They took me to the local detention center. They put a full blown psychotic in a freezing room with nothing but cold hard cement a toilet and a water fountain. The water from the fountain was dirtier than the water in the toilet. It was tempting. They wouldn’t provide a blanket or pillow until I complied with their demand that I stand on their little X, turn left, turn right, smile for the camera and fill out their form with accurate information like a proper little lady.
Their psychotic little monkey kept reaching through the lunch tray hole, which deposits food unfit for a rat, and asking for her meds and to be taken to the hospital, but still they remained clueless.
I was exhausted and paced with the toilet paper roll, which I had to ask for, held under my chin, because the cement was to cold and hard to lay on. The banging doors and voices from the hall and the bright light that I had no control of was constant. I kept thinking of the scene in Men Who Star at Goats where the poor subject in the cell was covering his head with a pillow and moaning as the tune from Barney the purple dinosaur blared into his cell. He had a blanket and pillow. He must have cooperated during the “booking” process.
I remember thinking how I wished they had left me to sleep in the grass under the stars on the warm summer night. I was sure I would be found the next morning dead from hypothermia and bed sores.
I had to ask myself, “Who is running this nut house?!” I em fortunately believe I said that out loud. (AW- unfortunately = em fortunately)
Did I ever mention that Dorothea Dix is my hero?