This book, as the publisher warns us at the beginning (but I would rather they didn't: I'm a big girl) is mostly pretty harrowing. It is the autobiography of a university-educated, athletic young mother who undergoes a breakdown after losing a much-loved brother and who then spends several years being incarcerated in various mental hospitals against her will for several years.
Ah, so you thought the traditional asylum had gone the way of all flesh, did you - the ones described in One Through over the Cuckoo's Nest, so much more prison than place of healing, and where care is frequently punitive?
So did I.
But apparently not. In the second decade of this millennium, it seems that patients may be sectioned indefinitely, with no hope of release. Patients are drugged more as a method of control than anything, as well as subjected to humiliating examinations and procedures if they do not conform and treated like children rather than adults at every turn?
This writer has a way of making Nurse Ratched look positively benign. There are the staff who promise a walk in the part and then renege because the chance to enjoy watching the subsequent meltdown is apparent too beguiling. Where dissension, asking questions about human rights and the right not to be humiliated are seen as maladaptive behaviour to be 'treated' with enforced medication - and always with clothes pulled down, into the buttocks.
Where there are padded cells in which the patient has no choice but to evacuate bowels and bladder straight onto the floor and in front of coldly observing eyes. Where appeals to warm a freezing cell are ignored until hyperthermia becomes a real issue?
It is still possible that a large, assertive woman over of over six foot, who does not mince words with their fascination with death and suicide and refuses to cooperate, might frighten seem to be a tough case. Many more nurses and doctors in the future too, may want to protect themselves against something they fear, or fear being blamed should a tragedy in fact take place.
Alexis Quinn's problems do not improve either once it is ascertained that her problems have nothing to do with either neurosis, nor even psychosis, but neurology. She is diagnosed autistic, after being triumpantly told that she is not, in fact, ill. This means that she then happily and voluntarily admits herself to a specialist unit, intended to assess her autism.
The nightmare starts again as soon as she is forbidden from taking exercise in the environs. Neurosis or neurology, the treatment is the same: drugs, more drugs, until the patient stops questioning and plays the game. She is sectioned again, no excuses are made for her difficulties in managing basic life skills. She is repeatedly told again that she is ill. She continues to deteriorate until, when her section is renewed after just having been promised that it wouldn't be, she makes a successful escape to overseas.
That last part reads more like a thriller, where the French authorities see her passport has been flagged. At this stage though, our heroine has learnt to talk her way though difficult situations, rather than have a meltdown.
The writer does remind the reader not all the professionals she met were abusive or coercive - many were genuinely kind and empathetic, especially on acute rather than observation wards. However, this book certainly serves to prove that the asylum may still, rightly be a place to be feared.