
Now, I have realized that I don't really need to fix this, I would just prefer to end it. A rational choice, made with a heavy heart. The suffering of the years gone by outweighs any future happiness, and I don't want to live with those memories anymore. I believe that suicide is a matter of bodily autonomy, and therefore a human right. The only person that should get to choose when I have had enough, is me. Making that choice shouldn't result in being forced to live without freedom. It should result in dying with dignity. Mental suffering is no less valid than physical suffering, and still lacks effective treatment in modern times. I'm ready for my suffering to end.
I know this will hurt. I know that a lot of people will be negatively impacted by this choice. But I have had enough bad days. I've had enough of crying until I can't breathe. I've had enough of chest and stomach pains, because I can't even make myself eat. I've had enough of the empty promises that it could ever get better, words spoken only by those who have never truly experienced the mental health system. I've had enough of life. We all die some time, and I'm more prepared than most. Having control over this helps. My last moments will be my own. It is a selfish choice, but it is MY choice. I am truly sorry, but this is goodbye.
To whom it may concern:
This is my final message to the world I have decided to leave. A world that hasn't been my home for a long time now. A place that I won't miss, even though it is all that I have ever known. A place where I am leaving others to suffer alone; and that is my greatest personal regret.
I could write out every terrible thing I have ever experienced. That I have ever done. But I will keep this brief. The stories that I haven't shared at this point will die with me. Instead, I will only share a cautionary tale, in the hopes that no one ever has to go through what I went through. A false hope like any other, because I know that change would require too many people to face too many hard truths. It is easier for society as a whole to brush these problems under the rug. To consider this note, and the actions that follow, as the final acts of a mad man. I'm prepared for that. But if we ignore the flaws of the systems currently in place, we will never evolve. More people will be hurt like I was, and I can't accept that without trying to speak up for them. Call me crazy, call me ill, tarnish all of your good memories of me by thinking that I am the one at fault for what happened to me. It doesn't matter, because I won't be there to hear it.
This is a story of psychiatric abuse. There are many such stories available online, and still the majority of victims are never really heard. We only hear the success stories. We hear how it can get better, how happiness is within reach, all we need to do is ask for help.
In the autumn of 2013, I asked for help. I was suffering from mild depression due to life events. I was having trouble in school, I had very few friends, and I was unable to see much of a future. Your typical teen story. Not ready to face transition, not knowing what time and life itself may throw at me. I cried a lot, I passively considered suicide, I even hurt myself sometimes just to feel like I was in control of my pain. But eventually, I thought I could see someone. Maybe to talk through my problems, come up with solutions and goals to live for, maybe just to feel like there were really great things out there that would eventually make up for life so far. I agreed to medication and therapy. Anything to feel better. The medication never really worked. It was difficult to take something every day when I felt no better. When all the pills did was make me foggy and upset my stomach. But still, there was hope in therapy.
The first couple of sessions were okay. I talked about my issues, got an impartial viewpoint, and finally thought I could trust someone with my dark feelings. Instead, I was labelled a "danger to myself". I was told I had to go to the hospital, to be admitted for inpatient psychiatric care. I had been assessed once already due to my foolish trust in a school guidance counselor. I knew that another assessment so soon would result in being locked away. So, I ran. I didn't have any plan, any idea what I would do when I stopped running. Then the police got involved, giving me no choices other than "Cuffs, or no cuffs?" So, I went with them to the hospital. Where, over the course of several hours, I was assessed and admitted to the local pediatric psychiatric facility. That was when things went from scary to down-right traumatic.
While in that facility, I was around patients who were violent and posed a risk to others. I was coerced, and sometimes forced, into taking a variety of very strong psychotropic drugs. I was isolated from my friends and family, other than our short visitation periods. I saw and experienced solitary confinement. They called it the "quiet room", even though an hour in there could make anyone scream in frustration. A small room with a cement floor, a metal door, and nothing but a 3-inch foam mattress. Where patients would sometimes have to spend the night, without a blanket or pillow, when the unit was understaffed for the patients who required "1-on-1" monitoring. And I saw worse. But the very worst part about my situation, without a doubt, was the lack of freedom. I had to get out.
I tried explaining that I was willing to do any outpatient treatment necessary, if I could just get out. I was denied. I tried telling the truth to the doctors, nurses, case managers, that feeling trapped and helpless was making me feel so much worse than I felt before. They saw this as a reason to keep me as a prisoner. They told me that everything I thought was wrong. They preached the efficacy of coping skills, and left us with hours and hours of nothing but talking to other patients and writing in journals. None of us could do much more than that anyways, with everyone experiencing side effects from their medications. Even though I was always foggy, I remember every detail of those days. Eventually, I learned that there was no way to get better in that kind of environment. I had to learn to pretend I was what they wanted me to be, and I eventually got out of my first hospitalization.
It didn't last long, and I was sent to another facility. Similar experiences, had to employ similar techniques to win back my freedom. This repeated multiple times, with varying amounts of time spent as a prisoner in my own home instead of in the hospitals. Every time I thought I found someone I could trust, they pushed me back into that hellish cycle. Assessment, varying amounts of law enforcement, inpatient, drugs, unempathetic doctors, abuse of power. Then lying and release. It was so easy to lie, but I wanted help. They hurt me so much, and each time I needed to heal even more than before. Eventually, the traumas and the risks outweighed any possible reward. Good mental health can't possibly come from a cycle of abuse. They made me experience isolation, cold-turkey withdrawal from benzodiazepines, dangerous people, and feeling trapped. At one point, I was even put in full transport chains for a 2-hour ride in the back of a police car. I was treated like a convicted felon, all for my thoughts and feelings.
When I stopped getting treatment, even though I had to fight really hard for that right, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. I would never have to experience those horrors again. I was free now, so the memories should fade. I could just try to live my life in a way that I enjoy. I functioned like that for a time. I got my GED to avoid summer classes, I worked really hard at a few jobs, I even started online college and maintained a 4.0 GPA freshman year. But the memories weren't fading. I still felt exactly the same as when I was trapped, even though I knew I was free now. When I saw the opportunity to get a job across the country, and with family nearby to boot, I thought it would fix everything. I would change my environment, and my mind would follow. But I didn't feel any different.
I drank and gambled to numb the pain. I felt powerful. No price was too high to feel like I was in control. It ruined me financially, but for the first year, it was actually worth it. My job was kicking my ass, I was doing 12-hour shifts 6 days a week, while also doing 18 credits per semester of online schooling, but I could blow off steam at the casino. I could decide my level of risk, and even if I lost some money, it was nothing compared to the things I had lost in the past. As with anything I do for too long though, it eventually took its toll. I could handle not having money when I was able to have fun, but eventually, it wasn't fun anymore. I had ruined my finances, all for something I eventually got tired of. And the dark thoughts became more frequent again.
After that, nothing helped with the dark thoughts. Things only seemed to stay the same, or get worse. School made it worse, so I dropped out. Work made it worse, so I stopped doing overtime, and eventually went on disability after the pandemic started. It was easier to say that it was all due to the stress of COVID-19, because people could actually relate to that issue. I could avoid telling them the real reasons. That my past was haunting me with panic attacks, sleepless nights, and vivid flashbacks. I found that cannabis helped with panic attacks and sleeping, but I still couldn't stop the flashbacks. Eventually, even cannabis stopped working, and all of my symptoms got stronger. I could still use a quick toke to make movies more interesting, but whether I was high or sober, the symptoms were unavoidable.
The flashbacks are too strong now. Every night feels like my first night locked on a ward. Afraid of every small noise, unable to sleep because I feel like a flashlight will be pointed at my face every 15 minutes. Every day feels like those dragging hours spent in the "Day room". It doesn't matter if I go for a walk, drive around town, or build something. It feels the same as doing nothing, so I would rather do nothing. Every time I have a panic attack, I feel like I'm about to be physically dragged to solitary, and locked away until I can pretend to be calm. Not a day goes by that I don't remember all those other patients. People who I met in a fog for a short period of time, and I somehow remember more about them than some of my own family members. I mourn for lost friends, and mourn for my own lost future. How am I supposed to fix this, when the "fixers" are the ones who broke me?
Now, I have realized that I don't really need to fix this, I would just prefer to end it. A rational choice, made with a heavy heart. The suffering of the years gone by outweighs any future happiness, and I don't want to live with those memories anymore. I believe that suicide is a matter of bodily autonomy, and therefore a human right. The only person that should get to choose when I have had enough, is me. Making that choice shouldn't result in being forced to live without freedom. It should result in dying with dignity. Mental suffering is no less valid than physical suffering, and still lacks effective treatment in modern times. I'm ready for my suffering to end.
I know this will hurt. I know that a lot of people will be negatively impacted by this choice. But I have had enough bad days. I've had enough of crying until I can't breathe. I've had enough of chest and stomach pains, because I can't even make myself eat. I've had enough of the empty promises that it could ever get better, words spoken only by those who have never truly experienced the mental health system. I've had enough of life. We all die some time, and I'm more prepared than most. Having control over this helps. My last moments will be my own. It is a selfish choice, but it is MY choice. I am truly sorry, but this is goodbye.
