disclaimer 1: my disclaimers are a lot more casual than the rest of this post so maybe keep that in mind if you read it so that you aren’t startled when it gets dark

disclaimer 2: this is mostly not about trump, this is mostly about healthcare and resources in the US for disabled people even before trump’s inauguration. i am writing this because i want to explain why it is so vital in even one situation (mine) that things get better (lol, i know, they won’t, i fucking hate life right now) rather than worse. they must NOT repeal the ACA and the ADA, and there, now i only mention trump briefly one more time in this piece of writing.

disclaimer 3: i do know there are other issues that need to be addressed also – i don’t have the energy or expertise to write about them. if you do, feel free to link me to your writing, i will share it if i feel it is helpful for people to see after reading it.

disclaimer 4: trigger warnings for suicide, self harm, + rape mentions below

IF I END MY LIFE SOMETIME SOMEWHAT SOON, especially in the next four to eight years:

let it be known that i went to the ER three times since my last serious attempt on my life, which happened in february 2016, and which was preceded by another serious attempt on my life in january 2016, and that since that second post-suicide-attempt inpatient stay in february i went to the ER three (3) times presenting in need of immediate psychiatric hospitalization, and that each time i was sent home without so much as seeing a glance of a bed in a psych ward, let alone being assigned one of my own to sleep in for even a single night. one of those times i was decompensating, and the other two times i presented for suicidality and i told them i was going to kill myself and overdose if they sent me home (they were “willing to take that risk” and they sent me home, one time with a cab bill over $60 not including tip). i never thought, as a teenager, that i would long for the individually packaged saltines of the psych ward, the uncomfortable beds, and usually terrible roommates, and especially long for the feeling of security that comes with having had almost everything i could possibly use to hurt myself unavailable to me, to be surrounded by mental health professionals whose job is to keep their patients physically safe and as calm and okay as possible, among other things.

let it be known that before being discharged from the ER on one of those three occasions i was kept alone at almost all times for 36 continuous hours in a room with white walls so bare that they lacked even a single clock i could use to tell the passage of time, and that there was only loose paper, a pen and one pack of playing cards for entertainment (all three only offered upon request).

let it be known that the first time i was raped as an adult, it was by a man who met me as a patient in the psych ward he was a counselor in.

let it be known that i reported that man officially to another psychiatric counselor after it happened and that my rapist still worked there after i did that – i do not know if he currently works at my local hospital where i met him, i have not and would never go back to that ward, but i do know that he did still work there months after i reported him for raping me.

let it be known that i told a visiting nurse about a month ago that if she gave me access to all my meds again i would definitely kill myself with them and she replied “it’s not my job to worry about that” and walked out my door with my med box left unlocked and without calling crisis or 911 and alerting them to my state or to what i had just told her.

let it be known that i have been desperately trying to find a therapist since may 2016 and i have not successfully acquired even a single therapy appointment in that time.

let it be known that i am being provided with psychiatrist appointments that are only 15 minutes long and once every three months, which is not nearly enough in my current self-declared state of suicidality and other increasingly severe symptoms.

let it be known that the health care and welfare services i rely on as a person recognized as legally disabled by the US government are so minimal and underfunded that they are not adequate to treat me, that i cannot access the treatment i need, that i have been trying, and that many others who are also mentally ill or neurodivergent have access to even fewer resources. it is far from uncommon for people with mental illnesses end up in prison or homeless, or dead.

let it be known that i went out fighting daily, that i went out desperately fighting my mental illnesses and trying as hard as i could to live for as long as i could. that as i sit here and write this i have already been telling my constant intrusive thoughts for a very long time that i am not bad, i am enough, i am helping in the ways i am able, i do not take up too much space, i am not exclusively a burden, and that i should not end my own life or even harm my own body, some other things i do not believe too. i have been telling my brain again and again that it is wrong to think the things it does. telling it daily that i am capable of one day helping neurodivergent people in a significant way and that the world would not be “better if i was gone.” i take care of my cat xena, my legal emotional support animal, but i do not do a good job of feeding myself, or brushing my own teeth, or showering more than once every week or two, and that sleeping is a relief i rely on heavily because my brain usually stops trying to destroy me when i am asleep.

let it be known that i am so strong mentally, and so frantically determined to fight my symptoms and disorders, to claw my way out of the hell that lives in my own head, that attacks me in so many ways because of both genetic and environmental circumstances, and that yet i am determined to ultimately find happiness, though i do not really believe it is real for me to feel any more. i have already stayed alive for longer than i ever thought possible. i sit here, worried, but with ultimately no plan to overdose on my medications today or any day – but who knows, really. i have gone from okay to suicidal in under five minutes. this and other problems i am dealing with are largely due to the severity of my diagnoses that i have been actively seeking treatment for that i am not receiving.

let it be known, should i die by suicide or from any other medical problem before reaching an old age, especially if it is in the next several years, that while for transparency the US state and federal governments have admittedly helped me in some minor ways – they have provided me with a small income, subsidized housing, food stamps, and health insurance, but truly overall they have failed me as a struggling disabled person in more ways than i can possibly list, starting even far before donald trump became president of this country i live in, and that if government-funded health and disability services had not denied me access to so many resources and had not psychologically traumatized me so many times within the system, perhaps i would still feel capable of experiencing hope in my future again. perhaps i might have goals that i felt motivated about still, and quite possibly my life would hold worth to me. i know for a fact that i would not be writing this essay-thing if i had continuously received adequate care.

let it be known that if i do die young, i can say with certainty that i would not have and that i would still be a living person after that – probably not thriving, but alive – had i received adequate healthcare throughout my entire life… just please know that i was a fucking fighter, and i fought until the end, but that if i died young ultimately it was not enough in a system that obstructed my way every time and in every place i turned to look for help. i know things will only worsen for a low income disabled person like myself for a while now. and for so many others.

NOTE: This may read a little weird since it was originally a facebook post that I made. I decided I wanted it on this blog, too, so here we are.

xoxo,
Zélie

PS: One cool thing and piece of good news is that I got put back on an antidepressant again during my (15 minute) psychiatrist’s appointment recently.