How the Healthcare System Has 'Treated' My Mental Health

The healthcare system, allied healthcare system, police and other emergency services all play a vital role in keeping us and the communities we live in safe. Some interactions are life-saving and positive, while others can be life-destroying. Every interaction is important. Every interaction can change a life. This is my experience.

I came to you in desperation, nurse.

I wasn’t expecting sympathy or compassion.

I was expecting indifference, a more matter-of-fact approach.

Instead, you laughed and pointed to my wrist and said, “Well, you won’t need stitches there, that’s where you chickened out.”

You told me I would end up dead or in jail.

And then it made sense.

The way you treated me differently.

Like a criminal.

I saw you speak kindly and comfort another patient.

Then you came to me and made fun of me.

From that moment on, I wished I was in jail.

I wished I was in a place where I would be treated the same as everyone else.

Apparently, the place for me was jail.

You told me I thought all of this was fun and games.

You called me a narcissist, you told me I was antisocial and manipulative.

I believed you.

I wore those labels for 20 years.

I wore them with such shame.

I tried to hide myself, make myself as small as possible.

I tried not to take up so much space in this world I obviously didn’t deserve to be in.

I understand, receptionist, you hate to think I’m wasting the doctor’s time.

After sitting in the waiting room for over an hour after my scheduled appointment time, I approached you, just to make sure you’d checked me in.

You laughed at me and told me the doctor wanted to get through some more of his patients first, he would see me when he was good and ready.

I know I’m not everyone’s top priority.

I didn’t want anything extra.

I just wanted to be seen in turn.

You laughed.

I cried.

I left without any treatment that day.

I can understand your frustration, officer.

You had to take time out of fighting crime to do a welfare check on me.

I didn’t expect more kindness or respect than what you would extend to anyone else you interact with.

I didn’t expect you to grab me by the hair and tell me to just “hurry up and kill myself,” but not to do it on your shift because you didn’t want the paperwork.

I had caused you enough trouble already.

I had wasted taxpayer money.

I get it.

When I came to you, psychiatrist, I was already out of hope.

I hadn’t had much to begin with.

I had survived child abuse just to be abused by the system.

My expectations were low.

When I expressed my suicidal feelings, however, I didn’t expect your response to be, “Anyone is allowed to kill themselves as long as they are sane. You are sane so go home and do what you want.”

I didn’t know my expectations could go any lower.

I didn’t know I could feel any more unworthy.

I was so broken before I saw you.

I was in pieces when I left.

Did you come to work that day with the intention of being cold and nasty?

Did you choose your career so you could intentionally harm people?

Did you start your shift intending to destroy someone’s life?

I seriously doubt it.

You probably wouldn’t remember me or the things that you said and did.

You would probably be surprised to know I remember.

That after 20 years, it still brings tears to my eyes.

I was broken when I came to you.

You didn’t have to be kind or compassionate.

All you had to do was do no harm.

Just like you swore.