I have been to the psychiatric emergency room more times than I can recall, and none has ever been OK. The last time had to do with a fight with my mom, where I was overwhelmed, stressed, and at an emotional raw state.
The police came to our house and talked with me for a few minutes, then decided to take me to the ER in an ambulance. They said all would be easy: I would only have to speak with a social worker, and they would find out what kind of help I needed. I didn’t realize how wrong they were.
I cried the whole way. I was terrified because I have seen what happens when autistic people or anyone in crisis interact with the police. But the ambulance crew was gentle, kind even, and I was grateful for that small bit of humanity on a night that already felt unbearable.
When we got to the hospital, that kindness ended. I was left in a room with a nurse a blonde woman with curly hair and a serious face. “Strip,” she said flatly. “You have to wear these paper scrubs.” I did what she asked until she told me to take off my underwear too. That’s when I froze. “Why?” I asked her. “Why are you watching me?” I begged her to look away, told her I was uncomfortable, but she didn’t.
“We don’t want you to hurt us or yourself,” she said, as if that justified it. And I remember thinking about how people get abused, how moments like that destroy any sense of safety. In that instant, my trust was shattered.
They put me in the paper scrubs, took my phone, and bagged up all my things. All I wanted to do was reach in and get one number off my phone, and they wouldn’t let me-makes me feel dangerous, like something to be controlled. Finally, another nurse allowed me to jot it down, and then I was left in that cold room, waiting.
The next couple of hours were just tests: bloodwork, urine samples, vitals. You know, routine stuff. I’d been through it enough to know the drill. But being labeled “psych” means something different in an ER. It means no comfort. No reassurance. Just caution and distance.
They group everybody together-the drunk, the violent, the depressed, and assume that you’re the same. And I wasn’t doing any of those things. Well, I was sad, I was exhausted, I said lots of things I shouldn’t have said because I was furious, but I wasn’t a danger for myself. I wasn’t there because I wanted to die. I was there because of some stupid quarrel. But nobody ever cared enough to ask.
Finally, after being medically cleared, they handed me a tablet to speak with a social worker. I told her what happened. My mom told her side too. Then I waited again while she spoke with the doctor. When she came back, she said I was being admitted. No discussion, no explanation-just “doctor’s orders.” That is how it works when you’re sixteen: You don’t get a say.
The truth was, I wasn’t a danger to anyone. But my record said otherwise-four previous hospitalizations over ten medications in my chart, too many ER visits to count. To them, I wasn’t a person, I was a risk.
Hours later, it finally sank in. I wasn’t going home. I was being sent back to a place where I’d be treated like a criminal for being sick. That’s what the system does, it punishes you for needing help. They call you selfish for wanting to die. They tell you to be grateful, to stop being difficult, to think about how your pain affects others. They don’t listen when you say the medication is making you worse. They give up when you don’t fit neatly into their boxes: autistic, borderline, ADHD, suicidal.
I have been in hospitals where the staff did not care: where I have not seen a doctor for five days. I have been yelled at for using the word “partner” because my significant other was nonbinary. Every time I go to the ER, they assume that I am on drugs or drunk. They assign someone to watch me pee, even when I’m not suicidal.
The system has failed me. It fails so many of us. I didn’t choose to be sick. None of us did. We’re not asking that much. We just want to be seen not as a problem we need to fix, but rather as people who deserve to be understood. And that’s all anybody really needs.
