To honor Women’s History Month in a meaningful way, some people read The Feminine Mystique or The Bloody Chamber. I accidentally got placed on a 72-hour psychiatric hold.
It all started when I confidently explained to a nurse that I was simply embodying the full emotional range historically pathologized in women. I may have also mentioned that sleep is a colonial construct. No one laughed when I said I was a danger to myself and others – on the dance floor! Next thing I knew, I was celebrating the achievements of women from inside a facility that smelled faintly of lemon disinfectant and suppressed desires.
Am I a feminist icon? Susan B. Anthony went to jail; I went to group therapy. Frida Kahlo painted emotionally intense self-portraits; I scrawled my name all over this Elsa coloring page. And when there wasn’t a seat for me at the breakfast table, I asked “What Would Shirley Chisholm Do?” and dragged over a war-torn folding chair that was as uneven as my CV.
Throughout history, women’s perfectly reasonable reactions to stress have been labeled hysteria and instability. I consider my hospitalization a tribute to the generations before me, who were institutionalized for snapping in the grip of societal expectations like a Temu fidget spinner.
As the atypical antipsychotic started to kick in, my eyelids grew heavy. Is this how Marie Curie felt when she died of radium poisoning and white-hot resentment?
In the end, I was discharged with a renewed appreciation for women’s resilience and a bill for more money than I have (well-behaved women seldom make their deductibles.) Women have historically endured witch trials, lobotomies, and “anxiety” that was actually lung cancer. I survived decaf coffee, mindfulness exercises, and four different social workers named Emily.
Happy Women’s History Month! May your breakdowns be brief and your empowerment be voluntary.