As a young adult I was locked against my will in a state-run mental institution that was so hellish that (for just one example) the drug-addicted “mental health technicians” left to run the place on weekend nights sold the patients to local deviants and violent perverts who would come in, fork over forty dollars cash, and then be left alone with their rented mental patient victims to do to them whatever they wanted.
And they wanted to do lots and lots of terrible things, all night long.
Guess where they tortured their victims? In tiled shower stalls. All that running water, don’t you know. All those drains for easy cleaning.
I was also tortured in that place. On several occasions (and, again, this is just one example) I was pumped full of Haldol, strapped face down by my hands and feet onto a metal bed frame in a freezing cold room, and left there for over 24-hours.
Strapped down like that, one of my main concerns was literally choking to death on the great volumes of my own drool caused the Haldol. While lying there, unable to move my hands or feet from the spread-eagle position I was locked in, I listened to the storms of screams and wails of the violated patients coming from the nearby shower room, where they have all those handy pipes and fixtures for chaining people to. Where there was all that running hot and cold water, and all those easily cleaned tiles.
Throughout one such night I listened for hours to a guy strapped down like I was in the room beside mine, as, screaming and crying, he chewed his way all the way through his grungy bed mattress, which, like mine, was encased in thick clear plastic.
On weekend nights I got strapped down so that I wouldn’t interfere with the night crew making their extra money by selling mental patients to sexual sadists.
Ever tried to fight after someone jabs into your thigh a hypodermic filled with Haldol or Thorazine? Don’t. You’ll lose.
When all this happened to me I was nineteen years old. I was in the asylum for six weeks—which was as long as they could legally hold anyone against their will. The particular place I was in was so bad the state shut it down about two months after I got out of there. If you know anything about state-run mental institutions, you know how bad that means it was.
At the time of my “arrest” I had a good job. I had an apartment. I had friends. I was taking guitar lessons, actively doing photography, writing. I had a life. I wasn’t crazy. The cops had picked me up in a park I was walking through one night after getting off the graveyard shift at the local factory where I worked.
Whenever the people who ran the mental “hospital” had an empty bed, they called the cops to pick someone up to fill that bed, because they weren’t about to go without the $800 per day Medical paid them for every occupied bed. They’d have an empty bed; they’d call the cops; the cops would pick up anyone and pull ‘em in; and, for at least six weeks, the hospital would keep the ones no one came to claim.
And one unfortunate night I was one of those they picked up. And since there was no one to come rescue me—my family had long since scattered and wouldn’t have cared anyway—I was stuck there for the full six weeks. (I got out because after six weeks any patient taken off the streets can petition to get a hearing before a judge. I was granted such a petition; one hour before my court time—which I was really looking forward to—I was literally thrown out of the hospital, because the “doctors” who ran the hospital weren’t about to let me talk to a judge.)
I share this by way of perhaps giving my readers some insight into (just one of, actually) the reasons that I’m maybe particularly geared towards … well, those who have been unfairly victimized.