The IMD (Institution for the Mental Disease)

July 14, 2008

THE IMD’s – IT WAS A SMELLY FIELD TRIP
It was like a race track for the mentally deranged. Around and around and around they would go, walking in a loop around the facility waiting for a cigarette break. It was a smelly field trip. I sat in on one of the treatment rounds which occurred every three months for the inmates. Kitty. She had a nice long strand of pearls and serious issues about seeing the dentist.
“If it doesn’t feel good, it ain’t good.” Her go to reason for not wanting to have her teeth checked out. Then there was Sue. She was a quiet Asian woman with a pink floral top. She had a restraining order for stalking a guy she was determined to marry so she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Next was Archie. Archie was a black man with twisted dreads that shot out of his head like antennas. The psychologist went through the list of questions and people responded on a scale in their own idea, or experience with the individual: 1) how is he physically, 2; intellectual function, 3, 2; response to stress, 3; thought process, 4; social interest, 4, 3, 3. The numbers seemed to be tossed out into the air based on people’s moods at the time. Those numbers determined whether or not the jailed could move onto another racetrack that may have some outdoor space.
“Do you know the names of your meds?”
“I don’t know.” Archie was providing honest answers to the panel of queries.
“You’re taking …….” She ripped off about eight or nine different meds.
“Do you like the food here?” The cooking department was eager to hear if his culinary skills were up to par.
“No.”
“You are 6’0” so you should weigh about…”
“I was 6’9” when I came from prison.” The cook ignored his response and continued.
“When you go to the canteen get something healthy.”
“I only have a dollar.” The table was ready to wrap up the update.
“How are you going to get discharged?”
“Right now I’m finding myself. I’m not getting any younger; I got kids you know. I have a rap label and the meds are messing with my thinking.”
“Ok, thanks, goodbye.”
And he was out and the final contestant took a seat. Megan. She had a black shirt with shiny florescent indiscernible images sprinkled randomly across her chest.
“We see here that you have been taking a lot of Motrin.”
“I have a dislocated shoulder.”
“Then you will need to see a doctor.”
“No doctor. I don’t want any cat scan on my shoulder.”
“You can’t keep taking Motrin without a doctor evaluation.”
“We’ll see. We’ll see.” She was adamant and there was no chance for her to bend. The cook stepped in.
“Do you like the food here?”
“Since I’ve been the vice president I think it’s a lot better. I heard people say they want steak which doesn’t make any sense because we have no knife. People here not have their heads on right enough to discuss their opinions.”
And so it goes. They’ll see her in another three months. Maybe by then she’ll be president of whatever club discusses the lack of steak.

July 16, 2008

I’d rather be in a dog kennel than at an IMD. And I’d rather be acute than about to enter the pavement after living in a dingy dollhouse establishment with the curtains laying low and a line of chairs to sit on with him or her next to you or do they have assigned seating at 2:45 in the afternoon when I happen to drop by and they are there doing nothing, in terribleness. Nothingness at least is nothing but terribleness is terrible.

I visited the sub acute facilities today and they have a pool, TV, space, a less putrid stench. And the “wall” that people go AWOL over is easier than a kid trying to get over a pool gate to go for a swim when he will most definitely drown. It is all ass backwards. If you are bad off, and “pace too much” you get to be in a wing with lots of open space. Open space versus a hallway to walk down until you round a corner to the next one, then are back at the beginning and it has been twenty three times so far this hour.