Greetings from the other side of the psych ward
Hey pals,
[Fair warning: this letter is gonna get heavily into feelings about depression and suicide (but will circle back around to being a GOOD TIME, I PROMISE) so if that is not something you think you can handle, you'll wanna skip ahead to the books portion. Or just delete this newsletter and carry on with your day! This is your life and your decision.]
Here's something I didn't anticipate when I decided it was time to check myself into the hospital for suicidal thoughts last Thursday: how many people I would have to tell this to in the first half hour of arriving. Because I am who I am, this was an immediate source of anxiety—how to phrase it, what I should sound like when I said it, whether or not this whole thing was a dumb, stupid mistake. Checking in: Why are you here? I'm having suicidal thoughts. Second check-in: Why are you here? I'm worried I might hurt myself. With the first nurse, second nurse, first resident, her advisor: I'm depressed, I'm suicidal, I've been this way for a very long time, and I would like it to stop please.
If I learned anything this past week it's that I need to say the word. There is a certain safety in talking about depression, and certainly I've done plenty of that. But suicide is different. Writing it right now feels different. Admitting to having suicidal thoughts feels like admitting a fundamental problem in myself and my life. To be clear: I love my life. Depression didn't let me access that love. Suicidal thinking, looping and looping, didn't let me access my life. I'm speaking openly about it now because having been forced to say it out loud over and over again — something I'd never done; any of my talk or writing about suicide was about how it was a phase of my past — broke that loop. It's so easy to normalize the idea when you keep it to yourself, flatten its sharp edges over time and repetition, make it seem possible, which quickly becomes probable.
I told the therapist working with me that on Thursday, I'd started the day by blowing off my reiki appointment. And then ignoring a deadline. And then when it came time to get ready for work, the weight of it seemed unwieldy. So: I could kill myself or I could go to the hospital. I went to the hospital.
"That must have been terrifying," she said. "To really believe those were your only options."
I hadn't thought about it that way, and the words clicked into place. I'd thought about it as a weakness at worst, a rational decision at best. But both of those options came from me, and both were terrifying. To see no other choice! I hope I'm never there again. I hope none of you find yourselves there, either.
So I'm home after six of the most boring, rehabilitating, indescribable days of my life, feeling like myself again, and ready to talk about it. You've gotta deflate that depression bubble so it doesn't consume everything. It loves to gobble everything up. I'm so lucky to have people who love me, and I'm trying to let them support me. Trying to believe it's not a burden. Trying to support them right back.
(Oh but real quick: another thing I hadn't anticipated was how funny a lot of the experience would be. During my six hours in the ER bed, wondering what the fuck I was getting myself into, I was facing a sign with a shitty clipart of pizza and comic sans type asking, "WHO DOESN'T LIKE A PIZZA PARTY?"I was also lying next to a man shouting about how he'd met the reptilians, about how they wanted the human race to have peace. "If the reptilians can make peace with the Council of Five, formerly the Council of Nine, why can't we make peace with each other?" Too fucking true, my guy.)
Okay, to the books.
Early last week I devoured NATURE POEM by Tommy Pico, which I picked up on the recommendation of Adam Kurtz. I read it before bed, went to sleep, woke up, and read it again. The central narrative, for lack of a better word, is about a young, queer, Native American man's reluctance to write a nature poem, to enact the kind of identity non-indigenous people believe (and maybe want?) indigenous people to perform. He writes about colonialism, pop culture, intersecting identities. I thought a lot about the hypocrisy of white folks demanding education by the native population on how to love and appreciate nature when those same white folks are actively destroying it. I thought about our unquestioning reverence of all things "natural" and what that word even means. I questioned my own assumptions and ignorance. I dog-eared basically every other page because it had a line that I wanted to write down and remember. Like:
Rest is a sign of necrosis. Life is a cycle of jobs. The biosphere is alive with menthol smoke and my unchecked voicemails. I, for one, used to
believe in God
and comment boards
I wd say how far I am from my mountains, tell you why I carry
Kumeyaay basket designs on my body, or how freakishly routine it is to
hear someone died
but I don't want to be an identity or a belief or a feedbag. I wanna b
me. I want to open my arms like winning a foot race and keep my
stories to myself, I tell my audience
I got to interview Pico for Pacific Standard Mag, but it's not out yet. Will send the link along when it's up! Check out the book here.
A nice thing about being in a mental hospital for six days without a phone or laptop or literally anything of yours but the underwear you came wearing and the book you thought to bring, is that you get to read a LOT. For me that book was, luckily, THE LEAVERS by Lisa Ko. Man oh man! This book lives up to the hype. I loved it. Ko tells the story of Polly Guo, an undocumented immigrant who goes to work one day and never comes home, leaving Deming, her 11-year-old son, trying to solve the mystery of her disappearance. Ten years later, Deming — now Daniel, renamed by his adoptive parents — is still putting the pieces together. Woven throughout his story is Polly's first person perspective, told in immediate and heartbreaking passages directed at Deming. It's an immigration story that's probably more common than we like to believe, but one I'd never read before. Also unique: the bond between Polly and Deming. Their time together is brief, but their relationship is drawn so precisely, thoroughly, honestly. Deming's devotion to — and later, his anger toward — his mom aches beyond the page, and as for Polly — she's def in the running for my new favorite literary mom, so plucky, hilarious, tough, dedicated to her son without being selfless. She bristles at motherhood often, unapologetic:
A mother was supposed to lay down and die for her children, and Leon got to be called Yi Ba because he watched TV with you several afternoons a week. If he bought you a cheap toy, Vivian would crow, "How thoughtful!" and when he took you to the park the neighbors complimented him for being such a good daddy. But no one called me a good mama when I did those things. And now Leon was blaming me for wanting a better life?
And then there's her independence, her complete comfort in aloneness, in herself:
I'd arrived at the tail end of a New York summer. At intersections I would play a game, walking in the direction of whichever light when green first, and in this way, I zigzagged my way around most of Manhattan. When I got lost I tried to remain lost for as long as possible, making turn after turn until the street ended at a highway or river, or until I asked the closest Chinese-looking person for directions. No matter how tired I was, I always felt more awake when I walked.
Polly is my kind of lady. Love her, loved the book. Check it out here.
WELL THAT'S ALL. Thanks for your kind messages while I've taken you along these pretty low few months. I've appreciated it very much. Excited to be (fingers crossed!!!!) coming up from the real bottom, ready to get back to talking books. Be well, be healthy.
<3