I had a dream last year where I went to a place that was freezing cold. I distinctly remember the image of a wooden platform that separated a city from an abyss. In the walls of the abyss, there was a long way of unusable stairs and broken wooden structures, covered in a type of frost that was deadly if touched and slowly expanding. Someone carried me across the platform and I entered the city through a huge parking lot where I lost my car. Then a frightening presence stalked me until I finally found my car and I left this place that seemed to swell with the ominous dark presence as the deadly frost spread around. Not many escaped from this monster.
I remembered this dream months later, when I was on a trip to Michigan. Winter had settled, I had lost my driver’s license, and I was experiencing symptoms of psychosis. I knew it was psychosis because I had experienced it a year and some months before. I was having deliriums and couldn’t sleep. Things seemed to have a weird significance that I could describe as the universe attempting to talk to me, but not saying anything nice.
During my time in Michigan, before the symptoms of psychosis settled in, I had another dream. I dreamed that I was in a retreat with a group of young women. We were taken to this room with many beds, and we were all dressed with white gowns. Before I picked a bed, I went to explore the place where we were staying. It looked like a family resort; it had a restaurant, a pool, and ferrets roaming free. I was very excited to be there. I returned to my room and tried to pick a bed, but was told they were all taken. It was an all-women room.
I felt that profound trauma deeply defined what experiences I was allowed to have, how deep my mind could wander and therefore defined the depth of meaning any one experience could have
I went around looking for someone in charge I could ask about accommodations. I am non-binary and at the time I was visibly androgynous. I found a woman with a bob who was talking very sweetly to other guests. I approached her and she immediately turned sour. I asked her about my bedroom and she said there was no place for people like me there.
I woke up and told my partner about this dream.
Weeks later, when looking for a therapy program that could help me manage my worsening symptoms, a woman with a blonde bob walked into the admissions office to ask me if my name was María. She turned sour when I told her I actually go by Jose. She let me know my insurance didn’t cover the program I was applying to. She wasn’t very sympathetic.
Perhaps it was the worsening symptoms of psychosis that immediately related that experience to my dream, but I thought I had predicted this experience.
Then I had a strange moment of enlightenment. I had a distinct feeling that the cracks in my mind where trauma had rendered untouchable to reverie had served to curve the road I’d take in my life, that had led me to this very moment. I felt that profound trauma deeply defined what experiences I was allowed to have, how deep my mind could wander and therefore defined the depth of meaning any one experience could have. I felt that I had this wound so deep that all the experiences in my life served to justify or deny it. I felt it had reached its pinnacle then and there. I remember a warm feeling in the back of my head, like enlightenment. I was done running that race, I thought.
Just as my travelers insurance didn’t cover that program, many other obstacles presented themselves when I was trying to get psychiatric help, and my symptoms worsened until I had to go to the hospital. Thankfully, I also had a few angels looking out for me. My partner was trying with all their might to get me adequate help. My sister flew in from Florida where she was vacationing to be with me as my health was rapidly deteriorating. My former therapist - who was in a different time zone - answered my texts in the middle of the night, and was key to my eventual release from the hospital. But before all that, I had three fruitless trips to the ER.
The thing is, I have struggled with mental health all my life. I can appear extremely functional, so much so that I was sent home from the emergency room three days in a row with medicine for mild anxiety, because I was trying to calmly explain I hadn’t slept in four days and I was experiencing worsening symptoms of psychosis. I told them some symptoms and withheld others, like, I didn’t tell them I was deeply afraid that satanic cultists were getting access to my blood through the hospital system - something I read in a book when I was 15 and was apparently deeply subconsciously afraid of, as it was manifesting in my deliriums. It seemed unnecessary to relay that information, but I wonder if that would have helped me get treatment earlier.
I was crying when I signed the admission papers; I had been forced to agree to something I was profoundly terrified of just so I could get medical help for a problem I had experienced before.
Instead I had to go to the hospital again, a fourth time. Then they made me spend the night as I begged for something to help me sleep as I felt I was on the verge of losing my sanity after not sleeping for several days and worsening symptoms, just getting a “‘sorry, no quick fixes” in response. In the morning they wanted to send me home because, in their words, “this wasn’t a sleep clinic.” Then, a series of rapid fire decisions I had to make that felt as coercive as the dark presence in the first dream I mentioned.
I was told the only way I could see a psychiatrist was to be institutionalized, either in that same hospital or be taken away to another city 45 minutes away from where I was staying, with limited visitation hours. I was already in a different country, terrified the staff was going to hurt me, and the only way I could get the medication and help I needed was to be voluntarily admitted to a psychiatric ward. It was a Friday, and they said if I wanted to opt for outpatient care, I’d have to wait until Tuesday for an appointment.
I felt there was no way I could make it to Tuesday without some sort of treatment. By then I felt I had put my body and brain through such strain I was seriously afraid I’d pop a vessel or have a stroke - it runs in my family, after all. I had my partner and my sister to take care of me, and I was terrified to be taken away to be completely alone in a hospital I didn’t know. I was crying when I signed the admission papers; I had been forced to agree to something I was profoundly terrified of just so I could get medical help for a problem I had experienced before. They had kicked my partner out of the hospital for yelling at the staff for their incompetence. The hospital staff all believed they were abusing me.
After I signed the papers they agreed to give me an Ambien. I was terrified to take it because I had read that if you don’t immediately go to sleep when you take it, it can make you do weird things or experience a high. I have experienced psychosis with mild drugs and have had some mild hallucinations with melatonin, so I was shaking and terrified because I thought the Ambien could make my symptoms worse. The nurse was annoyed that I wouldn’t take the pill after begging for something to help me sleep. She was trying to be reassuring, but finally it was my sister telling me she’d stay until I could fall asleep that helped me swallow sleep.
I did fall asleep, and woke up two hours later fully alert. I don’t remember much of what happened next until I was wheel-chaired into the psych ward. Then what is one of the worst weekends of my life started.
I had never been institutionalized, and I don’t think I want to talk about all that happened there in this narrative - it was bizarre beyond description and profoundly traumatizing, but it’s the journey after that I’m struggling with.
Reality is so diverse it is difficult to ascertain what a life looks like. A normal life means different things for a Christian pastor in Africa, a deaf person in the UK, a Hollywood celebrity, a trans person in Peru.
After leaving the hospital, returning home, and doing six months of medical treatment, I was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder. I asked what that meant and my psychiatrist said a diagnosis only serves to define a treatment, and I shouldn’t worry about it beyond that. So I did what any modern man looking for answers would do, and Googled it.
I am now scared of eventually losing my mind completely, of having recurring or persistent psychotic states and being alone because my family and friends cannot relate to me anymore. I am afraid of being irrevocably mentally ill when I look at how dehumanizing society is towards us. I look for comfort by telling this to my support system and their answer is that with treatment I’ll be able to fit into society and lead a normal life.
That cannot possibly be comforting. I am autistic, so I already don’t fit into society. Even if I did, that is such an abstract concept. What is a normal life? Reality is so diverse it is difficult to ascertain what a normal life looks like. A normal life means different things for a Christian pastor in Africa, a deaf person in the UK, a Hollywood celebrity, a trans person in Peru. Perhaps we could narrow down the possibilities to my context, so, what would be a normal life for a middle-class mestiza from Ecuador with a supportive family and chronic health issues?
We all have roles in society and those roles give us our allotted spaces. I can navigate some of those roles, like what it means to be a daughter, or a sibling, or a friend, or a cook, but I don’t have much positive inspiration to draw on when I try to imagine what it means to be a mentally ill person. The space both physical and emotional given to the crazy person in Western capitalist societies has taken shape through the years by the horrible and inhumane history of dealing with mental illness and neurodiversity. Lobotomies, literally ripping apart a psyche, only started subsiding in the 1950s. Lobotomies were widely practiced in overcrowded mental institutions to gain control over unruly patients.
What is it about crazy people that makes society so uncomfortable?
I must say that in my experience, the coercion exercised to gain control over mental patients is much preferred to compassionate care that truly aims to comfort. I do not believe that the staff in a mental institution are free of bias towards mentally ill people. I did not receive humane treatment, because I wasn’t Jose in the psych ward, I was a mentally ill foreigner. A crazy person who wasn’t always cooperative. An abused Latina with psychosis. A headache for moonlighter nurses. I was stripped from my humanity and treated like a ticking bomb, like I was hiding something and my limbs had to be twisted until I’d give it up. I am not looking forward to a lifetime of dealing with that institutional violence.
Psychosis isn’t a universal experience, but it is still a human experience. Perhaps some people have experienced it briefly through psychoactive drugs, and others perhaps after strenuous circumstances, like prolonged heavy stress or pregnancy. I call it a human experience because humans experience it. I’d do the same if I was talking about near death experiences; few people will have them, but it doesn’t stop them from being, by definition, a human experience. Why is it that people who experience psychosis are treated so inhumanely?
What is it about crazy people that makes society so uncomfortable? I will borrow the beautiful words of Angela Davis from “Are Prisons Obsolete?”, a compelling argument against the institution of prison, as I think it can mirror the issues with mental institutions:
“We take prisons for granted but are often afraid to face the realities they produce. After all, no one wants to go to prison. Because it would be too agonizing to cope with the possibility that anyone, including ourselves, could become a prisoner, we tend to think of the prison as disconnected from our own lives. [...]This is the ideological work that the prison performs—it relieves us of the responsibility of seriously engaging with the problems of our society”
No one likes to think they could ever be crazy, but it’s a very fine line to walk. I think the pandemic has shown that coping with reality isn’t always an easy thing. People disconnect themselves from reality and arguably have delusions of grandeur, organizing parties with friends because they believe they are above or immune to a deadly global pandemic. Forced isolation increases anxiety levels, the rupture of routine spirals people into depression. I doubt this is a reality people would want to assimilate to, I couldn’t blame them for it. Why am I blamed for not wanting to assimilate to a reality that is so dissonant from my psyche?
Nobody wants to see their consciousness as a phenomena, like rain, a cocktail of perfectly choreographed elements that is allowed to manifest under the right circumstances, and so can and may be disturbed
This takes me back to the question of what is a normal life. I am not sure I’m interested in fitting well into society. Honestly, I do not know if it would be the right thing to do. This society is destroying nature, working and exploiting people to death, commodifying and privatizing health, and it’s profoundly out of balance with the Earth and its cycles. It’s created a destructive bubble that poisons its ecosystem. Should I be allowed space, dignity, and well-being in the world only if I can prove I’m “functional” under this system? I do not have any interest in being functional under such terms, though I painfully feel the coercion as people hang my humanity over my head as a reward.
I think that mental patients are so frightening to the average person not only because of the arduous job mainstream culture has done to stigmatize and terrorize us, but because of what we represent. Nobody wants to confront their humanity so. Nobody wants to think about their consciousness, about themselves so abstractly. Nobody wants to see their consciousness as a phenomena, like rain, a cocktail of perfectly choreographed elements that is allowed to manifest under the right circumstances, and so can and may be disturbed. What happens in the event of a brain injury? What about a degenerative disease like Alzheimer's? To understand that the body and mind are one is humbling. To be confronted by the fragility of the miracle that is consciousness is frightening.
Mental patients are forced into the role of glitches. Ruptures in the flow of organized sane society, ruptures in the expectations of humanity.
I am reminded of a passage by Cristina Grammatikopoulou that talks about glitches in machines but that I believe is a great metaphor for neurodiversity and mental illness:
“Bodies and machines are defined by function: as long as they operate correctly, they remain imperceptible; they become a part of the process of perception, as the extension of the action that engages the self with the world.
In a world defined by efficiency, the infallible performance of bodies and systems is often taken for granted. So, what happens when failure occurs?
Then the transparency (of the body, of the object) is being removed and we can finally see and sense what it actually is. A broken pencil goes back to being wood and lead –rather than a tool that inscribes our thoughts on paper; a crashed computer becomes arrays of code, software and coloured light on the screen, rather than an interface that imitates reality.
The true nature of the machine –and the wilderness hidden underneath the orderly surface- suddenly makes itself evident through a glitch.
A glitch is a rupture in information flow, which forces the digital file out of its flawless hyperrealistic design to a reality of randomness and imperfection.”
Mental patients are forced into the role of glitches. Ruptures in the flow of organized sane society, ruptures in the expectations of humanity. They are a mirror that confronts people with the constraints of their physical form. A human being is no longer so, but flesh and blood and bad wiring. People demonize mental patients to secure their footing in reality, because if someone can hear voices that others cannot, if someone can react to stimuli we do not perceive, if minds can produce stimuli so “arbitrarily”, what does that mean for our perception? We are confronted by the thought that reality is not something we own, but something we interpret, and therefore we can be wrong. We lose control.
What is wellness in a world completely disconnected from nature and the complexity of reality?
Such corrections aren’t reserved only to mental patients. People can be deluded in many ways. They can be scammed or defrauded, lied to by their partners, misled by malicious people, and lulled into a false sense of security. We as human beings are routinely confronted by reality, and our perceptions proven faulty. Why is that demonized so when taken to another context? Is it not a universal human experience to be wrong in our perceptions?
Reality has always seemed quite abstract to me, which is why it’s difficult for me to conceive what being disconnected from reality means. I have always felt disconnected from reality to a degree, and many people feel that way too. In my case I believe it’s somewhat due to my autism; I’ve always felt I’m tuned to a different frequency, and I’ve seen many people do, too. I increasingly see that modern urban society is growing exponentially more difficult for people to manage. People have sky high levels of anxiety and depression, and are opening conversations about it, though the “scarier” mental illnesses are still taboo. I even feel inadequate calling them mental illnesses, though by cultural consensus they are, which makes me wonder how and why are we weaving the narratives we do around mental health in urban capitalist societies.
...the answer was always to treat the person as a valuable part of their community, to know them, care for them, and give them as much space to exist as any other human.
What is a disease and what are its implications in a world where health is a business and illness is profitable? Where the sick are hidden in shame or ignored completely, and the communities who could take care of them fragmentalize into nuclear families, many of whom are unfit or unwilling to take care of the sick. What is sanity in a world where dreams are nothing but meaningless blabber of our subconscious? What is wellness in a world completely disconnected from nature and the complexity of reality? In the psychiatric ward, my belief that I had predicted the future in my dreams was a symptom of illness, of delirium.
When I came back home I read a book my boyfriend gifted me, called Original Wisdom. It’s a recounting from an American psychologist, Robert Wolff, about his time with the Sng’oi- indigenous people from the mountains in Malaysia. The Sng’oi believe that in dreams we travel to the real world, that this world is like a dream, and sleeping takes you to the real world. They sleep together in small huts, bodies touching each other, and in the morning they all share their dreams, like a communal puzzle, and that sets the tone for the day. Perhaps they’d dream of a special flower, and certainly that day they find that special flower in the woods. Or they’d dream about a big storm, plan their activities around that, and the storm surely comes. That book also talks about how communities in Malaysia dealt with the sick, whether it was physical or mental, the answer was always to treat the person as a valuable part of their community, to know them, care for them, and give them as much space to exist as any other human. It was unthinkable to ever send them away to a place where they wouldn’t be an inconvenience.
Not going too far from my own society, the Sapara people from the Ecuadorian Amazon use dreams as a tool for sustainability. They use plants to have dreams in which they connect to the spirits of the forest or the river, who let them know in dreams where to fish and what to hunt the next day, what is allowed to be taken from the jungle to maintain a balance in the ecosystem. Taking their dreams seriously and exploring the world through them is a fundamental part of their culture.
Many indigenous Amazonian communities use ayahuasca as a social, cultural, and spiritual tool. They purposely induce hallucinations and visions to learn more about their own psyche, to make decisions about the future, and to connect to the spirit world.
This is normal life for people. I believe it is just racism that makes their reality inferior to the Western capitalist urban reality. So what would my dreams, my fears, myself be considered in another cultural context?
How can recovery be measured when trying to gauge it from an anti-capitalist standpoint?
I still very much want to be part of the world. I want to have happy memories with my family, I want to have children, I want to travel the world, explore different cultures, different ways to see reality. I want to do so not from this model where a profound disconnect with nature is the norm, where exploitation is sanctioned in the name of “progress.” What does mental wellness look like when we reject the current urban capitalist model? How can recovery be measured when trying to gauge it from an anti-capitalist standpoint? It is time to adopt other models of wellness where progress is judged by principles that respect nature and neurodiversity, and seek to make this a more inclusive world.
Modern urban capitalist society treats the ill as something to be exploited for money, as a rupture in the flow of production. Mentally ill people cannot continue to be punished because of their inconvenience to the model. Wellness is measured by our ability to function in a profoundly broken society, in our ability to relate to people, the majority of whom aren’t educated to understand neurodiversity, and reach milestones that are determined by class and privilege, like completing higher education or maintaining a job. What kind of standards do we use in a sick society to gauge mental wellness? I believe that it is not always wellness that is measured, but assimilation, and it’s only sane to question what kind of reality we are trying to assimilate into. Mentally ill people should have the option to reject assimilation without their dissent being pathologized.