I've thought a lot about temperament and how one releases their frustrations or anger and I've come to the conclusion that it's far better, in most cases, to express how you feel (hopefully in a mature way), rather than keeping it all inside. When you keep emotions inside like that, they seem to fester and one day, they will eventually come out one way or the other. My feeling is that it's better to let it out now, deal with it and move on. Of course not everyone shares in my philosophy. And not everything should be said out loud. Like I wouldn't tell a friend who's having a bad day that "You're a lousy friend and right now I really can't stand you." I may think it, but it wouldn't prove beneficial to me or them if I spoke it. My father and I argued about his grandchildren and I felt he was totally wrong, so we both voiced our opinions with zeal, but then we were both able to move on from there after we finished. I think people who hold back on expressing their feelings, get sick or depressed or angry and then that could turn into bitterness. That is my psychological opinion for the day.
I do actually have quite a lot of experience in the psychological realm, as it were. I was a pretty screwed up kid, did a lot of drugs and drinking and was very angry and depressed. (No, I didn't repress my feelings; I was very verbal about how I felt, so I was an exception to the rule about what I said above.) During the summer of my sophomore year, my parents took me to a psychiatrist who turned me off immediately. He tried his best to talk to me but I trusted no one and I certainly wasn’t going to pour my heart out to some old, Jewish guy who thought he knew all about me. He had a condescending manner about him that just aggravated the situation, and I was, to put it mildly, very rude and obnoxious to him. I cussed him out and would not cooperate with all his little tests he wanted me to complete. (I told him his ink blots looked like ink blots.) At the end of our session, he informed my parents that I needed to be immediately put into a psychiatric hospital, otherwise he feared I would kill myself. I really didn’t think they’d do it, but the following week I found myself in the Intensive Care Unit of Riveredge Hospital, a psychiatric hospital in Forest Park, Illinois.
I was 15 years old when I was admitted to Riveredge. Everyone that is first admitted goes to ICU, then placed in a different ward, if you behave. I remember the first evening I was there, a worker who eventually became my friend (I used to draw his hands), locked my door behind him and left me alone in my room. It was a very creepy feeling. All that was in the room was a bed and a little table. I remember looking out the window and crying, but not really knowing what I was crying about -- I just didn’t have the desire to live anymore.
ICU was an interesting ward. When I thought of being in a hospital, I thought of lying around all day watching TV or something. On the contrary!! The nurses on this ward must have come from the Army because they ran the ward like an army troop! They woke us up early in the morning, and from the time we were up until the time we went to bed, we were on a strict schedule, which included cleaning, schoolwork, therapy and quiet time. On this ward, there was NO PHYSICAL CONTACT as they yelled out occasionally to remind those of us who forgot. They assigned me a “shrink” who I considered a real idiot, and would not cooperate with. They tried switching shrinks on me several times, but there wasn’t one I liked or would trust. There was one teenage boy on this ward, who would stay there probably the rest of his life because he had “fried” his brain on acid and he had no idea what was happening around him. There was an autistic boy, Charles, about 8 or 9, who I grew to love on this ward. I didn’t know what autism was, I just felt like he needed someone to love him, so I did. Back in those days, kids or people who had disorders like autism were placed in psychiatric hospitals because they didn't have a clue how to treat them.
One time, another teenage girl called one of the female workers a “nigger” and when I heard it, I came flying out of my room to beat her up. In the process, I slammed my finger in the door and they had to take me to the emergency room to get it stitched up. Mrs. Tolbert, who this kid called a nigger, calmly ignored her which made me even angrier. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t slap her up or something. Mrs. Tolbert rebuked me and scolded me instead of her for losing my temper and reacting in such an immature way. She explained that it’s inappropriate to act that way toward people, and that you can’t change them, but you certainly can control yourself and the way you respond to others. I learned a valuable lesson that day, and the scar I still have on my finger, which is now arthritic, is a constant reminder of that.
After awhile, I learned how to “get around” on this small ward, and do the things that would eventually move me to the adolescent ward where all the kids wanted to be. The shrink had me on Valium, I guess because he thought I was too volatile. That was ok with me, because I would save them up and then take several at one time and get high -- right there on the ward. During “group therapy” we would toss a medicine ball back and forth to one another (which was a big, leather, very heavy ball), and I would try to deck the girl who called Mrs. Tolbert a nigger. Back then, I was very strong (from my tomboy days) and that combined with the pent-up anger inside, I had the ability to do some damage. I couldn’t stand her, and I tried my best to nail her, although I couldn’t get very far with workers and nurses constantly watching every move I made.
I finally “earned” my way off of ICU and was relocated to the adolescent ward, which was much more relaxed and without all the rules and schedules I had to abide by before. I had a larger room, with a roommate and our own bathroom. There was a large “dayroom” in the center of the ward, where there was a TV, pool table and card tables. I became a very good pool player, as well as proficient at Pinochle. I stayed on this ward the remainder of the time, (with the exception of a short period of time that I relapsed and was sent back up to ICU) and I was in the hospital for approximately 10 months. It got to the point that I was having so much fun, I didn’t want to leave.
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