The Straitjacket Part I
In 1979 I committed myself to a private psychiatric institution for evaluation for suicidal ideation. This is a true narrative of the events that transpired. Names have been changed to protect identities.
THE STRAITJACKET PART I
The girl in the straitjacket kicked so high she hit the thermostat on the wall. A dark-haired ballerina in off-white canvas, arms crossed and tied at the bodice, she balanced precariously on one leg and executed erratic battements. The extra length of ties fluttered behind her. When I had first arrived, she chatted calmly with family members, minus the straightjacket. The family gone now, two aides performed a perverse pas de deux, protecting her as she spun around the grey carpet of the Admissions Unit at Elmcrest Psychiatric Hospital.
In an alcove off the hall that led to the day room, I had been waiting for hours to see the admitting psychiatrist. From time to time, I’d pop up from my seat to check on her, my uneasiness increasing with the wildness of her choreography.
Also waiting, a thin, freckled, twentyish blond with a face resembling Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz paced in front of me. “I don’t know about this place. It’s fuckin’ weird,” he muttered. His nose was punched to one side and his eyebrows slid upward on his forehead. “Hi, my name’s Doug,” he said. “I’m in here for drugs. What about you?”
That was the question. !979 had brought me a good man. A god-damn Knight in Shining Armor. The problem was, he wanted a commitment. That’s what I wanted, wasn’t it? Then why was I thinking of hurting myself? Before I could formulate an answer, the psychiatrist opened the door and motioned him inside. Doug turned and gave me thumbs up as he shut the door behind him.
After awhile, another psychiatrist appeared, ushered me into her office, and offered a chair. But by the time my interview began, I felt tired and anxious. I just wanted to lay my head down on the tidy desk between us. Instead, I began to tell her what happened when I had tried to take a bath that morning. I mentioned my wrist-slashing fantasy, hoping to be reassured. Of what? Of my sanity? Of my ability to reverse the downward spiral I was on? Silence filled the space between us.
“Hmmm. Tell me more about that,” she coaxed.
Earlier that day, I had been at home alone in the condo that I shared with my boyfriend. Sitting in the bathroom on the toilet seat, drawing a bath, I had the fantasy: I saw myself in the steam. Slowly, I would lower my body into the tub, and with wrists exposed, I would slash quickly. Pain would be preferable to numbness, although my numbing out had helped me survive. Rise above your feelings. Hold it in. Don’t cry. I was twenty-six years old and could still hear Dad taunting me. Could see his face twisted, inches from my own, saying, “Aw, is the baby crying? I’ll give you something to cry about!
In the fantasy, I heard the plinking of my blood spilling into the water. It flowed like it did when I was in fourth grade and fell, my hand crashing through a glass window.
Afraid of what I might do, I fled the condo to an emergency appointment with my therapist, Molly. She recommended I talk to a psychologist friend of hers who worked at Elmcrest, who in turn advised me to talk to the admitting psychiatrist.
When I finished my story, I paused and looked up at her.
“It sounds like you’re having some suicidal ideation. Have you tried to harm yourself?” she asked. I shook my head.
“You know, it might be a good idea to stay here overnight and let us evaluate you,” the psychiatrist offered in a smooth tone, as if talking to a young child.
I did not possess the fortitude, at that point, to walk out of her office. What was wrong with me? Maybe I could get some help, figure out my life, I reasoned, signing the papers to commit myself for observation.
A hospital aide escorted me down the hall and we stepped through a curtain of smoke back into the day room into which all the bedrooms emptied. A starless sky lay beyond the large picture window. The night shift personnel began trickling through the locked front doors.
Peering through the white haze that hung in the air, I saw that the smoke came from the aides and patients who sat at tables or walked around dangling cigarettes. Off to the right, a patient in a bathrobe stirred cocoa on a stove with a helper, giving the illusion of cozy normality. Exhausted, I plopped down on one of the grey couches next to Doug. Neither my boyfriend nor my family knew where I was. Where was the phone?
The girl in the straitjacket knocked over some chairs. Clanking metal reverberated through the ward.
“Time for the body bag,” an aide sighed.
Doug and I watched as four male aides stuffed the straitjacketed, screaming girl into what looked like a green canvas cocoon-shaped sleeping bag. She cussed and spat as they zipped her in up to her chin. They wiped their faces as they fastened the numerous straps and buckles. Then they put her in another bag.
“Damn!” one of them exclaimed. “I wish we could put her back on lithium!”
Even two body bags could not contain her energy. She threw her head side-to-side, writhing on the floor and foaming at the mouth, a chrysalis gone mad.
Doug let out a little moan.
Wrapping my arms around my torso, I held my breath and fought the urge to hurl myself back down the hall to those triple-locked glass doors. Okay, she’s obviously in a psychotic state and needs to be restrained, I told myself. But where are the doctors? And when is the therapy going to begin?
Back down the hall, inside a fluorescent-lit office, an aide named Cliff with a ponytail and wearing a plaid flannel shirt examined the contents of my purse.
“One nail file, one albuterol inhaler…” he recorded as he put each item in a large brown envelope.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I need that inhaler for my asthma!”
“Sorry, you’re on suicide precaution. We hold on to your stuff. If you need it, let us know. You can’t go anywhere without an escort now.”
I looked out into the now locked Admissions Unit. Several patients stepped nervously around the aides bent over the girl in the body bag on the floor, while other patients watched and hunkered down on the couches, holding onto themselves, perhaps for fear of their own unraveling, like me.
A few attendants lined the perimeter, observing. Where was there to go? As if reading my thoughts, Cliff said, “You can’t even go to the bathroom alone…”
One hour later, after being restrained in the bag, the poor girl no longer screamed but was now babbling incoherently. I tore my eyes away for a moment and spied Doug sitting on one of the couches talking to a pretty girl with long, amber hair. Like a small animal sensing danger, she cast furtive glances about her. Doug gently placed his arm around her shoulder.
“Don’t worry, Amy, everything’s gonna be all right,” he said.
“Don’t touch me!” she hissed. Her delicate features hardened into a feral grimace.
Doug’s eyes widened and he recoiled, hands flexed in front of his chest in self-protection. “Hey, Amy, calm down. I’m not gonna hurt you!” he said.
She swiped at his face with a clawed hand, causing two aids to materialize at her side.
“You ugly bastard!” she spit at him as they led her away.
“Jeez, I was only trying to help,” he sulked, and then under his breath, “Crazy bitch.”
That first night at Elmcrest, I could not sleep. Placed on suicide watch, I tossed when staff flicked on the lights to check me hourly. Meanwhile, my roommate stood on her bed praying out loud to the Virgin Mary.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…”
“What are you doing?” I asked. “Please stop.”
“Mary is here. I see her. She’s the only one who can help us. Help me, Mary…” she continued.
A memory of my 9-year old self marching down the aisle of Saint Patrick’s Church dressed all in white to lay a wreath at the statue of Mary faded into a vision of my 11-year old self wearily kneeling by my bed reciting a litany of prayers before I could climb in. I had been a good Catholic girl who went to mass every Sunday, unlike my father, who was the source of much angst for my very Catholic mother, and by default, me. As a child, I worried what would happen to his soul.
Worn out, I stumbled onto the ward and sat at one of the tables next to an aide. Amy, now in her own bag, had joined the restrained dark-haired ballerina on the floor and both were engaged in a noisy dialogue of free association.
“Peter Piper picked a peck…” one started.
“I don’t have a pecker, but my boyfriend does…” the other continued, their volume building.
On and on they prattled nonsensically. My temples throbbed. There was no respite. No intervention. The shank of anxiety in my chest twisted deeper until I couldn’t breathe.
“Pecker! Pecker! PECKER!” Amy bounced in her body bag.
“SHUT UP!” I yelled. “JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
The aide by my side scribbled furiously on his clipboard.
No one spoke for several seconds.
“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” No need to get vulgar!” a petulant voice called from one of the bags.
It was quiet for the remainder of the night.
“Time for Morning Rounds!”
Out on the ward, all the patients formed a large circle with their chairs. Doug and I sat next to each other. The two girls in body bags lay in the middle. In his white coat, the Director of Admissions sat conducting short interviews with each patient in front of the whole group. The topic of discussion was Amy’s decline into the body bag. While Dr. White Coat talked, he squinted and swatted at imaginary flies as Doug covertly caught sunbeams on the face of his wristwatch and danced them on Dr. White Coat’s nose. I suppressed a smile. Then it was my turn.
“Miss Lavendier, welcome to Elmcrest. Hmmmm. Suicide precaution. Uh-huh. Oh! I see you took the “est” training. I did too! How’d you like it?” he looked up expectantly from my file.
I stared incredulously at his cheerful face. “I suppose if I had liked it, I wouldn’t be here now, would I?” I snapped. “I’d be signing up for another seminar.” Est (Erhard Seminars Training) was created by Werner Erhard (and marketed deliberately in small case letters for a reason I can’t recall). My est experience had been one of the triggers in winding up here. One of the straws that had broken the camel’s back, so to speak. My therapist, Molly, had persuaded me to enroll with her in this so-called personal growth training in which one was supposed to become “enlightened” and thus make better decisions. Molly had left est citing “gestapo tactics” — like forgoing food and bathroom breaks for 12 hours — but I had stayed and sat for two weekends with 200–300 people while a “trainer” (who had boasted about enduring a root canal with no anesthesia) stood at a podium screaming, “You are an asshole! Your life does not work! You are a machine!”
As some people got up to leave, the trainer would follow them while yelling in their faces. Just like my father did when he was angry. I was paralyzed with fear. Oh yeah, transformation.
“Ok, I get what you’re saying.” Dr. White Coat used est lingo.
“Actually, doctor, I think I’m in the wrong place here,” I said, all sarcasm gone. “I — ”
“Suicidal ideation is not to be taken lightly,” he interrupted sternly. Then his voice softened. “Why don’t you hang around for a few days and then we’ll see?” He dismissed me and went on to the next patient.
Hang around? I had signed away my rights believing Elmcrest would be a safe refuge from the world, a place where I might find answers. But it felt neither safe nor like a refuge.
I was terrified of losing control of my emotions and being likewise zipped up to my chin in a bag on the floor, where I would have died from claustrophobia. I had to focus on how to convince these people that I was not suicidal so that I could get discharged. After all, I had only thought about suicide, I hadn’t attempted it. Don’t most people contemplate suicide at least once in their lives?
“Water,” whispered the dark-haired girl in the body bag. I knelt down closer. “Would you please get me a glass of water?” she pleaded hoarsely.
I had been sitting on the couch watching her. I hurried to fill a cup with water, brought it back and held it to her dry lips. She gulped quickly.
“Thanks,” she rasped as she fixed me with lucid eyes and dropped her head back on the rug, strands of black hair plastered to her pale forehead. Cliff and another aide hurried over.
“Time to set you free, Sally,” Cliff said.
Her name was Sally.
They undid the straps and buckles and unzipped the body-length zippers on the green canvas bags. Then they took off the straitjacket.
“I can’t feel my arms!” she cried as they helped her sit up.
Her body was coated with sweat and streaked with white salt deposits. The aides massaged her arms and walked her up and down the ward until she said she could feel her limbs. Someone gave her some apple juice to sip.
Later that day, Sally told me quite calmly as we sat at the table, “I’m gettin’ outta this place. I’m callin’ my doctor to get a discharge. I’m never going on lithium again.” True to her word, she had procured the papers from her doctor and was being discharged against medical advice.
In 48 hours, she had gone from psychosis to recovery and was leaving the hospital. Sally told me she was manic-depressive (the 1979 diagnosis for bipolar disorder) and had come here because she wanted help weaning herself off of lithium. Surely, like me, she couldn’t have anticipated the extreme methods the hospital would use to restrain her.
Having bonded in this brief but extreme situation, we traded talismans. I gave her my silver and turquoise ring from my first love, to support her in riding the cycles of mania and depression, should it happen again — and she offered her white linen shirt, to remind me to untie the invisible straitjacket I wore.
I watched as Sally exited through the triple locked plexiglass doors. And then turned back to face the ward.
