Back in middle school, my 7th grade English teacher had the grueling task of explaining and teaching about citations. I didn’t care too much for it, but that was likely because she often expressed how “common knowledge” never needed to be given a formal citation. She defined common knowledge as being readily found on at least five sources, and didn’t give much information further.

We used MLA format back then, and I have since come to appreciate its simplicity if not also its complete lack of applicability.

When I entered college, this idea of not needing to cite common knowledge was hurled out the window at a speed Matilda’s Mrs Trunchbull would have admired. My freshman English professor remarked that if it was something we had to research, then a citation was needed. We learned the difference between “works cited” and “reference page,” and I’m grateful for that, even if it was extraneous information back then.

Her class was really neat. We focused on Native American literature and history. So cool.

I wrote my final paper on how horror films demonize Native cultures and stories. I included references to how “monster” is defined across film and literature faculty in the university.

When I proposed my topic, my professor seemed to think it was a preposterous idea. She openly inquired before the class about the relevance of my topic and its ability to be written. I boldly declared that this was a commonly held view across my film classes, and that to many film scholars, this was an issue that seemed to never cease.

And still the concept of “monster” baffles me.

We tend to say that a monster is someone or something that scares us boldly and leave us worried for our lives. A monster represents that which the world has no more appropriate terminology to describe. “Monster” can be your mom when you’re six and can also be a violent partner when you’re an adult. “Monster” can be the teacher whose grade caused you to retake a class or the classmate who never contibuted to group work.

So I suppose this brings us to the crux.

Universally, it is known that police have knowledge of force and brutality. Their one goal is to make an arrest. They do not care about people and their humanity. It is known how police disregard mental health as fake. There are countless articles claiming that police deserve better mental health care, if they are receiving any at all.

Universally, a clinical mental health counselor receives in depth, specialized training, on how to handle crisis situations and moments of fear.

To pretend that police aren’t monsters to mental health care is preposterous.

See, I have seen countless articles about how well-meaning friends and family elect to call the police to help their friend who is suffering. The story always ends the same way: the police determined their personal safety was in danger, and harm the poor individual who was already experiencing a mental health crisis.

Tell me then why police can pretend they are trained for crises?

I have been in the clinical counseling room.

I had one client who spent the entirety of our first three sessions yelling ballistically at me. I had one client who never wanted to open up. I’ve had tons and tons of experiences where my client wasn’t “textbook,” and thank god for that.

You know what I didn’t do?

I didn’t brutalize the client who was in distress.

I didn’t yell at a client with dissociative symptoms that she needed an answer.

I didn’t make a mockery of their suffering.

I didn’t torment them into giving into my fear tactics.

So why the actual fuck are we allowing police to intervene in mental health crises where police training tells them it is ethical to do the above? Who the fuck would ever recommend any of these tactics be used when someone is in distress? Tell me, which ethical code in the therapeutic sector would allow for this? (Hint: none.)

I will divulge some facts about me, but also want to give one hell of a story.

See, on 7/9/2023, the police were called to my apartment where I live with my loving boyfriend and a derpy puppy cat (he likes them treats and is a big boy). I had underwent a severe dissosciative episode where I was screaming, crying, yelling, and throwing a tantrum that would shame the most fussy toddler alive. I was bashing things and trying my darndest to be alone; I was just that scared of my own mind.

But? I was loved.

My partner kept on saying that I wasn’t okay. He was stuck.

What do you do?

There isn’t an easy step-by-step manual for “How to help your traumatized partner whose PTSD flares up in irrational and loud manners” and I certainly do not want to make it.

Anyhow, push came to shove and the police determined that my PTSD dissosciation was domestic violence. I do not fucking know what part of PTSD or dissosciation means that there was domestic violence, but that’s me knowing far too much, I guess.

So here’s the truth: police are ill-equipped to handle anything.

Throughout their dumb questions to me and my partner, I began slipping into an increasingly worse and worse panic attack (trauma round two, honestly) and the police felt that it was still appropriate to discredit my diagnosis.

Love that for them.

Love the lawsuit they are getting.

So, while “monster” is not a universal idea, police used brutality and torture on me to get me to fit their stupid narrative of me. Monsters are everywhere, and many of them are the bozos wearing guns and vests who pretend to be good people when they really just are people who want power to then abuse to death.

XOXO,

Dorothy B