wehavetoexistsomewhere

[wehavetoexistsomewhere]

just dissociated so hard I got asked to take a drug test

[wehavetoexistsomewhere]

There are moments which mark your life.  Moments when you realize nothing will ever be the same and time is divided into two parts, before this, and after this.

– John Hobbes

[wehavetoexistsomewhere]

Excerpt from a memoir written in residential mental health treatment, titled, "A Search for Comfort"

I crawl out of bed and walk down the hallway to the nurses office, taking a seat on the single yellow armchair in the hallway and clutching my stuffed animal sloth to my chest. It’s 7:12AM, and I sit in my anxiety until the top-half of the nurses door unlocks, revealing the nurses station inside. I’m waiting for my medication: my adderall, klonopin, abilify, and zoloft. I can’t live without them. They stop me from feeling 6, 13, and 17 again, from becoming nothing but a toy that others used at their own will. They stop me from feeling helpless and alone, and most importantly, they stop me from taking a jagged piece of metal to my carotid artery. 

The top half of the nurses station door opens and I approach it. I say my name, date-of-birth, and allergies, “Noah, 0X/XX/04, Benadryl.” The staff member responds back, “okay Noah. I have your Abilify, your Adderall, your Klonopin, and your Zoloft.” I take the medication, show them that I didn’t cheek the meds, and throw my cup away. I turn around and head back to my room. I feel at ease, knowing the medication is going to work soon. There is only one staff member at the house today, so I have to wait to go downstairs till everyone is done with their meds--we have to stay within their line of sight. I walk into my single room at the end of the hallway, and crawl back in bed. 

My sheets were removed from my bed a week before to prevent me from hanging myself with them, so I only have a comforter. I pull the comforter over me, and wrap my sloth in it like a baby being swaddled. I clutch him close to my chest once again, and try to fall back asleep. I hold him there to ease the anxious static in my chest. It's growing and growing, as if my veins were wires connected to an everlasting lithium ion battery that powers my heart.  My chest is the center point of my anxiety, so I hold my sloth close to bring a little bit of relief. I was safe with my sloth, Slothy. I tell myself, “he's the safety Slothy, nothing bad can happen with safety Slothy.”

That's what I have so far. Let me know your thoughts!

[wehavetoexistsomewhere]

Firestarter

I set fires as a kid. The last fire I set in childhood was when I was 17 years old, and the first was when I was 14. I didn’t want to damage my house or hurt anyone, I just wanted help, control, and relief from the debilitating trauma flashbacks I experienced. I set them in places I knew they wouldn’t become deadly or destructive. However, they always caused some damage. 

My parents never told anyone about my firesetting. When it happened, it was usually small enough to put out. After an incident, they would hide all the matches and lighters and not let me out of their sight. I was glad I was never punished for firesetting like I was for other behaviors. I think it intimidated them enough to leave me alone. 

I used fire to escape chaos and abuse. I would usually get sent somewhere: the hospital sometimes, or just kept out of the house. Something about watching things burn was satisfying to me. I had control and power. My anger, fear, resentment, and helplessness came out as a single flame that grew stronger and stronger, destroying everything in its path. 

I never understood self-control. Part of me doesn’t believe in it. If you were never taught how to deal with overwhelming emotions as a child, how were you supposed to resist acting maladaptively on those emotions? Abused children didn’t know any better. Growing up, self-control meant putting up with any abuse without saying or doing anything. It meant blocking out your emotions and not letting anyone know they got to you. 

I was recently researching firesetting behavior and how to recover. I was attempting to change my destructive habits. I learned that firesetting in childhood and adolescence is a sign of child abuse, which made sense. What I didn’t like was that it was one of the warning signs of abuse that is indicative of criminal behavior in adulthood. Firesetting and killing innocent animals (which I never did) sets one up for a rough life. 

As I wrote in the chapter, “Running Away, Firesetting, and Flatlining,” setting fires gave me a sense of peace, stability, and control:

For a moment [when I set fires], I wasn’t in danger. It didn’t matter that I had no money, it didn’t matter that home wasn’t safe. My anxiety was gone, I could breathe again. There was nothing in the world except me and the flame, and I was in control. . . It was mesmerizing, how much damage one little match could do. [When I set fires], I lived in a world of zero consequences. I lived in a world where it didn’t matter if I lived or died. I was alive in that moment, and that’s all that mattered. 

Part of the reason I set fires was because I liked reliving danger. It’s common for people with traumatic stress to enjoy reliving their trauma, it makes them feel truly alive. I piled on stress to avoid the uneasy feeling that came with boredom. I induced severe anxiety and stress by carrying out volatile reactions in my lab, piling on 13 different classes in school, talking politics on live television, overdosing, subjecting myself to dangerous situations, immersing myself in graduate school at the age of 18, and setting fires.

When I turned 20, I had to be admitted to the psychiatric hospital for firesetting behavior and suicide attempts. It was one of the most difficult periods of time I’ve ever lived through. I was kept in a room with nothing but a bed and desk in it. I had no bedsheets, they were worried I’d hang myself. I had a plastic pillow and a safety blanket, as well as a Dialectical Behavioral Therapy notebook and a crayon. I wasn’t supposed to leave my room: the point of this treatment was to make chronically suicidal patients sit in their overwhelming emotions and realize that feelings do not kill you. You couldn’t do anything to hurt yourself, and if you did present a danger to yourself, they would restrain you and force you to experience the emotional pain. It was one of the most agonizing experiences I’ve ever had. I wasn’t allowed to take any anxiety medication. After two days in the hospital, they let me pick out a single book to read: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. 

To my surprise, that treatment worked. It was like legal torture, but I made it out the other end. I haven’t set a single fire since. I haven’t tried to take my own life either. I haven’t acted out in treatment and gotten locked in a padded room or drugged, and I’ve stayed out of legal trouble. The anxiety in my chest was still there, but instead of thinking I was going to die, I knew I could live with it. Eventually, the everlasting anxiety went away. I could sit in boredom and feel okay. 

In the five months I spent in inpatient treatment, I was without my phone or other electronic devices. At first it was horrible: I didn’t have a constant stream of media distracting me from my internal pain. Later, I got used to living disconnected from the internet. I turned to art, writing, chatting with my peers, and sports; however, I also became okay with boredom. I could sit, close my eyes, and exist in the moment. I didn’t fear for my life, chase dangerous thrills, or sabotage myself. I sat in silence, watched nature, and felt the grass beneath my feet. I heard the birds singing, the squirrels scampering along the fence and the leaves rustling in the wind.

I learned how to do nothing. It was the hardest lesson I’ve learned throughout my entire life. 

[wehavetoexistsomewhere]

An excerpt from my memoir: Ch. 13: Running Away, Fire-setting, and Flatlining

[Earlier in chapter young Noah describes getting sent back to an abusive household from residential mental health treatment after his PTSD/DID was too severe for the residential treatment center was at to handle] I’ve learned to advocate for myself. I’ve read books and studied nonviolent communication, but this didn't work with my parents. I had attempted suicide five times in the past three months in order to get out of my house and have a safe place to stay for a short time--my body couldn't take it again. The only time I was allowed to leave the house was if I was dying. I didn't have a therapist or counselor, and I wasn't in school. I needed help and treatment. I couldn’t run away, they always found me. I was forced to go back to manipulation, which I knew worked.

When my mother was in the bathroom, I gathered paper, wood, and matches. I hid them under my bed. My mother slept with me in my room at the time, so I waited till dark to get moving. Around three in the morning, I crawled out of bed. I gathered the wood, matches, and paper. I took the items to the bathroom and placed them in the bathtub. I lit a match, stared at it, then quickly put it out. 

What was I doing? – using fire to get what I want? What had my life become? I thought. I had everything- an amazing group of friends, a place to live, and a job.  But I didn’t have that anymore. I had no safe place to live, no money, and my friends were all in Michigan. I was ridden with anxiety all day– an everlasting feeling that weighed down my chest and told me that something was not right.

I lit the match again, and all of that disappeared. For a moment, I wasn’t in danger. It didn’t matter that I had no money, it didn’t matter that home wasn’t safe. My anxiety was gone, I could breathe again. There was nothing in the world except me and the flame, and I was in control.  I lowered the match into the bathtub and placed it on a stack of papers. The flame grew and grew. Smoke rose and burned my eyes. The room turned gray, then eventually black. The fire was contained in the bathtub, but not for long. The fire alarm never went off, and I sat there staring. It was mesmerizing, how much damage one little match could do. At that moment, I lived in a world of zero consequences. I lived in a world where it didn’t matter if I lived or died. I was alive in that moment, and that’s all that mattered. 

However, my mother woke up. She banged on the door, then eventually picked the lock open. I just sat there, staring. She turned on the shower and put the fire out, opened all the windows in the house, and locked me in my room. I didn't take notice of her actions. It was just me and the flame, until it was suffocated by the water.

My plan never worked. My mom put the fire out herself and told no one. I ran away from home and went to a youth runaway shelter, but I was starving. My family called the shelter and found out I was there, and then I went back home. I found a youth treatment center to go to get away from their abuse, and I had just enough money to afford a ticket there. 

I went to Paradigm Treatment Center in the San Francisco Bay Area. It was calming in San Rafael. I would walk down to the marina at night and look at the boats often. I would sit on the dock and let my feet feel the cool Bay Area water. When I sat there things were quiet. My mind was empty and I got temporary relief from my racing thoughts. 

But through all of this, the same sinking feeling remained in my gut. For the longest time I thought: if the world will only see you as a try-hard with mental health issues, what’s the point in trying to be anything else? 

Eventually I dropped the stone-cold attitude. Things do get to me. They get to me so badly that I stay up at night obsessing over how bad my mistakes were, but I say to my peers, “I love making mistakes, it means there’s always more to learn!” I try to seem unstoppable. I don’t let myself mess up without making sure I feel the punishment. I beat myself down over the smallest things. I let it affect my work and my school. I even let it drive me to suicide in May, and later August, and September. I spent 3 days in the Intensive Care Unit in September and almost needed a liver transplant because I held myself to such high standards. 

This mindset led to me judging my character based on my criminal charges. To me, I was a criminally insane terrorist. But I was at rock bottom, and there’s only one way to go: up. I had to rebuild. But as I put in the work, I realized, my judgments are not true. Something bad happened, and I tried my best to prevent it. I learned not everything works out as planned – you cannot be in control all of the time. That was the reason I was never charged with terrorism. And still, throughout all of this, I strived to live by my values and do what I love. I broke, and as a result accepted that I’m inherently a good person. I was just a teenager. I’m unique and I’m worthy. My story is worth telling. 

[wehavetoexistsomewhere]

Young, Bright, and Criminally Insane

My name is Noah. I just turned 20 years old, and I have voices in my head. As I’m writing this on October 5th, 2024, I’m 18 days out of the psychiatric hospital. I have complex PTSD, Dissociative Identity Disorder, and auditory hallucinations as a result of my PTSD. I spent the months of June 2024 through December 2024 at various inpatient and residential mental health facilities after I was charged with a felony: False Report or Threat of Bomb/Harmful Device.

It’s June 6th, 2024. Three weeks ago, I had reported my mother to the state of Michigan for sexual assault. A week before, my moms child abuse case was dropped in Oregon. There was not enough evidence. Also a week ago, my restraining order against my mother was appealed while I was in the hospital. I am defeated. My best friends can’t even help. They tell me that I’m safe, and I don’t believe them.

A series of unfortunate circumstances, PTSD related psychosis, and mixed messages from law enforcement lead me to believe the delusion that family is going to kill me and b0mb my university. To me, no one seems to care that everyone is about to die. Paralyzed by fear, I post online: 

________________________________ There are multiple bombs planted inside the University of Michigan Police Department at 1239 Kipke Drive set to detonate in approximately 45 minutes. ________________________________

45 minutes later, seven University of Michigan police Officers pulled up to my scholarship sponsored university apartment. I’m a sophomore at the University of Michigan on a full-ride. Having just moved out of my dorm into graduate apartments a week ago, my apartment is nearly empty. Exceptions being a 24-pack of Ensure nutrition drinks, a sonic lego set on the coffee table, a 4-pack of chocolate pudding, my school supplies, and a squirrel blanket. I’m wearing nothing but a pair of tight black long johns. The police knock on my door and I open it. As it says in my police report:  ______________________________________________________________

Upon arrival myself and Community Mental Health spoke to Noah about why we were there, explaining the bomb threat post, in which Noah stated he was aware of the post and knew why we were at his apartment. Community Mental Health stated that due to the statements, they would be petitioning him to the hospital or Police would be arresting him due to threatening to bomb a government building. Noah stated that he did not want to go to the hospital because they would just let him go and not help him. stated that he would rather go to jail instead. Noah stated that he knew that threatening to bomb a government building was a criminal offense. Noah also stated that he would be more okay with going to jail than going to the hospital.

– Jeremiah Roberts, UMPD

______________________________________________________________

However, the choice wasn’t up to me. I was taken to Psychiatric Emergency Services for homicidal ideation. I was terrified, and I didn’t want to kill anyone. I knew they wouldn’t believe me so I didn’t say anything. I told them I knew my threats were illegal, which was true, and I did it anyway. I told them I do not hear voices. I feared, if I revealed this, they would think poorly of my judgement and not believe me about the abuse I had been through.

They medically cleared me and nearly ten University of Michigan Police Officers showed up to UM Psychiatric Emergency Services to arrest me. I was surprised, since I was told the police weren’t going to be taking me back to the station when I arrived. The police approached me, turned me around, and handcuffed me. I asked them if I could bring my coloring book to jail, I clearly was not thinking straight. I was then put in the back of a squad car and brought to the University of Michigan Police Department.  ______________________________________________________________

Upon arrival to the department, Noah began speaking to officers about the department he was at. Noah stated, “This is the department I threatened to bomb,” out of excited utterance while sitting in the rear of the patrol vehicle.

– Jeremiah Roberts, UMPD ______________________________________________________________

I arrived at the University of Michigan Police Department around eleven at night. I was taken to the intake room, where I was photographed for my mugshot, fingerprinted, and read my charging documents. I was originally charged with 750.943m: Terrorist Threat to Bomb. The next series of events, I don’t exactly remember. But eventually, I was taken to the Washtenaw County Jail. 

I had to remove all of my clothes and put on a green ‘suicide precaution vest,’ as I had attempted suicide a week before. At the time, police requested to receive updates on my care from my doctors — they were well aware of my mental health struggles. I was placed in a solitary confinement cell. There was no mat, no blanket, and no pillow. There was no phone either. There was a toilet in the cell, but there was no privacy. I slept on a dirty concrete ledge that barely fit my body. The vest barely covered me, and I was pretty much exposed from the bottom down whenever I tried to sleep. I’m a transgender male, so they had to keep me in solitary for my safety during my time in jail. 

I laid in my own drool and talked to myself, as I was still in the midst of a psychotic episode. I wasn’t given food I could eat, as I had celiac disease and they viewed that as a ‘dietary preference.’ I didn’t eat for three days, and I had a couple glasses of water per day: I was starving. I was taken off all of my medications, including psychiatric ones: Zoloft, Klonopin, Clonidine, Adderall, Diamox and Pregabalin. The pressure in my head was rapidly rising from being off Diamox, and I was incapacitated by headache pain the entire time. I threw up twice in my cell, but I didn’t mind, I was psychotic and thought it was hilarious. I said to myself:

______________________________________________________________

Wow, I started college at 15, I got to meet the White House cabinet, I’ve been in the New York Times, and I’ve been on live television. Now I’m 19. I’m sitting in a jail in Ann Arbor, Michigan and puking my guts out after being charged with terrorism. ______________________________________________________________

At the time, that was the funniest thing I’d ever heard.

______________________________________________________________

There are moments which mark your life.  Moments when you realize nothing will ever be the same and time is divided into two parts, before this, and after this.

– John Hobbes ______________________________________________________________

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