As a suicide attempt survivor working in suicidology and crisis support, I frequently find myself in positions where I am “supposed” to talk about hope. Good suicide attempt survivors are hopeful; hope is what saves us. When I reflect on my experience, hope isn’t really part of the equation. Hopefulness is a façade that helps non-suicidal people feel better about their suicidal loved ones. It removes all the cultural nuances that define a world that drives people to suicide. It eliminates the dialectics of justice and gives us something that feels more innocuous to pursue. No one mentions the fact that hope is much more possible for white, straight, cis, middle-aged, sane, non-suicidal man.
Lessons from various extreme states over the last few years, and from various migraine visions over the last year:
1) The laws of thermodynamics apply to literally everything, including oppressive systems and social change.
2) Insects are better than people.
3) Mushrooms are better than people and will save the planet.
4) The state is trying to killing us.
5a) All social constructs are gods
5b) All gods are bastards
What happens when your therapist takes the side of people who traumatized you?
Therapy sessions can be a blur of words and reactions. Many times, I’ll be conscious of the clock and try to fit in everything I want to discuss within the 50 minutes allotted.
With my mind and memory being somewhat faulty, I can miss things said in the moment that only sink in later.
This is one of those times and now I have lost any desire to see this therapist anymore.
I have this very rich and fantastical reality in which I (whoever or whatever I am) sometimes reside. I am a super hero. I am god-slayer. I have the power to destroy whole worlds and tear apart the very fabric of reality. I have a dragon that eats fascists alive. If I were to share too much of my internal reality with a psychiatrist, I would likely be labeled as having “delusions of grandeur.” People have been thus psychiatrized for less.
Nev Jones, PhD and Emily S. Cutler
Nearly all of us who have been involved with mental health policy, practice, or research for any length of time have participated in multi-stakeholder meetings, collaborations, or relationships of one kind or another gone awry. And while there are many reasons that interpersonal dynamics can (and do) deteriorate, when it comes to mental health, by far the most common scenario is an interpersonal break-down across clear identarian lines. And these divisions occur both in terms of the issues—of what is being discussed, proposed, or reviewed—and the emotions involved (and, by extension, the style or mode of interaction).
Summer is Pride time for me. LGBTQIA in June, Disability in July. Banners and t-shirts, flags and beads. These celebrations often focus on pride as a celebration of those characteristics in ourselves that, though worthy of celebration, are often presented by dominant groups as shameful. And these joyous festivals have their place.
But they are, at the same time, somewhat alien to me. They are at the end of a range of expressions, and my place is some distance away.
To me, Pride is celebrated at 4 am, walking friends who are likelier bashing targets, women in pearls and five o’clock shadow, men in heels and gowns, young couples too in love to pretend they are just friends, home from the clubs, miles put of your way, tired and laughing and keeping a wary eye on the straights you pass and still more than a little drunk.
I started hearing it several months ago, just once in a while, always late at night. There were strange loud noises at night. The chug chug of a diesel engine accompanied with strange whirring and grinding, electric humming and buzzing. Clanging, creaking.
What was odd was just how close it sounded. Like there was machinery running right outside the building, maybe even in the building somehow. My building is right near a commercial area. I just assumed one of these businesses was using trucks and heavy machinery at night, and that it sounded closer than it actually was. I had no idea how close to home, and how sinister and evil these sounds actually were until recently.
I look at my youngest son as he studies. There is something about how excited he becomes when he talks about any variety of science that makes me smile. I can’t believe how much he has changed from a frightened child into a strong almost adult. At one time, he sported the Autism Spectrum moniker, which he himself stripped away. After having violent and terrifying hallucinations on Risperdal, he chose to never take a psychiatric drug again. I supported his decision because it was wholly logical and the “meds” never made his distress any better. It actually did just the opposite.
I woke up on September 1st, 2017, and I knew that it was bad. Instinctively. I just had a gut feeling that everything was terrible. My head hurt. I felt nauseated. I am a synesthete, I have sensory processing differences. I have color associations for letters, words, days, and weeks. “September” for me has always been red. So that morning on September the 1st, that morning that was overwhelmingly bad to its core, everytime I saw something that was red, it popped out at me with such intensity that my head started spinning. Everything grew dark. I started to faint, barely catching myself each time.
Recently, my small socially liberal home state of Vermont was considering building a 925 bed private prison complex with psychiatric and juvenile facilities. Not surprisingly, the proposal was met with overwhelming opposition by liberal and leftist Vermonters. I think that many of us do not take kindly to private corporations that pocket taxpayer dollars while profiting off of systemic oppression.