Like most people you come across, there are two Sides to Ms. “Anonymous”.
Hers are a bit more polarized.
One Side has a Master’s degree, is an accomplished artist, pianist, and writer. This Side flashes a beautiful, knowing smile and a quick, sharp wit.
That Side struggles with the Other.
The Other Side endured years of child abuse, substance abuse, medical trauma, and symptoms of various mental health disorders. The PTSD experienced by the Other Side controls every aspect of her life, from her sleep to her showers to her meals. It affects her ability to form relationships, fulfill every day tasks, and do many of the things that you and I take for granted.  It is also does things that the Side that everyone sees frequently has to hide from the public.
The Other side has caused her to self-harm, and sends her to therapy on a regular basis.
As you might expect, it’s the Other Side that reacted the evening of December 13th, 2018 when she got a notification that mistakenly said – that her health insurance had been cancelled. Without health insurance she could not continue therapy or get medication.
“A” related to me that ‘not being heard’ is something that is a ‘trigger’ over her life. And that’s what she was faced with again, soon finding herself lying on the kitchen floor of her apartment, with things running through her mind that you or I couldn’t fathom. It was, perhaps, an effort to regain control and be heard that led her to make a phone call looking for health insurance answers. Unfortunately, it was that phone call that led her to a place where she would not be heard. That phone call to a mental health crisis line, hoping to get help with health insurance, actually led to the police showing up at her front door for a welfare check. It led to a ride in the back of a patrol car to the ER. It led to her being presented with a clipboard. It led her to a form, signed in a moment of crisis. It was thought to be for a 24 hour stay in a behavioral health center.
That stay ended up being six days.
There she was only permitted to wear blue patient scrubs.
Those scrubs would become a symbol of losing control. And later in my studio, after much deliberation and discussion with her therapist, they would become a symbol of taking it back.
She would put the scrubs back on, willingly and of her own choosing – and pose for photos.
I was not aware of the entire plan before it happened, and I think that contributed greatly to the images that were made.
Now, in her own words:
““Why now?” my counselor asked.
““I’ve tried writing about it and I can’t get through a paragraph without crying. I can’t not express it. If I don’t do it now I’ll never do it. I will attempt to proceed with my life while tucking it away only to have it eat at me until I self-destruct. Plus, I’ve never had the opportunity to face something traumatic soon after it happened. I HAVE to do something.”
“I knew he was concerned. Fuck, I was concerned. We both knew I was risking my mental health by choosing to step back into a traumatic experience and recreate it. I had been alienated, oppressed, and subjected to dehumanization with no evidence of my damaged existence other than the memories that forge the words of my story. That story demanded to be heard.
(And now, in my studio.)
“I’m so nervous I’m already shaking.” He has no clue. As we get ready to shoot, I turn to ask, “Um, can we put on music?”
““Do you want me to put on something or we can use your playlist?”
““I’ll put on mine.” Cliff isn’t expecting what I am about to do and I am certain his music would not vibe with it. I struggle to connect my phone as my hands shake. I select “shuffle” and Only You by Selena Gomez plays. The bass vibrates the floor and shifts the emotional dynamic. I turn to say, “Just be ready to shoot.” It’s a warning. He moves across the studio to set lights as I drag my backpack to the bathroom, still concealing the items I had brought. I slow down to gain control. I take off all my clothes before removing the scrubs from my backpack. I take a deep breath and focus on the music before putting them on. I take a moment to adjust and reflect. I haven’t worn them since leaving the unit. I go so far as to tape on the hospital band I had worn that identified me as just another number in the system. This time is different. This time it is my choice to wear them. My mind is blank. Overwhelmed. Just do it. My legs are concrete. I open the bathroom door and expect to see him waiting in his office chair. He’s not there. I step to the corner of the wall and peak around in search of him. He’s positioned himself facing the wall, leaned back in the metal chair, legs spread, camera in hands at his lap. Waiting. His posture is too relaxed to be expecting what I am about to dish out. He sees me and lights up with excitement and curiosity. Hahahaha, oh shit. I step out from the wall and expose my wearing scrubs.  He immediately stiffens his posture upright in response to having realized the seriousness of the matter. He brings a hand to his mouth, and a sound escapes his lips, as he muffles his crying. Fuuuuuuuck. I look at my feet and step forward with caution, hesitant. I’m distracted by his reaction and avoid making eye contact, or I will not be able to reach the necessary space to bring the past to the present. I stop just before entering the space and rest my head in my hand. I fight my body’s response. I’m not ready. I maintain my composure and move forward, slowly walking the perimeter of the room to avoid his distraction while I reflect.

“I reach the other side of the studio and turn around to return to the space he created. He’s somehow managed to pick up his camera and follow. I step into the honeycomb light and sit on the floor with my legs crossed. I feel emotionally exposed, and I hate it, but I let it happen. I think of the untold story. I think of the paragraphs I couldn’t force myself to write. I think of the nights spent away from my dog, us equally confused without the presence of each other. I think of sights that will never be seen. I think of voices that won’t be heard. I think of footsteps pacing the long, sterile hallways. I think of yelling and loud thumps in the night. I think of medications forced to be taken. I think of being woke with a sharp prick in the crook of my arm. I think of those who visited, those who should have, and those who did not. I think of days spent alone. I think of familiar voices and their beautiful greeting as they answer my call. I think of the world outside my hospital room window. I think of a drug-induced existence. I think of history repeating itself. My cheeks are wet with tears, and I am a mixture of emotions. I bring my hands to my face and allow myself to feel it, to cry. “The past meets present, and I am caught in the in-between. I had never really left the unit. I’m lost. I don’t know where Cliff is, and I don’t care. My body is heavy and tired. I am tired. I try to resist, but I give in. I curl up on the floor, my universal sign for surrender. The floor is cold and hurts my body. I can’t get comfortable, but nothing about this is comfortable. I seek refuge in the space I’ve created, hidden behind the hair that covers my face. He steps into my vision and is with me, wherever that may be. He keeps a distance and continues to photograph my falling apart. I hug the floor and wipe my tears I as I have done many times before.
“Cliff then sits on the floor in front of me, uncertain. Eh. I tense up. He scoots closer and put his hand on my shoulder in an attempt to comfort. I don’t say it. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me.  Don’t touch me.  Perhaps my feeling uncomfortable stems from the fact that most times I’ve found myself hugging the floor was after I’d experience abuse at the hands of myself or others. This is new, foreign. It’s a drastic system override. I let it happen. I am pulled up off the floor and held, supported. Dissociation initiated. I become a rag doll. I want to enjoy this, and perhaps I do, but my mind cannot process kindness or anything that isn’t a painful, firm, inappropriate touch. I want it to end for my sake and his.
“Time has no limit. I blurt out, “FUCK!”  and explain the story behind such random profanity. I share humorous stories of my experience in an attempt to lighten the mood. He listens. I hope he feels better because I don’t. I am consumed by emotions that are demanding to be felt, intensifying with each wave. He distances himself and respects the space as I continue to silently cry.
(At this point I excuse myself from the studio to attend to another matter, and it was probably a good thing for both our sakes that I did.)
“I remain seated on the floor long after he’s left. The wave I fought crashes, and I am I ugly crying. I am angry.
“I think of the scrubs, and the moment I first put them on while in the unit. Submission looks like the color blue, and there’s nothing more defeating than being forced to be someone you’re not. My words were wasted breaths of air. The more you plead innocence, the guiltier you become. The truth can’t help you when you’re surrounded by those who don’t want to hear it. It was all too familiar. Deja vu. History had repeated itself, and I thought I had broken the cycle. Too many times hope had arrived at my doorstep and knocked only to be dismissed. Hope looks like red-and-blue flashing lights announcing the arrival of a potential savior dressed in uniform. Hope didn’t come for me. I stood at the window and watched as it walked away. If anyone was to save me, it had to be me. It would always be me. Again, I had to save myself. “Play the part.” A fail-safe strategy for survival. The biggest risk was losing myself. My being forced to wear scrubs was symbolic of hope lost. They sealed my fate the moment I put them on.
“I bring my hands to my face and let out a loud wail. I rock back and forth at an attempt to soothe myself. I can’t breathe. I lean forward and grab at the floor. Everything that I had suppressed has breached the surface. Emotional barfing. I’m scared. I’m scared of what I’m feeling. I’m scared because I cannot see beyond this moment. I’m scared because I have been defined by this trauma and don’t know what my life looks should I let it go.
“Let it out. I emotionally barf until I have nothing left. I’m cold. I pull into myself, bringing my knees to my chest. Numb. I sit and wait for the next wave. Nothing. I pick myself up and grab my flannel. I walk around the studio in an attempt to ground and bring myself to the present.
“I am here.”
“He is here.”
“My story has been written into existence.”

My anonymous friend, you are Woman as Art