THE BIN
Part III —
Days 4 through 6 (Don’t much recall which was which)
I’ll try to describe the architecture of the place. Geography is maybe a better term. Not a lot of architecture going on. No LLoyd Wrights. No Saarinens.
We were certainly at ground level, as one (heavily barred) door opened directly onto a recreational area of grass and dirt paths. This was also the entrance through which our pre-cooked meals arrived. Always late. Always cold.
Ours was of course not the sole unit in this multi-storied building. Others, such as Acute Crisis and Safe Juvenile, shared the facility. Never saw any other-ward inhabitants except at a distance. No mingling!
Anyway, we, the population of lunatics of which I was a member, me and my friends and others not so friendly, lived, slept, ate, read, gossiped, reminisced, watched the big tv, made jewelry out of cheap beads and took our carefully distributed meds all in a big, long, mostly rectangular room featuring a slightly Y-shaped turn at the far end.
The eating, jewelry and basket making, gossiping, etc. all took place at three long, narrow institutional-style tables lined end-to-end, thereby dominating the mid-central pathway of this initial section of the room. Clustered about these tables were terrible chairs that nobody could sit in for very long.
The Hub!
But there was another, deadly set of unpredictable furniture.
Pushed up against the wall opposite the staff’s formica counter, near a single, sorry old bookcase, were smaller, different kinds of tables. Initially, they appeared to be useless, as each could accomodate only one person, and with that person only able to face the wall.
Each such table featured odd, wing-like decorations on the front sides of the arms. I later learned these metal wings were not decorative but were instead attached for the singlular purpose of locking patients to the tables.
Patients involuntarily secured to these tables were guilty not of misdeeds, but of non-conforming behaviors. They either wouldn’t or couldn’t conduct themselves appropriately according to staff, who would invoke their authority by locking them into place.
Matching pieces in the arms of these specially-equipped chairs, in which the designated victims were seated (at first unwittingly) they were then fitted into the matching table parts, thus forming a seal that locked the chair and the person to the table. This left no room or method by which the patient could stand or turn. Just stare at the wall.
Lidia, an elderly Italian woman with dementia and I suppose other manias spoke almost no English but nevertheless made a great deal of noise. Wailing, sobbing, shouting and, hollering in Italian; she prayed, sang, and had long, loud, argumentative conversations with her husband, dead many years. (I cannot help but believe this woman was no easier to live with when sane).
Also, weighing next to nothing and being barely ambulatory, Lidia kept getting out of her main chair, wandering, flailing about and falling. She wouldn’t eat and made a mess of her food.
So Lidia was locked to a table. Her cries were piteous and troubled everyone. Fortunately the whole event was so disturbing that they didn’t leave her there for long. But the device was still used. Often. Usually upon patients who, while troublesome, but incapable of Lidia’s powerful and relentless protests, had little cognizance and no voice.
Observing Lidia (who I generally found intensely aggravating) convinced me this wa so not right and I had to get out of there by whatever means possible. I could not watch it.
I know I’ve seriously just now departed from my dispassionate tale. But there was no furniture description without telling about Lidia. After so much unmoving time, she broke my cold cold heart.
Sleeping quarters (not exactly bedrooms) were dotted along the sides of the main hall. Every cubicle accomodated two guests, but depending on the patient census, often had only one.
Each room was equipped with two cots; two blankets; one barely unusable sheet which either it didn’t fit the cot or it itched so badly nobody could stand it; two ancient towels; a cabinet for personal items (of which we were permitted none); and a waste basket. Every room had an attached bathroom containing a toilet and a grimy shower stall. Mine leaked from the bottom making a constant mess.
There was a laundry room in the midst of the sleeping cubes. We did our own laundry, scant as it was — all clothing, except for the bare necessities — having had (as I think I’ve earlier mentioned), all potentially lethal garments locked away upon admission. No predicting when a patient might brain another with a shoe or try strangulating a nurse with an old Eminem T-shirt.
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Men at one end of the ward, women the opposite. This was never a problem. Except for the handful of compulsive public masturbators, sex never came up. And the former group, although many enjoyed an audience, for the most part, kept to their robes on and stayed to themselves.
Opposite the long tables, forming not so much a wall as a protective barricade, was the afore-described formica counter behind which lived And behind the staff seating, in a series of short internal alleys, were the doctors’ and social workers’ offices.
Nurses — no offices. Formica counter and swivel chairs. They were better off. That nasty little office warren was plagued by overcrowding and non-circulating air.
Oh — behind and to the left of the counter was the Quiet Room. This was about the size of a walk-in closet and featured a toilet and a thin, grimy futon mattress on the floor. No room for more. One window looking out at the Ward. That mainly seemed to be for pounding. From the main hall, we couldn’t see anyone inside. Just hear them. Loud? I’m telling you.
Mounted high upon the wall (still opposite staff, and well past the three big tables) was the big-screen TV, always on. I’m guessing ten to twelve feet away was placed a single line of six or eight chairs for anyone caring to watch. I rarely saw more than three, usually sleeping.
Anchored to the right of the TV section of that wall, was the Staff Meeting Room. Narrow and rectangular, this featured a high glass window. Nobody allowed there other than by invitation. Nobody wanted an invitation.
For the “Staff Meeting Room” had also an unpleasant purpose: This was where “interviews” with new or not new but troubled — or troublesome — patients were conducted by a panel of stangers seated behind yet another long table, with the patient facing the panel. We never knew why we were asked inside, what might be asked, the tone to be employed, or the potential outcome.
…Gregor Samsa Please Report to Interview One…
Let me not forget — standing alone against the wall near the big TV was a single, small and ancient bookcase containing about 10 unreadably stupid paperbooks which we read anyway.
Another few feet to the right was still one more room, this being the “television room,” with a smaller TV with a remote to permit some degree of viewing choice. This intimate room was quiet and comfortable and seated between four and six people. I used the room to read.
This habit caused my only actual uproar with another patient, who wanted me “OUT OF THIS ROOM.”
In the opposite direction, continuing left past the entertainment section, within the slightly Y-shaped configuration, were still more, also different chairs. Actually, they were beds masquerading as chairs. Flat when beds, each curved up both from the back and the bottom to assume the appearance of chairs.
These were used almost exclusively by those of us too crazy or too medicated to manage a straight-up chair. This was where the bellowing guy — who remained in our unit from my Day One — hung out. (Major pain what with the hollering and cursing and spitting and pissing and grabbing.)
I don’t sleep well. Waking up at 4 or 5 a.m. is routine for me. Here, however, leaving one’s sleeping area and going out into the ward before 7 a.m. is strictly verboten. Why?
Because prior to whatever they deem early morning “cleanup,” the entire ward is filled with stretchers containing restrained or not conscious persons, mostly dead asleep from meds.
These needful patients each night through early morning occupied the entire ward. Sheltered but untreated. Those in charge believed this practice was not only secret but could remain so. For God knows what reason, most of these utterly helpless, hopeless patients usually could not or would not be admitted or else came from other overcrowded wards.
There were quite a few: They filled the big room. I knew they weren’t aliens or pods. When I walked out at 5 a.m on my first mornings and discovered this ungodly collection, I recognized some people from the day room.
So utterly drugged. Many who were generally hopeless. A nurse with whom I was marginally friendly told me (as she shooed me back to my cubicle) that these were patients that had to be watched. In case they woke up and lost their religion. Okay, too tough for me.
I recognized one of them, an older woman who actually was an admitted patient, drooling and dizzy from recent electronic convulsive treatment supposedly treating her profound depression. (I do know this is an effective method for for many but she was a mess.) And an actual patient! What was she doing in the secret nightitme ward?
Enough. Back to geography. Because there was nothing I could do and there was no way I’d get to leave on my own say-so.
So that’s pretty much how the place looked. It’s the best I can do. Classic institutionalization circa 1950 through the early 1970s. But — big but — this is 2018. And no appreciable change was discernible — other than the big conversion. I’m fairly certain this complex of buildings began life as a factory or a large business or both.
Structure, architecture, when created with purpose, atttention and planning, can be a great friend to the unhappy and troubled. However, unattractive and neglected structures are so depressing. I hated each morning leaving my sleeping area to come out into this sea of relentless, empty grey. It made me, and I’m sure others, feel just rotten. No one wanted to be there.
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