The Hospital
“[Patient] Unable to Sign” That’s what my signature read on the hospital intake paperwork. Was I awake and uncooperative, or was I asleep? I have no memory of arriving.
I didn’t remember the full extent of what I did to be admitted either. My mind wasn’t recording memory like usual.
I spent those first few days in the hospital trying to piece together exactly how I got there. I scribbled notes on scrap paper with golf pencils. Here’s what I knew:
- I had a bad dream, but some of it must have been real
- My computer had been hacked and was showing me upsetting things
- I needed to apologize to people for scaring them
I tried to put together a list of the people I needed to apologize to.
But what did I do?
After a few more days, some of my questions would be answered. A hospital employee served me court paperwork. Finally, for the first time, somebody was going to tell me what happened. The employee handed me the documents and I read them. My heart dropped.
- “Delusional thought content, assaultive behavior, suicidal statements, threats to others, poor insight and judgement”
- “Respondent assaulted firefighter”
- “Hitting moving cars with a metal pole and grabbing SPD officer’s taser”
I did all that? No, there must be some mistake. That’s not me. That’s not how I treat people. I would never. There has to be a misunderstanding. I was so confused. Fragments of memory flashed and fizzled.
I couldn’t escape the facts laid out in the paperwork: the bad dream wasn’t a dream— it was real.
Okay, I calmed myself, this is manageable. I just need to add a few more people to the list of people I need to apologize to.
I need to apologize to the Seattle Fire Department.
I need to apologize to the Seattle Police Department officer whose taser I grabbed.
I need to apologize to the drivers of the cars I hit and pay for any damage.
The list was growing, but still manageable.
The hospital had a make-shift Zoom courtroom, complete with a Washington state flag. I don’t remember my court proceedings, but I am so grateful to my public defender, she must have done an incredible job showing the court that I wasn’t a monster— that I was, in fact, a credit to the community. Thank you, Brenda1.
The Discharge
About a month later, I was discharged. I felt hopeful once again, I knew I had wronged some people, but I had made a list, and I was going to go through that list and apologize to each one of them and make amends.
I couldn’t go home— I had been asked to leave my apartment (is it still okay to call it home if you’re evicted?). I didn’t fully remember this, but evidently I had really scared my neighbors. I was lucky in that my Mom flew out to Seattle and rented an apartment for me to stay in. Without her, I would be homeless (how many homeless people in Seattle share the same story?).
Okay, pretty bad, but still manageable, I reasoned. I can still send apology letters to my neighbors without going back on the property.
Then I checked my laptop. That’s when the reality kicked in.
A dozen unanswered text messages.
Missed calls. Voicemails.
Screenshots of me saying the worst things a human being can say.
Evidently, during my episode, I had opened LinkedIn and posted unspeakable things.
Seeing those screenshots triggered backlash psychosis: the moment reality comes crashing down again as you’re confronted with the damage you’ve wrought. No, I couldn’t have said that. That’s not me. That’s not what I think. That’s not what I believe. There must be some mistake. Please, God, tell me I didn’t say that.
The realization that I’d broadcasted my psychosis over social media devastated me. I gripped that list of people I needed to apologize to, but now it had grown exponentially. Who saw that post? How can I apologize to everyone who did? What if they blocked or unfriended me? What if it comes up in the future? How can I apologize to all future people? This was no longer manageable.
Patient Unable to Sign — that phrase came back to me. I still couldn’t sign my own name to what I’d done. But there was my name and face, next to truly despicable psychotic ramblings.
I tried to survey the damage on social media. My friend and follower count plummeted. I wasn’t keeping track of the number, but when you go on Facebook and search a name of a friend, and they no longer come up, you just know. Or when you hover over a friend’s likes and it says “and 1 more” and you just know it’s someone who’s blocked you.
I imagined the group texts about me, without me. Infecting my social network.
“Did you see Jessica’s LinkedIn?”
“I always knew she was a monster.”
“This is the real Jessica: when someone tells you who they are, believe them.”
A long time friend asked me for my address. I didn’t reply. I got scared. I was scared that she had secretly turned against me because of what I said, and was tracking me down with the FBI. They were going to get me.
My social defeat had devolved into social death.
I asked myself why this had to happen. I used an Amazonian technique to find out the answer.
- Brenda is not her real name. I want to use her real name to give her thanks, but I also want to respect her privacy if she doesn’t want to be associated with a former client. I’ll always be grateful to you for fighting for my humanity even when I didn’t believe I was human. Thank you. ↩︎