self harm

Representation Matters.

/ hopeforsanityblog / Leave a comment

Today is the International Day of Trans Visibility and this morning I saw this piece of art in my social media feed.

56201130_10157428215713598_5544235667359268864_nIt was created by an artist Hannah Daisy @makedaisychains (photo credit to her.  https://www.patreon.com/hannahdaisy)

I felt deeply moved by the image and spent most of the day thinking about it.   Why did this image impact me so intensely?  As a non-binary person who has scars from self harm, I felt represented and valid in a way that I didn’t even realize I needed.  In this image, the arm with scars is just one in a series of different and unique arms raised in an empowered fist.   It is SO rare to see art that includes self harm scars that neither stigmatizes, sensationalizes nor glorifies self injury (and cutting specifically).  In this art piece, the self harm scars are matter of fact but are not the focus of the image.  The scars are shown as healed/healing and thus represent a hopeful message of recovery and life after self harm.  The image implies that recovery is possible, but also depicts the reality that mental illness is not always an invisible illness.  It shows that scars do not have to be hidden and can be accepted as part (but not the defining aspect) of a person.  This image does not show the person who self harmed as an object of pity or of revulsion.  It doesn’t make me feel sorry for the person, it makes me feel that they are a SURVIVOR.

As a person who has a multitude of scars from decades of self harm, I needed to see this. I needed the representation SO much. I needed the message that I’m not shameful, disgusting, broken, crazy, insane or violent.  I needed the message that my scars do not define me.  I needed the message that SOMEBODY out there, an artist, sees my scars as a sign of strength, resilience and SURVIVAL.  I don’t want to feel ashamed of my scars.  I don’t want to feel judged by society.  I don’t want to receive stares of pity or confusion on a summer day.  I want to choose my clothes based on what feels comfortable, not based on what will hide the scars and keep me safe from stigma.   Because there is an intense amount of societal stigma associated with self harming behaviour (and cutting in particular).  It is misunderstood, even by mental health providers.  It is often treated as a contagion, something that will spread like a virus to others.  It often leads to exclusion and intense self hatred/shame/guilt and isolation.  It is almost always portrayed as entirely undesirable and destructive, never acknowledged as a complex, coping mechanism that has often helped a person survive extremely difficult times when they had few other options to survive.   Self harm is almost always conflated with suicide, when often  people who self injure are doing so as a way to stay alive and to cope with hopeless, intense or overwhelming emotions.  (Self harm and suicide can go hand in hand, but not always).

I felt seen and I felt valid.  I can’t remember the last time a piece of art made me feel so  affirmed and understood.

Later in the day, I was scrolling through social media and saw the same image on another website.  But this time the image was altered:

55698743_2584114474935564_3004320166034014208_n

In the second image, the scars are censored.  They are replaced with what looks like the reflection of white lights or stars.   This second image made me feel erased, ashamed and frustrated.   I can understand that the website might not want to trigger folks and it might not want to be seen as “promoting” self harm behaviours.  I can understand why someone might think censoring the image was in the best interests of the public, but as a person who self harms, I completely disagree with the censoring.

I didn’t feel triggered by the first image, I felt REPRESENTED.  As I mentioned, I don’t believe the image in any way glorified or promoted self harm.  I saw the image as respectfully acknowledging the fact that many trans and gender diverse struggle, in a large part because of transphobia and lack of acceptance, with various types of self harming behaviours.   That doesn’t mean that we are weird, odd, crazy or broken. It means we are surviving.

What this censoring means to me?

It means that the people running the second website think I should hide my scars, that they are a bad influence on others or that they might make people uncomfortable.  It makes me feel that I should be invisible or deserve to be invisible. It makes me feel that self harm is SO terrible that it needs to be blotted out and erased, replaced with stars and light that won’t make anyone uncomfortable.

Does that mean that my existence makes you uncomfortable?

Should I be ashamed and hide myself away?

Is my mental health disability SO unpalatable to others that it needs to be censored?

If today is International Trans Day of Visibility, I think that means ALL trans and gender diverse folks deserve to be visible (if they want to be) and that includes trans folks with mental, physical and invisible disabilities.  We have to work from an intersectional perspective that does not erase the various lived experiences of people.  Representation DOES matter.  People with disabilities so often lack positive, affirming and realistic representations of ourselves in media, art and society.   Representations that neither treat us like inspirational stories nor tragedies.

Because we are SO much more than that.

Trusting my younger self.

/ hopeforsanityblog / Leave a comment

20170404_220110[1]

I’ve been reading through my journal from the first year of the relationship with my abusive ex-husband.  I’ve been reflecting on how I was gaslighted and how, in a way, I gaslighted myself.  I used the same coping techniques I did when I was abused at age 15. I found myself in another abusive relationship and I immediately began self harming, restricting food, and thinking about suicide.  As a distraction it worked, just as it had when I was a child.  I did what I needed to do to survive. I turned to creative (if self destructive) coping techniques that got me through very difficult situations.  But my inner self, my younger self did know something was wrong.  There was a part of me, healthy me, which was separate from “the voice” or “Ana.”  That part of me knew that my new relationship was deeply and integrally connected to my relapse and worsening psychiatric symptoms.  My wise younger inner self knew that I was in trouble, but she asked for help in ways that distracted and confused other people, even her own healthy self.

This is a concept that is often very difficult for those who have not survived abuse to understand.  It can be challenging to understand that the survivor will do whatever it takes to survive, even if those coping techniques may look like self destructive behaviours from the outside.  The survivor may feel she has limited or no options.  For various reasons she has been conditioned not to scream, tell, ask for help, run away, fight back etc…or maybe she tried those things and they didn’t work. So instead she turned to disassociation, self harm and eating disorders as a way to modulate and live with the abuse and all the symptoms of PTSD.

I was conditioned, maybe almost from birth, not to make a fuss.  I was conditioned, maybe almost from birth, to be a “good girl.”  I internalized this in a way that led me to blame myself for the abusive behaviours of others.  If I was being hurt it was because I wasn’t a “good girl” and if I wasn’t a “good girl,” then I must be a bad girl, maybe a very bad, shameful, dirty and disgusting girl.  Thus, Ana/”the voice” was born.  There was a part of me that split off and became self abusive and self critical.  A younger self, a part that never ages or matures.  A 15 year old frozen in time.

This is how I described “the voice” when I was 20 years old (ironically the description came right after mentioning intimacy with my ex):

February 21, 2001

“My body feels too big and uncomfortable right now.  I know it’s because I’ve been eating more normally and feeling hungry.  The sensation of hunger is not an easy one for me.  It is frightening. Like I feel afraid of losing control of myself. And yet I know that the E.D is out of control. It is a part of me that often deceives and betrays me. I know that in the end, though it feels comfortable, it cannot be trusted.  The voice which tells me not to eat, tells me to cut my skin, to smash my head against a wall, to step out in front of traffic all sorts of dangerous hurtful things.  It speaks to me in persuasive ways.  It is a part of me and yet foreign.  My ally and my enemy, my strength and my destruction. But after so many years it is the way I know.  A method of ridding myself of unwanted feelings”

When I was 20 I was able to recognize some of the signs of abusive behaviour in my ex. I was able to identify that I felt afraid.  But I didn’t draw the right conclusions from there. I blamed myself, I thought I needed to work on my depression, my recovery, get better at coping with anger etc.  My younger self tried to problem solve by changing herself, just as she had at age 15.  Just as she had for her entire life.

March 12, 2001  [written after being asked to swing dance with and dancing with a friend, a man I’d briefly dated]

“So the evening was going well until one crucial moment…asked me to dance.  I figured one dance wouldn’t hurt and I didn’t think [he] would mind…but [he] did get upset and left the room.  I followed after the song was over. [He] got angry at me saying that I couldn’t stand up for myself and say NO.  He totally misunderstood and overreacted.  I got terribly upset and started crying totally uncontrollably…I was so disappointed that my night was ruined.  I felt so much like hurting I became filled with intense suicidal thoughts. I hate feeling my independence threatened by a relationship. I want the freedom to choose who is in my life.  When [he] gets angry it just terrifies me and makes me want to hurt, with him is when I feel the strongest feelings”

My younger self clearly articulated that she felt uncomfortable with being controlled and with the jealous behaviour.  She clearly made a link between the angry jealous behaviour of her boyfriend and the suicidal and self harm impulses.  My younger self was wise on a deeper level, and yet she stayed with that man for 13 years.  It’s difficult to make sense of.  My adult self wants to travel back in time to that night, to go back to the dance with my friends, to tell him in no uncertain terms to F*#K OFF and leave me alone.  My adult self wants to protect that younger me, give her the strength to listen to her instincts and fight back rather than turning to a downward spiral of self destruction that would lead to 4 years in and out of psychiatric hospitals.

The next day, March 12, 2001 I was admitted to the hospital.  I wrote in my journal again, but made no link between the previous evening and my suicidal obsessive thoughts.  The self destruction worked as a distraction from his controlling behaviour.  The hospital was a place to get away from him.  The routine and the process of hospitalization was an escape.  I would feel safer in the hospital for a few hours or a few days, then I’d realize that the hospital wasn’t a solution and I’d want to be home.

I think what I really wanted was to be safe.  What I needed to be safe was to exit the abusive relationship in those early stages, when I still had the chance.

Because within a few short weeks I was already beginning to convince myself it was my depression and PTSD causing the issues in our relationship:

March 26, 2001

“The things that I thought were stable and unchanging have become uncomfortable. I can’t tell if it’s my depression pushing [him] away or actually me. It’s so hard to face that possibility. I want things between us to be simple again. I miss how easy we used to be together.  Now I feel distant from our relationship”

April 4, 2001

“I don’t feel as easy around [him] lately. Mind you I haven’t felt easy around anyone lately. I feel withdrawn, like I have built up the walls around me for protection from the storm.  But this is so ineffective because my storm is coming mainly from within. I don’t know how to protect myself from myself. I really am my own worst enemy”

Maybe I was never my own worst enemy.

Maybe the storm was never “mainly” from within.  Maybe I was confused and living with emotional abuse and gaslighting.  Maybe I bought into blaming myself as a coping technique, as a way to survive, and as a way to feel more in control of a scary situation.  I blamed myself and my mental illness rather than facing the reality that I was in an abusive relationship.  It was “easier” to seek help through psychiatry than it was to leave the relationship.

Looking back it all seems clear.  But my 20 year old self had less wisdom, less experience, less resources and less knowledge.  My 20 year old self did the best she could.  She did try to express herself, she just didn’t have the skills to listen to herself or to ask for the type of help she truly needed.  And those around her weren’t able to interpret her self destructive behaviours as, not a cry for attention or a manipulation, but a message.  A red flag waving, signalling that all was not well.  Help was needed, but psychiatry wasn’t the correct tool for the task.

Unfortunately, my younger self wouldn’t cross the threshold of a rape crisis centre for another 12 years.

The roots of an abusive relationship.

/ hopeforsanityblog / 7 Comments

8391044-Incroyable-Chaos-Tree-Roots-Banque-d'images

Through some parts of my youth I kept diaries.  Never entirely consistently, but consistently for periods of time, especially when I was in treatment or in hospital.  I’ve been thinking back to this time of year in 2001.  My first year with my abusive ex husband.  My first year in psychiatric care.  My first year engaging in severe self harm.  My first psychiatric admissions (aside from eating disorder treatment).  My first suicide attempts. It’s interesting how all these “firsts” coincided so neatly in time with my new relationship.  At the time I thought it was because memories of the abuse I survived as a teenager were triggered and surfaced when I became sexually active.   That was part of it.  But there was more to it than that.  There was subtle abuse in my relationship with my ex husband that started very early on.  The seeds of gaslighting and emotional abuse were being planted.

It started with showering me with affection and attention.  It started with making me feel special and loved, almost to the point of making me uncomfortable.  It started with planning for the life we’d have together, the kids we’d have, the marriage…within months of meeting me (I was 19!).  It started with gifts, cards, flowers, spending all our time together.  It started with gradually isolating me from my other friends and social outlets.

Then some lies started.  And the lies were repeated so often I believed them to be true.

These lies were focused around my mental health problems and their link to my feelings about his abusive  behaviours.   He would tell me that it was because of my PTSD that I was uncomfortable with something.  He would tell me that a “normal woman” would be okay with it.  He would make me feel guilty, tell me that he felt like there were three people in the relationship: me, him and X.  He made me feel like I was CHOOSING to have flashbacks, like I was CHOOSING to think about X rather than him.  Almost like X was someone I never quite got over, a lost lover, rather than an abuser who had traumatized me to the point I often had flashbacks during any type of intimacy.  Over time, the lies were repeated to the point that I felt crazy.  I felt like I was to blame for the problems with intimacy in our relationship.  We even sought out support from a sex therapist to talk about this.  I had blood tests and was checked to ensure my hormone levels were normal.  I was completely manipulated into believing that the issues in the relationship were entirely my fault.

Today, in 2017, I realize I like some types of sex just fine.  I just prefer consent to be a factor in that sex!  In other words, I like sex, but I don’t like sexual abuse!  It turns out, I’m not physically broken.  I have PTSD.  I have flashbacks, but with a safe, trusted and patient partner I can be okay.  But because of the lasting impacts of gaslighting, I struggle with saying no. I struggle with blaming myself for anything that might go wrong. I struggle with identifying and communicating what I want or enjoy.  And I still fall back into patterns of believing that I’m crazy.

When I left my ex husband, I mainly remembered and talked about the sexual abuse that happened in the last 5-6 years of our marriage.  These were the incidents I felt most comfortable labeling “sexual assault” and “rape.”  When asked, I couldn’t really describe when the sexual abuse started.  I couldn’t really remember the first time.  I couldn’t really say when things started to go wrong.

But reading back in my diary from 2001, the first year we were together, there are so many red flags.  I can hear my 20 year old self trying to convince herself that things were okay.  I can hear my 20 year old self trying to believe that she loved this man she barely knew. I can hear my 20 year old self trying to rationalize that things would be better with him when SHE was better, when SHE stopped cutting, when SHE stopping being so depressed.  I can hear her trying to convince herself it was the right choice, and I feel deeply sad for her.

June 8, 2001

“The evening went well until the car ride home.  Before getting in the car I was feeling panic starting. [He] tried to kiss me but I pulled away.  He got offended.  I tried to explain but he got angry and said he felt stifled like he couldn’t be spontaneous.  He said I only make love to him out of duty.  I got really upset and started crying and I couldn’t breathe. It was like a panic attack and I couldn’t stop hyperventilating. I just was so very scared.  I’m terrified of being with [him], but I do love him too.  It’s such a dilemma all the time. I feel like it would be easier for me to get better without the strong feelings of a relationship.  But on the other hand [he] is my support.  I don’t know.  It’s so tough right now.  I’m so scared of my life and everything in it”

Looking back on the things I wrote, I realize that I was barely more than a child myself. Just turned 20 years old.  I had just disclosed the abuse from my childhood, just started counseling.   I was talking about abuse I’d kept inside for 5 years.  I was in full PTSD crisis mode, complete with flashbacks, hyper vigilance, anxiety and nightmares.  I was on psychiatric medication cocktails for the first time.  I was self harming almost daily and had recently attempted suicide.

It was perfectly normal that I didn’t always want to be intimate with someone.

Perfectly normal.

Today, I choose to forgive my 20 year old self for not knowing this.  I choose to forgive her for not knowing that she was having normal coping reactions to trauma and that she was not crazy.  I choose to forgive her for being tricked into a situation where, instead of healing and support, she found gaslighting, confusion, entrapment and more sexual abuse.

I know I’ll wake up tomorrow, or the next day and feel confused again.  I’ll wonder if the abuse was my fault.  I’ll think that I’m exaggerating or that I’m making things up.  I’ll start to feel the thoughts creep in that I’m not normal.  I’ll start to wish that I had died all those years ago when I attempted suicide.  I’ll start to believe his lies again, because a long term emotionally abusive relationship includes an element of near brainwashing which can take years of healing, therapy, patience, self love and self forgiveness to recover from.

But just for today, I want 20 year old me to know that her reactions were normal.  That she was allowed to say no to that kiss for any reason.  She was especially allowed to say no to that kiss when she was triggered.  She had the right to say no without consequence, without anger, without bullying and blaming.  She had the right to have needs and preferences and anxieties.

It wasn’t her fault that he didn’t understand consent.

The Voice.

/ hopeforsanityblog / Leave a comment

20170404_220110[1]

I’ve been feeling very young recently.  I feel like Ana is around more than I am.

There is a book (which I haven’t yet read) which talks about structural disassociation and describes the experience of having an “apparently normal part” and one or more “traumatized child parts.”    My apparently normal part seems to be quiet this past few weeks and Ana, my traumatized teenage part is very loud.

Sometimes when Ana is around I do things that don’t make a lot of sense to my apparently normal part.  And my apparently normal part doesn’t make sense to Ana.

I was trying to figure out if there were any particular triggers, anniversaries or memories surfacing for me recently, ones that would bring Ana to the forefront.

Next week will be the anniversary of when I first started being abused.  It will also mark the one year anniversary of this blog!

I started reading through an old journal from 2001:  the year I first was hospitalized, the year I tried to kill myself multiple times and the year I began cutting daily, sometimes multiple times a day.

Reading the journal, my 2001 apparently normal self seems extremely young.  But even at that time, I clearly identified having  a traumatized child part.  Back then I called it healthy me and little girl me.  I also called it “the voice.”  I’ve found multiple segments where I speak about “the voice”  and I recognize what she is saying as Ana.

February 21, 2001

“The sensation of hunger is not an easy one for me.  It is frightening.  Like I feel afraid of losing control of myself. And yet I know that the E.D is out of control.  It is a part of me that often deceives and betrays me.  I know that in the end, though it feels comfortable, it cannot be trusted.  The voice which tells me not to eat, tells me to cut my skin, to smash my head against a wall, to step out in front of traffic, all sorts of dangerous and hurtful things.  It speaks to me in persuasive ways.  It is a part of me and yet foreign.  My ally and my enemy.  My strength and my destruction.  But after so many years it is the way I know.  A method of ridding myself of unwanted feelings…I feel like a stranger in my own life.”

I don’t know what to do to help my traumatized child part heal.  What does Ana need?

The answer that comes to my mind is love.

She needs love.  She needs acceptance.  She needs to be believed.  She needs to feel safe. She needs to be forgiven for all the years of self abuse.  She needs to forgive her own body.

But I rail against it.  My apparently normal adult self doesn’t feel capable of parenting an angry teenager.  Ultimately, she is me…both the apparently normal adult self and the traumatized child parts are me.

Even in 2001, I can read in my journal signs of this inner battle.  The battle between health and self destruction, between hope and despair.  I’ve been fighting for a long time.

I can read myself trying desperately to convince myself that my engagement was a good idea.  That I loved my partner.  That my own PTSD and issues were the root of the stress in our relationship.

March 18, 2001

“I miss having him around me and yet I’m also afraid of our intimacy.  He is at the same time my motivation to get well and my trigger to feel upset.  The strong emotions I have toward him complicate and simplify my life”

I can read my younger self trying to convince herself that things would be okay.  I can read between the lines that a deeper part of her knew the relationship was wrong and unhealthy.  I can read how I desperately continued hurting myself, longing to be SEEN. Truly SEEN and accepted for who I was.  I can read my self blame, self hatred and confusion.

And a good part of this fight has been internal, between parts of myself that can’t seem to make peace, forgive and start again.

Healer, Heal Thyself.

/ hopeforsanityblog / 3 Comments

20170206_2044451

Do you ever have the feeling that you are a complete and utter fraud?

I’ve been feeling this way recently, more than usual, as I’ve been reflecting on how little of the advice I share with others that I actually follow myself.   Am I a fraud, if I truly believe what I’m telling other people, but can’t internalize it or believe it for myself?

How is it possible that everyone around me deserves health, happiness and recovery but I somehow feel undeserving of even simple things?

Someone close to me commented on one of my scars this week.  It was a passing comment, about noticing a scar on my hand that he hadn’t noticed before.  To him it was a neutral comment, just noticing, no judgment.  I told him that scar had been there since around 2002, it wasn’t new.  That was the end of the conversation for him, but I started talking about and reflecting on the amount of harm I’ve done to myself over the past 20 years.

Until 2009, I hid all my scars, all of the time, from everyone.  Even when I was home alone I would wear long sleeves and pants.  I was so ashamed of my cuts and scars that I didn’t even want to look at them myself.  In the summer, I was perpetually hot, avoiding swimming, making excuses to stay in the air conditioning.  My life was being seriously limited by my self destruction.

From 2009 on, I gradually began experimenting with uncovering my scars.  I wore t-shirts or skirts when I was hot, and started to swim again.  I still kept a cardigan or long sleeved shirt with me at all times, so I could cover up around people who didn’t know about my habit, or for situations like interviews where I didn’t want to be judged.  I used to have so much anxiety about people seeing my scars and I would imagine all sorts of scenarios where people around me judged me as crazy.  I even thought that CAS would come to take away my  kids because if someone saw my scars they would report me as an unfit mother. Over time, I  became accustomed to uncovering my scars.  I came to a place of a bit more acceptance (plus I got tired of being hot all summer!).  This was a process and today, the only time I purposefully cover my scars is when I’m helping other women at work.  I’m afraid that my scars might trigger others, especially those who are working on their own healing.

I still feel sad though, every spring when the warm weather returns and shorts, t-shirts and summer dresses flood the shopping malls.  I feel sad because in the summer I can’t hide under my clothes.  In the warm weather, I often feel exhausted when interacting with people because I am intensely aware of the visibility of my scars.  It gets a little bit easier each summer, and I think about it less and less often, to the point where there are times that I almost forget about the scars. Almost.

I can’t really forget about them. I can’t forget about them because they represent a huge, unnameable, unspeakable history of trauma and pain.  And at some points I feel crushed by the weight of the realization that I have been my own worst abuser.

I am my own most dangerous and most unrelenting abuser.

It’s difficult to know how to even approach talking about, thinking about or grieving the trauma I’ve inflicted on myself.  It’s not something others discuss or disclose to me either.  We talk about the hurt caused by other people in our lives, the betrayals, the injuries and the abuse.  We talk about being hurt and being damaged.  But how do I start a conversation or healing process around the trauma that I perpetuated?  How do I heal from situations where I was both the abuser and the survivor, simultaneously in one person, in one experience, in one breath?

My experience of surviving sexual and emotional abuse at the hands of perpetrators, is directly linked to my “decisions” to cope by self harming in various ways.  Before I was sexually abused I didn’t have anorexia, depression, PTSD, or obsessive compulsive tendencies and I did not cut or physically harm myself in response to stress.   Before I was sexually abused, I considered myself a “normal” person.  I didn’t have a mental illness, I didn’t have dangerous coping techniques, I wasn’t a psychiatric survivor or  a survivor of violence.   When I look at my scars, I see both the abuse I survived and the abuse I perpetuated.  The scars are an ever present reminder that I have survived, but they are also like a road map of the destruction and self destruction that has woven through my adult life.

Yes, my scars tell a story, but I’m not sure it’s a story that I want to hear.  I’m not sure it’s a story that I want to tell either.

But sometimes I do want to tell my story.  That’s part of why this blog was created.  There just isn’t a lot of space in our busy, day to day lives, to talk about the story my scars tell.  The person who was with me during the majority of those years (my ex-husband) is no longer available or safe for me to contact.  I don’t have anyone to share my memories of those dark years with.  The people who know me now weren’t there with me in the emergency room while my cuts were being stitched.  The people in my life now, weren’t there with me when I tried, multiple times, to end my life.   Except for a few, the people in my day to day life, didn’t know me when I almost starved myself to death.  People see me differently now.  They see me as a whole person, a mostly well person, a successful person, a good mother, a co-worker, a friend…sometimes I feel like a fraud because I can’t, or don’t know how to, talk about these aspects of my past.

And sometimes I want to talk about them.  I really want to talk about what things were like “before.”   Before I left my ex-husband.  Before I stopped utilizing the psychiatric system.  Before I decided to stay alive.

That “before” person is still me.  I’m just not sure how to heal that “before” me and this current me simultaneously.  I’m not sure how to forgive myself, or to have sympathy or empathy for the me that wanted to die.  I’m not sure how to look at my scars without feeling sadness for the fact that I permanently disfigured my body before I turned 25.  I don’t know how to grieve my smooth, scar free skin…I barely even remember what I looked like before I started cutting.

There are days when I accept my scars.  They are a part of me, they do tell a story and they do represent survival.  But there are days when I hate them.  I hate being different.  I hate having a visible mental illness.  I hate feeling ugly.  I hate worrying about what others will think when they see them.  I hate hating myself SO much that self harm feels like a reasonable solution.

Sometimes I look back on the past and wonder what my life would be like if I’d chosen a different way of coping.  Or if I’d never been abused.  Or if I’d told someone about the abuse.   How different would my life be if I’d never picked up a blade, never wished to end it all?

It’s an interesting dilemma, because there are some parts of my survivor self that I like and I wouldn’t want to change.  If I hadn’t had these experiences I would have chosen a different career path.  I wouldn’t have had my children at a young age.  I wouldn’t be as passionate about social justice and advocacy.  I wouldn’t know the majority of my current friends.

My life would be very different.  I don’t even want to change the past.  It did make me the person I am today and I’m okay with that.   What I do want to change is how much I still judge myself, berate myself and hate myself for my past choices.  I want to learn to do more than accept my scars.  I want to do more than tolerate my body, in an uneasy, fragile truce.

Intellectually, I know that I deserve more than surviving.  Intellectually, I know that a deeper level of healing is possible.  I’ve seen people around me heal and recover from unimaginable horrors.  I’ve seen people build a sense of self confidence from the rubble of their lives.  I know it is possible and that self-love and self acceptance are attainable goals.

But emotionally, I just don’t feel it.  And that makes me sad, and maybe right now, the first step in healing self-hatred is just simply grieving the loss of that 15 year old healthy self.

 Note: The illustration was drawn by me around 2004

 

Talking to kids about mental illness

/ hopeforsanityblog / 1 Comment

20150918_161622

At dinner tonight my  kids were joking about various things and my younger child started joking about being in the “mental health room” and the “mental health unit” and basically laughing about people being crazy.

I felt frozen.  I’m a social justice warrior parent and I’ve been quick to call in, correct, and stop my kids around issues like racism and oppression.  But I was tired today and I wasn’t sure how to broach the subject that I’ve been a patient in mental health hospitals.   My older daughter knows about some things from my past.  They both have seen my scars and know that I used to self harm.  My older daughter knows a bit more, she was more aware of my depression before I left her father.  But they don’t know even a fraction of the story.   I wondered today about what they will think of me when I tell them.

I wanted to jump into the conversation with “it’s not polite to joke about people with mental health problems.”  But that didn’t seem like enough and I was so tempted just to honestly say: “I’ve been in mental health hospitals and it’s not something funny to joke and tease about.”  I wasn’t ready for the conversation and they were happy and I didn’t want to add stress to the evening.

But now, hours later, I’m thinking about it.  What will I tell my kids about my past?  When will I tell them?  Will it be planned, or will it spill out one day in a situation like this one?   I don’t want to talk too much about things that might upset them, but I also don’t want them to feel like mental illness is a taboo or a stigma that people should be ashamed of.

How do we talk to children about mental illness?   Before my first child was born I downloaded a fact sheet from CAMH called “talking to children about mental illness.”  I told myself that I had a few years, until she was 2 at least, to fully recover.  I told myself that she would never know and that I’d be 100% better by the time she was old enough to be aware.

I was optimistic.  But even when I downloaded the fact sheet, I think a part of me realized that it wouldn’t be that simple.  Anorexia, depression, anxiety and PTSD weren’t going to disappear the moment my new baby was born.  It made me (and makes me) so sad to think about talking to my children about my mental health struggles.

The fact sheet suggested reassuring the child that they were not responsible for my health.  Reassuring the child that I was seeking my own help and talking to other adults about my issues.  In this way, she would not feel responsible for me or worry about my health.

I struggled with postpartum depression after both my kids were born.  My older child was impacted more severely because she lived through both episodes.  I struggled to cope with taking care of my toddler after my second baby was born.   I hated myself for it and I still struggle to forgive myself for how I felt during the postpartum depression after my second baby.  By the time my older one was 5-7 years old, I was again coping with depression due to the abuse in my marriage.

My child was bright and extremely emotionally aware and emotionally intelligent.  I knew she worried about me and it broke my heart.  I knew she was aware that I was not happy.  When she was about 6, I read her some books from the public library which explained depression to children.  I told her the words from the fact sheet: “I love you,  I talk to my doctor and my friends when I am sad, you aren’t responsible and it’s not your fault.”  But it was difficult and I felt like a horrible mother.

My eldest was 18 months old when she first noticed my scars.  She was sitting on the potty and she looked at my arms and said “draw, draw?”  She thought they were marker marks on my arms.  I told her they were just marks and not to worry.  I knew I was only buying time until she would ask again.

When my eldest was 7, I separated from her father.  My mood improved and we no longer talked about depression. But over the next year she started to ask me incessantly about my scars.   For a year I told her that I would “explain when you are older,” but after a time it wasn’t enough.  She began to cry at night, get angry at me and say that I didn’t trust her enough to tell her.  She started refusing to talk to me about her problems because I wouldn’t explain the scars.  I spoke to my doctor and together we came up with a plan of how I could talk to my daughter.   He said that the fighting was likely more damaging to our relationship than just telling her an age appropriate version of the truth.

So I told her.  I told my 8 year old child about my past self harm.  I told her that all the scars were due to me injuring myself.  It was very difficult for me and I had a lot of guilt.  I told her a version of the truth.  I told her that when I was younger someone was mean to me and not respecting me and that I never told anyone.  I told her that sometimes when you keep secrets like that inside you start to cope in bad ways like hurting yourself.  I explained to her that this is why I always encourage her to talk to an adult about her problems.   My daughter was sad.  She told me that self harming was a very bad decision and that I should have talked to someone.  She asked me such a wise question: “If someone was hurting you, why did you hurt yourself?”

Since I told her, the questions stopped.  Once in a while I notice her looking at my scars with a sad expression, sometimes when I read to her at night she touches them and looks wistful.  I hope that my honesty will allow her to make choices to help herself in her own life and not turn to such negative coping.   My younger child still thinks the scars are cool, like battle wounds that make me funky and unique and a warrior of sorts.  She knows on some level that they are from self harm, but I’m not sure she is ready to accept that and she doesn’t ask questions.

I don’t think that talking to an 8 year old child about self harm is ideal.  But what options do I have?  My scars are obviously visible and it’s impossible to deny them or hide them.  If I had another type of physical disability I would have to explain that to my children.

Why is it so difficult to have open and honest conversations about mental health and mental illness?

I would like to tell my children that joking about the “mental hospital” isn’t funny.  I would like to tell them that it is triggering for me and could be upsetting for other people as well.  I want them to know that there is no shame in asking for help and getting treatment for a mental illness.  I do want them to know some aspects of my story when they are a bit older.  I want them to know because I made a lot of mistakes, and I hope that the knowledge I’ve gained on this journey could help them avoid the same mistakes.  I also want them to be the kind of people who help others rather than judging them or putting them down.

I want to shatter the stigma.  But today I was tired, my kids were happy and I didn’t want to put a shadow over a good day.   The conversation that started at 18 months old with an innocent “draw, draw” is likely one that will be taking place in stages as they grow up.  My psychiatric survivorship story IS my life, it is a part of me, and because of my scars I can’t hide it, even if I did want to.

And maybe one day I won’t feel ashamed and embarrassed to talk about it.

Things to do instead of self harm

/ hopeforsanityblog / Leave a comment

recovery-is-possible

I’d like to share some ideas for readers who have struggled with, or currently struggle with, self harming behaviour of any kind.  Self harm can include physical injuring, substance abuse, eating disorder habits, workaholism, over exercise etc.

Personally, I find harm reduction models to be the most effective in reducing self harming behaviour.  Because self harming is a coping method, and has served a purpose, it is often difficult to abstain from doing it.  I also believe that the majority of habitual self harming behaviour is shame and avoidance based in at least some ways.   I have found it easier to live with the idea that I will sometimes engage in behaviours that are not 100% beneficial to my health.  By acknowledging this openly, I reduce the level of shame I feel when I do make a mistake, slip or relapse.  Relapse is a part of recovery in a harm reduction model.  I don’t need to feel ashamed if I go back to my old way of coping in a crisis.  Those ways worked for me for a long time and they are  habitual and comfortable to slip into.

If I have a slip, I don’t make a big deal about it.  I just move forward and try to make a different more self caring choice in the future.  Removing the intense lens of self judgment from the situation has been helpful for me.

When suggesting alternatives to self harming behaviours, I acknowledge openly that not all options are available to all people.  This is not  a list that says “you should do this” but just some options that have worked for me personally.  Using the word “should” can increase feelings of guilt and shame if you do engage in self harm. I highly encourage you to use this as a model, and make your own list that feels right for you.  Give yourself permission to explore different coping options, keep the ones that work and leave the ones that do not.  Personalizing your recovery plan is another factor that will lead to greater success within harm reduction.

  1. Give yourself permission to struggle.  It’s okay that you feel bad right now.  Your feelings will have a beginning, a middle and an end and you can survive them.  Sitting with your feelings is an option, even if it is very uncomfortable
  2. Get safe.  Often urges to self harm are a red flag for me that I’m not feeling safe or I’m feeling overwhelmed.   Reduce any stress you have control over.  Relocate to an environment that feels secure.
  3. Spend time in nature.  The trees are not oppressive, nature is forgiving.  Nature can just mean getting outside, walking around the block, sitting in a park and breathing deeply.  Noticing the colours in the leaves outside.
  4. Wrap yourself up in warm blankets, quilts, cozy sweaters etc.  For me feeling safe often involves feeling warm and wrapped up tight.  Sometimes even the weight of the blankets is calming to me
  5. Prepare a hot or cold beverage.  The warmth or chill of the cup in your hands can help to ground you.  Focus on the temperature of the glass, and the feeling of the cold or warm liquid in your mouth.  Taste the flavours in your drink and take time to breathe.
  6. Draw, scribble, write, paint -express your feelings.  Artistic self expression has helped me avoid self harm.  You don’t need to be an artist to do this, you don’t need expensive art supplies.  Sometimes just a piece of paper and pen is enough.  Feel free to destroy your creation after.
  7. Reach out.  Call a friend, a family member, a support or crisis line.  If you don’t feel comfortable calling anyone, try going to a public place like a library or coffee shop and just break the isolation by sitting there with people around you.  Talking to a safe person is often a good way to work through urges to self harm.  You have the choice to tell the person you are struggling or not.
  8. Distract yourself with an enjoyable TV show, youtube video, magazine, book or music.  Lose yourself in another world for a short time.  Choose something that will cheer you, not something triggering.
  9. Exercise.  Use your large muscle groups.  Walk, do jumping jacks, stretch, yoga, lifting cans in your kitchen, anything you feel able to do and have access to.  Moving your body can help you process intense feelings like anger.
  10. Connect with spirituality, meditate, religion etc.  Connect with a higher power.  For me this means visiting nature and getting in touch with how small I am compared with the power of the natural world
  11. Spend time with someone very young or very old, or a pet.  Volunteer, connect with a family member, visit a neighbour with a new baby, offer to pick up groceries for a senior living in your area.  Walk your neighbour’s dog, take care of your own pets. Helping others, even in small ways, can be an option and alternative to self destructive coping.  For me, being able to help another person reduces my sense of shame and hopelessness and increases my connections.
  12. Hug a stuffed animal.  Sometimes I need comfort and stuffed animals are a good option for me and help me feel safe.
  13. Spend time around water.  Take a bath or shower.  Walk by the river, ocean or lake.  Go swimming.  Run warm or cold water over your hands and wrists.   Flowing water can be very calming.
  14. Use positive affirmations, ideally ones you have prepared yourself.  Sometimes self harming is driven by negative self talk and negative shame based messages you are giving yourself.  You can find ideas for affirmations on the internet and rework them to suit your purpose.  If an affirmation seems unrealistic try adding “I’m learning to…” at the beginning.   For example, “I’m learning to love myself.“
  15. Remind yourself that you are doing the best you can.  That you are surviving and sometimes that is enough.  Some days all we can do is survive and that’s okay.

These are just a few ideas I’ve worked with over the years.  I hope you find them helpful.  Please feel free to comment with your coping ideas!

Why I sometimes miss self harm…

/ hopeforsanityblog / 6 Comments

20161002_2200341

<trigger warning for description of self harm>

It’s a strange thing to admit, but if I’m 100% honest with you, I still miss self harm.  As a coping mechanism it has to be considered one of the worst.  Almost my entire body is covered with permanent scars.  The scars cause me to be self conscious and feel shame.  The scars also result in social stigma, and difficulty in being taken seriously by health care providers.  They itch as they heal and sometimes they hurt.  They are constant reminders of parts of my past that I’d rather forget.

Usually when I think about self harm, what stops me is remembering two things

  1. The self harm only ever helps for a brief moment
  2. I will have to hide the wound and feel intense shame about this, as well as worry about the consequences if anyone sees the injury

This usually works, but sometimes I feel bitter and angry.   Sometimes I have thoughts like “If society didn’t consider self harm to be SO AWFUL, I could just keep doing it, because I wouldn’t feel ashamed and I wouldn’t worry about the potential negative consequences on my family.”  I get angry and I feel like my coping mechanism is being taken away from me.  I get angry and think about how some people get fall down drunk on a regular basis and society thinks this is acceptable.   Why isn’t MY coping mechanism acceptable too?  I feel like having a tantrum like a 2 year old child!  I want it and I want it NOW!  But most of the time I refrain from self harming, not just for my children, but for myself too.  It’s not a lifestyle that I want to return to.

I do want to write about some of the complex reasons I miss self harm.  Some of this might sound completely ridiculous to you.  I’m worried about being honest and just writing this down.  I’m worried about being judged for liking some aspects of this self destructive habit.

Self harm gave me something physical to take care of, and be taken care of for,  when my inner pain was un-fixable and unreachable.

Even though I experienced a lot of maltreatment and abuse in the psychiatric system and hospital emergency rooms, I sometimes miss having a physical injury that could be fixed.

There were times when I was almost addicted to the process.  The care I received after self harming was almost as important, if not more important, than the ritual itself.  The trip to the emergency room WAS part of the ritual.   To be honest, without this part of the ritual, without the serious self harm, it seems almost useless to hurt myself at all.

There was a predictable ritual to the emergency room visit.  At times, I felt safe and cared for there.  At times it felt like a pause, a break from the day to day stressors in my life, which at that time felt unbearable.   I think there was a part of me that used self harm and suicide attempts as an excuse.  Not a cry for help or attention, but a cry that said: “I can’t do this.  It’s too much.  I need a break.  I need to be cared for.  I’m not capable.  I’m afraid to fail.”

I remember some of the times I had multiple serious injuries from self harm.  It took the doctor or medical students a considerable amount of time to fix the cuts.  During that time, the doctor would often speak to me.  I had their full attention.  I was being cared for and I was being symbolically “fixed.”

There was a ritual to the process.  Triage.  Waiting room.  Exam room.  The questions.  The cleaning of the wounds.  The freezing.  The sutures.  The bandaging after.  The conversation.  The questions.  For those hours, if I was treated nicely, it was like being numb and being in another world.    A world where time was stopped, my responsibilities were paused, the outside world did not exist.    I actually FELT better afterwards, like I had been healed, but the improvement was so fleeting.  So very fleeting, that often I was injuring again only a day later.

It was as if the injury gave me an excuse to stop, validation to say “I’m not well.  I’m not coping.  I need help!”  Without the injury, without the physical reason, I struggled to ask for or to accept help.  I still do.

I’ve never really verbalized all this to anyone before.

I remember one time, I cut myself on my stomach.  It was deeper than usual, maybe deeper than I intended or realized, because I was new to injuring in that spot.  Over time I had learned to hurt myself in places I could hide.   (When I first started, I was almost hypomanic from SSRIs and I cut in visible places, places everyone could see and that were very difficult to hide.)

I went to the hospital, as I usually would, alone.  At the triage desk they examined me, discovered the wound was serious and triaged me as Emergent rather than Urgent or Less Urgent.   I was put into a wheelchair and taken back into a part of the ER I’d never seen before.  I think it was the place for seriously ill people. The lights were dimmed and the bed was actually comfortable.  I had my own room, not just a curtained area.  It was quiet and comfortable.  I didn’t have to wait very long and I remember feeling safe and calm and protected.  I felt like my health problem was considered important, legitimate and I was being cared for appropriately.  I had a female doctor and she was kind to me.  She was wearing ordinary clothes rather than scrubs or a gown.  I remember her as being fairly young.  She treated me as if I had a physical health problem, not as a mad, crazy, unworthy self harming psych patient.   I felt bad because she got blood on her clothing while she fixed my injury.   I can’t really describe exactly what happened that night.   But I felt protected and the ritual had worked, my mind was quiet.  The racing thoughts were gone.  It was silent and the room was dimmed, like the thoughts were dimmed as well.  For that time I was in another world.

I’m having a difficult week.  I’m feeling overwhelmed and lonely and scared.  I’d like nothing more than to be cared for.  To be honest, the thought of that quiet, dimly lit emergency room bed is very appealing. But I don’t want to achieve this through self harm.  I don’t want to be “sick” and treated in hospital to get a break or to feel validated in resting.

I want someone to take care of me because they care about me, not because it is their job.  I want comfort because someone loves me, not because they are scared that I might harm myself.

I want to be an adult and not a misbehaving, out of control 2 year old.  This is part of what recovery means to me.  I have to use my words, not my actions to let people know that I’m not okay.

Note: the art was made in 2005

September 10 -World Suicide Prevention Day

/ hopeforsanityblog / 2 Comments

20160509_204444

On this day I remember the friends I have lost to suicide.  I think of the friends I know who are suicide survivors.  I think about the service users I work with who struggle with suicidal thoughts.  I think about what it means to be a suicide survivor.

I am a suicide survivor.

I can’t speak to the experiences of other people who have survived suicide attempts, but I would like to share my own thoughts.  I think there are a lot of myths out there related to surviving suicide, how to help people who are suicidal and why people attempt or complete suicide.   It’s a taboo subject, one that people skirt around.  Sometimes the mere mention of suicide can silence a room, create uncomfortable looks and make those around you ill at ease.  I think this is mainly due fear.  It’s almost like people think that suicide is contagious.

I rarely talk about my experiences as a suicide survivor.  There seems to be a tacit agreement that it is not a suitable conversation topic.  Even in therapy there is the worry that talking about suicide will lead to unwanted consequences, trips to the hospital, worrying others, making others think that you are “crazy” or “unstable.”

Here are some of the myths surrounding suicide that I’d like to dispel.  These are my own thoughts and I don’t claim to speak for everyone who has these experiences.

  1. Suicidal thoughts and suicide attempts are impulsive reactions and pass quickly.
  2. Talking about suicide means that someone is not serious and is not really at risk
  3. Suicide attempts are always a “cry for help” and the person doesn’t want to die
  4. People who survive suicide attempts are grateful to be alive and recover quickly
  5. Talking about suicide will just “give someone ideas” and it will increase their risk
  6. The best way to help someone who is suicidal is to call 911 or take them to hospital
  7. If someone is habitualy suicidal, the experience is normal for them and they don’t feel afraid or need support.

Realities

  1. I’ve struggled with suicidal thoughts on an ongoing basis since I was 17 years old.  That’s almost 20 years.  My suicidal thoughts can sometimes be impulsive, but in my experience they are usually long lasting, persistent and even obsessive in nature.  I wouldn’t even like to hazard a guess as to the number of hours I’ve spent planning ways to die and thinking about ending my life.  In my experience, the impulsive thoughts are the most dangerous and the scariest, but the chronic obsessing about suicide is more exhausting and creates  a sense of hopelessness.   Many people struggle with suicidal thoughts over a long period of time, just because they don’t act on it or don’t talk about it, does not mean they are not at risk.
  2. I hear this a lot.  “If she is willing to talk about her suicide plan it means she isn’t serious and she really wants help.”  This is a dangerous assumption.  Every person is different, every situation is different.  Some of the times I tried to kill myself I didn’t tell anyone, I didn’t talk about it before hand, there wasn’t an opportunity to intervene.  Other times I spoke about it to many people, I asked for help, I went to the hospital without harming myself, and I often found that I was not believed or taken seriously.   It was incredibly frustrating because when I went to the hospital AFTER harming myself the doctors were angry that I didn’t “ask for help.”  When I went without harming myself, they assumed I was safe and rational and did not need help.  It was a vicious unhealthy cycle.  In my opinion, if someone is talking about suicide you should listen and you should take it seriously.  Many people who complete suicide have talked about their thoughts prior to taking the final step.  On the other hand, if someone never talks about suicide we can’t assume they are not at risk.
  3. Suicide attempts are not always a cry for help.  Sometimes the suicide survivor really did want to die and their attempt failed.  Suicide attempts are not a way to seek attention.  They are not a way to control or manipulate people.
  4. When I attempted suicide and survived, I was not grateful.  I felt like a failure.  I felt worthless and ashamed.  I felt like I couldn’t do anything right.  I felt ill and I had physical effects from harming myself.  I felt alone and I felt stigma. Even today, years later I regularly wish I had died years ago when I attempted.   Not all suicide survivors are happy to be alive.  We don’t all wake up the next day, thankful for a second chance.  It’s also common to be happy to be alive sometimes and wish you had died at other times.  The recovery process can take a long time and will last far longer than the short time someone might spend in the hospital or away from work/school.
  5. Talking to someone who you think may be suicidal will not increase their risk.  It’s far more risky to stay silent, not ask the questions, not check in with someone.  If you are concerned about someone you care about, I recommend asking them directly if they have thoughts of harming themselves, ending their lives, or wishing they were not alive.  Ask them if they feel like a burden, ask them about what connections they have in their lives, ask them if they feel hopeless.  It’s better to know the answers, then to assume someone is not suicidal.  Sometimes a suicidal person feels like nobody cares about them, and staying silent could reinforce that belief.  I can’t even remember the number of times that I was stopped from harming myself by receiving a phone call from a friend, or a connection with someone around me.  Connection is the opposite of depression.  Asking someone about suicidal thoughts is not easy, but losing them to suicide will be harder.
  6. Calling 911 or taking someone to the hospital is not always the best way to help a suicidal person.  Sometimes involving the police, ambulance or hospital can escalate a situation.  Sometimes it can destroy the trust you have with that person.  In many situations it can be helpful to give the suicidal person choices and options.  Thank them for opening up to you.  Ask them what they feel would be most helpful.  In my experience, suicidal feelings are often linked to feeling out of control and overwhelmed.  Taking away choices from someone or punishing them for suicidal thoughts can add to feelings of powerlessness.  Offering choices can be an antidote.  Maybe the person wants company, maybe they don’t.  Maybe they just want a chance to talk about their suicidal feelings without being judged.  Maybe they do need medical intervention, maybe you can take them to the hospital and stay with them.  If someone is suicidal and impaired by drugs and alcohol, or has access to lethal methods such as a gun, you may have fewer options.   But calling 911 without somoene’s permission should be a last resort.  Hospitals don’t even always admit someone who is suicidal.   I’ve been in the ER, highly suicidal and at huge risk, and just sent home.  I’ve been told “she isn’t psychotic so  she can go home, she isn’t at risk.”  I’ve often felt WORSE after unpleasant and unhelpful interactions in the ER.  It’s a myth that hospitals always help suicidal people.  Consider all your options and include the suicidal person in decision making as much as possible.  Also make sure you take care of yourself.  You are not responsible for saving anyone.
  7.  People like me, who struggle with suicidal thoughts on a chronic basis, still get scared.  Feeling suicidal is a scary thing.  It doesn’t matter that I’ve felt this way hundreds of times before.  I’m afraid.  I always worry that I will become impulsive and make bad choices.  I always feel afraid of telling someone, afraid of their reaction, afraid of the stigma.  Afraid people will think I shouldn’t be working, parenting, left alone etc.  If you know someone who chronically talks about suicide or habitually harms themselves, don’t give up on them.  Don’t assume they don’t want to get better.   Suicidal thoughts and self harm behaviours can be a coping mechanism for many survivors of violence.  Sometimes thinking about harming myself feels like the only way I can have control in an out of control and scary world.  Suicidal people need and deserve compassion.  Never underestimate how much good you can do by just non-judgmentally acknowledging someone’s struggle:  “Those thoughts sound very scary, you must feel pretty overwhelmed right now, I’m sorry you are struggling, what can I do to help?”

 

I miss my friends who completed suicide, but they are not cowards.  They are some of the bravest, most beautiful people I have ever known.  Suicide survivors are all around us.  We are regular people, living regular lives.  Suicide isn’t just something that happens to “crazy” people.  It can happen to anyone.  Breaking down the stigma helps everyone.  I think about suicide on a regular basis, but I still have an ordinary, productive life.  If you struggle with suicidal thoughts, or have lost someone to suicide, you are not alone and you should not be ashamed.  Be good to yourself, I’m happy you are alive.

No uniformed officers please.

/ hopeforsanityblog / Leave a comment

what-is-gay-pride-300x187

It’s Pride Week and I want to write about why I don’t think uniformed police officers should be in the Parade.   The police should be welcome, but they should attend the parade as civilians, dressed in ordinary clothing.

I’m not anti-police, so much as pro-safe spaces.  There are a number of groups of people and communities that may feel threatened by uniformed police officers (no matter how nice those officers might be!).  I know some LGBTQ* folks who have declined to attend Pride this year because they don’t feel it is a safe space for them.

Some communities that have experienced marginalization, violence and oppression perpetrated by police include (but are not limited to): Trans* folks, People of Colour, Indigenous communities, sex workers, immigrant and refugee folks, lesbians, gay people, queer folks, survivors of sexual violence, people with disability and people with mental health and addiction diagnoses.  Especially people who embody any of these intersecting identities in a visible or public way.   The police have a lot of power and privilege and this has often been used against, and not for/with, marginalized groups.

My own experience, and the focus of this blog, is related to my experience of living with a mental illness that does not always allow me to “pass” as normal or neurotypical.

I will describe one of my interactions with the police, as an illustration of my own preference not to have uniformed officers at Pride.

When I used to self harm and attempt suicide on a regular basis, I used to get to the hospital by car, bus, taxi or on foot.  Near the end of the years of regular ER visits, a doctor told me she didn’t think it was safe for me to drive myself to the hospital after cutting myself deeply.  I thought about it for a while and figured she was right.  The next time I hurt myself I was suicidal, not just cutting as coping.  I was home alone and I decided to call 911 rather than a taxi.   During the 911 call I told the truth to the operator.  I told them that I had cut myself on purpose and that I wasn’t feeling safe.  I sat on the staircase in the front entryway and waiting for the ambulance to arrive.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door and I could see tall people in dark uniforms outside.  I opened the door and two huge uniformed police officers stood there.  I was confused, already upset and I started panicking.  I asked where the ambulance was, I told them I changed my mind, I didn’t need police.  They came into the house and told me to sit on the steps.  They started asking me what seemed like hundreds of questions and told me I couldn’t move.  They asked me if there were weapons in the house, if I was alone in the house, if there was medication in the house, where the tools I had cut myself were, whether I had a doctor, what medications I took etc.

I felt more and more panicked.  I knew I couldn’t visibly keep panicking because I knew they wouldn’t leave until they felt I wasn’t a danger to anyone. The feeling of being out of control and knowing you can’t properly show your feelings is an unsafe and triggering one for a survivor of violence.

I felt like I had no choice but to do exactly what they said.  They told me the paramedics couldn’t come into the house until they were sure it was safe.  I tried to explain that I had harmed myself and had no intention of harming anyone else.  I was crying.  I offered to get the things they wanted (the blade, the medication) but they wouldn’t allow me to move.  I had to explain where the items were and one uniformed officer walked around my house collecting them, while the other stood and watched me.  They both had guns.  Generally, guns do not make a suicidal panicky person feel calmer.  Just FYI.

Then they were both back in the room.  I was sitting on the couch, now in the living room.  They asked me questions about my treatment and my medication. I didn’t want to answer them.  They were taking notes in a small black book.  I was keenly aware that this information could be used against me in the future.  I was scared I might have a police record, when what I really needed was medical attention.  I was confused and I didn’t understand how harming myself was a police matter.

Finally, at some point they determined the situation was safe.  Two paramedics, one man and one woman came into the house.  At some point the police left and went outside, making further notes in their cars.  I was embarrassed and ashamed because I knew my neighbours would see the commotion.  I felt my face burning with shame as I walked to the ambulance with the paramedics.  I begged them not to turn on the sirens because I was so embarrassed already.  I’d spent every minute since I opened the door to the house wishing that I had never called 911.     The female paramedic drove the ambulance and the male sat inside with me.  He was calm and kind and he didn’t have a gun.  I felt safer once the police were gone.

In the past, I’d had security guards sit by my bed, or just outside the door in the ER.  Ensuring that I didn’t run away before being assessed by the doctor.  That was associated in my mind with feeling unsafe and not being trusted.  Being a prisoner within a hospital rather than a patient.  That’s how I felt in my own home that day.

The ambulance took me to the hospital and I received treatment for my cut.  I wasn’t admitted to the hospital, because nobody really took my self harm seriously by that point.  They had labelled me borderline and didn’t believe I would ever actually kill myself.  I was often treated like a misbehaving child.

This memory is one reason why I don’t feel safe around uniformed police officers.  The other reasons, related to reporting violence, I will talk about more in future posts.

If I have a serious mental health crisis again in the future, I hope nobody will call the police.  I can’t think how that would calm me down or de-escalate the situation.  I would feel more at risk, rather than safer.

So, for this reason and for many others, I believe there are other ways to create safer and more inclusive spaces.  And LGBTQ* police officers, please feel welcomed by me at Pride…just leave the uniforms and guns behind.