That Psychiatrist Broke My Will, Crushed My Spirit
and Took Away My Life
When I first got to the state hospital, I was relieved. I had been trying to "keep on keeping on" despite the psychic pain, the aloneness and the feelings of hopelessness, helplessness and worthlessness. I tried to pursue an education so that I could help others gain everything I could not possibly have. This included hope, love, happiness, peace, belonging and success. I knew the answer was in my relationship with Jesus, yet I was unable to understand the relationship. I read my Bible all the time. I knew and sang the hymns. I prayed. I tried so hard to get it right. I wished to serve this Jesus, who was the only one who had even tried to understand and love me. Even though I was at the state hospital, Jesus continued to be my only friend and my constant companion. I loved Him and did not blame Him because I was there. In fact, I thanked Him. I thought that with some help I would be able to return to school free of the oppression and depression that enveloped me. I soon found out that the treating psychiatrist had other plans.

I was being treated by a psychiatrist who wanted to use me for his sexual pleasures. I would not let him. He decided to give me EST (electric shock treatments) in order to break down my resistance. In 1962 the treatments were given without anesthesia or anti-convulsive medication. I would be taken to a room and made to lie down on a hard wooden table. Ten or 12 people stood around the table. Someone would jam a piece of rubber hose into my mouth, and the people would grab a hold of me. Then the psychiatrist would put electrodes to my head and zap me. I would lose consciousness. The people held me to prevent as much physical injury as possible while I was having a grand mal seizure. These treatments were cruel, inhumane and ineffective. One day, a friend went down to receive a treatment and never came back. The treatment had killed her. Often, people returned from treatment wearing casts from injuries they had received.

At first I got the treatments when other patients did. But my resistance to the doctor's sexual desires wasn't lessening. He had me placed in a private room and shackled to a bed. From then on, he gave me the treatments whenever he felt like it. After enduring more than 200 of these treatments, I gave in. The psychiatrist had broken my will, crushed my spirit and taken away my life.

Anger? No Way! How About Rage and Fury?
I blamed my mother for the fact that I was at the state hospital. I wanted her to have me released. But she had other family members and problems to deal with, and it was easier to leave me there. My family lived by the rule, "If you just act like a traumatic event never happened, it will go away." We were never allowed to express feelings or talk about anything. That is a very destructive way of handling the pain and problems of life. That is why I didn't bother trying to tell anyone what was happening to me at the hospital. I knew my mother would deny anything I told her, if she listened at all. The nurse who assisted the doctor never gave any sign that she even cared what he was doing to me. I knew no one would listen to a mental patient, especially Marthadean Strasser. So I kept it all inside.

I did go home for Christmas day the two years I was on the maximum security unit. I was furious each time my mother returned me. I knew that I could not take out my rage on others, so I took it out on myself. The first year I slit my wrists after I returned. The second year I knocked out all of the windows with my fist. I knocked them out right through the bars. I still carry the scars on my wrists and arms.

After three years I was released from the state hospital. I was required to go back and see a psychiatrist, and I was given all of the psychiatric drugs of the time. I continued to gain weight, and I was a problem at home.

My mother conjured up a plan to send me on a Greyhound bus trip. You could ride for 99 days for $99. You could go anywhere the bus went, as long as you didn't go over the same route twice. My mother bought a ticket and put me on the bus. I didn't care. It got me away from the family and from the place of my demise. I understand that I visited Niagara Falls, but I can't remember it. The trip was a stopgap measure. I was no longer functioning, and I didn't care whether I was in a house or on a bus. I was alive physically, but that was all.

While on the bus trip, I decided to take a route through Trinidad, CO, where I was born. My grandparents still lived in the same house where I had been welcomed and doted on so many times. I got off the bus and walked up the hill to their home and went to the front door and knocked. My grandmother opened the door, leaving the screen door shut. When she saw me she said, "You are not welcome here. You are not my granddaughter anymore. You are a mental patient." Then she shut the door in my face.

I was devastated, but I was getting used to being rejected and abandoned by the people I cared about. I turned around and walked back to the bus station, where I boarded another bus. I stuffed the psychic pain inside with all of the rest and acted like nothing had happened. Acting like nothing had happened was my way of being in control of the situation. No one else cared anyway.

I couldn't hurt others, and I couldn't express anger. Both were sins. The only thing I could do was take my feelings out on myself. I ate massive amounts of the foods I knew were bad for me. Besides trying to destroy myself, I was trying to get fat enough to be unattractive to men. That way I would not be raped again. I also cut my hair to look like a man. I had to protect myself because no one else would.

After I returned to my parents' house, my mother sent me to a San Jose, CA, rescue mission. I had already been to a small neighborhood church in Fremont, where I tried to go forward during the altar call and rededicate my life to Christ. I was not allowed to do so. The pastor said that Jesus did not want mental patients. Mental patients were of Satan.

At the rescue mission I played the piano for the services. One night during the altar call, I again went forward to rededicate my life to Jesus. I was told to go back and play the piano because I didn't know what I was doing.

I left the mission and went out on the street. Shortly thereafter I attended another church service. It was a large San Jose church. At the altar call I went forward for the third time to rededicate my life to Jesus. This time the pastor not only blocked me, but he told the entire congregation that God had no use for me because I was a mental patient. Mental patients were of Satan. He had me escorted out of the church.
I had lost my life and my family. Now I was being told that not even my friend Jesus would have anything to do with me. I could see no reason to keep on going, so I made my first attempt at ending my life. Mother said that I was found in a field very near death. She doesn't know what I did. No one ever told her, and she didn't ask. The doctors did not expect me to survive this first suicide attempt, but for some reason God did not let me die.