Loss of Autonomy and Autism

Today, I'll be sharing with you the story of the worst experience I ever had pre-2020—worst experience of my childhood. As usual, the rough draft version of this appeared first on my Twitter, but I've never shared the story in full before then. Original thread here: ZeroWrites/status/1513625056882089993

I'm not sure I got across everything I wanted to—speaking about trauma has additional difficulties that make metacognition and reflection that much more difficult—but I hope that by sharing my story others who have gone through similar or have fears about it may find something helpful here. 

Thank you for reading.

Let's start things with a brief overview of autonomy and interdiction concerns for neurodivergent people.

General Information

As an autistic person, no matter your support needs or abilities, it is easier than it is for the average person to be involuntarily hospitalized (and it's scarily easy for them to be hospitalized too).

Once hospitalized, it is a short jump to be committed for a longer period.

If your support needs are substantial, or if it can be made to appear like they are, then it is possible people in your life will move straight into conservatorship AKA guardianship AKA interdiction.

This is especially true if you have something of value as part of your property or inheritance.

Historically, that was the case of Hugh Blair of Borgue, an individual living in the 1700s who is a likely candidate for being autistic before the diagnosis existed. Although he wasn't labeled "autistic" back then, he was labeled the "daft lad of Borgue" (Wikipedia: Hugh Blair of Borgue)He was married in 1746 and the marriage was annulled in 1748 by his brother—who was also his guardian—in order to take his inheritance. 

More recently, this was also the case for Britney Spears, not known to be autistic, but whose family capitalized on a public "meltdown". I mention her case here both for its timeliness and relevance, but especially because we don't get to be judged on our day-to-day as much as we are judged on our perceived-to-be "worst" moments and general public perception.

Sometimes, family and "loved ones" believe they are acting in the person's "best interests"; sometimes, they are continuing an abusive relationship; sometimes, they are outright stealing from and imprisoning their ward.

In elder abuse cases, inheritance can freely swing from established family to a new love of a person's life. Wills and testaments get disputed and folks call into question the competency and agency of the individual. This happens on both sides, the "old" family and the "new" one. It can also happen when there is no newcomer in order to deprive the elder of their last wishes in favor of their younger relatives.

Being "autistic" or otherwise "disabled" in the world which believes Nazi-rhetoric like "death for disabled people is a mercy" means being faced with unwanted DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) orders both automatically assumed and falsely placed in medical files, in addition to being top on the list of first to go when healthcare is rationed. (An article about the practice during the COVID pandemic: theguardian.com. We should emphasize that this happens outside of global pandemics as well.)

Being "disabled" means your competency can be more easily called into question by your enemies.

Note: I am using scare-quotes around the words 'autistic' and 'disabled' because the fact of being disabled does not matter as much as being believably labeled that way for the purposes of court and public opinion.

Neither being disabled nor the specific form of disability that is being autistic are "bad", and neither are "bad words", but the stigma we face for being this way is bad and needs to change.

The stigma your enemies can more easily exploit is one reason why ableist attacks on the last two Presidents of America have been so vicious and pernicious. It is no coincidence they are also the two oldest presidents we have ever elected. There are many parallels between the abuse disabled people face and the abuse elderly people face. 

If folks can successfully make the case that the President is "disabled", then they have a much smoother road to traverse to denying their power and office. This is the same reason why FDR avoided being seen as a wheelchair-user in public.

Aside: The polio vaccine was a great achievement, would be great if folks supported vaccines more and didn't listen to anti-autistic hate groups like Autism $peaks.

By the way, I don't know how we're doing since COVID took over, but it's worth noting that one of the only reasons polio remained endemic in Afghanistan and Pakistan through 2019 is due to CIA agents running a fake vaccination clinic to try and find Osama Bin Laden.

If you engage in self-injurious behaviors (SIBs), it's extremely simple to be committed. Most places, it's still not supposed to be that simple, but there's usually a gap between what is written and what is done.

/end of general information.

Zero's Story

I'll be talking about my experience now, so get ready for this ball of fun.

But in all seriousness, I was a cutter and I had passive suicidal ideation. For me, the most traumatizing part was the hospitalization and loss of all my friends, but there will assuredly be just loads and loads of triggers. I'll try to approach it in the most accessible manner possible.

Background

I was young and ignorant. I knew I was autistic, but hadn't learned anything useful about it yet; I knew I was ADHD, but I hadn't even discovered coffee yet and only rarely relied on cigarettes to help with that one.

And, although I said I knew I was autistic and ADHD, I knew that based on the stereotypical view of those things and I did not yet know how being autistic and being an ADHDer colored every aspect of my life and existence the way it always has and always will.

It was the first year of university—which yes, I get that is a cliché time for an undiagnosed autistic person to have a figurative meltdown, but there's a reason for that: schedule is new, new city, away from home, no structure, etc.

Until that point, I had one partner for a few weeks in high school. Oh, they're actually the reason I figured out I was autistic after they kept comparing me to Rain Man—but I do not have the space of wherewithal to unpack that one today.

The first time I went out with "friends" from the dorms, I got extremely drunk and was "taken care of" by one friend who thought their bed was the best place to do that.

I handled that one by just avoiding them for the rest of the year.

I was also in an abusive "friendship"(?) with a girl from home that regularly took advantage of my affection for her to buy her things and drive her places when I was home.

This was 2003/2004. I don't remember if I had a MySpace yet. I did have a LiveJournal and AIM (AOL Instant Messenger). I had a cell phone, but texts were like 10 to 25 cents each? also, "talk" on those wasn't free either. It was mainly for emergencies and the snake game.

Anyway, I was lonely, really lonely, and I did not have any "good" way of self-regulating or any "good" coping mechanisms. I blamed myself for everything and believed I needed to be better. 

Oh, mentioning those things reminds me that I was also at the height of my eating disorder.

My eating disorder blossomed senior year of high school and I was all about maintaining my "gains" throughout freshman year of college. I was on the cheapest meal plan so it was relatively easy to restrict my meal intake because I simply did not have enough money to pay for food. There was also a small gym on the ground floor of the dorms. Unrecognized gender dysphoria was also a problem.

Anyway ... I think the hardest thing for me that year was that there was a constant access to other people but I never felt welcome. Even if I thought I'd be tolerated, I never felt wanted.

I became addicted to touch and was a self-described "cuddle-slut". If I had been more socially aware, I probably could have solved my loneliness fairly easily. I am 100% certain I could have at least kissed my crush, who apparently liked me. Apparently, it's not normal to cuddle with folks you are only 'tolerating'.

Anyway, people engage in self-harm without intention of death for lots of different reasons. Sometimes, it is done out of trying to have a sense of control over one's life and body. Sometimes, it is out of a sense of self-hatred and wanting to express mental anguish physically.

Once engaged in it, there are a variety of different autonomic results that can occur. It can trigger dopamine and adrenaline, something that ADHDers and commonly autistic persons are lacking in. This brought to me a sense of clarity and enabled me to have executive function without smoking. At the time, I interpreted it as I was so disgusted by what I had done that I had to make up for it by doing my homework or writing or drawing or whatever.

I'm framing myself rather badly I suppose. I admit I definitely needed help.

I did not get it.

I'd also like to emphasize that although I had this abusive friendship, although I had both new and old experiences of trauma, although I had an eating disorder which resulted in losing over 70 pounds and I sometimes passed out, although I was both an autistic and an ADHDer, none of these things were addressed or diagnosed in what was to come.

I got diagnosed for depression and self-harm and they claimed I was suicidal. Nothing else was addressed.

I was more traumatized by being hospitalized against my will and everything around that than I was by anything else that had happened to me in my life for the eighteen years before and sixteen years after until 2020.

And after finishing my sentence of forced medical "assistance" and later dropping out of that school, I did not seek psychiatric help for anything again until I was starting to show signs of autistic- and career-burnout in my 30s.

I'm putting the end before the start. The story is longer than I thought it would be, even if you don't count my usual tangents. Reminder of just so many trigger warnings. I'll try to be as sensitive as possible, and I guess that my story actually has a happy ending—in the sense that I was eventually freed and take care of myself somewhat better than I used to.

Build-Up

So, I had started cutting quite a lot. Sometimes in the shape of some drawing, sometimes letters, but usually methodical ladders that I would go over in multiple sessions. I did not show them off, I usually dressed in long-sleeves, but I would slip, I would confide in others I mistakenly believed it was OK to do so, and I did not think much of outlining my veins in pen and marker as a substitute for cutting, so that was definitely seen.

I also wrote about my loneliness and self-hatred online—in a less reflective and probably much less helpful way than I try to do now /slight joke.

I was also a teenager who leaned more to the side of edge-lord than prep or jock. Anyway, I opened up to a few individuals who were worried about me. And to at least one who saw a weakness to exploit.

I tried university counseling at their urging. Upon discussing self-harm with the counselor I was set up with, they were visibly distressed and talked about me being crazy.

I did not return.

Well, not until I was legally mandated to.

I don't know when I crossed the line to become "too much" for my peers. Possibly, they were overwhelmed by me very early. I no longer blame their reaction. I suppose past-me did not realize they were kids just like me and were not in a space or position to be able to handle me.

I also understand how, to the ones who genuinely cared about me, imprisoning me could be framed as getting me "help" and not just a method of getting rid of me and avoiding setting boundaries.

This was 2003, no one knew about boundaries /hyperbole, but we sure didn't know.

That all being said, I also occupied a strange position with some of the individuals involved where they saw me as a nuisance or even with jealousy independent of my mental health. To them, my mental health was something for them to exploit.

Knowing who was the driving force for me to be committed makes me wonder to this day if I could have avoided all the trauma by not getting on their bad side.

A less-healthy line-of-thought would be wondering if I could have avoided the trauma by keeping to myself and not engaging or by not trying to have friends who were more than acquaintances at university.

First Hospitalization

So, let's get to the first attempt to get rid of me.

I was still in full-on self-harm mode. I had passive suicidal ideation where I thought longingly of death, but no plans. I also had a lot of fear of not succeeding if I ever tried. I mention these things because they are supposed to be part of how professionals assess risk-factors.

I do not recall if there was a particular impetus they could claim as a reason for the first time. I remember being talked into letting a police officer take me to an asylum, by my RA if I recall correctly—himself, just another kid a few years older.

Once at the asylum, I was told to "sign myself in". I refused. Upon which, I was told that it was better for me to do that because people who are brought by the cops don't get to just leave once they're there and it would be better for me overall if I signed myself in.

No clue if the threat that I wasn't leaving no matter what I did was more bluster or not, but I "signed myself in" after that.

Here, we get to the wonderful world that is American insurance. I was on my father's insurance still, and my father's insurance did not include the fancy asylum in their network. So, they summoned an ambulance to take me to the psych ward of a hospital across the city.

If I recall correctly, the ambulance cost around $714. I know this because the ambulance was also not covered by the insurance. Similarly, they tried to allege that my hospital stay was also not covered because I "signed myself in" so it wasn't an emergency or necessity or some similar absurd reason. I believe my father eventually got them to pay for the hospital stay, but he had to pay for the ambulance.

I don't remember if it was in the room they kept me in before the hospital or before the asylum, but I believe it was in the hospital where I was under watch by an orderly while waiting to be admitted where they informed me I "needed to find Jesus".

If I ever had a chance of not being agnostic or atheistic, the events I am describing permanently stained any association with religion.

Eventually, they brought me to a room. That first time, I was fortunate enough that there were no roommates. By that point, it was fairly late, so I slept as best as I could and the next day a doctor and his students came by to assess me.

They correctly determined that I was not suicidal and told me I was free to go. At this point, it was a harrowing experience, but I was relieved in believing I had dodged a bullet.

Returning to School

I was legally an adult, and my "friends" did not know how to or did not think of trying to contact my parents. FERPA probably kept the school from doing so. I imagine now that I think of it, they may have thought I would. I was not given "one phone call", but I also didn't ask for one. I had hoped to get out of everything without telling my parents. Also, I'm not sure I would have had the wherewithal to be able to stay and use their phones and then, as now, speaking on the phone is extremely challenging for me.

So, I stepped out of the hospital and into free air.

I did not have any money. I do not believe I had my cell phone and didn't have anyone to call with a vehicle besides, and I did not have a coat. I wasn't in the mental space where I would be able to handle public transit without melting down or even to figure out the bus schedule to get back to school.

So I walked.

I knew the general direction of my school and there was a fairly tall school building I could use as a landmark once I was close enough to see it, so without quite knowing where I was going, I walked. It was at least daylight. Checking now on Google, they say it's 3.5 miles (about 5.6 km) and should take an hour and twenty minutes to walk or so.

I didn't really have any way to tell time, so I just kept going; I just needed to make it back to my room so I could try to decompress and sleep.

Aside: It is remarkable to me how much I was able to keep going back then. If present-me was in that situation, I would have more knowledge to be able to have a marginally better defense maybe, but I would not have been able to keep my neurotypical "mask" in place through all of that.

Once I made it back to the dormitories, I discovered that it is apparently against the rules to "harm or plan to harm a student", and that includes yourself as a student. So I was not allowed through security to get back inside.

I was pretty flabbergasted. Eventually, the director of the dorms came and asked how I got out of the hospital. They believed at first that I had escaped. I told them they let me out because there was no reason to keep me. The director did not believe me.

After they called around to verify my release and then explained to me how I had broken the rules of the university and I explained how I literally had nowhere else to go and I didn't think what I did qualified as breaking the rules and this all was pretty absurd ... they let me in.

In hindsight, that was probably the closest I came to being temporarily homeless without a place to stay. No transportation, no communication, no money, and not allowed back into my room I had been living in.

I don't know the precise dates of the first instance. I believe it was late fall semester of 2003. I'm pretty sure it was definitely before January 17 of 2004.

I know that timeline marker because that's when my grandfather died, and I was afraid of even trying to grieve him. Which, was mostly fine for how I processed grief, but I regret not being there for my dad. In addition to the literal bill of the experience.

I also did not know then who initiated or prompted all of that. I do not think I believed it was my "friends", although I believe they talked about how they had been asked about me and spoken to others about me, so I think the most likely thoughts of past-me was some anonymous person noticed my cuts, turned me in to the RA, my "friends" were questioned, and then I was "encourage" to leave with the police and "get help".

The RA was just another kid who was out of his depth, and when I came back it was the "adult" director who dealt with me.

I remember how mad my one "friend" was that I was released without any fanfare all the way across the city and that I was held outside the dorms for as long as I was. Maybe that was partially guilt, or maybe they were one who did not ultimately put their name to it.

By them going through the RA and relying on the school to handle it, I also got to deal with being in trouble with the disciplinary board. Because I was released and at-the-time not believed to be suicidal, I think they ended up dropping those "charges" for the first time.

Aftermath

I stopped cutting.

I have always had a difficult time "breaking the rules".

That made everything, much, much harder. I didn't have help and I was afraid of others finding out, although I think I still believed my "friends" were safe. I had to let everything stay underneath my outside mask for fear of being taken away. Let everything boil inside.

I was more depressed. I was probably much more of a nuisance or annoyance and I expect I seemed much more pathetic than I was before, but I didn't cut. Some friends enforced boundaries—which was way better than committing me, by the way.

The fear of not being able to do anything entered me for the first time in my life. I had always believed I probably could do anything I put my mind to.

My parents and siblings pretty much believed me to be an exaggerator if not a hypochondriac, so I was constantly told "mind over matter" while being told the story of "The Boy Who Cried Wolf" growing up.

I believed I could do anything. Like, an assholish amount of arrogance and intelligence and self-assuredness. I no longer believed I could pull out a win.

There's not much to do when you're handcuffed in the back of a cop car. Or strapped to a hospital bed.

And when that was the result of being observed having done something that about 35% of college students do—though, admittedly maybe 35% of college students do not self-harm to the extent that I did or they do a much better job of not being openly depressed while doing it than I did.

I held out from that easy coping mech of mine for a while. I think it was the end of February before I cut again, and then it was only to the extent of being able to feel it, scratches more than cuts. My "process" was always to start small so I would not injure myself.

Yet, I stupidly wrote about how I gave in and "did it again", although without explicitly discussing what I gave in about.

And I went to bed.

And, like they had been waiting for it, they came to take me that night.

Taken Again

This time, they came along with a university counselor who apparently specialized in self-harm and with multiple police officers. My roommate answered the door and then woke me up and apologized about the mess he could see me about to be getting into.

Unrelated, but indicative of hypocrisy maybe, my roommate was a rather extreme drug addict—like, his nickname was "Drugs". Luckily, there was no legal "charges" so it's not like they were going to search our dorm or anything and he was not in danger from the police once I exited the room.

I never got along with him, but we also never interfered with each other. 

I blearily dressed myself and was taken away in handcuffs.

My hands were cuffed behind my back. I remember asking to be cuffed in front because of my bad shoulder (which was already bad by then—thanks to the bloodsport that is high school American football). The counselor was trying to get them to avoid cuffing me the way they were because she was worried about exacerbating any "lacerations".

I was pretty confused by that as my "lacerations" had pretty much all healed from months ago when I stopped cutting and I don't know that you could pick out the new scratches unless you were extremely thorough in examining me. 

The police super did not care about anything I had to say or about anything she had to say. Honestly, I'd be surprised if she did not feel pretty helpless by how that went down. I had much more to be upset about in my immediate future, so the way the police treated me was pretty far down the trauma-scale for past-me, but I still remember her backed against the wall holding her hands in a manner one would try to sooth an animal as the police blocked her off from me and ignored her.

Even today, I generally am only triggered by the police aspect of everything by actual police or by stories of them. It's not like the rest of the experience which would come up at completely random times to sideline me ever since it happened.

During the ride (to the correct place first this time, thank you no ambulance bill), the police were dismissive and jeering towards me, but I was not in physical danger, just physical pain from the handcuffs and my shoulder.

I believe I was considered a "flight risk" because I had expressed to my "friends" how horrible the first hospitalization and loss of autonomy was, how it did not help at all, and how it only resulted in making me feel worse about everything.

I still stupidly trusted them, it wasn't yet explicit and I didn't understand how they told me one thing and then could have done that. I don't remember when I found out they were the ones who signed the order to take me away. I don't remember if it was up until the "court" case and it was then sprung on me or what. I know I do not know the names of everyone who had signed. Maybe I did not want to know.

I apologize for the self-directed ableism. It's a problem for me that I am still working through; the problem that I believe if I knew more, then I could have saved myself. I don't victim-blame when it's someone else, but I hold myself responsible for so many of the things that have happened in my life that I did not have control in or even a chance of having control over.

Anyway, because my peers had gotten enough folks together to do an involuntary commitment from the start this time—they had to sign a petition and eventually testify against me and everything—I started what I hoped would be only a few days of restraint. 

Which then turned into the worst week of my life (pre-2020). And then a 90-day continuing forced outpatient treatment that was balancing on eggshells with the threat of being taken away constantly hanging over me.

Take a Breath

Before going any farther to talk about my experiences "on unit" and after, we should take a breath. In my original telling of this on Twitter, I stopped for the night here as an act of self-care.

My story here is by no means unique or the worst case by any stretch of the imagination, it is just my story, and I'm sharing it because I wish I knew these things back then. It remains a fear that no matter how "competent" I am, no matter how "successful" I may be or may become, it can all be taken away on the words of people I thought I could trust while society and law backs them up.

Suffice to say, after this experience, I quickly became both a prison abolitionist and against all involuntary detention, I would never feel safe around police, around most psychiatrists and psychologists, and even around most healthcare practitioners in general. Finally, a deep schism formed in my heart that made it so much more difficult to have faith in others—and it's not like it was easy before thanks to things like double empathy and my extreme gullibility.

Life on a Psych Unit

The psych unit was basically a long hallway with hospital rooms on one side. At the far end there was a lounge with a TV, the other end had like a "group therapy session" room and a "break room". There was something like a nurse or orderly station in the middle separating us from the juvenile psych ward.

I was 18, so I was on the adult side. 

My first roommate was an older man. Did I mention that I am pretty terrified of men? Anyway, the day before I got there, he attempted to kill himself on unit.

They only kept him for like another day. I am super not clear how or why he was released when he literally made an attempt the day before, but a lot of things don't make sense.

They made me put my shoes inside a wardrobe and I wasn't allowed to wear them. I found out later the wardrobe was supposed to be locked so I could not access them (both because I was a "flight risk" and because of their laces), but it was not locked so I had access for like three to five days at first.

I found a bunch of plastic tubing in the room's restroom and alerted someone as I did not want the older person to find that and try to do something since he was actively attempting to die. Somehow this was held against me. I can only conclude neurotypical people do not examine their surroundings when they are imprisoned somewhere.

The same day they released that guy, I immediately got another roommate who was a very angry kid around my age. In his own words, he was fine so long as he kept taking his meds but then he'd go off them for a few days and try to hurt people. That time, I believe he had pushed his parent or guardian down the stairs or something.

He ended up being very interested in another girl on the unit who apparently was interested in me, but I was still arrogant about my physicality and he was shorter than me, so even though he was sleeping a few feet away from me, I think I believed I'd probably be OK so long as he didn't get the jump on me. Didn't make sleeping any easier, but it was easier than being in the same room as the older guy actually.

The girl in question was who I learned from that some folks get tattoos instead of cutting. She said that whenever she had money she'd get another tattoo and if she was broke, she'd resort to cutting. When I eventually started getting tattoos, I can attest that the physical feeling is very similar.

A lot of the week is a blur, but there are parts that stick out.

I managed to call my friend who I still believed was not involved in committing me (at least not putting her name on it). We did not speak long. She told me she couldn't talk to me anymore but that she'd be praying for me.

Did I mention religion became a pretty large associated trigger for all this?

Anyway, I was fairly despondent after that one. She didn't commit me (I think), but she was washing her hands of me then.

I wish we had all known more about establishing boundaries. I do not blame her for not being able to be there for me or being able to handle it—I couldn't handle it—but it broke my heart. More than it already was.

I never saw her again.

Other people on the unit were annoyed I was there. My laugh was too loud and joyful. I offered to not watch "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" anymore. They directed their annoyance at the doctors/etc more than me though, so I didn't particularly mind that they thought I didn't belong there. I agreed with them.

If it seems odd to you that I could still laugh while enduring the worst week I had ever lived, here's my thoughts on that: one of the aspects about autism and ADHD is lethomathica—this idea that we get focused on something and anything out-of-sight is out-of-mind. While I can dissociate into what has my attention, the rest of me might as well not exist. This is the primary method I used to survive 2020 for that matter.

There was a lot of boredom there with a background hum of dread and a reminder that I had no choice in anything. We were encouraged to pace up and down the halls as a form of exercise.

The meds made me sick—I'm not sure if that was more a psychosomatic reaction or my nerves and everything from just existing there or what. I feel pretty sick just recounting these things, so who knows?

The weekend doctor seemed a little more helpful than the others, a little more willing to engage. My mother got them to permit me to do something (don't remember what, maybe have my laptop?), but then when she broached the idea of not taking the meds which were making me sick, the doctor threatened to send me to the state psych hospital.

They framed it as a threat and discussed how bad it would be for me if I went there. They said this to both me and my mother.

A friend from my hometown came to visit along with my mom one of the days also. Not the abusive one, someone who cared about me ... for a little while longer anyway.

I actually started my trigger of puzzle pieces and puzzles that week. This was before Autism $peaks even existed to turn the puzzle piece into a symbol of hate, after all (although puzzle pieces were still associated with pathologizing autism back then, I was unaware of that myself).

One of the only things to do in the "break room" was to assemble puzzles. None of the puzzles had all their pieces.

Should I say, "as expected"?

So much of the week was about self-control. About keeping everything bottled up. About not emoting or reacting to the frustrations and annoyances and problems. About shutting off everything.

I was pretty good at that actually, but it was exhausting. Present-me would not have been able to make it through.

Before I wrote this article, I had the recent revelation in therapy that I do not think I feel anger anymore, or at least, nothing like what I used to feel. Since the rough draft on Twitter, I've thought about it some more and done a little research and think that maybe part of why I don't is a form of learned helplessness that was forged on that psych unit and forged in the times after being involuntarily committed when I was still under scrutiny. I wasn't allowed to be angry. I wasn't allowed to be emotive. Everything was used against me and no matter what I said or tried, it was futile. Truth and reality didn't matter.

I don't have the hope or optimism or belief in myself to change the world like I did before then. I somehow keep trying, but it is so easy to get me to believe some instance in the moment that is aimed at me is not worth the effort to fight against.

Psych Court

Then came my "court" case. I use quotes because the judge, lawyers, and witnesses all assembled on the same floor of the hospital, but just slightly off-unit.

At that point, I was able to see some of my peers who signed the petition to put me there. Most were distraught to see me, and if I recall correctly, too distraught to testify. They had already given statements though.

The one guy who I had previously thought fondly of, even maybe admired to some extent, showed his true colors. He took the lead in testifying against me. His duplicitousness in his well-wishes after the "trial" was the most obvious.

For him and a few others, it wasn't about getting me help, it was about removing me from the dorms and their circle. I'm fairly confident the rest believed they were doing the "best thing" for me, but they were guided to that decision and they all knew how harmful the first stint in the hospital had been. Maybe even that guy believed it would ultimately be better for me and was undertaking a two-for-one deal where he got to get rid of me and continue to mistakenly believe in the system.

I had worn my shoes—which up until that day I had access to the entire time I was there—to walk off the unit and met my lawyer who had been provided for me. I met him immediately before the trial. He was able to get my online journal thrown out as evidence—which the guy testifying against me was aghast over—on the basis that multiple people could access and post to it. 

It's not necessarily the case everywhere, but, in the state where I was attending school and was hospitalized in, it was necessary that a person needed to be a "clear and present danger" to themselves or others in order to be hospitalized against their will.

My self-harming was brought up, which I did not have signs of having done in multiple months by that point (not sure if this was a case of the Devil's Proof, but it did not seem to make a difference that there was no evidence of me recently self-harming). The doctors said I was uninterested in hospital food and had difficulty sleeping. They brought up that I paced up and down the halls.

My "court" case ended in me being given the opportunity to speak in my own defense. I did not know that's how it would be ending. I did not have knowledge of what I needed to say. I don't even know if there was anything I could say that would have changed the outcome and this was just a way to get out of doing a closing argument from the lawyer. I had no power to change what happened then. And I had no help in preventing it from happening.

At the time, all I could think to do was refute what the doctors were saying mentioning how I was in a new location with roommates I didn't feel safe with and hospital food was terrible etc. I'm sure I said I wasn't suicidal or planning to kill myself. No one other than the guy who wanted rid of me had said I was.

They all had access to the internet and could prepare. I was barely allowed paperbacks that my parents brought me.

The judge ruled against me. 

I said goodbye to the "friends" who came to testify against me or were there in solidarity. Don't think I ever saw them again.

I said goodbye to my parents who had come to the hospital for the case. And, dejected, I walked back on unit and returned to the hospital room I was staying in.

There, I was immediately forced to surrender my shoes because I was apparently still a flight risk and was told I shouldn't have had them in the first place. I'm not sure if I even tried to share the logic that I had them the entire time and never misused them or if I had already given up by then.

Wrapping Up

I don't know if I have much else to share about the experience there. After a week or so of being held there against my will, the 90-day detention was changed to being able to be served by attending therapy and taking the meds they told me to take.

I was kicked out of the dorms, so I then had to start commuting to school (a little more than an hour away). After a few weeks, my disciplinary action from the school had been resolved and I was able to get a different room (a single this time) in a different dorm.

I somehow made it through the rest of the semester, finished up my sentence over the summer, and spent the next fourteen years or so without trying to get help for anything ever again.

I had fairly constant flashbacks and terror from the experience for a while, they still sometimes come back, and I never forgot the feeling of losing my autonomy.

Since 2020, there have been times where I did need more help. Where I did not feel safe with myself, where I was far lower than I had ever even been accused of being to get me hospitalized back then. Yet, being hospitalized was never an option for me. That experience only made everything I was dealing with worse.

The only "positive" to come from the entire experience was definitively knowing I could not have those people in my life anymore. And I even still tried with a few before realizing, not from anything they said, that I was a nuisance and negative in their lives, so it's not like even that was driven home. Again, clearly established boundaries are so much better than "being nice".

Every single thing that actually helped my mental well-being as a nineteen-year-old kid going into my twenties was in spite of being hospitalized. The trauma of that hospitalization was the worst trauma of my life until 2020 when Kate died.

I've said it elsewhere, but I have since been diagnosed with PTSD from instances of sexual assault, but my PTSD from being hospitalized is far worse than my PTSD from those events.

I don't even have a disclaimer that being hospitalized would have been a better choice than the risk of dying from not being hospitalized because I was less safe while I was there, less safe after leaving there, and it wrecked my life in so many ways and made so many things so much harder since then.

My life took an entirely different trajectory.

Final Thoughts & Conclusions

That's my story. Self-diagnosis is valid. Healthcare workers do not always help or even provide "health care". Friends, family, loved ones, and especially your enemies can use your perceived wellness against you and it is rare to have public sentiment on your side.

By 'public sentiment', I mean both what people will say about you and also how judges rule and how lawyers try you and how they defend you. They believe that erring on the side of involuntary hospitalization is the "better error" to make.

It took a year after the conservatorship of Britney Spears spawned the Free Britney movement—and another twelve years before there were any results—and that was a pretty white woman who at one time was the biggest popstar in the world.

I believe that involuntary detention transgresses and violates human rights. That when help is needed, the least restrictive choice should be taken.

Disabled rights are human rights.

Disabled people are people.

Thank you for reading. This was not quite an autoethnography, but I think these sort of stories have value in telling also. I wish I had read something like this back then. You're not alone. You matter. I am rooting for you.

I hope you enjoyed(?) listening to the worst experience of my childhood. Please consider buying me a coffee, liking, following, sharing, and all those things so I can keep writing and keep sharing more. Thank you for your support.

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