Contributors: Leads: Rebekah Frumkin, creator & organizer KT Hawbaker, social meda visuals Aim Ren, logo & visual layout Submissions: Thomas Locke, Photos: “hands up, don’t shoot” (cover photo) Audrey Smith, “Fine Print” Daniel de Culla, “Vaya con Dios” Meg Matich, “Untitled” Jill M. Stone, “Hymn to Another Day” Euree Kim, “Perdu” & “Cartel of Silence”
Audrey Smith {fine print}
you called me brave on the day i pushed my story out, delivered it wriggling into your waiting palms, said it sounded to you like a psalm to fearlessness. but in the interest of full disclosure i need you to know that my ability to love has lived long in the parentheses of my own terror and
you said i moved you once but in the interest of full openness please know that this way in which i love you still scares the living shit out of me and i think maybe it’s similar to how lizards feel when their tails grow back again, how antelope feel when they shake adrenaline from muscles that still haven’t forgotten their sprint from death because there are still nights i fall asleep convinced that his breath is grinding cigarettes into the floorboards and
Audrey Smith {fine print} (cont) you called me grounded once but even here there are mornings i wake up in dublin convinced of his teeth on my neck but these phantom limbs are slowly growing back and i’m learning how to give them blood and sinew, to wear this word “survivor” less like a noose and more like a mountain range on the map of my bones and you called me hero once and i think i’m still trying to save you from my faultlines because as women we’ve learned the hard way how love can be the cruelest mirror to our nakedness and in the interest of full disclosure i’m still learning the art of openness, of seeing vulnerability as sister of nerve and please be patient as i learn to stand unclothed in front of you, because i love you, i love you despite my fine print and outside my parentheses.
Meg Matich, Untitled I was alseep in my boyfriend’s dorm, with paper towels wrapped around my arms, fastened with tape, to sop up the blood. The wounds were self-inflicted, but they were superficial. I had a history of suicide attempts – I was twenty years old and had already seen the inside of a behavioral ward twice. I was never really together. In retrospect, I don’t think that I had a concept of what it meant to be healthy – least of all to seek health. Health was a state that was, in my mind, something that came over you without first asking. It wasn’t something you worked toward. It was something you were or became. The towels didn’t soak up much blood. I had stolen a knife from my boyfriend – laser-cut, banned on campus, black, sleek, matte – he was a collector. I tried to strangle myself by tying a ribbon to the bedpost, the cuts were a fail-safe, theatrics, I wasn’t sure. I am not sure. The bed was a twin, on the men’s floor, on a closed Catholic campus in a corn field in Pennsylvania. I was scared. Sometimes, all the time disoriented. Sometimes, all the time lost. I wasn’t always tethered to myself. Or to the earth. I sometimes all the time didn’t live inside a body. I learned years later to repeat my name, my address, phone number – any identifying details to orient myself when I suddenly didn’t know where I was. I wasn’t able to read myself to sleep. I wasn’t able to read anymore. The towels tore as I rolled around in my sleep next to the man who loved me but did not love me. A girl had seen me in the elevator on the way downstairs. Mary. She had been my friend, once, not long. A splotch of blood on my nightgown. Theatrics: it was white, silk, a prop from an Othello stage show. She saw the blood and kept going. My face was probably white, too.
Meg Matich, Untitled (cont) A bang at the door. Isn’t it always? My first thought: it’s the RA. They know I’m sleeping on a boys’ floor. A small fine, some videos to correct my concupiscence. There was a bang at the door and my boyfriend answered and the men were carrying heavy flashlights that I first mis-think are guns. They need to take me. I was confused, but didn’t fuss. I was scared, but didn’t want to make a scene. There was mention of handcuffs if I wasn’t going to comply. I complied. They walked me into the snow in my white nightgown, in my boyfriend’s sandals, in my boyfriend’s coat. They loaded me into an ambulance. There had been paperwork. Someone made a call. It happens all the time. The woman in the ambulance told me that her good friend just overdosed. That I should want to live, I should want to be there. It was after midnight, after 2AM. I didn’t make this choice for myself. As my boyfriend wrapped my arms in paper towels, he asked me if I was okay. We’ll get through this, we’ve been through this before. He rocked me to sleep in the bed inside the body of the person I no longer wished to be. We had planned to call my therapist in the morning to discuss options. My therapist and I. Bob. We had planned that I would check into a long-term care facility in two weeks, a facility specializing in the treatment of personality disorders. We had a plan. It was a good plan.
Meg Matich, Untitled (cont) Instead, I found myself arrested in the middle of the night. I found myself in the care of a behavioral ward staffed almost entirely by social workers who seemed distracted, overworked. I remember nothing else. I remember combing my hair, tidying myself. Smiling. Taking medicines with unfamiliar names. Being released three days later. Nobody helped me. Everybody believed I didn’t need to be there – I was too clean, too smart. It was shortterm care. It seemed to me to be designed to keep its residents safe for a day, five days. It wasn’t the care I needed. I needed help, but I needed it to be on my own terms, like when I went, on my own terms, to my boyfriends room on the boys’ floor and told him simply that I was bleeding, that I needed help, needed to be cleaned up. That I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do it on my own. And he cared for me on those terms. Mary had called the police. Mary had signed the documents that sent me there. Mary had been trying to help. Mary didn’t know the plan. Mary didn’t know what was best for me, but she was given the power to decide without information, without any access to my internal world. And because she was willing to write the statement “I believe she is a danger to herself,” and sign it, she was able to have control over my circumstances in a way that she was – and is – not entitled to. And I can’t remember being there, not now. The smell of lysol, something like ham, the telephone, slipper-footed women. No healing.
Hymn to Another Day By Jill M. Stone The alarm goes off you turn your head there’s work again today will you even get out of bed it’s the same as yesterday If you take a pill there is a chance you might make it there on time but you ask yourself if there’s any point to keep up this pantomime Hymn to another day as the sunlight steals away if you got something to say wipe your mouth before you pray You sleepwalk through the day and get taken to task again there are words that you could say but you doubt they’d understand Late at night your mind climbs the walls but your body feels like lead what good is thinking anyway when it’s all just in your head Hymn to another day as the sunlight steals away if you got something to say wipe your mouth before you pray You got caught up in your own web again you laid the trap so well with the old familiar patterns erecting bars to a brand new cell Hymn to another day as the sunlight steals away if you got something to say wipe your mouth before you pray
Euree Kim, Perdu What if the person witnessing the crisis situation of their friend has trauma regarding suicide? In the situation, what can they do? Trigger and content warning: this article discusses suicide, death, and ableist language. It’s been two months since I was de-institutionalized from a psychiatric ward. Many things have changed since then: I lost my best friend, started several projects regarding disability advocacy, have gone to multiple support groups, and am taking different medications to alleviate severe insomnia, anxiety, and depression everyday. After being discharged, I have experienced extreme feelings of isolation, insecurity, and hopelessness. During the process, I broke up with one of my friends whom I trusted the most but at the same time, who called police during the crisis. Our last conversation was very traumatic. I criticized them that they defined the hierarchy between “rational” and “irrational” by reporting to police while they did not try accommodating my disabilities. In contrast, my friend retorted that I was the one who acted irrationally and inconsistently which made me lose any accountability or credibility before calling out injustice. Also, they said it was not their job to support me. After the conversation, I sensed a deep crevasse between our different understandings on mental health, identities, and systems. This is unavoidable since we experience and undergo different realities, but I wondered whether it is possible to find alternative strategies in those situations and restore disconnection. For this article, I wanted to share part of my story.
Euree Kim, Perdu (cont) Part 1. Death and suicide On a snowy day, I had an argument with my friend. Triggered by circling debates, I blurted out, “I wish I were dead!” My friend did not say anything. I come from a culture where death was frequently appropriated in mass media and everyday conversations. Korea is notorious for ranking one of the highest suicide rate among OECD countries, which has been a major social issue but has not gotten better (https://data.oecd.org/healthstat/suicide-rates. htm). I remember how often death was mentioned as metaphor and how it was normalized in the society. I was able to hear, read, and see the trend nearby: school, family, and streets. The strange thing was while appropriating “death” as metaphor was normal, sharing and discussing issues of mental health was considered as weak, childish, and immature. Even in my family, expressing negative emotions such as depression, sadness, or anger was a taboo and not allowed. For a person with autism, manic depression and anxiety, this created the worst environment for wellness and mental health. On top of that, I had difficulty assimilating my queerness to society where heteronormativity was the dominant ideology, and often felt othered. Also, I had difficulty finding meaning of life while living in an ableist, capitalistic, and meritocratic society where the quality of life was often measured with monetary success. Being disabled meant a path to failure, a burden to society and family.
Euree Kim, Perdu (cont) Usually, I kept my face neutral and straight and did not talk at all. Sometimes, my oppressed feelings would burst out as tears, ranting, and self harm. I cried that I wanted to die rather than living. One family member would respond: “Then go out and kill yourself.” At those moments, I felt I was unable to speak anymore, so I would go to my room or outside to cry and do things to relieve anxiety such as biting my fingers or tearing books. Throughout the years, I became accustomed to the violences around me. Sometime another family member would tell me I was trying to manipulate them with my depression and anxiety. They told me that I was just trying to make them feel bad, to get their attention. I became desperate and said, “if only one time you could understand this” Back to the snowy day. I was crying and walking over to a lake, leaving my friend behind. Being triggered, I was no longer able to talk with them properly. I wanted to be alone and calm down. I lied on the snowy beach to feel the coldness. Someone came over to me and asked whether I was okay. I laughed and said I would be fine. As I felt being a bit cold, I decided to just sit and look over the lake. My friend blocked my sight as they thought I was going to jump into the lake. I lied my face down as it was triggering to see their face. Then I heard my friend calling police.
Euree Kim, Perdu (cont) Part 2. Police An anxious thought crossed my mind. Are they really calling the police? I stood up and saw my friend actually calling 911. My heart started pounding with fear. I tried speaking but I only had a weak and squeaky voice: “I am okay, I am okay, Please don’t call police” I stretched my arm to turn off their phone but they shoved me away. I became full of fear and started running, feeling disoriented. But I soon stopped due to problems breathing. I felt disconnection between my body and thoughts. My friend was running behind me, thinking that I was just about to jump into the lake. I didn’t walk right. I didn’t act right. I didn’t speak right. I didn’t look right. I wasn’t right. I was wrong and irrational and dangerous. I tried running away from police, but was caught very soon. Police asked, “what happened?” Itried speaking, but my words became broken, stuttering. I was not looking straight into their face but side ways. They asked, “do you need anything?”I said, with a crawling voice, that I wanted to go home. I felt my accent stronger than usual. I made a faint smile which was soon distorted with facial numbness. They said I looked a bit lucid. They whispered to each other. They said I needed to go to hospital. I said I did not want to. They said I did not have a right to refuse. They took me.
Euree Kim, Perdu (cont) I was institutionalized about a week and released. After that, I have researched and met pro bonos, social workers, and community organizers to know whether there was anything I could do in the situation. Their answers were no. But I wondered if I spoke right, if I were not Asian, if I were not disabled, I wouldn’t have experienced this. At the same time, I knew that I was able to be released in a week because there was another institution behind me where I was associated and because I was able to connect with the people outside the psychiatric ward. Nevertheless, the interaction with police and institutionalization gave me this message that I would not be safe in public space. It was so easy and quick to be labelled as c​razy, dangerous, and abnormal depending on who has the power to define the madness. Sometimes I felt sad that my friend did not provide the support I wanted. Meanwhile, I understood that they might not have proper resources on how to interact in crisis situation. For the individuals who were not trained for responding to crisis situation, it might seem difficult to figure out what are the ways they could do in the situation. In a crisis situation, one helpful thing to ask oneself is: before doing any action, have I asked the person what support they need or how I could support them? Have I asked their consent? Looking irrational or suicidal is not a consent to calling police or being institutionalized. Also, it does not give a pass to exempt from the responsibility of the consequences after calling police. Once police arrives, the person in crisis becomes deprived of their voice to represent themselves since everything would be under control of the authority. In addition, the reported one cannot predict what treatment they would receive next. Calling police can result in a variety of situations: imprisonment, hospitalization, police brutality, deportation or loss of immigration status, shame, sensational media report, medical bills, and more (mindfuloccupation.org).
Euree Kim, Perdu (cont) If the police was called, and the reported one became institutionalized, it is very important to follow up with the individual after the situations so that the person could feel connected to the outside world. A sudden change of surroundings against the will often brings about an extreme sense of isolation, helplessness, and increased depression and anxiety. After being de-institutionalized, be consistent about support and let the person know that they are being supported. It is also helpful to have multiple supporters so that you are not burned out as well. Lastly, create a support network by sharing resources and keeping in touch with one another on constant basis. Also, for any future crisis situation, it is beneficial to write down the own list of crisis signs, emergency and alternative contacts, and how the people around can support in the situation. This is not only to understand the own mental health, but also to provide resource for the person who could potentially support during the crisis. Calling the police should be the last and least option to consider. Please note: it is not required for police to train for how to interact with people with disabilities (whether in crisis or not). Many social justice advocates are working very hard to raise awareness of this issue, but the actual implementation is still far away. (And this is one of the many reasons that police is not an ideal solution.)
Cartel of Silence By Euree Kim Day 1 Nurse told me to be stripped naked. I asked: do you have my consent? what about my rights? Nurse replied, I do not need your consent. You do not have rights. Yesterday, my friend B reported me to police. I told them not to. But they did. Police arrived. They said I looked a bit lucid. They asked whether I needed anything. I said I wanted to go home. They said I needed to go to hospital. I said I did not want to. They said I did not have right to refuse because it was protocol. They took me. Doctors and nurses made me sign a voluntary admission form. I became imprisoned in a mental institution. B said: You abandoned your life. That is your illusion. Windows were covered with mirror film for the purpose of privacy. Outside people could not see inside people. Doctors asked: What happened? Doctors: Well, we can see you do not want to be here, but we are concerned that you went to lake. We want you to stay here for a few days and make sure that you are okay, then you are free. I asked: Few days? How long?
Cartel of Silence By Euree Kim (cont) Doctors: We don’t know. It is up to you. I: Then I do not want to stay here. Can I leave? Doctors: No. I: But I signed the admission form against my will. Doctors: Then submit another form which is called Dispute Request. It takes 5 days to be processed. There were 14 inmates in this ward. Every week, new people came. Nurse said: No one wants to stay here. There are three total computers and phones for use. We are allowed to use them for only certain periods of time. I called B. Truth is not something that is accurate or objective. Truth is a malleable thing which can be appropriated and interpreted to benefit others. Truth is defined by people with power. I said: please help me B. B said: why? I: I do not want to be here. They do not believe me. This is a misunderstanding. B: what misunderstanding? I: that I wanted to die. B: then tell them. I: they do not believe me. They think I am lying. B: How do you know that? I: then why am I here?
Cartel of Silence By Euree Kim (cont) B: .... I: Can you advocate for me? B: why? I: They trust your words more than mine. Also, you are the one who initially reported... B: ......... I: B, I am asking for your help. B: That is not an attitude of asking for help. How can I trust you? Also, you tried making me feel guilty. I: Then what should I say? How should I speak to make you want to help me? How can I make you trust me? B: ............ Dinner Roasted Beef and edamame. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Dry sponge cake. A scoop of salad. My sister visited. She brought some underwear, sweaters, and pants. When she saw me, she cried. She asked: what happened? Day 2 Nurses woke me up early in morning to sample my blood and measure my blood pressure. I sent messages to my friends. They asked: what happened? -Breakfast Baked potatoes. Scrambled egg. Orange Juice. Fat free milk. Canned fruit. -
Cartel of Silence By Euree Kim (cont) Nurse came into my room and wrote my daily schedule on a board. Hallway. Patients in the ward were milling around. Gym was closed. Social worker asked: what happened? Well, she said Social worker: I am concerned that you went to the lake. I want you to stay a couple of days so that we can see how you are doing. And if you seem fine, you can go home. I thought: fuck you. There were fake sky ceilings in hallways and lounges. Sometimes I went to my room to see the real sky. Pale blue and grey. Lunch Roasted chicken breast. Asparagus. Baked corn. Salty soup. A bun. Apple juice. I wanted to have a warm bap. *Bap: Korean word for steamed rice or a meal. Every moment nurses checked us and wrote something on their notepads. Meeting room for patients and visitors are like where prisoners meet visitors in movies. There are tables and chairs for people to sit. Nurses monitor people. Meeting time is two hours per day.
Cartel of Silence By Euree Kim (cont) B visited. Tired. Day 3 I woke up in the middle of the night because I heard someone entering my room. The person came into my room and stared at me in darkness. I heard the sound of scribbling on a notepad. They left. -Breakfast Oatmeal. Cereal. 2% Milk. Banana. Yoplait. Canned fruit. What day is it today? Social skill session. Nurse laid out puzzle games, coloring pages, board games, and awful Christmas cards. She played classical music on the radio. No one wanted to play with another, so everyone did stuff individually. I chose a word puzzle. Doctors and Social Worker called me. They asked: how are you doing so far? I said: good, feeling calm. They: do you have any feeling of harming yourself or other people? I said: No I don’t. Not at all. They: we decided to let you free tomorrow.
Cartel of Silence By Euree Kim (cont) I talked with one patient before another session. I said: it is snowing again. She replied: yeah. It is also very windy. I: My sister told me how cold it was. Lunch Chicken risotto. Roasted veggies. Artificial Chocolate cake. Cranberry Juice. Focus group. Nurse said: let’s talk about the best dinner ever! He elaborated on his fabulous course food at home. He never said whether he had any company for his meals but just gluttony. I remembered having Shabu-shabu with my family. Dinner Roasted beef and green beans. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Lemon bar. A scoop of salad. Tea. My sister visited. We talked in Korean. Day 4 Breakfast Oatmeal. Cereal. Fat Free Milk. Banana. Yoplait. I waited. -
Cartel of Silence By Euree Kim (cont) My sister came to take me home. We walked outside the building. I breathed cold winter air. At school. Care manager asked, what happened?