April 15, 2021 – I remember receiving my diagnosis clearly; it was May 2014. I was 33 years old. I was seated across from a man I’d never met before, after being involuntarily hospitalized. One way to get involuntarily hospitalized, I discovered, is by attempting to flee the ER, wearing only a hospital gown and men’s tube socks, possessing the sudden belief that humans can fly. My sister took me to the ER after I announced on Facebook that I had a very important meeting with then-President Barack Obama; we were going to discuss health care. I was uniquely qualified to talk about health care because, I was, hello, mentally ill. Who better to chat with him about the gaps in coverage? The man, my doctor, tried to explain that Obama wasn’t coming. “You have bipolar 1,” he said flatly. Instantly offended, I told him I was certainly not bipolar; my life just sucked. While hospitalized, I’d lost my job and internship, and I would soon be homeless. My previous diagnosis had been clinical depression and I didn’t want to accept something more severe. He brought up that I had taken off all my clothes the night before in the hospital’s common room.
“Performance art,” I shrugged. What I didn’t explain was that I believed, in that moment, that I had to be in my birthday suit in order to be reborn the female Jesus Christ.
Artwork by Issa Ibrahim https://www.etsy.com/shop/IssuesGallery
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