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tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7172126761985265482019-08-24T06:06:44.603-07:00Memoir MadnessMemoir Madness: driven to involuntary email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-75576821527335259462015-09-15T14:19:00.000-07:002019-02-17T17:43:22.484-08:00Welcome to Memoir Madness: driven to involuntary commitment (Text-only site)
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Welcome!<o:p></o:p>

Memoir Madness: Driven to Involuntary Commitment is available on Amazon (print or ebook).<o:p></o:p>

Memoir Madness covers my life during a six-month period (December 1968 - May 1969), part of which I spent in a mental institution – against my will.<o:p></o:p>

I have posted some excerpts here, which may differ slightly from the final version of the published work.<o:p></o:p>

This fast-loading, bare bones site has been reserved for text-only excerpts with relevant memoir and author information.<o:p></o:p>

While this site is text-only, I have posted some related photos here.<o:p></o:p>

Other than the image of my 19-year-old self, my current author's photograph, and my book covers, you will see no adornments to this website and no ads (except for my own books).<o:p></o:p>

The site background is low-resolution.<o:p></o:p>

After all, in the end, the writing must stand on its own merits.<o:p></o:p>

You are welcome to poke around here and even comment (no spam, please).<o:p></o:p>

These excerpts have also been posted to the media-rich Memoir; on that site I have added artwork, pictures, and relevant embedded videos. I have also included additional articles, essays, news clips, and ads.<o:p></o:p>

I haven't updated the media-rich site recently, so there may be some broken links.<o:p></o:p>

If you are a casual reader, you might enjoy the excerpts with all the bells and whistles. In that case, just click here.<o:p></o:p>

Keep in mind that the media-rich sister site may take longer to load.<o:p></o:p>

Getting around here is easy; no matter where you are on the site, the panel on the left offers relevant internal links.<o:p></o:p>

A direct link to each excerpt can be accessed below.<o:p></o:p>

Once again, welcome to my site!<o:p></o:p>

Scroll Down for Table of Contents.<o:p></o:p>
email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-69123199639275354972015-09-11T22:18:00.000-07:002019-02-17T11:28:34.671-08:00October 1968: Wild Man Fischer's Merry-go-round*
(Hollywood)
As Stoney, Jeff, and I prowled the strip, we ran into Wild Man Fischer, clenching a tape recorder, one of those portable Juliettes, blasting a song from his new album An Evening with Wild Man Fischer.

He shoved it under my nose and shouted, "Hear my song?"

C'mon let's merry go, merry go, merry go round! Boop boop boop!

Merry go, merry go, merry go round! Boop boop boop!

Merry go, merry go, merry go round! Boop boop boop!

Me and you can go merry go round!

It's very easy, just go up and down!

C'mon, c'mon let's merry go, merry go, merry go round! Boop boop boop!

--"Merry-Go-Round," Wild Man Fischer

"Yes, Wild Man, we hear it."

"You like my song?"

"It's a cool song."

"You wanna buy it? Only ten cents."

"Not today, Wild Man. Thanks, anyway."

A pest, but harmless--probably a rich pest. He fit his name; he was manic, always wound up tight, fast like a fly or hummingbird. He even looked manic: eyes practically popping out of his head, his hair, black and frizzy, stuck out at all angles. He wore a loud yellow shirt with blobs of red, orange, and green, and flip flops, though, sometimes, only one, even when it was cold. Plus, he was constantly running around the strip with that tape recorder.

I've heard that he'd spent some time in a mental hospital.

"I'll play it again," he said, pushing the rewind button.

"That's okay." We inched away.

I didn't want to hurt his feelings, but he had a way of getting under your skin. And then he'd be off to the next group of freaks. They were all out tonight, unusual for a week night: Julius Caesar, drag queens, streetwalkers--a circus. We verbally sparred with Caesar, an old dude, his Roman soldier costume stolen from 20th Century Fox. He harassed tourists, the middle-aged straights who arrived on the strip decked out in Hawaiian shirts, Bermuda shorts, straw hats, and sunglasses, big clunky cameras around their necks, loud voices: "Hey, Herman, look at the dirty hippies." Everyone was a dirty hippie because the straights couldn't distinguish between groups that populate the strip.

Caesar yelled out his standard slogans: "LBJ is a necrophiliac; he digs dead dudes" and "All the way with LBJ; Lady Bird Johnson is a nymphomaniac."

What a freak; his slogans angered many of the gawkers, who turned red.

Some even yelled back, "America: Love it or Leave it."

Caesar paid no attention to the counter-yellers--like he was in a trance.

What a nark.
*firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-91758666855780828962015-09-07T19:19:00.003-07:002019-02-17T11:23:36.915-08:00A Young Man's Journey to and From Cherokee: Afraid and Involuntary, So When Will You Listen? (Anonymous)

[Editor's note: The following was written by a young man who emailed me using his real name. He has given me permission to publish this piece here. However, I have decided to post this anonymously, given how, even in the 21st Century, there is still a stigma attached to mental health issues. For informational purposes, I have also provided links to the books and websites he has mentioned, but I have not vetted them.]

I was involuntarily committed to Cherokee in May, 1990 for a month and a half. I was court ordered there through Mary Greeley Hospital in Ames, Iowa. I wanted a cigarette and there was no smoking on the psych ward in Mary Greeley.

The doctor recorded in my file reported I went "berserk."

I was not allowed to smoke, so yeah, at 21, scared, and addicted, I wanted to smoke.

Open door with a white line from door jamb to door jamb, a young black male attendant at his desk inside, my name under an open shelf just inside this line to my left, I played with the attendant putting my steel-toed boot toe over the line, pointing to my cheap cigs. Play became power play, and he gave me an ultimatum.

I ended up here because I was terrified of the half-way house in Ames. I was having a reaction to Prozac and whatever else they had me on, and seeing young people drooling from over medication, my roommate having a petite-mal seizure while I was sleeping, seeing people for the first time with razor marks all over their legs and arms, sneaking out and drinking while on medication, unable to connect with anyone there with any empathy or clarity. I climbed up a pine tree in the front yard like when I was a child. Hiding there a while, I began ranting to the people below about my ideals, what I had wanted in life.

Then the cop came.

I cried because I was scared of what he would do. I came down, and they had my Mom on the phone; she convinced me to sign myself in as I couldn't come home like I desperately wanted. I didn't know what I was signing. So was I voluntary now? I still don't know.

I was led to a waiting room by the cop. My little suitcase, my boom box that I had just received for my 21st birthday sitting on a sterling steel table. Mary Greeley Hospital's psych ward was full. The cop shackled my arms and legs as I cried desperately asking why. Driven to Iowa Falls to another psych ward, there for less than a week. Climbing a tree and ranting was reported in the file as a "bizarre suicide threat." I do not remember saying I wanted to die up there.

Back at the white line and ultimatum, the black male attendant grabbed my arms and forced me into a white room. I fought back for a cig! The white room had a ceiling that lifted. Found some metal bars. Showed them through the small glass window. Fucking with them. "I'll cut myself with this if you won't give me a cig..." I hid an iron bar down my pants. They opened the door. Five-eight men. I asked them, "So are you giving me a cig?"

"No, we're not."

"Okay." I pulled out the iron bar dramatically and began pleading with them that I just wanted to smoke and it's all of this.

They convinced me they would let me smoke if I handed over the bar. The tender hippie in me overcame the punk rocker in me, apparently. I handed them the bar, still deal making, and wanting to believe them.

They led me to the room with the gurney.

I walked in, defeated, but going to try and fight one more time. "Ah, man, you're going to strap me to THIS!? OKAY, I'm gonna try and run out of here, you guys ready? ONE, TWO, THREE!"

They caught me mid-air and threw me down on the gurney, shackled me violently, and shot me full of I-don't-know-what. I was out for what seemed days. I vaguely remember someone having to lead me to the bathroom, to help me wipe my ass. I was in a similar state when my court-appointed attorney was sitting next to me for committal to Cherokee.

I was diagnosed and believed and wanted to know what I WAS for almost 20 years, ALL of which I now do not believe. Manic depressive, mood disorder, personality disorder, psychotic features, major depression. I have been med-free for four years. I still suffer and grieve from the trauma I experienced through the psychiatric system. So-called friends and family still want to believe in diagnosis to explain this trauma, still want to believe medication is a NEEDED part of the solution.

Now 21 years clean and sober, I know that abandonment and rejection issues as well as authority figure issues have nothing to do with diagnosis. At 21, I was experiencing intense trauma and fear after my first breakup, a tumultuous three-year relationship that I desperately believed I needed more than having a direction for my life. I had been smoking pot and drinking addictively, tripping on acid, taking mushrooms, and not eating or sleeping well. I believe this led to my suicidal ideation at the time of my break-up, where my Mom, an RN, only knew of psychiatry to take care of me.

I don't remember getting into a helicopter but do remember landing and being shackled to another man as we slowly touched down to the landing strip near Cherokee. I was taken by a cop inside. Questioned in a large room at a large desk by a woman. Taken to the adult ward and immediately shot full of something that I had a reaction to as my jaw and body seized up. She shot me full of something else, and I slept. I was terrified of my surroundings. I was terrified of people who were "rotting" there for I don't know how long. I was terrified by the ignorance and apathy towards other patients and me, the lack of empathy or understanding or kindness by nurses or doctors, the judgment, the distrust. So, I got out by telling them what they wanted to hear. I remember talking to Mom once at a pay phone, desperately crying to be rescued from this place. She wanted me to go along with the "treatment" there and do as they say and not get into power struggles. She had heard I "questioned" the food and "argued" with the cafeteria worker about what I was eating.

The traumatizing experiences I witnessed while there offered no protection. I was terrified of many people who were patients there as well. The sounds they made, their shaking and drooling, and zombified looks from medications, smells, sadness, anger, feeling lost. No connection, paranoia, delusional stories, and I listened and protected myself by staying away.

The one good session I remember involved asking the doctor what he thought Robin Williams' diagnosis was. I forget his answer.

But the traumatic examples? Seeing a woman bloody after putting her arm through a window, screaming; being leered at by sexual predators; a man paying another man for sexual favors when the man being used had no self-esteem. This abused man had an older man from the outside drive me and him off the grounds in an older Cadillac and buy us a carton of cigarettes and candy. This older man tried to make out with me, but I politely said no. He didn't force himself, fortunately. How this older man got me out on a [town] pass when I was court ordered, twice, I will never know. I found out later this older man used this man sexually for sex routinely when he was let out of Cherokee.

The tunnels connecting the buildings at Cherokee were terrifying and unmonitored, from what I could tell, though I'm sure there were cameras.

I saw so many women overly sedated and unable to speak, let alone think clearly.

I was overly sedated as well. However, the sedation I enjoyed was some ditch weed from a harmless guy who had been there since the 70's, scraggly brown beard and long hair, teeth rotting out of his head, kind eyes, scared eyes. He talked like Scooby-Doo. Beers from a Vietnam vet who snuck off the grounds and who had first welcomed me. A job cleaning the golf course sized grounds of debris while listening to my Walkman playing Simple Minds Live, OMD, MLK giving his "free at last" speech on one of the songs, bringing me to tears.

I hope Cherokee shuts down. I am glad to hear they are considering Community-based mental health treatment centers instead, hopefully based on a model, similar to the peer run center in Western Massachusetts with its Recovery Learning Community Center. I have considered going to Cherokee to see it shut down for good!

We need more advocates for people in the mid-west, more people who are peer supporters who are psychiatric survivors! The indignity and shame and trauma these places bring with NO accountability because it's the system and fear based and shame-based!

Check out the book Mad in America! Check out Will Hall! Check out Madness Radio! Connect with peer support on The Icarus Project! http://theicarusproject.net/ Don't listen to the shame and trauma from the American Psychiatric Association! Don't listen to their power and control! Find empowerment in yourself! We do not have chemical brain disorders! This is a lie! Find out for yourself. Check out the Mad in America website. Read or listen to Anatomy of an Epidemic.

You are all not alone! You're right! These people who are clinging to power and control and FEAR, who have lived and been engrossed in believing they are "doing what's best" in this out-dated mental health system are broken just as our system is! Find compassion and lived experience empathy. Say NO to power and control, you know it when you hear it and feel it! Open Dialogue is available! Let's find empathic support that isn't being motivated by drug company money!

If you do not feel safe, I understand. If you need medication and a diagnosis to feel safe, I understand. I am speaking from a place of survival and a desperate need for hope and connection that brings empowerment to my life. I have my story, I grieve, and I confront how my experiences have broken my heart and those who have been close to me. I want to believe there's another way to heal than what I've had. Insanity, as I've heard described in recovery several times, is doing something over and over again and getting the same results. Whoever reads this, I hope you find a way to survive and live within yourself and ultimately be safe and empowered with different results.

________________________

This essay is copyright by the writer who submitted it and may not be reposted or republished without his express permission.email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-69201199371451481132015-08-26T11:11:00.001-07:002015-08-26T11:11:11.860-07:00Memoir TipsI will soon be posting tips for writing a memoir.

Not only are some technical issues involved, but there are some ethical and personal issues to be considered. firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-12721532954287553072010-08-20T00:38:00.000-07:002019-02-17T14:50:06.114-08:00Table of Contents for Memoir Madness: driven to involuntary commitment (text-only site)*

*

About Memoir Madness: For Literary Agents and Publishers *

Open Letter to Literary Agents

Summary

Blurb

Synopsis

Notes on Narrative Threads

Research Note
Author Information

Author's Bio
Memoir Madness Excerpts: Before the Institution

Prologue: Caged

Chapter One: The Crystal Ship

Chapter One: Blue Moons

Chapter Two: Dark Side

Chapter Two: Flying Solo

Chapter Two: Weed and Seeds

Chapter Two: Funny Little Naked Clowns

Chapter Two: Decision Time

Chapter Two: Thirteen Tabs

Chapter Three: Wallich's Music City and Eleanor's Radio

Chapters Four and Six: New Year's Eve, 1968--Fire

Chapter Eight: Rudy

Chapter Ten: Cops

Chapter Eleven: The Luckiest Hand

Chapter Twelve: Downers

Chapter Twenty Three: Sioux City Blues

Chapter Twenty Four: ..."While I Kiss the Sky"

Chapter Twenty six: The Miracle of Google

Chapter Thirty: There Must be Some Way Outta Here

Chapter Thirty Eight: What to Do With My Life?

Chapter Forty One: My Country 'Tis of Thee, Sweet Land of Tyranny

Chapter Fifty One: Nabbed at the Bus Station

Chapter Fifty Three: "Let's See What the Police Have to Say"

Chapter Fifty Four: A Possible Scenario at the Police Station

Chapter Fifty Six: Driven

Chapter Fifty Eight: Driven 2
Memoir Madness Excerpts: The Institution

The First Five Days

The Other Patients: Perky Penny

The Other Patients: Carrie the Cutter

The Other Patients: Joyce

The Other Patients: D.J., The Mighty Sage

The Other Patients: Anna on the Lam

Proving My Sanity
Memoir Madness Excerpts: After the Institution

Denise's Tips

Leaving Sioux City: Dee Dee

Epilogue: A Short History of the Cherokee Mental Health Institute
Memoir Madness Excerpts: Flashbacks (Fall 1968)

October 1968: Rev. Arthur Blessitt and His Place

October 12, 1968: A Mother's Warning

October 12, 1968: The Birthday Party

October 1968: Wild Man Fischer's Merry-go-round

A media-rich version of these excerpts (with photos, artwork, videos, out takes, essays, etc.,) can be accessed here.
*firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-69383634960862693222008-12-02T22:10:00.000-08:002019-02-17T10:34:05.847-08:00October 12, 1968: The Birthday Party*
(Hollywood)

Finally! My real birthday party.

When Eleanor and I arrived at Rudy's, Pam was already there with her new old man, a tall, about 6'5", Indian dude, like from India, with wide shoulders and huge brown muscles.

"This is Draino," Pam, barely five-foot, said, tucked under his arm.

"I dreenk anything, hence the name." He crushed Pam against him.

"He drops anything."

The party in full swing, Mel, Derrick, and some chick with them were stoned out of their heads. She looked about 15--no way should she have been at a party like this.

Eleanor and Derrick on the outs.

There were some new people here, too, my eye on a dark-haired dude across the room.

Rudy greeted me like I was his best friend in the world. "For the birthday girl, I have a special present." He handed me a tab of multi-colored acid. "Rainbow. Supposed to be the best on the street."

The Rolling Stone's "She's a Rainbow" blasts from two large speakers.

I slipped the Rainbow into my pocket. For later. I wanted to check out the dude across the room, who had caught my eye.

"We get together tonight?" Rudy slid his arm around my shoulder.

"Maybe later." I slipped away. "Thanks for the present." I found Pam, on the sofa, her top off, kissing Draino.

"Pam," I said, tapping on her bare shoulder.

"Honey, can't you see I'm busy?"

"I need to talk with you."

Pam sighed, disengaged from Draino, and threw on her top. "What's up?"

"Rudy wants to ball me."

"Cool!"

"Not cool." I nodded toward the dude across the room. "I want to meet him."

"You don't know what you're missing. You've been anointed."

"That's okay. How do I get out of it?"

"Look. The thing about Rudy, he doesn't push--doesn't have to. He's got women lined up. He'll get over it, maybe try again some time, but not tonight. Go to Prince Charming over there."

I pulled the tab out of my pocket. "He gave me this."

"Whoa, girl, that's some super shit. You lucky bitch."

"Maybe I should give it back."

"That's another thing about Rudy--he's not an Indian giver. Now, I've got a date with a super-stud. Split."

I drew a deep breath and moved across the room.

Prince Charming smiled and introduced himself as Richard, but call him Rick.

I was drawn to this guy, his dusky complexion, brown eyes, and perfect teeth. He didn't strike me as a true hippie--he was dressed too well and his hair was too short--but he was so gorgeous, and he was interested in me. He was already tripping, his pupils fully dilated, two black coals.

He could be the one.

I dropped my Rainbow.

Rick and I stayed up all night, talking and tripping--

A birthday sendoff, the best acid I've ever had.

Rainbow colors, dimensions, music that paints the sky with its broad strokes, fluid walls, incredible glittering trails flowing from our fingers and mouths, even our feet...Maybe some day I can describe an acid trip without stumbling over my own words.

Rick and I slow danced, swaying to the music, even fast hard rock, he growing hard.

I was excited, too, but--

"I want you," he whispered.

"Let's just stay this way."

He didn't push, though I sensed impatient animal instinct, something sexually dangerous about him, like a panther, held back by a thin tether. That if I offered all myself, he'd rip into my body and consume my flesh, leaving behind nothing but a pile of bones.

We made out, French kissing and feeling each other up--each kiss reaching deep into my throat and down to my loins--

Each kiss a different color of the rainbow; a different note on the musical scale; each flick multi-textured: flutter, rock, hot lava, feather, pillow, sand paper, fire and ice.

He undid his belt and unzipped his jeans--no underwear. He thrust hard against my jeans, a shudder rumbling through him, me, the room, all of Hollywood, like a quake. He jerked upward and groaned. When he stopped, a warm wetness on my jeans. "Oh, baby."

Too stoned to worry about the stain on my crotch.

Rick grew slack; we sprawled on the floor, he, apparently satisfied and calm, I relieved I hadn't balled him.

We fell asleep.
*email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-68472197292533970992008-12-02T22:04:00.000-08:002019-02-17T10:34:34.769-08:00October 12, 1968: A Mother's Warning*
(Hollywood)

Mother called about 2:00 a.m.

I grabbed the phone before it awakened everyone, including Mrs. Horton, that old busybody.

I knew it was Mom even before she spoke, the only person I know who calls in the middle of the night, rip roaring drunk.

"Jevfer?"

"Yes, Mother."

"How'd you know it wush me?" Her petulant, little girl voice.

"I read your mind."

Mom's into all that Edgar Cayce and astral projection stuff.

"Shee? You shouldn' pooh-pooh the shupernat'ral."

"Okay, I won't."

She called to warn me, in her slurriest voice: Mo and Auntie had cooked up a surprise birthday party; my quiet celebration with my grandparents and great aunt would now be a full-blown affair with some of my California relatives and friends of Auntie and Mom.

Great. A fucking circus.
Anytime my family gets together, it is a circus, filled with fussy and feuding relatives.

"Act bijchin' shurprised."

I assured her I'd be surprised.

Mom kept me on the phone for the next hour, lamenting her lousy life, and complaining about my brother Sidney, Larry (my stepfather), and having to deal with Mo.

Better her than me.

Mom was angry with her best friend Cee, but it wasn't clear why. If it was a man thing, I didn't want to know. Mom's affairs have always baffled me. As she slurred her way through the early morning, I muttered "um" and "un-huh," etc. at appropriate intervals, drifting in and out of consciousness. Still, I was glad to be warned about the surprise. Mom passed out; I knew because she snored in my ear. She'd be out for the night; in the morning, Mo probably found her slumped over the dead phone.

I quietly hung up.

Far out! I'm 18!
*email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-12656868320478237092008-12-02T21:36:00.000-08:002019-02-17T10:35:14.552-08:00October 1968: Rev. Arthur Blessitt and His Place*
(Hollywood)

Jeff, Eleanor, Pam, and I were hanging out at Wallich's, though not much happening.

Eleanor met up with Jim, her new guy, and split.

Before Pam, Eleanor and I had been getting close, but now we seemed to be pulling away. Maybe it was because she was still in high school. True, she had all this freedom to come and go as she pleased and did drugs on weekends, but she still had to go to school and do her homework, so we didn't do as much together anymore.

When we were roommates, I had to be quiet on week nights.

I also found out that Eleanor wasn't supposed to do drugs on school nights, only on weekends; her dad came down hard on her when he discovered she was dropping acid on weekdays.

Rick, who stood me up the previous night, showed up.

My heart skipped a beat.

"Sorry about last night."

I tried to act nonchalant. "It's cool."

Rick eyed Jeff up and down and threw his arm around my waist.

"Hey," Pam said. "Let's go to His Place."

"What's that?" Jeff asked.

"It's this really cool church on the strip, filled with freaks," I said.

"I don't want to go to church," Rick said.

"It's not an ordinary church," I said. "You'll just have to see it to believe it."

"I heard someone spiked the Kool-Aid with acid one night," Pam said.

"Groovy! Getting high for Christ!" Jeff said.

"Over a hundred kids were stoned out of their gourds. Must've freaked out Rev. Blessitt."

"Gives Jesus freaks a whole new meaning," I said. "I can't even imagine being around 100 acid heads. In church, yet."

"Good thing the pigs didn't get wind of it," Rick said.

"Funny thing. The cops weren't even around that night. How lucky was that?" Pam said.

"I still don't wanna go," Rick said.

"Come on, it's really far out, and they serve food," I said, suddenly starved. I couldn't eat the gruel served at the dorm: Fish sticks and overcooked broccoli.

"Bagels and sandwiches, Kool-Aid–" we all snickered "–and coffee."

"I am hungry," Rick said.

*
When we arrived at His Place, a toilet service had just begun.

Rev. Blessitt read from the Bible,

"Therefore, if any man be in Christ, he is a new creation; old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new" [2 Corinthians 5:17].
A few heads witnessed in the john as they tossed their dope into the toilet and sang,

Down, down, down, down,

All my dope is gone.

Down, down, down, down,

All my dope is gone.
I fished around in my pocket; I still had that Blue Cheer from Rudy's party two weeks ago–no way was I going to dump it down the toilet and watch it swirl away.

After the service ended, we dug in and ate bagels smothered with peanut butter and jelly.

We hung around for a bit.

I don't buy into the religious bit, but I can't help it: I like Rev. Blessitt. He believes in what he does, not just going through the motions, like some of those priests back home. The Reverend puts his ass on the line every day, and the Establishment kicks it daily, especially the religious Establishment. What hypocrites. You'd think they'd want to help Rev. Blessitt in his mission. But they can't see past the run-down church on the strip, the long hair, and the dope.

Still, there was something creepy about ex-heads taking up Jesus in place of acid.

The worst converts in the world, always shoving tracts and Bible verses in your face, the "Eithers/Ors," the black and whites–you're either for Christ or against him, no room for doubt.

If I wanted to be told what to believe, I'd still be going to Mass.

____________________________________________________________

2008 Update: Rev. Arthur Blessitt is now known as "The man who carried the cross around the world in every nation, The World's Longest Walk as listed in the Guinness World"
See His Website
*firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-34760012111236210852008-12-02T20:20:00.000-08:002019-02-17T10:41:38.852-08:00Epilogue: A Short History of The Cherokee Mental Health Institute*
Summer 2008

(York, Pennsylvania)

In late September 2004, I gathered my laptop, notes, photocopies of old letters to and from my ex-husband, Cherokee Mental Health: 100 Years of Serving Iowan's (Cherokee centennial book), maps of Iowa and Cherokee, and the August 30 issue of the Chronicle Times. I carried them to Skopje, Macedonia, where I spent October 2004-May 2005 cranking out a 700-page draft.

A stranger in a strange land attempting to codify an unresolved past. Still, writing that first draft was exhilarating: I had few distractions: for eight solid months, I simply wrote.

Often tapping away eight hours a day, five days a week, I became 18 again, an odd space for a 21st century baby boomer.

Not only did old issues and angers rise up again, but after rereading my ex-husband's letters, I even developed a slight (albeit temporary) crush on him--also compounded by the impending birth of our granddaughter Rhia, born late 2004.

Since my July 2005 return to the U.S., the revision process has presented a rockier road, ordinary life often interfering and my trying to decide what to delete and add. Because this is my story, every detail seems important, so deleting has often been problematic.

A short history of the Cherokee Mental Health Institute does feel like an important aspect of my story, but it seemed out of place in the main narrative thread, so I moved it to the end of the book and here on this blog.

*
The exterior of the Cherokee Mental Health Institute does not resemble a state hospital.

The grounds, on a gentle slope leading up to the main buildings, are stunning and kept pristine by the grounds keepers and not walled or gated from the community. In summer, a lush greenery dominates--the carpet grass is cut and watered regularly, and several varieties of trees, including conifers and deciduous types, majestically dot the landscape. Iowa trees in general tend to be sparse and scrubby, so these grounds offer an oasis, a gift to Sioux Valley Iowans, perhaps explaining their broad appeal to the community, who often use the roads as hiking trails.

The buildings are over 100 years old, some of them resembling red stone and brick castles, with spires and circular annexes, but in good exterior condition.

If there is anything forbidding about the place, it can be found in its history and my commitment there. According to Cherokee Mental Health: 100 Years of Serving Iowan's, the institution was founded in 1902 as the "Cherokee State Hospital for the Insane." It is not a stretch, then, to view the long shadows cast by the trees and spires as sinister. Also, the red brick portion is somewhat an anomaly in Iowa, not indigenous to this area, known more for its black, loamy earth.

The facility resembles a private secondary school or even a college campus, except for one section, now used as a sex offender unit and housing 35-80 inmates. According to a Department of Human Services press release from Governor Thomas J. Vilsack's office, the Civil Commitment Unit for Sexual Offenders (CCUSO), dedicated on September 8, 2003, has been designed to treat "dangerous sexual offenders."

"The litmus test for everything we do is safety," said Kevin Concannon, Director of the Iowa Department of Human Services. "We've gone the extra mile to make sure this facility is safe for patients, safe for staff, and safe for the community."

CCUSO is housed in a remodeled wing of the institution, the sex offenders having "no contact with patients at the mental health institute." The section does resemble a maximum security prison, cordoned off with steel fences and barbed and razor wire, incorporating "security cameras and locks," and mandating "special training for security personnel."

At 18, I would have been upset about having a sex offender unit housed on the same grounds. Safety is a relative term, "safety and sex offenders" an oxymoron, no matter how many security cameras, bars, locked doors, and razor wire used. In a 2005 blurb on Online Highways, the sex offender unit is not mentioned:

The Cherokee Mental Health Institute (MHI) is a state of Iowa psychiatric facility, operating under the Department of Human Services. The institute provides psychiatric inpatient and outpatient services. Forty-one counties in northwest Iowa are served for adult patients and fifty-five counties for children and adolescents.

The MHI is proud of its campus, The Cherokee Human Resource Center offers patients, as well as the Cherokee community, access to a hiking trail and nature study. In addition to the MHI, the campus is also home to other agencies including Synergy (Chemical Dependency) Center, The Boys' and Girls' Home, the YES (Youth Emergency Services) Center, Job Service of Iowa, Vocational Rehabilitation, Juvenile Court Services, and the Ecumenical Institute.
Traditional psychiatric inpatient admissions have dwindled since involuntary commitment of patients for frivolous reasons was struck down by two significant Supreme Court decisions: Humphrey v. Cady, 405 U.S. 504, 509 (1972), which ruled involuntary civil commitment to a mental institution as "a massive curtailment to liberty," and O'Connor v. Donaldson, 422 U.S. 563, 574 (1975), which ruled that there is "no Constitutional basis for confining such [mentally ill] persons involuntarily if they are dangerous to no one and can live safely in freedom" and that the presence of mental illness "does not disqualify a person from preferring his home to the comforts of an institution."

Evidently, incorrigible minors at Cherokee are still not accorded the same rights as adults. A May 10, 2002 Des Moines Register article reveals that

An 11-year-old boy with extreme behavioral problems is subjected to enemas, made to wear diapers and forbidden to bathe at the DHS-run Cherokee Mental Health Institute until a judge orders the procedure halted. DHS promises an investigation into the boy's treatment. Another state agency later finds that the DHS staff implemented treatments that were "conducted in accordance with doctor's orders."

(For more info, click here).
Fortunately, I wasn't incorrigible enough to be subjected to such indignities.

At the time of my involuntary commitment, my only protection was the Supreme Court decision Specht v. Patterson, 386 U.S. 605, 608 (1967), which offered legal protection at the mercy of the court system itself: "...involuntary commitment to a mental hospital, like involuntary confinement of an individual for any reason, is a deprivation of liberty which the State cannot accomplish without due process of law." Even a neophyte can see how a lower court could (and did) interpret that decision; my court record speaks for itself.

Back in 1969, I met some the employees, many of them dedicated to serving Iowans. But Cherokee owns a sad history of warehousing the mentally ill, the incompetent, and the incorrigible. Before the two important Supreme Court decisions, people not fitting into conventional boxes prescribed by the dominant culture were often punished and hidden away.

Forgotten.

Cherokee itself simply fulfilled a mandate created by an antiquated judicial system mired in nineteenth-century wild west justice.

My residual anger lies with Woodbury County, Iowa, and the police officers, lawyers, judges, and doctors who pushed through sloppily prepared paperwork and trumped up reasons without considering a person's constitutional rights.

I came out of my experience fairly well-adjusted, though my "inclination to conflict with social convention," as predicted by R. Lowenberg, has persisted, for I have always believed that so-called conventional wisdom is vastly overrated. Ralph Waldo Emerson articulated the herd mentality best: "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds." The world needs people who would flout conventional wisdom, not warehouse and silence them.

The Cherokee book does offer some interesting history about the institution's origins. The first superintendent, Mathew Nelson Voldeng, M.D., was hired in 1902--his beginning salary $250.00 a month. He served from 1902 to 1915 and died in 1934.

One would not suspect Cherokee as being a hotbed of feminism, but, surprisingly, Iowa's first female physician, Dr. Lena Beach, served there, starting in 1902, for which she was paid, as Woman Physician, $100.00 a month, less than the 1st and 2nd Assistant Physicians (presumably men), who were paid $133.33 and $116.66 respectively, but more than the 3rd Assistant Physician, paid $91.66. Somewhere, there exists a biography of Dr. Beach, this pioneer spirit who started the wheels of women's rights rolling in Iowa.

In the early years, many of the staff lived on the campus; however, children were not allowed. Children born to employees were "farmed out to foster homes within the community to be raised."

Now that's workplace loyalty.

The first eight Cherokee patients were admitted between August 15 and August 26, 1902. In late August 1902, 563 patients arrived via two trains: 310 from Independence and 253 from Clarinda. In Independence, curious citizens looked on as the stronger patients walked two miles from the hospital and the weak and sickly were transported by trolleys or hay wagons to the Cherokee train. According to the 29 August 1902 Cherokee newspaper, Clarinda offered a higher class of patient: "better dressed, better behaved and showed a little more intelligence." More patients, 777 from Clarinda and 144 from Mt. Pleasant, were expected in the next few days.

Between 1933 and 1951, Cherokee boarded over 1,400 patients. At its peak, the institution housed over 1,700--no date is given for this number, but with the 1954 introduction of Thorazine, patient population began declining. The book offers no figures for 1969, but the population must have still been fairly substantial, for most of us had roommates.

Throughout the years, patients have been subjected to insulin and electric shock therapies, integral parts of Joyce's treatment [Joyce was another patient whose name, in this memoir, has been changed].

Straitjackets were discontinued in the early 1950's, but lobotomies were performed into the early 1970's. Had I known what a lobotomy entailed, I would have been terrified that if I didn't behave, the procedure would be in my future. However, lobotomies were done as a last resort, reserved for the most violent patients. To my knowledge, I did not meet any lobotomy patients at Cherokee, but, at that time, I would not have been cognizant of their characteristics. I suspect that these patients were kept segregated from the general population.

Years later, I met a person who had endured a lobotomy; it was frightening to witness the damage done to him. He would simply turn on and off like a light switch, talking one minute and then drifting off into some kind of trance and then coming back, picking up exactly where he had left off.

During World War II, from February 1944 to May 1946, the Civilian Public Service Company #131, made up of conscientious objectors, served at the facility in lieu of military service. This company consisted of 25 conscientious objectors, 10 of their wives, and one sister. They served as nurses' aides, kitchen workers, drivers, lawn and garden assistants, housekeepers, and stenographers. I would have appreciated knowing this bit of history, given my own objection to the Vietnam war and my fears for Jeff [Brown, my ex-husband] and my cousin Steve.

At its peak, the hospital, on its 840 acres on the hill was, in itself, a small functioning town, boasting its own coal-burning power plant; a complete working farm; hospital facilities, including a dentist's office, lab, geriatric ward, and morgue; a cemetery; a full restaurant; a butcher shop; laundry facilities; residences; carpenter and machine shops; a sewing factory; a bakery; an "amusement hall" and orchestra, made up of staff, who were often "hired on their ability to play an instrument"; a softball team; a pharmacy; and a barber and beauty shop.

Certainly, if the rest of the world disappeared, the institution could have survived, taking care of its patients and following the standard drug and psychological therapies.

The book does clarify one matter that, for years, has puzzled me: in April 1969, I spoke with a Mrs. Williams about job training in Floriculture; I could never figure out why she was pushing this career so hard, but the book reveals that Cherokee, in addition to its working farm, complete with vegetable fields, flower gardens, orchards, and beef and dairy cattle, also maintained an extensive greenhouse, overlooking the southeast section of the grounds, where the institution grew flowers and vegetables year round, even exhibiting some of their products at various state fairs.

I don't remember seeing or even hearing about this greenhouse, but I might have embarked on a career because of its existence.

At various points in its history, several other training programs were offered to patients: bakery and butcher schools, to name two, and a physician residency program, for doctors just out of medical school. Currently, the facility offers a physician assistant specialty training program.

I complained bitterly about the food; in my mind, a good Cherokee meal consisted of roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy, and peach cobbler, reserved for Sunday dinner. However, most of the time, we were served such delights as instant scrambled eggs (with a green tinge), overcooked vegetables (mushy cauliflower comes to mind), a strange meat--which I suspected was liver--and wicked coffee, often served lukewarm, so I was surprised to read about the T-bone steaks and oyster stew served during the 1960's. I don't recall such meals, but I do remember losing a lot of weight there.

One odd, though darkly humorous, note: 100 years ago one group of female Cherokee sewing factory workers were scrutinized very carefully, for "...some medical authorities warned that professional seamstresses were apt to become sexually aroused by the steady rhythm, hour after hour, of the sewing machine's foot pedals."

Had I known that, I would have happily taken up sewing as a career path, but then the next part of this equation might have given me pause: "[These same medical authorities] recommended slipping bromide--which was thought to diminish sexual desire--into the women's drinking water." [In response to this "minor" reference to these women who were so cruelly treated, I was inspired to write a poem and an essay in honor of them.]

The hospital also had its own morgue, but this building was torn down in 1966, well before my time as a patient. Interestingly, the morgue was located near the Kinne Building, demolished in 1972, where the tuberculosis patients were kept. The morgue may have disappeared, but a cemetery remains on the grounds--831 patients interred between 1907 and 1962, the last a 62-year-old woman. The deceased, unclaimed by family members, were placed in wicker baskets in graves marked with numbers, for being a mental patient was considered too shameful to be made public, even after death. I never saw or heard about this cemetery--and D.J., a patient who had worked on the grounds, never mentioned it.

Back in 1969, I knew nothing about the morgue and cemetery, but I must have suspected something; on April 11, after recounting a frightening nightmare I had at age four, I asked, "I wonder if anyone has ever died here?" I'm glad I didn't know; I was frightened enough about the possibility of being incarcerated for a long time and then dying in the institution.

Chronicle-Times (Cherokee) journalist Ken Ross noted that "The cemetery is down a road beyond a locked gate. Trees surround the cemetery and Beacon Hollow Creek runs nearby." So I wouldn't have stumbled upon it during my walks.

In 2001, as mental illness became less of an embarrassing secret and more visitors asked to see the cemetery, the institution decided to create a memorial and formed a committee to plan the cemetery reconstruction, offering a dignified resting place for the 831 patients. In the past, when descendants visited the graveyard grounds, they were disappointed. "We were apologetic about the condition of our cemetery," said Mike Thompson, plant manager for the institution. The project was completed in 2002 and slated for dedication in time for Cherokee's 100th anniversary celebration on August 15, 2002, denoting the 1902 arrival of the first patient.

I don't know how much Cherokee Mental Health: 100 Years of Serving Iowan's really explains in terms of my time in Cherokee, but it does reveal some of the ingrained attitudes toward mental patients that still persisted in 1969. I would have liked more information about the history of the institution, including the subsequent superintendents, psychiatrists, and psychologists who practiced there, and more detail about the therapies, but confidentiality issues might have hampered the committee charged with pulling this history together.

Perhaps my story will reveal something important about Cherokee and other similar state hospitals.

____________________________________________________________________

Source: The CMHI Centennial Committee. Cherokee Mental Health: 100 Years of Serving Iowan's. A Pictorial History. Iowa Department of General Services Printing Division, November 2001.*email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-44634008618694277352008-12-02T16:53:00.000-08:002019-02-17T10:30:38.117-08:00Leaving Sioux City: Dee Dee*
(Sioux City, Iowa)

Monday, May 5

I wake up at 6:00 a.m., ready by 7:00. I splurge and take a taxi to the bus station, there by 7:30--this is one bus I don't want to miss.

I'm not angry with Mo and Dee--well, maybe a little with Mo, but only because she was so ridiculous the other day. I wish they understood that this is something I have to do and would do eventually anyway. I'm not running away to get even with them for the Cherokee bit--

I'm running to my new life.

Once, when I was four, I ran away from home. I wanted to be in the movies, and I thought that one had to run away to do that. I was not angry at anyone--it was just something I had to do. Hours later, when Dee Dee and Uncle Dude found me wandering around in the dark, they snatched me from the street, and slid me into the car.

It was deep into an Iowa winter. I wore only a red snowsuit; they must have felt relieved to find me alive and okay.

I bawled and pitched a fit; I was so angry with them for thwarting me. They just didn't understand I wasn't running away to leave them but to find something else.

I would come back.

Obviously, I was too young back then, but I'm not too young now...

I show my ticket to the agent and check the footlocker at the desk--fortunately, no one questions my business. I sit and wait.

Dead time, but, nonetheless, necessary.

At 8:45, Dee Dee, alone, slips through the station door.

Oh, oh.

Dee Dee spies me and slides toward me.

Before I can even open my mouth, Dee says, "Before you say anything, just hear me out."

"Okay."

"I'm not going to stop you from going."

"That's good."

"I just want to make one more plea--"

"My mind's made up."

"You're breaking our hearts--"

"I'm sorry about that--"

"No, you're not--you wouldn't be leaving if you knew how much this was killing us."

"I have to go."

Dee Dee sighs. "Stay a few months, get a good job, save up some money--think about what you're doing."

"I've had several, longmonths to think." Like I'm going to fall for that ploy again. "I've made up my mind."

"You know, your grandmother was going to call Cherokee and report you as a runaway, but I told her it wouldn't do any good."

"Thanks."

"She might still do it. Once she's decided something, you know how she is."

"I know."

"I was hoping to reason with you."

"Dee Dee, I'm leaving in a few minutes."

"I see. You know, you'll always have a home back here." Dee pauses. "If you ever need a bus ticket back to Sioux City, just call."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"I despise Jeff Brown with all my heart; he has only one thing on his mind--"

"It's time for you to go," I say, turning away.

Without another word, Dee Dee disappears, through the crowd and out of the terminal.

(Greyhound bus)

The bus has just pulled out of the station, and we're headed out of town, toward Des Moines, where I'll pick up my next connection to York, Pennsylvania: a long journey. Des Moines, Chicago, Pittsburgh. York.

Goodbye, Sioux City and Woodbury County--

Good riddance to Cherokee and all of Iowa.
*email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-72943931611321431402008-12-02T16:43:00.000-08:002019-02-17T10:43:36.267-08:00Release From the Institution: Denise's Tips*
April 1969

(Sioux City, Iowa)

(Note: upon my conditional release from Cherokee, I was required to find a job--or return to the institution. I accepted a job at Denise's Diner, a greasy spoon on West 7th Street.)
Denise*, the owner of Denise's Diner*, is about the hardest, wrinkliest woman I've ever met, a nervous, bird-like chain smoker. She's old, probably in her late 50's, maybe early 60's, and all skin and bones. Her hair, red with purple highlights, is teased into a rather large bouffant, overshadowing her tiny body, and her teeth are yellow with dark specks between them. Her voice is deep and raspy, like a man's--she could out-cuss a sailor.

"You're gonna work your goddamn ass off around here, for shit wages," she said when she interviewed me. "But you can earn some good tips." She took a drag on her cigarette. "Just play along with the guys--they like giving the girls a hard time--and don't get all fuckin' women's lib on 'em."

I can do that, at least for a few weeks.

"And get your ass in gear, and don't poke. I do most of my business at lunch--these men gotta get fed fast and back to work."

I'm glad this job's temporary. A shitty buck an hour, plus tips, to start. But I'm just interested in staying out of Cherokee and splitting this town. Soon, I'll be getting that $116.00 refund from the government, and I'll save every spare penny.

"Lazy bitches don't last here," Denise said as I headed out the door. "Be here, at 7:00 sharp, or don't bother comin' at all."

*
I can't wait to quit this job. Denise is such a two-faced bitch, jabbering about working hard, but she lounges around, chewing the fat with the guys, and chain-smoking those god-awful Camels without filters. If there was ever a reason to quit smoking, she's it. I don't want to grow old looking like a dried up prune.

Even when it's super busy, she doesn't hustle her butt any--she just barks at the help to move faster. What kind of an example is that?

The guys talk dirty to her, she thinks it's hilarious, but it's just gross. Customers or not, I'm not taking that kind of crap. After one creep pinched my butt, I told him off.

"You better watch your step, honey," Denise said.

I'd like to tell her to go to hell, but I need this job, at least for a few days. But, damn it, no old fart had better touch me, unless I give him express permission.

*
Denise is not only a bitch, but also a crook.

I was about to clear the counter in my station--it was a mess because lunch had been busier than usual, so I was behind in my cleanup--when Denise said, almost too sweetly, "Honey, you take a short break."

I got a bad feeling--it just didn't fit; usually, she's yelling at me to get my ass in gear. Still, I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, so I got myself a Coke and sat in a booth.

You can tell Denise has been at this job a long time: she had that counter cleared and cleaned in five minutes, but she wasn't quite fast enough with her sleight of hand: from the counter she slipped a dollar bill, my dollar bill, into her pocket.

A measly one buck an hour, and your fucking boss rips you off. If this is the Establishment, then you can have it. "You took my dollar," I said.

"What dollar?"

The gall. "My tip."

"Lazy girls don't get tips."

I wanted to strangle that woman, but if I confronted her, she'd deny it, and then fire me for false accusations and insubordination.

Call the police? Right.

I'm going to quit as soon as possible and split this godforsaken town.

Where is that tax refund, anyway?
*firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-57979183365478687572008-12-02T16:36:00.000-08:002019-02-17T10:44:15.560-08:00The Institution: Proving My Sanity*
(Cherokee, Iowa)

March 1969
Staff meeting today. About 30 or so doctors and nurses sit in on this gala affair. More like the gallows. I'm not sure why they have these meetings--I feel like a bug stuck on a pin, struggling for life.

When Carrie had her staff meeting a few months ago, she ran out in the middle of it, and ended up on locked ward for two months.

Dr. Kirkus will be here--that dude scares the shit out of me.

And he's late. This session is supposed to start at 9:45 a.m., Kirkus rolls in at 10:10.

I swear, he does it just to make me sweat.

A nurse I don't know calls me into a room designated "Group Therapy I," where I face an audience of unfamiliar and familiar faces, all watching, waiting to see if I trip up.

Maintain, Jennifer, maintain.

I assume a pose of certainty, but I feel dizzy and lopsided. I take my place up front, in a chair, positioned exactly in the middle. I smile at the audience as if I were going on a picnic instead of a grilling.

Dr. Brooks introduces himself and begins questioning me.

I answer truthfully, and to my surprise, quite calmly. Everything about my past six months: job, drugs, sex, boyfriends, family fights, all laid out on the table. None of it looks ugly anymore because it's past, I can't change it, and I'm ready to move forward. I'm well prepared for this battery, which surprises me--I thought I'd be tripping all over my tongue, but I'm not.

I like Dr. Brooks--he asks questions in a way that encourages.

I don't feel like hiding anymore.

Dr. Favis, today an observer, peeks around another doctor, smiling--I've never seen him yet when he wasn't smiling. He nods his encouragement to me, I nod back.

Dr. Brooks announces that the floor is open for questions from other doctors, and I just know whose hand will pop up.

I'm right.

Dr. Kirkus, smirk on his face, slowly raises his hand. It seems as if everyone else in the room has vanished, and it's Dr. Kirkus and me facing off in a duel. He stares me down; I stare back. He smiles sweetly, a sarcastic "I gotcha!" smile.

"What states would you have to pass through to get to Pennsylvania?" he asks.

The very same question asked at my bogus hearing! A snap!

I nearly blurt out, "That's a dumb question," but I hold my tongue.

I gather my thoughts. "You would go straight west to east," I say. "You would start out in Iowa, from Cherokee or Sioux City, cross the Iowa border into Illinois, pass through Illinois into Indiana, from Indiana to Ohio, and, finally, into Pennsylvania, where you would travel about 225 miles southeast to York."

I have memorized the route to Pennsylvania.

As the meeting breaks up, I know I have won--I have proven my sanity, once again. I'm all smiles when, a few minutes later, Mr. Benson, my social worker, confirms I have won my case--I'll be released in two weeks--though I haven't quite won because I will need to stay in a foster home for a few months and work for a while to earn some bread.

We'll see.

I applied for a town pass for Saturday. Cherokee's nothing but a hick town, but it's an escape from the nuthouse.

I'll grab whatever I can.
*firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-19360996153850714302008-12-02T15:06:00.000-08:002019-02-17T10:46:01.060-08:00Other Patients: Anna on the Lam*
(Cherokee, Iowa)

February - April 1969
What a wild weekend. Anna, a chick who was admitted shortly after me, and her boyfriend Benito, took off from the hospital on Saturday. I knew that they were planning an escape, but I didn't say anything to the staff. I figure it was their bag--they would have to suffer the consequences, whatever that might be.

Also, even after Anna told me about their plan, her daring escape still surprised me; of all the people I have met in here, Anna seemed the most together and the least likely to pull off such a bold stunt.

She's smart, a natural leader, always reading the great books, and always very carefully groomed, unlike the rest of us who slouch around like bums. She's not a pretty girl, at least in the traditional sense. She's tall and raw-boned, swarthy complexion, but almost sapphire eyes. She has short black hair, but with a hint of gray--although she's only 19--and it's styled in early Beatles mop top, pudding bowl. She exudes a mannish quality, both in the way she dresses in golf shirts and slacks that look like they're part of a man's dress suit, and her mannerisms, especially her strident gait, like a business man on the way to an important meeting.

Goes to show that appearances aren't always what they seem.

But, alas, Anna and Benito got caught on Sunday--they didn't even get to the state line--and dragged back by the police and thrown into locked ward (separate, of course). God, they'll be there forever. They might even go to jail.

Makes me think twice about just running off into the night--no money, no extra clothes.

_______________________________________________________________

*Names and identifying details of other patients have been changed.
*firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-72260843497404102732008-12-02T14:54:00.000-08:002019-02-17T10:54:58.304-08:00Other Patients: D.J., The Mighty Sage*
(Cherokee, Iowa)

February - April 1969
I meet a new friend today--it's kind of cold, a cruddy day, but I have to get out of that stuffy ward and take a walk, get away from Carrie and her wild escape stories.

Try not to think about Joyce and her ten ways of suicide.

Clear my head, figure out this thing with Jeff and his sudden feelings for that 17-year-old-chick who suddenly popped up.

I will go mad if I don't go out and kick some snow banks.

A middle-aged guy, carrying some two by fours, is tromping through a snowbank when he drops the boards to the ground, stumbles over them, and then falls flat on his rear.

I run over to help. "You okay?" I assume he's part of the maintenance staff.

"No, no, I mean, yes, I'm okay."

"Let me help you." I grab his hand and help him up.

"Thank you." Very formal.

"You're not hurt?"

He laughs and brushes himself off. "Nope." He sticks out his hand. "I'm D.J.*"

He looks about 35, a big man but not fat, with dusky, reddish skin and slicked back shiny black hair, blue eyes, and thick lips. He wears a red knitted winter cap with ear flaps. No mittens or gloves.

I take his hand. "I'm Jennifer." D.J. has the biggest hands I have ever seen, broad like paddles, with long thick fingers. His handshake is tentative, respectful.

He wears no winter coat, but he's obviously layered in several shirts, the top one a gray flannel. A matching scarf wrapped around his neck. He's clad in brand new overalls and old rubber boots, the kind with those lattice metal buckles that we all wore as kids. He looks a bit unsteady on his feet.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm always tripping over my own feet. I got a little bit of palsy." Then he says, with a bit of a stutter. "I'm-m re-tard-ed."

"I see." I help him pick up his boards and walk with him to the maintenance shed, just to make sure he's really okay. We rap--mostly, he raps--all the way to the shed.

D.J.'s kinda cool, and he's only slightly retarded--if he hadn't told me, I would've just thought a little slow. He works on the grounds, but he's also a patient.

He's been here for 26 years, since he was 17!

Oh-my-god! I can't even imagine being here when I'm 43. I'll be an old lady, one foot in the grave.

But D.J. seems happy. When I asked him, "Don't you want to split this joint?"

He shrugged. "Not really," he said. "I been here almost all my life. I got a job, my own room, and three meals a day."

"But what about your freedom?"

"To do what?"

"Well, you could get an apartment, a job on the outside, an old lady--"

He shook his head violently. "Naw, no, I don't think so. See, I don't add and subtract too good, and I can't read or write none too good either."

"You like it here?"

"I dunno. It's all right, I suppose. I don't know any different."

I hadn't considered the possibility that someone would actually want to stay.

Maybe that's what happen when you get stuck in the system and can't get out.

*
I go to Donohoe to shoot baskets and then go for a walk and see D.J. again. I only ever see him when I'm outside, walking around on the grounds, never in the dining room or at any of the events.

When I ask him why he never goes to the social events, he says, "I'm too shy."

I tell him he should go to the dance tonight, but he just shakes his head violently. "Too many people."

I can't imagine isolating myself like that. Scary to think that I might be D.J.'s only friend.

"I went to a dance once, when I first got here," he says. "Some boys called me 're-TARD-do,' and boxed me into a corner."

Some guys are so immature, picking on someone like D.J., who's about as sweet as they come. "Didn't the attendants do anything?"

When Wolfie the psycho danced me into the corner, they were on him like a fly on shit.

"Naw, they just laughed."

Man, this place must've really sucked back then. "It's probably different now. You might have fun."

He shakes his head, so I let it drop.

"How did you get in here, anyway?"

"My mother told me I had to live here."

"Oh." How must he feel, being rejected by his own mother?

"My dad left when I was five. Said he didn't want to live with no retard. Mom tried her best, but when I turned 17, she got sick. I had to go to court."

"Yeah, I know all about that."

"You had to go to court?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Are you retarded, too?"

I laugh. "Just stupid."

His face brightens. "My mom visited me every week, but then she died."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. It was a long time ago. But she's still right here," he says, his hand over his heart.

"You have a good attitude, D.J."

"Do you get visitors?"

I picture Mo and Dee Dee driving to Cherokee, via icy back roads, only to be turned away. "A few. All my friends live far away."

"I don't get visitors no more," he says.

"Oh, D.J."

"But it's okay." He outstretches his arms and twirls around. "This is my family now."

I can't even imagine it.

*
I'll be so glad to split this joint--

But not until I say goodbye to D.J.

I find him watering a fir tree. "Hey, D.J."

He nods.

"Well, this is it; I leave tomorrow."

"I know."

"I just want to say goodbye."

"I hate goodbyes."

"I do too."

"Will you visit me?"

"I'm going to Pennsylvania, D.J., and it's far away."

"Yeah, I know. To see Jeff."

"That's right."

"Thanks for inviting me to the dance. It was fun."

"Yeah, it was."

"I'm gonna miss you."

"Me too."

He continues watering the fir, lightly shaking the hose as if to nudge the water out faster. Then he puts the hose down and hugs me, a tentative, holding back hug. I'm going away, after all, out of his sphere, and he has already begun the process of disconnecting.

My life is about to take a dramatic turn--how it eventually plays out, I'm not sure--but I'll be out of here and into the world, doing my thing.

But D.J.'s day-to-day life is here, always to be the same, following the seasons, nurturing new plants, mourning the dying and dead.

If I were to return 25-35 years from now, I might find D.J., an old man, in this same spot, the fir tree a mighty sage.

_______________________________________________________________

*Names and identifying details of other patients have been changed.
*firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-75294849397595812742008-12-02T14:41:00.000-08:002019-02-17T10:56:01.739-08:00Other Patients: Joyce*
(Cherokee, Iowa)

February-April 1969
If Penny is a lost kid dumped into the institution and Carrie a bonafide wacko, then Joyce* is just plain scary. I don't hang out with her much; for one thing, she's too old, at least 35, married with two kids--a boy and a girl. Her husband put her here--against her will, but only because she tried to kill herself with downers, like Mom's best friend Cee--only they found Joyce in the nick of time.

Joyce definitely needs to be in here. She's what they call manic-depressive--she's happy one minute and unhappy the next.

It's true, too; she turns on and off like a Christmas tree. I feel sorry for her because she doesn't want to be in here, and she's totally pissed off at her husband for signing her in, but what choice did he have?

She's on shock therapy--it sounds gruesome, but it seems to work. Before the attendants take Joyce away for her treatments, she's sullen and morose, and, when she does talk, she counts and recounts ten ways of doing yourself in--I didn't know that one had so many options for slipping one's body into the sod:

"One, pills; two, rope; three, gun; four, knife; five, drowning; six, car crash; seven, smothering; eight, jumping; nine, poison; ten, strangling..." She repeats this litany, over and over, like a mantra.

But after treatment, she's exuberant and wants to soar like a bird; she raps like a speed freak cranked up on overdrive--it's obvious her brain is faster than her mouth; she sounds like a 33 1/3 record sped up to 78, and she doesn't finish sentences. Hell, she doesn't finish words, so understanding what she's trying to say is challenging, if not mostly impossible.

For about two or three days after her treatments, she's kind of fun being around--though I cringe at her detailed descriptions of getting jolted, I'm fascinated, too, so, after a few days, when I can finally get a word in between her non-stop chatter, I ask, "Tell me all about getting shocked."

"Well, it's kinda scary," she says. "But they tell me it's for my own good, so I go along. The first time, though, I fought the doctors tooth and nail, and they had to tie me down. Now I like how I feel afterwards, so it's a small price to pay."

In the shock room, they tie her down on a Gurney (which she hates, and I'd hate that too) and give her two injections, the first, some kind of insulin--why, she doesn't know (who knows why?) and, second, a downer to calm her nerves. Then they attach some electrodes to her temples (yikes!) and in the middle of her forehead and stick some device in her mouth so that she doesn't swallow her own tongue. And then they flip a switch.

"I've been told that they shoot 70-150 volts into me, depending on my mood," she says. "But once they shoot that juice into me, I black out for hours, though when I wake up, it's like I'm another person, not this creepy, sad person. I'm ecstatic."

It seems so extreme to me--makes me wonder why they can't invent a pill that would do the same thing and not be so traumatic.

I can't believe that shooting electricity into a person's head could possibly be a good thing, at least in the long run.

Especially since the treatments only last about a week or so, and then Joyce is right back at the bottom.

Jesus. Whenever I feel sorry for myself, all I have to do is look at Joyce, and tell myself, "That could have been me."

She must feel very lonely.

*
Joyce is bugging me in undefinable ways; she seems to hover all the time. Everywhere I look, there she is, a shadow. She doesn't say anything, she just is. Maybe it's me.

Carrie says that Joyce's last treatment didn't quite work the way it should have, and, it's true, she seems to be suspended in a state between just weird and suicidal. I just wish she'd hover somewhere else, like on locked ward.

It's really strange, but I have seen Joyce in both manic and depressive states, and it's almost like she's two different people. The depressed Joyce slumps and drags her feet along the carpet--which actually crackles from the static of her slippers. Her belly puffs out, making her look at least 30 pounds heavier. She wears polyester pants and striped tops, the kind old ladies wear. Her eyes are a dull gray, almost hazel. Her hair is straight and uncombed, and she wears no makeup. She looks about 50 and acts 80.

But when she's manic, she curls her hair, and it seems to cascade all around her shoulders. She applies makeup, lots of it, pancake powder, rouge, bright red lipstick (which went out about 1962), and thick eyeliner, mascara, and eyeshadow. Her eyes are sapphire, an eye color I have never seen before. She sucks in her gut and slips into bright red, low-cut slinky satin tops--no bra--skin tight black leotard pants, and pink ballet slippers--she looks positively slender.

Then she leaps all around the ward, like a ballet dancer--she seems to walk on air--singing old songs from the late 1950's. She's not very good at it, but you can't help get caught up in her exuberance. She looks about 21 and acts 15.

I've never seen anything like that before.

But, today, she's neither, nor. She's kind of stuck in some strange foggy middle ground. You would think that would be called "normal," but it's not. Maybe normal doesn't actually exist in her bag of mood shifts.

Joyce seems to be more like a specter caught between finite life and the infinite hereafter.

*
Joyce is leaving--tomorrow, in fact. She's back on Ward 4, and told me herself. Actually, she seems much better, not quite so far into the depths of gloom or so high into the clouds of ecstasy. She's actually acting normal, which seems strange, because normal doesn't seem normal for her. Her face and hands are covered with a strange blotchy rash, though, like she's been burned, kind of the way we all looked a few weeks ago with our winter rashes, what with the overheated dry, crackling air.

"My family needs me," she says. "I'm glad to get out of here." She sounds a bit wistful, like she's not quite sure.

Even if I were bonafide insane, I'd be itching to split this joint. "I wish I were leaving, too."

"Don't worry, they won't keep you too much longer," Joyce says, her voice certain.

"I sure hope you're right."

"You don't belong in here, Jen."

"Tell that to Mr. Benson [social worker] and my grandparents."

"They know it--the system's fucked up, not you."

Her dead-on assessment surprises me--I thought she was too wacky to know much of anything, let alone get how the system figures into the equation--I certainly haven't figured out why they keep perfectly sane people locked up while setting free a fragile Joyce loose to contend with two kids and a husband, who, apparently, hasn't been too understanding.

Maybe they've agreed to send Joyce home as a reward for never having done drugs--she's the way she is just because of something gone awry in her mind, not because of filling her head with dope.

Still, I'm jealous she's being cut loose, although I don't have a good feeling about it--like, maybe, they're releasing her before she's ready.

_______________________________________________________________

*Names and identifying details of other patients have been changed.
*firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-13256681617038294442008-12-02T14:20:00.000-08:002019-02-17T10:57:28.648-08:00Other Patients: Carrie the Cutter*
(Cherokee, Iowa)

February 1969
I'm worried about Carrie*, a 15-year-old girl I have befriended. She shuffles between Ward 2 (wacko unit) and Ward 4, depending on her behavior. She's on 4 now, but I'm afraid she's headed back to 2 very soon.

She babbles about wanting to stick a dead rat up her vagina, and when I ask why, she says, "Just for something to do."

Should I say something to the staff? I dunno. I wouldn't want anyone narking me out about some dumb comment I made during a bull session. We all say crazy stuff just to be bull shitting, but, somehow, I suspect Carrie really means to harm herself. I'll wait and see, and hope her doctor is keeping close tabs on her.

Carrie goes to Heelan but is out of school because of being here. Besides, she's too fucked up for school, which fucks kids up anyway. She landed in here because she carved "Father Falon*" all up and down her arms; she showed me the scars, and, sure enough, his name is still faintly visible.

"I love him," she says when I ask why she did it. Father Falon teaches at Heelan, and, I must admit, when I was there, I had a crush on him, too. But it wouldn't have occurred to me to carve his name on my arms. I have never heard of such strange stuff.

Behind her back, I call her Carrie the Cutter.

Mean, I know, but she pissed me off when she suggested, as we were bathing, that we have a Lesbian relationship. I politely declined, and she let it go at that.

In the bath area, three tubs, no curtains, so everyone can see each other naked. Makes me uneasy--I like my privacy too much. But Carrie seems to like company when she bathes. Never again; from now on, I'll take my baths late at night, when I'm alone and away from all prying eyes.

Carrie appears slightly retarded; her mouth droops open a little, she hunches slightly, and she has yellow teeth, pointy buck teeth with a wide space between them, but I don't think she is actually mentally lacking. She's too wily and dreams up all these complicated plots for escaping this joint, complete with accomplices and getaway cars. All talk, I'm sure. Still, it takes brains to think up these schemes.

She loves shocking and burning herself on the coils of those huge electric cigarette lighters stuck on the walls. The shocks are just static electricity, but they hurt, and most of us try to avoid them, but Carrie loves hearing the zaps snap against her index fingertip. She goes from lighter to lighter, finding the one offering the biggest thrill.

These lighters are ominous oblong bronze boxes that hum like those strange electrical contraptions in old horror movies. Rube Goldberg apparatuses, some inventor taking a simple object and complicating it. It's funny to watch someone light a cigarette; it looks like they're kissing the box. The state is afraid we'll burn the place down if we're allowed matches or lighters, but I've figured out a way to create a flame by sticking a piece of loosely rolled paper to the coil--not that I'd ever show Carrie how to do it. This is my secret.

I have no desire to set a fire, but it's always good, in a pinch, to know these things.

With due respect to Carrie, this place needs a humidifier like bad; every time you touch metal--the box lighters, water taps, TV, stove in the communal room--ZAP! Crackle! Pop! When I comb my hair, it crackles and sticks out. Feels funny, like I'm going to take wing, via my hair, which takes longer to get dirty, and my skin is so dry it cracks. Lip balm is my best friend. You'd think the state could pop for some humidifiers, instead of sticking innocent teenagers in here to fry themselves.

*
I'm worried about Carrie; for the past three or four days, she's been complaining of horrible chest pains. She told the attendant she wanted to see a nurse, but the nurse refused--said she was faking. So Carrie asked to see the night doctor; he refused. Although Carrie's a bit batty, I still like her, and I don't think she's faking this. It's just been going on too long. I kept after the attendants and nurses, and still they refused. Two nights ago, Carrie's pain was so bad I was scared to go to bed--that if I left her alone, she'd be dead by morning. So, I blew up at the R.N. and told her to get the damn doctor in here. They took her to the infirmary.

I don't know what's wrong with Carrie--she looked better when I visited her today--but even if her illness is in her head, it's better to err on the side of being wrong than being sorry. It's scary being at the mercy of the system--they can decide life and death matters, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it, other than make lots of noise.

*
After two weeks of ailing, Carrie's back on 4 from the infirmary.

When I ask her what had been wrong with her, she just shrugs. "They don't know, but it's not my heart. Probably panic attacks." She laughs like a fiendish little elf. "So you didn't save my life, Florence Nightingale."

Like I would hope for something serious so I could play the big heroine? "Well, it could have been serious."

"But it wasn't!"

"Okay, I get it."

"You screwed up, and landed my ass in the tank for over two weeks!"

That's what I like about Carrie: her utmost gratefulness to a friend who was trying to help her when no one else gave a shit. "Yeah, I guess I screwed up."

Yeah, I screwed up, all right--the next time she has palpitations, I'll just look the other way. Actually, I'd like to distance myself from Carrie anyway; she has become obsessed not only with the idea of sticking a rat up her vagina, but now she's talking about larger animals, such as cats and dogs. Where does she come up with all this stuff, anyway? Sooner or later, she's going to end up on locked ward, or, worse, in isolation, which, I hear, is a padded cell.

I'll just hang out with Penny from now on.

_______________________________________________________________

*Names and identifying details of other patients and some have been changed.
*email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-10112491909152711882008-12-02T14:09:00.000-08:002019-02-17T10:58:31.253-08:00Other Patients: Perky Penny*
(Cherokee, Iowa)

February 1969
I don't know why Penny's* here in the first place--she's been here over a year--and she keeps flip-flopping between Wards 2 and 4--maybe it's because she's mouthy and sassy and takes no lip from the staff. I call her Perky Penny. She's small, and has a cute round face and short black hair styled in a flip, which makes her look a little like The Flying Nun. But she has a loud, gravelly voice, swears like a sailor, and smokes Kools, one after another. Only 17, she has a five-year-old kid by her married boyfriend, who's raising the kid with his wife. How screwed up is that? Penny and this man ran off to Puerto Rico when she was 11, he 24, and that's when she got knocked up. I can't even imagine what kind of sexual appeal an adult male would see in a kid--he must be some kind of weirdo. But she seems so together, has never done drugs, just alcohol, and not very much, at least from what she says.

"Why are you here?" I asked her.

"I've got nowhere else to go," she said, and left it at that. Her parents live in Sioux City, in Morningside. Maybe they think she's incorrigible too, so they stuck her here--evidently, that's what happens to incorrigible kids who don't behave according to Establishment rules.

Later, Penny told me how mad her mother got when she returned from Puerto Rico, pregnant. Wanted to disown her. Excuse me, but shouldn't her mother's anger be directed at the father, a grown man? Penny's just a kid; how could she be held responsible for having sex?

Probably didn't even know what it was.

*
I'll never understand why she's in here. She's just a kid who got a tough break, and the system didn't know what to do, so they committed her. I'll never understand Iowa laws, and why the father of her baby wasn't thrown in the slammer after he took her and ran off to Puerto Rico--especially when she came back pregnant.

Yeah, it was the 11-year-old girl's fault.

And I was under the distinct impression that it's against the law to cross state lines with minors without parental consent. I certainly couldn't escape Iowa, and I'm not a minor.

Even after all the shit she has endured, Penny remains cheerful and optimistic about her life, although there's a wistfulness about her when she talks about her child, always showing his picture around. "He was taken away from me," she sighs from time to time. "They didn't even ask me what I wanted. They just gave him away. But when I go home, I get to visit him."

Pathetic.

_______________________________________________________________

*Names and identifying details of other patients have been changed.
*email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-33033996368980600582008-12-02T12:50:00.000-08:002019-02-17T10:59:46.577-08:00The Institution: The First Five Days*
February 19-23, 1969

(Cherokee, Iowa)

On admission, the patient was alert, anxious, depressed and appeared immature with a poor self image. On the ward, she was noted to be quiet and cooperative in the ward routine. She was slightly depressed but showed no sign of anxiety at the time of the interview. She expressed extreme hostility toward her guardians who are her grandparents. She admits to experimentation of drugs. Consciousness was clear; she was well-oriented, and there was no disturbance in memory. She showed fairly good ability to counting and arithmetical calculations. Abstraction ability was good. Her insight and judgment are not impaired. Her conflict, as noted in the diagnostic staff note, appeared to be external rather than intrapsychic.

--Dr. Mariano A. Favis, Jr., "Initial Summary: Mental Examination"

Oh-my-God. I can't believe they did this to me. When I tried to leaving for Pennsylvania, Dee Dee and I got into a huge argument--what a scene.

All this crap after he said I could leave. He lied to me.

Suddenly, I'm in court for a bogus hearing; they declare me crazy; hours later, after being locked in an empty, windowless room without food, water, or bathroom facilities--I had to pee so bad, and did they care?--some sheriff dude drives me, stuck in the back of a caged cop car, to Cherokee; and here I am--in the funny farm. What chance did I have?

Even my lawyer was against me, the old fart.

I can't go anywhere. I'm in what call an admission ward, a fancy name for locked ward, where they bring my meals to me. They said I have to earn my freedom. Shit. I thought I was in America, the land of the free. Only if you join the Establishment and play by their rules. In a few days, I'll get an escort card, which means I can go places only if I'm escorted by a staff person.

Every time someone talks to me, I start to cry. Can't they see I don't belong here, that this is all a huge mistake? I hate all the questioning they have put me through--I'm so tired of it all. I'll be in here forever, locked up, never to be seen again. I'll grow old in here, no husband, no children--no life.

Damn Mo and Dee Dee; I'll never see them, ever again, at least not voluntarily; they have put me through more misery in one month than I have experienced in my entire life. I have lost all respect for them, nothing but lies, lies, and more lies. Broken promises, sneaky and underhanded conduct. No wonder I'm paranoid.

One minute the nurses say I won't be in here very long, and the next, they yap about having to earn ground privileges. All my outgoing mail will be monitored, which means I have to be careful what I write to Jeff and my friends. I don't know about incoming mail. I would think not--I'm not in jail, am I?

Or am I?

But at least I'll receive all my letters, read by my keepers or not, privacy notwithstanding. I never received Jeff's last letter--he said he sent it on Valentine's Day--so I assume Mo and Dee Dee still have it and have probably read it.

At least I talked to Jeff yesterday--I told him about the court hearing, so maybe he'll figure it out and not worry. The minute I have a free moment without some stranger hovering over me, I'll write Jeff and tell him I'm okay. I don't want him to panic or give up on me because I'm crazy, though I'm scared I'll never get out of here.

Damn scared.

Thursday, February 20
I feel better today; I try to keep busy, and that helps. I can't change the fact I'm here, so I might as well play the system. I'll get out that much sooner. I even went to a dance tonight--not as cool as L.A. happenings, but better than nothing. There are lots of people here, but many of them aren't insane, just struggling with emotional problems they want to solve, most staying a month to six weeks. I want to make friends here, if only to keep from being isolated and bored. I kind of like rapping with the ward clerks and nurses, though some of them act like they feel terribly sorry for you, which I don't like. But most of them deal with us as human beings. That's really groovy.

Today, they took my mug shot in the x-ray room. I had quite a frown. I thought they'd cut my hair and make me wear a jail jumpsuit, though I did have to undergo a physical--inside and out, except for the pelvic exam, which will be done later--something to look forward to.

Nothing like a stranger sniffing up your pussy.

So far, Jeff's been so patient, but for how long? He might decide out I'm not worth the trouble, especially after dealing with Mo and Dee Dee.

Friday, February 21
I'm now a proud owner of a ground card, which means I can go anywhere on the hospital grounds with another patient without being accompanied by a nurse. I'm moving up rapidly. God, it sure feels good to get out and get some fresh air.

Mo and Dee Dee still haven't sent my clothes. I've been wearing institutional wardrobe, clothes older than God. At least I did wear a dress to the hearing, so I don't have to wear a mu-mu for the social events.

I keep myself busy and continue attending all and any social events, although I don't have an earth shattering time--it passes the time faster.

If only they would let me sleep in; they get us up with the chickens, 6:00 a.m. We sit around until 7:00, when we go to breakfast. Then we wait for lunch. I've been reading and playing cards with the other patients, mostly poker, hearts, and gin rummy. This morning, the hospital offered exercise sessions, which I need badly--Mo and Dee have driven me to compulsive eating. Daytime TV stinks. If they'd let us sleep longer, the days wouldn't seem so long. On Monday, I'm supposed to start Occupational Training, O.T. for short, a fancy name for Arts and Crafts and Basket-weaving. I was told I might be able to get a job on the outside while I'm here, but the Chaplain said to wait about two weeks before bringing that up with my doctors.

I hope to hear from Jeff soon.

Saturday, February 22
Mo and Dee have accused me of stashing acid and pot around the house. How ridiculous is that? I don't have a big time connection in Sioux City, and, besides, I wouldn't take that risk. I have decided--emphatically--that I'm swearing off drugs. I've seen nothing but heartache: flipped out people, bad trips, and paranoia. Drugs run the dope head's life, making him a slave, just like Mo and Dee are slaves to their old ideas. I feel sorry for them. Stoney, too, because I think LSD and the heroin will kill him.

I realize that Stoney doesn't really want to love--he wants to die.

Acid is a bore; I've done about 120 hours of tripping on the same thing: colors, patterns, sounds, and I don't notice any of the so-called insights. I quit just in time--I'm not quite so paranoid, I no longer have the feeling I'm being watched all the time, not even in here.

I've been living in a world of two extremes, trading one for the other: Mo and Dee's narrow-minded world of false morality and the upside down world of drug abuse.

I'm not surprised at Mo's lies; she keeps her word only when it suits her purposes. But if the truth stands in the way of something she wants, all bets are off.

But Dee Dee surprises me; he has always been a man of his word. I adored him; he was my model, and I wanted to be as intelligent and informed as he seemed to be. He kept his cool in any emergency. When I was on drugs, I didn't want him to know about it, but when he found out my secret, I didn't deny it. I thought I could trust him. So what does he do? He breaks his word, lies, and then expects me to beg for forgiveness. So he declares me unfit for society and sticks me in here.

What a joke. The court appointed me a lawyer for my hearing, and they didn't even give me a chance to consult him alone. He might as well have been on the other side. When I tried telling my story, they interrupted me. One man kept saying, "Don't you realize what LSD can do to you?"

Damn, I know, I know. What was he trying to prove?

Okay, I was on drugs. But now I'm off--obviously, they don't believe me. I've made mistakes, but I love life, and I want to explore my future.

If I ever get out of here.

Sunday, February 23
Wolfie flipped out at recreation tonight. I was dancing with him--he seemed okay--but then he squeezed me around my waist and pushed me against the wall. I thought he was going to smother me to death. I told him to stop, but it was like he was in a trance--he just stared at me with those strange beady eyes, like he was going to drill into me. As three orderlies peeled him off me, he screamed and writhed like a snake, and they had to drag him across the floor and tie him to a Gurney.

Scary.

I later found out he's in the men's locked ward for doing something horrible. What, I don't know. The other patients don't seem to know the specifics, and the staff isn't saying.

Why would they allow people like that to mix with the rest of us?

I haven't heard from Jeff yet; he'll probably get my first letter from here by tomorrow, but it seems like forever since I've been in the shrink house. I couldn't bear it if he turned his back on me now. I just want to get out!

I'm being so self-centered--at least I don't have to worry about the draft. Jeff has that worry hanging over him.

What if he gets drafted before I get out of here? I would absolutely die.

Maybe if I talk to my social worker, he'll see how I am and recommend my getting out as soon as possible.

I wrote Pam last night; I hope she isn't mad at me.

Dee Dee got his hands on her last letter; she called him an uptight Hoosier. Boy, was he steamed. He called her a 14-karat tramp. If she's a tramp, then so am I.

I hate when he judges my friends according to Establishment standards.

After four days, still no clothes. You'd think Mo and Dee would at least send them by mail, but I suppose they're still going through my stuff, reading my letters and diary, finding all the dirt they can dig up and use against me.
*firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-81527169964372672452008-12-02T12:35:00.000-08:002019-02-17T11:00:51.811-08:00The Institution*
February 19, 1969

(The Cherokee Mental Health Institute: Cherokee, Iowa)

Sometimes when you walk under a tree, it can be just as annoying to have a leaf fall on you as a fly to land on you.

–Jennifer L. Semple

A battery of psychological tests reveals that the patient manifests some "mild acting out tendencies which is consistent with past behavior. It is probable that the inclination to conflict with social convention will persist but genuine anti-social behavior is contraindicated."

–Evaluation of Jennifer L. Semple, by R. Lowenberg

*firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-9877983106167881232008-12-02T12:21:00.000-08:002019-02-17T11:01:47.495-08:00Chapter 58: Driven 2*
April 2002

(York, Pennsylvania)
Ignited by writer's block and a spark: driven to question.

As I stared at a blank screen and keyboard, my foot bumped against a chest.

My letters to Jeff, his to me.

At first, just a gentle nudging, eventually an incessant nagging. I tried ignoring the impulse to read them, those reminders of a past that no longer existed, not even as a puff of fog

I don't want to become like some older people who dwell in the past, who talk incessantly about the "good old days"–

I couldn't remember too many good old days. Yet the letters tugged at me, chanting like sirens, "Read, read, read us."

So I opened the chest, selected a letter, and read.

*
Holden Caulfield.

I folded the letter, postmarked February 14, 1969, and slipped it back into the envelope.

I married Holden Caulfield.

Drawn on the front, just below the canceled 6-cent stamp, a G.I. firing a rifle, his bloody target a shirtless barefoot Viet Cong in the defensive position. The caption below the address:

WE CAN WIN IN VIETNAM: PROVIDED WE KILL EVERY MAN, WOMAN, CHILD, PIG, SHEEP, BIRD, DOG, BUFFALO, AND GOAT.
Jeff. A long distance courtship, a child, a marriage, a divorce, another husband–in that precise order. A whole slew of letters, intense, hot, yet oddly ambiguous love dispatches, saved for over 33 years, last read, God knows when.

Years ago, my brother-in-law Keith built and finished a small cherry chest for me as a Christmas present; I gathered together all the letters Jeff and I had exchanged between December 1968 and May 1969, arranged them in order according to postmark, put them into the chest, then forgot them. When we divorced in 1980, I asked Jeff if wanted my letters to him back–I didn't offer him his letters to me.

"Naw," he said. "Throw 'em away."

Why would you want to keep souvenirs of a failed marriage?

But I couldn't bring myself to toss them. They represented history, a painful and, at times, ugly history, but it was an important personal history, chronicling in some detail a landmark in my life. I hadn't thought about those letters in years. They simply existed, tucked away underneath my work table, waiting for an opportune time to open a fissure.

*
Driven to read.

It took three full nights to read the 90+ letters. I read them covertly after Jerry went to bed–a guilty secret. What would I find in those dispatches from the past?

My own letters, a disappointment: I had remembered them as being great art, the inner workings of a young girl-woman who had taken on the Establishment and won. Instead, young Jennifer recounted, sometimes endlessly, the minutiae of life in a mental institution. She often obsessed about her relationship with Jeff, the tone of her letters often immature, manipulative, and rambling, some implying future self-destruction should Jeff decide to ditch her. Still, I perceived some insights, epiphanies, self discoveries, and a vague sense of searching for meaning out of a horrifying experience.

Jeff's letters hinted of a vividly curious mind that it hardly seemed possible that he would even consider me as a future mate. Yet he loved me as only an exuberant 18-year-old boy can; in a March 8, 1969, letter, he wrote:

I can get out your picture, and imagine (if I try real hard) you're here: your voice, your matter-of-fact way of speaking (always as if you're explaining something somewhat important–as much, or more, to yourself than anyone else–with a casual formality of tone, and abundance of asides ["and you see," and "it's like this"] and very expressive hand movements), your smile (much too sunny and radiant for a street chick. You're a hopeless idealist!), your old hat, brown outfits with yellow handbags and shoes, very light freckles, skin too white to ever allow you to be a native Californian, and long, brown hair, sometimes dyed black, that, I enviously recall, could blot out your whole face when you combed it.
What girl wouldn't melt at such a description?

Throughout our brief, but intense, correspondence, his letters, for the most part, retain the optimistic exuberance of a young man who saw a formidable challenge ahead, but who knew that the outcome would be positive.

I was jealous of his letters, even after all those years.

And, yet, despite the superficiality of my own letters, I realized that I just had to read between the lines and reach deep into my memory for the fear, anger, sadness, guilt, and ecstasy I felt back in 1969.

Perhaps I would write a book. First, I needed my hospital records.

I took a deep breath and emailed Cherokee.
*
firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-53406643079246761162008-12-02T12:00:00.000-08:002019-02-17T11:02:44.465-08:00Chapter 56: Driven*
February-April 1969

(Cherokee, Iowa)
Driven:

To the institution. I remember this part in black and white. The police car threaded up a hill, wheels crunching the ice. Bare deciduous trees, black evergreens, a gray scape of snow, dead grass, frozen earth. A dreary castle at the apex, spires, a place where a dungeon might exist, not a place I wanted to be.

The car stopped just short of a stone portico. The woman unlocked and opened the car door, motioned me out. "Come along, you."

The sheriff, the escort, and I climbed some steps. The woman pushed me through the door.

I disappeared inside Cherokee.
*
Driven:

To forget. I don't remember much about those first few hours in Cherokee: an intake report, a brief physical, and a mug shot. Maybe even a bathroom break.

Just the terror, the anger, and the thumping of my heart, all in bas relief, the physical details distorted behind crackled glass.

To escape.

For two months, I plotted, begged, cajoled, and lobbied for my release. I wanted only to flee the institution, Iowa, my grandparents.
*email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-27536866238077264002008-12-02T11:51:00.000-08:002019-02-17T11:05:17.040-08:00Chapter 54: A Possible Scenario at the Police Station*
February 18, 1969

(Sioux City Police Station)
A distraught teenager, Jennifer L. Semple, stormed into the police station, alleging that Harley D. Semple, her grandfather, has been attempting to restrain her against her will.

For her own safety, the girl was moved to a locked interrogation room.

Opal Casey, police matron, interviewed the grandfather and filled out "Mental Illness, Inebriety or Epilepsy," an informant's report.

Harley Semple
Jennifer needs help, I'm afraid. I don't know what to do.

Opal Casey
You could commit her to Cherokee for observation.

Harley Semple
Seems rather drastic, but what choice do I have? She's so angry, and the drugs...she scares me.

Opal Casey
(Sighing as she scribbles in his name on the information form.) These kids today... (Shakes her head.) Don't know what's good for them, what with all these strange drugs and immoral ways. What is the world coming to, anyway?

Harley Semple
(Scratching his forehead.) I don't know, but if she gets wind of this, she'll despise me...

Opal Casey
You're doing the right thing.

Harley Semple
I don't know if I can do this. (Pauses.) Who'll pay the hospital bill, anyway?

Opal Casey
(Taps her pen.) I'm afraid you'll be financially responsible, Mr. Semple.

Harley Semple
(Wringing his hands.) I don't know. We can't afford hospital bills; my wife and I are on Social Security and barely making it now. This would kill us financially.

Opal Casey
(Takes in a deep breath and sighs.) I can't tell you what to do here. It's your decision.

Harley Semple
(Scratches his chin.) Can't you sign as informant?

Opal Casey
(She sets down her pen and steeples her hands.) I don't know the girl. I see she needs help, but, to what extent, I can't say for sure. It's really your word against hers.

Harley Semple
(Burying his face in his hands.) Oh, God, I'd rather die than betray her. (Raises his head. Pauses, as if he's formulating a thought.) It's not the money, really. If I thought committing Jennifer would help, I'd do it in a blink and worry about the money later. But she doesn't trust me as it is; this would kill anything between us.

Opal Casey
(Silence. She sighs and picks up her pen again. She taps it against the paper a few times. Then she scratches out "Harley Semple," and scribbles in her own name.) This is between us, Mr. Semple.

Harley Semple
(Brushes his hair back with his hand. Softly–) Thank you. (Buries his face in his hands and visibly shivers.)

With one scratch of Mrs. Casey's pen, Woodbury County and Iowa assumed financial and legal custody of the girl.
*firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-36755615638576340272008-12-02T11:16:00.000-08:002019-02-17T11:08:58.025-08:00Chapter 53: "Let's See What the Police Have to Say"*
February 18, 1969

(Sioux City)
Today, a total disaster. All because I decided it was time to get the fuck out of Sioux City now--nothing here for me anymore.

I got into a huge fight with Mo this morning about some dirty dishes I left in the sink last night. Big deal--I was going to do them this morning, but I wasn't about to do them after that old bitch yanked me out of bed at 6:30 a.m. and called me a dirty, lazy hippie whore.

Who needs this abuse?

"I'm getting the fuck out of here," I said, struggling into my jeans, sweater, and shoes. I grabbed a travel bag and threw in my diary from high school, all my letters from Jeff and Pam, and a change of clothes. What else did I need? In Pennsylvania, I could get a job and buy all the clothes I needed--I just wanted out of here, big time. Now.

I slammed the front door behind me and headed for the downtown bus depot to buy a one-way ticket to York.

Dee followed me, and we got into this huge fight, right in the bus station.

"Let's see what the police have to say," I said.

As we stepped into the police station, a short walking distance from the bus depot, I knew immediately I had made a huge mistake.

That police matron wouldn't even listen to me; instead, she had me locked me in some tiny room while Dee Dee told a bunch of lies. They told me only one thing: tomorrow, I'm scheduled at the courthouse for some hearing to determine my sanity.

I wish I could reverse the clock.
*email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-86511998234385113372008-12-02T11:07:00.000-08:002019-02-17T11:09:47.266-08:00Chapter 51: Nabbed at the Bus Station*
February 18, 1969

(Downtown Sioux City)
Dee Dee slinks behind a department store column. Conspicuous in his oversized raincoat and hat with feather in brim, bumbling around like some hick private dick:

Inspector Clouseau.

Does he really believe I can't see him? I pretend not to see him.

I slip inside the depot and buy my ticket to York, Pennsylvania. Which leaves me about $4.00--but, with Jeff's help, I'll get by. The bus isn't scheduled to leave Sioux City for another 90 minutes. I try shaking him, trick him into thinking I'm not splitting yet.

As I turn to leave the station, Dee Dee blocks my way. "Absolutely not!" Dee Dee grabs my arms.

"Let go!"

He grips so tight I can't move without pushing him to the floor.

"Let go of me, old man." I try to break free without hurting him.

"You're not going anywhere."

"You just try and stop me." Still trying to break his grip.

He squeezes more. Vise grip.

"Leave me alone!"

Damn! That asshole has no right to hold me against my will. I should just push that old man to the floor, turn tail out of Sioux City, not stopping until I cross the state line into Nebraska or even Illinois.

Instead, "Let's see what the police have to say."

Nothing to fear, right? I'm of age, after all, and I've done nothing wrong.

After I tell the police about quitting LSD, weed, and Bennies, they'll let me go. Yes?

Dee Dee releases me.

I flee to the police station, a short distance from the bus depot, Dee Dee at my heels.
*email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-717212676198526548.post-11182241624032712962008-12-02T10:20:00.000-08:002019-02-17T11:11:14.685-08:00Chapter 41: My Country 'Tis of Thee, Sweet Land of Tyranny*
February 1969

(Sioux City)
Finally! I heard from Jeff; he says he's been writing me all along. I happened to be home alone when the mail came, and, voila! a large envelope covered with psychedelic drawings, a peace sign, flowers, and a slogan: "My Country Tis of Thee, Sweet Land of Tyranny, in Subtle Forms." Inside, he let me know that he had written me a very important letter on the 20th. Says he's turning into a nervous wreck waiting for my answer.

What answer?

I never received any letter from him dated January 20.

I couldn't even finish his letter, I was s-o-o-o mad.

I confronted Mo and Dee Dee, and we got into this huge fight. They've been stealing my letters, and censoring my phone calls. Maybe that's why I haven't heard from Pam and Eleanor, either. They denied taking any letters and intercepting my phone calls, but I know better. Those old coots are a two-person Gestapo! I hate them! How could they do this to me? Mo thinks I'm the biggest whore in town.

"Why would you want to shack up with all those guys?" she asks. "You'll have all the time in the world for that necessary evil once you're married." Those two Nazi guards are watching over me; they want to mold me into a dental hygienist and darling little housewife.

I called my dear, sweet mother to see if I could come back to L.A.--she told me to go to hell. Bitch. It's all well and good for her to drink until she's stupid and screw around like a jackal. What a hypocrite. Why can't these people stop hassling me? I want to do my thing, without everyone imposing their morals on me. But it looks like L.A. is out of the question; my mother thinks I'm a nut, and Auntie hates my guts. I went to my room and threw things around, just to make my point.

Mo and Dee are making me see this psychiatrist. I hate her, too; she's on their side, and I have no intentions of telling her anything personal. She'll just blab back to them. They're wasting their money. Now they want me to go to college. What a joke. It's waste of time and money; I don't need Auntie's college fund--she should find a kid who wants it. I hated high school, and I doubt if I'd like college much better.

I'm still clean off acid. The flashbacks keep coming back, but now I get a warning: a splitting headache. I hope the flashbacks and headaches eventually go away. I read somewhere that acid doesn't leave your body for at least two years. I still do whites and grass, but not very often. Bennies are hard to get here, though Isabelle turned me onto some fantastic Acapulco Gold a few days ago. But I'm getting tired of drugs. Weed makes me sleepy and stupid and hungry.

I babysat Aunt Colleen's kids the other night; I need all the money I can get so I can blow this town. After Colleen and Lyle got home, Mo called, worried about how I would get home; it's only a block away. It's a good thing she never saw me wandering the streets of L.A.

*
Last night, I went to the Loft with Susie and her boyfriend, but Dan stood me up, story of my life. No big deal. I didn't like him much anyway--he was a bit of a creep. Besides, I don't like juicing with strange guys; they buy you a few Colt 45's, and they think they can ball you. Know what? We had a good time without him. Why can't guys just be friends with girls sometimes? I like having male friends, but I don't like the sexual games.

Like with Tom, who I met at Foster's Freeze, just after Stoney split for New York; he invited me over to see his pad. I told him my sob story, about being all alone. Tom offered me a place to stay, but that's not what I wanted--I already had a place to crash. I wanted someone who'd listen, a friend. But, then it was too late to hitch back to Ivar Street, so Tom said I could stay over--permanently, if I wanted. That meant only one thing, and I wasn't interested.

"I have the clap," I said. That seems to cool a lot of guys off.

"I'll risk it," he said. "I'm really horny."

God, what a character. When I made it clear I wasn't going to ball him, he cooled off. He was actually pretty nice about it, and I stayed the night. Tom's a cute guy, but we had known each other for only two days and had nothing in common. He liked classical music, like Madame Butterfly, and I like The Doors.

Even Stoney and I didn't make love until after we'd been living together for about a week.

*
A couple of nights ago, after reading an article about the Amish, I had a dream that Jeff lived in an Amish community--makes me think about Pennsylvania and what it might be like. What does happen in East Berlin, Pennsylvania, anyway? Makes me think of the Berlin Wall, and how life behind it is regulated--much like my life now.

Jeff's writing a 1,000 page book about a 28-year old guy on a super ego trip who's still a virgin. Cool. I haven't written anything since high school, just three awful novels, two about the Beatles and other rock and roll singers. The third novel is so-so, about a beautiful, smart 17-year-old girl who gets involved in an international spy incident with a German man, based on my old pen pal Hans.

Jeff mentioned Miami and the Siege of Chicago, by Norman Mailer. I was kind of out of it during the election, with L.A., Stoney, and all that acid, but it sounds like a good book, one worth reading. I like the way Jeff describes Mailer's style: "He chops up pages out of the dictionary into bite-size chunks and pours them onto to a table and comes up with a work of genius." I've never heard a book described like that; this Mailer must be one heavy dude.

I haven't read anything important lately; my head's too screwed up. Just a short story in Aunt Colleen's True Story, a tear jerker about a woman who runs an ad in her local newspaper: "Wanted--Live-in Lover."

Mo interrupts my reading, something about a pile of dirty dishes to be done.

"Fuck you!" I scream downstairs, and throw some more stuff around. Nag, nag, nag.

After I settle down, I finish reading Jeff's letter. He can't get me off his mind and wants me to come out to Pennsylvania.

How heavy is that?

He signed off: "Your loving Big Brother and fretting Also-Ran."

Stoney was never so poetic.

I don't need to hitchhike to the East Coast. I have more than enough money to take Greyhound. But Mo and Dee Dee say if I go, don't bother coming back, ever. As far as they're concerned, they'll write me off, forget they ever had a granddaughter named Jennifer. That's really unfair, making me choose between freedom and them. Maybe they would eventually come around, but I seriously doubt it--they are so rigid.

Maybe Jeff's right: we should create our own country and the hell with the U.S. and its Establishment values. Secede from the union and get rid of all the narks, parents, employers, and any uncool people.

I once met a guy who had the perfect plan for taking over the country and populating it with freaks; he would take a quart of pure liquid LSD, and go from city to city, dumping a tablespoon in each reservoir. Eventually, everyone in every major city would be tripping and grooving; it would be easy, then, to conquer the country, place freaks in positions of power, and exile all the uptight people to one place, like North Dakota. Maybe it would be easier take over a small state; Jeff suggests Iowa might be a good place to hijack.

No way! I want to split so fast, leaving the black Iowa dirt from my shoes behind.

*
I might consider living with Jeff out of wedlock. Shacking up, as Mo calls it. Why not? If Jeff and I love each other, it only seems natural that we would want to spend our lives together. We wouldn't be committed legally, but emotionally we would take our decision very seriously.

As Dylan says, the times are a-changin'.

Evidently, Sioux City hasn't heard the news yet.

*
I'm bummed. Mom wrote and bawled me out. What gives her the right? She's nothing but a juice-freak, married four or five times, abandoning two out of her four kids. I'll never forgive her for what she did to Robin and me. Why the fuck should I listen to anything she has to say?

Mo and I got into a big hairy fight again--as usual. She thinks she can stop me from leaving, but Dee Dee gave me permission, although not his approval--that's another matter. Mo can be such a bitch. When Tricia--she got married last summer--called to get my address, Mo wouldn't give it to her.

When Tricia asked why, Mo said, "Because I just don't want you writing her."

That kind of shit is for the birds. Tricia isn't even a hippie, just an ordinary girl who wanted to write to an old high school pal. If she had her way, Mo would chase away all my friends, and lock me up in a tower, and watch me wither of loneliness. I am lonely, which is why letters from Jeff are so important.

*
I heard from Pam. Jimmie, Eleanor's old man and major drug dealer, was busted and is still in jail. A lot of the other dealers have split, which is why, I think, Stoney left L.A. It frightens me--although I never dealt--well, maybe a little, but no more.

Just before I left the scene, a girl just breaking into dealing asked me to list the different types of acid, and what was good, what wasn't. I rattled off the names I knew: Purple Haze, Blue Moons, White Lightning, Orange and Strawberry barrels, Blue Cheer, STP (super acid), Rainbow, and Sunshine. How do I know what's good or bad? Someone would give me a tab, and I'd pop it. How else do you determine quality of street acid? And this girl's younger than me.

When Dee Dee was in L.A., I pointed out a street woman to him. "Trash Can Tilly," named so because she spends her days rooting through the garbage cans around town, looking for food and junk. She's harmless enough, maybe a little nutty, but everyone likes her.

Dee Dee freaked out; he said, "You're going to end up like that, if you're not careful."

I hope not.

A lot of characters hang out at Wallich's Music City, like "Wild Man Fischer" and Caesar, permanent fixtures on the strip.
*email@example.com