It is estimated that police encounters
with those suffering from untreated
mental health conditions account for
50% of all fatal interactions with law
enforcement. I didn't know this then,
but when I was diagnosed with
Bipolar Type 1 at age 14, I thought
I'd be dead at the age of 21. Those
with Bipolar live on average 20
years less than the national life
expectancy. Which means I'll be
dead at 55. These statistics were
running like fire through my head
when the cop put the handcuffs on
my feet, and the feet cuffs on my hands.
When he slammed my knees and head
repeatedly into the side of his cruiser,
yelling at me to get into the fucking car,
I imagined my life as a data point in a
field of numbers. When he failed to
buckle me into the back, and drove like
a maniac, I did everything I could to not
break my neck on the frame of the car.
Praying that I wouldn't be a quadrapaelgic
at the end of the ride, praying that I
would have a chance to tell my mother
I loved her before the last breath
escaped my lungs. When he dragged
me out of the car, pulling me forward
by my cuffs, screaming at me to walk,
threw me to the ground, and primed
his taser between my eyes, he said,
"Get the fuck up, or I'm going to tase
you in your fucking face." I saw God,
and he told me it wasn't my time.
I screamed help, louder than I
have ever screamed in my life,
and the nurse came out yelling,
"What the fuck is going on out here!"
You see, he was simply supposed
to transport me from point A to B,
because there were no ambulances.
I'm thankful I'm alive, because to me
that's the greatest recourse I can
have against someone who nearly
destroyed my life. I don't plan on
being a statistic, and I don't plan
on giving up. One day, when I'm
much older than 55, I hope to look
that man in the face, and tell him
"I forgive you, and I hope
you've lived a blessed life.” My
shelves left for revenge.