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The Queen Street Patients Council Two years of developing Patients Councils in Ontario has passed and where have we gone? Not too far. Queen Street Mental Health Centre's vision of a Patients Council is quite different from the our vision of what a Patients Council should be. They believe we should work together as partners, as long as we don't speak out against the injustice that goes on here. We've been told to leave patients' rights and advocacy alone. We feel it is our responsibility to help our people. When the Patients Council ran out of money in March, just before the new financial year, we asked for "bridge funding" to tide us over. We were told by administration that they wanted something from us first: they presented us with a letter from their head office with a list of things we should do and should not do. The biggest "don't" was advocacy. The hospital was also real upset when one of the Patients Council facilitators investigated a Code White in the hospital (somebody was being put in restraints for yelling and given an injection against their will). What happened to the partnership? The Queen Street Patients Council is the only Patients Council in Ontario that sees advocacy as its main direction. We will not be used as window dressing by inhumane and harmful institutions that would try to silence us. Sometimes, hospitals pretend to embrace survivors in a partnership and ask for their input, but they will not act on complaints about psychiatric abuse in their hospital. The Patients Council has a list of demands which we want administration to address. We have met with them twice in the winter, but have heard nothing on this matter since. They have cancelled three appointments with us. We have written a letter of protest saying that it seems patients demands are low on their priority list, and that we will take other steps in addressing this matter. The Council has been given "intervenor status" by a judge in a recent court case (a human rights Charter Challenge that has wide implications for psychiatric survivors in Canada). What concerns us is the fact that people are spending 2 to 3 times as much time in psychiatric prisons (like Penetang) as they would in a normal prison where they at least get a court hearing. A large percentage of them are not dangerous to society. Restraints and seclusion are also a part of this case-- they are being used by hospitals to force people into treatment. This issue of Psycho has been devoted to restraints and isolation. We hope to bring up in court the appalling conditions that people are subjected to in psychiatric institutions. We encourage anyone that has experienced these conditions to get a hold of us at our office-- we need your help! It seems none of the other Patients Councils in Ontario are supporting us on this important court case. The Patients Council is also involved in the housing issue for psychiatric survivors. Where can you go when you get out? We are particularly appalled that some psychiatric survivors with special needs (ie. wheelchair accessibility, etc.) have had to stay in psychiatric facilities because of the lack of housing. We are advocating to bring changes in this area. If you are interested in these and other concerns we have, and you would like to volunteer to bring about some change, we would appreciate the help. We also have a reference library, pamphlets on patients rights and psychiatric drugs, the Coffee Hour, Patients Councils questionnaires, open Council meetings, and of course Psycho magazine.... Yours Truly,
The following have been written by patients of Queen Street and other psychiatry survivors. They have been included without editing except for commas here and there. Abolish ('Keith Moon') I think Haldol and restraints should be abolished because I really need new strings for my guitar. Restraints and Isolation (M. P.) I have been in restraints (3 days) and isolation countless times. I feel that these measures used by QSMHC and other institutions is a barbaric way of "getting the problem patient" out of the way. The definition of a problem patient to QSMHC, in my estimation and experience, is someone who does not want to rely on the system to get better (ie. "staff supports" whatever that may be, and "medical supports" whatever that may be). Man is not an object and therefore cannot be treated as such. Tying me down and keeping me in isolation was a terrifying experience to say the least. When I was in restraints last week, I played a game of enjoying the "exceptionally good food" that was brought to me, and the nurses couldn't stand that. I played up the "good food!" routine while the nurses couldn't stop salivating and, I might add, going crazy at the same time. I slept many hours in restraints which produced a "nice patient" who shouldn't be in restraints but should be out working. At the end of my adventure in restraints (my attitude changed from horror to acceptance), I came out well-kept, well-fed. Tears brimming in my big blue eyes, I stood away from the restraints and told the QSMHC dignitaries (ie. the other patients who seemed to have authority-- they had the keys to everything except my heart) that I recovered (from what?) so miraculously, and thanked them for the support of the many women who were doing ridiculous shift work hours to bring me back to health. An ode to the blessed nurses, men and women alike, who saved me from at least a few days of yucky food in the lunchroom. Hmmm, I wonder if they're having saurbrotten tonight: Like a bud in a captive bed I lost my true love, Donald R. Ayers, to QSMHC. Where are you, my darling? I am here on a bed of hot rocks, not too much fun my love, not too much fun my love. Release me, set me free. Honey, I'm tired of just fighting for me. I look around and my heart hurts, when will you return? People of the land of the dead. If the cigarettes don't get you, the coffee will. Peace with you my darling. Hurry home, my hero. . . . I'm waiting. Destroying "William" (Geoffrey Reaume) "William" was upset. The 28 year-old inmate of St. Thomas Psychiatric Hospital had been alternatively depressed and then angry for several days, for reasons which were not clear to me. But one thing was certain. He resented the insistence by staff that he had to take his medication. In the six weeks I knew him, William never had any visitors to look to for support should the need arise. He was, in effect, an isolated patient. This isolation was about to become much more severe. Early on Thursday evening in March, 1979, William poured out his feelings of resentment towards the staff at a ward "therapy" session. Rather than listen to him, other staff told him to "cool off" in the absurdly named "Quiet Room." He went in one of those bare, concrete rooms without being forced, though he shouted his defiance as the door shut behind him. Within a couple of hours, William was crying uncontrollably, pleading for release. His voice changed to sounding like that of a child, constantly begging for his hat (which had been taken from him). His terrifying, pitiful cries resounded throughout the ward all night. Early on Friday morning, just before breakfast, William was forcibly drugged by six or seven burly men, most of whom I had never seen before, presumably staff from other wards. They literally burst into his cell, tackled him, and injected one of his buttocks with some drug as he screamed in terror. Later that day, after he was sufficiently dazed, and while most of us were working at industrial or occupational "therapy," William was transferred to a more oppressive ward. A few weeks later I saw him in a walking party accompanied by staff. He was completely changed, almost emotion-less with his eyes half-closed, drugged into submission, not seeming to recognize me as he walked by, which was unlike his previous demeanor. I never saw him again, nor heard what happened to him after this last fleeting glimpse of a spirit that had been crushed by the brutal use of physical and chemical restraints. On Psycho Cowgirls and 4-Point Restraints (J. T.) I was running high on Kundalini energies, charging thru the ward at full gallup, a veritable psycho cowgirl trying to break free from lifetimes of social and cultural restraints. I was breaking free; I let out a "Yahoo!" and chased after a female patient (in anger? in lust? in jest?) knocking down signs and rules and regulations with my bare arms until, until, an entire posse of nurses and orderlies were rounded up outside the nursing station. I was lassoed into their congregation, hauled onto a stretcher, injected in the thighs, constrained diagonally: left wrist, right ankle, and left to suffer throughout the night in my bizarre and solitary crucifixion. I drifted off into a vegetable sleep, my last words to the Filipino nurse who sat guard: "Everyone here is so enlightened." She nodded, smiled, seemed ultra-cool and high to me in my psycho/Kundalini/high/high state. I felt blessed and awoke at dawn, wrists and ankles free, confined only to a solitary locked room with bare linoleum floors and putrid-green walls, guarded by the perniciously omnipresent nursing station. The Hell (D. M.) I went through the whole thing. Needles on my spinal chord, needles on my bones, needles on my legs. I was put in a white jacket. I didn't show them any power. I could have, but I didn't. I was in the jacket for 3 to 4 hours. It drove me nuts! That's the hell I went through-- everybody goes through that. Killer Seclusion (J. M.) The very first time in seclusion is something I will never forget. It was my first day in the hospital and my sister was visiting me. I started speaking rather loudly and my sister told me to quiet down. Naturally I wouldn't listen and the next thing I knew, six security guards (orderlies) came to escort me to the "therapeutic Quiet Room," seclusion. It was a very small room with a single size mattress on the floor. The female nurse proceeded to order me to strip and the six men were still standing there. I asked them to turn their heads which they did, but I could tell they really didn't feel they had to. As though I was asking a favour. I took everything off except for my underwear and put on the proferred "Johnny Shirt." I was then asked to remove my underwear in front of six men. I, of course, refused and told her I didn't think I could choke myself or hang myself with a pair of panties. She replied that it was hospital policy to remove all clothing. I was already manic and this made me very angry. I knew I was in a no-win situation so I did what what I had to do. I looked straight into the female nurse's eyes and said very low so that the security guards couldn't hear me, "If you take these underwear off I will hunt you down and kill you. There is no place in Halifax where I can't find you now that I know your name." I said it with such vehemnece and strength that she slowly backed off and let me be. I was locked up for about twenty-four hours and then allowed out on the ward. The reason I am putting this in print is because any person who has an illness shouldn't have to be locked up. There was no evidence that I was going to hurt myself or anyone else. Locking people up and taking their underwear deprives them of their dignity, which in some cases may make the already upset, emotional person very, very angry. Angry enough to threaten another person's life. That is not a part of healing. The Story (C. R.) The story begins one crisp misty afternoon on October 26, 1986, in a small town on the shores of Lac St. Jean in Quebec. Delivered by ambulance from Chibougamau, exchanging cigarettes with my attendant in the ambulance, we exchange a lengthy conversation both in English and in French. I arrived approximately at 4 pm. Having no way of telling time, I noticed it was late afternoon. This institute contained both mental patients and criminals on the same floor. On arrival, I began to answer questions I don't know the answer for. Upon replying I received an injection and immediate memory ceased. Until December 4, 1986, when I regain presence of mind, only three brief periods (perhaps fractions of time) broke the barrier of the memory block. Pain of heat and cold got through the block. My doctor in Montreal could not (in medical professionalism) accept the explanation, for it was inconsistent with the six years as my psychiatrist. Since then Robeval, after numerous complaints and law suits, has closed down. My doctor, with other psychiatrists, put together a finding with a conclusion that explained the memory loss, but Robeval never admitted giving anything except Haldol, a common drug in Quebec on admittance. In fact the data coming from Robeval was mainly subjective and significant data on tests was blatantly left out. On top of this, various physical parts of my left side were damaged without memory recall. Patient Abuse at Queen Street Hospital (B. L.) I have volunteered a few words to say concerning abuse and denial of human rights and sometimes privileges at Queen Street, so I'll give it a shot. It seems that every few days now, we hear of another patient, or some other hapless victim of the system we are all trying to live under, being denied their rights as citizens in the human race, and it seems that as long as no one is watching, or is within hearing range of things that are being said, anything goes! Like threatening a patient with eviction or discharge if the patient dares to report any ill treatment, or any wrongdoing of any kind whatsoever, and this kind of unjust treatment in this supposedly great and just land of Canada must be brought to an end, and the sooner the better. Also there is this matter of threatening to cut off a patient's dope, or medication as it is called, if he or she fails to follow certain instructions dictated or directed by a doctor or nurse or other official. Now I realize that in some cases a patient may be unruly or difficult to handle sometimes, and may require a bit of crude treatment; however, this is strictly the exception rather than the general rule, and as I have stated, the sooner these sorts of things are brought to an end, the sooner this country will be a much better place to reside in. Padded Room (K. W.) I think they should have a padded room where people can work out their frustrations. The room should be open so they can go in and out, hopefully in a better mood. Patients are asking for punching bags. I think that's a good idea. Elena's Accident (H. C.) Elena was not at school. Rohan told us he saw her fall down on the street near his house. An ambulance came and took her to the hospital. He didn't know which hospital. When Elena came in, we were surprised to see her. She told us she refused to go to St. Joe's, she refused to go to Western, and she refused to go to St. Michael's. "Why would I want to go to St. Joe's or Western or St. Michael's? I live at a hospital don't I? All I need to do is walk across the street." "We'll give you a ride there." "Which entrance?" "Over there, Central Admitting." After half an hour at Central Admitting, they took her to Unit 4:2 by wheelchair. It was a brand new wheelchair. She was seen by her overworked doctor, social worker and primary nurse in the lounge, in front of all the soap opera viewers. Then she went to school. After she went to the Patients Council Meeting. Poem (Anonymous) They have a post office in the underground subway, What's Up Doc (Erick Fabris) a Canadian cruxifiction,
Once Upon A Time... In a land full of shrinks, there was a lot of commotion in the town for no one knew what to do. A villager started to freaketh out in violence. The townsfolk asked the noble shrinks what should be done and the shrinks said, "Sedate her, naturally! This magic potion will make her dumb as a donkey. Then you can lock her up so her spirit is broken." But the townsfolk were too responsible for such rubbish. Instead, they held the freaking villager tight and let her freak as much as she wanted. Her punches and insults were thrown into the soft meadow grass. The villager stopped kicking and screaming after a few minutes and said, "Thank you, dear friends. All I needed was a hug for I have had so few. Let me alone for a day to think." And the villager freaked no more.
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