Chapter Six - The Guinea Pig

 

During one private session, Mr. Butler told me I was a depressed neurotic when I asked him what was in my chart.  No way!  That didn’t come close to describing me or my problems.  Depressed?  He really thought I'm depressed?  That meant I would have to feel something in order to be depressed.  No! Depression was just an easy catch-all diagnosis to hang on someone when the actual one hadn’t been discovered yet.  And neurotic?  I always thought that was a rich person’s diagnosis.  As the differences between the socioeconomic classes became clearer to me as I got a little older, I thought of other examples.  No poor person has ever been said to “collapse from exhaustion.”  How many poor people do you know who have had the luxury of collapsing unless they collapse and die?

The same holds true of being neurotic!  Wasn’t that just another way of saying a person’s behavior is few standard deviations from what is considered normal, healthy or well-adjusted?  Rich people were neurotic.  Poor people were weirdos, screw-ups and misfits.  I was from the wrong side of town to be considered neurotic.  I wanted to tell Rick to toss a few more choices in his hat and pick something that sounded better, but I just sat back and played the game with him because I knew this world doesn’t really care about depressed neurotics like me.  When I asked him for his definition of "depressed neurotic," he smiled as he coyly confessed I was a “sad nut.”  Almost 2 years later during the road trip into Maine's wilderness to deposit me at my new home, I wondered what my problem actually was. Why did I do the things that I do? And is my life always going be this way? So chaotic? Without a purpose or a plan? Socrates once said, "An unexamined life is not worth living."  The question staring me in the face was my life a life worth examining? And could Kinsman Hall really help me?

When I arrived back at Hallowell after “my great escape,” a committee consisting of Mick Slick (the social worker), my favorite teacher (Mrs. Presley), the head Hun (Mrs. Stumpfield) and a few of the lesser Huns from my “dormitory” decided the program at Hallowell couldn’t rehabilitate me. In fact, they felt I needed extensive therapy in order to give me the best chance of turning my life around. Wasn’t that noble and kind of them to admit they couldn‘t help me? My trusty cynicism reaffirmed that Kinsman Hall was just a convenient way to help rid Stevens of a huge unpleasant problem instead of attempting to take the difficult path by helping me themselves.  As an alternative to Hallowell, the committee felt I should go live in the woods at what I imagined to be a large commune filled with hippies working and living together.  Far out!  Imagine that!  There is a God after all and she was alive and well in Jackman, Maine.  Where do I sign up? And how fast can I get there?

I was intrigued and amused with the thought that they actually believed this was going to be a punishment for me.  Did they know something I didn’t know?  If I decided to go, I would be probated to Kinsman Hall from the State of Maine until the completion of the program.  I never even asked how long the program was as they laid out their proposal to me.  In fact, the only question I did ask was where Kinsman Hall was located.  The details about everything else just didn’t seem important.  I didn’t even need the few days they gave me to mull it over and decide what I felt was best for me like I really had an option.  I could read between the lines and I could see the writing all over the wall.  It spelled out "YOU HAVE NO OPTION!" That same afternoon, I sent word back to Mrs. Stumpfield, the director of Hallowell (previously referred to as “the head Hun”) that I had decided to try Kinsman Hall.  And then the church bells rang, the heavens opened and the angels sang, "Hallelujah!"

Regardless of what I tried outwardly to portray to everyone around me, I was worn out from living on the streets.  At this point my flimsy facade had started to crumble.  The last year had drained me both physically and mentally.  I needed time to get healthy and to put my life back on track and to join the land of the living once again.  The streets had changed me in ways I never had thought possible.  What little bit of fear that did filter through in my decision to leave Hallowell was probably what ultimately guided me into doing the most logical thing I had done in years.  As I quickly consented to be their "guinea pig," I thought drug rehab would be a walk in the park compared to what I had been through and I definitely felt nowhere could be as bad as this Hallowell hellhole.

What I didn't know was that the world I was about to step into was a world very different from anything I had ever experienced.  It was a world created by a man who had a vision.  What he created was a haven for the misfits and outcasts of my generation.  His vision was of a self-contained therapeutic community in which people lived sheltered from the outside world while they presumably changed their negative behaviors and stopped doing drugs.  His vision even came equipped with its own lingo.  Everyone who lived in that community was governed by a set of rules set in place to mold the residents into responsible human beings, but in many cases what it created were people ill-equipped to deal with the realities of life in the outside world. Many left the program only to return to a life of drug abuse or worse and many died horrible deaths. 

As I look back on it now, Kinsman Hall appeared more like a cult than anything else.  The townspeople of the small rural community in which it was located looked at us like we were freaks.  But how could they look at us as anything but freaks?  We were freaks!  Everything about us was weird and mysterious.  We lived off the beaten path and kept to ourselves.  The only direct contact Kinsman Hall had with Jackman was through the business dealings staff members had with the local businesses, the occasional baseball game some of the male residents and male staff members had with a team in Jackman,  the medical services provided by the local hospital as people needed it and the visits family members had with residents at the Sky Lodge or other local establishments.  Until the day Kinsman Hall burned down and reopened a few months later in Florida under the name Southern Oasis, Inc., it remained cloaked by a blanket of mystery.   A huge question mark was kept firmly in place as if it were Kinsman Hall's logo for all the world to see.

A few days before Christmas I left Hallowell. My departure this time did not cause the same type of uproar that my last departure caused.  Of course, each person wished me well, but I felt deep down they were relieved because they were finally getting rid of me forever.  Their well wishes didn't strike me as being sincere.  In fact, it felt more like a thing each matron had been programmed to do.  A few of the girls gave me a hug.  Mrs. Presley cried and Mick Slick was no where to be found.  As I got into the state car to be transported to my new home, I envisioned all the matrons doing a little happy dance behind closed doors.  That thought made me smile as we left the premises.

During our drive north on Interstate 95 and then up Highway 201 into the Maine wilderness, the lifeless landscape I viewed from the backseat of the State car at first had a tranquil effect upon me. With each mile the various lifeless shades of winter grays and whites lulled me deeper and deeper into thought until I almost began to know how those drab winter colors felt. The sun glistened upon fields draped with virgin snow, yet the landscape exuded no warmth. The densely wooded forests seemed dark and inviting, yet their appeal was deceptive.  On the driver’s side, the Kennebec River seductively hugged the two-lane highway winding North. Massive stone walls scaled the hillsides where the highway had been built long ago. Everything around me was as cold as I felt inside making the natural beauty of the landscape seem like just another prison to me.  During that three plus-hour ride to my new home, I tried to anticipate what my next year or so might be like, but every image that came to mind quickly disappeared upon my arrival.  The reality of the moment slapped me in the face as I viewed my new home for the very first time.

Kinsman Hall was built along the winding Moose River Valley that connects Attean Lake and Big Wood Lake in Northern Maine. A once popular hunting lodge had now been converted into a drug rehabilitation center that housed over 100 people on a long-term basis. The once stately building 

became a perpetual work in progress with remodeling and construction projects galore. The sign on the front of the house should have read “Enter at your own risk” to warn people to think twice before walking inside and asking for help.  Years later, when The Eagles song, Hotel California became popular, I always thought of Kinsman Hall when they sang the words “you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.” Truer words were never written and the same song reminds us “we are all just prisoners here of our own device.”  My device had dragged me down a dirt road in the dead of winter deep in Northern Maine and deposited me at the front door of this menacing fortress.

As I arrived, I immediately sensed the hustle and bustle of the youthful community.  Everyone seemed focused on their jobs and paid no particular attention to my arrival.  I thought that was odd because I had imagined a new person should be worthy of everyone’s attention or at least a friendly welcome.   For the next several hours the same question resonated in my head.  Shouldn’t a new person at least be an object of curiosity?  Why did I feel so invisible? Hey look! The guinea pig has arrived!

Chapter Seven - The Chair

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! 

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.

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. 

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.

Chapter Eight - The Jill Mandate

Until my interview, I just kept repeating the Serenity Prayer over and over again.  It stuck in my head like a catchy tune. 

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Wait a minute! I didn't even believe in God, but nobody here needed to know that. It could be my little secret. If they did recite that hokey prayer here, I’d be one-step ahead of them. Maybe I’d even impress someone by already knowing the prayer.  I kept getting a creepy feeling that I was about to find out just exactly what this fine mess I had gotten myself into really entailed and what impact it would have on my life.  I might even finally find out how long I signed on to be Maine’s guinea pig. 

Jill chronicled her time on the chair awaiting her interview.  At the time of her entrance into the program, Kinsman Hall was located in Hillsdale, New York, a small hamlet in upstate New York nestled along the western edge of the Berkshire Mountains.  Kinsman Hall’s history paints it as a vagabond never quite finding where it was meant to put down permanent roots and flourish.  Its genealogy can be traced first to Long Island where Kinsman Hall was conceived and was born as a well-meaning concept to help drug addicts.  As the population grew in number, the facility was relocated to Upstate New York in Hillsdale.  When the Jackman, Maine location was opened, all the residents from the Hillsdale facility were eventually transferred to Jackman. The exodus from New York to Maine became legendary and was often talked about amongst the older residents who had resided in Hillsdale before coming to Jackman.  In my mind, I always got the impression from anyone who made the exodus that they looked at the Jackman facility as the land of milk and honey.  I always felt a void in never having been to Hillsdale. That group of residents had a much-envied bond.  They were a tight knit group whose parameters were next to impossible to infiltrate.  Acceptance wasn’t an easy undertaking especially being viewed as an outsider from Maine.  How was I ever going to survive while being surrounded by a majority of New Yorkers and beyond?

In Jill’s own words, she describes her impressions of the chair and her time awaiting her interview:

At sixteen years old, I walked into Kinsman Hall in Hillsdale, New York, on a Friday night in March of 1971. "I'm here to enter the program," I said smiling with my luggage at my side. That caused a bit of a scuttlebutt.  No one was quite sure what to do at first.  This was not the normal mode of entry into the program. Although Elizabeth had done so before George and me before her, my entry was unexpected.  Someone said, well, then, put her on the chair. 

So, one of the girls brought me into the office, had me sit on a chair and started asking me questions and filling out a form.  You know, like an application.  What's your name, address, date of birth, why are you here?  They told me they had to search my luggage to make sure I wasn't bringing in any drugs and they took my luggage away.  Then the girl told me I had to stay on the chair until they were ready for my interview and off she went.  I wasn't alone.  There was always someone stationed in the office with others trickling in and out.  Nothing unusual was taking place around me as the whole family was gathered in the dining room for open house night, dressed in their best clothes and on their best behavior.  I kept turning around to smile and say hi to anyone who entered the office.  "Turn around and face the wall!" I was told.

At sixteen, I was a cute, sweet, little flower child with a winning smile.  These attributes I had used extensively in my young life.  But these charms had no power here and the sweet disposition was about 12 hours away from disappearing and being replaced by a raging green monster of superior strength!  In the meantime, with my charms falling flat, I was beginning to wonder just what I had gotten myself into! 

The chair was a wooden straight-backed chair without a cushion and I had been sitting so long I thought they must have forgotten about me.  Finally, I spoke to someone in my sweet little innocent voice,

 "I was supposed to have an interview, I think they have forgotten about me."

  "No, talking, face the wall!"

 Nope! They hadn't forgotten.  

I must have sat on that chair that first night for 2 hours! Now, you have to realize that this is absolutely hysterical because it was probably the record for the SHORTEST time anyone ever spent on the chair!  It certainly became the record for the SHORTEST time I ever spent on the chair!  My time on the chair had been shortened and my interview expedited as I had arrived in the evening and they wanted it all finished before 'lights out'.  

When or if a person reached the breaking point and had enough of Kinsman Hall, they definitely got another opportunity to get acquainted with the chair if that breaking point led to the decision to leave the program.  That was definitely one rule that was carved in stone.  No exceptions were made!  If you wanted to leave before you finished the program, you sat on the chair.  You would leave the same way you came into the program, but with one HUGE difference.  In order to leave Kinsman Hall, a person had to sit on the chair for seven days straight.

During those seven days, twenty hours of each day was spent sitting on the chair and the remaining four hours was to be spent sleeping on the hardwood floor without a mattress.  In my two years as a resident, the most memorable chair incident for me was when one person lasted the whole seven days and actually left.  Damon became a sort of folk hero who was often envied for his tenacity.  People might think, “What’s so hard about sitting on a chair for seven days?” Maybe the before mentioned description of the chair by both Jill and I didn’t do the chair the justice it deserves, so let me go into a little more detail.

The chair was a simple, unpadded, armless, straight back, wooden chair on which a person was expected to sit upright with their feet flat on the floor at all times.  Not only did a person's backside get extremely sore from that prolonged position, but also just about every other muscle ached from inactivity.  Most likely the other muscles were just sore with sympathy pains, but regardless of the location and reason, the pain was real and extremely difficult to ignore.

Most "druggies" were cigarette smokers as well, so along with being physically uncomfortable, withdrawal from nicotine was another bonus a person could look forward to while sitting on the chair.  Any deviation from the rigid rules governing the chair made the person's seven days begin again.  Staff had all the bases covered to make the seven days seem like seven years in hell.  Most people lacked the kind of mental discipline it required to last seven days in order to leave.  We, the weak-minded substance abusers and hedonists of the world, just weren’t cut out for that type of physical and mental abuse.  At least not while we were straight, that is!  We preferred our abuse to contain some instant feel good sensations that over time caused horrible health problems or caused our life expectancy to be much lower than the normal population’s life expectancy.

  

The third reason a resident might sit on the chair was as a disciplinary tool.  I'll delve further into other disciplinary tools and terminology later, but for now, let's just say the severity of the rule that had been broken and the length of time the person would remain on the chair were in direct correlation with each other.  When staff felt the person had completed enough “time out” on the chair, it was always followed up with some equally hideous punishment.

Once again, Jill explains her experience with the chair, but this time she had been in the program a substantial amount of time.  In her own words, she tells of the anguish and pain she endured awaiting punishment for trying to split.  This episode with the chair takes place in Jackman, Maine where Jill and I shared the same day-to-day experiences, but from very different vantage points.  Her words are told from the perspective of an older resident and at the time Jill had her coup de grâce (deathblow) with the chair, I had only been at Kinsman Hall a few months.  Because of Jill’s time on the chair, the rules governing the chair were altered, but even with those alterations, the chair still was most people’s Waterloo.

  

A year or so later my next run in with the chair was after my “split.”  I spent two weeks on the chair waiting for my GM (general meeting).  My legs swelled up.  I lost the arches in my foot (temporarily).  They actually became converse giving my feet the appearance of rockers on a rocking horse.  I could barely bend at the knees because the back of my knee had also become converse.  It was Charlene who noticed my legs even before I did myself (as I had lost all feeling in them) and she summoned Sally, our facility’s nurse.   

Sally wanted to see if the swelling would go down by morning, but the next morning my legs were as swollen as they had been the night before so I was brought to the French speaking Doctor in town to find out what was wrong with my legs!  He said it was from sitting on the chair in one position for so long!  He really had to use his medical degree on that diagnosis!  (By the way, he was not told how long I had actually been sitting on the chair.)  The cure would be to keep my legs elevated and no salt.  When I was brought back to the house I was placed back on the chair, but another chair was placed in front of me with a pillow on it and I was to keep my legs up on that chair.  Later during my GM, some people screamed at me for acting like a princess on the chair with my legs up!  It really is funny and was so even at that time!

After my leg swelling incident there was a major rule change for people sitting on the chair.  Every hour a staff member would take the people who were sitting on the chair out front for some exercise and there were no more leg swelling incidents.

During my time at Kinsman Hall, I sat on the chair for all three reasons.  My introduction to the chair gave me enough time to come to the conclusion that Kinsman Hall was a strange place to be and that it might take me awhile to figure out all its ins and outs.  After all, I walked into this whole “guinea pig” thing blindly asking little to no questions beforehand about the program.  My decision in hindsight seemed like nothing more than a knee-jerk reaction to Stevens.  I really wondered how well I would fit in here as I moved from cheek to cheek trying to relieve the pressure and pain I felt without drawing any attention to my movements.  I just wanted to get off the chair after sitting there several hours and have my interview.  I was tired and wanted this day to finally end.  Tomorrow would have to be a better day!

Chapter Nine - No French Bras!

By the time I had my interview, I was more than ready to be compliant with whatever was thrown my way.  I would have barked like a dog if that meant being able to go to bed and get a few hours of sleep.  Have you ever felt as though some situation or experience in which you’ve been involved should be an episode of the “Twilight Zone?” That’s exactly how I felt by the time I stood up and was led from the chair into the hallway just outside the Main Area.  I was instructed to stand outside another door at the end of the hallway "in position" until I was told to enter.  By the quizzical look I had on my face, the person knew I didn‘t understand what I had been instructed to do.  Ignorance may be bliss, but in this instance, my ignorance seemed to irritate the person.

“Just stand up straight. Keep your feet together, keep your eyes straight ahead and keep your arms at your sides.  Don’t move around at all and don’t make any noise.”

As he spoke, I followed his instructions.  When he stopped talking, he eyed me quickly and saw I had done exactly what he told me.  I wondered if he might throw me a doggie yummy for being so obedient, but he quickly squashed all hopes of that happening by barking out another order.

“That’s it!  Now, stand there until they tell you to enter.  Make sure you knock on the door before entering and don’t open the door until they tell you to enter the room.”

I was beginning to feel as if I had gone to some boot camp from hell.  Had I enlisted in the military without knowing it?  Was anyone friendly here?  So far, there hadn’t been even a hint of any type of warmth or kindness.  Were these hairless hippies from another dimension? Distant relatives of Marquis de Sade for whom the word “sadism” was coined?  Only a few minutes had passed while I stood there, but each minute seemed like hours.  My muscles were sore from sitting on the chair all afternoon and fatigue had begun to set in.  Finally, an upbeat middle-aged woman appeared briefly as she stuck her head out the door and told me to knock on the door.  I did as I was told and as soon as I knocked, several voices on the other side of the door hollered very loudly at me in unison.  This almost made me laugh.

“Who is it?”

Momentarily, I was startled by the intensity of their voices, I wanted to reply, "Who the hell do you think it is?  It's person you left sitting on that hardass chair for hours!"  But I managed to respond in an appropriate manner.

“Karen Goggins”
  
“GET IN HERE!” they all bellowed in unison.

Wow! They all sounded so serious and pissed off.  I briefly looked behind me before entering the room, but knew the only direction I could safely go was forward.  Once inside the room, I saw there were six people who were seated in a semi-circle. I was told to stand in front of them while they conducted my interview.  I felt like I was under a microscope as each one introduced themselves to me and immediately started firing questions at me.  It appeared they had done this routine a time or two and I was the flavor of the day!

Some questions were what I expected, but others were things obviously thrown in to catch me off guard. “What kind of drugs did you do?” was easy to answer, but when “what I expected to get out of the program” and “why was I here” were asked, the answers were a little more complicated and not on the tip of my tongue.  I hesitated many times before speaking.  I had no clear-cut answers for some questions.  How does one explain the dumbass ways of “Karenism?” Could I be truthful and just say this was the lesser of two evils so here I am?  I wasn’t sure if they were ready for my version of the truth and I wasn’t sure I was ready to be brutally honest with a group of hostile people all staring at me waiting for my responses to their questions.

I did my best at first, but felt none of my answers were really the right ones or adequately answered the questions they fired my way.  I had nothing to hide, so I did try to answer each question as honestly as I could, but I found myself becoming defensive and sarcastic as the interviewing committee became harsher and probed deeper into my misadventures and personal life.  The process quickly turned from being casual into a full-scale interrogation that was aimed at making me feel ashamed and unworthy of being helped.  The drama heightened to the grand finale in which I was told to ask them for help.  Since my first attempt to do as I was told wasn't deemed as being sincere or adequate enough for their liking, I went through a series of attempts until I found myself frantically screaming for help.  At that point, I was accepted into the program.  Each of the six people present gave me a hug and welcomed me to Kinsman Hall.  Wow!  It was almost like home… abuse with feeling!

Before leaving the room, I was assigned a “big sister” to show me the ropes and to keep me in line while I went through my first month or so as a “candidate” for residency.  During this time, I would go through the orientation phase of the program with other people who had entered Kinsman Hall around the same time I had.  These people would be my peer group for the remainder of the program. 

Kathy was one of the six who had just interviewed me.  I guess she was the one who had drawn the short straw.  She was an older resident and obviously a little older than most residents in the program.  She appeared to be in her mid to late twenties and the first thing I noticed about her as she began to talk to me was the deep, soulful quality of her voice.  Her dark brown, shoulder-length hair bounced as she became very animated as she spoke.  I admired its healthy luster and hoped mine would eventually look that good.  Her eyes almost twinkled as she spoke to me. Her casual demeanor made me immediately forgot she was one of the people screaming at me only a few short minutes ago. 

Once outside the room in which I was interviewed, I noticed she had that natural type of good looks that didn’t need to be enhanced with make-up.  She was lucky especially since wearing make-up wasn’t allowed at Kinsman Hall.  Many things about Kinsman Hall made it difficult to appear feminine, so the females had to rely on what they had been born with to use as bait when seeking a male’s attention. Maybe I was lucky since I had never taken to wearing make up. I used to laugh and tell people that I didn't need to enhance my natural beauty.  I wish that was how I really felt about myself, but in reality it was the polar opposite.

Like most of the other females, Kathy was shorter than I was and also, slightly fuller figured.  I wondered if part of the process of getting clean, getting healthy and getting my act together would mean gaining weight.  None of the females I had seen so far looked pudgy or overweight, but you never know about these things.  Every female I saw just looked healthy and happy.  I did a double take and looked at Kathy once again as we left the room.  She looked happy, too. How could that be?  How could all these people hollering at each other all day long and running around with shaved heads wearing weird things hanging from their necks look happy?  I just didn’t get it.  Perhaps that would be something Kathy could explain to me in her own unique no-nonsense way.

My first day finally came to a close when I was assigned a room with 5 other girls.  After putting my freshly screened belongings away in the appropriate places, I finally was allowed to go to sleep.  The unpacking process took no more than several minutes because I was given a clothing list before leaving Hallowell and was only allowed certain things and in certain quantities.  No French bras?  What’s a French bra?  Who even wears a bra?  They’re so uncomfortable and restricting!  But before I left Stevens, I was given a couple bras to take with me “just in case.”  I should have known that there was no “just in case” about anything in Kinsman Hall.  All females wore bras at Kinsman Hall along with nothing low-cut or tight fitting unless you happened to be a female staff member.  Female residents all seemed to have the same flannel shirt and bell-bottoms unisex look.  The most distinguishing difference was that females didn’t have shaved heads.

That night I fell into a deep, dreamless slumber and in the morning, a stranger awakened me to start a brand new day in my new home.  That day was the first day I had worn a bra in almost three years. The trauma in that alone made my first day a very strange one. I wondered if my perky little breasts were going to recover from that assault.

Each new person I met for the next several days were virtual strangers to me, but most people immediately treated me as a member of their rather large Kinsman Hall family.  Others silently checked me out and avoided any introduction.  Those people were the ones that would remain on my “beware of” list.  Did the friendly ones act that way because that’s how they were told to act or did they act that way because they remembered how it felt to be a new candidate?  The answer to that question wasn’t something I really needed or wanted to know initially.  I assumed I would figure it out eventually.  For now, I was satisfied with the feeling their warmth and openness gave me.  It helped ease the severity of my beginning steps along this journey.  I didn’t feel quite as alone as I had.  Without those friendly individuals, I doubt I could have begun my long journey into this new type of reality called Kinsman Hall, a place where there was only one way to do things… quickly and without question.  Karen’s way of doing things no longer existed!