Non-Fiction

My Doctor Must Not Have Seen the Hashtag

by: Connor Orrico

CW: Mention of suicide and self harm.

“Patient presents. STATES DEPRESSION IS STABLE. NO THOUGHTS OF SELF-HARM. DOING PRETTY WELL ON [redacted]. NO SIDE EFFECTS. REALLY NOT THAT MUCH EFFICACY, HOWEVER.” That is really in my medical chart, copied here caps lock and all. It is a pretty hot take on treatment-resistant (creatively, “stable”) Major Depressive Disorder, something I feel obliged to write as a proper noun to bolster its credibility. Weirdly we call this stuff mental health, which per Twitter, university listservs, high school classroom motivational posters of breaching whales and healthcare.gov, “matters” — but mental health is either misnamed or its mistreated because many miss treatment without physical evidence of psychological pain (e.g., selfharm) or a well-formulated plan towards the end point of the physical self (i.e., suicide).

Even after acknowledging that somatic notions of the link between psychiatric illness and physical anatomy is not without some merit, I think persuading my doctor to appreciate the reality of my depression “independent of biology” (Kleinman and Good, 1985:494) would be met with less resistance if I simply throw myself in the road outside of the practice. Unfortunately, if my physical body were to be destroyed, only the Eliphazs, Bildads, and Zophars retweeting “Ask for help #mentalhealthmatters” would get the glory. So, until our actions align with our words, “mental health matters” is the mass-produced bracelet that becomes a bond. My hands feel tied — bound until they bleed.

Previously published by (mac)ro(mic) on May 16.

7

Check the Box

by: H.E. Grahame

Your ballpoint pen hovered over the bright orange paper on the cluttered table in front of you as you paused at the question that was being asked. It was one of those early summer days that felt just a little bit too warm but by mid-July would have felt like heaven and the vibrant green park was alive with celebration. Pop-up tents sat in crowded rows across the grass guiding the river of revelers past their colorful laughing mouths selling rainbow flags and cleverly-sloganed crop tops. Friendly hands offered toothy smiles and glossy pamphlets about the services and support that they offered. A steady stream of reds and blues and pale naked skin danced behind you as the tents and people joyfully mixed and mingled. A lanky blonde with haphazard body paint and a baby blue tutu bumped into you, apologized, calling you “hunny” and excitedly hugged another painted body that was posing and bouncing nearby. Their happiness and the other acts of jubilation and excitement spread through the park, like juicy gossip until it seemed that the entire universe was celebrating too. It was not your first Pride Festival. You had spent several other days in a handful of other years over your short lifetime dancing and cheering with the LGBTQ+ community on hot days and rainy days and days that were more about yelling back at the protestors on the corner than singing karaoke with drag queens. You had been a friend and supporter for so long but it was today, at this Pride Festival, as your pen continued to pause over the volunteer form for the Pride Center that you wondered if you knew where you fit at all. You weren’t confused about the choices listed on the paper. The words were ones that you were familiar with. How do you identify? The paper asked. This seemed like a pretty simple question and one that you had always had a quick answer for before. Straight. Gay. Lesbian. Bisexual. Asexual. Transgender. Agender. Non-binary. Queer. Write-In-your-(very valid)-other-identity-here. You knew those words. They were terms that were talked about a lot in the places you lurked on Tumblr as people were talking about their experiences and identities. They were concepts you knew from reading countless hours of smutty fanfiction on Livejournal where your favorite band boys fell in love and in lust with one another instead of the screaming fangirls after their shows and let writers and readers explore the ideas of alternative relationships.

They were vocabulary words from every ally-ship pamphlet and Queer Studies textbook you had excitedly read and re-read, hoping to be better than your parents and their friends who “didn’t mind homosexuality but wished the gays wouldn’t shove it down everyone’s throats.” You also knew all the condescending and vile words on the signs that the pious men outside the entrance gates held in their hateful little hands. You knew the words. You knew what they meant, and you knew why they held such power for everyone in this little park. You knew that the words we use to describe ourselves and our feelings carry weight and that language shapes, creates, and recreates identity in ways that can both destroy and empower. Still the words on this bright slip of paper were causing you to pause. Causing you to think about where your pen should fall and who you really are when no one is looking. The body-painted huggers had moved along down the row of tents and the smiling booth attendant had stopped paying attention to you and your simple little volunteer form and was now engaged in an animated exchange with a short rainbow-wigged teenager about the finer points of “queering contemporary art.” Your best friend’s brother, Benny, bounced up next to you, excitedly shoving a folded piece of fabric under your nose. Silky white, baby blue, and soft pink hugged symbolically as Benny unfurled the flag and wrapped it around his soft arms like a protective cape. You watched him twirl around, basking for a moment in his new safe cocoon then dash off to find his older brother, who was somewhere among the colors with a guy whose hand was begging to be held in the safety of the festival. You smiled, hoping that Benny’s flag would make him feel safe from the hurtful words of those who didn’t care to understand. From his dad who still misgendered him and called him “his little girl” From his mom who argued that this identity was “just a phase” and criticized Benny’s therapist for encouraging this confusion. From the old friends who dead-named him every time they spoke. From straight men who would tell him that he just needed to “find the right man.” From every conservative woman who told him what bathroom he is allowed to pee in and from every single person who called him “she” without correction or apology. You hoped this flag would wrap Benny in safety and hope and let him express himself in the same way that the words and language helped other queer people feel authentic, heard and validated.

You had grown up in a home where gays were welcome and loved. You went to your first lesbian wedding when you were just seven and understood, without a doubt, that love is love. You recited Shakespeare on stage with men who felt more comfortable in dresses and talked about attractive teen hunks with the half-back of the high school football team. Non-heteronormative was normal in your world. You

9

knew, staring at the checkboxes, that whatever box you chose wasn’t going to make your parents cry. The swift stroke of the pen wasn’t going to make the people dearest to you run away. The inky x wasn’t going to change the world around you. But it was going to change the world inside of you. It was going to make you feel different. It was going to start a new fresh page in the sloppy book of your life. Maybe now, with this hesitation about checking a simple little box on a neon orange square of paper, it was time to change your story. Maybe this early summer day in this festive green park, dancing in this gushing flow of laughter and acceptance, was the perfect place to wave your own vibrant flag, paint your cheeks with purples and grays, and shed hesitance and uncertainty. You took a deep breath and guided the pen to leave its inky blue kisses on the paper, sliding it carefully into the graffitied folder with other scribbled papers and boxes checked with other identities. Finally, you had taken this first tiny step, a simple “check the box” and let yourself be swallowed by blues and pinks and drenched in sparkles and love.