The over-drugged and under-loved make their own way in the world, even when the FBI tries to make them forget.
By Marissa Kantor
Numbing the senses can be glorious. Just ask some of the members of Fellowship Place, a psycho-social club in New Haven for adults living with severe and persistent mental illness. You can always pick out the ones who have been fixed. Like a spade or neutered dog or a cat, they no longer feel urges. Larry shuffles across the dining room floor to grab a cup of coffee; Audrey slurs her words and one corner of her mouth droops; Teddy has slumped down in the blue vinyl chair and his head is bobbing from side to side. Sometimes they misplace the concept of personal hygiene. Their clothes are stained with coffee, spaghetti sauce, or other condiments, and they like to scratch themselves in public in what are considered “off limits areas.” They are, in technical terms, “overmedicated.”
At Fellowship, you can mark time by cigarette stubs on the patio floor; at the beginning of the month, the ashtrays overflow, while closer to the end it becomes difficult even to bum a stray Marlboro off someone. Today is Friday; I know this because in the front corner of the room, the Fellowship singing group is practicing… Continue Reading →