Doll Hospital Issue Two-Sneak Preview

ISSUE 2 SNEAK PREVIEW

SUICIDE, ANXIETY

I’M NOT OKAY, CUPID Lisa di Antoni The psych hospital intake process is like riding backwards on a slowly revolving merry-goround: interminable and nauseating.

“Why are you here?”

“I couldn’t convince my doctor that I wouldn’t kill myself this weekend.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“Yes.” I was running low on sleep; frustrated, I had waited for the morning light to lay me down the night before. Blearily I recited the answers to the same series of questions over and over. Do they do this to make sure you’re not lying?

There was only one question I wouldn’t answer.

“Attracted to men, women, or both?”

Why did they need to know? I asked one doctor why it was important. “The sexual trauma you described earlier can have an effect on your sexual preference.” A bastion of progressive thought, this institution.

This was a religious hospital, run by a newish Christian movement that valued both “vibrant health” and the “traditional family.” Bible verses intermittently littered the walls, along with dingy pictures of tulip

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fields and peeling iterations of the word “hope.” The carpet was a dusky pink, as were the little hangerless closets where we stored our things and the cupboards which housed our pb and j sandwiches and granola bars.

Though it was my first time in the psych ward, it wasn’t the first time I’d been treated at this hospital. One of the highest-rated hospitals in the USA, it was also located roughly five minutes from my house by car. A few years earlier, I had spent five months under the care of a resident psychiatrist. I admitted to her once that I was attracted to women. At our next session, she recommended a book that reassured me that I wasn’t a lesbian as long as I didn’t do anything lesbianish. She seemed pretty excited to have found what she must have considered a much gentler approach than conversion therapy. Hate the sin and all that.

In her defense, I was married to a man at the time and I was trying my darndest to practice Catholicism in the hope that my suffering would eventually become meaningful. Even so, I never read the book.

She graduated a couple weeks after that session, so I allowed our relationship to end in a whisper. I vowed then that I would never again go to a religious hospital.

Because I was admitted at about 6:00 p.m., after the doctors went home for the day, I went to bed that first night without a milligram of psychotropic medication in my body. An hour after I fell asleep, at about 3 a.m., my roommate moved in.

And by “moved in,” I mean that she was sternly ordered by various nurses to lie in bed and be quiet. I wondered offhand if they balanced the ward by pairing up manics and depressives in the little lockless

bedrooms. Shuffling angrily under her sheets, my roommate asked me how long we were expected to lie there. “I don’t know,” I said, surprised by my cartoonishly small voice. I was mid-panic attack at the time.

Convinced she was going to try to kill me, I lay still as the pain crushed my chest and shortened my breathing. The panic attack passed, though my paranoia and anxiety did not. In the hallucinatory space between sleep and waking, I saw demon faces on the glossy white walls and screamed to my new roommate for help, only to see her wide and placid blue eyes piercing mine, unblinking, as if she didn’t hear me.

My roommate did not come out of her room until dinner the next evening, thanks to the powerful tranquilizer they had given her. When she did enter the makeshift dining room, she was wrapped in a blanket, her pretty heavy-lidded eyes rubbed red. She made unearthly grunting sounds, as if lifting flour sacks instead of lifting fork to mouth.

Over my cafeteria spaghetti and orange juice, I furtively inspected her. She was so familiar. Where had I seen her before?

When it came to me, I froze. OkCupid.

She had messaged me first.

‘I know you’re moving to France soon, but

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I really want to date you! Wanna go on a date?

Sorry, maybe that was too forward. Let me start again...

Sup babe, You’re hot. Can I have your number?’

No that wasn’t good either...

‘Good morning, If you would kindly message me back, I would be grateful.’

It was cute. She was cute. I remember telling a friend that it was perfect that she was named Willow, my favorite character from my favorite TV show, Buffy. We messaged back and forth until her frequent requests to meet right away started to weird me out. Her profile said she had a boyfriend.

‘Girls don’t count,’ apparently.

In the ward, I didn’t have to try too hard to avoid her. I mostly lay in bed. She would periodically pack up my stuff in a brown paper bag she had brought, but other than

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that we got along just fine. I hoped to a god I didn’t believe in that she wouldn’t reveal my secret. The worry of whether or not she would tell, of whether or not the doctors would find out, of what might happen if they did, if they would even let me go home, gripped my chest like a fist.

As the days passed, the grip loosened a little. One of the beautiful things about the psych ward is seeing people get better.

Like seeing the droopy-eyed brunette lady who kept to her room and never spoke come out and laugh during a game of ultimate frisbee. She was on her seventh round of electroshock. Willow was getting better, too. She had graduated from grunting and ranting to being able to hold a conversation.

She asked me if I could please tell her where we had met before.

“OkCupid,” I said. My heart galloped.

“I don’t think that’s true, but okay,” she

said, and left to go ask the rest of the ward if they wanted to watch her dance.

I got better too. No longer an immediate danger to myself, I went back to a knifeless, beltless home, which was miles better than an internetless ward. I eagerly checked my emails and browsed my favorite sites before the idea popped into my head. Why not go back and look at Willow’s emails? Just to remember her better.

She looked similar. Heavy-lidded eyes, long blond hair. But she wasn’t the same person. Her name wasn’t Willow, it was Stephanie. Where the memory of sharing her name with my friend came from, I still don’t know. I remember it even though I know it never happened.

Sylvia Plath, who the great scholar Kay Redfield Jamison diagnosed posthumously with bipolar disorder, the same as me, wrote, ‘To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped

as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.’

Though my memories of my roommate were nothing more than waking nightmare, the real danger was true enough. The American Psychological Association states, “No, lesbian, gay, and bisexual orientations are not disorders. Research has found no inherent association between any of these sexual orientations and psychopathology.

Both heterosexual behavior and homosexual behavior are normal aspects of human sexuality.” What will it take for hospitals to treat queer patients with respect? What is the cost to queer people with an illness like mine, which has a 1 in 5 suicide rate?

When will queer people with mental illnesses be able to wake up from the bad dream, the world itself ? n

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AN INTERVIEW WITH

DIOR VARGAS INTERVIEW BY HANNAH MOITT

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Writer, public speaker, counsellor, and activist Dior Vargas is a powerhouse of feminist mental health advocacy whose work (online and offline) is as sincere and handson as it is far-reaching. In 2014 Dior started the People of Color & Mental Illness Photo Project, a campaign that showed people of colour around the world being frank about their mental illnesses. In July she secured funding via Kickstarter to take the project to the next level: bringing in a professional photographer to widen the scope and audience of the project. Her work has been instrumental in increasing representation of people of colour in mental health and helping to combat the stigma of mental health in the Latinx community, reflected in her being honoured at the White House as a Champion of Change for Disability Advocacy Across Generations just last month. We were overjoyed to get a chance to speak to her about the project and about how race and mental health intersect.

HM: Can we talk about the People of Color and Mental Illness Photo Project? It’s incredible how affecting it is to see people who look like us who also live with mental illness.

What kind of reactions have you had to the images and project?

DV: I’ve received an overwhelming response from people and it’s been so amazing and extremely meaningful. A lot of people have said that upon seeing the photos they felt less alone and it gave them hope, which is exactly what I was aiming for. Also, people have told me that as a result of the project, for the first time they had the courage to share their experiences with friends and family. Upon doing so, they’ve received a

lot of unexpected support. I hope that is indicative of the eventual dissipation of mental illness stigma. Unfortunately I have also received negative feedback from people who don’t understand the need for this project, much less these discussions. I wrote a Huffington Post article where I discussed this project and people commented that segmenting communities is unnecessary, that we are all one race and that we share the same problems. I highly disagree. People of color live with multiple oppressions, which add to the detriment of their mental health and wellbeing.

HM: You’ve spoken about how women of colour are excluded from the dialogue about mental health by media that often represents mental illness only from the perspective of white women. Given this underlying racism in many mental health and feminist organisations, what do you feel they could be doing to help people of colour feel welcome in conversations about mental health?

DV: I think creating safe spaces for people of color would be a great start. If we had spaces where we wouldn’t feel judged and could speak freely we would be able to accomplish a lot more. Also cultural competency is extremely lacking; we live with different experiences that professionals in the health care industry usually don’t understand and therefore show disrespect towards, which can be very demeaning and invalidating. I think these organizations need to be honest and transparent about what they need to improve and find people who are already doing this work so they can collaborate.

I also think that they need to go directly into these communities and listen to what the needs are.

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HM: Personally, the fact that many healthcare professionals are white and male has been a source of worry when considering seeking medical help for my depression. Do you have any tips for women/people of colour on how to make this process as comfortable as possible?

DV: Past experiences of communities of color with the health care system is fraught with mistrust and inadequate treatment.

It’s extremely disheartening. In order to make this process more comfortable, it is important for us to know what our needs are and not to feel afraid to ask for them.

We need to be advocates for ourselves and our mental health care. While the majority of health care professionals are male and white, there are some people of color who are working in this field and finding these people to be part of our mental health care can do a lot to make this process more positive. With this in mind, I have started a survey where I am collecting information from LGBTQIA-friendly, POC therapists in the U.S. so that people can access this

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information. Navigating this system is hard enough and I wanted to add some ease to it.

HM: I think there’s real power in the DIYness of mental health discourse amongst communities of colour online. It does make one feel like we could all have something to contribute just by virtue of sharing in those experiences. Is there anyone whose work you’ve found particularly inspiring or uplifting? Do you have any advice for other women/people of colour who want to start their own initiative or project on or offline?

DV: I think there are a lot of people doing amazing work to create spaces for discussion and provide resources. One example is Dr. Nadia Richardson who created No More Martyrs, which is a mental health awareness campaign committed to building an online community of support for black women with mental health concerns. I think that one should figure out what they are passionate about and find ways to get involved with organizations, community

groups, and/or other activists. A lot of these people will appreciate the support. Also, reach out to activists for advice because they are most likely happy to mentor you or help you figure things out. Doing one’s research is very beneficial because that informs you of the work that is needed and assists in finding ways to fill the gap. If you have a project in mind just start it. Don’t worry about it being 100% right. Be patient with yourself and be open to constructive criticism and improvement.

useful and that I am doing something to help others. But I will admit that it is hard sometimes. I add a lot of pressure to myself and my projects so it can be very stressinducing. I need to prioritize my mental health more which is what I promote in my work. I try to do simple things like watch a funny show on Netflix, listen to music or spend time with friends and family. n

HM: As someone who is active in a number of projects, how do you balance taking care of your mental health with the idea that you have to be constantly productive?

DV: One of the main reasons why I do the work that I do is because I am constantly trying to find meaning to my experience with mental illness and suicidal ideation.

I think that being productive helps offset my bouts of depression and anxiety. It takes my mind off of things and makes me feel

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Gemma Correll – from The Worrier’s Guide to Life, Andrews McMeel Publishing, 2015 39

BRING THE GIRL BACK Amaal Said She was calling on something we couldn’t see.

It wasn’t God but her eyes were closed.

She probably forgot you were her mother when she left those scratches on your left cheek.

You forgave her, knowing that something was trying to leave her body.

None of us could pull it out of her, ease her back into her bus seat.

I ran to the back not out of embarrassment, but when your girl slipped through your fingers and ran out into the road I smelt my father’s plot of land outside our house in Kenya.

I was ten again, on my knees in the toilet, scrubbing my older sister’s shit off the floor.

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I heard my father telling me to clean it, put her into the bed, make sure she makes it through the night without running through a window into the bushes.

Your girl is so strong; it took both of your arms and a stranger’s to hold her down, and even then she found an exit route onto the road, screaming as the cars honked.

I am sorry I couldn’t help you drag her into the house, I was busy chasing my sister through the streets.

I didn’t remember her being that fast but I did it because I knew my father would blame me for losing her.

I knew she wasn’t running from me.

Something was trying to take her away, eating her from the inside. n

CALLING ON DEATH Amaal Said Mama wants you in an institution but you’ve seen them on the television.

A patient tried to bite through the metal gate using teeth, others were smashing their head onto the bed frame, inviting the loss of memory.

Running into the road does not mean a car will kill you instantly, it means your mama will use her body to save yours, pulling you back.

She will do this each time you try it, asking herself why you can’t stand to stay inside her house.

Mama is a lot older now and one day she’ll give up, call the authorities and they’ll come with their police dogs, their handcuffs and a cage just big enough to scoop you up, put you in and take you away with.

You are frightened she won’t miss you, that she’ll breathe easier knowing she won’t have to watch her baby running through the road outside her kitchen window, wondering how much you really want to die this time. n

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Yumi Sakugawa 87

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Doll Hospital is an art and literature print journal on mental health.

We believe print is the best medium for this project - a refuge from toxic comment sections and constant link skipping.

Something tangible to slip in your book bag and read on the bus.

Something still, something quiet.

Something just for you.

Artwork by Alyssa Nassner