Part I  — Reminiscense

Today, May 22, 2018, marks the 40th anniversary of the start of my two-month incarceration in a maximum-security facility. My confinement was followed by a probationary period of nine months, during which time I was obliged to reside in a cloistered half-way house, signing out for the day, signing in before curfew. Per command of a self-appointed—and self-important—pair of shepherds, our motley, mottled, black-flecked flock attended their pompous, superfluous sermons Tuesday and Thursday evenings.  We separately partook of requisite weekly confessionals during which we were implored to lay bare our unbearable souls.

Though some of us were stubbornly clear of conscience, many felt remorse for their sundry sins against society. The Powers-that-Wannabe-Non-Judgmental would assure us lowly penitents that all would be forgiven. Hail Mary! Absolution was at hand in the form of various accoutrements of The Faith. The Faith of Pharmaceuticals.

Thorazine, Stelazine, Mellaril: Anti-psychotic triplets. Elavil, Tofranil, Anafranil: Anti-depressanttricyclics. Lithium: Anti-manic lone-star. Haldol: shoot-‘em-up/knock-‘em-out all-purpose leveler.

My fellow offenders—though rightly declared blameless in deed—were nonetheless presumed guilty as charged: Schizophrenic. Depressed. Bipolar. Convicted forthwith in Kangaroo Kourt: Koo-Koo in the first degree. Sentenced to extended lock-down in a formidable institution, followed by an indeterminate period of purgatory in the Not-in-My-Neighborhood Half-Way-to-Hell-House.

As for me—I got off easy. I made my way out of The System inside of a year. I’d like to say I impressed my custodians with my rapid return to a state of impeccable sanity. Truth be told, my health-insurance ran out.

Financial kick-out notwithstanding, I could have—in mind—remained mired in my appointed role of Mental Patient. Certainly, it was not a role I’d sought, but by virtue of its being bestowed on—and fostered in—me by the eminent ensemble comprising the finest in their profession, I felt it incumbent upon me to do my part justice.

Indeed—shameless ham that I am—I played it to the hilt. Inappropriate behavior—at your service! Heeeere’s Lizzy. Half-way House Half-wit. Obscene fruit sculptures (think: one banana, two oranges, dab of mayo) on the foyer table. Gleeful recitals of over-the-top parodies, deviously crafted to mock the system in general and the staff in particular. Translation Chart posted prominently in the hallway. Column A: psych-speak, column B: plain-talk. (Example: A. It’s OK to be angry with me; B. How dare you call me a Dick you ‘effin Witch!)   

Thus were the respites amidst my demoralization. Mustering my wit to compensate for my unwitting predicament. How the hell did I get here? 

             Part II  — Parallel Lives   

Scenario A

More pressing question, to me, in 1978: How the hell do I get out of here?

Meaning: In mind, as well as in body?

Here’s how:

I attribute my release to a psychiatrist at the institution to which I returned for outpatient treatment after my release. I can’t tell you the doctor’s name. Not to be coy. Not because I forgot after 40 years. I can’t tell you his name because I never knew it. He was not my doctor.

I was not his patient. I was, to him, just a woman scurrying down the hill in the rain, whom he hailed with his umbrella. A woman, who—he assumed, making conversation as he chivalrously shared his shelter—had been there to visit a patient.

It was at that moment I knew I could “pass.” And from that moment, I did so.

Scenario B

More pressing question, to me, in 2018: How the hell did I get stuck here?

Meaning: In mind, as well as—16 times in 40 years—in body?

Here’s how:

I attribute my retention to a psychiatrist at the institution to which I returned to visit a relapsed friend after my release. I can’t tell you the doctor’s name. Not to be coy. Not because I forgot after 40 years. I can’t tell you his name because I never knew it. He was not my doctor.

I was not his patient. I was, to him, just a woman scurrying down the hill in the rain, whom he hailed with his umbrella. A woman, who—he assumed—was a patient on the lam.

It was at that moment I knew I couldn’t “pass.” And from that moment, I didn’t even try.

 Postscript

 “My” adventure in alternate realities was inspired by the experiences of two close friends caught in the system—one escaped its thrall; one did not.