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April 1st, 2016
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Waking up to find a cop in your room is bad, especially in the middle of the night. Groggy, incoherent, and naked, the crashing of a pig through my door jolted me out of bed and immediately set me on the defensive.
He had reason to be there, even if it was a poor one. The evening prior, I made the mistake of telling my then-girlfriend that I wanted to die and then going to bed instead of assuring her of my wellbeing… which is more than enough for the Baker Act.
The Baker Act, for those blessed to have never been arrested in Florida, sounds good on paper. But given the system it exists in, is probably the worst way to do what it set out to do. The Baker Act states that if a doctor or loved one thinks that someone is a danger to themselves or others, an officer will be dispatched to the scene to determine if someone fits that criteria.
Enter the first problem. In truth, I didn't want to die. My heart was broken from what happened the day prior, and I used poor word choices to convey that feeling. Then, I made the horrible mistake of giving in to my urge to sleep the sadness away. Maybe I got what I deserved. Maybe I said that to be manipulative. But I didn't want to die.
Enter the second problem. Cops spend 770 hours learning how to perform their duties. And in that training, more time is spent learning about de-escalation than how to identify suicidal folks. I doubt even 1 out of those 770 hours, are spent talking about mental health, given that the American police do not have a reputation for de-escalation, and how the police station acts like a conglomerate of legal gangs.
Even better, cops have quotas. They aren't anyone's friends, and talking to a police officer is universally a very bad idea without a lawyer present. If you are as naive as I was, they will twist you and wear you down until they can bring you in.
"I find how we were called out here for no reason hard to believe."
"Have you had suicidal tendencies in the past?"
"You may have been asleep when we got here, but you could down all those pills on the nightstand as soon as we leave."
If nothing else, they'll take you in to cover their own ass. They told me to get dressed and to see them outside. given my state of mind, I only thought to bring my phone, but I'd soon learn that I should have brought a bit of money with me instead.
Another Florida law: If you're riding in a police car for arrest, then you must have your hands cuffed behind your back. This did not exclude me, metal digging into my wrists across town to the city's processing area… where I realized the biggest problem in the Baker Act.
When you're Baker Acted, even if you're the intended target for the legislation, the police do not treat you any different. People who are a danger to others are lumped together with those who are a danger to themselves every step of the way.
I waited to be processed, giving me a lot of time to resent the cop who brought me in. I realized that I shouldn't have said anything when I gave them my fingerprints. And when the inspector put on his gloves to give me a cavity search, I learned my place.
Their condescension made it worse. "You can leave at any time," they told me, as they pointed to the door I came in from. In hindsight, it was probably a joke, with a punchline of a locked door, but I couldn't just leave, even if it had been open. They had my phone, which -I thought- would be my ticket home.
Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if I brought nothing. What would have happened if I did try?… I imagine I'd be tackled or tazed. Or worse, shot. Wouldn't that have been great? Cops kidnap me, allegedly because I'm suicidal, but end up killing me instead.
It'd be hilarious if I didn't know that that's happened before.
Instead, I moved from one waiting room to another. This one, however, blessed the room with two additions. First was a TV stuck permanently to the prosperity gospel. Second was the gentle sounds of my fellow inmate strapped to a gurney down the hall, screaming at the top of his lungs.
Bets went on as to whether he got arrested for meth or bath salts. Either way, their sedatives didn't work. I would've been concerned for his wellbeing if I had any humanity left in me at this point. Writing this at the ass-end of 2021, I realize how callous I was. But by then, I have reached the 6-hour mark. I wanted silence.
I noticed that some of the solitary rooms have foam mats and blankets. More importantly, they looked reasonably sound-proof. So, for my sanity, I requested to be put in one of the rooms. They didn't care one way or the other.
Seeing the shitty mat on the floor made me realize that I haven't had a full nights sleep in at least 30 hours. I wasn't picky at this point, I just needed to pass out… which made it all the more tragic when someone came to get me. She woke me up and told me to follow her. I thought she'd evaluate me on whether or not I'm suicidal, so I led with that, hoping that I could move it along.
But, she cared more about my "choice of drug."
I thought that the cops searched my apartment, and found the weed, but I'd never say that. "Alcohol," I lied.
She looked at me like she saw the scum of the earth in me. Internally, I thought that my life ended here. Panic set in when she told me that they charged me for aggravated assault under the influence. Followed by relief when she called me by a name that wasn't my own. "Miguel," I think?
Whoever this Miguel is, they took temporary residence here for reasons you'd legitimately be put into solitary for. And this nurse mistook me for him because I was one of the only people in solitary.
No apology for the mix-up. Just a fucking sneer. "Why didn't you correct me sooner?"
In truth, I was half asleep, and wanting nothing more than to disassociate till I got to see the doctor. Staying here felt like sleep deprivation torture. Every time I managed to get any kind of sleep, something would happen to keep me awake. She mercifully let me go, and at the end of my blissful, yet brief time asleep marked the next day.
It also marked the end of my time here, moving to a whole new facility via bus. Whereas they currently held me in some liminal nightmare, arriving at the new building allowed me the privilege of meeting the doctor.
This took so long partly because they arrested me on April 1st, 2016. A Friday night, so it'd be Saturday, Sunday, then finally Monday before I could ever hope to leave.
I wish I could say that I slept till then. They permitted me to, but it's hard to sleep in a shared space with total strangers. The TV room, the bedrooms, bathrooms; no space guaranteed privacy. I wish that I didn't witness the birth of the 2016 Trump Cult in the institution's TV room, with a third of the patients cheering and chanting his name over some landslide poll on Fox News.
I wanted to be alone, cease conscious thought, and more than anything, sleep. I took the nearest empty bed and tried to embrace the 3-inch thick padding that passed as a pillow, even as my roommate started pacing the floor, coming and going, mumbling about a mansion that's waiting for him in Heaven.
I eventually slept through his ramblings and earned a solid one hour of sleep before a fight broke out. They moved the screaming man from the last building here, and he had a problem with my new roommate in the hall. The kind of problem that causes fists to fly. It may have started in the hall, but my roomie must've tried to escape by coming into our room. When that failed, the future mansion-haver threw the Screamer on top of me.
Writing this today feels… surreal. Like I'm watching myself get attacked in some cheesy horror film, where all the swipes and slashes happen just off-screen. That, or the camera's given such an intense zoom in, you can only see my expression and what I felt, while hearing the poor quality, clippy audio of screams.
It came and went, at least in my head. Eventually one of the orderlies broke it up but past that point, I felt… dead. Looking back, I think about what would have happened if I actually was suicidal, because by the time I could talk to the doctor, I genuinely considered it.
The doctor asked me two questions.
"Are you considering harming yourself or others?"
"No," I said, unsure if I lied or not just to leave.
"Do you have anything you want to tell me?"
"No," I said, all will to complain sapped from me.
"Okay, you can go any time you want."
It felt like I reached the punchline of a bad joke. All that wasted time, abuse, and money in the form of a 700 dollar hospitalization bill, just for a fucking rubberstamp. I'm angry looking back at it, but at the time, I would have killed to just lie down in my own bed.
Couldn't even get that, though. They still had my phone held at the first building, which meant that I still had to stay. I asked them to wake me up when they finally did have my phone (they did not do that), and then tried sleeping with about as much success as the last attempts.
I actively tried disassociating while there, and in between 2016 and now as I write this, I've been trying to forget. Even as I write this, I'm looking at a timeline of events, and feel shaky about the hours in between. What I'm sure of though, is that it didn't end when I left.
I wanted to call a Uber, but when I finally did get my phone back, it died. No wallet, no phone, and nothing but a home address. I had to start asking people on the street for a few dollars, just enough so I could buy a bus ticket.
My story could have been a lot worse. Like… a lot worse. I could have missed the busses before being able to find the money. I could have spent the night outside behind a convenience store. I could have been actually physically hurt.
But, a cardboard sign and about three hours of begging later, saw the first bit of kindness I've seen in a whole weekend of being in the psych ward. And it came in the form of a stranger giving me 3 bucks in change.
I want to leave this off on a happy note, but… I don't think I can. Am I happy now? Yes, I'd definitely say so. I have people who love me, I have a job, and I'm at least somewhat well adjusted. But everything before now and after this… I struggled. A lot of my recovery can be attributed to my friends and family, who had the patience of saints for putting up with me, despite how combative I became.
I became kinda… a cunt. A grade "A" cunt. I like to think I'm better now, and I'm past that sort of behavior. But I know that's not always true. My friend group, religion, and weed help, but this sort of thing doesn't go away. Not completely. I guess if there's any point in sharing this, it'd be to spread awareness.
The way the system handles those who are a harm to themselves is entirely unacceptable. I got thrown into a meat grinder when I wasn't even convicted of a crime. Then, I had to pay an outrageous hospital fee for the trouble.
All I know, is that if I was genuinely suicidal back then or didn't have my friends and family to support me? After the way the system treated me, I wouldn't be here today.
