Your writing touched me deeply. In 1968, at age 19, my husband of two months was killed in Vietnam. My Italian, Catholic parents didn't know what to do with my outbursts of rage and grief. A week after the funeral, I slept with his best friend, and began a pattern of sleeping with men to feel something again, something close to intimacy. A few months later, as that failed, I took handfuls of Phenobarbital, and then ended up the locked psychiatric ward of a hospital in Utica NY. My mother stood over me and said, "You selfish thing." While in the ward, a young, handsome man who thought he was Jesus, made his way into my bed. The other patients were a mix of voluntary and involuntary. In my 30 day stay, I learned to get up every day and take a shower. So, I do that and don't stay in my pajamas past noon. The psychiatrist offered no help and I realized I had a choice - be a crazy person, full of drugs, and be cared for by a broken system, or do my best to appear sane. I have never taken Rx for anxiety or depression. My time in the 'ward' was 60 years ago. I've read and researched about the trauma of being a widow in various cultures. I rarely reveal that I think about suicide every morning. I live with my cat and that keeps me alive, worrying that no one will take care of her. I started writing again this year, publishing stories on Amazon Vella. It helps some. I've found ways to keep my physical body healthy and surprising, others find me inspirational. I continue to 'hold on.'
wow. i’m a black woman who can relate to a new diagnosis with every DSM that comes out -- and i just am so so grateful i read this. i feel like my existence has been affirmed. thank you for sharing 💛
Still catching my breath...as a therapist, I am sharing with all my professional colleagues...as a parent of 2 kids who have had psych hospitalizations, I am speechless and cracked open...will absolutely be reading your book. Thank you
Wow. This piece is astounding. What a powerful, painful, and haunting description of the intersection of intergenerational racial trauma, systemic neglect and racism in psychiatry, Big Pharma, and the locked psychiatric ward as a warehouse for trauma. To be a brilliant Black woman in a society that is not accessible, safe, or honest about its own racist depravity, is to be aware of the mind bending trauma while being gaslit that rejecting abuse is madness. There is no way out. Other than writing. Thank you for writing and fighting. Your writing is a tremendous support and validation for survivors of psychiatric hospitalizations and act of accountability for people who claim to be helping.
You ain't said nothin' but a word. All. this. all. day. Thank you for sharing your truth with us. I was right there with you every step of the way, sis. I wish you peace in a world that does not value your life, and all that you have to offer.
What keeps me up at night is how little we care for each other in meaningful ways. We have to care for each other. We have to listen and regard and respect people's stories and treat their trauma meaningfully. I want capitalism and racism and patriarchy to end but really, what I really really want, is for humanity to recognize the grave import of simply taking care of each other.
This is one of the most compelling essays for its humor, its insight, and power, that I have read in a long, long time.
Thank you for writing and sharing it.
I too have long been doubtful of the canard that says Black folks have to "work twice as hard to be half as good." Who could live and thrive under such pressure? No one. You would barely be able to breathe.
When I think of my son I try to teach him the pleasure of being a Black boy. The joy. I don't ignore the hardships, but as the writer implies, you gotta fortify them at home before they step out into the world and part of that fortification is loving him and teaching him to love himself just as he is, beauties and flaws and all. Yes, strive, but strive for the pleasure of striving because if you strive to prove something to white folks you are always in their thrall or in thrall to the idea of Whiteness. You only have to spend some time with White folks to learn Mr. Charlie is just as much a bag of bones riddled with insecurities, vulnerabilities, and wonders as the rest of us and certainly as much as me and Mr. Jones.
If I could take this essay up in my arms and kiss it I would.
This. Is. Gorgeous. Your writing is delicious. I felt so much reading this. I have new perspective on my bipolar diagnoses. I’ve been in such a hospital. Met such companions. Thank you for sharing this gift. Write forever. It will change people.
Such a beautiful piece. You show how society prefers to pin everything down on the individual rather than to look at the structures, the culture, the institutions. The way they keep so many people down. Way easier to medicate some than to change what needs to be changed in society. To have a society where everyone belongs. Feels loved. Feels equal.
Bless you for reminding us where we ought to look at. And where we should act.
Thank you for this. Im so sorry for your legacy, but I’m glad you are here.
Takosubo heart failure is becoming more common now that we allow people to die of pain again, but any severe continuing stress will do it. I’m sorry your grandfather went that way and for all your family endured, and your community.
Wow. Very powerful, and a very sad commentary on the state of mental health care or lack thereof in America. Another stark reminder that it fails even those with money and social privilege, and that it's 1,000 times worse for those with neither.
Your writing touched me deeply. In 1968, at age 19, my husband of two months was killed in Vietnam. My Italian, Catholic parents didn't know what to do with my outbursts of rage and grief. A week after the funeral, I slept with his best friend, and began a pattern of sleeping with men to feel something again, something close to intimacy. A few months later, as that failed, I took handfuls of Phenobarbital, and then ended up the locked psychiatric ward of a hospital in Utica NY. My mother stood over me and said, "You selfish thing." While in the ward, a young, handsome man who thought he was Jesus, made his way into my bed. The other patients were a mix of voluntary and involuntary. In my 30 day stay, I learned to get up every day and take a shower. So, I do that and don't stay in my pajamas past noon. The psychiatrist offered no help and I realized I had a choice - be a crazy person, full of drugs, and be cared for by a broken system, or do my best to appear sane. I have never taken Rx for anxiety or depression. My time in the 'ward' was 60 years ago. I've read and researched about the trauma of being a widow in various cultures. I rarely reveal that I think about suicide every morning. I live with my cat and that keeps me alive, worrying that no one will take care of her. I started writing again this year, publishing stories on Amazon Vella. It helps some. I've found ways to keep my physical body healthy and surprising, others find me inspirational. I continue to 'hold on.'
It sounds like you have powerful stories to tell, Ellen. I hope you continue to tell them.
I started publishing stories on Amazon Vella, don't know if it's appropriate to post the link here.
wow. i’m a black woman who can relate to a new diagnosis with every DSM that comes out -- and i just am so so grateful i read this. i feel like my existence has been affirmed. thank you for sharing 💛
Still catching my breath...as a therapist, I am sharing with all my professional colleagues...as a parent of 2 kids who have had psych hospitalizations, I am speechless and cracked open...will absolutely be reading your book. Thank you
Wow. This piece is astounding. What a powerful, painful, and haunting description of the intersection of intergenerational racial trauma, systemic neglect and racism in psychiatry, Big Pharma, and the locked psychiatric ward as a warehouse for trauma. To be a brilliant Black woman in a society that is not accessible, safe, or honest about its own racist depravity, is to be aware of the mind bending trauma while being gaslit that rejecting abuse is madness. There is no way out. Other than writing. Thank you for writing and fighting. Your writing is a tremendous support and validation for survivors of psychiatric hospitalizations and act of accountability for people who claim to be helping.
Being in a psych ward really gives you a new perspective on people and humanity. No person is “crazy”. It’s our systems that are crazy.
Whoa indeed. I see you and heard you and your writing is incredible.
Woah. One of the more extraordinary essays I've ever read. Thank you for expanding my perspective.
You ain't said nothin' but a word. All. this. all. day. Thank you for sharing your truth with us. I was right there with you every step of the way, sis. I wish you peace in a world that does not value your life, and all that you have to offer.
What keeps me up at night is how little we care for each other in meaningful ways. We have to care for each other. We have to listen and regard and respect people's stories and treat their trauma meaningfully. I want capitalism and racism and patriarchy to end but really, what I really really want, is for humanity to recognize the grave import of simply taking care of each other.
This is one of the most compelling essays for its humor, its insight, and power, that I have read in a long, long time.
Thank you for writing and sharing it.
I too have long been doubtful of the canard that says Black folks have to "work twice as hard to be half as good." Who could live and thrive under such pressure? No one. You would barely be able to breathe.
When I think of my son I try to teach him the pleasure of being a Black boy. The joy. I don't ignore the hardships, but as the writer implies, you gotta fortify them at home before they step out into the world and part of that fortification is loving him and teaching him to love himself just as he is, beauties and flaws and all. Yes, strive, but strive for the pleasure of striving because if you strive to prove something to white folks you are always in their thrall or in thrall to the idea of Whiteness. You only have to spend some time with White folks to learn Mr. Charlie is just as much a bag of bones riddled with insecurities, vulnerabilities, and wonders as the rest of us and certainly as much as me and Mr. Jones.
If I could take this essay up in my arms and kiss it I would.
Thank you again.
Beautiful.
This. Is. Gorgeous. Your writing is delicious. I felt so much reading this. I have new perspective on my bipolar diagnoses. I’ve been in such a hospital. Met such companions. Thank you for sharing this gift. Write forever. It will change people.
Such a beautiful piece. You show how society prefers to pin everything down on the individual rather than to look at the structures, the culture, the institutions. The way they keep so many people down. Way easier to medicate some than to change what needs to be changed in society. To have a society where everyone belongs. Feels loved. Feels equal.
Bless you for reminding us where we ought to look at. And where we should act.
I saw reflections of myself in your words. Thank you for taking up space & making me feel less alone.
Looking forward to your book, Aishah 🙏 this essay is brilliant 💛
Thank you for this. Im so sorry for your legacy, but I’m glad you are here.
Takosubo heart failure is becoming more common now that we allow people to die of pain again, but any severe continuing stress will do it. I’m sorry your grandfather went that way and for all your family endured, and your community.
Wow. Very powerful, and a very sad commentary on the state of mental health care or lack thereof in America. Another stark reminder that it fails even those with money and social privilege, and that it's 1,000 times worse for those with neither.