Hello!
Prelude) Prior to Fall 1979/ Spring 1980, I had had lots of questions about whether or not “something was wrong with me”. I had discovered “counseling” in Junior High when I was miserable and all the other kids were picking on me. As a young adult I would on occasion have astonishingly bad days that would lead me to decide “once and for all” to go to such a person and demand help with whatever unnamed / unknown thing was keeping me from experiencing the joys of life. (It never helped, I never followed through)
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a) In Fall '79, I was a college student, and one of those “bad days” led me to the student health folks, whereupon a doctor was in a rather enthusiastic hurry (for the day) to put me on meds. “We know all about that now and we have a medication that fixes it”. With no more info than that, I was given Stelazine to take by mouth regularly. I did so for 3-4 days and then quit, came back and explained that it didn’t just take away the “bad days” feelings, it took away everything.
b) Across Winter of 79/80, I had a life-shattering revelation of sorts, where explanatory concepts just kind of dropped into place and both my problems and the world and its problems started to make sense, including as an interrelated whole. I got excited, tried to explain what I understood, failed to make sense, upset some people. Representing some of the upset was my dorm RA, who said I should get my head checked out with the nice doctors across the street, and, unthreatened and confident, I complied. At ease, relaxed, & massively sure of myself for the first time ever, I spoke with intake nurses, who also spoke with the RA who accompanied me, and then signed the permission forms. Permission forms: you know, if it’s a surgeon, you agree the surgeon is gonna resect or cut into your injured whatever; if it’s a dentist, you consent to the drill; psychiatrists talk, so I sign what appears to be a form agreeing to “therapy”, and I’m visualizing Freudian couches.
Yeah, I fucking committed myself. They didn’t explain it that way but that’s what it meant legally.
I was entirely lucid, very interested in talking about any of my behaviors and/or thought processes that might have upset anyone, and why they found it upsetting. I was not a danger. But I very definitely got PUT into a mental hospital. No one said I was agreeing that they could hold me there against my will, nor did it say that on the papers I signed. But they could, and did. They took away my belt. They took away my shoelaces. They put me in a room with bars on the windows and an iron door that would only open from a nurses’ station buzzer. And they injected me with psych meds against my will in there, too.
Took me a whole freaking month to start a local chapter of Mental Patients’ Liberation Front and get them to kick me out for causing trouble. I felt damn triumphant at the time (and still do looking back, I admit it) but I also sometimes get a visceral shuddern when I compare my story to that of other folks in the movement (yes, there IS such an org) for whom the system didn’t just recoil and let them go when they resisted.
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b) Two years later my parents were very concerned. They thought I’d rotted my mind for keeps because I had smoked marijuana. Uh oh, drug addict. They said they’d found a place, thoroughly modern, doctors wore jeans and t-shirt like everyone else, they were not going to try to put me on psych drugs. They were against drugs, in fact. They would help me explore whether or not something was truly wrong with me. This was an exclusive, expensive, top of the line place. OK. Yeah, go ahead, kick me hard, I was stupid, and did it again: signed the fucking sheet of paper. Fool me once, shame on you…yeah yeah fuckit I know. Extremely well-funded overstaffed brainwashing lab. Reward-punishment behavior modification. Warm welcome from hordes of the already-inducted showing me around and telling me what I would soon realize about myself. 11 uninterrupted hours of talkative orientation after my flight in, with no chance for me to get a word in edgewise.
But I wrote a poem and taped it to my door. Graphical poem, with the word “cram” getting tigher and tigher until it turned into bricks. Repeated several ways /variations. Then some stuff about how no, you don’t know what I do or will feel because you’re pushing thoughts into me and not letting me return the favor. Pissed everyone off. Unlike the first bin, I didn’t have support of the other inmates. Found out why: you start off on Level 4 and rise by vote and ony get to leave as a graduate and can only graduate as a Level 1. Voting wrong can lower your level. Did I mention it was a behavior mod tank? They would not say what they thought was wrong with me so one day I walked down the hallway at my standard (6 MPH) fast walk and snatched my own file from the nurses’ desk, did an abrupt left past the startled nurse into the nurses’ station, and locked myself in the nurses’ bathroom, which, unlike OUR rooms, had a lock. Hmm. So: I’m a “paranoid schizophrenic with delusions of grandeur”. Paged through nurses’ notes: “Continues to display inappropriate behavior”
I did manage to disrupt them a bit, but ultimately had to take a door off the hinges and hitchhike out of the state to get out of there. Again, comparing notes with other folks who’ve been through the mill, I had it astonishingly easy. Most of their patients came from wealthy families but had no resources of their own so no place to run to, and most of them were in no condition to walk as far as I had to walk to get to a highway; but even so, they were lax and overconfident. Some psych bins are no easier to break out of than prisons.
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c) I’ve spoken with enough people from enough different circumstances to convince me that if they can’t trick you into signing yourself in, they just put you in anyway; that yes, they still do it: did so in the 90s, still do so in the 00s. That if you are causing public trouble (or non-public trouble for well-placed people, including family members, or specifically annoying someone who is an actual psychiatrist, you’re more at risk of being PUT in against your will, whereas some unravelled person seeking help (or on whose behalf some worried relative is seeking help) may be turned away especially if they lack insurance coverage for psych tx. Also, once you amass a psych history, the system tends to view you as a “person in need of treatment” and everything you do gets evaluated in terms of whether or not it’s a symptom for which you should perhaps be locked up. And for unknown reasons some folks just get singled out and held and subjected to involuntary treatment. Google “paul henry thomas” if you want a good example.
d) The conventional standard is that you have to be “a danger to yourself and/or others” and “in need of psychiatric treatment”. The first is subjective unless the person in question has engaged in arrest-worthy behavior, yes? (Or do you think we should be held subject to different standards than the rest of you?) The latter is kind of begging the question.
The conventional standard has been weakened in many jurisdictions to “gravely disabled” + “in need of psychiatric treatment”. Loosely translated: “We think you’re fucking nuts”. I don’t know what standards mainstream folks think are applied, but I can assure you it’s not like they do a blood test for serum schizophrenerase, “Aha, you definitely have schizophrenia and it’s untreated and you’re in danger”. It’s all grossly subjective.
And if they didn’t still do it they would not resist our movement efforts to eliminate involuntary incarceration and treatment. They still do it. We get new movement participants on a regular basis with fresh tales, and folks in the movement who are all to well-known to the psych system who fall on bad days and hard times get dragged back in sometimes too.