I was hospitalized against my will. I know firsthand the harm it can cause |

As Mayor Eric Adams recently announced a dramatic expansion of New York City’s involuntary hospitalization policy, I listened in disbelief as he promised to provide the city’s most vulnerable with “compassion and care”. I found myself overcome with both rage and grief, reliving, as I often do, a warm spring day eight years ago.

I was flat on my back in an ambulance, strapped down, driving through towns unknown. They – whoever they were – were taking me across the state, hundreds of miles away from anyone who knew or cared about me, to the nearest inpatient facility with an open bed. I had not spoken to my family or my therapist. I was 19 years old.

Drawstrings were removed from my sweatpants, as were the laces from my shoes. I was hurriedly shuffled into the grayest room imaginable. A heavy door closed behind me, and would stay locked until they deemed me fit to leave. At the time, I had no idea when that day would come.

My inner monologue formed a loop in my head: don’t show too much emotion, or the nurses will assume you’re unstable. Don’t show too little emotion either, or the drugs must be too strong, they will have to readjust them. Smile, be polite, but not withdrawn. Hold out your arm when it’s time for the daily blood draw, even if you’re terrified of needles. Eat food that’s bland even by Massachusetts standards, and be grateful if there’s a fruit cup with dinner. Speak with the other patients enough to appear agreeable and cooperative, but not so much that you open yourself up to unwelcome comments or looks. Sit on a bed in a room that has been stripped of all warmth and feeling, a room that is designed to remind you that the people here think you are a threat to yourself.

You’ve been seeking care for almost six years already, but the doctor met with you for 15 minutes and you’re here now, so what they say about you must be true. Perform normalcy on the worst day of your life. Rinse, repeat, for as many days as you can until you are finally, hopefully, set free.

Unless you have experienced it, I don’t think you can fully comprehend what it means to lose autonomy over your own body, or to have to “earn the privilege” of 30 minutes of fresh air and sunshine.

All of this occurred under better-than-average circumstances. For one, I am a young, white, cisgender woman. I was not homeless – at the time, I was a student at a liberal arts college. I had private health insurance, which meant I could afford to be held at a private facility.

Most importantly, I had someone who was willing to fight for me. The minute she found out what happened, my mom dropped everything and immediately flew to the place where I was being held. She visited me every day, grounding me in a space that is unmooring by design. Most importantly, she let the facility know that there was someone on the outside who gave a shit, someone who would not let me wither away behind locked doors.

These were the “best of circumstances” – and yet it remains one of the most traumatic events of my life.

Eight years after that warm spring day, I can say with confidence that I am in a much better place than I was then. I graduated from college,…