I was quickly shuffled into what was referred to as the "Main Area," a large room which appeared to be the front office and reception area. I took note that the dark beadboard paneling and trim of the Main Area were not highly complemented by the gold and green flowered wallpaper used on the upper half of the walls. I quickly came to the conclusion that Jackman, Maine must lack interior designers. Most likely, it was decorated like this to give the room a "sunny" vibe. "Sunny" wouldn't have been my first choice of words to describe how I felt when I stepped inside that room. In days past, the main area was the place in which all business transactions were handled by the once busy hunting lodge. People leisurely checked in and out, but the transformed hunting lodge now had a door that swung only one way. People checked in and people stayed! As I quickly scanned the room, I noticed the obviously dated decor and wondered if this place would ever feel like “home” to me or if any place could ever feel like “home” ever again? And then I saw it! Kinsman Hall came with its very own jail cell.
Immediately, I was instructed to sit on a wooden straight back chair behind the front desk facing the wall. I was to remain sitting there while I waited to be interviewed by the committee who handled new arrivals. My mind was still tryin to wrap itself around seeing a jail cell. Why would a hunting lodge have a jail cell? Why would a drug rehab have a jail cell? My Hallowell captors left shortly after filling out the necessary paperwork to release me into the custody of the executive director of Kinsman Hall. Their obligatory departing words seemed cold and hollow, yet I held onto them as long as I could until they were swallowed by the odd new atmosphere that surrounded me. Somewhere close by, I heard people yelling, but couldn't make out what they were saying. Their tones seemed repetitious and harsh.After sitting on the chair for what seemed like an eternity, I noticed that no one seemed to be in any great hurry to interview me. I turned to study each person carefully who came into the Main Area, but no one paid any attention to me except for the guy who sat at the front desk next to me. In fact, I felt almost invisible except for when I was repeatedly told to turn around,
face the wall and sit still. Slowly, the oddness of the moment filled me with a deep loneliness and with many unanswered questions. Why did all the guys have shaved heads? And why did some people have wooden pegs taped to their foreheads? As hard as I tried to probe my mind for some logic in the things I was witnessing, the answers never came. With one unanswered question came another and another until my thoughts were rudely interrupted when I became painfully aware of my sore muscles from sitting on a hard wooden chair for several hours. And why did this place have a jail cell?My mind jumped back and forth from the present to the past. Faces and names ran through my head and then it all became a big blur. For just a moment, I experienced nothingness and then the surrounding noises returned. As I sat on the chair totally encapsulated in thought, a Grateful Dead song kept playing over and over again in my head. Yes, what a long, strange trip it had been and what all my senses were detecting was that the strange trip was about to get a little stranger. The fantasy I developed about Kinsman Hall prior to my arrival was put to rest as I stepped into the light of what was going to be a very long two years.
From a slightly different perspective, Jill, who was already a resident at Kinsman hall when I arrived, reveals her own first encounter with Kinsman Hall and her entry into its program. Some of the lingo (pull-ups, marathon and object lessons, for example) she uses in her synopsis will be explained later in the book:
My two friends and I entered Kinsman Hall quite unlike anyone else. We entered VOLUNTARILY!What I discovered as I was slowly indoctrinated into the Kinsman Hall program was that "the chair" was primarily used as a therapeutic tool, but in reality, the chair was about as therapeutic as a primitive ducking stool. Not to begin a history lesson here, but I’m sure everyone remembers reading about the ducking stools used by the Puritans as a form of punishment and social humiliation in some history class they once took.
To make a long sob story short & sobby, from age 4 to 14, I was raised in a foster home. At age 14, I moved in with my biological father and his family, in another State, another world. It was not a very successful transition and from 14 to 16, I went wild. Ya'll know the story well. Skipping school, sneaking out of the house, running away, failing grades, promiscuity, experimenting with drugs. Classic! Then early in my sixteenth year, I had an epiphany. THERE IS A BETTER LIFE THAN THIS! I just knew it. I was not happy. This was no longer fun. For reasons I will not go into here, I could not go back, yet I could not stay. Of this, I was clear.
It was early 1971 and the schools were starting to acknowledge the drug problem which was running rampant in every school across the nation. A group of kids just a little older than me came to our school on a “speaking engagement.” They were from Kinsman Hall, a drug program located across the Hudson River in Hillsdale, New York. They were young. They were hip. They were cool. They were drug free. They all lived together! Away from home, away from school! They talked about being “high” on life, having approved “healthy” relationships, learning to live together in harmony & marathon groups. They also talked about other things, pull-ups, object lessons, other mumbo jumbo, but that did not compute. I heard--no parents, no school, a ratio of about 5 guys to every girl, NIRVANA! I had been looking for an escape route and Kinsman Hall just fell into my lap. It didn't hurt that my two best friends Elizabeth and George were also looking for a way out of similarly miserable existences. We were all interested.
At that time, KH was hosting open houses on Friday nights and the kids from the speaking engagement invited the three of us to attend one of these so we could check out the program. On open house nights, the regular routine of the program was halted. All object lessons came off, the residents dressed up and the girls were even allowed to where make-up. If any evidence of the program were visible, Elizabeth, George and I would miss it because as soon as we arrived at the open house we were recognized and whisked away to a private party off the floor (away from the rest of the population) by the kids who had done the speaking engagement at our school.
It was an unusual night at Kinsman Hall, but we did not know it at the time. The group from the speaking engagement had just ended their 3-day marathon. That entitled them to a private party, in a separate apartment without supervision, with pizza and loud music. At that time, the rules were relaxed in marathon groups and during the after party. This would change in the future, but that night was a real party! Guys & girls were making out, loud music was blaring, everyone was laughing & hugging and saying they were high on life. It looked just like parties on "the outside" and erased any lingering doubt the three of us had about entering the program.
So we came up with a plan. We would enter the program on a Friday night open house. George would go in first, followed a week or two later by Elizabeth, followed a week or two later by me. I don't remember why we planned it this way. Maybe because George was ready, Elizabeth had to make some preparations, and maybe my sister was coming to visit or something. I just don't remember. But we promised each other we wouldn't 'fink out' on each other and we didn't, we stuck to the plan. Thus, we became the only three residents to enter the program voluntarily. Without court order, without parental signatures. I guess you could say we 'ran away' to the program. Although that would not prevent us from running away or attempting to run away from the program in the future.
From what I understand, the program was started by a family who started taking in strays just like me that their daughter would bring home from school. So, I guess it wasn't surprising that we were accepted into the program under those conditions and with no one paying for us. I became one of the 'freebies' although this was never used against me. I have many mixed feelings about the whole Kinsman Hall experience but as bizarre as it was and became, Kinsman Hall offered me a safe haven, taking me off the streets, where surely I would not have faired well, until I grew up enough to make it on my own.
Smoking, talking and basically all physical activities were prohibited while sitting on the chair. Standing was definitely not allowed and all meals were eaten from the sitting position. With the exception of an occasional bathroom break, basically, a person was supposed to become one with the chair. That probably doesn’t sound too horrendous, but after sitting for several hours, the prospect of standing to stretch one’s legs is like being given manna from heaven. Anyone sitting on the chair was put there for one of three reasons: as part of the initial admissions process, as one of the only legitimate ways to leave Kinsman Hall before graduation and as a form of punishment.
Everyone’s first encounter with the dreaded chair was upon entering the Kinsman Hall program while awaiting their interview. During that brief period, the chair was used as a way to administer a desperately needed jolt of reality or wake up call. At that integral point in the whole Kinsman Hall experience, the therapeutic results gained from sitting on the chair for what amounted to usually several uncomfortable hours probably were minimal if not non-existent. Most people sitting there for the first time at least briefly reflect upon the events leading up to their entrance into the program. Those memories are freshest in anyone’s mind. Details are no longer clouded by the haze of drug abuse. Perhaps those thoughts are the intended beginning of the chiseling process that strips away of all the layers of mental pollutants in which people bury themselves in order to escape the harshness and the reality of life.
If nothing else, the chair was a nuisance and a real pain in the ass! It was meant to be an uncomfortable, unpleasant experience in which a person had no say whatsoever in the length of time they would have to sit there. The length always seemed to vary from person to person. Nowhere was it written that I’m aware of that anyone coming into the program must sit on the chair for “x” amount of time before an interview. Perhaps, it was decided before a person arrives or maybe staff members meandered through the Main Area checking out the person on an individual basis to make that decision. I always felt it was decided on the spot how long each person needed to sit and reflect. Like most things at Kinsman Hall, the answer would probably vary regarding what policy governed the chair depending on whom you asked about it and when you asked. Kinsman Hall was always a work in progress from the endless construction projects to the continual tweaking of the program and therapy. Very little seemed carved in stone and everything was subject to change. Yet the consensus regarding the chair would probably be that just like a ducking stool, the chair was meant to be one of those reality checks that was supposed to become ingrained into a person’s memory to act as a deterrent to any further bad behavior that might lead to subsequent visits to the chair. It rarely accomplished that goal because most people sat on the chair more than once throughout their time at Kinsman Hall.
My initial time sitting on the chair gave me a brief opportunity to have an "Oh my God, what have I done this time?" moment. Was this just another fine mess I’d gotten myself into or was Kinsman Hall different? At that point, it was hard to form any type of opinion because all my perceptions of Kinsman Hall all screamed that it was some incredibly bad joke in which I played the new lead role as candidate for residency. I knew I couldn’t retract my decision to leave Hallowell. It was too late for that! I had been signed, sealed and delivered and there was no turning back now. A burst of semi-rational thought made me think since I was already at Kinsman Hall; I might as well go with the flow and give the program a try. What’s the worse that could happen? I’d never get high again? I’d most likely make a few new friends? I might even see the light and change all my evil ways? Okay! Maybe that was hoping for too much. After all, how often do miracles really happen? For now, I’d just sit on the chair switching my weight from cheek to cheek so when I did finally get my interview, I’d be able to stand and walk.
Okay, I did it! I finally made a definite decision! I’d just hang out on the chair and I’d see what happened next. Then, I’d just take it one day at a time. That thought broke the somber mood that had been hanging over me like a dark cloud since I left Hallowell. I smiled because I was beginning to sound like one of the many friends of Bill or better known as a member of Alcoholics Anonymous. Oh my God, the transformation was already happening. The next thing I’d be doing if I didn’t watch out would be to start reciting the Serenity Prayer. I wondered if they used that tool at Kinsman Hall. Was this community like a giant 12-step program that consumed a person’s entire waking day each day, each week, each year until when and if they ever left the program? Hey, wait a minute; was this one of those lifetime programs I had heard about once or twice? No, the State of Maine wouldn’t do something like that to me. Surely, someone would have stepped in on my behalf if this place were like that.