When I finally told someone I was afraid I might hurt myself, I thought I was doing what everyone says to do: “Ask for help. Tell someone. Don’t suffer in silence.”
I didn’t expect to end up handcuffed in the back of a police cruiser, stripped of my clothes, my rights, and any remaining dignity.
I had been struggling. Sleep-deprived and in the throes of a bipolar mixed episode, physically wrecked by chronic illness, and stressed to the max. I didn’t want to die, living had just become too painful. When I finally said it out loud, honestly and clearly to a psychiatrist in the ER, I wasn’t in any immediate danger. I was asking for help early, while I still could.
The plan was agreed on with the consulting psychiatrist: a voluntary admission to a reputable hospital with a decent psychiatric unit. We even made a list of hospitals I was OK with, and two I absolutely was not.
I knew from personal experience as a peer support volunteer that one was poorly managed, unsafe and chaotic. The other was underfunded and more like a holding pen for people. I wasn’t asking for five stars; I just wanted to avoid any more trauma.
But when it came time to transfer me, none of the hospitals we had agreed to had a bed.
I refused. Calmly, clearly. I offered to remain in the ER on suicide precautions until a bed opened elsewhere. I was told that was unreasonable because I was “stable” and the ER is for emergencies. I asked to be discharged to go directly to another hospital, with my partner. I was told that would put me at risk of harm.
I was in crisis, yes — but I was asking for help. I did not understand that by self-reporting that I was at risk, I had given away my control. Their solution was to issue a 72-hour Temporary Detention Order (TDO) and force me to go.
Two police officers showed up. Quiet. Professional. Still cops.
They took my clothes, my phone, my belongings and my autonomy. Strip search. Handcuffs. I was paraded through the hospital in front of patients and staff like I was being arrested ― because I told the truth about being in pain.
I have no criminal history. The only time I’ve been inside a “correctional” facility was as a peer support volunteer, working with others who were also detained against their will. But now I was being treated like something dangerous, just because I’d admitted I was vulnerable.
What followed was one of the worst weeks of my life.
The conditions in the psych unit were worse than anything I ever saw in jails. I was locked in my room nearly the entire time. No TV. No books. The food was inedible, and I barely ate. My bed was a wooden plank. My blanket? ONE hand towel. Two hand towels are apparently highly dangerous. I was not permitted to shower unobserved.
My roommate, deep in psychosis, spent most of the time arguing with ghosts and screaming at Jesus. He wasn’t violent, just suffering. During his brief lucid moments, he was sweet and apologized profusely. It was heartbreaking.
There was no therapy. No individual counseling. No structured treatment of any kind. There was an hour of crafts run by a warm and caring volunteer, which was one of the few times I was allowed out of my room. I wasn’t consulted about my treatment plan or offered options or alternatives.
Lithium can be incredibly effective for many people in crisis, but has a long list of side effects and risks. Also, in some cases — like mine ― it is simply ineffective. Which, if anyone had cared to listen to me, I could have told them. There is no better historian about me than me.
At the conclusion of the 10 minutes I had with my doctor, he was annoyed that I had been TDO’ed there. He agreed that I was experiencing a crisis, but far from an urgent one, and definitely not worth being on his ward for psychotic and violent patients.
He knew I didn’t belong there, and he wanted me out as much as I did. He also didn’t want to medicate me unnecessarily. But he knew how the judge operated. The bipolar TDO checklist was in play. If my lithium levels weren’t in the therapeutic range, my clinical status wouldn’t matter.
Seventy-two hours would then become 30 days.
So he said, gently: “Just take it. Two days. It’ll suck, but it’s the only way out.”
I was less than 24 hours in, and it was already unbearable. So, I agreed, reluctantly.
My court-appointed lawyer showed up five minutes before the hearing, also trying to help. He advised me to surrender my Second Amendment rights, not because I posed any danger, but because the judge would require it. If I declined: 30 days.
I didn’t own a gun and have no intention of ever buying one. I’m something of a pacifist and abhor tools of violence. The lawyer explained that I could later apply to have my rights restored and that it was technically voluntary … but it might still show up on legal forms, indefinitely. An administrative scarlet letter. A permanent mark from a temporary hold.
I reluctantly agreed. But the best time to make consequential legal decisions is NOT during involuntary detainment with only five minutes of legal counsel. And if I was too unwell to make medical decisions, how was I somehow competent enough to waive constitutional rights? If I was well enough to make those decisions, maybe I didn’t belong there at all.
The judge, barely looking at me or my file, asked if my lithium levels were therapeutic. He asked if I’d surrendered my gun rights. He checked the boxes on his list. He still extended the TDO to 30 days, but allowed a provision for my doctor to override it, which he immediately did.
And just like that, I was discharged. No therapy. No plan. No follow-up. Just out. Still in crisis, but now disoriented, sick from the lithium, humiliated, and traumatized on top of it. I left worse than when I entered.
Now, when things get bad, when I’m sleep-deprived, when my body isn’t working right, when my thoughts start to splinter, I instinctively hesitate to tell anyone. Because now I know that honesty isn’t always safe.
What happened to me wasn’t an outlier. It wasn’t a rare failure inside a system that usually works. This IS how the system works. A system that responds to pain and suffering with containment instead of care. A system that substitutes police for therapists, and compliance for healing.
So, I’m cautious. If I end up in crisis again, the ER is the last place I would turn. Not unless someone I trust can promise me that I won’t be punished for trying to stay alive. That I won’t be criminalized for being sick. That the words I say won’t be used to take away my voice.
I didn’t end up in that facility by accident. I ended up there because I’m publicly insured, because I have a chronic illness, because I live in the wrong zip code and asked for the wrong kind of help on the wrong day of the week.
Many people, especially those already marginalized, have no trusted provider, no family support, no safety net. And for people in that position, ERs are often the only option, but also the most expensive and the least likely to provide care.
And if you’re poor, disabled, incarcerated, uninsured, a person of color, an immigrant, identify as a woman or LGBT+, or as part of any marginalized group? The chances that you’ll receive actual care drop even further.
Yet my story is not a message to stay silent, or to avoid seeking help. It’s a message to demand better helpn— and to ask for it in ways that protect your dignity.
Start with someone you trust. A partner, a close friend, a spiritual adviser. Someone who truly cares and can walk with you, literally or figuratively. If you have an established relationship with a family doctor or a mental health professional, built on trust, start there. Ask them to help you navigate, to advocate, to hold space.
Don’t be afraid to ask how providers handle mental health emergencies. Tell your loved ones and providers your wishes if you are ever in crisis. Create a “Psychiatric Advance Directive.” Put your wishes in writing. Identify who should speak for you, what medications you will or won’t accept, what facilities are off-limits. A crisis is not the time to start setting boundaries. Do it now.
There are some organizations doing it differently. If you’re struggling, The Trevor Project offers 24/7 crisis support and can help you figure out the safest route forward. Or try searching for “crisis warm lines.” These are peer-run resources — people who’ve been there, who can help you figure out where to start. No judgment. No police.
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I can’t promise that your experience will be better than mine. But I can say this: You deserve for it to be. We all do.
If you or someone you know needs help, call or text 988 or chat 988lifeline.org for mental health support. Additionally, you can find local mental health and crisis resources at dontcallthepolice.com. Outside of the U.S., please visit the International Association for Suicide Prevention.
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