Get in the Yard

The “activity yard” at the Read Mental Health Center in Chicago, Illinois is more like a glorified dog run, half dead grass and ice on a twenty by twenty layout with a fifteen foot high chain link fence, complete with sharp twisted barbs on the top of the fence, ensuring that even if you do scale it, you are definitely going to spear some part of your body at the top. If this lucky escapee rolls over the fence to freedom, they will leave behind a bloody strip of meat and little else. But no one has actually taken that ride, as far as I know.

But on this ball freezing day in early February, everyone in the yard is thinking same thing; “Could I climb that goddamn fence and get the FUCK OUT OF HERE?”

Maybe, but then again… if you fuck it up you are bound to get more time added to your stay.   The staff could strip you naked, throw you into the yard and, in front of everybody, spray you with Thorazine straight out of an Official Bull Connor Fire Hose pumping at 120 PSI. If that doesn’t get the message across, they cut off your head and put it on ice until you are responsible enough to use it.

That’s all it is, really, just a stay – a sabbatical from the daily grind, assuming the daily grind includes depression, suicidal behavior, schizophrenia, psychosis, catatonic depression, extreme paranoia, mania or just general fatigue and bad vibes. It’s not a bad place to “get it together” as long as you don’t care where you are.

There are several wards, all locked. Depending on how you present to the intake staff, they put you where you are supposed to be.  I spent a couple of mind-numbing hours just checking into the damn place. Sitting in a small office, I answered numerous questions until my heath care professional told me that it would be a little while they processed my paperwork. Fine, I just want to smoke. She exchanged a nervous look with the ever present security guard after this request.  Look, I just want to smoke before I have to wait for who knows how long.  I’m a bit tense and this would really help take the edge off. I was allowed to smoke under the condition that I was accompanied by a security guard. Great, a smoking buddy.

Fortunately, I am under the care of one of the top mental health care professionals in the greater Chicagoland area when I’m on the outside.  In fact, I have two pros at my disposal. One tends strictly to the pharmacological angle and the other is an LCSW where conversational therapy leads me down the road to wellness.

My psycho-pharmaceutical drug regimen at the time is, as follows:   

1. 225 mg Effexor, an anti-depressant
2. 1200 mg Lithium for mood stabilization
3. 100 mg Seroquel, an anti-psychotic that features an anti-anxiety property that aids the willing patient in falling into a black, dreamless sleep twenty minutes after taken.

Unfortunately, my mind collapsed under the sheer tension and weirdness produced by a new drug that claims to have anti-manic properties. So, it was with a combination of hope and trepidation that my crack medical team and I decided to introduce the new drug  into the mix. The Good People at the Bristol-Myers Squibb Company cheerfully claim that Abilify is a “medicine to help you move forward.” What the medicine really does is wire you to the gills, make it impossible to sleep and cause you to collapse in a heap of anxiety. My medical specialists and I later affectionately renamed it De-Bilify, for its quick and ruthless ability to reduce the human mind to a quivering, raw nerve in under three weeks.

So the guard and I stood outside looking at the bleak, snow-covered grounds of the hospital. I could see the main road about a half mile away; The winding asphalt trail starts as one large road that quickly splinters into many winding roads leading to different parts of the hospital. Finding the right trail out of here seems confusing but it is probably not as difficult as I think. If I could just get a handle on my mind, just slow things down a little, I could be well and seamlessly re- integrated into society. Ah, society. That’s where the real action is -- the daily ins and outs of modern life. That’s what I want a piece of. Or do I? All I do really know is that I just cannot keep it together lately.

Hot enough to fry a dog’s brain

In February, 2003, I checked myself into Read Mental Hospital in Chicago, IL.  This is not the first time I have been in a mental hospital.  Since 1992, I have been hospitalized for depression, manic behavior and drug addiction. There were many times I should have been hospitalized but I either refused or slipped through the net.  Diagnosis: Bipolar 1 and I am a recovering drug addict.

In the not so distant past, if you had me in your home, things would probably go like this:  As soon as I enter your house, apt.., whatever, I immediately case the joint, getting a feel for the layout.  But I have some manners.  I might take a quick look around your place, commenting on how much I like your use of space or how comfortable your ergonomically designed chair feels. The lumbar support is amazing!  Now that you’ve shown me your place and I have admired it, its time to use the bathroom. It’s not that I don’t want to spend anytime with you, I just want to do it while I’m high on the drugs I found while crawling through your medicine cabinet. 

If you are considering becoming a medicine cabinet cowboy, here are some basic tips that will help you hone your drug stealing skills.

1)      Be professional.  Know what to look for. Drugs that end in “ine,” “pam,” “din,” “tol” or “tin”- grab ‘em.  Move quickly and cover your tracks.  You can’t empty half a bottle of codeine without the owner noticing.  Take the time to fill the bottle with other white pills, like aspirin or whatever else is available.  As long as there is some codeine in the bottle, you will avoid suspicion.  Oh, are you worried that your host might actually need those drugs? They probably do, but if that really concerned you, you wouldn’t be stealing their drugs in the first place. Now, back to work.

It’s a scientific fact: if a person thinks that they are taking codeine, then the mind will take care of the rest. It’s a classic placebo scenario, wherein the person believes that they are taking a painkiller which is actually a sugar pill. Trick the brain into thinking that there are narcotics in the system and the brain will release those tasty endorphins. Ha! Stupid brain! Now who is the most sophisticated organ in the human body? Spleen, I’m looking in your direction.   Unfortunately, the placebo effect is not always successful.  Fortunately, you will be far away by the time the faux drugs fail to offer any relief to the ailing patient whose drugs you so casually palmed.  Nice job, prick.

2)      Maximize your potential.  Get the most for your dollar. Figuratively, of course. You haven’t spent a dime, you little dope bandit!   A good menu to follow is this: four to eight of whatever pill you have followed by four to eight shots of bourbon. This is known as “hobo heroin.”  Of course, four pills of the right strength will do you right by themselves.  But are you going to bake a cake and not frost it? I think not. Bottoms up!

3)      Now sit back and relax! You are high and it doesn’t matter what you do. Why not stare at the floor? Try nodding out in the middle of a sentence! Don’t forget your manners. You are a guest in this person’s house.  Ask if you can help clear the table and then break all their dishes in the sink. 

Good luck and Godspeed.

Ah, the good old bad old days. I haven’t engaged in that sort of behavior for a few    years.   I’ve been clean since March 18, 2001.  While I eventually got my drug and alcohol problems under control, meaning total abstinence, I have never really been able to get a firm grip on my Bipolar Disorder. Trying to get my bipolar disorder under control has been like trying to put a pair of pants on an eel.  It’s an unpleasant, impossible task that only a fool would undertake. Even the more progressive aquariums let their eels roam without pants. Sometimes, you don’t have a choice.

My brain is firing like a pinball machine and, now, my lizard brain is in charge.  With the waning moon, the change is complete and I have become the impulse monster.   All I want is everything.  I want to get destroyed; Sleep is for the weak, the night is pulsing and I want to soul kiss it.   Give me all the drugs, all the sex, all the fire and explosions I can get.  It doesn’t matter what happens to me as long as it makes for a good story.  Crash my car, get arrested, run from the cops, go to the hospital, steal, get in a fight, vandalism, slash my wrists, take up smoking, whatever the impulse monster wants, it gets.  So, if you are subject to wild mood swings with an undercurrent of psychotic despair, then the time when you require the services of a proficient psychiatrist and psychotherapist may be close at hand.

Pack a bag, bring cigarettes

In early February, I started to feel a little off. It always starts the same way and, yet, it always takes me a little while to realize what is happening.  It’s spring! I love spring, the smells and the colors. Everything looks so vibrant, like the whole world is alive with pleasure.  I’m intensely aware of my surroundings. I see everything, smell it all, and hear everything.  I feel so connected to the world, tethered to the Earth by a throbbing, electromagnetic umbilical cord of immense power.   Is there a doctor with the cójones to cut my cord?  Not likely. 

That’s my cue! I begin to pack a suitcase with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for tropical vacations.  I don’t know why I’m cramming so many clothes and books into the suitcase. I’ve been to the hospital before and I know from experience that I will end up wearing the same goddamn clothes repeatedly.  So it makes sense that, after packing, I sweep my hair up into a big, shiny, black pompadour.  Okay, I’m ready to go to the free hospital.  I’ll get admitted to Read, everyone is welcome.  I have insurance but it sucks. I couldn’t get into Northwestern Hospital, even though one of my doctor’s is on staff there. 

Mental health insurance is not set up so much to help the consumer as it is to keep the funding rolling for whatever new creepy drug du jour that’s being tested on stolen pets, the homeless and the insane.  

Now, armed with my impressive hair, cigarettes and my agitated mind, I begin my stay at Read Hospital.  With its shitty drop ceilings that haven’t been replaced since 1978, small, uncomfortable rooms and that fucking smell; part broken sewer main, part Mr. Clean. Harsh fluorescent lighting complements the mood and everything is painted white or wood paneled.  I’m trying to fall asleep in a place that looks as uncomfortable as I feel.

Three on a Match

In the middle of the night, I hear some shuffling about and see the bathroom light go on. I sit up half awake to see Kevin and Gary holding something.

“You awake, Elvis?” asks Gary.

“Yeah, what are you guys doing?” I ask.

“We’re gonna have smoke. You want some?” asks Kevin.

“Sure, why not?” I throw off my paper-thin blanket and peel myself off of the rubber mattress.

The three of us cram ourselves in a bathroom that is barely big enough for the toilet and sink it contains. There is a mirror above the sink and the rest is brick wall, painted industrial white.

The color scheme is probably based on their therapeutic qualities. For example, white helps you take a shit in a 5x8 box distracting you from falling prey to any number of anxieties: I’m in a mental hospital. I sleep on a rubber bed. What the fuck is that smell? Why do we wake up at seven in the morning - every morning - when there is nothing to do? Rise and shine! 7 a.m. is when one of the ward “nurses” throws your door open and pulls back the curtains that are so thin that light from every source on the earth can penetrate its feeble filter. If you don’t get dressed you’re going to miss breakfast.

Good. Only a fool would consider moving to get any of the breakfast unless you’ve always wanted to eat C-rations leftover from the Battle of the Bulge and chase it down with weak ditchwater passed off as coffee. Stay in bed. Actually, no matter how medicated anybody on the ward is, there is no medication powerful enough to make this food palatable.  This doesn’t stop everyone from trading milk for toast, potatoes for coffee or any other combination of food and drink. It keeps mealtime exciting.

There is not much to focus on in here and mealtime is one of the few activities that seem to rouse even the most remote individual.

Wait. I was talking about smoking in the bathroom.  Why was I thinking about mealtime? I may have issues with the food I should address this in the next “group session.”  But I digress...

So there the three of us are, hiding in the bathroom at two in the morning, stealing a smoke. Actually, it’s the highlight of the day. Seriously, we’re all excited, waiting for Gary to whip out a Newport 100. This seems to be the cigarette of choice around here.

Gary lights it with his contraband lighter and takes a couple of long drags. He passes it to Kevin who does a deep inhale. Gary takes another hit and the little bathroom is starting to get a nice hazy look to it.  I’m starting to get anxious. I want that smoke!

“Hey, Gary, let me get a hit off that.” I say.

Gary looks at me with smoke pouring out of his mouth and says.” Be cool, Elvis. You’re partying with the brothers now.” Then he passes me the Newport and I take a big drag, feeling the mentholated flavor seep into every pocket of my lungs. I look back at Gary and Kevin, who look pretty satisfied. “Is there anything left - or did you smoke that whole thing, Elvis?”  So we pass it around one last time, nod at each other and go back to bed.

Terminal Boredom…The Black Hole…T.V. Violence

“Nothing matters but the weekend…from a Tuesday point of view”

                                                “Switchin’ to Glide” The Kings

Ah, the weekend is here! It’s time to leave the work-a-day world behind and cut loose. To quote the poet Sky Daniels, its time to “flip your boss the bird, get jaked and blow lunch. Tonight.” While many Americans are taking their cue from a booze soaked disc jockey, many of us in Read are unemployed, have no alcohol, and might throw up just to kill twenty minutes. Weekdays stretch on interminably, maybe a therapy session, crafts or you might see your doctor. You probably won’t see your doctor.

I saw my assigned doctor once in eight days for ten minutes.  I don’t remember her name and all I can recall is that she was of foreign extraction and had a voice like broken glass. She consulted my chart while absently mumbling to herself.  Finally, she looked at me and said, “Well, your cholesterol level is high.  And you should stop smoking. I can help you modify your diet while you are here, if you would like?”

“My cholesterol level?” I asked. What about my mind?  What about the medicine you’re giving me?  Do you have any training in mental health care?  What the hell is this woman talking about? I didn’t come here to talk about high density lipids, I came to re-fasten my head to my body and have my skull buffed to a high shine. Only then would I be released back into the wild. And where the fuck is my real doctor? Why hasn’t that overpaid son of a bitch called me?

As it turns out, both of my overpaid medical specialists had been trying to reach me for days, to no avail.  There are only two phones on the ward and ten times the patients. Talking on the phone is one of the few pleasures here. It’s as close to getting out as you can get and still be locked down, so it’s hard to receive a call. You might get a message from someone that your mom called three days ago. So you learn to keep an eye on the phones, and if one is free, you grab it.

 At one point, the members of my team were speaking to each other, trying to learn something of my fate.

“I haven’t been able to reach him. I’ve left messages but I don’t know if he is even getting them. I can’t even talk to his doctor.” One of my specialists said, with great exasperation.

“I know. I’ve experienced the same problems. No one from the staff will return my calls.”

“I’m afraid we have lost him.”

 “Yes, it seems as though Mr. Polonsky has fallen into a Black Hole. And that Black Hole is Read Hospital.”

On the weekend, your schedule is wide open. Except for meals, meds, and a mandatory lap around the ward for exercise, you have a lot of time. The TV is the great pacifier. Everyone will gather around to watch whatever is on, anything. The news, game shows, golf, infomercials promoting a machine that can dehydrate meat in half the time of other meat dehydration machines. Half the time!  Unbelievable!  It’s amazing what science can do. People start to drift in and out of the room, half watching the screen, reading, listening to headphones. 

So, this is how the day is killed; playing cards, sleeping, whatever. Some people get visitors. The best thing about seeing friends and family, aside from the obvious, is their look of absolute horror when they see the condition of the ward. Sure, they try not to look too horrified, but let’s face it, this place is a toilet. But it’s free, and if you don’t have insurance or money, you come to Read.  It’s impressive that a place of recovery can appear so dank and stark and oppressive without actually being a jail. The stark white walls and ceilings, dirty linoleum floor, and that smell. ”Institutionalized” is the registered brand name of the scent. The elements that make up that special blend are an industry secret. Eventually, visiting hours are over and its dinner time.

 Meds are served seven-ish with sugar-free Kool-Aid in a Dixie cup. Have you ever tasted sugar free Kool Aid?  It’s no longer the tasty treat you recall from childhood, but a bitter, unpalatable slime. It’s really not the worst thing, just one of many sources of irritation and stupidity to be found in the bottom-feeding world of Free State run health care.

Once everyone has taken their meds we can wheel out the TV and watch a couple of movies before the 10 p.m. “lights out” is enforced. We enjoy some light fare and then it’s off to bed. No problem. There are a few things that can go wrong when watching movies; The TV could die, the power could go out, the tape could break. These are minor problems compared to the raving psychotic who has a serious grudge against the TV.  He seemed fine at first. A little crazy, perhaps, but I’m not a doctor…  In any case, he has a background in the Navy which earned him the nautical title, Capt. Jack.  I don’t think he was ever a captain and his name might not even be Jack.

During movie night, Capt. Jack’s behavior became increasingly erratic. At first he was just noisy, engaging people in conversations they didn’t want to have and couldn’t escape from.  As the night wore on, Capt. Jack started yelling about his sister, whom he believed was being raped in another part of the building.

“Why won’t you do something?” he’d moan. “They’re raping my sister! You’ve got to let me help her!”  He seemed to be howling as he begged to be released to save his sister.

The other patients were sympathetic.  “You say they’re raping your sister?  What room, man? Can I get some of that?” This produced creepy laughter and tortured wailing from Capt. Jack.  The staff quickly stomped down on the vicious behavior, turning off the movie and sequestering Capt. Jack in the solitary room.  As far as isolation goes, it’s not so bad. There is a bed with restraints and a vertical window so the patient can be monitored.

When the atmosphere had sufficiently cooled, the movie was restarted and it was like a regular night except that Capt. Jack could be heard pleading, begging to be let up. After a while his restraints were removed and he rejoined the group. Instead of taking a seat, he fired himself like a bullet right at the TV.  If you want a true testimonial to the power of the Human Spirit, try destroying the TV as the weekend begins.  People came to life instantly; even the most heavily sedated people flew into action.

The TV sat on a rolling two level tray, the kind the AV Club had in high school. Jack nailed it in the middle like a disobedient deckhand and sent the TV falling to the floor.  People were deeply upset.  Cries of, “No! Why God? Why did You let this happen? That crazy fucker! He broke the TV!” were heard. The mood had turned ugly.  The staff sensed this immediately and hurried Jack back to the isolation room.  We picked up the TV and put it back on its throne.  As it was plugged back in and turned on we prayed, “Please work TV.  We love you!”

By the Hand of the Gods, it worked fine. Relieved, everyone settled back in to watch the stories.  At some point, Jack had been freed from his room. As soon as we saw him approach, people began to shout at him to stay away from our TV. No one wanted him anywhere near it. He was lethal! He meant to harm our friend, the TV.  We only wanted to bathe in its sweet cathode rays and he was a serious hazard in that regard. Finally, a staff member intervened.  After a few minuets of discussion we agreed to let Jack join us if he didn’t kill the TV.  Jack said he had nothing against the TV and only wanted to sit with us.  Fine, Jack would sit quietly and we would all relax, in the spirit of brotherhood.

Not five minuets later, Jack shrieked and ran head on into the TV stand, knocking it to the ground. A horrible crushing sound was followed by the unmistakable “pop” of the picture tube exploding. 

“That motherfucker! He broke the damn TV for good this time!”

“I’m glad they’re raping your sister, you asshole!”

As Jack was hurried back to the isolation room, he shouted “What do you know about my sister? Where are they keeping her?”

The TV was dead. That was it for tonight. Hopefully, they would replace it or we would be fucked for entertainment.  With our night ruined and bedtime approaching, most people turned in early.  The room was heavy with boredom and desperation.  Things looked bleak without the TV. Some people become seriously unhinged without the distraction and focus provided by the TV.  Godspeed, brothers and sisters!

I decided to focus on tomorrow.  With any luck, the sun would be out and if it was, I was going to go into the yard and smoke a cigarette. Then, I was going to lie down on the picnic table, peel back my scalp, and let the sun bleach my skull and warm my brains.