Riveredge Hospital Part 2

I began to write poetry during the time I spent in the hospital.  I would sit in my room and look out the huge window that overlooked the Des Plaines River and I would think a lot about life, God, death and the meaning of it all.  I’ve always had to “figure everything out” and I’m still that way.  It frustrates me when things don’t make sense.
 

I made many friends in the hospital.  In fact, funny as it may seem, I was popular in the mental hospital, which certainly says something about my personality.  I was the “head” of a gang that would go after girls who were picking on other kids, and would threaten them if they didn’t stop.  I wouldn’t tolerate anyone like that and made it very clear to the others on the ward. 

 

Back in those days, contrary to today, the workers they hired who were not medical personnel, were definitely not qualified to be in those positions.  One worker, who we called “Hambone” brought us liquor and drugs on an ongoing basis.  He was always high, in fact, when he came to work.  Another worker, was always having sex with the girls on our ward.  He once came on to me, but I didn’t trust him, so I didn’t let him get any further. 

My temper was so uncontrollable back then, that they had to put me in the “quiet room” which was solitary confinement, strap me down to the bed and shoot me up with Thorazine, a powerful tranquilizer that actually knocked me out until late the next day.  When I finally came to, it was like a real bad hangover and lasted for a couple days.  They did that to me a few times when I lost my temper.  It was such a drag, so I learned to put a lid on my anger, for the most part. 

One of the girls on the ward who was in there because she was pregnant and using drugs, had a boyfriend who brought us liquor one day and we got very drunk in her room.  I ended up vomiting all over the bathroom.  She told me her father had sex with sheep on his farm and I thought she was kidding until I found out it was really true.  And she was the one in the mental hospital? What a weird world, and the older I was getting, the weirder it became.  One boy was a schizophrenic who drew pictures of faces inside of faces inside of eyeballs, on and on in such detail.  He was really an excellent artist, but very disturbed.  One boy considered himself a “white witch,” and was strung out on drugs.  Most of the kids there were either on drugs, suicidal or really mentally ill. 

I took my whole junior year of high school at the hospital, but cheated most of the way through it, as the teacher of our very small class didn’t pay much attention.  We were required to attend “group therapy” in which a large group of us sat in a circle and told, or yelled, at each other how we felt about ourselves and others.  It was always a very intense situation, and some people even had physical fights during these sessions. 

One positive thing I did acquire during my stay in the hospital, was to acknowledge my feelings and emotions and to express myself to others.  I also learned to listen and to listen with my “heart,” which I still consider to be most important of all.  I learned to “see beyond” what another person was saying -- see the intent rather than what was being said, as many times is totally different.  In other words, I learned a lot about people in this place, which has helped me tremendously during the course of my life.  However, the purpose I was admitted there in the first place, was not resolved until many years later. 

My mother had me come home on a pass for my 16th birthday, and she had a surprise party for me with a few of my friends.  We had a lot of fun that day, in the basement of our home, carrying on the way teenagers do.  My friends all pitched in and bought me a wonderful picture book of Andrew Wyeth’s prints, which I loved.  My parents had purchased a German Short-Haired Pointer puppy around that same time, named him “Satan” of all things, and he eventually lived up to his name, becoming a very mean and ornery dog.  I loved him and would talk to him like a person all the time.  I guess I felt like he understood me on some level, where no one else obviously did.

When my parents came to visit me, I treated them terribly and hurried through the visit as I didn’t want to be with them.  One time, my mother had come to do my laundry, and I saw her briefly in the laundry room and made a snide comment to her and walked away with a group of kids.  I realized I shouldn’t have said what I had said, and returned to the laundry room, only to see her with her head in her hands weeping.  I said nothing, turned around and walked away, but I never forgot the way I felt that day.  I wanted so much to apologize to her, but for some reason, couldn’t bring myself to do it.  To this day I don’t know why I hated my mother so much, and I have no explanation for the way I treated her.  I guess I felt like she was never “there” for me the way I wished she would be, and so I closed myself off from her.  Even today, we have awkward moments because our relationship has always been a bit estranged, but it is getting better since I've been down here and working so close with them.  God has a way of healing relationships when you put forth the effort and let Him.

My experience in the hospital is one in which I will never forget.  I learned a lot about myself.  I learned how to love deeply and I learned how to be honest with myself.  I learned that life is a total drag in a lot of ways, but there were so many good, caring, and honest people to get to know, that it made the difference between living and dying for me.  The most beneficial thing I learned during this time, was the monumental importance relationships were in my life.  That revelation would be the precursor to my evolving relationship with God.