On the Anniversary of My Suicide Attempt
In the DNA of the first-generation American experience is a lot of lost historical context. You assimilate pretty well into society, but there are a lot of gaps. Part of the indoctrinating process of Americanizing yourself is the firm and very wrong idea that you can study or earn your way out of dehumanizing situations. And while it’s true for some things, you can’t really out-smart, out-earn, or out-perform your blackness, a lesson I learned from one of the most vulnerable moments in my life.
There’s not a ton I remember before the incident years ago, mostly just the feeling of being sad. Like, really sad. Which statistically, is not that uncommon. According to the Anxiety and Depression Association of America, Major Depressive Disorder affects more than 16.1 million U.S adults annually (source). However, what I do remember very well is the deeply traumatic experience of suicide recovery I faced at Harlem Hospital.
I’m not well versed in hospital hospitality, but as a life-long fan of the complicated protagonist, I have seen a lot of depictions of depressed characters getting artistic and open treatment. According to Hollywood, addressing mental health includes regenerative exercises, a fair amount of talking to a professional and groups, some crafty stuff and other healing activities. In my naivety and distress I didn’t specify which hospital I should go to, and only requested for the uber to take me some place I could fix my mistake. If I knew then what I know now, I would’ve 1000% been more selective.
First of all — let me begin by saying I’m thankful to the nurses. I wasn’t very alert during the “fixing” period, but they did save my life. Afterwards, my recovery started normal enough. In my first conversation with a psychiatric doctor I explained why I was sad, what I did, and why a few days before Christmas I was hesitant reaching out to my family to share the news. In my crazy optimistic brain, I thought this would be over soon enough and I’d be seamlessly celebrating Nochebuena (Christmas Eve) with my family in Pennsylvania. The conversation lasted no more than 20 minutes with no note pad in hand. Later that day the department head also came and asked similar questions where I gave similar responses.
The next day, things seemed to have changed. The doctor sounded aggressive with a narrative of me seeking attention (I was not), stuck in a love triangle (I certainly was not), and the assumption that working in kitchens was not my career (which it definitely was). The most prominent memory from that conversation was his assessment of the stuffed duck tucked into my arm, calling it “child-like behavior.” That stuffed duck had traveled up and down the country with me for years, and was brought to me to provide comfort. I wasn’t sure what to do — I was very emotional, but mostly confused. Did I say the wrong thing? How did my story get so mixed up? Why weren’t they listening to me? How can I fix this?
I wanted out. I knew I wasn’t being listened to and this wasn’t going to be the place I found the help I knew I needed.
[PAUSE. We take this break to mention that statistically black women die at higher rates from preventable diseases due to medical professionals NOT BELIEVING THEM, not a fact I knew at the time. In a study, The National Academy of Medicine (NAM) “found that ‘racial and ethnic minorities receive lower-quality health care than white people — even when insurance status, income, age, and severity of conditions are comparable.’ By ‘lower-quality health care,’ NAM meant the concrete, inferior care that physicians give their black patients.” They called this finding “uncomfortable.”(source) Let’s resume.]
There’s a scene in Ava DuVernay’s When They See Us where Antron McCray’s father is fighting for the release of his son after hours of unauthorized questioning in detention. The exchange between Antron’s dad and the detective end with the detective mentioning Mr. McCray’s criminal past and a use in power dynamics that clearly communicates to Mr. McCray that in this space, Antron nor his family have any rights. And just like that his power is stripped from him. Shortly afterwards Mr. McCray convinces his 15-year-old son to falsely confess to the act and Antron spends 6 years wrongfully convicted in New York State Prison.
I often times wonder why I didn’t just leave. It’s embarrassing that I so boldly cowered when I needed me most and incredibly frustrating that I didn’t demand a transfer to another in-patient facility. I had health insurance and obviously had the ability to. I knew I needed help, and I knew there wasn’t any way I would get it at the current facility. I made the mistake of asking permission for a transfer, and when they told me I didn’t have the right to, I just let my power be stripped from me.
The following day I was led to the psychiatric unit of the hospital. I saved my dinner for the new space, but no one told me it wouldn’t be allowed inside, nothing was. Maybe it was the hunger, the florescent light fatigue, or the screaming patient walking up and down the hall, but I was not emotionally ready for this. I had lost the fight. It felt heavy, like they had the power to make me disappear and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. I felt powerless. And by the looks and sounds of the place, this was even worst than I thought. I cried. Hard. Until a nurse came in to tell me that they would have to sedate me if I didn’t stop crying. So I did what I did best and suppressed.
In the morning I went for breakfast in the cafeteria. After sitting down for my meal, a man was kicking the air 6 inches from my face. There was no confrontation, I think he just wanted to see if he could keep missing my face. From there I felt it best to eat all my meals in my quarters.
Early in my visit, I was strongly encouraged to take a few pills under the guise that I wouldn’t be considered for release if I didn’t take the medication. I didn’t realize how much of a zombie-like effect it would have on me, but I was grateful they had kicked in early enough to offset my one shower experience. Showers were done once daily at 5am. The first few days I slept through the roll call, but by day three or four I finally got myself up. The women lined up in single file to use the multi-shower stalls with no curtains, only the stench of someone who had discharged feces in the stall next to mine.
The only redeeming part of my stay was my roommate. A beautiful and bubbly 17-year-old who had previously been in foster care, but was put in psychiatric arrest after moving back in with her father. She was so gentle in spirit with the temperament one would expect from a little sister. She didn’t have a visitor the entire time I was there, not on Christmas Day, or the few days I called after I left. I’m not sure if she’ll ever know how much of a bright star she was to me those days, but she definitely was.
My entire time in the ward I spoke to a therapist/psychiatrist twice. Cumulatively it couldn’t have been more than an hour. Every suicide watch attendee would tell me that this wasn’t the right place for me. I knew it, but there was literally nothing I could do. I was stuck physically, and after the pills, mentally, without even a stupid stuffed duck to console me. I just hoped they relayed the message.
Eventually I called my family on Christmas Eve and they made the trip to visit me Christmas Day and every day after. It took one very long week before they discharged me. For good measures and a final scare, they released me with a threat of coming to my home or work if I missed any outpatient sessions. It’s easy for me to look back today and realize that there’s absolutely no way Harlem Hospital has the capacity to send bounties out on sad patients, but at that time I believed it.
It has taken several years for me to work through the trauma of that hospital visit. For many nights I had nightmares of being taken or held in an empty space. I tossed out the stuffed duck. There’s still movie scenes I can’t watch or moments of PTSD I experience, like last year when I walked into an art installations with a single bed frame in the room. Part of me writing this very exposing piece is an exercise of working through my trauma. But a larger part is beyond me. It’s about the community that has to rely on this institution to care for them every day. It’s about the fact that this is the designated space for many black people living with mental illnesses or that my young black roommate was so disposable. Or the many people that aren’t believed and get imprisoned or suspended from school because of preconceived narratives. It’s about the structures that continue to harm large populations of people and the fact that we let them. It’s the inability to forget that no matter how successful one could ever be, in a moment of weakness their blackness will always be their most prominent trait.
I could never say for sure whether going to the similarly distanced Mount Sinai Hospital in the affluent upper east side could have made things better. It’s taken several years to be able to talk about the experience without tears, but I can finally be appreciative of the events at Harlem Hospital. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, but it’s atrocity has been a pivotal piece of my growth, understanding the weight of racist structures that still operate today, and in making me a better human than I was before. So, if you’re part of a community working to address racial disparities in the health care system, let me know how I can help.
If you or someone you know is experiencing overbearing sadness or suicidal thoughts, reach out to The Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800–273–8255.
Or reach out to me, you can always reach out to me @gisellmabel on IG or email paula.gisell@gmail.com. I’ll be overly generous with my number.