Asylum.

It's not that I don't believe in ghosts, it's that I don't care. I would rather see figments, hear slammed doors, and have that spectral uneasiness surrounding me than be in a room of uber-wealthy, smarmy, ultra-conservative, self-righteous evangelists. It's a preference. Real world versus phantasm--- bring on the boogely-boogely-boo spookiness.

When John and I were in Massachusetts, we attempted to visit the Medfield State Hospital. John is an avid admirer of the writer, Dennis Lehane, and his book, Shutter Island. Martin Scorsese recently completed the filming of the book-to-movie and much of it was done at that hospital. Unfortunately, due to vandalism and lack of upkeep, Medfield is now off limits to the public and under security 24 hours a day. I befriended the security guard and he provided me with names and numbers to possibly access the buildings; moving on the road prohibited us from follow-up. I could tell that John was disappointed, as his writing often has preternatural elements and a visit would have galvanized his creativity, inspiring figments and chimera for future narratives. Nonetheless, we journeyed north and succumbed to the transcendental glory of autumn in New Hampshire and Vermont. For me, it was a moment of clarity, all of my distress and disease becoming disembodied. With the continued slump of my body from the MS, I desperately needed to divest myself from the swirling head madness and be reminded of my puniness in the world. Driving through the Green Mountains and the White Mountains, all looking like a canvas with brush smudges and dabs, seemingly with colors not yet named, offered to my smallness both vividness and verisimilitude. After a meandering day of picture-taking as well as extraordinary Seriously Sharp Cheddar Cheese (Vermont dominates the U.S. dairy domain in quality; they even have a cheese trail... glorious madness), we headed to Baltimore to stay with close friends, Larry and Lily. After driving nearly 1500 miles, John and I both needed a break from our zoom through the Great Lakes region and the whirling loop throughout New England. Staying with our friends provided comfort, relaxation, and much needed lollygagging. Two nights at their welcoming home enjoying their gracious company allowed us to unwind and prepare for an anticipated mellowed westward journey home.

Brown steel signs along highways normally indicate protected prettiness, forests and mountains and rivers, oh my, or tourist attractions that held no appeal to either of us. Until... as we approached Weston, West Virginia, John caught sight of a brown sign that made his eyeballs protrude and his smile widen. “Historic Asylum Tours,” it stated. And, away we went, veering to the exit ramp with speed and thrill. The asylum in question was the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum, built during the Civil War and utilized until 1994. A mammoth building of hand-cut stone, it stood with wanton enticement, almost a lewd lure which neither of us could resist. We weren't sure if it would harbor our fated muse or Mephistophelean ruin. The last tour of the day had ended; I inquired when the first one was the following day. Noon. I looked at John, knowing the answer to my forthcoming question, yet asking nonetheless. “Are we staying overnight here in Weston, John?” Think of a child at Disney World, think of a gastronome at El Bulli, think of a horticulturist walking the Tivoli Gardens, think of people with no taste in music visiting Branson, Missouri... yes, pure, unbridled euphoria. We took with us some informational pamphlets to study up for our next day's visit.

Apparently, ghost hunters, psychics, and other paranormal folks have visited this particular asylum numerous times. Seems there are some Caspers here. When we took the tour, our guide mentioned a number of incidents that had given him the shivers. After touring all four floors, I had no doubt some of the patients still had grievances upon their deaths. The hospital was rampant with history of mistreatment and procedures which would give anyone the willies. So then, why was I fairly comfortable, poised, and impassive while there? Because, um, ghosts have never killed living beings. The notion of ghosts may cause breathing humans to piddle their khakis, but that's kind of the peopled emotional scaredy-cat thing. Now, if the ghost hunters took their EMF devices, temperature sensing equipment, cameras, digital recorders, and night-vision goggles to West Garfield Park in Chicago during the “psychic hours” of 9pm to 6am, I would be duly impressed. If they survived, I would readily acknowledge that those were some damn big nads on those crackers.

While some others were skittishly turning corners, I was absorbing the surrounding conditions and becoming appalled by the evidence of maltreatment. The atrocious acts which occurred within the walls of the asylum over the course of 130 years were prevalent, as well as indicative of the general opinions of the mentally ill during that time. I feared not the possibility of poltergeists as I peeked into seclusion rooms, but I was becoming qualmish envisioning the pitiful lives of those confined within this imposing structure. Though the practices of the psychiatric field have improved, the stigma associated with mental disorders is somewhat similar. Before and during the 19th century, it was common for the populace to think that those struggling with mental illness were not only deranged, but also they believed that the insanity was caused by being possessed by Satan. And, as we know now, Lucifer does not fight with God for the souls of humans through psychopathy, but rather through reality television; obviously, since the television wasn't commercially available until the 1930's, that belief had credence for a very long time. Too often individuals experiencing disorders are assumed to be delinquent, deficient, inferior, and weak, rather than having physiological dysfunction. The smirch of reproach associated with mental health is cruel and ignorant. If one seeks treatment for a mental disorder, which seems to me to be a highly rational decision, they are instantly derogatorily labeled. Furthermore, the societal misbeliefs are so insidious that the individuals themselves develop an attitude such as, “I must be a ghastly human being.”

The brain is immensely more complicated than other aspects of the human body; thus, of course it would have difficulties and problems that needed to be addressed. I had read numerous books of the magnitude of the mind, how genetics, trauma, stress, and physical conditions can cause mental illness, how the neurotransmitters are altered, the chemical imbalance in those with addictions, and the combined function of medication and cognitive therapy to improve conditions. Estimates indicate that the human brain is capable of having 60,000 thoughts per day. That's fantastic. Gosh, are we smarty-pants. And yet, frequent reactions to brain illnesses contain the beloved phrase, “Snap out of it!” whereas, if someone complains about severe pain in the lower right quadrant of his/her abdomen, the reaction from others is, “It's probably your appendix. You better get to a hospital! You have appendicitis and you could die!” Now, because the appendix has proven itself to be useless, sometimes troublesome, and capable of whacking the person who keeps its little parasitic self alive, I'm going to imagine what it thinks:

“{nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing} Me swelled big worm big giant {nothing nothing nothing nothing} YEOW!!! {nothing nothing nothing} Gonna crack and bang!! {nothing nothing nothing nothing}.”

I think that's a fairly accurate hypothesis. It was just one of my thousands of thoughts in an hour. My point is that too often the most magnificent, intricate, abstruse part of humankind is treated as if it can miraculously fix its own malfunctions, yet the ailments of other organs demand medicinal response. Society thinks men fools who do not seek treatment for cancer or diabetes, but with depression or anxiety or addiction, the reigning philosophy is that the person in question is being kind of a sissy and needs to buck up. Asinine, yet typical.

And, unfortunately, within some of these buildings there are few demarcated levels of madness; mostly, all the inmates wander about together. Just as there are stages of cancer, there are levels of insanity. The historical perspective indicates that these were not always distinguished by educated, trained doctors and nurses; some healthcare professionals treated everyone as if they had gaping holes in their brains, oozing pus and sanity. Even in modern times, the manner in which health professionals sometimes speak to patients is disgraceful. I can’t envision a nurse telling a cancer patient, “If you don’t go to group therapy, you won’t be able to visit with your family,” but to those in cracker factories, it is all too common. Many caregivers surmise that if a patient questions his or her treatment, the individual must be acting unruly, thus, needs further restrictions and lockdown. Now, it may seem that I am discouraging people from seeking treatment. That is not the case. What I do think is essential is that every person seeking or needing psychiatric help must have an advocate. Alone, the system has the capability to eat you alive; with one well-informed, composed person on your side, you can get the care and respect you deserve.

With our bubbly enthusiasm evident, the question has been broached as to what kind of twisted individuals consider an antiquated, dilapidated asylum to be one of the highlights of their journey? Just your average gonzo writers. Any surprise in a road trip is grand; a stunner which keeps travelers thinking, analyzing, and writing for days afterward is the quintessence of the road trip itself. With elements of architecture, history, crime, psychiatry, phantasm, deviancy, and sociocultural evolution, the institution was both treasure chest and Pandora's box for the inquisitive, imaginative ilk, whether masterminds or wonks. Lunatic asylums are probably not the penchant of most wayfarers, but for Johnny and me, the ideation has yet to wane. A single stop in a journey will contribute to the fervid prolificacy of two swollen heads in the year 2010. I guess I owe some ghosts a thank you.