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Coffee Grinds in Paradise

Linda Webb Aceto

Instant coffee was liquid gold in that ward; I carried it with me, clutched to my side at all times.     I would add a quarter cup of water to a clump of the crystals and glop it down, trying to wake up what was left in me. At times, I would trade some away for candy.     That girl who stole it from me was twice my size, but she fell back against my fury and handed it over.

    I had to go. I was court committed to Western State Hospital for Mental Illness during that podunk hearing, brought together to decide my fate. The judge said that there was an alcohol and drug treatment center there, and he had noticed that, along with my psychotic episode, I also had a slight problem with alcohol. Perceptive little man.
    That first psychiatric hospital had an open door policy, insane as that may seem. We could go outside, walk around the grounds, and get some sun. On occasion, I would open door it over to the local 7/11 and buy me a bottle of wine. I had co-conspirators, of course, since I didn’t have the wherewithal to find the convenience store on my own. We would all stagger on back and throw up in adjacent bathroom stalls, while aides ran back and forth, solicitously tending to our “flu bugs”.
    They caught on, eventually, and the parties stopped, but my drunkapades were not what got me into that hearing. One day, stoned silly on some medication that made me want to crawl out of my skin, I asked for the safety razor to shave my legs. Instead, I tried to shave my wrists, trying desperately to find some way out of that creepy crawly haze. A safety razor won’t do much when it comes to slitting wrists, but it will produce a spewing, bloody mess. To fix the situation, and me, I was locked in the seclusion room and left, bandaged and thoroughly defeated, until it was time to meet the judge.
    Yeah, he said that Western State was the place I ought to be. Not only would it ensure protection and safety from the “danger to myself and/ or others”, clearly a pre-requisite, I would also receive some basic treats about alcoholism; surely that would help me.

Western State—the insane asylum—such a politically incorrect yet clear, definitive term. It was 1979, long past the days of the ‘snake pits’ and lobotomies; nevertheless, the words harbored fear, misunderstanding, some disgust, but, mostly, dismissal.

    There was a sputtering gasp around the room. My father began to speak, “She doesn’t really need that...” but I interrupted him, saying, “Yes, I want to go there. I’m an alcoholic, and I need treatment”. Little did I know about state hospitals.
    My only concern at the time was to find a way out of the seclusion room. It was deadly in there, I still had the creepy crawlies, and time seemed endless. If they sent me to Western State, I thought, I would at least get a nice ride, and how bad could it be? It was just another hospital, as far as I was concerned. Maybe this geographical cure was exactly what I needed, a new beginning, hopefully new meds, and a whole slew of new doctors. Further, my manipulative expertise would have fodder for growth at this new institution.

They fit me, all 99 lbs, securely in handcuffs and put me in the Sheriff’s car for the ride down to the state hospital. The nurse gave me a kiss with a big, warm hug and told me to take care of myself. I should have caught on. That unusual display of concern, along with the cuffs and the steel barrier between the back seat and the driver, was clearly indicative that they took the whole thing mighty serious. In addition to the preventive measures that would assure my compliance, stunning doses of drugs were added. So, I didn’t much care about, well, much of anything.

    The transfer ended at a hulking mass of red brick buildings with locked doors and barred windows. The sprawled out campus was tightly girdled by escape proof cyclone fencing. Once inside the hospital grounds, I was unceremoniously dumped in the waiting room of the admissions office, still doped, but un-cuffed, while the staff papered and processed me into the system. I dozed, skittered in and out of reality, dozed a bit more, then ate the food they brought me. Very kind of them, I thought, serving me like that. More of that pesky state of delusion. Once I was housed in the ward, I would be brought my food for quite a while, since I was not allowed past the locked door, not even to go to the cafeteria.

The Alcohol and Drug Treatment ward—I came to in a room full of men, which would have been one of my fondest dreams. But they were old men, used up, dirty men, who had wasted every other avenue of assistance from friends or family, men who had been court committed in a last ditch effort to detox and sober them up, at least for a bit. I fit right in.

    I was in hog heaven. Not only was I the only woman, I was still very pretty in the bleary, besotted eyes of my fellow inmates. They courted me, did my chores; one relatively cute guy brought me a cookie. I thought I might be in love until I noticed that he had no teeth, a definite deal breaker. Still, the attention was nice, and I was manic enough to not notice the truth of my surroundings. We played cards for diversion from that truth. There was a pool table, and mock AA meetings edged us toward recovery of some sort or other. We also played volleyball, but I irritated the piss out of the program director for ducking each time the ball came my way, In fact, I irritated him all the time. I did not mean to be the way I was—manic, happy as a fool, having a good, old time.

One day, though, my mania caught me off guard and crashed me into a wall. I cut my head, which sent me to the medical unit, and guaranteed that I was not alcohol and drug treatment material. I was bumped down to the ward for psychotic women, mostly harmless, who were lost in their own fantasy land. They had a name for this ward, something not so exclusive, but it escapes my mind. Much of that time did.

    At first it wasn’t so bad. Still on heavy duty psychiatric drugs, I shuffled and drooled, explored the ward, and engaged in meaningless conversations with my new room-mates. I still dozed a lot, a welcomed diversion. Time passed pleasantly enough.
    But then it happened. My mind began to clear, just enough for me to begin to see the stark reality of state hospital life—the degradation, the despair, the degeneration of human decency. I watched the cleaning lady wipe feces off the water fountain where someone had left her mark. I saw two women take the little retarded girl into one of the bathroom stalls, and I listened to the giggles that ensued. And there was the day the woman ran naked through the ward yelling “I can’t get well, I just can’t get well”, with the aides in hot pursuit, unable to match her frenzied path. (OK, that one was kind of funny, I must admit.) The sidewalk became a Johnny on the Spot for some, the cafeteria was often a free-for-all, and fights broke out over uneaten food deposited in the waste.

I met my husband in a psych ward, years later. It was one of those high dollar hospitals reserved for crazy people lucky enough to have good insurance. During his earlier stint at Western State, however, he ran into events similar to those that I had experienced, yet, the behavior in the men’s ward was far more vile. For example, he was given a box of cracker jacks, only to discover maggots as the prize. Another time, he awoke to a guy urinating on him. He pounded the pisser mercilessly before being taken down by the guards. But, I bet they didn’t blame his fiery outburst in the least.     [As a side note, to the naysayer who pooh-poohs the legitimacy of hospital romance, the one who is quick to say that it can’t ever last, my husband and I, both bipolar, have been married for 22 years. It has not always been smooth or easy, but always one hell of a ride. Some say that I married him just for his quality health insurance, but that is not entirely true.]

     In the women’s ward, the events were far less violent and often more amusing. One woman put lipstick on her cheeks to entice men to “take her to the bushes”, while Shirley simply had no teeth as a calling card for her suitors. Gnarled old women, waiting for their passage to the ward for the demented, snatched cigarettes from those who were not so quick or alert. I sat and ate bags of hard candies and drank my coffee sludge, watching and waiting for some sport that might perk up the hours.

Some of the goings-on were far more disturbing. A window to a locked room drew us like flies to see that obese woman, shackled to the bed with only a diaper to clothe her girth. It was a horrific site, so cruel and inhumane that, like viewing a bloody train wreck, we could not take our eyes off her. Some time later, they released her from her leather bonds. She sat on the floor, still diapered and bared to the world, banged on the tiles until they broke free, and gnawed on the corners of the linoleum, smiling to herself. I don’t know what they did with her after that.     In sweet juxtaposition, an adorable older couple took their daily walk to the cafeteria, hand in hand, seemingly oblivious to the chaos around them. I wondered if they, too, ever took to the bushes.

    That was it. Mostly we just sat and smoked, bartered for food, and hoped that a visitor might come, or even just mail.

One time, a boy, who I had met up with at that first psych hospital, came down and brought me a newspaper. The boy was clearly misguided, thinking I might be willing or even able to read through the clouds in my mind. Another time, they let me out on a day pass with him so that he could take me on a canoe ride. It was hot, sticky, and boring, nature’s beauty lost on me much as the newspaper had been.

    I think that my parents came once during my 5 month hospitalization, but I don’t recall anything memorable about it other than my father peeking around corners, trying to get a good look at the residing madness. He was as misguided as the boy. All he had to do was look at me.

The strong armed black woman tackled me as I sauntered down the hallway singing “Momma said there’d be days like this”. I suppose the reality of that tune was too much for her to bear. Or else, my singing really sucked. Maybe both.

    Some of the aides were very kind and attentive. I got my hair done up by one who had been a hair dresser. (Like the word retarded, we still used those demeaning names.) I got so that I could leave the ward by myself for meals and other outside activities. I wandered throughout the grounds, I tested the musings in the library, and I found the art therapy room, a place where I could play without reservation. We were carefully monitored as we cut, pasted, and/or painted our treasures—creations that were basic enough for our simple minds and safe enough for our craftiness. I still have the little box that I stained. I pasted on a smiley picture of the sun, adding lacquer to guarantee its trip to my future. Good times.
    Then, out of the blue, they said it was time to leave; I had to go. To what?

Life goes on, return to your normal, old life, get over it. Just don’t think about it anymore—it is done. In fact, my old life was done; there would be no return to a life not dominated by the loss.     It took various turns. Taunting itself up into unrecognizable cause, it required nerve bound dancing to the dictates of denial. I practiced, I thought perfected, avenues to escape, living in unending madness to cloud over the reality of where I had been, what had happened, and, my God, what will I do next?

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