DENIZEN OF THE BACK WARD: A CATHARSIS
Foreword
In the nineteenth century commitment to a mental institution was an easy way to be rid of the eccentric
neighbor, disobedient child, wayward wife, and other troublesome people.
My own forced
hospitalization leads me to believe that this still occurs today more often than the average person
realizes. The rationale given in my case was that I was a danger to myself, threatened to harm my
family, and unable to care for myself. In spite of the fact that witness statements were submitted to
refute these allegations, it was unilaterally decided that I should be remanded to a mental hospital.
Involuntary hospitalization/confinement is the culmination of a legal procedure designed to compel an
individual to receive inpatient mental health treatment. The legal justifications vary somewhat from state
to state, but are generally based on a determination that a person 1.) is imminently dangerous to self or
others; 2.) is unable to make rational decisions; or 3.) clearly needs emergency care and supervised
treatment. Broad interpretive latitude is given to the professional charged with initiating the commitment
process.
Hopefully, the clinician will make the decision objectively, but what safeguards are there
against personal biases? Involuntary hospitalization is sometimes viewed as being synonymous with
incarceration, making it an extremely controversial course of action. It is touted to be a last resort for
dealing with a person who is so ill that he/she is unable to use proper judgment or insight in deciding to
refuse treatment. In my case this was the first choice. Was I punished for exercising my right to reject
unnecessary intervention?
Psychiatric commitment is arguably the most extreme example of liberty deprivation in a democratic
society.
Whereas arrests are made in response to legal violations that have already taken place,
involuntary confinement is conversely intended to prevent what might occur in the future. My experience
indicates that this form of freedom curtailment is not taken as seriously as the literature would lead one
to believe.
The impetus for this writing revolves around
decision making process. Semantics notwithstanding,
my right and ability to participate in the
this was effectively an abridgement of my
entitlement to free speech. The freedom to exercise informed consent regarding my treatment became
clouded when the legal process of civil commitment was initiated. Inherent in the ensuing legal process
was the reality that being subject to forced inpatient treatment would annex the overall social stigma
associated with mental illness.
Civil commitment laws in the United States have been justified on the historical foundation of two
fundamental powers and responsibilities of government. First, governments are authorized to use of
1
police powers to protecting each citizen from injury by another. Secondly, parens patriae (Latin for
"parent of the nation") is based on the government's moral obligation to care for a disabled citizen in a
manner similar to the way a dutiful parent cares for a dependent child. While generally benign at the
core, the liberty of all citizens are jeopardized when these powers are misused under guise of authority.
Once the credibility of the authorizing agency is damaged, the system breakdown is difficult if not
impossible to repair. The interpretation of the element of dangerousness can ambiguous, but generally
requires evidence that the danger is imminent, verifiable, and documentable. In my case, there was no
imminence, verifiability or documentation. Witness statements refuting pertinent statements submitted by
the official in question were included in a grievance submitted to the Georgia Composite Medical Board.
These statements, although factual, apparently bore no weight with the Board. Their decision was that
the doctor had acted according to administrative procedures. The blanks had been filled in, but the
veracity of the information provided was not an apparent consideration.
The question of the overall effectiveness of involuntary hospitalization is an ongoing controversy in the
mental health and legal communities. Indeed, coerced treatment is considered by many patients' rights
advocates and mental health consumers to be an oxymoron: It may, in fact, protect public safety but at
the expense of the liberty, dignity and health of the person with a mental illness. The underlying conviction
is ultimately that diagnosis of mental illness alone suffices as evidence of social or moral paralysis.
This has been disproven in many instances, but omitted from the discussions is whether or not it is
possible for a mentally sound individual to be forced into a mental institution. If the unthinkable happens
to occur, what recourses does a healthy subject have?
The decision to subject an individual to compulsory psychological treatment is a subjective one. In spite
of the fact that all fifty states have statues outlining the circumstances under which a person can legally
be involuntary hospitalized, application is both subjective and discretionary. The skill, objectivity, and
professionalism of the deciding official in the imposition of forced hospitalization is trusted to take
precedence over prejudice, anger, and frustration. In spite of everything that has happened to me, I still
believe in the benevolent motivations of the mental health profession. Helping to restore the power to
negotiate the circumstances of life is what they are all about. This is something that every American is
entitled to.
The Illegal and unethical curtailment of my freedom by an
unscrupulous practitioner
indelibly gouged the fabric of my life and besmirched the credibility of the entire profession.
Im trapped in a living hell. Not of my own making, but one constructed by a mental health professional.
I am haunted by the thought that this abuse may be replicated, with the victims left without the means to
reconstruct their shattered lives.
The fact that it happened to me leads me to believe that it happens
more often than one would imagine. If even one person is spared this indignity, my mission will be
2
successful. Lest I digress and babble like the denizens of the virtual Dante's Inferno I escaped, let me
begin at the beginning...
I
On the morning of Wednesday May 27, 2009 my husband and I went to the Peach State Center for what I
believed was a couples counseling session. My husband had set the 8 AM appointment, but upon
checking in, the receptionist directed her questions about the appointment at me. Curious as to the
reason for this focus, I asked why this was, but got no logical answer. Dr. Mahmud then appeared at the
door leading to the exam rooms and conducted my husband and I to her office. Once seated, Dr.
Mahmud started what I knew was a psychiatric assessment, i.e., was I having thoughts of suicide, rushing
thoughts, etc. I again asked why the questions were directed at me and Dr. Mahmud told me that my
husband believed that I needed to be on medication.
The reason given was that I supposedly
threatened to jump over a bannister two weeks prior. Nothing could have been further from the truth,
and I felt betrayed by my husband's dishonesty.
Dr. Mahmud apparently anticipated a mentally ill,
suicidal woman, and it was clear that my marital problems were deeper than I had ever imagined.
How would I be able to validate my knowledge of my own emotional stability when a predetermined,
quasi-scientific template of psychiatric diagnosis threatened to to undermine my own perception?
I
noticed that the doctor had nothing resembling a patient file on her desk, and I immediately wondered
how she could come to any sort of conclusion about my overall state of mind without them. This was
alarming, and I had the frightening feeling that whatever diagnosis she was obviously pressing for would
be a faulty construct at best.
In surprise, I turned toward my husband and asked why he had me thinking that we were going in for
couples counseling. Blinking through his glasses, he stuck to the story that there must have been
some mistake made when he called for the appointment. When he turned to Dr. Mahmud, she calmly
said that Peach State no longer provided such services, but she was still willing to speak with me.
Seeing no reason to continue the appointment under these conflicting circumstances, I rejected her
suggestion and got up from the chair.
In a loud voice, Dr. Mahmud commanded me to sit down.
Shocked at her tone, I finally told her that I had the right to leave and proceeded to exit again. Dr.
Mahmud got up from her seat in front of the computer, blocked my egress, and hissed at me to sit
down.
I again told both her and my husband that I didn't appreciate being lied to and wasn't going to be
railroaded. Her response to this was, "There are rules in this hospital," adding that I was out of control. I
firmly told her that she, not I, was out of control, and that she was the one breaking the rules. My
husband asked me to sit down and see if we could sort out the confusion. By this time I saw my brother
coming down the hallway. My husband, concerned at the appointment's turn for the worse, told me he'd
called him. Embarrassed that he had involved my sibling in what I thought was an unnecessary
3
melodrama, I begged my brother to leave. I told my husband that I didn't appreciate my family being
brought in as my brother looked on in utter bewilderment. The shrill ring of my cell phone abruptly
shocked me into silence. My brother's unexpected arrival and the ringing phone seemed more than
coincidental. When the rarely-used cell phone rang once again, I was certain that yet another relative
had been involved. Now thoroughly fed up with the whole ordeal, I slapped it into my husband's
outstretched hand, told him to answer it himself, and proceeded to leave.
Dr. Mahmud quickly rose from her seat and placed her palm against the door to prevent me from opening
it. She sternly repeated her commanded for me to sit down. Again I told her "Thanks, but no thanks. I
neither want to talk with you nor need your services. If I feel I need to see a psychiatrist, I know how to
contact one." She glared at me as she continued to lean against the door. She repeated her admonition
about hospital rules through clinched teeth. A pregnant silence descended over the office as everyone
watched and waited for my next move. After a deep sigh I slowly asked her if I was being arrested.
Getting no answer, I ask her to please step aside so that I could leave. She hesitated before finally
moving away from the door. Her eyes never left mine, and their stoniness told me that I had made her
angry. Distracted by concerns that I might miss my next appointment, I hadn't realized that Dr. Mahmud
and my husband had followed me to the elevator. She was still demanding that I come back to her office
as I entered the car, but the closing doors made a response unnecessary.
I breathed a sigh of relief when the automatic doors of the clinic opened. Just outside, I stood with my
hands on my hips as I savored the fresh air. A security guard named Jack Collinsworth was standing
nearby, watching me curiously. I returned his slight smile before trotting lightly down the stairs toward the
parking lot.
I pulled up short, remembering with a sigh that my husband had driven us to the hospital.
Even though he had the only set of car keys in his pocket, I continued down the steps to the lower parking
lot where we'd parked our car. My hope that somehow my husband had forgotten to lock the car was in
vain. Not wanting to return to Dr. Mahmud's office,
I looked for a place to sit while I
gather my
thoughts. The curb in front of the car was shaded, and would provide a cool seat in the hot sun.
Dismayed by the confusing turn of events, I lit a cigarette and proceeded to organize my thoughts. The
scene in the office replayed with an unsettling clarity that brought me to tears. A passing mother with a
toddler in tow noticed me sobbing next to the car and gently asked if something was wrong. I looked up at
her, forced a smile, and thanked her for her kindness. She suddenly looked up at the sloping driveway
over my left shoulder and hurried on her way toward the clinic. I turned to see what she had been
looking at and saw the security guard waving the patient away.
His demeanor indicated to me that he was aware that there was something amiss. As I stared at him
trying to decipher the meaning on his face, I saw Dr. Mahmud, my husband and an unidentified female
coming down the steps from the entrance to the clinic. The guard hurried back to his post as the trio
4
quickly advanced across the parking lot in my direction. When they came abreast of me, my husband
asked me to return to Dr. Mahmud's office to resolve the misunderstanding.
I told him that I was
embarrassed and just wanted to go home. Dr. Mahmud chimed in, saying that I needed to talk with her.
Fed up with what I thought of as an escalating drama, I asked her why she was trying to drum up
business. As her eyes narrowed into slits, my husband again suggested that we return to her office.
The apprehension in his eye made me wondered if Dr. Mahmud had ordered the suddenly retreating
security guard to call the police. Fearing arrest, I told them that I would come back inside with them, but in
my own time. I asked them to just leave me alone and let me walk back by myself. Dr. Mahmud
seemed satisfied with my surrender, but continued to stand over me as my husband headed toward the
building.
I repeated my request, telling her that I wasn't going near the clinic as long as she was
standing there. Giving me a one last glare, she and the unknown woman began heading up the stairs
toward the entrance. Watching them retreat, I stubbed out my cigarette and rose to following the group
inside. My mind was whirling with what was unfolding, and I wondered what else was in store for me
once I got back inside. I didn't have long to wait.
II
As Dr. Mahmud approached the double doors, she turned to stare at me again, but I waved her inside.
Relieved that Dr. Mahmud had finally returned to her office, I exhaled for the first time. After climbing the
stairs and nearing the automatic doors, I again saw the security guard. Mr. Collingsworth gave me a
sympathetic smile accompanied by the thumbs up signal. Encouraged by his apparent friendliness, I
asked him whether or not this sort of thing happened at this clinic often. He silently nodded in assent.
The look on his face told me that there was more unpleasantness in store for me, and that look was
prophetic. Instead of going back into her office to wait for me as I'd requested, I found Dr. Mahmud
leaning against the wall near the elevators, arms folded across her chest. She was apparently waiting
for me, and began to speak as I neared the alcove. I asked her again to please leave me alone because
I knew how to get back to her office on my own. She resumed her post against the wall with her arms
folded, watching me with palpable intensity. Sensing that she was not going to leave me alone, I turned
around and proceeded back to the lobby. I sat down in a chair for a short while before once again spotting
Dr. Mahmud staring at me from the elevator lobby. In frustration I moved into the lobby, and waved the
psychiatrist away.
She heaved a deep sigh before finally disappearing into the waiting elevator.
Once I returned to the office, I overheard her discussing me with my husband. Seeing me at the door, she
asked him to sit in the waiting room while she talked with me. Since my records from St. Mary's Hospital
in Los Angeles had never been forwarded to the Georgia Region, there was no medical documentation
available to justify the current psychiatric evaluation.
My husband had apparently told her about my
outpatient therapy 3 years prior in California, but there was no current documentation on file that hinted at
5
this previous involvement.
I didn't deny the information, but explained that acute stress had prompted
my participation. I ended this portion of our conversation by advising Dr. Mahmud that I'd graduated with
a clean bill of health. She asked about possible meds that were prescribed, and i told her that I'd had a
Celexa prescription transferred to Georgia when we relocated. My doctor in California had suggested
that a follow-up appointment once we relocated to Georgia would be a wise move, and I agreed. The
recommended follow-up confirmed Dr. Harold's findings and my Georgia counselor, Mary Wise, advised
me in 2008 to schedule a return visit if I felt I need one. The need had not arisen, and I explained this to
Dr. Mahmud. I included the fact that the only medication I'd taken for at least 1-2 years, was for diabetes
and rheumatoid arthritis, but Dr. Mahmud had another surprise question in store for me. She suddenly
asked me whether or not I'd threatened to jump over a rail 2 weeks prior. When I told her I had not, she
triumphantly told me that my husband had mentioned something to the contrary. She then asked me
whether or not I'd ever threatened to jump, and I answered affirmatively - over a year ago during an
argument with my husband. When she asked me whether or not I really meant that, I told her that I'd only
said that to make my husband stop arguing with me. She asked whether or not I'd ever tried to commit
suicide, and the answer was "No, why would I do something like that?"
I thought that I had adequately fielded Dr. Mahmud's insinuation, but to my chagrin she once again
began talking about counseling for me.
It was obvious that she was operating from some sort of
paradigmatic models which pitted my testimony against a predetermined view of normality .
Sighing
deeply, I once again I told her that I didn't needed her brand of assistance. At that time my husband
re-entered the office and sat down. Dr. Mahmud said that I would benefit from seeing a counselor and
dialed a number on her telephone. I told her, "What part of 'I don't need your help' don't you understand?".
Ignoring me, Dr. Mahmud asked for a counselor to come to her office. As I rose to leave, Dr. Mahmud
once again told me to sit down. In frustration I asked whether or not I was under arrest, to which she
answered in the negative.My husband asked me to sit down and see if we could sort out the confusion.
By this time I saw my brother returning from somewhere down the hallway, and my husband told me he'd
asked him to stay. Upset that my request not to involve my family had not been honored, I bid them all
goodbye and managed to open the door before Dr. Mahmud could stop me. Sitting back down and
typing on her computer, she merely looked at me as she furiously pounded the keyboard. I quickly strode
out of the office with my husband and brother following close behind me.
Thinking that we were going home, I was surprised to discover that my husband still wanted me to stay
and talk with Dr. Mahmud. As I turned to talk to him, I noticed Dr. Mahmud and the female employee once
again closing in on us. They shouted at me to come back inside, and I pleaded with them once again to
stop humiliating me. By this time I was completely boxed in by the entourage. The ongoing badgering
had annoyed me to the point where I finally said, "Bitch, leave me alone! What's the matter with you?
Don't I have the right to make my own decisions?" With that, I whirled around and headed for the bus
6
stop. My brother, unsure as to why he'd been notified, had remained essentially a silent witness during
this ordeal. He suggested that I come back inside so that the misunderstanding could be worked out. I
told him that I had another appointment at the Westdale facility with my rheumatologist and didn't want to
be late for it. He asked me how I was going to get there, and I told him that I'd ride the bus if I had to. He
told me it was too hot to ride the bus, opened the car door and said he'd give me a ride home.
III
The commute across town was uneventful, and I chattered amicably with my brother as the miles sped
by. After arriving home, getting my car and starting to my 11 AM appointment, I realized that I would not
make it in time. I was somewhat relieved that I could avoid another obligation after the stressful visit with
Dr. Mahmud, and returned home to reset the rheumatology appointment. A hamburger lunch and the
Jerry Springer show were what I needed to relax, and I soon fell into a deep sleep. Shortly after 1PM I
was jolted awake by my husband, who was frantically shaking my into awareness. His eyes were wide
with alarm as he nervously told me that the police were here to take me to the hospital. The sound of
heavy footfalls trotting up the stairs confirmed his story, and these were soon replaced by loud banging on
the bedroom door. A male deputy from the Rockridge County Sheriff's Department was bellowing my
name as he demanded entry. Eugene admitted the deputy, who entered the room with his hand on his
service revolver. The deputy commanded me to get out of the bed, letting me know that an order to
have me taken into custody had been issued. Barely awake and beginning to panic I clutched the bedding
to my breasts in an attempt to conceal my near nakedness. I asked the deputy to allow me to dress.
He responded by telling me that if I didn't get out of the bed that instant, he would have to arrest me. A
female deputy entered the room and told the male deputy that she would handle the situation. Grateful
for the female presence, I groped for my clothes as I tearfully asked her why I was being arrested. She
told me that I was not under arrest, but that a 1013 had been ordered by Dr. Mahmud. She calmly told
me that the Rockridge County Sheriff's Department had been mandated per Georgia State Mental Health
Law to transport me in a marked vehicle to a psychiatric hospital. She explained that I would remain at
the Sunset Behavioral Hospital for a maximum of 72 hours for observation. By the end of that time, the
decision would be made to either discharge me or keep me confined for an additional period of time.
Any lengthening of my hospitalization, she continued, would be contingent upon how well I responded to
treatment. Understanding at that point that I had no choice in the matter, I silently dressed myself under
her watchful eye and followed the deputy downstairs.
As I descended the stairs, the sight of my
husband's twin brother Eddie watching the unbelievable sight ruptured my tenuous calm. My husband
confessed that he had telephoned his brother when the deputies arrived, but the additional witness only
added to my debasement. Once again I dissolved into tears, and I pleaded with the deputy to ask him to
leave. She seemed to sympathize with my desire to have no further audiences to my embarrassment,
and asked my brother-in-law to step out of the room.
7
Upon opening the front door, I saw one radio car parked in our driveway and another near the median in
the middle of the street. It was a sunny afternoon, and curious drivers were slowing down in order to
view the spectacle. Humiliation swept over me, and sobs threatened to choke me as I hung my head in
shame. The deputy noticed my distress, and protectively put her arm around my shoulder as she hurried
me to the passenger side of the vehicle on the median. After pushing aside the various articles that
littered the back seat, she quickly belted my in before getting behind the wheel.
In spite of my
humiliation at being put into the back of a radio car, Deputy Marsden was able to engage me in a
congenial conversation through the cage that separated the back and front seats. I learned during our
discussion that transporting citizens under the circumstances was part of her mandated duties. I was
surprised to learn that this occurred more often than I would have imagined. Relieve at her kindness and
resigned to my predicament, I was eventually lulled into silence as the patrol
car sped toward its
destination.
IV
We arrived at the Sunbelt Behavioral Hospital around 2:30 in the afternoon, and the protective hug from
the deputy provided me a measure of security. She checked in at the desk and gave me a reassuring
smile before leaving me to undergo my admissions process. I was to complete a questionnaire, fill out
the required paperwork and then wait indefinitely in a small cubicle. The room contained an orange
plastic sofa with stainless steel arms, a tiny coffee table covered with magazines, and a television in a
tamper-proof cabinet. The room was not locked, but the door I had just passed through was. The
television in the corner had been turned off, and I was too dejected to look at the magazines. The futile
attempts at transforming this holding cell into a somewhat cheery waiting room only depressed me, and
once again I began to cry. I eventually ran out of tears, which were replaced with the dread of knowing
that yet another person with my fate in their hands would eventually come into the room.
After what
seemed to be an eternity in this refrigerator, my fear was replaced by curiosity as a young blond woman
appeared. Pokerfaced, she curtly demanded to know why I hadn't completed the forms I'd been handed.
When I answered that I hadn't realized they were incomplete, her disdain was converted into open
hostility. Leaning close to my face, the young woman sneered hatefully as she spat out her opinion that
she could see why a bitch like me wound up in a place like this. When this insult failed to elicit the
desired response, she snatched the stack of papers out of my hand, flounced out of the room, and
slammed the door behind her. Before long a pleasant-faced man appeared and asked me if I would be
willing to complete the admission papers. I told him that I didn't belong there and didn't feel that I should
be compelled to perform such a task against my will. Sadly nodding his head in assent, he leaned close
to me as if telling me a secret. In a quiet voice he advised me that things would go more smoothly for
me if I would cooperate. He told me that he understood my fears, and promised to get me settle in as
soon as the admissions process had been finalized. He advised me that I was free to use the wall phone
8
in the hallway to notify relatives of my whereabouts, and suggested that I do so as soon as possible. I
found nobody at home, and returned to the cell to await the next step in the admissions process. I began
crying once again, and the exhausting effort prompted me to lay down on the tacky orange sofa to rest.
The youngish man returned and responded to my obvious sadness by revealing the existence of a
smoking patio just down the hall. His smoothly flowing monologue failed to mask the simultaneous
confiscation of my belongings. With a single sweep of his hand he locked my handbag in the television
cabinet, and left the room as silently as he had entered it.
V
The same blond woman appeared after awhile. Venomous glare gone, she seemed satisfied at the
completion of my paperwork and bluntly told me to follow her. I silently did so, resigned to the fact that I
had no freedom to do otherwise. Watching her flip through the leaves on her clipboard as she marched
me down the corridor, I wondered if the same abusive attitude awaited me once I reached my destination.
I trailed her down what seemed to be an endless labyrinth of hallways and key-pad doors before arriving
at the Female Stabilization Unit. We were met be a uniformed nurse who took the paperwork from the
rude young blond, and guided me through the door, which clicked noisily behind us. This was a locked
ward where severely psychotic, hysterical, violent, suicidal and otherwise unresponsive patients were
sent.
By this time it was getting dark, and everyone on the ward had eaten dinner.
Having no
stomach for food by this time, I numbly trailed the crisply uniformed official down a long tiled hallway to
what appeared to be a dorm room.
The flooring was of
the same cheap materials as that in the
hallway, reminding me of a roach-infested flop house. The walls in the room were pock-marked with huge
holes created by former occupants, and the furniture was just as depressing.
Once glance allowed me
to take in the sight of two single beds, two small dressers bolted to the floor, two narrow clothes closets
secured against the wall, and a tiny bathroom with a moldy shower. The bed closest to the door was
occupied, so I took the one next to the window. To my chagrin, the cot was as hard as a board and had
thin bedding on it. To protect myself against the freezing cold, I wrapped the flimsy blanket around
myself and lay down on the threadbare sheet. The tiny pillow was little more than a plastic bag filled with
air, and provided no comfort for my throbbing head. Finding reclining more miserable that sitting, I
decided that looking out the window might provide some semblance of normality.
I needn't have
anticipated a panoramic view, because the plexiglass windows behind the tattered curtains were sealed
shut and covered with graffiti scratchings. A backdrop of inky blackness provided a sinister backdrop for
the bizarre artwork that had been methodically carved. The profanity, scatology, and crude drawings
that was purposefully gouged into the plastic reflected the fear, anger, frustration, and twisted
imaginations of previous occupants. My recognition of their meaning unnerved me.
Fearing that I
would become ad demented as my predecessors, I quickly squeezed my eyes shut, covered my face with
9
the miniscule pillow, and once again dissolved into tears. As my ragged sobs mutated into labored
gasping, a small hand gently stroked my shoulder. It was Terri, my roommate.
VI
Terri provided the tranquility I needed in this insane nightmare. Recognizing that this was my very first
day, she leaned over me and mouthed, "Don't do that! They'll think you're depressed. No matter what
happens, keep your game face on and go along with the program. Otherwise, they'll think you're not
adjusting and keep you here that much longer." I decided that I would be absolutely compliant with this
invaluable bit of advice, and thereafter practiced the art of soundless sobbing. A petite blond with an
angelic face, Terri continued to perch lightly on the edge of my bed as she schooled me in the fine art of
submissive smiling. At the end of the lesson, she listened with the rapt attention of a tiny bird as I related
the day's events. My new roommate nodded knowingly when I shared my suspicions that I had been
remanded there as a control measure. Her wordless sympathy told me that these suspicions were
familiar. She finally told me that I wasn't the only seemingly normal person to be committed to Sunbelt.
This revelation clarified the meaning of Dr. Mahmud's thinly-veiled threat and we sat gaping at one
another in silent understanding. Now cognizant of the reason for the forced confinement, I asked Terri
why she was there. She told me that she'd taken an accidental overdose of sleeping pills after an
argument with her husband, who subsequently requested her confinement. She seemed relieved to be
there again - this was her second confinement - but expressed utter dismay that I had suffered a similar
fate.
Her saga had been filled with rejection, disappointment, and depressing let-downs. I sensed that
her current problems had been precipitated by her husband's infidelity, and her fragile nature made it
impossible to withstand the betrayal. While understanding her plight, I was nevertheless amazed that
neither her husband nor family had not visited her in the seven days since her admission.
The silent ending of our conversation was suddenly interrupted by a dozen pairs of feet scuffling down the
hallway outside our door. A discordant symphony of excited female voices accompanied the scurrying,
and echoed off of the concrete block walls like a volley of racketballs. Responding to the quizzical look
on my face, Terri casually explained that it was the last smoke break of the day. Matching her hurried
movements, I followed Terri and the sea of rushing patients to the side exit door.
Outside at last, an
almost jovial social air pervaded the patio as the smokers chattered between drags. Even the attendant
sitting by the open door seemed to enjoy this meager concession, and laughingly traded jokes with the
patients.
After the fifteen-minute respite, we were once again herded down the passageway to our
rooms for the night. Lights out was promptly at 9PM, and the darkness crystalized my helplessness.
Who are these people endowed with the power to deprive me of my liberty without fanfare? What right
do they have to imprison me in this impenetrable fortress with no way out? Were the Constitution and
the Bill of Rights bundles of lies and our nation no more than a totalitarian society masquerading as a
10
democracy?
Why was exercising my right to say, "No" interpreted as dangerous dissention?
Overwhelmed by the apparent rhetorical nature of the questions burning in my brain, I convulsed with
grief as I strangled on tears of sorrow. Remembering Terri's admonition, I smothered my anguish with
the dusty pillow and fell into a fitful slumber.
VII
Around 3AM the door was flung opened and the flashlights of several attendants created laser-like
cross-beams on the walls. Mimicking my roommate, I remained absolutely still as if sleeping soundly.
Peering through barely opened eyes, I could see the intent stared of the orderlies as they scanned my
face. Satisfied that nothing untoward was being perpetrated, the swarm left as abruptly as it had come.
When the invader's retreating footfalls had faded out, Terri told me in a stage whisper that they did bed
checks periodically during the night. New admittees were their favorite targets, as were the violent,
suicidal, uncooperative, and lesbian patients. Distressed that the storm troopers would burst into the room
on a nightly basis, I began to cry once again. Between strangled sobs, I continued to prayed fervently,
wondering how I came to be in such a place.
Anger, fear, loneliness, and a frightening realization of my
absolute vulnerability ricocheted around my senses.
The incessant sounds of screaming, profanity,
threats, slamming doors, and tuneless singing that followed the bed check reinforced the enormity of my
predicament. I wondered whether or not the emancipation I'd been so proud of was worth the pain of
confinement.
Hearing me once again punctuating the darkness with my misery, Terri knelt by my bed and again
advised me to stop crying. She told me that the attendants were always listening, and would report
everything I did. Anything that indicated unhappiness, including crying, would not only lengthen my stay
but cause them to medicate or constrain me. Her warning that ultimate penalty for persistent resistance
was shock therapy reinforced my dread. The possibility of such strong-armed tactics conjured up an
onerous picture of medieval torture, and I became mute with terror. Terri reminded me that it was
better to cooperate and give them the behavior they want, or they would make sure that my stay would
be more unpleasant than I could imagine.
I did what she asked, thanking her for her kindness. I
nevertheless remained fully dressed, hoping that somehow someone would realize that a terrible mistake
had been made and I would be released that night. The release didn't come, and I finally drifted off to
sleep.
VIII
My early life has been one of serial white-knuckle roller coaster rides. People came and went, stamping
footprints in my soul as indelible as dungeon wall etchings. Still, it was the only life I knew and I survived
11
relatively well. My mother was young when I was born, and had little interest in raising children. She
gave up on me soon after I came into the world, and resumed her life of parties, men, and blissful
self-indulgence. My patchwork childhood consisted of suitcases filled with hand-me-down clothes and
the anxiety of moving in and out of households overflowing with other unwanted children. Rejection
became a constant companion which haunted me until it became a reality. I alway knew that sooner or
later I would be evicted whenever the thin veneer of charity worn off. The perfunctory platitudes did little to
assuage the reality of it all, and I was never surprised when the fateful day came. The little girl who wet
the bed and stammered moved on without so much as a good-bye.
The undisputed master of the house was an alcoholic bully with too many bills and not enough money.
His battered wife and five children slept fitfully in anticipation of the next violent Blitzkrieg. I accepted my
being the target of
abuse as a necessary trade-off for shelter and a grudging meal.
Sharing the
beatings and degradation at least prevented me from having to suffer alone. The one thing I was happy
to be deprived of was the sexual abuse
inflicted on his three daughters.
I was overweight and
unattractive; mixed blessing excluding me from being considered an outlet for J.J.'s twisted fantasies.
Books became my solace, and I became a voracious reader.
Escaping into the fantasy world of
damsels-in-distress, fairies, and white knights made life bearable.
I excelled in school, and my
self-confidence revolved around acceptance from my teachers. Most of the other students in my class
didn't feel the need to extend such benevolence to the perpetual new girl. Rather, my second-hand
clothes and sack lunch drew more than the occasional round of laughter. My nominal parents fared far
better than I did. Everywhere we moved they ingratiate themselves into the social network with little
league team coaching, Brownie troupe leadership, and Booster Club memberships in good standing.
Once the doors closed and the shades were drawn, the familiar sessions of beatings, degradation and
alienation resumed with a vengeance. The dissonance between these public and private faces was not
lost on me, and I was happy to languish in the gray world of defensive anonymity. This pattern continued
throughout most of my life until I discovered I was pregnant.
Motherhood was something I felt
unprepared for, but I was thrilled at the prospect of breaking the chain of self-hatred that had been my
onus.
The birth of my son when I was nearly thirty-one delivered the unexpected responsibility of
speaking for another person. I no longer had the liberty of silent assent, and I relished the opportunity to
provide the love and protection I had been deprived of. The strength I found in the unquestioning love
of my newborn son provided the strength that would sustain me through the emotional miasma that
began that fateful morning nearly 28 years later.
IX
The next morning, Terri shook me awake and told me that it was time for breakfast. I was pleasantly
surprised at the fragrant array of sausage, eggs, grits, potatoes, fruits, and muffins that awaited me.
12
Remembering Terri's admonitions, I choked down small portions in spite of my lack of appetite.
Somewhat revitalized, I listened attentively as one of the counselors announced that group would begin
promptly at 9AM. I was curious as to what went on in group, and Terri advised me that the patients were
encouraged to speak their minds on any topic they chose. I was determined to cooperate and attain the
hoped-for discharge, so I anxiously awaited the predetermined hour.
Even though participation in group therapy was suppose to be voluntary, notes were taken as to who
’
attended and who did not. The session leader, Anna, knew everyone s names, including mine. I was
quietly attentive as the speakers expressed themselves. Terri's brief tutoring served me well, and I
smiled as if on cue whenever someone glanced in my direction. It seemed that these gestures were
looked upon favorably by the staff, and the group sessions were actually enjoyed by the attendees. I got
to know a few of the other women, including Sophie, Natalie, Beverly, Elizabeth, and Denise. Sophie
was a smallish Black woman of undetermined age. She appeared to be at least 60 years old with a mop
of uncombed hair.
Her uniform consisted of expensive nightgowns, dusters, and matching satin
bedroom slippers. She continually worked her mouth in speechless conversation, and had a habit of
sighing as if attempting to catch her breath. Once done, she predictably puffed out her cheeks as if
’
blowing bubbles and then smiled moments later. Sophie was famous for drifting into other patient s
rooms because she couldn't remember where her own was. The attendants were aware of her behavior,
and often yelled at her for violating this standing rule. Patients were not allowed in anyone else's room
but our own, and breaches were frequently met with medication or constraints. Sophie's punishment for
wandering was medication that made her even more disoriented than ever. Even though her intensified
confusion and delirium were noticeable, nothing was done to alter it. Compliance, not comprehension,
seemed to be the order of the day.
Natalie was an attractive, sad-faced woman in her late 30's. She generally stayed to herself, and had
dibs on the only chair on the patio during smoke breaks. While the rest of us sat on benches, Natalie sat
on her folding chair near the hallway door, eyeing each patient with pokerfaced indifference.
She
seldom spoke to any of the other patients, and smoked silently amid the controlled chaos. Once in awhile
the attendant was able to engage her in light conversation, and I was pleased to find the dialog
surprisingly normal. Later that day Terri told me that Natalie had self-admitted due to hearing voices
several days prior to my admission. Natalie had been an accountant who had worked a series of menial
jobs in an attempt to finance her education. She had been raised in southwest Atlanta, and her family
still lived there. After attaining her accounting degree at a local university, Natalie had attained a solid
position with a prestigious accounting firm. Her ambitious, thoroughness, and industry had put the
driven Natalie on the fast track to success. Her family never let her forget her promise to take care of
them, and their financial demands eventually began to drain her resources. The endless struggle to
supply her family members with material things soon became more than Natalie could bear, and she
13
turned to drugs for relief.
Predictably, she lost her position, and the reputation as a drug abuser
prevented her from finding additional employment. Once broken, her family had no further use for
Natalie, and severed all ties with her. She descended further and further into a demented world of
nebulous images, and roamed the back streets of Atlanta as she tried to fend off the menacing voices in
her head. Seeing the lights at Sunbelt, Natalie had wandered into the lobby to seek refuge from the
murmuring demons. Once admitted, she was variously diagnosed as schizophrenic and bipolar. The
cursory antipsychotic medication took effect, and when the demons stopped talking to her, Natalie was
told that she had requested admission. Even though she later told me that she didn't remember such a
request, she had been committed four days before my admission.
In spite of her voluntary status,
Natalie was not, in fact, free to go upon request. Like the rest of us, she was confined until the staff
psychiatrist discharged her. When that would happen for any of us was a mystery.
X
Being a mother had been the happiest event in my life. Not long after, my promotion to supervisor
seemed to be a sign that my life was finally going in the right direction. Admittedly, juggling motherhood
and my career was stressful at times, but I could think of nothing else that would give me the same sense
of accomplishment.
The years rolled by with little to interrupt the serenity of my life. For me, dating
had been out of the question during my son's formative years. This was nothing new to me, as I had
become accustom to making others feel comfortable at the expense of my own needs. The lack of
verification by significant others had failed to erase my belief that I was, indeed, a worthy individual. My
life was full of activity until I met the man who would become my husband. A tall, handsome man,
Eugene seemed to be everything I'd dreamed of in a husband - witty, intelligent, affectionate, and
thoughtful. We had met in church and dated for about a year before becoming engaged.
After a year
of marriage, he suggested that we trade the hustle and bustle of Southern California for the relative
tranquility of the Deep South. I agreed, and began the search for our dream house. The move to the
Atlanta-Metro Area was an exciting time for me, and I enjoyed the peace of Conyers. Having lived in
Southern Louisiana, I was happy to return to a more relaxed lifestyle.
The South had changed
dramatically in the intervening years since the Civil Rights movement, and I was pleasantly surprised at
how progressive Atlanta had become.
superficial than actual.
It wasn't long before I realized that this change was more
I noticed before long that in spite of the fact that Atlanta had a female mayor,
my husband's voice seemed to elicit greater respect than mine. He was in the process of starting his
own business, and I chafed at having to consistently interrupt him to handle routine matters. Little did I
know that my independence was the exception, rather than the rule. The images of the New South
conflicted with the obvious reality that women were still shackled to antiquated images of antebellum
sexism.
14
XI
The after-breakfast respite afforded me the privilege of warming body and spirit in the soft sunlight
streaming through the tattered curtains. I'd been exhausted from crying most of the night before, and
was pleasantly surprised that my intense prayers had calmed me.
Even the shocking mural on the
window had ceased to unnerve me. Still, the dissonance between having the power and ability to
interact with the circumstances of my life and the theft of my confidence in the right to speak for myself
pressed down upon me.
The flitting song birds skipping lightly from branch to branch on the trees
outside made me envious of their freedom to do so.
The carefree chirping that accompanied the
execution of the routine task of building nests reminded me of my own love of independent industry. As I
stared at the wonders of the wild birds on the other side of my prison, I thought of how Terri's kindness
had eased my transition from being a self-reliant member of society to the lock-step behavior required of
a back ward denizen. She had gently coached me as to what was acceptable behavior and what would
incite repression in much the same way as an adopted mother must have done in the Natzi concentration
camps. The restrictive environment of the hospital reminded me of the cautious air that had pervaded
J.J.'s house, and I shuddered at the similarities. The fatalistic thought that I was doomed to the stigma
of being a mental patient was cut short by Terri's return from the laundry room. She had gotten word
that her family was coming to visit her, and she was atwitter with excitement. At her urging, I freshened
up in preparation for whatever was to ensue later in the day. The most anticipated events of the day were
mealtimes, but Terri's hurried ministrations signaled the arrival of the dreaded distribution of narcoleptics.
All of the patients in the Female Stabilization Unit had been instructed to line up in front of the Dutch
doors in the Day Room. Since I had not yet been evaluated by the staff's general practitioner, I was
excluded from this ritual. I watched in curiosity as the complacent women approached the door like
cattle headed for slaughter. The one at the head of the line was handed a small paper cup containing
pills. Under the watchful eye of the nurse she was to swallow them before being handed another cup
containing a sip of water. Once done, she was waived aside while the next in line received the barked
order to step up. This went on until every patient in the unit had been medicated. Those having already
received their doses were instructed to sit and wait until group session began. Still traumatized from the
surreal events of the previous night, I was excused from the meeting and sent to my room to begin my
meditation. Having an extra hour of contemplation afforded me additional time to ponder my fate. We
were suppose to think about our lives and ways to better them, but I chose to pray.
Mine were prayers
of thanks in which I asked God for the power to understand what was happening to me, and the strength
to endure this ordeal.
XII
15
Smoke break followed the meditation hour, and I found myself looking forward to the interaction. At the
attendant's announcement, Terri and I hopped off of our beds, snatched our cigarettes, and fell into the
line streaming toward the now-familiar patio. Since matches and lighters were not allowed, the attendant
at the door lit our cigarettes. I noticed that new patients had been moved into our section, and followed
their actions with interest. They either wandered aimlessly around the patio, sat alone under the tree, or
merely stood as if unsure as to what to do. One of the new patients, a short stocky lesbian named
Denise, directed her conversation at Terri and me. Compared to most of the patients I observed, she
appeared relatively lucid and refreshingly gregarious. The young lesbian told us that she had been sent
to our unit because another woman had accused her of making improper advances. This was strictly
forbidden at Sunbelt, and there was nowhere else to send the offender but to the Stabilization Unit.
Denise had been warned against attempting to enter any room but her own, and was threatened with
sedation if she failed to comply. This didn't seem to deter Denise, who had been at Sunbelt twice before.
As she talked on, her conversation began to take on a more sinister air. She told us that her lover was
seeing another woman, and this had caused a violent argument. The escalating argument soon became
physical, and Denise was arrested. According to Denise, resisting arrest for the third time, rather than
psychosis, had resulted in her being remanded to Sunbelt. The method of controlling this unrepentant
woman was to have her committed, restrained, and threatened with sedation if she continued to approach
other women. This didn't seem to faze Denise, who winked in response when another new patient blew
kisses at her. Unfortunately for Denise, she entered the young woman's room immediately after the
break, and disappeared from our midst before mid-afternoon.
by the room where the infraction had occurred.
As if on cue, the waif-like Sophia drifted
Giving me the tiniest hit of a knowing smile, she
proceeded on her way, the ever-present imaginary bubbles popping out her mouth with inaudible puffs.
XIII
Adjustment to living in the South once again had its ups and downs. I enjoyed the comparatively slower
pace, the enthusiasm for family, church, and country, and the ready available of historic sites. At the
same time, I missed the independence that a career afforded me. I remembered my promise to my
husband that I would not work for at least a year following retirement. Now that the year had passed, I
began thinking about returning to the workforce. Retirement, which was an achievement of sorts, didn't
quite fit the bill. My definition of autonomy included ongoing academic and professional accomplishments.
My husband didn't share my enthusiasm for such activities, as he had become comfortable with my new
status as a stay-at-home wife. He eventually relented, and reluctantly consented to my returning to
work. Rejoicing at this, I embarked on a job search for a part-time position.
Before long, I became employed as a virtual call-center agent. The company I worked for allowed me to
both stay at home and earn a competitive salary at the same time. At first my husband resisted this
16
full-time occupation, but his having been laid off for three months, he grudgingly expressed appreciation
for the extra income.
At first he rationalized that the lay off afforded him opportunities to explore other
employment options, but before long I noticed that he was becoming increasingly more irritable.
Arguments broke out without apparent provocation, and I suspected that my now being the primary wage
earner had a lot to do with this. My husband's denials of the suspected source of our discord did little to
belie his frequent criticism of working wives. In order to appease him, I began to take on more of the
financial responsibilities. The more responsibilities I assumed, the more disgruntled he became. My
husband's pride had been deeply wounded by the seeming role reversals, but he was outwardly trying to
make the best of it. In spite of this, his unhappiness was evident. I felt as though our relationship was
in a downward spiral, but I had no idea how to reverse the trend. Eugene was upset when I submitted
job resumes in his name, but was just as angry when I stopped.
The shouting matches that had
replaced friendly conversations took a nasty turn: He finally called me a bitch and threatened to leave me.
I was both shocked and hurt by the name calling, because we'd promised one another that we would
never resort to this sort of dirty fighting. In the recent past we had been a loving couple. Now we were
engaged in ugly pitched battles of hurtful words. On one of our good days, my husband asked me what I
would like to do for Mother's Day. I answered, "Have a peaceful day." He smiled in agreement at this,
and I eagerly looked forward to a memorable day. I had no idea how memorable that day was going to
be, but the graphic details would soon reveal themselves.
XIV
Terri had finally gotten the word that her family had arrived. Happiness over the long-awaited visit had
brought a flush to her pale cheeks. Her dripping blond hair stuck to her face, but she didn't seem to
notice as she hurried to finish dressing. Finding herself suitably groomed for the big occasion, Terri bid
me a quick farewell before hurrying toward her appointment. I looked forward to having the room to
myself for an hour, and flopped down on my bed with a resounding thud. I took little notice of the
unyielding cot, and I watched with fascination as the song birds resumed their nest building. As I lay
quietly with my arms folded beneath my head, a soft rap on the door interrupted my reverie. One of the
social workers was there to inform me that I had an appointment with both the staff doctor and psychiatrist
later in the day. She asked to sit down, saying that she needed to speak with me. I granted her
request, and barely hid my nervous anticipation as she flipped open the cover to her clipboard. I was
burning with curiosity as to what she wanted, and she wasted no time in getting to the point. Her first
order of business was a comment that the nursing staff didn't think that I belonged there. I was relieved
that someone else held the same opinion as I did, and smiled broadly at the revelation. Ms. Betty asked
me a number of questions about my reasons for being at Sunset, my feelings about my confinement, and
ended with a compliment about how well I had adjusted to therapy. I told her that I had not had therapy,
but she only smiled maternally in response. Ms. Betty then patted my hand, assured me that I would be
17
seeing the doctor soon, and told me to hang in there. I pondered these parting words, and the glimpse
of assistance she had given me lifted my mood. This small concession was a balm to my battered
psyche, and I dared to believe that I would, in fact, soon receive my discharge. As promised, I was
soon summoned to the nurses' station in preparation for my physical exam. Dr. Cocker, a general
practitioner, smiled as he read the information on my wrist band. Arm around my shoulder, he escorted
me into the exam room. Dr. Cocker didn't seem to notice that I was still dressed in the clothes I'd worn
when I was taken into custody, but I secretly worried that he would judge this negatively.
He
nonchalantly flipped through pages on his clipboard before asking me about medications I had been
taking before confinement. I told him about my diabetes and rheumatoid arthritis, and he nodded in
agreement with my prescriptions. To my relief, he seemed satisfied that my answers to his questions
about my state of mind were appropriate.
Concluding that no special medical attention would be
needed, Dr. Cocker casually informed me that my medical regimen would continue during my stay at
Sunbelt. Since I had not been able to bring any of my prescribed medicine with me, he requested that
the nurse administer them.
He snapped the cover of the clipboard shut, signaling the end of the
examination. The screening completed, I was airily excused and instructed to return to my room. The
thoughtful immersions I was engaged in after my visit were rudely interrupted by an impromptu drama
unfolding in front of the office I'd just left. A few paces in front of the locked exit door a ferocious mob
scene was threatening to erupt into violence.
Beverly was a frequent patient who had just been readmitted, and was furious that her demand to see
staff psychiatrist, Ahmad Saddiq, had been refused. As was her habit, she become violent when her
requests were denied. Seeing Dr. Cocker leaving the exam room after I did, Beverly had confronted him.
She was incensed that she had to wait to speak with her psychiatrist, and the site of the doctor retreating
had unleashed her fury. Leaping on his back like an enraged tigress, Beverly was intent on scratching
the good doctor's eyes out. It seemed to Beverly that all doctors were her sworn enemies, and the
unfortunate Dr. Cocker was a convenient outlet for her frustration. After riding around on the flailing doctor
for what seemed like an eternity, she finally succeeded in knocking him to the floor. Four attendants
rushed to disengaged the cursing Beverly from her unfortunate victim without success. Their combined
efforts failed to dislodge the screaming patient from the the screaming doctor, and the battle raged on.
All the rescuers managed to do was stumble against the walls in a mass of writhing bodies before
collectively falling to the floor atop both Beverly and the unfortunate Dr. Cocker. The gasping heap of
humanity now resembled a clutch of squirming earthworms as the exhausted orderlies struggled to free
the battered doctor. Stunned at the violent display, I sought safety against the opposite wall, hoping that
I would not become drawn into the vortex. As I stared in disbelief, Alice, the charge nurse, exploded out
of the nurses' station and shouted for all patients to get in their rooms and close the doors. She was a
large brunette with a Dutch Boy haircut who's very presence normally nullified all thoughts of resistance.
Nearly six feet tall, Alice fearlessly dove into struggling mass with restraints in hand. I wasted no time
18
complying with Alice's command, and obediently scuttled into the room I shared with Terri. I glanced
over my shoulder as I rounded the corner - just in time to see Alice deftly secure the irate Beverly's hands
behind her back. How she could tell the difference between Beverly's hands and the eight other hands
in the heap on the floor I'll never know. Terri and her family had witnessed the melee from the safety of
the locked Day Room. She later told me that it was easy for staff to differentiate Beverly's hands from
any one else's - Beverly's wrists were the ones with raised scars on them. Beverly, it turned out, was a
recalcitrant "cutter" who had been at it for most of her life. The keloids were the easiest way to identify
her under the pile of panting attendants. Overlooked during the brawl was the reticent Sophie, who
smiled whimsically and mouthed "Too much medication" before disappearing into her room.
XV
Mother's Day, 2009 had dawned bright and sunny. The temperature was mild, and my hopes for a
pleasant day were high. I playfully cuddled up to my husband and stroked him through the covers. He
didn't move. Finally locating his face under the mound of quilts, my attempt to kiss him was met with
disappointment. Instead of returning the affection, he snatched the blanket out of my hand and turned in
the opposite direction. My second attempt to plant a Mother's Day smooch on his lips was met with a
barrage of profanity as he hopped out of bed. This had been the first time he'd rejected my affection, but
the familiar prelude to a quarrel was undeniably there. I asked him what I'd done to offend him, but he
silently glared at me over his shoulder as he retreated to the bathroom. Lying back on the bed, painful
memories of recent altercations flooded my mind. Hot tears scalded my eyes as I fought to maintain my
composure. In spite of his promise of a peaceful day, I realized that this was going to be yet another day
filled with verbal abuse and hostile silences.
I passed most of the morning like an intruder in fear of detection. I hoped that my husband's foul mood
would wear off, but I needn't have bothered.
Everything I did seemed to upset him.
As the day
progressed, he seemed to become increasingly more agitated. I could think of nothing else to do that
would diffuse the mounting hostility, so I resigned myself to fending off the now-familiar verbal attacks. It
wasn't long before the malevolent glares lingered longer and longer. With the setting sun came the
inevitable argument.
Rather than the all too familiar accusations of infidelity, my job became the source
of discontented outburst. I was accused of rubbing the fact that I was working and he wasn't in his face.
Even though nothing could have been further from the truth, I realized at the same time that his being
unemployed was a sore spot with him. There was no doubt that my husband appreciated my working
during a shaky economy, but this did little to soothe his bruised ego. In light of this understanding, I
decided to weather the storm raging around me in hopes that his anger would soon subside. My silence
in the face of the verbal abuse being heaped upon me had the opposite effect. Instead of assuaging my
husband's frustrated outpourings, the vituperation became even more vile.
19
XI
After the fracas in the hallway had subsided, a disembodied voice announced dinner. Taking my cue
from Terri, I once again bounded out of bed. I stood next to it, watching for a sign from her as to what
our next move would be. The restrictions imposed on me had conditioned me to wait for instructions
before attempting to do anything. Since Terri had been hospitalized longer than I had, I relied on her
experience to give me direction. She never failed to give me the awaited signals, and I followed her out
into the hallway without hesitation.
Many of the other patients were already lining up as they chattered with excitement. Today was a
special day because we were being escorted to the general dining area.
The patients from the
Stabilization Unit customarily dined in the seclusion of the Day Room. The reason for the change in
venue was not given, but I soon became cautiously optimistic. This was the closest I'd gotten to a
normal scenario since being hospitalized, and I was genuinely uplifted by the prospect of leaving the
ward. The elated women walked both single file and in twos down the long corridor that had moments
ago been the site of Beverly's furious demonstration. Many of the patients were engaged in discussions
about children and menus, while others like me, plodded along in silent anticipation. When we finally
approached the entrance to the cafeteria, I was pleasantly surprised to see that it had no locked doors. I
stood transfixed as I admired the silk plants, decorative wallpaper, and tasteful paintings that adorned the
walls. Two days before I would not have given a second thought to moving through a cafeteria line. Now
I stood in one place, unsure of what to do next. Terri told me that we were allowed to choose whatever
we wanted to eat and drink, and I mimicked her movements while scanning the selections. Outside of
the hospital making selections is expected. During confinement, options are a luxury. Never again
would I take my freedom of choice for granted.
Terri and I seated ourselves at a table near the door. Natalie and Sophie were among the four other
women already there. I noticed that Natalie had apparently assumed the unofficial role of protector and
group leader. Her obvious intelligence and relative stability made her an natural choice for the position.
The other women were engaged in animated discussion about fashion and vacations, but Natalie seemed
oblivious to the festive mood surrounding her. She ate quietly, occasionally stopping to assist Sophia with
her dining utensils. Sophie smiled softly in appreciation, looking up at Natalie with childlike adoration. I
observed the tender scene with interest, and was convinced that a diagnosis of mental illness did not
necessarily eradicate basic human compassion.
XII
20
As soon as most of us had finished dessert, the order to regroup for the return to the Female Stabilization
Unit was given.
Still flushed with joy over the respite from restriction, the women failed to form a
discernable queue. Ignoring this, the attendants allowed the gaggle of back ward denizens to shuffle
back to lockup in a disorganized mass.
I'd managed to sneak a roll and butter back to my room and
Terri had secreted a late-night delicacy consisting of a piece of chicken.
As we later savored our
purloined feast, Terri began to laugh. The effort to control her tittering made her face turn bright red, and
the contrast with her pale blond hair was a comical sight. I began to laugh along with her, and snorted
with the stifled mirth that threatened to errupt into outright guffaws . My furtive glances toward the door
accurately told Terri that I was afraid of detection.
Catching her breath, Terri told me between giggles
that it was alright to eat at night, as long as we didn't sneak silverware into our room. "What are we going
to spear, the chicken?" she cracked drily. The mock seriousness of her question evoked another round
of merriment. I began to snicker along with her, and enjoyed the first real humor since my confinement.
Terri shushed me after awhile, reminding me that excessive glee would be interpreted as hysteria by the
staff. I told her that this would be the first true interpretation since I got there, which started the laughter
all over again. This time, though, we were careful to muffle our boisterness with pillows over our faces.
Feeling surprisingly refreshed by the comparative gaiety of the evening, I showered and washed my hair
for the first time. Terri had received both body wash and shampoo during her last care package delivery,
and had generously offered me the use of both luxuries. The warm shower and fragrant soaps had the
desired effect. For the first time since my confinement I remembered that I was actually a human being.
As long as I kept my eyes closed, I could imagine that I was anywhere else than this hellhole. The
shower ending, I knew that I had to eventually open my eyes. It was then that the disparity between
where I was and where I wanted to be hit me with the force of a wrecking ball. Once again I began to
cry, and wondered whether I would ever be able to resume a normal life again. I didn't indulge myself in
futile recriminations, though, because it was late. Lights out would soon be announced, and I would
have plenty of time to reflect in the unrelenting darkness. Sobered by the reality of another night in the
Female Stabilization Unit, I silently steeled myself for a second night of sleeplessness.
XIII
The vicious sniping that ruined Mother's Day had been a replay of those my mother had endured. I was
wracked with the chilling thought that I'd been conditioned to passively absorb such disappointment.
From the ongoing domestic violence in J.J.'s house to my current dodging of verbal barbs, the pieces
seemed to fit like a nightmarish jigsaw puzzle. It seemed to me that I was destined to be the focus of
negative attention whether I liked it or not. My first two marriages had ended in divorce, so what made
me think that this one was going to be any different? I'd married Ronnie at the age of 20, and thought
that we would always be together. Ronnie and I had graduated from the same high school, and he knew
21
my family well. He'd been a triathlon champion who needed tutoring, while I had been the garden-variety
geek who made sure he got passing grades. I'd mistaken this symbiotic relationship for the real thing,
and shouldn't have been surprised when I eventually contracted gonorrhea from my philandering Adonis.
The resulting abortion of my month old fetus left an indelible scar in my heart, and our divorce did little to
erase it. My second husband, Frankie, was another athlete who never worked a single day of our four
hundred and fifty day marriage.
In spite of his never having had meaningful employment, Frankie
insisted on ruling the proverbial roost. I was allowed to work and hand him my paycheck before being
locked in the house once again. Accompanying the lock downs were the hours-long brainwashing
sessions. These ordeals consisted of endless spiels describing why women are no good with plenty of
punches and kicks to go with them.
Now on my third marriage, it seemed to me that three was
definitely not a charm, because history looked like it was repeating itself. The thought that I had a
penchant for choosing the wrong kinds of men made me take stock of myself. This time, I vowed, I will
take control of my life instead of letting life take control of me. With this thought in mind, I turned to face
Eugene.
"Shut the fuck up!", I screeched. "You will not talk to me that way!" The cold stare that
accompanied this unexpected outburst brought an abrupt end to his tirade.
XIV
As if on cue, the silence of the chilly Stabilization Unit was once again shattered.
rampaging Elizabeth was the source of the disorder.
This time the
For some reason the all night prayer vigil of
Elizabeth, a paranoid schizophrenic, had been interrupted with homicidal thoughts. Obsession with her
estranged boyfriend Paul and his new girlfriend had overwhelmed her tortured mind and she ran out of
control into the hallway.
Corralling the biggest and strongest woman in the Unit proved an
insurmountable task for the skeleton crew of attendants on duty. The sight of three orderlies chasing
Elizabeth through the corridor, down the long hallway to the nurses' station was a spectator rivaling the
Bill Picket Rodeo. Elizabeth was dressed in a regulation hospital gown that served as her night dress.
Other than that, she was completely naked. Her huge behind and heavy thighs wobbled uncontrollably
as she sprinted with surprising speed toward the door of the Day Room. Finding it locked as was
customary, Elizabeth crashed through it as easily as a runaway freight train. She pushed through the
shattered glass and twisted metal, cutting her bare feet in the process. Not noticing the evidence of
carnage she left in her wake, Elizabeth proceeded to hurl books, tables, chairs and lamps around the
once orderly room. The two staff members who dared to follow Elizabeth into the now ravaged Day
Room were met with broken furniture hurled at them with the velocity and deadly accuracy of scud
missiles.
XV
22
Eugene and I stood staring at one another like two combative cats on a picket fence. No longer were
angry words spewing out of our mouths. Instead, the silence pervaded the moment as if time had stood
still. "What are we doing?", I finally asked my husband." I don't know what you're doing, but I'm tired of
these arguments." he answered. "So am I, but how do we stop them?". Answering his own question,
he conceded to the fact that we needed help if our marriage was going to survive. Most things about
our relationship meshed seamlessly.
The most obvious problem, it seemed, was that we had two
different styles of communication. My career as an analyst necessitated a more direct approach, while
his way of speaking was circular. While I enjoyed his rather conservative, old-world charm, my
independence caused him to feel insecure. Adding fuel to that fire was my belief that my husband had
unresolved issues with his mother that interjected themselves into every one of our conversations. He
had described his early childhood to me, and became agitated at the memory of his mother. His father
had been a career military man who managed to sustain an absentee relationship with his wife. He
sought lengthy deployments that kept him away from his growing family for long periods of time. While
this arrangement supported his father's military ambitions, it placed most the responsibility for maintaining
the family squarely on his wife's shoulders. Outwardly Miriam gave tacit approval and support to her G.I.
husband. Inwardly she seethed with resentment over the sacrifices she was forced to make because of
his career.
Still, there were few opportunities for Blacks during the 1940's, and she knew that the
allotment checks he provided were more than most civilians received. Even though they were less than
those received by white soldiers, they still provided the necessities of life.
As a young woman, Miriam
had dreams of completing her college education, but the arrival of the twins made this impossible. She
had become a cold woman because of this, and vented her frustrations on her children. She showed a
softer side to his handicapped sister Pamela, and even this tenderness was a rarity. The full brunt of her
anger had been directed at my husband, who could never seem to meet the standards of this strict
disciplinarian. His mother had expected a single child, not twins, and the arrival of the second child was
an unpleasant surprise. Not only was he unexpected, but this smaller twin was born with congenital
cataracts. His mother saw this as a multiple curse, and he became the target of her abuse. Eugene
endured unprovoked beatings with whatever weapon was handy, and his defense was to excel at fighting
bigger and stronger boys. Personal pain and rejection made him more sensitive to the suffering of
others, but the deep longing for a close relationship with his mother plagued him.
Her stubborn
resistance to his need for closeness left deep scars in his heart. He seemed neither able to understand
nor capable of resolving his mother's anguish, and over time immersed himself in professional
achievements as compensation. His frustration buried itself deep into his soul and surfaced as
accusations against women who had the misfortune of reminding him of his mother. Over time I began
to understand and sympathize with his pain, but refused to become a scapegoat for his anger. In spite of
the many arguments we had, his love for me was abundant. He was gradually beginning to recognize
the futility of wrestling with his inner torment by himself, and was uplifted at the prospect of couples
23
counseling. I was happy as well, because the ongoing conflicts between us was threatening to exhaust
my stamina.
Once he had revealed these details to me, he began to calm down. We spoke in quiet tones about the
issue, and he eventually agreed that intervention would not be a bad idea. We'd discussed getting
counseling on previous occasions, but these discussions inevitably broke down under the weight of his
denial that he harbored resentment against women and my fending off his painful outbursts.
His
concession to my suggestions that help would be needed if we were to hurdle these feelings was on the
condition that I was the one who needed to seek therapy. This struck me as strange, since I'd neither
instigated the confrontations nor persisted in making disparaging remarks about him. In spite of his
denial, Eugene's opinion that women were his enemy were clearly state in his persistent diatribes. As a
member of the enemy camp, I was secretly vilified. At the same time, his demonstrations of love and
affection were genuine, and my heart ached with sympathy for of his dilemma. I knew that we were both
committed to making our marriage work, and was relieved that we were finally going to seek the help we
needed. Little did I know that the counseling I believed was forthcoming would change my life forever.
XVI
The gargantuan woman was eventually subdued, and the ward was once again silent. I laid awake
staring into the darkness wondering what had happened to set her off. As if reading my mind, Terri
began to relate the story of Elizabeth's latest breakdown. Being a big girl had been difficult for Elizabeth,
who had come from a small-statured family.
Her upbringing in rural Montana had included vicious
teasing about her size. Accusations of lesbianism and transexuality had been painful for Elizabeth, but
she became proficient at sublimating her outrage.
Finding employment as a ranch hand and cattle
herder was no problem for her. The locals viewed a 6'6" woman weighing 300 pound as a distinct
oddity. Being handy with her fists didn't hurt in an community that was proud of it's pioneer heritage.
Elizabeth could ride, rope, brand, and fight with the toughest of men. The notoriety she achieved proved
a dubious honor that further alienated her from her more petite sisters.
Finding eligible men in a
sparsely-populated area was hard enough. Finding men interested in a giantess who bested them all in
traditionally masculine occupations severely limited her romantic options. The few men who dared to
approach her did so on a dare, and Elizabeth's discovery of this deception deepened her depression.
Failure after romantic failure plagued her until she broke under the strain. Her first two confinements had
done little more than provide glue for her broke psyche. Her low self esteem was never fully addressed,
but her medicine chest was filled with psychotropic medicines of all kinds.
Thorazine, Haldol, and
Risperdol cocktails provided chemical straight-jackets that were uniformly unable to effectively contain the
smoldering lava that had once again erupted.
24
XVII
As promised, I was assessed by staff psychiatrist Ahmad Saddiq later that afternoon. After advising me
that my admission had been involuntary, Dr. Saddiq asked me why I was there. I thought for a few
seconds before answering, "My mouth". He smiled slightly at this, and with a chuckle, asked me how my
mouth had gotten me in trouble. I told him about what had happened at Peach State before asking him if
calling Dr. Mahmud out of her name was reason to have me picked up. The smile was replaced by a deep
sigh. He shook his head slowly from side to side at this before once again fixing his gaze on me.
Looking me in the eyes for a brief moment, he then lifted four fingers up. Now knowing what this gesture
meant, I asked Dr. Saddiq whether or not that many people had been admitted for calling this doctor a
name. Smiling knowingly but not answering, he picked up the paperwork on the desk with a cryptic look
on his face. Dr. Saddiq proceeded to relate excerpts from Dr. Mahmud's report. He once again peered
at me over his glasses before turning the papers upside down on the desk. With hands folded across his
chest, he sat perfectly still as a slow smile made its way across his face. To my unbelieving ears, Dr.
Saddiq had determined that I needed neither medication nor confinement and was going to release me
the next day! He asked me why I had designated my brother rather than my husband as my contact
person. I told him that I believed my husband was at least partially responsible for my commitment. Dr.
Saddiq blinked at this revelation before informing me that the conditions of my discharge included a
follow-up appointment with
both my brother and my husband, followed by a visit with a therapist.
Noticing my hesitation at the mention of my husband, he asked whether or not I planned to continue with
my marriage. I told him that I didn't know, but would wait to hear my husband's side of the story before
deciding. Dr. Saddiq remarked that he though that would be a wise move, and I readily agreed to the
discharge conditions. With hope rekindled, I returned unescorted to the Stabilization Unit. Figuring that
the staff was otherwise occupied, I was nonetheless a bit taken aback at what I saw as a security
breach. After all, I'd been escorted out of the unit, and had never seen a patient use the exit door without
being accompanied by a staff member. Smiling inwardly, I glowed with the tiny snippet of autonomy
this solitary walk provided for me.
XVIII
Terri was grinning from ear to ear as I entered our room. She had received word that her parents, sister,
and husband had been impressed with her progress and requested that she be released. Dr. Walters,
her psychiatrist, was pleased at her stability, and agreed that she was eligible for discharge.
We
mouthed war whoops, shared bear hugs, and performed an light-footed victory dance which still made the
drab room vibrate.
Remembering the unwritten rule against undefinable emotional expression, Terri
and I abruptly curtailed our spontaneous celebration. Hopping over to the window instead, we stood on
my bed marveling at the trilling songbirds serenading us from the trees just outside. Nature had never
25
looked so wonderful as we lingered under the spell of it all. With a sigh, the irony of the liberty the birds
were enjoying was not lost on me. It seemed so long ago that I, too, had been able to savor such
freedom. Now, that freedom had been snatched from me, and my mind was tortured by its intrinsic
value. A deep sadness had also replaced Terri's happiness as she contemplated her return home.
"What is going to happen when I get back?" she asked. "I don't know, but anything would be better than
this place." I answered. She stared at with me as tears began to trickle down her cheeks. "I don't know
about that." she replied. "My husband had me committed, and I don't believe this will be my last time
here." This piqued my curiosity, and I asked her what she meant by that. She told me about the
beatings, the verbal abuse and the blatant infidelity that had become the signature of their marriage. Her
husband was a chameleon, who could change faces in the blink of an eye. This sinister talent worked its
charm on Terri's parents, who were smitten with their son-in-law. Terri, realizing the futility of confronting
her husband in the face of her parents' approval of him, had assumed a passive-resistance that proved to
be her undoing. By her own admission she had begun sabotaging her husband's facade by falling
asleep at family gatherings, neglecting her hygiene, and generally failing to perform tasks that supported
his image as head of the household. Just as determined to regain control, her husband had started to
hint that Terri was not a well woman. Her parents had noticed Terri's deterioration and agreed with Jim
that their daughter did, in fact, have a serious problem. These surreptitious discussions resulted in a
general consensus that hospitalization would rouse Terri from her apparent stupor, and her parents gave
their tacit approval of Jim's intention to have his wife committed.
Terri was showering, and the sound of the running water briefly reminded me of home. She was both
excited and nervous about resuming her life outside of the hospital. After all, she had been committed
by her husband, and the discord between them was still unresolved. The previous night's visit from her
family seemed to have lifted her spirits. Terri and her husband Jim had embraced warmly, and he
appeared happy to see her. She clung to her husband like a frightened child, staring lovingly into his
face as if imprinting his image on her mind. I wondered what was going through her mind as I stood
transfixed by the scene. Could she believe that she could somehow resurrect her marriage with its
one-sided power structure, or was she thinking of dissolving it in search of greater equity? It was difficult
to decipher the meaning behind her adoring countenance, which remained pasted on her pale face
throughout the entire visit. Her mother cooed incessantly at the adoring sight of the lovebirds, but the
look on her father's face was nothing short of contemptuous. Nevertheless, Terri was formally advised
that she had been scheduled for release before nightfall, and she was glowing.
XIX
A sharp rap on the door broke the spell that Terri had woven with her story. She scurried over to her bed
as I leaped across the room to answer the knock. We had wasted no time in assuming our usual
26
compliant postures, and I opened the door in record time. A beaming Nurse Alice was standing on the
other side and informed me that I had a telephone call. I was pleasantly surprised at the welcomed
news, and obediently told her that I was on my way.
Slightly out of breath at my unaccustomed
animation, I made a conscious effort to mask my excitement as I arrived at the phone dangling from the
wall. Two patients, curious at the strange sight of the dangling phone, had made their way down the hall
to investigate.
Sophia was babbling incoherently into the receiver, as she intermittently blew her
imaginary bubbles. Elizabeth, still clad in her hospital gown, plucked at her pubic hairs as she stood
glaring at the wall. The sounds of my rapid footfalls signaled my approach, and she began to rocked
back and forth. Realizing that I would have to carry on a conversation with an audience standing at my
elbows, I thanked the docile Sophia for taking the call for me as I pried the receiver from her grasp. My
sister was on the other end, and asked who the other person had been. As I began to explain who
Sophia was, Elizabeth started to pace around in tight circles. What had been mumbled profanity soon
became ear-spitting scatology.
The usually passive Sophia started keening in response.
The
cacophony now filling the hallway encouraged patients watching from their doorways to join the eerie
symphony. Elizabeth mechanically drew nearer and nearer to where I was standing until I could feel the
heat of her fetid breath on my face. She continued her argument with the voices in her head, keeping her
gaze riveted on unseen listeners. Sophia had sidled up to where I was standing and smiled cryptically
as she rubbed her back against me. Wedged between the two women, it wasn't long before I was
deafened by the din. The fear that I would become an unwitting part of their fixation, rendered me
helpless as to how I would dislodge myself.
I was overwhelmed by the distinctive odors of stale
perspiration, bad breath, and medication emanating from the two crazed women. Their proximity made
me feel faint and vulnerable as I struggled to regain control of my thoughts. My sister heard the howling
coming through the phone, and eventually jolted me back to my senses with her frantic questioning.
She had been unnerved by by the commotion and her promise to get me released as soon as possible
reanimated my faculties. I begged her to hurry, as the specter of winding up like these women began to
haunt me. I had been able to resist the fear that even the short time I'd been confined would induce
mental illness like a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Now I wasn't so sure.
The racket assailing me had
penetrated my tortured eardrums to the point where it was beginning to sound like music.
As if reading
my mind, Kate assured me that I'd never become one of them. My croaked response warned her that
my equilibrium was in jeopardy. She gasped and choked back sobs as she abruptly hung up. She had
told me that she loved me, and my precarious serenity teetered on that love.
XX
I was still shaken by the events in the hallway as we filed into the Day Room for Group Session. As
usual, Anna greeted us and brightly asked how we were feeling. I noticed a few new faces among the
throng of women. A number of patients who had hopes of being either discharged or moved to a less
27
restrictive ward were still present. The unhappiness on their faces had replaced the fleeting smiles I'd
seen earlier in the day and I knew that their relocation had either been delayed or outright denied. A
couple of the women responded to Anna's query by asking when they would be able to leave the
Stabilization Unit. Smiling benevolently, Anna merely nodded before telling the women to report to the
window. The ominous window was located on the side of the Day Room adjacent to the Nurses' Station.
It was here that the patients were required to line up single file for their medication. The women so
instructed quietly got up and obediently moved toward the window, which opened at their arrival. A
nurse dressed in green scrubs dutifully set tiny paper cups of pills on the sill of the Dutch door. The
inquisitive patients wordlessly washed down the pills with water from equally miniscule paper cups.
Once done, the selected women returned to their seats, and the remaining witnesses became even more
morose. No further questions about leaving the unit were asked as if by unspoken consent. Before
long the now silent challengers were beginning to nod off. The association between the administered
medication and the lethargic denizens had apparently not been lost on even the most disturbed patient.
That is, with the exception of Bertha, who had come in the night before.
I'd overlooked Bertha, a tall thin Black woman who insisted that her metallic red wig was her natural hair.
Bertha talked incessantly about her many boyfriends, and expressed anger that her favorite companion
had double-crossed her. Oblivious to the distracted audience around her, Bertha continued the
monologue by explaining that she and her beau had been bar-hopping the night before. He had put
something in her drink that caused her to lose her mind, she said. Anna's persistent admonitions for
fewer expletives and more silence went unnoticed by Bertha, who reveled in the attention she was now
getting from the other patients. Bertha switched from topic to topic during her talk, seemingly without
taking a breath. She laughed loudly during this inane series of tales, and found comfort in masturbating
throughout her inappropriate performance. The rest of the patients watched silently as Bertha began to
disrobe. This encore prompted Anna to jump out of her chair and call for the orderlies. Upon their
arrival, the gyrating Bertha suggestively invited them to join the party. Their reaction was to smoothly
take her by the arms and lead her out of the Day Room. With her heels dragging across the linoleum,
Bertha loudly ordered them to put her panties back on. This unexpected display of modesty, had another
purpose for the narcissistic exhibitionist.
The reason she did this, she cooed suggestively, was to
prevent the orderlies from trying to have sex with her.
XXI
I left group session with a myriad of unasked questions about the people confined to the back ward. As if
my answers were forthcoming, I saw Sophie standing adjacent to the door to Natalie's room with a
pleasant smile on her child-like face.
Wondering what had caused the discernable change in her
demeanor, I peeked inside the room. Natalie was fishing around in her overnight bag in search of a hair
28
brush, and hair oil. Finally locating the desired implements, she smiled unexpectedly when she saw
me standing in the doorway.
"Today I'm going to comb this girl's hair." she announced with a wink at
the blushing Sophie. I was curious as to what was about to happen, and trailed the duo back to the Day
Room. Natalie sat on the sofa and gestured for the passive Sophie to sit down on the floor. With her
elderly charge submissively seated in front of her, Natalie masterfully wielded a rat-tailed comb in an
effort to disentangle the snarls that comprised Sophia customary hairdo. I watch with interest as the
matted mane was gradually transformed into soft silvery tresses. A number of the other women had
responded to the unusual sight by wandering over to view the miracle taking place. Before long, a
decidedly more attractive woman replaced the wraith I had become accustomed to seeing. Sophie had
obviously been a woman who had once paid meticulous attention to her appearance.
The blank
expression of mental illness had failed to erase the delicate beauty beneath. The metamorphosis
s skillful application of
’
was, however, incomplete. French twist and spiky bangs perfected, Natalie
eyeliner, shadow, penciled eyebrows, a touch of blush, and rose-tinted lipstick completed the portrait. As
if by magic, a nurse watching from the observation window produced a hand mirror and gave it to Sophie.
Slowly lifting the precious mirror, Sophie patiently scanned her face as if seeing it for the first time. Her
approval produced a shy smile that broadened as she continue to admired Natalie's handiwork.
Satisfied at the masterpiece created by the makeup and coiffeur, Sophie lowered the hand mirror as
slowly as she had lifted it.
The gasped admiration and impromptu applauses of the other woman
confirmed Sophie's renewed femininity.
XXII
Still thinking about the wonder of what I had just witnessed, I hurried back to our room in anticipation of
sharing the good new with my roommate. I was stunned and saddened by the sight of her hurried
packing, and I knew without asking that Terri would actually be leaving that very day. The noise of my
entry startle her, and she spun around to see who the visitor was. Relieved at seeing me, Terri's words
tumbled over one another as she described her exit interview.
The good news both cheered and
depressed me, but the practiced smile she had taught me prevented me from revealing my true feelings
to her. I was elated to know that this kind and supportive woman was to soon reintegrate into the outside
world, but I couldn't help wishing that I could go home as well. My sadness at Terri's leaving was
deepened by not knowing whether when I would be discharged. As she related the details of her final
session with Dr. Saddiq, she told me that I would be getting another roommate later that afternoon. I had
little time to mourn the obvious fact that I would have to remain locked up for another day. Elizabeth had
started incessantly pounding on the door while yelling for Terri to open it. Jolted out of my misery, I
quickly snatched the door open only to find the reeking giantess looming at the threshold.
29
Without hesitation, Elizabeth marched purposefully into the room. The familiar stench trailed in after her,
assailing our nostrils. Terri didn't appear to notice as she was preoccupied with ejecting the uninvited
guest. Failing at this, she swiftly closed the door and asked Elizabeth what was the matter.
expecting this question, Elizabeth told Terri that she was going over the wall.
As if
Another patient had
literally climbed the twelve foot wall enclosing the rear portion of the smoking patio. Although she had
been captured and returned to the Stabilization Unit, the runaway was considered both a heroine and a
fool for attempting to escape. Few such patients had ever managed to elude the detection of hospital
security. Even if they succeeded in scaling the wall, there was still the difficult task of traversing the
expansive grounds before attaining the relative anonymity of the city streets. Complicating all of this was
the absence of public transportation. Caution signs were posted warning visitors, staff, and students
against picking up hitch hikers. Unless an escape vehicle was waiting at a prearranged location, leaving
Sunset without proper discharge was virtually impossible.
Terri advised Elizabeth against trying to escape, but her warnings fell on deaf ears. Elizabeth was
adamant about her desire to go over the wall, and no amount of reasoning could dissuade her. Having
run out of arguments, Terri lapsed into a resigned silence as Elizabeth ranted on. Fearing that her own
discharge would be canceled if Elizabeth were to be detected in our room, Terri vainly tried to encourage
Elizabeth to return to her own quarters. In desperation, my beleaguered mentor finally asked Elizabeth
to pray with her. This had the desired effect of calming the agitated woman down, and we formed a
small prayer circle. Elizabeth's powerful hands clutched mine in a viselike grip. Sweaty and hot, there
was no way of escaping her grasp until the prayer session had been completed with the obligatory
"Amen". I bowed my head in resignation and Terri began praying for Elizabeth. At first my participation
had been a forced effort, but as Terri's voice rose in earnest, I began to sense that our prayers were
being heard.
Elizabeth dutifully responded with "Amen" and "Lord help us all" with uncharacteristic
conviction and clarity. As the prayers progressed, she exhaled and seemed to relax. Opening my eyes
at the closing of the prayers, I discovered that Terri had placed her hand on Elizabeth's still bowed head.
Dropping to her knees, Elizabeth began to sob hoarsely as if every tear she had dammed up inside of her
soul was being forced out.
Her big body trembled uncontrollably, and the front of her gown was
saturated with the salty water. Weakening with the labor of her sorrowful outpourings, the giantess
rested her large head on her knees. Her arms now lay alongside her on the floor as the sobs had now
dissolved into helpless heavings. Falling silent at last, Elizabeth remained perfectly still for what seemed
an eternity. She finally mustered the energy to raise her head and rivet us with her black eyes as she
remained kneeling. Terri gently asked the panting Elizabeth if she was alright. She got no answer.
After a long time, Elizabeth told us that she was better and struggled to her feet. She brushed her long
black hair out of her ravaged face, modestly straightened her rumpled hospital gown, and left as suddenly
as she had entered.
Terri mechanically returned to her packing, and the silence that blanketed the
room reverberated with the power of the transformation that had just occurred.
30
I'd fallen into a fitful sleep once our unexpected visitor had returned to her own room.
What sounded
like an atom bomb exploding in hallway just outside our door shook me back into reluctant wakefulness.
An angry female voice battered the very walls, and Terri whispered, "Oh, God, Elizabeth is on the
rampage again." We remained as still as corpses as shouting attendants thundered down the halls.
What had been a solo outburst had now evolved into a chaotic mixture of grunts, profanity, and scuffling.
Elizabeth's size quickness, and strength was now magnified by the outrage of an angry bull. Fearing that
the confrontation on the other side of the door would burst into the room upon us, Terri and I continue to
cower fearfully. After what seemed an eternity, a heavy silence blanketed our section of the Female
Stabilization Unit. It was obvious that the same five attendants had finally been able to corral the furious
Elizabeth, this time dragging her deeper into the bowels of Sunbelt to complete her constraint and snuff
out any chance of her hoped-for escape. We knew that once she had been collared, Elizabeth would
predictably disappear from our midst as others before her had done.
XXIII
Terri had finally finished packing and tearfully promised to keep in touch with me. She asked me to stay
close to the window because she would wave from the car as she was leaving the hospital grounds. My
day had started out with so many questions that I thought would be answered as my confinement at
Sunset progressed. On the contrary, my questions seemed to merit no answer, and were relegated to
the rhetorical as morning turned into afternoon.
The only answer I could imagine was that the
innumerable paradoxes contained in the inner life of the Female Stabilization Unit seemed to be
byproducts of the human condition.
I was strangely content to stare out the scratched window as I sat
on my bunk preoccupied with these musings. Adding to the sorrow I felt at the news that Terri would be
leaving was the revelation that Natalie was being considered for relocation to the First Floor. This was
the unit that everyone confined to the Female Stabilization Unit aspired to. The less restrictive First Floor
had carpeting, music, games, and real silverware and I was happy that yet another inmate had managed
to escape the back ward.
The long-awaited discharge hour arrived, and Terri bid a lingering farewell to the patients and staff in the
Female Stabilization Unit. Everyone had genuinely liked Terri, and the goodbyes were a mixture of
good wishes and tears of sadness. Watching her pack her belongings returned the cold fear of being in
the facility with resounding reality. Having Terri as a roommate had taken much of the sting out of being
confined to a mental hospital. Now that her humanizing influence would no longer be there to bolster
me, I longed for my own discharge with renewed fervor. Remembering that she had promised to wave
goodbye to me, I returned to what had been our room to await the signal. Like clockwork the honking
horn outside the window told me that she was bidding me farewell. As I strained to see where the noise
31
had come from, the familiar figure was frantically waving from an old Chevy idling just beyond the trees.
"Keep the faith, girl!" she called in her high-pitched voice. I returned the encouragement, and waved
enthusiastically as the battered car sputtered away with my former roommate grinning at me through the
rear window. I sighed deeply as a desperate feeling of abandonment enveloped me in a dark shroud.
XXIV
I didn't have long to languish in my sorrow. The door flew open and banged against the wall as my
new roommate, Diane, swept into the room dragging a massive carpetbag behind her.
A young
attendant played the part of bellhop as she lugged two of Diane's bulging suitcases into the room. With
a pained look on her face, the orderly directed the new patient over to her bed, placing the bags carefully
on the floor next to it. Diane apparently disapproved of the placement, and flung the heavy luggage into
the corner of the room with surprising strength. Satisfied that she had appropriately demonstrated her
contempt, Diane plopped down on the hard bed and covered her eyes with her arms. I had stared in
surprise at the sudden entrance of the new patient, and the differential treatment she was given caught
my interest. Sensing that she had adequately intrigued me, Diane launched into an impromptu narrative
of her life story.
Diane had come from an affluent, conservative Jewish family. Born in New York, she had made it a
point to embarrass her long-suffering parents at every opportunity.
Her grandfather, Abe, had
immigrated to the States to escape the gas chambers at Auschwitz, with her grandmother following soon
afterward. They had been born in Austria, and were living in Berlin as Hitler rose to power. After their
business was seized and they were placed under arrest, Abe had been able to purchase his freedom by
surrendering everything he possessed. Her grandmother, Sarah, had previously escaped to England
ahead of the Nazis at her grandfather's insistence. Satisfied with Abe's generous ransom, the Reich
released him with admonitions to never return to Europe on pain of death. Once reunited in New York
City, her grandparents found entry-level work in the garment district and set about rebuilding their
fortunes. Hard work and diligence paid off, and by the early 50's Mr. and Mrs. Hoffstetter were well on
their way to securing a solid financial future. They were able to send Diane's father, Sam, to Harvard
where he earned his MBA. Abe believed in the business end of the clothing industry, and felt that his
favorite son needed a business degree to ensure the continuation of their hard-earned prosperity. The
sacrifices of her family had made it possible for Diane to enjoy a life of relative comfort, and she saw no
need for scrimping. Instead, she embarked on a life of parties, shopping, and the liberal use of illegal
drugs washed down with cheap alcohol. The combination of substance abuse and self-indulgence was
thought to exacerbate the Tourette's Syndrome that she denied having. Diane persisted in sabotaging
her treatments, and was eventually diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Diane scoffed at this diagnosis,
saying that since it was assumed that Jewish people were prone to Tourette's, she might as well play it
32
up and get her kicks at the same time. She laughed uproariously at the though of shocking people with
outbursts of profanity and nonsensical language, and the unaccustomed sound of such abandonment
startled me. Ignoring my discomfort, Diane told me that the well-heeled guests at her parent's parties
were her favorite target, and the disgusted looks on their faces more than rewarded her salacious
performances. Her defiance backfired with multiple confinements because her parents believed that this
staged behavior nonetheless indicated other deep-seated problems.
Her biography completed, Diane opened one of the large suitcases, extracted her pillow and quilt, and fell
into a deep sleep with astonishing swiftness. As she snored contentedly, I was beginning to agree with
her parents that there was indeed something seriously wrong with their daughter. My assessment of her
familiarity with Sunbelt had certainly been accurate, because this was Diane's eighth time in the Female
Stabilization Unit. She was a rather drab, overweight girl with mousy brown hair. Her long hair nearly
hid her shockingly white face with its tiny close-set eyes. As if she had been asleep for eight hours
rather than eight minutes, Diane bolted upright with sudden alertness. Without prompting, she explained
that she had always wished she had been born blond with blue eyes and a tiny nose, but had been
cursed with dark hair, small dark eyes, and an oversized nose because of her Semitic background. She
seemed to have an uncanny talent for sensing what others were thinking about, and answered unasked
questions with practiced nonchalance.
Diane knew the experienced staff members by name, and
seemed tolerant of them. The new and unfamiliar staffers incurred her wrath, which she heaped on them
with hedonistic enthusiasm. She seemed to relish each opportunity to exhibit her disdain for the system,
and looked for opportunities to flaunt the rules. As if her batteries had run out, Diane flopped back onto
the cot and lit a Kool cigarette. The dirty white panties exposed by her upturned dress confirmed my
suspicion that my new companion was unconcerned with both matters of modesty and personal hygiene.
She snorted scornfully at my warning that smoking was not allowed in the rooms, and continued to puff as
if daring someone to catch her in the act. It wasn't long before her forbidden actions were discovered.
The smoke had managed to seep out into the hallway where it was detected by the staff. As if awaiting
the inevitable, Diane sweetly responded with an "Entre vous" to the knock on the door. As unrepentant
as she claimed to be, Diane sat calmly with her legs crossed while leisurely finishing her cigarette.
Without so much as the blink of an eye, she ate the butt, smoothed her tosseled hair, and accompanied
Nurse Alice out the door to the Confinement Room. As always, the young orderlies became porters as
they dragged her overloaded luggage down the hallway after the grinning reprobate who regaled
everyone within earshot with lurid details of her sexual escapades.
XXV
I spent the rest of my confinement in relative tranquility amid broad smiles from the staff and the
occasional telephone call from my family. I soon realized that news traveled fast at Sunbelt, and hoped
33
that these smiles validated the promise of my discharge.
The most uncomfortable part of that
afternoon was when one of the nurses advised me that my husband was on the phone and wanted to
speak with me. I had requested no communication with Eugene, yet and was still torn by both my
feelings of betrayal and love for him. I labored under this dilemma, and blamed him for the whole mess.
I was tortured by the dissonance between the veracity I'd experienced and the betrayal I feared. This
conflict incessantly plagued me as I struggled to decide what to do with marriage. After all, I reasoned,
had it not been for the appointment he set up without my knowledge, none of this would have happened.
Nurse Alice continued to plead my husband's case to me, and I finally relented.
Our phone conversation was stinted, and I strained to hear him over the familiar outbursts of
the
schizophrenics milling about in the hallway. My husband sounded relieved to hear my voice, and asked
me if I had been given the fresh clothes he had delivered that morning. My voice was flat as I confirmed
the delivery, but the barely audible response seemed to lift his spirits. He told me over and over how
much he loved me, and expressed remorse at the situation I was in. Afraid that my outrage at him would
erupt, I kept my comments brief. The familiar sound of his soothing baritone voice was both comforting
and unsettling. As he expressed his love for me in through the receiver, hot tears cascaded down my
cheeks. The sincerity I heard in his voice made me question my fear that this whole mess had started
with the appointment he had set without my knowledge. I wondered whether or not he had any inking
that tricking me into going to a psychiatrist would result in my being forced into a mental hospital. If not,
perhaps there was hope that we could somehow iron out our problems. If so, then I had to decide
whether or not I wanted to continue being married to such a devious man. I managed to stumble through
our conversation with a heavy heart, hoping that his involvement had been the result of a misguided
attempt to salvage our marriage.
XXII
The next morning I arose early, took a shower, and changed into the clothes my husband had delivered
for me. They still had the freshness of the laundry on them, and had been carefully folded. I realized
that they had been packed with the tenderness I'd come to relish, and I was once again reduced to tears.
Sophie's tense little face peering in at the opened door spoke of her empathy. My weak smile failed to
reassure her, and she remained standing like a sentry at the entrance as I hurriedly completed my task.
Realizing that she was not going to move from where she was stationed, I breezily dismissed my
diminutive guardian with what I hoped was convincing confidence. Still unsure about leaving her post,
Sophie reluctantly complied with my wishes and shuffled noiselessly toward her own room. I watched
her as she disappeared through the door, and was surprised at how much comfort her silent vigilance had
given me. I was pleased that she had remembered where her room was, and smiled at her success.
As she turned in my direction for a final look, she returned my smile with a thumbs-up signal. Even
34
though I would probably never see Sophie again once I was discharged, this cheerful gesture told me that
she was going to be just fine.
Her makeover became the talk of the Female Stabilization Unit. Everyone was stunned at how beautiful
she was, and her transformation had the added advantage of making her more visible. After retiring to
her room, Sophie emerged clad in a pastel pink velour jogging suit complemented by white satin piping
and matching athletic shoes.
Even the staff stopped shouting at her as she remembered my directions
on how to locate her room. Drifting up and down the hallway with her head held high, Sophie stood
silently in front of while I talked on the wallphone. At the end of my phone call, Sophie attempted to
match my steps as I started to return to my room. Her room was a few feet from the wallphone, and she
stopped at the doorway. Pointing to the phone she grinned and said, "I won't get lost anymore. My
room is right next to the phone just like you told me." Stunned by the clarity of thought that Natalie's
beauty treatment had evidently inspired, I asked Sophia why she had been hospitalized. She told me in
a halting voice that several years before her son had been murdered. When she suffered a meltdown, her
husband took her to a psychiatrist. Believing that she was suffering from Alzheimer's, schizophrenic,
clinically depressed, or bipolar, various combinations of antipsychotic medications for all suspected
maladies were prescribed.
These medicine
failed to provide the desired relief.
Instead, Sophie
descended deeper into dementia and cocktails of increasingly more powerful neuroleptics were given in
response.
In spite of her awareness that her condition was worsened by these medications, she
’
continued to take them at her doctor s insistence. Deciding to put an end to the drug-induced fog,
Sophie secretly began to step down the regimen. Her condition began to improve, and her husband
proudly told the psychiatrist that the medicines were working.
After returning home with yet more
psychotropic medication, her husband discovered that nearly full bottles were hidden in Sophie's
overnight bag. He realized that she had not been taking full doses, and confronted her about this. His
alarmed reaction to her resistance was to have her forcibly confined.
At Sunset, Sophie continued to
wage fifth-column warfare by keeping the pills she was given lodged in her cheeks. Upon returning to
her room, she spat them out, but retained her passive facade to avoid detection. The reason for the
invisible bubbles and facial movements became obvious: Sophia had been manipulating the pills in her
mouth. Her wordless comment about Beverly's medication took on new significance. Confident that her
secret was safe with me, the new Sophie continued to drift in unmolested serenity up and down the
hallway of the Female Stabilization Unit.
XXIII
As I stood transfixed, I noticed Miss Betty hurrying down the corridor in my direction. Upon seeing me,
her face lit up and she began to jog toward me. Her expression held the promise that I was going to be
released that same day, and I wasn't disappointed. Rushing into my room, Miss Betty pulled me inside
35
and closed the door. Her arms were loaded with folders, and upon locating the one with my name on it,
she asked me to sit down on the bed near the dressing table. After taking the only chair in the room, she
opened the file and extracted the cover sheet. My discharge instructions had been duly authorized by
Dr. Saddiq, but there were conditions that were to be met. The first was that I was to attend an exit
interview that included my brother and husband. When I balked at the mention of my husband's name,
she asked me why I didn't want him at the meeting. I told her that I believed he had arranged the
appointment at Huntington without my knowledge, and I was uncertain as to what would occur after my
discharge. She explained that his presence was a necessary part of my post-discharge program, and
that it was better to address our issues in a controlled setting than independently. This made sense to
me, but I was still riddled with doubts. She seemed to understand my trepidation, and assured me that
the presence of my brother and Dr. Saddiq would ensure an orderly discharge.
Because I had
designated my brother as my contact person, he had been asked to sit in. A follow-up session with a
therapist would be scheduled sometime the following week, and my stability would be further evaluated.
In spite of Miss Betty's explanations, my agreement to the term was still guarded. She noticed this, and
patted my hand reassuringly. I forced a smile and watched her retreating back as she left the room, both
dreading and looking forward to the impending interview.
XXIV
As the appointed hour drew nearer, Nurse Alice entered my room and announced that my support system
had arrived for the meeting. Miss Betty's detailed visit had motivated me to pack up my belongings, and
I waited patiently for the assigned meeting time. I leisurely took what I prayed would be my last look at
the drab room and wondered how anyone could keep their sanity in such an unappealing place. The
lack of adornment and Spartan furnishings spoke of a place designed as a holding pen for out of control
animals, not visitors at a tropical resort as Diane seemed to believe. It was understandable why all but
the lone straight-back chair had been secured to the floor. Pens, pencils, and other potential weapons
were strictly forbidden, yet even minimal access to such implements would have made my confinement
seem more humane. I realized that the Female Stabilization Unit had been designed with the volatility of
it's inmates in mind, yet the permanent cry for help etched into the plexiglass window spoke of needs that
transcended mere confinement.
If a private mental hospital like Sunbelt hinted at such voids, I
shuddered to imagine human slag heaps represented by state-run institutions.
Nurse Alice arrived promptly at 2 PM to escort me out of the unit. Natalie had finally been transferred to
the coveted First Floor earlier that day, and she was replaced with a new patient without delay. Patricia
was her name, and she was sleeping off the sedation that had been administered upon her admission.
Her tear-stained face retold the story of my own first encounter, and I secretly prayed for her early
release. Without knowing how she had come to Sunbelt,
36
her demeanor, open door,
and lack of
restraints told me that this was her first confinement.
The security door to the Female Stabilization Unit
slowly opened in response to the code Nurse Alice punched in, and I steeled myself for the first
face-to-face with my husband in what seemed like an eternity.
XXV
We walked down a short carpeted corridor and stopped at a nondescript door. Nurse Alice entered
another security code, and the buzzer told us that we would be allowed access. Just beyond the alcove I
spotted my husband seated near the window. My brother sat in a comfortable chair next to a large
mahogany desk where Dr. Saddiq was ensconced in a high-back leather chair. As Nurse Alice turned to
exit, Dr. Saddiq motioned for me to take a seat beside my husband. I hesitated before sitting down, and
avoided making eye-contact with Eugene. I kept my eyes averted as yet another participant entered the
room. Miss Betty took a seat next to me, rifling through her ever-present stack of folders. She placed
mine in front of Dr. Saddiq, who began perusing its contents. After a few minutes of silence, Dr. Saddiq
extracted a few forms and returned them face down to the highly-polished surface.
He shared the
observations from the staff that I had been calm, cooperative, attentive, and responsive.
The
examination by Dr. Stovis had been relative unremarkable, with no findings of drug abuse, alcohol
dependency, neurological problems, or chemical imbalances.
Concluding that there was neither
justification for continued confinement nor reason to prescribe antipsychotic medication, Dr. Saddiq
turned the session over to Miss Betty.
She read the conditions of my discharge, and they were the same as the ones she had cited earlier.
While looking over her notes, she asked my husband had he ever been diagnosed with mental illness.
He answered negatively, and she continued to question him. He told her of abuse by his mother, the
absence of his father, how his grandparents filled the void left by his parents, become a part-time father to
his only son, his three failed marriages, and how he had been traumatized when he found out that his
third wife had cheated on him with another woman. Fourteen years was the longest he had ever been
married, he explained. This longevity made him think that he had gotten to know his wife very well, and he
became complacent with the familiarity. Her infidelity had awakened dormant fears of abandonment,
and the fact that this indiscretion had been with another woman dealt a serious blow to his manhood. He
spent the final three years of his marriage trying to decide whether or not to get a divorce. When he
discovered Clarine in a compromising position, he nearly snapped. Only the intervention of a friend
prevented him from committing homicide.
Following a rather nasty divorce, Eugene spent the next
eighteen years alone. He dated off and on, but had pointedly avoided serious relationships until he met
me. Listening quietly to these details, Miss Betty finally asked Eugene whether or not he believed that
he was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Without hesitation he answered affirmatively, and
37
she suggested that he seek counseling. He agreed, relieved to finally have the opportunity to be rid of a
lifetime of anguish.
After speaking with my husband, Miss Betty fell silent, and Dr. Saddiq began to address my brother.
Louie had been listening attentively to everything that was said, and accepted his assigned role as
intermediary without question. Dr. Saddiq accurately stated that my brother seemed to be a person that
both my husband and I trusted, and smiled when we nodded in agreement. As the meeting drew to a
close, Dr. Saddiq asked me who I wanted to ride home with. Still apprehensive, I chose my brother. My
choice was disappointing to my anxious husband. The hopefulness I had seen in his eyes was replaced
by a look of deep sadness, as he dropped his head. My heart ached for him, but I was determined to
ignore this feeling in favor of my own well-being. He lifted his head and stared directly at me, and I
returned his gaze. In spite of his pain, I saw love there, and this made me smile at him. The exchange
was not lost on Dr. Saddiq, who nodded slightly before ending the meeting.
XXIV
I hurried to the door, and was pleasantly surprised to find it unlocked. Once out into the main corridor, I
slowed down as the entrance to the Female Stabilization Unit loomed in front of me. One of the nurses
saw me through the window, and buzzed me in without delay. My belongings had already been packed
into large brown shopping bags and had been stored at the Nurses' Station. After confirming my name
and patient I.D. numbers, the nurse snipped the plastic identification bracelet from my wrist, stuffed it into
one of the bags and told me that I was free to go. Just like that, I had been given back my life on the
outside and I was eager to savor it once again.
My headlong rush toward the door to the lobby was partly out of fear that my discharge would somehow
be recalled, and partly inspired by my eagerness to breathe free air for the first time in days. The
liberty that I had taken for granted before my confinement seemed like a cherished treasure now that I
had been deprived of it. The relatively brief time I had lived night and day under the watchful eyes of the
staff made me realize that freedom is granted by those in power.
Before I had labored under the
misconception that only criminals could be locked away. Now that I had been treated like a dangerous
animal, I realized the folly of my former way of thinking. I was so preoccupied with these preoccupations
that I nearly failed to recognize my husband and brother waiting for me in the lobby. They rose when I
came through the door, and their relieved smiles told me that they had been thinking similar thoughts.
XXV
Eugene immediately embraced me, and blanketed my face with scores of kisses.
I attempted to
reciprocate, but felt frozen in place. As much as I willed them to do so, my arms refused to return the
38
hugs. I stiffly thanked him for the clothes and coming to the meeting, and he smiled sadly. He seemed
to understand that it would take time for me to warm up to him again, and stepped aside as my brother
took his place. I clung to Louie as if I were afraid of drowning. His presence made me feel safe, and
served as a buffer between me and my husband. He held me for a long time, telling me that I would be
alright. I wanted so much to believe him, and told him that I was still afraid of being returned to custody.
His answer to that was to hurry me out of the entrance, still keeping his arm tightly around my shoulder.
Eugene quietly picked up the shopping bags and silently trailed us out to the parking lot. Once there, my
brother asked me which car I wanted to ride home in. When I chose to ride with him, my husband once
again dropped his head. After a brief moment, he forced a smile and told us that he would see us later.
I watched him drive away with mixed emotions. Louie sensed my struggle and told me to leave it up to
God. With a deep sigh of agreement, I fought back tears as I slid into the front seat of the car.
The sky had never seemed so vast nor the air so fresh as we once again sped along the interstate toward
home. I watched the people occupying passing vehicles, and wondered what they were thinking. Some
of the drivers seemed enmeshed in their private thoughts, while others laughed with abandon at
something one of their passengers had said. I admired their gaiety, and looked forward to the day that I
would again be capable of such joy. Louie chatted casually about his upcoming birthday party, which
took place on the Independence Day weekend. Visions of throngs of guests clad in bathing suits danced
in my head, and I suddenly was awash with a terrible feeling of self-consciousness. Would anyone know
about my having been confined to a mental institution? I was mortified by the thought that someone
might somehow find out and assume that I was somehow tarnished. My siblings had been notified, and
phone calls from them told me that they were in my corner. I had not heard from my youngest sister
Melanie, who had always been a bit of hermit. Still, I knew that even if she had gotten word of my forced
hospitalization, she would not think the worst of me. My sister Sybil, on the other hand, had sounded
guarded the one time we spoke on the telephone. Her attitude seemed to be that if whatever I chose to
do was of no consequence to her. With this one exception, I felt unwavering love and support of my
sisters and brothers, and was strengthened by it.
XXVI
The miles whizzing by during our conversation made me forget that we were drawing nearer and nearer
to our destination. I fell silent with increasing apprehension as we approached the familiar offramp. As
Louie steered the car through the surface streets, I began to tense at the thought of going back home. I
had refused the offer to spend a few days with my brother and sister-in-law, opting for the comfort of my
own bed. I knew that I would have to face my husband alone sooner or later, and I preferred to do it as
quickly as possible. Eugene was waiting at the front door as we pulled into the driveway. He seemed
genuinely happy to see me, and I was surprised at how relieved I was to see him so anxious to have me
39
with him again. After sharing a hug, I waved bravely at Louie, who was watching the exchange from the
car. Satisfied that all was well, his departure left me alone with my husband for the first time.
My return home was a mixture of relief and trepidation. I feared that my husband had been complicit in
my confinement. Even though the trust I'd given so willingly had been badly shaken, I preferred to
believe that my husband was torn between the denial of his own insecurities and a sincere desire to do
whatever he could to preserve our marriage. I knew that I had to find closure for myself, my husband,
and my brother.
Still, I was determined to continue with my marriage, so I presented a carefully crafted
face of confidence. Inside, the suspicion and anger seethed like a caldron of lava and threatened to
spew over everything I touched. Tears were always behind my smile, and overflowed at the slightest
provocation.
I knew that I had to find closure, and began to scour the web for answers. I began to make phone calls
and sending emails to every law firm, advocacy group, and anyone else with the potential to this wrong
that had been committed against me. Volumes of mental health references were researched in a quest
for the reason for my confinement. Once I was able to determine what the criteria were for having
someone committed, I then reviewed the Sunbelt Behavioral Hospital documents to see if anything fit my
case.
Nothing did.
What I did discover was that there were blatant misrepresentations from Dr.
Mahmud's report. This information prompted me to began searching for an attorney or advocate to
represent me. I phoned Member Services at Peach State, and described the complaint I wanted to log.
The representative, Vivian, took my complaint over the phone and assured me that someone would
contact me in a couple of weeks. When the awaited contact failed to materialize, I called again with the
same results.
This lack of response led me to believe that Kaiser was going to do nothing to appease
me, so I considered filing a law suit. I had no idea which legal area of expertise handled involuntary
hospitalization. After contacting literally dozens of leads, I found no attorney or advocate willing to take
on the job. Not that there were no attorneys available, but that there seemed to be the disbelief that a
doctor would somehow be guilty of illegally or unethically subjecting an undeserving person to involuntary
hospitalization. The multitude of canned answers to my requests for representations were that this sort
of case was too time-consuming, expensive to litigate, and equally difficult to win. The realty seemed
more ominous:
To my chagrin, the unspoken consensus was that those confined to mental health
facilities invariably belonged there. To accept a case such as mine would bot only be expensive but
generally fruitless in the monetary sense. Judgments were few and none of the available case files I had
been able to read provided precedence for my circumstance. In a word. there was precious little in the
academic texts relating to those confined who were not deemed mentally unstable. The general opinion
seemed to be that public safety outweighed the possibility that there might be incidences of wrongful
confinement.
The general disbelief that professional misconduct or negligence could result in an
improper commitment became a brick wall. My position is that this is exactly what happened. I was and
40
am determined that this sort of ordeal should never befall another person. After all, if one of us can be
deprived of our liberty so arbitrarily, what is to prevent other breaches?
XXIII
My relationship with my husband was rife with suspicion, mistrust, angry accusations and tears. It took
me three days to finally sleep in the same bed with him, and my back to him forestalled any possibility of
pillow talk. He, in turn, was full of recriminations and self-pity. Tears were never far from the surface,
and my face took on the appearance of a wraith trapped in eternal mourning. The job I'd held with such
pride seemed decades away, and I couldn't muster the courage to face it. Customer service had always
been my forte, but the thought of interacting with a disgruntled patron summoned tremors of anxiety
throughout my body. My solace was my miniature Yorkie, Princess Braveheart, and I gained comic relief
through her antics. Interaction with relatives was even more stressful, although they had offered me their
unwavering support during my confinement. My brother Louie had been my designated contact person,
and he'd kept the rest of the family abreast of the proceedings.
My sister Kate had made daily
long-distance telephone calls to me from California. Her fury at what had happened to me was palpable.
She laid sole responsibility for my confinement at the feet of my husband, and made no secret of her
desire for me to divorce him. My other siblings remained steadfastly neutral, hoping that somehow my
husband and I would work through the morass of hurt feeling and ultimately resume our former closeness.
The first three months following my discharge were a challenge. I finally had the courage to return to
work, keeping the reason for my sudden absence buried in lies. My supervisor was understanding, and
believed that my malady lay in physical disability. I worked hard to make up for my disappearance, and
began to regain my ability to interact with others. The fact that these contacts were anonymous and by
telephone helped me to inch toward was use to be pleasurable interactions.
During this time, I never stopped hoping that someone would rectify the injustice.
After repeated
platitudes, excuses, and rejections by innumerable law firms, the realization dawned that legal recourse
eluded me.
In early September, 2009 I submitted a detailed complaint to the Georgia Composite
Medical Board. Accompanied by witness statements from my brother and husband, it was a ray of hope
that I pinned my belief in the system on. I could have saved my energy. Id waited anxiously for the
Board's reaction to my complaint, and was politely informed that Dr. Mahmud had acted within Board
guidelines. Evidently, that a Board certified psychiatrist would act in an unethical manner was never a
consideration. All that mattered was that the blanks were filled in with the required phrases.
On the
other hand, the conclusion I drew was that commitment to a mental institution was always seen as
benevolent rather than punitive.
To think otherwise was a form of denial which at it's base reinforced
fears that this individual still has not accepted the decision that was made for her. The best way to deal
41
with such an unrepentant person is to close ranks. It seemed that the very mention of involuntary
commitment relegated me to a category of former citizens who could be confined to a mental hospital at
the slightest hint of dissent. The viable, insightful, credible woman I once was had been reclassified.
Now, I was officially one who was incapable of self-determination. Having been so categorized, the
specter of eternal persona non gratis status was devastating to my hard-won sense of self.
The
fabrications that formed the base of Dr. Mahmud's narrative had successfully been structured to ensure
my complete degradation.
The fact that the witness statements refuted this information were not taken
into consideration was assurance that the degradation had been effective. The only conclusion I could
draw from the response to my complaint was that the Board agreed that I was a potential menace.
Having been confined to a mental institution assured society that you can be locked up again, if even for
a day. The arbitrary deprivation of my freedom made me wonder if others had been remanded in the
same way that I had been. While continuing to believe that involuntary hospitalization can be constructive,
my experience confirms it as a serious infringement on individual freedom.
Being one of the only
instances of incarceration for something another person believes you are going to do, evidence to the
contrary is considered after the fact. I hoped that the Composite Medical Board would have the wisdom
to look beyond firmly-held stereotypes about candidates for involuntary hospitalization and consider the
balance between civil liberties and civil protections.
On January 8, 2010 the long-awaited response finally came. It was a disappointment to say the least,
but the impersonal tone of the letter distressed me even more: the Board determined that Dr. Mahmud
has violated neither the Administrative Procedures Act nor rules of the Board in having me committed. In
spite of documents submitted on my behalf their decision was that no violation had been committed. My
heart broke once again and I slid back into the inferno.
XXIV
During a later routine visit with my primary care physician following my discharged, I mustered the
courage to broach the subject. Dr. Peterson, listened attentively as I asked whether or not he would
hesitate to recommend intervention for me if he felt it was necessary. He emphatically answered,
"Not for an instant." My reservation about speaking lifted, I told Dr. Peterson that I believe Dr. Mahmud
maliciously and unethically meant to have me involuntarily confined in retaliation for my having called her
a name and refusing her assistance. I further expressed my feeling that Dr. Mahmud's actions were
illegal, resulting in violation of my civil rights. He slowly nodded in assent as he peered at me over his
glasses. After a brief silence, I asked him whether or not I would be able to file a complaint. He advised
me to do so. adding that if this was in fact true, then I should log a complaint with Members Services. I
was relieved at his response and thanked him for listening.
42
’
Upon returning home I immediately telephoned Huntington s members services department. I related
the requested details to the representative on the other end of the line and was promised that an
investigator would contact me within two weeks.
After a month with no phone call, I decided that
perhaps I needed to take the matter further. I embarked on what seemed to be an endless search for
attorneys to represent me. It didn't take me long to realize that once the screeners heard the words
"involuntary hospitalization" the doors would be slammed in my face.
What was the taboo against
complaints against a psychiatrist? Was this profession some sort of sacred cow? It appeared to me
that the attorneys I'd spoken with were more interested in chasing ambulances than delving into a legal
issue that might not be as clearly outlined. After all, injuries from an automobile accident were far more
apparent than injuries invisible to the naked eye.
I was able to finally speak with two attorneys directly,
but they curiously became overburdened with existing cases once they heard why I needed
representation. Another attorney bluntly told me that while I may have a case, it would take more work
than it was worth to litigate. After thanking him for speaking with me, I hung up the phone. This had
been at least the thirtieth rejection, and my confidence had become seriously eroded. When would the
matter be investigated? Where was I going to find someone who would listen to my side of the story?
The closed ranks represented by the repeated stone-walling made it quite clear that there was still
significant stigma associated with mental illness. Not that there would have to be an actual diagnosis,
but the merest hint that a person had been so categorized nullified any clarity of expression emanating
from that individual. Tears and gut-wrenching sobs once again replaced the strained smiles I'd fought so
hard to maintain. Angry recriminations resurfaced, and my husband was once again the intended target.
I begged him to never try to help me again, because the brand of help he'd formerly given had deprived
me of my liberty. My dignity, self-esteem, and autonomy were things I feared I would never recover.
The indignation I'd tried to bury deep in my soul exploded out of my being like a nuclear bomb. After
crying for what seemed to be an eternity, I began to pray. Remains of unexpressed sadness threatened
to choke the words struggling to free themselves from my throat, but I forced the prayers out. Finally
exhausted, I asked my husband why he hadn't defended me at the clinic when I expressed the desire to
leave. He looked at me without speaking, and I began to suspect that he had actually wanted me
confined as a way of forcing me into submission. Outrage that I had tried to stifled began to well up with
alarming immediacy. As if controlled by an unseen detonator, the unearthly sound of my own anguish
shattered the air around us. My pleas for God to help me boiled upward like a superheated mushroom
cloud and crescendoed for an indeterminate amount of time. After the storm had subsided, Eugene and
I silently sat facing one another. The utter sadness in his unblinking eyes gave spoke volumes about his
understanding of my grief and allowed me a glimpse of his heartfelt ruefulness for the first time. I
reached out to stroke his hand. Bowing his head, he dissolved into soul-rendering sobs. I realized that
43
he, too, had been victimized and fury became transformed into a controlled determination to regain
self-respect.
XXV
After recovering my equilibrium, I decided to recontact Peach State's Member Services department. It
had been nearly six months since I'd been promised yet another investigation. As before, I was warmly
greeted by Vivian, the same representative I'd spoken to on the two previous occasions. Not seeming to
remember me, she once again took the perfunctory statement, repeated the contents, and once again
assured me that I would be contact within the aforementioned two weeks. Expecting the same results
as before, I was pleasantly surprised when Dr. Berry called me a week later. She was the head of the
Behavioral Medicine department, and listened attentively as I related my situation to her. She told me
that while the results of her investigation would be private, she would definitely look into my complaint.
When she asked me what I wanted to accomplish, I told her that I needed closure. I told her about my
failed attempts to have someone address the issue, and even related to her that I had filed the complaint
with the Georgia Composite Medical Board. I explained that I'd done so because I had received no
response from Kaiser to my previous attempts at logging a complaint.
To my relief, she was
sympathetic, but revealed nothing more. Toward the end of my conversation with Dr. Berry, I felt tears of
relief and resignation welling up. Not wanting her to hear me, I lowered my voice to a whisper so she
wouldn't hear me whimpering. She had, in fact, heard me, and remained silent until I finished. I was
hopeful that something would be done, and asked her to please let me know what of the outcome would
prevent this from happening. Although she told me that while psychiatrists try to do the best they can,
they are compelled to follow guidelines that are imperfect at best. However, no feedback was offered.
Two weeks passed and I heard nothing from Dr. Berry. Even though she asked me to call her if I
needed anything else, I did not.
My fear was that my emotional expression during our phone
conversation would be interpreted as just another mental patient in denial with a pre-existing problem
breaking through her tenuously calm facade. A folIow-up call was made to Huntington, but the elusive
Intervening callbacks from some of the law firms I
d
’
Dr. Berry failed to return my phone calls.
previously contacted temporarily lifted my spirits, but the results were as expected - they were unable to
take my case. When I shared my disappointment with my sister-in-law, she gave me the number of a
coworker who might be able to connect me with a sympathetic attorney. Heartened by this information,
I called the number the next morning. Introducing myself and relating a bit about my concerns, I was
given the attorney's phone number.
The attorney apparently held Jenny in high esteem, and the receptionist put my call through to him
without delay. He was pleasant, but like dozens of attorneys before him, was relatively uninformed as to
44
how he could help me. He pointed out that while it was not impossible to win such cases, the lack of
precedents and the weight of the Georgia Composite Medical Board decision would make my case an
expensive uphill battle. He concluded by advising me to rethink the decision to file a lawsuit and go on
with my life.
XXVI
Each unanswered cry for help buried the knife of indignity deeper and deeper into my soul. Like the
mythological Sisyphus I rolled the stone of my plight up the mountain of official indifference without
success. These repeated uphill quests for assistance invariably came crashing down with the devastating
power of a wrecking ball. The confidence I had become so proud of continued to erode as the meaning of
each defeat penetrated deep and deeper into my heart.
Up and down, up and down my emotions rose
and fell like an out of control elevator. Each assent of hope locating a potential advocate inspired was
met with the now familiar anguishing freefall. Landing once again at the dismal pit of the cold lonely
abyss made climbing back out increasingly more arduous. The dehumanizing effects wrought by this
unremitting psychic pain had the desired effective of crushing my abused spirit with the accuracy of a
battering ram.
The arbitrary stripping away of my freedom had been done with calculated malice. Still,
my desire for closure propelled me, and I was determined to know the truth regardless of where it would
lead me.
XXVII
On Tuesday, April 01, 2010 I located attorney Brian Baker's website while cruising the Internet. IMy fury
became transformed into a controlled determination to continue the fight to regain my self-respect. d been
disheartened by the failure to find representation, but wanted closure so badly that I decided to try again.
Expecting yet another refusal, I was elated when I was put through to Mr. Baker himself. After briefly
listening to my concerns, he told me that what happened to me sounded like malpractice. He admitted
that he had never tried a case with elements like mine, but seemed intrigued. With another appointment
scheduled, he hurriedly advised me to call him back if he did not return my call by the next afternoon. I
waited until the second day to call the office, but Mr. Baker was still unavailable. On the third attempt I
requested and got an appointment for Tuesday, April 13, 2010 at 10:00AM.
I spent the early part of that Monday evening doing everything I could to take my mind off of the next
morning's appointment. It seemed as if my search for closure had taken an eternity, rather than ten
months, and now the that part of my journey finally seemed to be coming to an ending. I still had
questions nagging at the back of my mind about why I'd ended up at a psychiatrist's office rather than a
45
marriage counselor's, why my husband had seemed to want me to stay against my will, and why he had
called my brother.
Nothing I did seemed to quiet these concerns, and I continued to replay the
convoluted details of that fateful day. Accepting the fact that no diversion would be able to distract me
from my thoughts, I decided in earnest to prepare myself for the penetrating questions that would be
asked of me during the next day's interview.
Once in my study I began pouring over documentation from the hospital.
Images of Dr. Mahmud,
Sunbelt, and the women I had met in the Female Stabilization Unit flooded my mind. So vivid were these
visions, that the nightmare seemed to have happened only the day before.
Names, faces, and
conversation returned with a menacing clarity that verified their reality. The mundane details of my
medical condition documented by Dr. Stovis were expected, as were the nurses' remarks about my
sleeping habits. What jumped out at me were the comments from Dr. Mahmud. I stared at diagnostic
terms such as paranoid ideations, running thoughts, inability to care for herself, inability to understand her
condition and wondered how she had come to the conclusion that these descriptions applied to me. I
understand the subjective nature of diagnosis, but at the same time am well aware that this subjectivity is
to be based on provable fact. I took careful notes of these descriptions, and had every intention of
preparing myself to refute them in court if necessary. I knew that I had the burden of proof if Mr. Baker
decided to represent me in court. Although that burden is lesser than in a criminal case, the enormous
task of confronting a psychiatrist would be no less rigorous. Adding to this uphill climb was the fact that
the psychiatrist was employed by one of the largest and most respected HMOs in the country.
without being warned that the odds were in her favor.
I knew
The realization of my David versus Goliath
challenge weighed heavily on my mind, and the fierce defense by the inevitable high-powered attorneys
fueled by nearly endless funding nearly made me want to throw in the towel before the first volleys were
even fired.
I sat in front of my computer staring blindly at the screen as the thoughts darted through
my mind. The weight of it all caused me to drop my head with a deep sigh. As soon as the sigh
escaped, I snatched the files I had so carefully compiled and began leafing through the pages.
XXVIII
Why was I going to submit myself to the torment of being grilled and further debased by expensive
attorneys unless there was something about the ordeal that was provable in a court of law?
That
something turned out to be several false statements in Dr. Mahmud's own hand that promised to be
more easily disproven that I had at first imagined. One of the statements was that she alleged that I had
fled the building after she told me that she was going to remand me to Sunbelt. During the office visit,
Dr. Mahmud's mention of the unexplained rules did not include a warning that she was going to have me
sent to a mental institution. Her allegations that I had an alcoholic disorder, a depressive disorder, and
other indications of dysfunction were unsupported by subsequent examinations while I was at Sunbelt.
46
Even though the staff psychiatrist parroted Dr. Mahmud's reference to alcoholism, Dr. Stovis' physical
exam had not born this out. None of my medical records had been transferred from California, and it was
apparent that Dr. Mahmud had not reviewed the files created in Georgia.
Encouraged by these and
other findings, I called my husband in so I could share the news with him.
When I told my husband what I had uncovered, he became quiet.
Watching me assemble the
documents I would take with me to the attorney's office, he suddenly asked me whether or not I had the
witness statements handy. I had them stashed in the filing cabinet away from the other paperwork, and
found them without any problem. As I scanned the statement my brother had submitted, something
startling jumped out at me: he said that my husband had taken me to Dr. Mahmud's office because he
thought I needed to be on psychiatric medication. The statement was corroborated by a one submitted
by Dr. Mahmud, and these brought the feeling of betrayal I had tried to rationalize away into 20/20 focus.
I was stunned by this information, because my husband had persisted in telling me that he had scheduled
an appointment for marriage counseling. This discrepancy confirmed the fact that he had lied to me, and
my suspicion that he had wanted to enlist professional assistance in controlling me had now been been
fully exposed. I thought that
I
had exhausted my anger at him during the many crying sessions
following the confinement. This time, instead of crying hysterically, I merely stared at my husband in
smoldering disgust. He noticed the change in my facial expression, and fidgeted nervously as if waiting
for the waterworks to began anew. After a brief silence, I began to slowly read my brother's statement to
him. When I reached the part about his believing that I needed to be on medication, my husband sat bolt
upright, his mouth gaping like a fish out of water. I halted the denial I knew was coming with a gesture of
my hand, and said nothing as I continued reading. When I finished, I told him in the calmest voice
possible that I knew he had lied to me all along. He said nothing, but his eyes told me that he had no
idea what my next reaction would be, but it was clear that he dreaded it's inevitability.
XIX
The possibility that Mr. Baker would eventually decide to take my case made me buoyant with happiness.
Eugene and I spend practically every waking moment chattering about whatever crossed our minds and
behaving like love-struck teenagers. I stared at him more than once during those times when we sat
contentedly watching television and wondered whether or not he could have envisioned my involuntary
confinement. The early days when we were getting to know one another floated before my eyes, and I
remembered how one of our mutual friends had commented on Eugene's transparent honesty. Indeed,
he seemed to be a compassionate man who was always among the first to help someone in need.
Generous to a fault in spite of his professed tendency to be frugal, my husband never failed to throw his
security on the crap table if it meant that someone else would be spared hardship. I reminisced with a
smile at how much I had to cook in anticipation of hungry guests. Even though there were only two of us
47
in the household, Eugene's happy expectation that someone may stop by for a meal was always there.
Our pantry was always loaded in anticipation of helping a relative or neighbor with little money for food.
The discordance between this and the fear that my seemingly benevolent husband was capable of
subterfuge against me was mind-boggling. There was no way, I rationalized, that this loving man would
’
conspire to put me away. At the same time, I knew that a person s private thoughts and grievances had
a way of contaminating even the most reverent and kind-hearted intentions. My husband and I had
discussed this on more than one occasion, and agreed that the Devil was always in search of victims.
The faithful seemed to be his favorite target, and in my mind, there was no one more devout than
Eugene. The very thought chilled my soul and threatened the warmth I felt when we were together.
I
was reasonably successful in handling my conflicting emotions, but was still haunted by the possibility
that the attorney might still reject my case. What would I do if that happened? How would I feel? How
would I react? How would I go on with my life if and when I ran out of options for redress? Would I be
left to contend with my torn emotions forever, or would I somehow manage to rise above them and forge
a more solid marriage out of the rubble? As always during such times, I prayed fervently that I would
come to understand the reason for my confinement. I prayed for my husband out of my strong love for
him and belief that he was, in fact, naive as to how the appointment was going to end up. I finally
submitted prayers of intercession for the both of us, hoping that we would emerge from the dark tunnel
we'd entered nearly a year ago blessed, saved, and wiser for having endured the experience.
XX
Having requested copies of my confidential appoints from my HMO, I waited anxiously for them to be
delivered. The agent who had taken my information had been friendly and understanding. Although
she hadn't asked me why I needed the records, she seemed to understand their importance to me.
Elaine told me that she would submit my paperwork that very day, and I should receive the session
details within 5-7 business days. Knowing that the documents would arrive made me that much more
anxious to have them in my hands. I haunted the mailbox, hoping that they would be delivered ahead of
schedule. Each day I waited for the mailman to deliver the mail, and once done, I would hurry outside to
pick it up. Wanting the delivery as much as I did made each disappointment nearly unbearable until I
decided to stop running outside at each delivery. I was able to relax more, and was pleasantly surprised
at how fast the days were going by. On the sixth business day I opened the mailbox and found the
packet inside.
Rushing into the house with the heavy white envelope in hand, I bounded into the kitchen to open it. I
extracted the thick sheaf of typewritten papers only to find that the copies were of poor quality.
I
scanned through the barely legible script in search of the counselor's notes. My search revealed what I
knew all along:
there were neither diagnoses of mental illness nor prescriptions for neuroleptic
medications. What I found instead were numerous references to my marital problems. These notes
48
verified the fact that I had sought counseling not because of my own mental problems, but because of our
dysfunctional marriage. Rather than consent to marriage counseling as I had repeatedly suggested, my
husband chose to deny his participation in the discord and place the entire disruption squarely on my
shoulders.
Throughout the rest of the week I pondered the facts that I had uncovered. It now seemed irrefutable
that my husband, in an effort to control me, had made the appointment with Dr. Mahmud. Her notes
indicated that he had told her that I should not be off of psychotropic medication, in spite of my not being
on them. With this preconception in mind, Dr. Mahmud had apparently expected a seriously ill mental
patient to appear at her office. This had been the reason for the psychiatric evaluation that started the
minute I entered her office. Her blocking my exit, pursuing me out of the office, and even deciding to
have me confined to Sunbelt all hinged on the expectation of mental illness. Regardless of what my
husband did or did not say, I still was of the opinion that she had the obligation to review my medical
records in search of prior diagnoses. The escalation that occurred during the office visit could have been
prevented if she had done so. Still choosing to believe that Eugene had no way of knowing what the
outcome of his deception was going to be, I nevertheless blamed him for his deceptive behavior. Torn
between the desire to hate him and my love for him, I eventually fell asleep with my arms wrapped around
my husband.
XXI
I awoke rather late on the morning of April 29, 2010. After laying in bed for awhile staring at the beautiful
spring day just outside the open window I decided to check my cellphone for voicemail messages. I had
ordered and received copies of the confidential appointment notes Mr. Baker's office had requested, but
they were sadly unreadable. Having requested better copies from Healthlife the previous Friday, I was
’
anxiously awaiting news that they were available for pickup. I had notified the attorney s office about
the poor copies, and the receptionist acknowledged that I should wait until the clean replacements were
received before revisiting the office. With this thought in mind, I checked my voicemail and was excited
to see that Ian Johnson, one of Mr. Baker's associates, had left a message for me. I quickly phoned the
office, and waited for Mr. Johnson to take my call. After ten minutes Mr. Johnson came on the line and
began the all too familiar rejection speech. The nurse the firm used had gone over my documents and
concluded that I had been committed based on my own behavior. This hit me like a sledgehammer, and
I could barely hold back the tears of disappointment as Mr. Johnson completed his explanation. The
words "based on your observed behavior" rang in my ears long after their initial utterance.
What about
my behavior was seen as cause for commitment? I classified the question as rhetorical as I choked out
acknowledgments to Mr. Johnson that I understood my case had been rejected. I fought back tears of
disappointment and managed to tell him that I would rather pick up my documentation, rather than have
49
him mail the packet to me. His agreement sounded more cheery than I would have expected, but I
purposely ignored it as I clumsily hung up the phone. I sat at the desk in stunned silence, struggling to
get my mind working against the devastating news. Forcing myself to function, I stumbled toward the
bedroom with the intention of dressing for the ride to the attorney's office. I found my husband standing
with his back to me as I entered the bedroom. He was balancing himself on one leg as he pulled his
Levis over the other. He had overheard my side of the conversation with Mr. Johnson. the shaking of my
head from side to side in answer to the quizzical look on his face warned him that I was once again going
to be disappointed. His pretense at dressing was an attempt to avoid the flood of tears he had come to
expect. Each rejection I received had precipitated near meltdowns, accompanied by several days of
robotic activity as I struggled to recapture some semblance of normal reaction. This time, however, I
was determined to fight off the deterioration the refusal of representation invariably caused and make my
way to the law office as soon as possible. Better to get this over with, I thought, and I wanted to
accomplish the task before my resolve disintegrated.
Eugene reached out to embrace me, but I
snatched away from his outstretched arms. I hissed at him to not touch me as I moved past him toward
my closet. After dressing quickly and running a comb through my hair, I was soon speeding toward my
destination.
XX
I barely noticed the mile markers flying past as I sped east on the interstate. Exiting at the familiar
offramp, I smoothly made my way onto the surface street. While dreading the cursory explanation I
knew would be offered, I welcomed the opportunity to ask for specific reasons why my case had been
rejected. I reached the law office in what seemed to be record time, and easily found a parking space
close to the entrance. I intentionally puttered around inside the car rolling up windows and performing
other tasks to give myself a chance to compose myself before facing Mr. Johnson. After concluding that
I would be minimally successful at presenting a placid countenance, I donned a pair of oversized
sunglasses I'd brought along to mask my tear-streaked face. Satisfied that I presented a somewhat
placid appearance, I reluctantly headed toward the steps leading into the building. I was surprised at
how stiff my gait was as I mounted the brick steps. As I climbed the two flights leading to the law office,
a pleasant-faced woman rushed past me. As she punched her entrance code into the keypad adjacent
to the office door, she airily told me that someone would be right with me when I rang the buzzer to the
left of the frosted window at the receptionist's desk.
I croaked out a thank you as I followed her
instructions. Just as she had said, a smiling young receptionist immediately slid open the window. She
strained to hear me as I told her my name, and she had to ask for me to both repeat and spell it for her.
The sympathetic look on her face told me that she understood that I was under some sort of stress and
hurried away to notify Mr. Johnson of my visit. She quickly returned to the window and told me that Mr.
Johnson was on the phone but would be with me shortly. I managed a strained smile of appreciation,
50
but remained standing near the potted plants as I waited for the young attorney to call me into his office.
In a few minutes the casually dressed barrister opened the door to the office and politely asked me in.
He, too, seemed to realize that I was upset as he gingerly guided me into his personal sitting room. He
immediately handed me the documents as he engaged me in pleasant conversation. Motioning me
toward one of the comfortable leather chairs positioned in front of his desk, he seated himself in the
executive swivel chair behind the desk. I began by asking him for a letter explaining in more detail why
my case had been rejected. Without hesitation he started telling me how my case had been referred to
their nurse for review. She had, he said, gone over each document in great detail. Rejecting what was
apparently considered to be non-essential narration, the nurse had concluded that Dr. Mahmud had acted
within her rather extensive area of latitude in requesting my commitment. According to Mr. Johnson, I
had literally fallen into a trap that was initially set by my own husband. The attorney told me that per the
information in the hospital records, my husband has apparently indicated that he believed me to be out of
control and in need of psychotropic medication. This being the only information the psychiatrist had
about me at the time, she had been prepped to expect a volatile mental patient. Mr. Johnson concluded
his explanation with the classic example of a person who is told that he or she is paranoid. Denial of this
diagnosis can be viewed as confirmation that the diagnosis had been correct.
As ludicrous as the
sounded to me, I understood the implication: I had been trapped into a no-win situation for which there
were even fewer legal redresses. The convoluted nature of the interaction conveniently confirmed the
doctor's expectation of emotional pathology.
The fact that my husband had enlisted my brother's
unwitting assistance in coercing me into therapy, my fleeing the meeting, my insistence on terminating the
interview before Dr. Mahmud gave her permission, and the far-reaching nature of her subjective authority
had created a tapestry for my demise.
XXI
I sighed in resolution as Ian ended his recounting and fell into observant silence. We sat facing one
another with unspoken understanding that transcended words. Hot tears coursed their way down my
face, and Ian smoothly handed me the tissue box that had been sitting on his desk. Another deep sigh
escaped me as I dabbed away the offending evidence of my sadness. He seemed to comprehend my
plight as nobody else had previously done, and for this I was grateful. After composing myself, I sat
silently staring into his clear blue eyes. As if answering an impending question, Ian told me that a jury
would predictably side with the medical provider. After all, he continued, we are in the South where
figures of authority are practically revered. Ian himself was from out of state, but exhibited a cultural
understanding that far exceeded his years. He told me about a case he had tried in which his client had
been rear ended by a local while driving on a rain-slicked rural road. The defendant had confessed his
responsibility for the collision, and the case seemed like a sure win. The plaintiff was a well-traveled
accountant with a pricy car and expensive clothes to match his affluence. After researching the case,
51
Ian got the nod from the firm to request a jury trial presided over by a personal friend of his client. The
sought after slam dunk verdict failed to materialize as the jury of farmers ruled in favor of the defendant.
The reason for the surprise decision turned out to be the bias of the blue-collar jury against the wealthy
plaintiff.
The client's personal friendship should have cause the judge to recuse himself from the trial,
but this had been conveniently kept under wraps. For this reason, Ian believed that my being from
California, a minority, and a woman who dared to challenge the authority of a doctor would predict a
defense verdict. My questioning look made him explain that at least in Georgia, an estimated 80% of all
medical malpractice trials favor the medical profession. He admitted that there may have been a less
’
drastic way of handling the confrontation between me and Dr. Mahmud, but the psychiatrist s enormous
discretionary powers essentially canceled out my First Amendment rights. He advised me that if I chose
to pursue another avenue of redress, I might consider a Civil Liberties attorney. However, he added the
caveat that I may still have to prove at least an element of malpractice if I had any hopes of winning my
case. This information had been intended to lift my spirits, but the realization that I was legally bound to
accept the involuntary confinement further was entrenched even deeper into my heart. Thanking Ian for
his time and compassion, I slunk out of the office with my records clutched to my bosom.
XXII
I am still uncertain whether or not I will pursue one of the other means of redress Mr. Johnson had
suggested. The rejection seemed to knock the wind out of me, and I had little desire to do anything but
sleep. I slept for several hours, and awakened to a setting sun. I had been in Ian's office for nearly two
hours, and the experience had left me drained. After sitting near the window in total silence for what
seemed to be an eternity, I gathered enough energy to once again turn my computer on. I began what
must have been my fortieth attempt to research attorneys who might be willing to represent me.
I
thought about seeking out a Black attorney in the belief that perhaps such a person might be more
understanding of what I had been through. Stopping at a Checkers fast food restaurant on the way
home, I happen to overhear such attorney engaged in a cellphone conversation with a client in the
parking lot. This seemed to be a sign that maybe I should approach him. As luck would have it, Mr.
Falana politely told me that he only tried personal injury cases. He advised me to return to the law office
I had just left and asked them once again to represent me. The final blow being dealt, I thanked him for
his time, and left the premises without ordering.
After returning home I once again contemplated my relationship with my husband. I understand that
otherwise well-intentioned people will often make unwise decisions when their relationships are unstable.
I decided to forgive him, and hoped that he has the wherewithal to forgive himself. I chose to disregard
the suggestions that I divorce him, and believe that his counseling sessions had been beneficial. My
52
siblings and I have gained a renewed respect for one another, even though I can still sense their
hesitation to broach this emotionally-charged topic. At the very least, I have learned that everyone has a
secret self loaded with the fear of betrayal.
My sister Kate, always the protector, has grudgingly
accepted my decision to make my marriage work, and my brother Louie is still my best friend.
I hope to see the practice of involuntary commitment continue to evolve as a balance between civil
liberty and the need to care for those who cannot adequately address their own safety. I would not wish
for the end of involuntary commitment, because I still view it as a viable way to provide treatment to those
who refuse out of the fear, hopelessness, and suspicion that a mental illness can bring, and who might
not otherwise survive.
My confidence is slowly returning, even though the degradation of two days in a mental hospital will take
longer to fade from memory. I believe that a paradigm shift in how mental illness is defined should be
accompanied by appropriate changes in the commitment process.
These changes must include a
second opinion from a supervising clinician not directly involved in the interview. A necessary part of this
involvement and should include a review of available patient files and case histories.
It should be
obvious by now that my unique experience may well lead me to join the ranks of mental health advocacy.
Those in need of hospitalization don't need my assistance - there are scores of advocates already
available for them. It is my fervent hope that the experiences and insights gained as a result of my
involuntary confinement will shed light on this problem and provide champions for the unknown number of
people remanded to mental hospitals without real evidence of mental illness. Yes, we have a long way
to go, but if one person receives assistance because of my story, then I have received closure and my
catharsis will be complete.
EPILOGUE
I have finally been able to put away the medical records that have obsessed me for the better part of a
year. Tears of sadness are slowly being replaced by tears of happiness. I no longer actively seek
representation for myself. Instead, I seek to represent others. I have descended into hell, and have
shoved my fist down the throat of a beast few others have been able to wage war with. Being a denizen
of the back ward necessitated traversing Dante's Inferno.
Becoming a viable person again invoked
powers far beyond those I ever thought I possessed.
My decision to remain married to Eugene came after much soul-searching. Avoidance of repercussions
was not an option, and he was forced to face my unforgiving inquisition without weapon, refuge, or
recourse. His fear fueled my unrelenting quest for the seminal truths regarding our relationship, and his
love for me ultimately gave him the courage to face these truths no matter what they would reveal.
53
I
have extracted truths about the human spirit that could not have been uncovered in any other way.
have found a voice, and that voice is my own.
54
I