Psychiatric Trauma: The Golden Hour, 2000, by Shirlee Cohen
From MemoryArchive
Who: Shirlee Cohen What: Psychiatric Trauma When: 2000 Where: New York, New York
Handcuffed. Standing in the middle of my living room, surrounded by six of New York’s finest, I was bewildered. At five foot three, I could not imagine, that for five brawny men and a muscular female, I posed a threat. Maybe I made a puzzling gesture, or just hesitated for too long. I do not know. Amidst the escalating anxiety pervasive in the room, it was deemed appropriate that I be restrained. The golden bracelets encircled my wrists.
As the cold metal tightened, the piercing device carved its wounds upon my flesh. The deafening sound of the clicking clasps reinforced the terror, fear, and helplessness of the all-encompassing mental confusion. Fervently, I was informed I was to be taken to the closest Psychiatric Emergency Room. Led from my apartment, a stranger locking my door and carrying my pocketbook, my mind went blank. The impact of what was occurring was surreal, at best. Handcuffed, I was escorted from the complex to the awaiting ambulance. Paraded in front of the building staff, neighbors, and acquaintances, I was surrounded en masse by the uniformed troops.
Gently, the female officer placed my jacket over the restrictive brass rings. This small act of benevolence salvaged my belief, that indeed some human kindness still existed in the world. The quiet gesture kept me grounded. As I took a deep breath of the beautiful fall air, I felt like I inhaled the last breath of a free spirit. The uncertainty of the future was looming. Expertly, I was assisted into the safety of the enclosed 911 chariot.
Handcuffed, entering the emergency room of the hospital where I worked; shoulders pinned back, hands clasped in the position, wrists aching from the rings of immobility, I walked in front of gaping mouths and stunned looks. To this day, colleagues are still bemused by my appearance in their workplace as a consumer. During the evaluation process, conversations regarding my status occurred without my participation or opinion.
Threatened by involuntary admission, I agreed to transfer to another institution. Transportation by ambulance was required. Mummified by the numerous straps on the gurney, and rocking back and forth with the swaying of the moving vehicle, I felt trapped, and beaten. Every shred of self-determination was violated, every opportunity for choice removed. Even the smallest possibility of advocating for myself was nullified. For the time being, my fate was in someone else’s hand.
It is no surprise that the trauma of the preceding experience became the focus of many therapy sessions. And two and one-half years later, following a failed suicide attempt, when my doctor asked if I needed an ambulance to transport me to the hospital, I replied with an emphatic “NO.” I would not allow someone else to be in control of my destiny. Packing clothes, removing credit cards and valuables from my pocketbook, I headed for the door. Glancing at the food and water bowl, I was assured that the cats would be okay.
Entering the hallway, coat draped over my injured wrist, I greeted my neighbors with acknowledging words and gracious gestures. Proceeding onward towards the elevator I felt empowered. I had made a decision. I wanted help. Hailing a cab, chariot fit for a queen, I sped off to the emergency room to meet my concerned psychiatrist. The healing of new and old wounds was about to begin.
Reproduced with permission from New York City Voices, where you will also find more information about recovery.
