What is this madness they speak of? We have all been brought in here to protect ourselves and others from our erratic, dangerous behaviour. This really seems just like a “House of Confinement” as Foucault would put it, a place where all those who do not fit within the accepted, normalised structures society has provided, go. The mentally ill, the former prisoner, the melancholic, the prophet, the vagabond, the prostitute. All put in here under the disguise of our own protection. Such benevolence does not exist in a system like this. More like a prison than a place of healing. No therapies are provided, just medication. Good behaviour gets rewarded with more freedoms.
“Good behaviour” I should add, is carefully defined in three ways: physical, conduct and interaction. Our weight is carefully recorded, our sleep patterns scrutinised, our food intake measured, our hygine habits documented; medications have to be taken by force if necessary, at a specific time designated by them, in no way taking into account a person’s needs or habits; meals taken in the communal hall—they frown upon solitary behaviour—and at set times. Our conduct is observed and recorded in books and computers, later analysed in ward rounds, often questioned about our “feelings” under the pretence of care. Any slight act that seems outside of the realm of what “mentally healthy” is supposed to look like, gets recorded and will weigh against you in the meetings. Even if those acts are crying out of sadness, anger at unacceptable behaviour, or joy for good news. Everything we do has to fall between the highly restrictive limits that they have set, limits that do not exist outside of here. We are also expected to participate in communal activities such as painting, exercise, crossword puzzles, and general mingling. If one chooses not to take part it is seen as an odd behaviour and one loses points.
All these parameters that have been set for us are unrealistic and paradoxical. We are all here in order to reintegrate to a society that expects us to behave in a particular way, however the imposed patterns and behaviours in this place are in no way relational to the world we have to reintegrate to. We are, once in here, forever caught in a cycle, not quite comfortable in either world.
The question arises, however, as to which place—the outside or the “inside”—is doing the normalising. In fact, what is normal in a city which has become the cradle of diversity. Inside we are expected to follow certain rules, of what the system, be it medical, political, educational, wants and would prefer the rest of the population follows, but cannot be forced to. The most “abnormal” are sent to places like this, either by suggestion or by force, to be normalised. But that normal can only exist within the walls of the ward. We are still guinea pigs of a system that has tried and failed for many centuries to create a utopian society, even if temporary, in which everyone follows a certain pattern, first by force, then by habit. Psychiatric wards are outdated laboratories in which scientists i.e. doctors, test on us their drugs, their policing, their confinement methods, unchanging.
Returning to the rewards issue, once a “patient” seems fit to return to normality, she is allowed out for set periods of time, then for longer, or for the night, always evaluating their behaviour upon their return. Eventually if all seems fine they can leave permanently but will forever be under their radar. Some are not as lucky, or maybe they are, they are here under judicial orders and cannot leave until their sentence ends. Worse still, some have become so accustomed to this life, feel so awkward “outside” that have made a home out of this place. I can't say I haven’t been tempted. Not having to work, or cook or worry about my medication, back at home, when I was a child. Maybe that is the purpose of places like this, to reflect the ideal family setting in which all, mother and children, subdue to the law of the father—state—under the disguise of love. Individuality punished by the abolishment, temporary or permanent, of certain freedoms and privileges; behaviour controlled, routines imposed; without having any sovereignity over our own lives, thoughts and bodies. The rooms even look like student rooms. We all infantilise in here. Have dolls, cry, scream, get upset for no reason, annoy the others, like bickering siblings. The only “adult” thing we are allowed to do is smoke, although looks of disapproval are in their faces. All we end up doing in here is eat, smoke and watch tv.
There is a pattern here that I find discouraging but not unsurprising, most of the women, come from similar backgrounds, what you would call council states; poverty striken, somewhat accostumed to having their responsabilities taken away from them, heavily reliant on state supervision and aid, and worringly young. Most of them come in and out of places like this like it is not a problem, in fact seek it at times. I can't really and honestly set myself apart, although I don’t belong to the same socio-economic background I do share that feeling of hopelessness and disappointment in a system that has branded us “mad” and has failed to help us do anything about it, apart from policing our behaviour. In fact, they, in unnecessarily large meetings, in a patronising manner, scrutinise our progress and assign levels of madness to our situation; levels that require different treatment and different freedoms. But at no point have we been given a reason or a definition of what “mad” really means. We are expected to just take it as a given, like parents telling their children “because I say so”. And we have no say to how we want to be treated—medically and otherwise—until we show significant signs of “normalisation”. The boundaries of what a ward and a prison are become very blurred from the inside. If there was ever an imagined difference. The law has given them the freedom to exist outside its realms.
I wish I could say that what they have said in the past that madness is the sign of a genius, but unfortunately the definition of “mad” has become so wide as to fit everyone who refuses to comply, and they can justify it on medical grounds. We are now a world full of geniuses as far as I can see. All queuing up to get our medication, our food, our meeting with the doctors, not even hoping anymore, just in the waiting line, because is much easier to comply now than to complaint. I often think that if we actually showed our genius, if we have it, we would never leave this place.
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