I heard an incessant pounding on the door. I was scared so I didn’t answer, but he kept knocking. It was my dad, and it was Father’s Day. He came in angry, wanting to know why I didn’t think him a good dad. I was speechless so my mom tried giving an example but he just brushed it off. My mom eventually ushered him to leave since I was too shell-shocked to really say anything.
Years later I got the conviction to reach out and give him an answer to his question, but this time as an adult, and on my own terms. I sent him a letter explaining why I thought I needed distance from him as a child and I got a passive-aggressive response with what felt like a plastered-on smile in letter form. I emailed him back saying I was glad for any progress he made, but ultimately, I felt he still had progress to make and other issues of his past yet to deal with.
Not too long after that I was scrolling through my social media and I saw a group from my alma-mater putting on a reproduction of an original show I saw alive when it was originally written and produced. It’s hard to explain but something about all the details of the show convicted me in a way even the campus ministry hadn’t. As soon as I was done watching I emailed my dad that although I still meant it about things not immediately going back to the way things were, I forgave him.
The next day I received his response in which he told me that I had no idea what love or forgiveness was but he was very knowledgeable about the two and he could teach me. I laughed out loud. I knew. I finally knew for sure that all along it really wasn’t me who was the problem. The child that worried she broke up her parents, the “moody” teen, the college student who struggled with so much anxiety about how her professors viewed her: free. It was like a gaslighting voice that had a home in my mind because of my dad vanished along with an immense amount of physical tension from my body. I laughed again, I laughed with joy.
My mind was blown and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I eventually decided to go on a digital detox for a few days to chill out from this high I’d experienced. When I came back to my laptop and phone, I started seeing things on my devices that were out of the ordinary. I started saying things to the people around me that concerned them. One of my friends said she had a gift for me, I thought she just wanted to send me a care basket
The police officer knocked on the door and talked to me. He then came back later and just talked to my mom. He then later called to talk to me after both of those visits. Though he was very respectful, it was incredibly scary for me, especially since I was feeling so unheard by the people around me. I was told to be careful who I talked to lest I get more knocks on my door and that what I said to the officer was worrisome, even though to me he seemed to get what I was saying. Feeling like I couldn’t talk to anyone without them thinking that what I had to say was psychotic, that threw me over the edge.
The next morning my mom called the family doc, but they said I had to go to the hospital. Mind still buzzing I tried to sit still but I couldn’t, my fight or flight response was still bubbling beneath the surface. I wanted to move something on the ceiling that was bothering me and I didn’t feel like the nurse was doing it right, so I got up to do it. They started strapping me down, which freaked me out so I tried to wriggle free. They strapped me down even further so I started trying to bite because I had to no control over any of my limbs. My body thought I was in a fight for my life so it pumped me with adrenaline and yet the cluster of masks and eyes stared down at me wondering why the chained-up animal is fighting against its restraints. They started laughing and making jokes about the things I yelled in desperation. I had to close my eyes because I couldn’t bear that scene any longer, then they drugged me.
Next thing I know I’m in a dark hospital room with the curtain drawn. Apparently, I had “voluntarily” committed myself, despite not remembering a single moment of the process. Not waiting until the drugs you administer to someone to fully where off somehow counts as voluntary nowadays, I guess?
My doctor said the words “I don’t care” at least three to four times over the course of a few brief discussions with him. He prescribed drugs without him talking to me about them first. When I tried to explain that past counselors didn’t think I had a condition, he kept on asking about their credentials and wrote me off once I said I didn’t know off the top of my head. He continually pressed me on how I knew that this incident wasn’t going to happen again, but he established that he cared little about what I actually had to say, so I started to put on a brave face and said what I thought he wanted to hear, because I feared I would never get out of there if I didn’t.
When I was being discharged my nurse pointed out my rights and asked if I wanted to take them. I ended up doing so and she said she was glad as most patients didn’t. Not only did she pack up my rights, but my patient manual as well. The introduction page has a welcome statement and two lines below it: date admitted and physician, both left blank.
I’ve been reflecting on when I was three and I had emergency surgery that saved my life in this hospital. When asked how I was doing the next day, with plastic tiara on head, I said I was the sick princess. A day or two later when asked the same question I said I was the getting better princess. Now I’d like to think I, like my younger self, am the getting better princess as well, but I don’t think it was a medical problem that made me sick this time.