The Asylum

For Pink Floyd it was almost worth it.

The summer after eighth grade I stole a Pink Floyd album and two butane lighters. When I got caught Daddy told me I was “a one man crime wave.” He did not spare the vitriol as he lectured me on how this would make him and my step mother look to the community. Whenever I was on the receiving end of the our-good-name diatribe, I couldn't help but think that their own antics could inspire standing ovations in an Arkansas trailer park. But that didn't change the fact that I had boosted almost $10 of merchandise and it was just horrible to wonder what the hoi polloi of rural Virginia would think. So in a bold master stroke to salvage the tattered remnants of their reputation, they had me committed to a 24-hour lockdown in a psychiatric hospital. Friends, I shit you not.

The Westbrook Sanatorium for the Mentally Ill was thankfully renamed Westbrook Psychiatric Hospital sometime before I got there. It was located about a two hour drive from where we lived. Even though it had originally been established back in 1911, it had the look and feel of a World War II insane asylum.  The buildings were flat and made of cinderblocks. Everything, inside and out, was painted in shades of that institutional green that is somewhere between lime and mint. All the windows were barred and all the doors were locked. 

At least I didn't have tuberculosis.

Paperwork was signed for my admission two weeks before the start my freshman year of high school. 

On my first day at Westbrook I met my new psychiatrist, Dr. Silverman. He was director of the adolescent program and the default psychiatrist for all of the kids admitted to it. He and I listened as Daddy described all my problems. He then made verbal notes into a Dictaphone, making sure to include the punctuation as he went. Comma. Period. New paragraph. The meeting was concluded when Silverman said something along the lines of “we’ll get him fixed right up” as if I was getting measured for a tux. I thought he was a tool. I could see him showing off at his class reunion only to get his head dunked in a toilet. Again.

From there I was introduced to a guard who was assigned to be my shadow. Where I went, he went (including the toilet). He served two purposes. First, he was a tour guide and showed me the locations of the various therapy sessions, which were located in separate squatty, green, cinderblock buildings. Second, he assessed whether I was a flight risk. Several times he asked: “You’re not going to run, are you? Because you know I could catch you.” I don’t think that guy could catch me now. I feel virtually certain he couldn’t catch the 14 year old version of me. But I was in a strange city and didn’t know anyone, or have any money, or have anywhere to run. I wasn’t a risk. 

You talk, you walk.

In my first week I got to know the other kids who were in the same program. There were probably 20 total, with approximately an equal number of boys as girls. The boys were housed in one building. We shared a bathroom with two stalls, a urinal, and a shower. The girls were, wisely, lodged somewhere else. A guard in our building kept a notebook of who had permission for “free time”. This allowed patients to go outside unsupervised. With it, you could walk the grounds or even leave campus if you wanted to. Without it, you stayed locked in your room. I asked one of the guys how to obtain free time and he responded with a line that could have been lifted from just about any prison movie: "man, you talk, you walk.”

Permission for free time was given from the administration based how they perceived your progress. If you talked in therapy, if they thought you were becoming more respectful, compliant, and participatory, then you would earn privileges. The highest level was the weekend pass home. 

The problem with this sort of a reward system was that it was so easily gamed. Fake some sincerity or contrition, and bada bing, you’d get your walking papers. On the other hand, if you were prone to, LET'S CALL IT HONESTY, this included sarcasm and eye rolls, you’d spend ALOT of time alone in your room. Like I did.

Azalea Mall, Richmond's First!

When Westbrook was founded it was isolated from Richmond by both distance and infrastructure as there were very few paved roads. In the next 63 years the city grew up around it. One of the old property lines became a highway. A large chunk of the property was broken off and became Azalea Mall. “Richmond's FIRST enclosed mall!” (1963) When the guys had enough free time they would walk over to the mall and fill up their backpacks with stolen merchandise. Several times a week they returned with huge amounts of candy, cigarettes, clothes, and 8-track tapes. What they didn’t use themselves, they sold. The nurses and orderlies were their customers. After all, who wouldn't want that new Rush tape for just $2?

Every day we attended at least four therapy sessions. After breakfast there was “Occupational Therapy”, aka, arts and crafts. In the afternoon we played pick up softball, uh, I mean attended “Recreational Therapy”. These were completely bogus from the standpoint of actual therapy because they were unsupervised. No one was paying attention to artistic themes or play dynamic. It was just a way occupy us and at the same to bill the insurance companies two hours per day for each participant.

His company was an
original member of
the Dow Jones

The thing that was the most out of place about being locked in the Drool Dorm on Lobotomy Lane was the eating arrangements. The previous owner of the hospital grounds was a Civil War veteran and big time businessman named Lewis Ginter. In the 1880s, he made 52 property acquisitions, but his favorite was an picaresque plantation that sat on 160 acre tract north of the city. He decided he decided to build a home there and make it his summer retreat. He kept it’s name: Westbrook. Surprisingly enough, in 1974, in the center of this Levittown of lego-like asylum cells, Ginter’s cherished mansion still stood retaining all its original glory, right down to the last bead board. And that was where we ate all our meals.

  

There was once a bowling alley in the basement.

The contrast was between living and dining was unbelievable. Our bunk arrangements were almost county-jail draconian, but the dining facilities were Biltmore-posh. This was kind of tough to get used to. It took about 6 seconds. The outside of the house had all those cool Victorian features…the wraparound porch, gables, balconies, chimneys, and a turret. The inside had marble fireplaces, parquet floors, pocket doors, hardwood paneling, crown molding, heavy draperies, and high ceilings. We were served at an immense 20-person table. Overflow dining went to round bistro tables on the periphery. A white jacketed waiter took our order for either Meal A or Meal B. The table had a cloth and linen napkins. The food was very good. 

It was required that one adolescent assist the head server at each meal. So one guy or girl had to serve the drinks along with bread or toast. There was a caddy in the corner that held pitchers of juice, tea, and water as well as bread and a toaster. The assistant was responsible for doling out those items at the beginning of meals and and again with refills as necessary. But the Adolescent Program was essentially a collection of every back-row smart ass who was ever tardy for a high school class.  So...

Doug was the assistant server one day. Whenever someone asked for a refill the next request invariably came from the opposite side of the room, and for a different drink. More water, please! More juice, please! While he was getting ping-ponged around, the person next to the toaster turned it all the way up. This must have been an industrial-grade appliance, because it started smoking like a Zeppelin concert. Everyone knew what was going on, well, everyone but Doug. To distract him the requests became more

Burn Baby Burn
It was a disco inferno.

urgent and the room took on a cumulonimbus quality. When he eventually figured out what was happening, he rushed over and tried retrieve the burning bread WITH A FORK. One of the employees grabbed him away, not wanting him to win a Darwin Award right there in the dining room. (It was obvious he’d have many other opportunities.) The toaster was unplugged and taken outside to keep the smoke detectors and sprinklers from being activated. 

The following day we were summoned to Silverman's office. The scene was almost an exact copy of the one in “Animal House” when the Deltas get put on double secret probation. He furious to the point of spitting. He railed about our attitudes and immaturity and blah blah blah [eye roll]. I think he was so angry because in his class he was the Doug.

You'll get yours, smart guy.

Group Therapy and Psychotherapy were get togethers that involved numerous patients in the same room to discuss personal problems. The thinking was that a group setting would foster empathy and camaraderie through shared experiences. In a way, it was similar to one of those substance abuse programs like Alcoholics Anonymous or book club. Like the other therapies, there was no psychiatrist or counselor on hand, just a facilitator. Ours was a grad student from a local university. By working at the hospital he probably got his card punched class for credit and they got an employee for minimum wage, which at the time was $2.00/hr. Another perceived plus was that since he was young (roughly 25) he could more easily relate to the patient population. He wore earth shoes, hip huggers, and had

Also pretends to be a therapist.

long straight hair like Susan Dey when she was on "The Partridge Family."

Psychotherapy was a patient describing their problems, via an impromptu monolog, on a on stage, while the facilitator worked the stage lights in different hues of red, blue, and green. Someone just made that up, it was as stupid as shit.

Group therapy was a smaller collection of around 6 patients gathered in a cozy, den-like setting. The first question was always: does anyone have any problems they’d like to work on? One day, a guy named Mark said he wanted to talk about an injury that left one of his hands weaker than the other. He then proceeded to put on a one-man show with each hand taking a different part. “I’m just as good as you are!” “No you’re not!” The other patients were encouraged to join in. Mark ran into a closet and held the door closed while others tried to pry it open. The door was eventually forced, Mark was freed along with his mental demons (yay!), and he wept in catharsis. At this point, Laurie Partridge was almost hyperventilating with finger-wiggling giddiness at the success of his group session. His mood took a 180 degree turn when he realized that I was the only one who had not participated in the charade parade. He narrowed his eyes as he said:

LP: So Jeb. Do YOU have anything YOU want to share?

Jeb: Nope. I’m good. 

LP: (to the others) Oh wouldn’t it be GREAT if we could ALL be Jeb! Jeb has NOOO problems of ANNNY kind!

Nice rapport-building skills there, Stuart Smalley. I'm sure they'll come in handy if you can ever get a real job.

After I had been at the hospital a week or so I started Family Therapy. I met weekly with a counselor. She asked questions about me…school, friends, family, likes and dislikes, that sort of thing. Later in the week we’d get together with my father and step mother. The intention of these meetings was to hash out family issues. The cool thing was she was my advocate. She made sure that the parents didn’t gang up on me and that the meetings stayed on track. I liked her. She had the only program that didn’t seem like total bullshit. The two of us met with the parents three times. 

The first time was an icebreaker so she could assess the family vibe to the extent the format would allow. She posed questions to each of us and then sat back to see how things progressed. At the second meeting I was told to get things off my chest. Go ahead, speak up, and just say what is on your mind. I said OK. I can do this. “Do you know what really pisses me off?” My dad responded: “You can talk that way around your friends, but you WON'T talk that way to ME…” 

The counselor blinked several times in the long seconds that followed. Finally she asked: “Are you serious??" He said he was completely serious. 

My dad was a swaggering, small town surgeon. At work and at home his word was sacrosanct. He would not tolerate anything he considered to be disagreement, backtalk, or attitude, certainly not from a kid, and most certainly not from his own kid. The counselor went on to say the primary goal of the early meetings was to just start talking. There was no right or wrong way to communicate. If we got into a good dialog we could make adjustments later, but the first rule was to not erect barriers that would be detrimental to the process. That sounded pretty good, but you’d have to be delusional to think Fred Sturmer would back down from some whiny woman and her lipstick logic. He said no, the first rule was that I was to start showing some respect, and that included the use of the word 'sir'. The discussion went on between them for about 10 minutes.

She tried to explain it in different ways using examples from her experience. He argued every point and in the end with a raised voice said he was not going to be talked to that way by a damn teenager! When I was graciously given the opportunity to rephrase my original concern, I respectfully told them I forgot what I was going to say and had nothing further to add. Nicely done, sir, put another Pyrrhic victory into your win column. 

I was surprised that another appointment was scheduled for the following week. Really, what was the point? But it was, and in that session I told them that I liked Westbrook, the people, and the food. They could leave me there as long as they wanted, but other than softball, I had no intention in participating in any of their “therapy” sessions. That was it. I thought there was just so much crap that a person should have to put up with and that amount had already been exceeded.  I was immediately discharged and sent to my room to pack my things. At this point I had been institutionalized for five weeks and we were well into the new school year. On the way to the car Daddy told me just how disappointed he was in me. I decided if I had to live the rest of my life without his approval that would be OK. Not a word was spoken on the two hour drive home or for several days afterward. 

Art repeating life.

Fourteen months later Fantasy Films released “One Flew Over Cuckoo’s Nest.” Jack Nicholson earned his second Oscar with the portrayal of a psychiatric patient. Daddy always said it was his favorite movie. I don’t think he ever saw the irony.

EPILOGUE

Three and a half years later, in the spring of my senior year, Silverman surrendered his medical license while his lawyers worked on a plea arrangement with prosecutors. He was charged with getting  girls from the program high and having sex with them in his office. The Richmond Times Dispatch published a couple of initial articles about the case, but then nothing after that. It was like radio silence. I guess his attorneys worked out of some sort of nondisclosure agreement. I never found out what happened to him, if there was a trial, if he served any jail time, or if he just went over and got a job with USA Gymnastics. 

Azalea Mall went bankrupt in 1996, quite likely a result of being situated so close the den of thieves that went by the name of the Adolescent Program of Westbrook Psychiatric Hospital. The mall was completely razed 1999 and the land is still fallow today. The owner says they are thinking of creating a “mixed use” facility. Sure they are. Well they’ve had over 20 years to think about it. 

Aesthetics not affected.

Finally, there was a fire at the hospital that burned, of all things, the adolescent building. Two rooms were totally destroyed and several others heavily damaged. The whole unit had to be evacuated. The origin was deemed suspicious. Two teens were eventually arrested and charged with arson. 

I wonder if they used a toaster?

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