Emptiness: I remember I ran away from home at 15 and realized that I had nowhere to go. Ugh! I now fill these cold, empty spots with advocacy and activism.
I lived about 40 years with severe bipolar symptoms. On and off, I spent about 15 years in psychiatric hospitals. Institutions were/are warehouses for crushed hopes and powerlessness.
Forty years later, I adopted advocacy as my therapy. I find that protests relieve more stress than an attempt to die by suicide. When I march and yell for an hour about some injustice done to me or my comrades, I feel relieved, peaceful, and proud.
In 2000, the Mental Health Movement requested participation in its Body Bag direct action at Chicago’s City Hall. The protest required us to make a post-it note and attach it to the outside of a black plastic trash bag — a metaphorical body bag, with our names and dates of harm that we suffer(ed) at the hands of an uncaring, political public health system that closed mental health clinics.
Question: what hurts had I buried in my soul? This body-bag action was an opportunity to grieve my losses, although they were difficult to digest. I relived pains that I experienced, suppressed in the past, and found that they continued to hurt – timeless feelings.
I threw in empty pill bottles to represent the several times I tried to die by suicide from overdoses. At the time, I thought I could finally end my angst.
I added in the broken crocheted noose that I crafted in a hospital where I tried to hang myself in the shower stall. At the time, that action made personal sense. When the noose broke, the pole crashed to the floor. I felt embarrassed, ashamed, and isolated. Yes, the noose went in the bag.
My body bag also contained a rusty Exacto knife that I used to cut my arms— mini-suicides. I no longer feel an overwhelming need to end my psychic pain with temporary physical harm. I found a permanent way of coping.
I included my mother’s prayer card. It represented me shunning my perceived neglect and her unwillingness to accept me. Once, I felt ashamed that I existed, and that I caused my mother too much pain. The prayer card was appropriate for the body bag.
I did not know what dates to ascribe to any of these experiences. They feel/felt like forever. I still feel bruised and alone. At least now I have a networked community.
Strange requests, even stranger answers: I hoped that when the mayor heard our stories, the City of Chicago would realize the need for mental health care and reopen the mental health clinics. Were they read? Probably not. I assume that the Streets and Sanitation Department collected the bags and buried them in a land fill. I’m okay with that, though. It’s a good place for unwanted things.
Kathy Powers is a lifetime Chicagoan. At 50, Kathy realized her voice was the
voice of the people. She became a revolutionary activist whose lifelong fight raises
unheard voices. She is the Health Care Desk on the People’s Tribune Editorial
Board.
