He Wanted the Moon by Mimi Baird & Eve Claxton

Author:Mimi Baird & Eve Claxton [Baird, Mimi & Claxton, Eve]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Personal Memoirs, Psychology, Psychopathology, Bipolar Disorder, Medical
ISBN: 9780804137485
Google: P4NaBAAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00MZWA89O
Publisher: Broadway Books
Published: 2015-02-16T16:00:00+00:00

AFTER my return to Westborough from Baldpate, I stayed there quietly, peacefully in perfect cooperation and in quite normal health for a month. During these weeks, I experienced the torment and realization that I had been transferred to a decent private hospital, Baldpate, and had had a chance to finish my sentence under comfortable circumstances. As I look back on that experience I can find no meaning in what happened. It was at Baldpate that I had been subjected to strange treatment by the other patients. There must have been some purpose in the upsetting situation to which I was subjected in inconsiderate fashion, but I cannot fathom it. I had foreseen that upsetting experiences would arise at Baldpate. I intended to ignore them, to be calm, courteous and cooperative. It was depressing to realize that my foresight and my conscious effort had come to nothing. I should not have permitted anything that happened to interfere with my peace of mind and I really don’t know why I did not maintain spiritual equanimity.

For a while I helped dry the dishes. I was at first glad to have something to do. Gradually it became a disgusting experience. Many of the dishes came through with large amounts of food adhering to them. The usual procedure was just to wipe off the food with the towel. Knives, forks, and spoons came through in a similar condition and were treated in the same way. The food itself was sickening and my ability to eat it grew less each day. After wiping dishes for a while and finding how filthy they really were, it became increasingly difficult to face a meal.

My hands began to develop dryness and a beginning rash from the soap left on the dishes. I asked permission to stop helping with dishes.

“No one is compelled to do any work at all around here,” the attendant replied.

And yet it was obviously true that it is the patients mostly that run the hospital.

The whole chain of events from February 20 to early July, almost five months of unending disasters, was a little more than I could view without feeling appalled. On days when I smoked too much, I became deeply depressed. During these weeks at Westborough, remorse and discontent ran deeply. There were few visitors. Letters continued to arrive, though in much less volume than before. They brought scant comfort and my few brief visitors did not relieve my loneliness and sense of failure.

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