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The sidewalk is damp. The snow has melted after an abnormally warm week in February, but there are still patches of ice, mainly hidden under puddles. I walk along Fullerton past the Lily Pool, which is closed for winter. Today, I have an appearance on Eric Zimmerman’s wonderful podcast “The One You Feed” to publicize my memoir Pathological. I’ve recorded my main points on my phone and am listening to myself say them, memorizing them, so I’m clear.
Telling people the truth about psychiatric diagnoses—which Pathological does—hasn’t been easy. The goal is to prevent others and their children and teenagers from over-identifying with them the way I did. The mainstream media treats psychiatric diagnoses as gospel. It doesn’t question their validity or reliability. It perpetuates the myths that they’re purely biological, caused by a “chemical imbalance,” and lifelong.
It makes sense. We’re in a global mental health crisis. No one wants to question the only system we have in place.
The problem with this line of thinking is 1) it perpetuates untruths, which denies people agency over their treatment, and 2) it prevents people from recovering. People need to understand that diagnoses are just constructs, designations for clinicians to use to get us the right treatment. They’re the best we have, but getting treatment geared toward healing is the point, not the diagnosis.
My hope is that knowing the truth about psychiatric diagnoses will give them the space to heal the way it did for me. Publicity is the way to make that happen.
My phone rings. I look at the screen. It’s my mom. This is the time when we usually talk, but today I told her I wanted to prepare for the podcast. Something is wrong.
“Sarah, I was walking the dog, and I fell.” She moans. “My wrist. My wrist.”
She’s watching Augie, my sister’s puppy, for two weeks while my sister and brother-in-law are away. The past week of puppy sitting hasn’t gone well; it’s been icy and cold, and walking the dog is unsettling. I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s said she’s scared she’ll fall.
She moans again. “I know I broke it.”
Pressure fills my chest. My pace quickens. “It’s okay,” I say, my voice strong, sturdy. “Where are you?” I start to run.
“I’m at home. Oh, no.” She moans again.
“I’ll be right there.” I run to the docking station of the city’s public bikes and am soon peddling on one of them as fast as I can.
When I arrive at her apartment, my mother opens the door. She looks so much younger than someone in her late seventies—sixty at best. Her brown curly hair falls softly around her face, but her brow is furrowed. She winces as she moves.
Augie bounds toward me. “It’s okay.” I say this to both my mother and the dog “Sit.” They both look at me, unsure which of them I’m speaking to. Augie jumps on my mother and then on me. “Mom, sit on the couch.”
After grabbing two treats from the bag, I take Augie by the collar, cooing to her that it’s okay. I toss the treats into the bathroom. Augie goes in after them, and I close the bathroom door.
My mother moans. I sit next to her and rub her back the way she did for me during the five years I lived there when I was chronically suicidal and unable to live independently. I do something I never could have done then: I take control, tell her it’s okay, and that I’m going to help her.
“I have to get rid of the dog. I can’t have the dog.”
My building doesn’t allow dogs, so I can’t take her. My mother holds up her wrist. The bone hasn’t broken the skin, but it’s jutting out.
I tell her she needs to go to the emergency room and that I’ll call an Uber.
“Will you come with me?” she asks.
My heart fills with love and pride. I’m the strong one she wants by her side. I point to Augie.
She moans. “And you have your podcast. You can’t miss that.”
“Yes, I can.”
“No.” My mother’s tone is firm.
I call the Uber and then my sister, who’s in Mexico. My sister will call a boarder to see if they can take Augie. I bring my mother her boots.
“No,” she says, motherly, “not with laces.”
“Oh,” I say, having missed the obvious. I get her other boots and help her slip into them. I tell her I’ll take care of Augie, do my podcast, and meet her at the hospital.
She nods.
I let Augie out of the bathroom and fasten the leash to her collar. Augie looks at us, puzzled: What’s happening?
Downstairs, I put my mother in the Uber, telling the driver that she broke her wrist, so he’ll give her a little extra attention and my mom won’t feel alone, and tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can.
Eventually, Augie and I arrive at the boarder. Augie is her usual sweet self, maybe even excited, on her way inside. I tell her she’ll get to play with other dogs and my sister will pick her up later. I don’t say, In a week.
We enter. A collie and a pug are being led around cones in the training area. I fill out the necessary paperwork and give the boarder Augie’s food. We talk about when my sister will pick Augie up. When I look down, Augie is shaking. She’s peed on the floor, terrified.
“Oh, sweet girl.” I bend down, holding her. I don’t want to leave her.
The boarder holds out her hand for Augie’s leash.
“I love you, Augs.” I nuzzle her and kiss the top of her head.
The expression on the boarder’s face says, I’ve been through this a hundred times.
I hand over the leash and leave.
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