Bicentennial Madhouse

A half century ago, in a town without pity, I was placed in, for lack of a kinder term, a lunatic asylum. A step-relative put me there, ostensibly because I had a bad attitude. I was 16 years-old.

Yes, there’s nothing like imprisoning a teenager among mentally unstable adults to help him focus on the correct things in life. And that’s what it was -- prison. The doors were locked, the windows barred, your every move monitored.

I was given meds, which I pretended to swallow, then flushed down the toilet. As angry and frightened as I was, I didn’t make waves. I got along well with hospital personnel, who were confused as to why I was there. I had no answers because I was just as confused.

I was physically attacked twice, nearly raped, until the orderlies intervened. Is this what my step-relative wanted -- for me to be raped? Apparently so. This person has never apologized to me. That I’ve led a successful life might be seen as the best revenge, but I don’t believe in vengeance. Reportedly, this person is currently bedridden. Unable to function. That works for me.

After I was released from the madhouse, my Aunt and Uncle took me to a drive-in to see One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. Classic film, but it fucked me up. How could it not? It looked like a documentary about what I just went through. I got out of the car and wandered the drive-in lot. I felt so alone. My beloved Aunt followed and embraced me. She told me I was safe. She’s gone now, but she loved and supported me.

That was my July 1976. I’ll never forget it. Unfortunately.