Quiet Room - Lori Schiller [90]
We were all supposed to be responsible for our own treatment. On 3 South you couldn't get away—as you could on other units— with breaking the rules and staying in bed when you felt like it. Nor could you lie around on the hall chairs. Everyone had to be out and about, engaged in some activity or socializing.
On other units, group meetings were always supposed to be mandatory, but you could dodge them if you said you weren't feeling well. Here, cutting meetings cost you passes and privileges. It was your responsibility to remember when you were to go to activities, prepare for them and wait at the door if you needed an escort.
What's more, we were all supposed to get involved in not only our own treatment, but in the treatment of other patients as well. On other units decisions about changes in status, or about passes, were made by the doctors, nurses and social workers. On other units, for example, to get a pass we just signed our name to a list on the bulletin board, and the decision was announced at the next community meeting. On 3 South, however, it was other patients who, along with the doctors and nurses, debated their fellow patients’ fates.
Before I moved to 3 South, I found this idea appealing. But that was before I arrived and found out who I would be working with. The other patients were all so sick. They were so much sicker than I was!
There we sat in our group meetings, three times a week, nine of us, in a circle in the living room. The doctors and social workers and nurses and mental health workers looked alert and in charge. And the rest of us? It varied by how we felt. Many of us had the diagnosis of schizophrenia. During the meeting on any given day, some might be actively hallucinating. Some might be feeling relatively clear and cogent. Some might be nodding off from the effects of a new medication.
At first I just sat in the group and cried. I didn't want to have anything to do with the other patients. I didn't want to talk about them and I didn't want them talking about me. But the staff wouldn't let me off the hook. If I wanted a pass to go home and see my parents, I had to present my request to the group just as everyone else did.
“I'd like to request a pass this weekend,” I mumbled, looking at the floor, arms clenched in front of me.
The social worker spoke up. “I'm meeting with Lori's parents tomorrow evening, and we are going to discuss this issue. We've been afraid that you would run away, Lori.”
I flared. “My parents aren't me. What do they have to do with it? ”
“We're going to hear from everyone, Lori,” said Dr. Doller, who was leading the group. “Then we'll get back to you.”
One patient spoke up. “I think Lori should get the pass. You go nuts here being locked up for so long.”
“I agree,” chimed in another.
Dr. Doller turned to another patient, who was sleeping in her chair. “Claire? Claire? Claire, if you can't stay awake, maybe you should stand up.”
Margo, one of the nurses, spoke on my behalf: “Lori seems to be trying very hard to avoid impulsive behavior. I think she should get the pass.”
“Lori, how do you feel about what everyone is saying about you? ”
Silence.
“Lori? ”
“I don't want to talk about it.”
“Are you having some feelings about us talking about you, Lori?” asked Dr. Doller.
“I'm having a drug reaction. My throat is all tight and I can't talk.”
“Lori, you're a part of this group, and you're expected to participate in it.” Dr. Doller's voice was slightly chiding.
My paranoia flared. “You're all ganging up on me. You're all picking on me.” And the Voices screamed on: “Maggots. Maggots. They hate you. They hate you. To die! To die! To die! ”
Whenever something like this happened, the feelings started to engulf me. The Voices began to flood me with their fury. I didn't want to be here. I didn't want