On suicide awareness days it isn’t always the person suffering that we need to address.Not everyone is compassionate. Not everyone is compa
Not everyone is compassionate every day.
They are gone now and you don’t know that they reached out for help.
Only, “help” failed them that day.
It was where I was seeing a psychologist for a long history of child sexual abuse.
For those who don’t know, when you get treatment for trauma of this type you can feel worse long before you ever feel better.
It keeps people who are in a temporary state of pain from reacting in the moment. You just want this collection of dull, stabbing, throbbing, pinching, itching, and slicing pain to stop.
When it gets to that point, it feels like all of the evils of life are beating up on you at once.
I am now very slow to say the words “Go to hell”. I know what that pain feels like. I wish that pain on a very select few people.
And, just think, in hell, they can’t end it.
You know that suicide will end it once and for all. But the agreement reminds you to check in with your rational mind for a just a little while.
Hang on until help arrives.
I had been in counseling since my teens. But Dr Brown was locating pain I didn‘t even know I was carrying.
I wasn’t playing.
He is so demeaning.
He is so angry.
Wait. Wait. Wait?
He is a psychiatrist?
I’m in college.
I’m an A student. Really.
I’m a single mother. (Save that for last. Stereotypes, you know.)
He knows Dr. Brown.
They are colleagues.
He says, “Yes, she is very good.
You’re not feeling better?”
(He is accusing ME now. What is MY problem?)
“Not yet” I try to explain.
“It takes time.”
But then I stop.
He is a psychiatrist.
He knows this.
Healing takes time.
That is what….. he should be telling me.
He was toying with me.
We both knew it.
But I’ve seen that look on his face.
No matter what I say.
I am young.
I am black.
I am not yet wise.
I don’t have access to financial resources that he may have.
I am black.
At first it scares me.
But I embrace it before the next second hits.
I am angry.
I am in a storm cloud of rage.
This emotion I know.
It doesn’t frighten me.
I made threats.
That I intended to keep.
The female nurse that was in the room with us moved closer to the door.
Those threats could get me tackled and shackled.
One doesn’t do that in a hospital setting.
Oh but there are so many other words that one can use when someone f%(* with you at just the right time you know.
I ordered him to get away from me. He was making me uncomfortable. This couldn’t be good for me.
Of course he did.
I was damn near hysterical.
They both walked out of the room. Backwards.
I never saw him again.
Later he sent the nurse in with discharge instructions.
That could have ended horribly for me for ALL of the reasons that I stated and then some.
All I can say is, BUT GOD.
Before leaving the hospital, I contacted a patient advocate to report him.
She wrote nothing down.
She just looked at me with a blank look.
Days later I processed it with Dr. Brown and decided to focus on my own healing.
But I hate that people who are in a temporary state of brokenness still encounter Dr. Tacky during their time of need.
Suicide can be a season.
But during my season, I encountered quite a few people who were not kind, compassionate, consistently patient, or skilled across the various populations.