Trautism

Friendly reminder that anyone experiencing a mental or emotional crisis, including thoughts of suicide or self-harm, can get help by contacting 988 or 1-800-273-TALK (8255). 

“Suicide attempt” is in quotes because I truly didn’t intend to end my life when I slit my left wrist at the age of 14. Provoked by an argument with my mom, I reacted quickly and dramatically, without properly thinking through the implications until too late. It was a wildly reckless and deeply misguided decision, but I was not “stupid” or “crazy” for doing it. Ignorant and upset? Definitely. But I was a bright, sweet, and very well-behaved kid – earning straight As and a spot in the gifted program – who got confused and overwhelmed as a lonely adolescent with undiagnosed autism. 

For several years, since our family declared bankruptcy and my dad moved away to find work, our parents would tell my older sister and me that we’d probably be leaving Florida to join him wherever he was: first Washington, DC; next Seattle; and then New Orleans. However, he was only a seasonal passport clerk with the U.S. State Department, so even though the possibility of moving came up regularly, it didn’t really make sense for us to do so until he had a more stable position. It distressed me greatly, then, when his new career began solidifying right around the time I fell into a relatively consistent group of friends. I’d always been a bit of a loner, but not by choice, so the idea of leaving my newfound crew and starting over again in a distant high school seemed unacceptable to me. 

I’d been out and about with my fellow young fools on a typically humid late summer evening, sipping on beers and smoking as we often did, before a conversation at home with my mom turned stormy. I don’t remember what prompted it, but the subject turned yet again to moving, and the risk seemed dire this time. I kept telling her that I really didn’t want to leave, that my friends were extremely important to me… but I didn’t feel heard. Escalating my stance, I threatened to kill myself – to prove my point – because isn’t that what people do to show they’re serious? Of course not, and I know that now. And maybe the absurdity is why she dismissed it. 

I’d later tell horrified classmates that my mom rolled her eyes with exasperation and casually retorted, “Oh I’d like to see you try!” But in her defense, it may have just been her mind or manner that said it instead of her actual mouth. Regardless of the specifics, my threat was clearly not taken seriously, and I felt left with little recourse – especially after delivering such an ultimatum. (This is colloquially referred to as “writing a check with your mouth that your ass can’t cash,” and it can be quite unfortunate depending on the dollar figure.)

My friends and I had already begun dabbling in self-harm together, but until that night, it was more purpose-driven: “piercing” my own belly button in that girlish quest to look sexy; poking ballpoint pen ink into my calf with a sewing pin, attempting a home tattoo; or cutting my face with a dull steak knife to avoid punishment for a broken window. On this fateful night, though, more senseless fear and desperation drove me to hurt myself. Yes, I was somewhat intoxicated, but more impactfully, I had already set the incorrect precedent in my mind that intentionally hurting myself was acceptable with good enough reasons. Such ideas can be quite destructive, easily taking on their own direction as they gain momentum.

Back in my room, I started delicately carving thin, shallow designs on the inside of my left forearm with a straight-edge razor blade. The marks were so mild they could have passed for cat scratches, except for where I’d trapped a freckle in a hexagon or drawn a smiley face with long straight eyes and a lopsided “V” as a mouth. There would be no passing off those designs as accidents to the hospital staff, but of course I wasn’t thinking about such things then.

Having worked up the courage to do more, I held the blade tightly and lifted my right arm above my head – imitating an executioner rearing back at the chopping block for more leverage. A delicate spot just inside my wrist, the same area where I had dabbed perfume countless times, called out to me. We gazed at each other for a moment in the dim light. And then I slammed the sharp metal edge against the tenderness with as much force as I dared. 

I don’t remember any physical pain. Maybe just the expectation of it. But I do remember being flooded with fear, a more tangible variety of it than I had ever experienced in my short but often fearful life. The terror would have been all-consuming were it not for the ribbons of amazement streaking through it. I’d clearly seen the gap in my pale flesh before it filled and overflowed with blood, and now thick redness was running down my arm and all over the floor. So much of it. More than I had ever seen. A most piercing shriek ripped from my lips. Oh wow, what have I done? And was I going to die from it? 

“I sure hope not,” my mom tensely and matter-of-factly replied as we sped to the emergency room, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her arms folded and pulled her chest flat against the horn, her chin hovering almost above the dashboard. I cowered in the passenger seat with one of my childhood blankies, tightly wrapping the light sea green fabric around the ugly scarlet wound. My almost 17-year-old sister stayed home, where she’d end up greatly disturbed by the apparent murder scene we’d left in the bathroom, the site of our frantic pit stop before running to the car.

My mom and I stayed mostly silent for the ride, and I don’t remember our arrival at the hospital or how long we waited before a doctor saw us. But as intimidating as the damage first appeared to be, the gash didn’t prove to be that destructive: a little longer than an inch, maybe an inch and a quarter. And thankfully not that deep, as my hand still functioned, so the ligaments, tendons, and nerves had all been spared from my foolishness. What a massive relief to get some stitches and go on my way, bruised ego and all. But sewing it up proved the easy part. 

As we were told that Florida law requires anyone who commits self-harm to be confined to a mental health facility for 72 hours, I crashed through new levels of panic. I was going to a mental hospital for this?! Now researching the Florida Mental Health Act of 1971, commonly known as the “Baker Act,” it seems that medical professionals have some discretion over referring an at-risk person for this type of involuntary “examination.” Knowing what I’ve learned about unfettered capitalism since then, part of me is curious about any financial relationships between the hospital with referring physicians and the facility where I ended up being sent. Because if a smart, kind, and well-intentioned person had simply had a grounded and sober conversation with me, they would’ve seen that not only did I not have a mental illness, but I wasn’t an ongoing threat to myself in this way… I had instantly regretted my harmful actions and sought help just as quickly. But no, those details didn’t matter. Instead this careless act of mine instigated the first of two expensive stints in the nuthouse – or so my pals would later call it. 

The toxicology screen that accompanied my intake at the emergency room found both alcohol and marijuana in my system, landing me in the “chemical dependency” group at the in-patient mental health facility. But not only was I not actually suicidal or chemically dependent (as if they’d never heard of adolescent experimentation), I was also not depressed – yet all the esteemed doctors insisted I was, otherwise why would I have done such a thing to myself? They immediately prescribed Zololft, which left me jittery and even more confused. On the bright side, it gave everyone else the confidence to release me from the institution within about a week.

I returned home to a hellscape though. After what I had done, our family’s move was not just imminent but immediate. And the situation was so abrupt and upsetting that my sister was staying in Florida to finish her last two years of high school. She would be living with close family friends – her best friend since third grade and that girl’s mother, who had been my mom’s increasingly close best friend since my dad moved away. While it had been a lovely arrangement for those four ladies, it had constantly left me knocking on closed doors and playing with pets on the floor. And now not only was I moving away to Virginia with my parents – or rather, my “parental unit” – but I was doing it alone.

This new, interventionist-labeled “parental unit” sent me to school so I’d be out of the way while the house got packed up, but a cruel joke awaited me. Everyone there knew what I had done. Peers generally either jumped away, jeered, or whispered with disdain. And since I was leaving in a week or so anyway, the teachers didn’t know what to do with me either. It all seemed pointless at best… and like an exercise in humiliation at worst. So, eager to get away from the smirks and make good use of the little time I had left, I skipped school with the few friends brave enough to still talk to me. The cops promptly busted us. 

It was mostly my fault. We were partying at my best friend’s house, and I answered the door with a beer in my hand. We had been hoping a few more people would show up, but apparently a neighbor had seen us sneaking away from the bus and reported us. Critically, I didn’t check the peephole of the front door before answering it (lesson learned). I can still feel the shocked expression on my face as I swung it open and saw the officers – who practically mirrored my surprise – and I can still hear my friend shouting incredulously to close it. All the kids scattered, but with probable cause fueling the chase, nobody got far. And I’m not sure what happened to the others, but it would be the only time I ended up in the back of a police cruiser. 

It turned out that I wasn’t facing any criminal trouble, though – my parents were just trying to figure out what to do with me. Since the school had failed at its babysitting duties, they decided to have me committed again. Back to that blank, sterile, terrifying prison for people far more troubled than me. Even now, at the mention of incarceration or apple juice, the acrid smell of those rough towels and stiff sheets can erupt in my mental nasal cavity and send my vision spinning inward. The only positive that came out of my second confinement was the doctors acknowledging my bad reaction to Zoloft. They then switched me to Prozac, which functioned as a heavy wet blanket for my senses, but at least I no longer had Zoloft’s bees buzzing in my face and throat.

When it was time to depart for Virginia the following week, my parents allowed me to say goodbye to only one person, an old friend from softball. Our families had gotten somewhat close as we girls played on the same team for many years, including at least one travel season for all-stars. I hadn’t seen her much over the past year or two as I’d hit this rough patch, though, which is exactly why our farewell was permitted. Because now everyone else was verboten. And almost everything had become verboten too. 

During my hospitalization, my parents discarded most of my personal belongings. Gone were the High Times cut-outs and teeny-bopper posters of attractive celebrities that had plastered my walls, the yearbooks scribbled with notes, the questionable clothes they never really liked. Their purge spared stuffed animals and other childlike mementos, but it claimed almost everything that had shaped my identity in those last two years of middle school. Disappointingly, it even included a unique powdered incense set that a family friend had given me as a Christmas present… it smelled like cherry blossom shampoo and got sprinkled into a holder imprinted with a cat’s face; I’d used it only once, burning through most of a puffed out cheek. The dresser, bed stand, and mirror that my friends and I had colorfully decorated with ridiculous counterculture words and images were sanded down and repainted to a plain dark forest green. My savings were emptied out to offset the financial burden incurred by my medical bills. My dog, Mushroom, was returned to the animal shelter.

The news of Mushroom’s exile destroyed all but the tiniest ember of my remaining spirit. A long-haired white basset hound mix with big brown spots, the rather unremarkably-shaped puppy had grown into a massive sausage of a dog. We had adopted him and his brother, Buddy, a year or two before. My friends and I, especially the new older boys in our midst, thought it was hilarious to call for “Bud and Shroom” from our breezeway. And now those sweet brother dogs we had rescued together would never see each other again. My agony was nearly unbearable. 

Indulging the multitudes of unresolved pain in his heart, my father relished twisting the knife into mine. His broad, towering frame had stood in the center of the facility’s community room, directly in front of a low table where I’d been working on a puzzle, when I got confirmation I’d never see my dog again. Not only that, but Shroom faced a questionable fate as a returned, older dog in a shelter. He must’ve been so scared and confused. And none of it would have happened if I hadn’t misbehaved. I started sobbing… not even that intensely, but with utter defeat. I was crushed, yet it further enraged my dad. He bent forward, eyes squinted and sparking with animosity, head twisting from side-to-side like a devious cartoon serpent, lips curling back to bare his teeth as he sneered his brutally honest feedback: “Youuuu disGUST me!” 

They remain stunning words, even almost 30 years later. Part of their staying power is how effectively they capture the essence of that disaster: my pathetic loneliness, confusion, and regret; my father’s emotional abuse and neglect, exacerbating my innate challenges; and then found in the silence among his harshness is the presence of my exceedingly loving yet destructively submissive mother, smoothing out the rough edges of our family with her patience and tenderness while inadvertently enabling my dad’s emotional tyranny over all of us. 

But I survived it, including that dreaded move to the Mid-Atlantic — which naturally wasn’t as bad as expected. I actually ended up loving Virginia, its dynamic activity, and all the amazingly diverse people there. And I’m so completely grateful to have more time anywhere on this beautiful planet, despite this complication I made for myself and the repelling stain it left on my history. I’ve learned a lot from it, so I’m stronger for it, even if it ultimately added to my loneliness… life can be funny that way. The whole thing definitely speaks to the concept of “meeting your destiny on the path you take to avoid it.” (Thank you to Grand Master Oogway of Kung Fu Panda, standing on the shoulders of Jean de la Fontaine, for that nugget of enlightenment.)

And while my path is my path, and I accept it, sometimes I’ve reflected on how my experiences could have been different, especially if my family hadn’t been so troubled or isolated… if they had made space in themselves to be more understanding as I grew up, or if we’d had more social support so I could have safely found belonging despite our family’s setbacks. And then when I fell into that crisis – sure, some amount of reasonable punishment for the rules I had broken made sense – but what I really needed was simple: consistent guidance, authentic listening, and loving compassion. 

Pictured at the top is my first painting after relocating to the East Coast. The design is appropriated from one of my pogs; the butterfly symbolizes the transformation that the frog desires, perhaps after being trapped in its current form by a fairytale curse. Visual art briefly served as a form of self-therapy during my freshman year of high school as I healed from the mess of my “attempt” and adjusted to my new life.