TW: Suicide. Go to the next tweet if you wanna hear me roar about mental health care, health insurance, poverty and American fuckitude.
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So my dad committed suicide in 2003. His was a rural Idaho too broke to float, too sick to survive. Could he have done any of the paperwork necessary to get himself taken care of? I don’t think so. I have his papers. He wasn’t making a lot of sense by then.
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He was also proud and resourceful. Which is part of what Americans are encourage to be. So...what happens when you run up against a system that is bent on making you throw yourself on the mercy of the state? And pride in your survival is all you have left? You don’t make it.
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This guy was a guy who could build a log cabin, fell those trees himself. He built the top floor of our house. He built boats & sleds & dog-carrying vehicles. He read the universe. He was a smart guy. But he was really ill, & the system wasn’t one he could ever have navigated.
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Add to this the fear of being hospitalized for the rest of ever, locked ward, which 1950’s situation some of these self-commitment regulations are supposed to prevent. You’re supposed to want to go to the hospital, not be taken there against your will by people.
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But it’s left a void where people who are in mental health crises and want to go to the hospital but can’t navigate the bullshit labyrinth to get in, end up dying of paper cuts, trying to prove they are sick enough to stay and well enough to sign in.
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I have a lot of sympathy for a situation wherein it looks much easier to die than to be on hold for six days, have your insurance refuse to pay, and end up getting kicked out of the hospital after one day because they don’t think you’re in enough danger.
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I assume that because my father killed himself and I talk about it on social media occasionally, algorithms conspire to make much of my timeline people in desperate situations, just trying to get help. I am, thus, constantly furious about the medical systems failures.
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And about how there is only the vaguest of protocol for figuring out how to help someone who is desperate. No one will help you if you’re not the sick person, even if you’re trying to keep the sick person from dying. People are like, what? Not our office. Call the police.
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There should be a basic easy system. Go to this building. Knock. Help will open the door. That’s all you have to do. No miles of paperwork. No proving you’re sick enough to get help. Door opens. They let you in. They put you in something cozy and help you stay living.
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A system like that could save a lot of people. Many of the people I know who’ve died this way died because they couldn’t figure out how to get help. My dad didn’t try for help. He assumed there was none. I imagine an alternate version where there’s a sign that says GO HERE.
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Hotlines, while helpful, are not enough.Imagine how magnificent it would be if in your city there was a building, and inside the building there were people to help you, and you knew that building was there, and if things got too dark, you could go there & go inside.
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I know this sounds like a fantasy. Hell, I write fantasy. But we’re a rich fucking country & we are murdering people who are mentally ill, harassing them, giving them no care. The dead are on all sides of political lines. It’s horrific to watch people try to navigate this shit.
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I think about the care I’ve been offered for various maladies/conditions. When I had a lump in my breast a few years back, I went into a clinic that wrapped me in soft pink robes and gave me cookies. Because it was my breast that was in danger. (I was fine. Benign.) Conversely...
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Another time, I had a hypoglycemic seizure & paramedics, not listening to what was actually wrong, shot me up with calming Valium. Turns out that makes me psychotic. Danger to others. No problem being taken to a freezing cold locked ward then. But I literally had to bite someone.
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I got stuck in that ward for a while; they pumped me full of Valium, not realizing Valium was the problem. According to all observers, the place was abusive, freezing cold, & I was treated like a prisoner. No kindness if you lose your mind. But lump in your breast? Cookies.
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For the record, my brain is more important to me than my boobs. But also: why can’t it all be kindness and warm robes and cookies. Having a mental health crisis is terrifying. It should be a kind and gentle system, not a prison panic system.
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The care I’ve had for Type 1 Diabetes, is similarly ghastly. I get shamed for having the disease & insurance helplines groan when they hear I have it. Navigating this for 28 years has repeatedly nearly killed me - not the disease, but the Chutes & Ladders of trying to get care.
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The only reason I’m alive navigating the healthcare system is that most of the time my brain is on my side and wants me alive. This is not true for so many people. The system that forces you to make 10 calls to get a consult, fuck that system.
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That was a long rage thread. I miss my dad. I wish there had been a billboard on the road in Idaho saying, “go to this place, no paperwork, no phone calls, we will help you. You don’t have to die. Just get to this door and come in.”
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Okay, rage thread over. You can return if you’ve been hiding your face. I’m usually more in the Let Me Help You Survive content game. Here’s one for that. Stay. Don’t die. The world wants you, even if the systems are fucked. I want you here.
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