When a dead man speaks people listen. There is just something compelling about a voice that reaches out to us from beyond the grave. I’m not referring to spooks here, but rather to mankind’s phenomenal ability to impress ourselves onto the fabric of this world even long after the physical self has departed.
I went to the Mental Health Archives in search of answers. I
found none. Researching patient files was often heartbreaking. Not so much by
what was written there, but by the lack thereof.
After the initial admittance notes there was very little new
information. Staff were busy and it was not uncommon to have whole lives
–40–50–60– years condensed down to a few brief notes.
The brevity of it haunted me. Not that I blamed the staff. Their
hands were more than full with practical matters. But still, it felt inhumane
to me that whole lives had been pared down to a few paltry lines. I wanted to
know who these people were. Above and
beyond the narrow label of psychiatric
patient.
What followed was an astounding opportunity to speak with the
dead. Or rather – listen. Displayed alongside some of Jon’s photographs were
the original suitcases and their contents. Each suitcase, no matter how
carefully or haphazardly it had been packed for that initial trip to the
asylum, spoke volumes to me. Each one was a virtual time-capsule illuminating
the individuality of its owner. Bibles and poetry books, family pictures,
lotions, musical instruments, detailed diaries, loving letters. Objects as
seemingly disparate from one another as mending kits and (in one case) a small
hand-gun. Items that symbolically spoke of the desperate need to either mend or end the suffering.
Few people in our society’s history have been so reviled and
disenfranchised as the mentally ill. Our discomfort and fear of those we could
not understand or control led to some less than glorious years.
Those committed to the care of an asylum were in some ways excommunicated from the rest of humanity. They were held in institutions where their sense of autonomy was met with resistance. Their personal mail was opened and relieved of any unsettling or dissenting content. Their objections were routinely overruled. Not only did they become powerless they became voiceless as well.
Obviously it was far easier to silence people back then in an
age before today’s instant and ubiquitous technology. Problematic dissenters
were easier to erase; sometimes permanently.
The people who filled the wards of the former insane asylums
were as individual as they were unique. To paint them all the same would be but
an erroneous reverse stroke of history. The contents of the suitcases they left
behind now speak formidably for these long dead patients.
I have listened to their stories and endeavored to capture the echo of their hearts and minds in my novel The Bird Box. These were people who contributed to the diversity of life. And their lives mattered.
Here is the description of The Bird Box: Society said they were insane, and in 1954, that was enough to put someone away in an asylum and separate them from the world. Even here, though, it was possible for souls to flourish.
Jakie was one such soul. He was all but lost until he met the girl. She is locked away in a cellar room, but he can feel her presence by imagining he is a small bird visiting her through a hole he has made in a stone wall. He spends hours whistling a cardinal's song to her and she learns to whistle it back to him. She doesn't even know that Jakie exists, only the bird, but their communication is changing her. And the overwhelming, protective love that Jakie feels for the girl will compel him to find more of himself than he ever knew there was – and through this, he will alter their worlds profoundly.
A remarkable exploration of the spirit, a sharp indictment of our blindness to what makes us human, and an unforgettable portrait of the power of the will, The Bird Box will move you in ways you never anticipated.
Have you ever visited a former mental institution? Did you ever have older relatives tell stories about people going to them?
