Today is May 19th. It marks 45 years since an incredibly thin 14 year old girl was taken to Child Study and Treatment Center which is a part of Western State Hospital by her junior high school counselor. I was 5'10" tall and weighed 112 pounds. To say I was disturbed would be an understatement but the amazing transformation I have undertaken in those 45 years is nothing short of astonishing.
I was extremely at risk, suicidal with a penchant for razor blades. I also had a man in my head, Sasifraz, who was instructing me on the art of self harm. No one knew specifically about Sasifraz. But, I imagine my mental health providers suspected.
At 12, Sasifraz had started off as a buddy. Someone to talk to me when I felt so terribly alone. The first time he spoke to me was when I bemoaned to myself that I had no friends. Sasifraz answered me with, "I'm your friend."
My response was, "Who the hell are you?"
He said, "Your friend."
"No friend talks to me in my head." I stated flatly.
He said, "I do," and so started our many decade relationship.
Initially, Sasifraz was kind to me. I longed for someone who knew my secrets. Someone I could confide in. He went with me everywhere. I walked to and from school talking to Sasifraz. He was with me in classes. He was with me in the evenings and in the dead of night. I thought he was my friend. I thought he was knowledgeable and wise. I thought he was an adult, and I confided everything to him. Being in my head, it's not like I could keep anything from him. I relied on him.
I also had external relationships in my mom, brother, and my grandparents. I had my junior high counselor, Mrs. Keenan. I hung out with favorite teachers and the school librarian. I saw my psychologist, Dr. Audrey Williams, at the local community mental health clinic. But, omnipresent was Sasifraz. I spoke of him to no one. We had an invisible partnership.
At 13, I began talking to Sasifraz about wanting to kill myself. Ever helpful, Sasifraz discussed the options with me. I didn't have access to drugs, guns, or high bridges. Resources wise, we settled on razor blades and cutting my wrists. I had access to razor blades. Then, we had to discuss timing.
Sasifraz was a practical fellow. Since we didn't know if I had the capacity to cut my wrists, he suggested I do a practice run. God bless him.
In those days, my mom and I shaved our legs using a double edged razor. I spirited a blade away, and Sasifraz and I waited for an opportunity. One evening my mom was out. Sasifraz said, "Tonight's the night." At around nine in the evening, he and I got the razor blade to make a trial cut. We decided it would be best to cut on the inside of my left elbow so I could hide the cut. I held the blade pressed against my skin waiting. Sasifraz yelled, "Now!"
The blade pressed and drew along my skin as if out of my control. Suddenly, there was a white gap in my skin. Then, blood rushed to fill the open space. I was surprised at the seriousness of the cut. I thought, "Oh god, I've gone too far." It was about an inch long and a quarter inch wide at the widest place. I had to make a mad dash for a lot of toilet paper to handle the blood. After the bleeding stopped, I was able to go to bed before my mom came home.
I went to school the next day and pondered telling Ms. Keenan about the cut. Sasifraz wasn't giving me an opinion, and it didn't work out to tell her that day. I had worn a long sleeve shirt so no one knew. However, I got scared about it healing on the following day, and I told Mrs. Keenan. She took me to the clinic and had the nurse look at it. Mrs. Keenan said it would have needed stitches had she seen it the day before. But, it looked like it was healing okay, and the nurse didn't recommend stitches at this point. I was off the hook this time. I breathed a sign of relief.
The amazing thing I discovered though was that I felt better. Cutting myself seemed to make me feel lighter and not so depressed. Things were looking up for a whole week before the Depression settled back in, and Sasifraz took a different tone with me.
"You're going to have to do it again."
"Why?" I asked.
"It's the only way to make things better."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. You're going to have to do it again."
In two weeks, we had a repeat performance. Sasifraz kept telling me I had to do it. I felt worse and worse. We picked a night when my mother was gone again. I held the blade at the inside of my elbow pressing down. Sasifraz yelled, "Now!" The blade moved seemingly on its own. There was a separation of white and then the cut filled with blood. This time I was prepared with toilet paper. It was the same dimensions.
I went to school, and this time I told Mrs. Keenan on the first day. She said it needed stitches and had to call my mom. My mom came and got me, took me to my pediatrician, and he stitched up my arm. No real plan was made to deal with me. My mother thought I had low blood sugar. My doctor ordered and I took a six hour test for low blood sugar which was how it was done back then. My blood sugar was fine. My mother was disappointed and didn't believe I didn't have low blood sugar. I knew it was because she didn't want to think about what was really going on with me.
Sasifraz and I went back to business as usual except every two weeks I cut myself. I just didn't cut it bad enough to need stitches and wore long sleeve shirts. No one knew except for a friend who noticed in gym class. She asked me about it, but I didn't know what to say.
Gradually, inexorably, I spun downward which was how I found myself at Western State Hospital. Mrs. Keenan drove me there some 20 miles. I don't think either of my parents wanted to take me. It was a long ride. I really didn't know what to expect. I only knew I could no longer live with either of my parents. However, I was expecting a couple days stay in a regular hospital. I'm not sure how I missed exactly where we were going. For a long time, I felt tricked. But, I trusted Mrs. Keenan.
When we arrived, we went to the administration building. Mrs. Keenan was interviewed. While I waited in the lobby, a girl came in quite excited because she was being discharged. With a deep foreboding, I asked her how long she had been there. "Nine months," she said. A chill ran down my back. Nine months was forever.
Then I got called into the meeting with Mrs. Keenan, a psychiatrist, a psychologist, and a mental health counselor. It was the do or die moment in my mind. I asked Sasifraz what to say. He said, "I think you should tell them the truth." I didn't know if that was the right thing or not. But, I followed his advise and explained that I couldn't keep from cutting myself.
The psychiatrist said, "I think we need to keep you here."
I felt frozen. Did this mean I was crazy? Could I really be crazy? In a very tight voice I said, "For how long?"
She gave me the answer that was positively annoying. It would not be the last time I heard this answer. "That depends on you."
It was late on a Friday. A counselor named Claudette took me to the girls' wing of Child Study and Treatment Center. They hadn't had time to prepare a room. I was put in a room with a bed and chain link fencing over the window. I made the bed with Claudette. I was tense and didn't have anything to say. She left me there alone. I looked out the window down towards the road where hours before Mrs. Keenan had driven me in.
I thought, "If Mrs. Keenan brought me here. Then, this is where I'll stay. I have nowhere else to go."
I was there for five months. I never really told anyone about Sasifraz. One time, I told a story that Sasifraz had told me. I tried to tell a counselor that a man in my head had told me the story. Her response was, "If it's in your head, it's just you." Well, I suppose that was true, but it didn't help.
That was 45 years ago. Sasifraz has been gone for 14 years or more now. I'll be 60 at the end of this year. Although it's been a long time since I cut myself and even longer since I heard Sasifraz's voice, I know I must always guard myself against the hazards of severe Depression.
I don't care if people know my story now. My arm is scarred. I make no effort to hide it. I am not ashamed of my scars. They are merely a record of what I've been through. I understand the mechanism of arm cutting now and why it brought relief. Cutting releases adrenaline and other chemicals in the brain which creates a type of anesthesia. Recently, I talked with my psychiatrist about this. He said, "That's the trouble with cutting. It works."
It's been a long time since Western State Hospital. Every May 19th, I ponder where I have been and where I'm at. A lot of people have helped me along my path both because of and despite my history. Sasifraz is gone. I don't miss him. I have a good life. I work daily to keep it so. I've been on the receiving end of many good things. Let the magic of life continue. I'm not alone.
L'Chaim.
Joceile
5.19.17
[Pictured above: Jeri, a staff volunteer; Joceile; Kathy, a patient]
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