I was sitting in a community health clinic recently and watched as mental health professionals walked in and out of doors with the aid of an electronic key. I looked around at the other people sitting and standing in the waiting room. The receptionist's desk has Plexiglas that creates a barrier that reminds me of walking up to a bank teller. I wondered to myself; was the receptionist afraid of being robbed?

I looked closer at people in the waiting room. The faces behind the ugly name, "the mentally ill." The people in the waiting room had no keys. In effect, they had no power. There was a woman sleeping in the reception area. Several people who couldn’t keep their legs still. Some of the people were drooling on themselves — often a side effect of a psychotropic medication. Many people looked over medicated. But, I’m not a clinician. I’m one of them — the mentally ill. However, I have an advantage that the people in the lobby that morning did not have. I can pass for normal, whatever normal is.

I’ve been told that I’m too intelligent to have a mental illness. Mental health issues do not discriminate based on intelligence. Some professionals are threatened when you question the things they tell you, or even if you ask questions. If you don’t have any feelings, then you are numb. If you laugh out loud, then you are manic. If you shed a tear, you are depressed. If you ask for something to help you in your recovery process, and you are turned down, and you ask elsewhere, then you are splitting the staff. I’ve always wondered what splitting staff looked like. To have a mental health disability is to be demeaned, talked down to, lied to, to be denied your dignity. When you finally learn that you are the one who has to claim the dignity they stole from you, you wonder why should I? They’ll just find another way to steal it back.

I wondered how many of the people in the waiting room, the faces behind "the mentally ill," thought about the power of keys. I wondered if they noticed the different status of those who have keys. People who have mental health disabilities and/or mental illness come from all strata of our society. Mental health issues are color-blind.

However, generally the people in the community health clinics are those who have no commercial insurance and live on a pitiful amount of money that is approximately 73% of the federal poverty level. Many are homeless because the move to deinstitutionalize only took money away from hospitals a.k.a. prisons that kept people locked up as though they were in a zoo. The zookeepers kept the keys. You were lucky if you had privacy. They told you when you could eat, what to eat, what to do and when to do it. If you tended to be a night owl, that was no longer an option. If you had problems sleeping at night, you had to stay in your room. If you wanted to talk to a friend (provided you’ve been lucky enough to make friends) on the phone at 11:00, sorry, they turned the phone off at 10:00.

When I was 19 years old, I had my first stay in the hospital. I had been severely depressed and had developed some paranoia (of which I didn’t talk about). I went to the hospital to please the friends I had at the time. This was the first time I’d ever been in the hospital since the day I was born. They took me from the emergency room up to the psych unit — the loony bin. I watched as hospital staff opened the door with their keys. I heard the door clang shut behind me. I was told that they shut the door so I wouldn’t run away. I hadn’t even thought of running away.

I saw "the mentally ill" and their faces. There was somebody behind a locked door screaming he was Jesus Christ. He scared me so bad that I began shaking. I had never heard about "the mentally ill," the first time I went into the hospital.

The next day I got to speak with a psychiatrist. I remember his cold, piercing eyes and the jingling sound that his keys made. In less than 10 minutes, he not only knew what was wrong with me, but had the perfect solution. I should move home with my estranged family or that he would court commit me. He scribbled some notes on a piece of paper and then stood up to let me know my time was up.

I was stunned. Shocked. Caught off-guard. I stepped outside of the room and the psychiatrist followed me. I noticed a glint of silver as he pulled out his keys and locked the door behind him as he left. As he walked, I heard the jingle-jangle sound of keys in his pocket.

As I looked at the person I was with in the clinic, she had asked me to be her advocate; she was struggling and having a difficult time. She asked me a question and then closed her eyes. The lobby area was crowded. There were about 15 people in the lobby. Some were waiting for daily medication. Others had appointments to see case managers. Still others seemed too tired to move at 11:30 in the morning. The door to the reception area opened and then shut again as I watched another staff person use their electronic key to make sure the wall that surrounds them from us is kept steadfast.

The way that some of the staff moved through the reception area, you would think that mental illness is as contagious as the bubonic plague.

I get lost in my thought recollection once again. This time, I’m standing outside of my car, a 1973 Plymouth Fury III. And it’s 6 weeks or so after that "wonderful" psychiatrist had me move home. I want to die--to end the emotional pain that I feel. I don’t want to live anymore. Put me out of my misery. I had attempted suicide over the weekend by overdosing on a bottle of aspirin. The therapist I saw had asked me to go grab some dinner with him because he was hungry and hadn’t eaten, and he was trying to help me find a safe place to go that evening where I wouldn’t be alone. When we left Wendy’s™, we stood by the side of my car. Bill wanted me to let him drive back to his office. I couldn’t let go of the keys. Bill asked me again to let him drive. I didn’t respond. He put his arms around me and hugged me. It was the first hug I had had in more than 10 years. Bill asked me to give him the keys. I explained to him that I couldn’t give him the keys. He asked why. I told him, that the keys were the only control I had left in the world. If I gave him the keys, I would have no control left.

The case manager of the person whom I advocate for finally comes out to the lobby. He also has an electronic key. I wonder if any of the staff in this clinic ever think about the significance of their keys.

Bill and I made it back to his office that night. I was admitted to the hospital again. I refused to work with the psychiatrist I’d had the last time. So I had a new psychiatrist. I heard the jingle-jangle of the keys in the staffs’ pockets as they escorted me from the emergency room to the psych unit. And then I heard the door clang shut behind me.

As my friend and I left the lobby of the clinic that early afternoon, I heard the jingle-jangle of the keys.

Beckie Child ©April 2002