i went to mental health treatment and all i got was this lousy will to live
reflecting on my first day of treatment + your weekly song and poem recs
CW // mentions of suicidal ideation
Six years ago, after I told Gerald that I was, once again, dangerously close to suicide, he helped me find a treatment center within a thirty-minute drive from our Austin apartment. It was a beautiful new facility in the hill country that required a frustrating commute down the interstate, which, on a good day, included three hidden speed traps.
I settled on their intensive outpatient program, partially because it was shorter than the residential program and partially because I wouldn’t need to take unpaid leave from my 9-5. The day I was admitted, the staff walked me through what to expect during each day of treatment. First, I would start with thirty minutes of qigong and meditation, followed by thirty minutes of yoga overlooking the hillsides through floor-to-ceiling windows. Then, I would have three hours of group therapy. This, of course, was required to be done in conjunction with my twice-a-week schedule with my individual therapist and my once-a-month meeting with my psychiatrist, four days a week, for the next seven weeks.
On the first day of treatment, I was introduced to the other four members of my group. One man, easily over 60, was only there because the courts told him he had to be. The two other boys in my group were around my age but dreadfully awkward, which I hated thinking since I was there for my own fucked up reasons. The only other girl in my group was a pretty brunette, a few years older than me, with anxiety that caused my bones to grate around my body like gravel.
Day one qigong was fine. I liked it because it didn’t take much mental energy; I just had to breathe in, exhale, pose, breathe in, exhale, pose until the half-hour was up. It required some mindfulness, which I tolerated because I was generally aware of how my body moved through the space around it. After all, this skill is what ultimately led me to the treatment center. I already knew exactly how to use my hands; I just needed to learn how not to use them against my body.
Day one yoga was not fine. At that point, I was five years out of high school — the most active time of my life — and I didn’t consider the beginner aerobics class I took during my last semester of college to be much of a fitness challenge. I didn’t look out of shape, though. In fact, I didn’t look like a shape at all. I was so malnourished that, in the mirror of the treatment center’s bathroom, I finally understood what people meant when they said they looked at me and saw only bones. The only thing left of me was my outline, and even that was jagged and blurry.
I managed to flow through the poses. Warrior one. Warrior two. Ow. Cat-cow. Downward dog. Upward dog. Ow. And again. My yoga-induced physical exhaustion isn’t what bothered me. I welcomed that aspect, actually. It was the only pain that I was allowed during this program, as the treatment center warned that I would be randomly drug-tested and needed to stay substance and active addiction-free. I thought I was being sneaky when I agreed to those terms before they included self-harm on the list of banned fixations.
The part I hated about the yoga practice was the ending — specifically savasana, or final resting pose. The instructor guided us flat on our backs. Extend your limbs, she said, anchor your bodies to the ground. This was our time to be with ourselves, to breathe, to notice our bodies and all of our insides. The instructor said savasana translates to “corpse pose,” which I found ironic, given that I was in that room to prevent myself from fast-tracking my journey to corpsehood.
And so, there I was — a corpse in a room full of other corpses. Despite my efforts to be still, there was no silence, no matter how hard I tried. I heard the ache of the walls settling around me. I listened to the squish of the mat beneath me. I couldn’t ignore the heart of my voice, caged inside my brain, begging for mercy.
As I pretended to be a body, I realized that I wanted to die, but not if it meant I would become a corpse. I began to rethink death if it meant it would be impossible for me to escape my own stillness.
After the yoga instructor allowed us to resurrect from our resting places, I followed the others into the group therapy room. We exchanged pleasantries before the therapist instructed us to write how we were feeling at that moment. I wrote alive. I scratched it out and wrote mournful.
I remember nothing else from that first day except the drive home. Traffic hit a standstill over the Pennybacker bridge, and I locked my gaze on the haze of the taillights ahead of me. I knew if I looked out the window and over the edge, I would see the water and feel tempted to pull my wheel toward the guardrail. I knew that if I looked out the window and over the edge, I would see the water and feel crushed under the realization that I no longer wanted to drown. I drove down the interstate at such a respectable speed that I forgot about the speed traps hidden behind the exit signs. I parked my car in front of my apartment and cried because I could no longer hide from the parts of me that wanted to live despite still feeling tethered to by the parts of me that wanted to die. I wiped my tears, walked up the stairs, and unlocked the door. There was nowhere left to go, but in.
with love and poetry,
poets note: i was recently featured in this article by Canvas Rebel to talk about my writing journey and tips on how to grow a platform. it was a cool experience, and i love any opportunity to talk about how my writing journey started on tumblr by sharing One Direction fanfic <3
a poem to get you through the week
Throwing Children by Ross Gay
a song that lets you be sad
i really love MOTHICA and her ability to articulate the grittiest, darkest feelings that i’ve ever had. if you’re into pop punk bops that help you get the sad out, listen to this song (and really, all of her discography).
housekeeping:
unfold: poetry + prose, is available on amazon, bookshop, indigo, b&n, or wherever you get books <3
you can still buy paper girl from amazon, barnes & noble, indigo, or your local indie.
i love you. and i see you. and i am so glad you're here.
who i am: a writer, a lover, and a very Black + queer person. i love deeply, forget rarely, and spend most of my time cuddling with my dog, my cat, and my partner.
who i'm not: a therapist, mental health professional, or emergency service. i love hearing the stories of your experiences, but please don't send explicit or triggering details of your story without my prior consent.
if you're in crisis, please call 911 or use any of the following resources:
National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 988
National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)
Crisis Text Line: Text HELP to 741741
S.A.F.E. (Self Abuse Finally Ends): 1-800-DONT-CUT (366-8288)
Eating Disorders Awareness and Prevention: 1-800-931-2237
RAINN (Rape, Abuse, & Incest National Network): 1-800-656-4673
The Trevor Project: 1-866-488-7386
Another incredible essay <3