Ing Says: No One Expects Perfection, But This was Expert De-Escalation
On Tuesday, June 17, 2025, I received my full records from The Guidance Center.
It was a gut-punch. A deeply hurtful, violating read — which I’ve detailed separately. That evening and into Wednesday morning, I was dangerously close to acting on suicidal thoughts. I cried, dissociated, gasped for air. I spoke with the suicide hotline. I counted pills in my hands and argued myself out of taking them. The next morning I woke up still clutching the pills I had counted.
What stopped me was Cinnamon — my service dog. I couldn’t leave her without safety. I couldn’t leave her alone in the forest.
By the next day, my immediate risk had lowered. But the physical toll remained. Overheated and drenched in sweat, dehydrated, dizzy — seeing black spots every time I tried to stand, feeling like I might pass out, I was alone in the forest with Cinnamon. I needed water. I needed help.
So I called 911.
When the EMTs Arrived
There was an immediate moment of friction about Cinnamon — my ADA-trained psychiatric service dog.
I pushed back. They relented.
But this crew had were not fully trained on SD laws. At one point, Cinnamon jumped briefly off the gurney. After that, they refused to let her back up.
I want to be direct about this: under the ADA, as her handler, I have the right to access my service dog — including the right to use her to manage a psychiatric crisis as she is trained to do. Refusing me access to Cinnamon in that moment was not a policy call. It was a violation of federal law. I was in active distress. She is task-trained specifically for that distress. Keeping her from me made everything harder than it needed to be.
I am naming that clearly, and separately from what came next — because what came next was something different entirely.
At the ER Foyer
I felt the panic rising. A trauma response I know too well.
I asked for my dog. They wouldn’t hand her back. I tried to get off the gurney to leave. Several EMTs moved to hold me back — one gripped my right shoulder, pushing me back down. They were trying to restrain me; I was about to escalate completely out of control.
And then something changed. I suspect the charge nurse stepped in.
The man let go. The others stepped back. The room shifted — from control to recognition. They realized I was scared, not dangerous.
The lead EMT began speaking directly to me:
“Your dog got agitated, and you lost control of her. We can’t have that.”
“I know. Please give me her leash so I can get both of us safe.”
We had a calm — if tense — exchange. I explained Cinnamon’s role. Deep pressure therapy. Her training. How we usually navigate ERs. They explained their concerns. I explained my needs.
And it settled.
At one point, the lead EMT asked:
“Do you trust me?”
“No,” I replied flatly. Honestly.
The other EMTs chuckled.
That, too, was trauma-informed care. I wasn’t punished for my honesty. No one got defensive. No one escalated. They understood that trust isn’t automatic — that it has to be earned, especially from someone who has been harmed by the very systems that were supposed to help her.
Eventually, they suspected possible suicidality and told me I might be held. They helped charge my phone and let me make arrangements for Cinnamon, just in case.
I didn’t need to. I was released later that night.
Why This Was Trauma-Informed Care — Even When It Wasn’t Perfect
I want to hold both things at once, because that is what integrity requires.
The EMT crew violated my ADA rights by refusing me access to my service dog. That happened. It is on the record. It made my crisis harder to manage, not easier.
And — the de-escalation that followed was exactly what trauma-informed care looks like in practice.
Least necessary restraint. The moment they recognized I was scared rather than dangerous, they let go. They stepped back. They did not double down.
Mutual respect. They explained their concerns. I explained my needs. Neither of us was treated as the enemy.
Communication, not coercion. When I said no, they didn’t escalate. They asked questions. They listened to the answers.
Trust earned, not assumed. “Do you trust me?” “No.” And no one fell apart. No one punished me for that answer. They kept showing up until the situation resolved — not because I gave them compliance, but because they gave me decency.
This could have gone very differently. In fact, it has gone almost identically differently — at The Guidance Center, where the same starting friction ended in seven people restraining a woman in a hospital gown for asserting her legal rights.
The contrast is stark. The cost, ongoing.
To the ER Staff and EMTs
I saw you pivot. I saw you listen. I saw you de-escalate and meet me with decency when it would have been easier — and more familiar — to meet me with force.
You are not off the hook for the ADA violation. But you are on the record for what you did right. Both things are true. Both things matter.
That is what care should look like.
If This Mirrors Your Experience
You are not alone. What happened to you was not inevitable. It was a choice made by a provider or a facility — and choices can be documented, reported, and challenged.
File with your state’s licensing board, the Office of Civil Rights, and the Attorney General. File knowing that these bodies rarely impose meaningful consequences — because the record matters regardless.
And then come to us. Between Trust and Trauma documents what happened, names the providers and facilities responsible, and connects survivors who experienced the same pattern of harm.
One incident is enough. One person harmed is enough. We document it because it happened — not because we need a pattern to justify our pain.
“Nothing About Us Without Us.”
