Seeing those two new orderlies coming toward us in the dayroom, all I could think of was football linebackers. These guys’ muscles were massive and the pair of them looked as if they spent half, if not all, of their day in the gym.
“Jim, Dave, it’s time for your medication,” the blond orderly said.
Almost in unison, both Dave and I said, “What medication?” Dave continued, “Dr. Clarke did not mention anything about medication.”
The blond with the nametag Boris towered over us. “Dr. Clarke is no longer managing your cases. You’re new psychiatrist is Dr. Erickson. He has reviewed your charts and has prescribed a mild sedative. Now drink this.”
I tried to avoid the paper cup with the drugged juice, turning my head any way I could while, at the same time, trying to get up from the chair. Boris forced me back down into the chair with one of his massive hands on my right shoulder; then pinching my nose with his thumb and forefinger while holding me down by pushing his knee against my crossed arms. When I gasped for air he poured the thick, overly sweet liquid down my throat with little effort, letting me know that he had indeed done this many times in the past.
“You need help, Mitch?” Boris asked the other orderly who was forcing the juice down Dave’s throat.
“No, everything’s fine,” he answered.
Dave started fighting with his straitjacket, pulling his arms and twisting right and left. Mitch looked at him and laughed, “No use trying to get out of those jackets,” Boris said to both of us. “Not unless you are able to dislocate both your shoulders,” Mitch added.
I tried to stand up again, but the mediation had started to take effect and I fell back into the chair as the room started to spin. I was suddenly very tired and just wanted to close my eyes and drift to sleep. “What’s happening,” I managed to say, but my speech was slurred. I looked at Dave. His head was leaning to the left side, resting on his shoulder and he had a blank expression on his face.
“Better get them to their rooms,” Boris said as he grabbed the front strap loop of my straitjacket pulling me up to a standing position. “Come along, Jim,” Boris said as he guided me to my room with his hands on my shoulders. Mitch did the same with Dave.
“Jim, your restraints are too loose,” Boris commented in a sarcastic manner as he started tightened the four back leather straps of my canvas prison so that it hugged my body with greater force. He pulled the crotch strap so that it pressed harder against my penis and balls causing the leather strap to ride up my ass crack. Standing on my left side, his stomach braced on my left arm, he pulled my right elbow towards him; at the same time he jerked the strap that connected the closed sleeves pulling my arms closer to my stomach so that I was hugging myself with greater intensity. The jacket compressed my ribcage and I fount it difficult to take a deep breath.
The sedative fogged my mind and I could not react quickly enough as Boris sat me on my bed, turning me and lifting my legs so that I lay on my back. He placed one pillow beneath my head; then moving to the bottom of the bed, he locked leather cuffs connected together by a short strap around my ankles. Attached at a 90 degree angle to that strap was another leather belt that went between my feet that was secured to the foot of the hospital bed pulling my legs straight down. Next, Boris pulled two nylon-reinforced belts across my body, one over my crossed arms and the other over my thighs. These were pulled tight and secured by a locking buckle. Before Boris left my room he placed an oxygen nose tube just under my nostrils and secured it behind my head. “We must be sure you do not have any difficulty breathing,” he said with a mocking smile as he left, locking the door behind him with the sound of what I thought were two deadbolts sliding into the metal door jam with a key.
I was unable to move more than an inch or two in any direction except for my head. Even in my drugged stupor I knew something was very wrong. Why would Dr. Clark turn over my care to another psychiatrist? No, that did not seem right; only he knew of my undercover assignment. Who was this new Dr. Erickson? I never heard of him before. As I repeated these questions to myself the sedative took advantage of my forced immobilization and I fell into a dreamless sleep.
How much time passed before I opened my eyes I am not sure, but my stomach was rumbling and I was hungry. The sky outside my window was black and the room was dark except for a narrow shaft of light coming in from the hallway. The sedative had worn off and I evaluated my situation. Both Dave and I had agreed to be “involuntarily committed” to the mental health clinic by Dr. Clarke who, it appeared, wanted both of us to investigate rumors of patient abuse. He was to be our protector but now, somehow, he was incapacitated; he would not have voluntarily given up control of our care. Both of us undergone a series of psychological exams and the results were to be reported to Dr. Clarke, not this Dr. Erickson.
I had been lulled into a false sense of security today, allowing myself to be placed in restraints in moving from one part of the clinic to another to exercise. At first the straitjackets were strapped on without being tight and Dave and I were caught off guard when George excused himself for a moment before releasing us from the restraints. That is when the two “goons” appeared, drugged us and placed us in high level restraints.
I tried using deductive reasoning to figure out what had happened. I have been here for less than two days before being discovered. Or had I been discovered?
Could this be the beginning of the patient abuse that I was investigating?
Why did Dr. Clarke suddenly shift our care to another doctor?
Was George part of this, or Nurse Reynolds, for that matter?
Dave, the college student, his being here did not make sense. Why would Dr. Clarke involve one of his students in the investigation?
There were too many questions and no answers.
I was hungry and thirsty. I yelled for help and eventually I heard the door being unlocked. The light was turned on and there was Boris carrying a tray and I smelled food.
“Jim, you finally woke up,” he said with a half smile. “If you behave, I will feed you dinner.”
I agreed. He placed the tray on the patient table and raised the top half of the bed so that I was sitting up but still strapped down. The oxygen tube was removed from my nose.
“Is this food drugged,” I asked.
“No, it is not.” And Boris took a taste of each item on the tray to prove it. He placed a napkin under my chin and over chest. As he fed me Boris talked about the news and sports, not that I was really interested. After the meal, he moved the tray away from the bed. ”
He sat in a chair next to my bed. “Jim, you were committed to the psychiatric clinic here under the Baker Act that allows a minimum 72 hours confinement for evaluation or longer if, in the opinion of your doctor, you need treatment. Dr. Erickson has reviewed the results of your tests. He believes that you need extensive therapy and has called your supervisor to have you placed on extended sick leave.”
“No, no, you can’t do this. You are holding me against my will. I demand to be released immediately,” I screamed. I pushed and pulled on the straitjacket and straps that held me immobile in the bed.
Boris stood up and pulled something from under my bed. “I was afraid you would react this way and now I am forced to gag you. I continued to scream as he proceeded to strap a leather muzzle on my face. He locked a collar around my neck then moved the padded leather covered muzzled over my mouth and secured the strap that was attached to the top of the muzzle in two places to allow room for the nose over the top of my head and buckled to the collar. Next straps attached to the upper corners of the muzzle that went over the crown of the head were secured. Lastly, a strap over the forehead was locked behind my head. I could not open my jaw and the padded leather sealed my lips. I grunted and tried to shout out but only a muffled mmmmffff came from my throat.
The therapy you need cannot be done here at this clinic so, Jim, later tonight you, and your friend Dave, will be transferred to a private high security asylum for the insane owned by Dr. Erickson,” Boris told me.
With a satisfied smile on his face, Boris took the tray from my room put it on a tray cart in the hall, then came back into my room. He picked up the buzzer and signaled the nurse’s station. “It’s time to bathroom our two patients before transferring them to the asylum,” he stated as a matter of fact. “OK, be right there,” was the response. Mitch showed up with another set of restraints in his hands.
“OK, Jim, we need to allow you to use the bathroom. You cannot be released from your restraints so we are going to take you to a special toilet.” The “T” strap ankle restraints were released first and replaced with ankle hobbles, leather cuffs locked on the ankles connected by a nine-inch long triple thickness leather belt. The belts over my legs and chest were removed and I was lifted to a standing position. Mitch and Boris seized the side loop straps on the straitjacket and half walked, half dragged me from my room and, turning right, down the hall to a door that was already open.
This room, about ten-foot square, was tiled on the floor and the walls. In the middle of the back wall was a steel toilet. Mitch put his left arm around my neck in a chokehold as Boris released the crotch strap and the lower strap on the back of the straitjacket. Next, he pulled down to my ankles the white inmate pants with elastic waist and jockstrap in one motion. I was turned around and eased to the toilet seat and a leather strap was placed over my chest and pinioned arms. Due to embarrassment it took a few moments to start, but then a strong stream and, much to my horror, a bowel movement. When finished, I looked up and grunted. The strap holding me to the back of the toilet was removed. With Mitch holding onto me, I was moved to my feet, bent over at the waist and Boris, wearing latex gloves, cleaned my penis and ass. The jockstrap and pants were pulled back up and the straitjacket straps were secured just as tightly as before. As Mitch lead me out of the room, I heard the toilet being flushed. I cringed with humiliation.
I was not taken back to my room, but lead to a door stenciled “Seclusion.” The door was opened and I was horrified to see a small room, about six-foot square, with canvas covered padding. This padding was attached to the walls and floor with large buttons that pulled the padding into pillows of soft mounds. I was pushed into this cell and fell forward, unable to block my fall with my canvas covered arms locked to my chest. I landed on my knees, then on my arms and lastly on my face that bounced off the padded floor. I somehow managed to turn over on my back and watched fearfully, as the padded door closed. I heard a muffled sound as the latch was locked. Pulling my legs under me, I worked myself to a seated position, my back resting in the corner of the left and rear walls and my legs straight out in front of me.
It was frightening being locked in that cell, The only sound was my breathing: even that was barely audible, the padding absorbing much of the volume. I never felt so alone in my life. I stayed in my position, shifting my weight with great difficulty, as the padding seemed to surround any movement preventing me even standing up. I would push my feet on the floor, only to have them slip and slide rather than hold in place for leverage. I waited for what seemed like a long time alone in that cell.
With a sense of relief the door opened and Boris and Mitch had Dave strapped and muzzled exactly as I was, between them. They lifted him and placed him in the opposite corner.
“We’ll let you two grunt at each other while waiting for the ambulance to take you to the asylum,” Mitch said as he left the cell with difficulty as the padding made even his steps difficult. The door was closed and, a muffled sound that I learned to fear, the latch locking the door.
I looked at Dave and he looked at me. There were tears and terror in his eyes. I wanted to comfort him, to reassure him by holding him close to me with his head on my chest. I never had these feelings before and was uncomfortable with them, but still Dave needed help. Falling over several times, I managed to move next to him, our straitjackets rubbing against each other. He leaned his head on my shoulder and I could feel his body shake as he cried. Finally, his tears stopped and he lifted his head, looked at me and sighed. He then put his head back on my shoulder and closed his eyes. He was calm now.
Little did I know that all of this was being viewed and recorded on videotaped. I only learned this later, but I am getting ahead of myself. I must have fallen asleep as well and was startled back to awareness when Mitch came into the cell with a tray.
He looked at Dave lying on my shoulder with a hint of a smile on his face. “Well, isn’t that special” he said in a perfect imitation of church lady. “OK, boys, it’s time to move you two,” he said. I have even arranged for you to be in the same cell. Now it’s time to go to sleep. He kneeled in front of us and placed the tray with cotton balls and two syringes next to him.
I looked at him and shook my head no, but he only laughed. “Don’t want to let you see where you are going,” he said. He pushed up Dave’s pant leg, located a vein, cleaned the site with the alcohol soaked cotton ball, and injected him with the sedative. His eyes went glassy and he slumped against me. I tried to shift my legs to avoid the needle, but, with precision, Mitch held my legs still and pushed up the material of the left pant leg. After finding the injection site, I felt the coolness of the alcohol and then I felt the sting of the injection, followed by a slight tingling in my leg and then blackness.
I heard a voice in the distance telling me to wake up. I opened my eyes to see Dave standing above me, shaking my shoulders. “I thought you would never wake up,” Dave said as he helped me sit up. “I don’t know what kind of institution we have been moved to, but this looks like a jail cell.”
“That’s exactly what it is,” said the orderly who suddenly appeared standing outside the cell bars. “The building for Dr. Erickson’s private psychiatric asylum was part of an old prison. He took it over, remodeled the building, but retained several cells for difficult patients. From now on, when you see an orderly come to your cell, both of you are to face the back wall, with your noses touching the wall, until you are told to do otherwise. Now move.”
Dave and I did so. I noticed then that we were dressed in two piece white jail uniforms with “Asylum Inmate” printed in large letters on the back of the shirt. The same was printed in smaller letters on the pants just above the right knee. White canvas slippers completed our incarceration clothing.
“Place your hands on top of your head,” came the barked order. OK, Jim, step back to the cell door. Take this belt and put it around your waist with the buckle in back.” The belt was leather and had two leather cuffs attached to the belt. I placed the belt around my waist and felt hands thread the two ends together very tightly. Next, I felt the pressure as the lock was pushed through one of the holes in the belt and heard the click as the lock was secured. “Move your left wrist to the cuff,” the orderly directed and the cuff was placed around my wrist, a lock was placed over the locking pin and pushed closed. My arms were secured to my waist after the right wrist was secured. “Step back to the wall. Now, Dave step back to the bars,” the orderly commanded and I heard the same sounds as his waist-wrist belt was applied. “Set forward, both of you, noses to the wall.”
The cell door was unlocked and the orderly entered the cell. Blindfolds were placed over Dave eyes and then mine. I felt my right arm being pulled and I was escorted from the cell and guided through several hallways and doors. I was moved to a chair and pushed down on to it. The blindfold was removed. Dave was seated next to be and we looked at each other as our ankles were chained to the legs of the wooden chairs. We were in a small room, empty except for three chairs. The walls and floor matched the previous jail cell.
The orderly sat down in front of us. “I am Mr. Johnson and am the lead orderly here at the asylum. You are to address me and my staff by their last names or sir. Is that clear?”
Yes, sir,” Dave and I replied in unison.
“Very good, I see you learn fast. You are in a high security lock down ward of the asylum. When not in treatment you will be confined to your cell. Supervised exercise will be one hour a day, followed by a shower and change of uniform. You will not be allowed outside of your cell unless your are in restraint. There will be no visitors, no one knows where you are except for Dr. Erickson, who has contacted your employer, school and parents. They have been told that you are very ill and it would be best for treatment purposes that you not have visitors. When you have completed your treatment plans you will be sent back to the clinic to be released. But that is a long time from now. There are a very few simple rules you must follow while incarcerated here.
One: You are not to speak to an orderly unless you are asked a question.
Two: Failure to obey an order will result in punishment.
Three: You will cooperate with the staff in your treatment program. Failure to do so will result in severe punishment.
Four: As you have been told, you will address all staff as Sir.
Do you have any questions?
“Yes, Sir,” I responded.
“One question, Jim.”
“Sir,” my police academy training kicked in, “with all due respect, Sir, why are we being held here against our will?”
“Because you are very sick,” a voice from the intercom speaker crackled. “I am Dr. Erickson and you are both very ill. Your test results revealed just how ill you are. You both showed latent homosexual tendencies and your treatment will be to release these pent up feelings……”
“No, no, you can’t do this,” Dave yelled.
I followed, “I demand to be released immediately. This is illegal, you can’t do this……”
Before Dave or I could say anything else our mouths were tapped shut with duck tape.
The voice from the intercom instructed, “Mr. Johnson, both of these patients should begin their treatment with level one punishment, start with total exhaustion. Jim, Dave we must break your spirit.”
“Yes, Doctor,” Mr. Johnson replied. A second orderly, a Mr. Roth, entered the room and he grabbed Dave and pulled him to a standing position as Mr. Johnson did the same to me. The chains holding our legs to the chairs were removed.
“Take that one back to his cell and leave him in restraints. I’ll take this one down for his first “treatment.”
I was apprehensive now. I realized that there was nothing that I could do to stop Dr. Erickson and his staff from doing anything to Dave or me that they wanted.
A third orderly met Mr. Johnson I was pushed and shoved down the hallway to an elevator that went down to the basement level. I was dragged off the elevator to a door that opened into a room that I would learn to fear. On the door a sign in large red letters:
HYDROTHERAPY Level Five
Chapter Three-This One Gets the Full Treatment
The two orderlies who “escorted” me to the treatment room did not speak as we moved through the corridors and down the elevator. These were large men, not overweight, mind you, but they had tremendous muscle bulk and, based on how easily they forced me along, were quite strong.
As the elevator descended to the basement level, I looked at the name tags of the “goons” who held me prisoner. On my right was Mr. Johnson who was about six feet tall, had the build of a prize winning body builder, his white shirt being stretched across his massive chiseled chest. The white pants had a loose fit but his thigh muscles were clearly visible through the fabric. His short cut blond hair and piercing blue eyes gave credence to my belief that many blond men had “attitude” problems. To my left was Mr. Nelson, almost a twin of Johnson, but with dark brown hair and brown eyes.
The elevator doors opened in front of the door “Hydrotherapy Level Five” which opened into a large room with cinderblock walls that had been painted institutional green with steel doors along the right and left walls. I was dragged from the elevator to the counter window of the nurses station in the middle of the room. Johnson handed a folder, my “medical chart”, to the male nurse inside the work area. The nurse looked familiar; it was Nurse Reynolds from the clinic. He looked at the chart, entered some information into his computer terminal and then looked at Mr. Johnson.
“This one gets the full treatment,” Nurse Reynolds said to Johnson. “Better give him a mild sedative IM and put him in seclusion until we are ready to process him.” He handed Johnson a metal tray with an alcohol soaked cotton ball and syringe.
I twisted and turned my body trying to avoid the injection that was coming, but my efforts were futile. Nelson bent me over at the waist and Johnson pulled down my uniform pants exposing my jock strapped butt: I felt the coolness of the alcohol as it evaporated off my skin and the sting of the needle. My pants were pulled up and I felt a tingling at the site of the injection and then a weakness through my body as the mild sedative took hold. The drug did not put me to sleep (although, in retrospect, I would have preferred that) but reduced my ability to control my body, slowed my reactions and fogged my mind.
“That should keep him calm for the next three hours,” Reynolds said to Nelson and Johnson, “more than enough time to prepare him for the wet sheet pack.”
I was moved to a small room that had sound reducing acoustical tiles on the walls and ceiling: the waist belt, attached leather cuffs and ankle cuffs were removed and I was stripped out of my “patient-prisoner” uniform. Nude, I was then guided to a stretcher with a vinyl-covered mattress with ankle and wrist restraints. I was lifted up and placed prone on the gurney and then secured to the stretcher, the cuffs locked around my limbs (four-point restraint). A light-weight blanket was thrown over my inert body and my two keepers left the room, closed the door and the lights went out leaving me in the dark with no sound to stimulate me. How long I was left like that I am not sure as I drifted in and out of sleep.
I next remember waking up as the stretcher was being moved from the sound proof room to a “treatment prep” room with ceramic tiled walls and floor. Except for a steel cart, sink and drain in the floor the room was empty. Once Johnson had moved the stretcher inside Nelson closed and locked the door.
Nelson went to the cart and wheeled it next to the gurney I was on. He removed a cloth covering it to reveal a steel bowl with hot water, shaving gel and several safety razors. The blanket was pulled off and I felt the coolness of the air in this sterile room. Both orderlies, one on each side, proceeded to shave my body hair from my arms, chest, crotch and legs. When they finished the arm and leg restraints were released and I was turned over. Once again, the cuffs were locked on my wrist and ankles and they proceeded to shave my back, ass, and legs. Except for my head, I was hairless as a newborn.
After the cuffs were unlocked, I was pulled to a standing position. Nelson stood behind me with his right arm around me neck and his left arm across my chest, partially to restrain me and partially to keep me from falling to the floor as the sedation had left me weak and listless. My head flopped to the right and rested on his elbow. Johnson opened the door and I was moved to the next room that contained a toilet and shower. I was forced to sit on the commode seat and leather straps were used to secure my chest, arms and legs so that I could neither stand up nor fight back.
Without warning, Nelson removed the gag by tearing it off my face.
“Mr. Swift, you must drink this medication,” Nelson insisted. I resisted opening my mouth, but as before, when I was drugged back at the clinic, my nose was pinched and when I took a breath through my mouth the strange liquid was poured down my throat. It took several “forced feedings” to get the quart of solution in me, but within a minute or two I felt a churning in my stomach as the enema started to clean me out. As my bowels were being emptied, Nelson shaved my face and then used barber clippers to give me a boot camp haircut.
It took almost an hour for the enema to work its way through my system. I was then un-strapped from the toilet, cleaned, and moved to the shower. My hands were locked above my head and the shower was turned on. I was washed down with an antiseptic degreasing solution that removed the majority of my skin oil and was rinsed off with warm water that actually felt good. Nelson dried me off with an oversized heavy cotton towel as the restraint stretcher was wheeled into the room. I was again strapped down and after he finished checking the straps for tightness, Nelson placed a rubber muzzle on my face that sealed my mouth closed once again.
I was taken back to the treatment room where the nurse was waiting for us. A sterile sheet was placed over my body with a whole in the center that left my penis and balls exposed. Much to my horror, a catheter was inserted up my urinary canal and my bladder was cleaned out. The long hose of the catheter was then connected to a urine collection bag attached to the stretcher. An IV was inserted in my left arm just above the wrist “to provide for intravenous saline and nutrient solutions for the time I would be in treatment,” the nurse told me as he taped the needle in place. Next, a waterproof tape was wrapped over the rubber muzzle and around my head adding pressure to the gag. Nostril tubes were placed in my nose and sealed in place with more tape.
While the nurse was finishing my prep for the treatment Nelson and Johnson had left the room only to reappear in boxer style swimming trunks.
“He’s ready for the next step,” Reynolds said to Nelson. “Taken him to the pool and I will change and meet you there.”
I was wheeled to another room, the restraints holding me to the stretcher were removed and I was moved into a hydro tank with warm water. Cloth ties were placed around my wrists and ankles and attached to the corners of the tank holding me in a spread eagle position and the catheter tube was disconnected from the collection bag on the stretcher. The small pool was about eight feet long, three feet wide and three feet deep, leaving room for Reynolds to hold my head so that it did not go below the water with Nelson on my left and Johnson on my right. Within arm’s reach of Johnson was a tub filled with folded sheets soaking in water.
“Mr. Swift,” Reynolds said, “you about to be placed into a wet sheet pack. First your arms and legs will be wrapped in white sheets and tied in place with cloth. These are cotton sheets that will retain the maximum amount of water without providing insulation. Then bandages will be wrapped over the wet sheets keeping them tight with uniform pressure. The same will be done with your trunk and then your head.”
If I had not been drugged I would have struggled to avoid the coming punishment. But the sedation did its job and all I could do was moan.
After my arms and legs had been wrapped they pushed my penis back toward my buttocks. It was held in place with wet sheets applied in the style of a diaper pushing the catheter tube between my cheeks. A canvas waist belt was strapped tightly in place holding the sheets in place and the catheter tube was threaded to a new external collection bag. Working quickly Johnson and Nelson completed wrapping my torso.
Next noise plugs were placed in each ear and cotton pads were placed over my eyes before they wrapped my head and neck. I could feel the ankle cuffs being removed and my legs forced together. Several sheets were placed between my legs and then more sheets were wrapped around both legs and included my feet, locking them to each other.
I felt a board of some sort placed below my legs supporting my body as my arms were moved against my body almost as if I was at attention and secured with more sheets. Next a splint was secured to my legs, body and head. I later learned that a splint was a canvas corset-like device with rust free metal rods that, once secured, held the body rigid. This device was strapped to my head, down my body and the soles of my feet. I could not move…… not at all.
Blind, deaf, unable to speak, I felt my body being lifted by a mechanical hoist and moved a short distance. I was aware of being lowered into another tank of water. Slowly at first, I felt ice cold water being absorbed by the sheets. The shock as the coldness spread over my body was horrifying. My muscles contracted and expanded in an effort to lessen the freezing as it spread over my being. I moaned with pain but my body continued in its downward trip into the ice and water numbing my skin. The water and ice surrounded me and now I understood the breathing tubes in my nose. How long I was left in that freezing torture chamber I do not know.
Eventually I was lifted up and moved to the stretcher. I was strapped in place and continued to shiver from the cold. Immobile my muscle contractions were extremely painful as my body tried to create heat. And eventually I started to get warm only to have the moist heat trapped by the drying sheets intensify to the point of unbearable heat. I later learned that a rubble sheet had been thrown over my body to increase the temperature.
This “treatment” was repeated three times while I was in the pack, freezing cold followed by stifling heat. I suffered repeated cramps followed by fear of going back into the ice tank. I was unable to sleep and the monotony of nothing tortured my mind. When would this cycle of cold and hot end? How long could I stand the pain of the muscle contractions in a cotton cocoon so tight that I could not move, not my eyelids, nor my fingers and toes, let alone my head or limbs? I lost all sense of time in my blind and deaf world.
Even though the sedation had worn off during the “treatment,” when I was finally released from the pack I was weak and helpless. The gag, ear plugs and eye pads were removed but I did not have the strength to move or talk. The catheter was pulled from my penis is a swift motion and I was only able to moan softly to the pain. It took Nelson and Johnson only a few moments to get my floppy body into plastic disposable diaper, canvas slippers move the IV to my leg. I was quickly placed back into a canvas straitjacket with the leather straps pulled snug by not overly tight. I was placed in a wheelchair and taken back to my cell.
I was placed on the green vinyl mattress and leather ankle cuffs, attached to the bunk with a canvas strap, were locked on my legs. Additional straps were placed across my waist and over my chest and crossed arms. I was covered with a thick blanket from my feet to my neck.
Nurse Reynolds came in the cell as Nelson and Johnson finished securing me to the bunk. “Mr. Swift, now following directions here at the asylum have consequences,” he said as he looked down at me. “You will learn eventually not to question, challenge or disagree with your doctor. Until then you may expect additional therapies just as you have completed each time you act out. We will leave you restrained for the rest of the day and the blanket should keep you warm; that is the reason for the IV and diaper.”
Nurse Reynolds, Nelson and Johnson left the cell and I heard the door slide closed and being locked. For a moment I thought about Dave and what type of treatment he was receiving but exhaustion took over and I drifted off to a deep, natural sleep.
When I woke up I needed to piss, bad. I called out for an orderly or guard.
“What is it, Mr. Swift?” Nelson said.
“I need to urinate,” I replied. Please let me up so that…”
Nelson interrupted me, “Mr. Swift, you have the diaper. Use it.” And with that I heard him walk away.
In the jail I did not knowingly use the diaper, but now I was being forced to use it. I waited for a few minutes before the urge to go overpowered me and a strong stream flowed over my balls and down between my ass crack before the liquid was absorbed by the diaper. I felt humiliated by the circumstances, but the worst was yet to come.
It was about this time that they brought Dave back to the cell. He was dressed in his hospital whites and, much to my surprise, he was not in restraints. But he had a strange, blank look on his face. He was left standing at the cell door as it was closed. He just stood there, staring into blank space. Then over the intercom I heard the voice of Dr. Erickson.
“Dave, do you hear me?” Dr. Erickson’s voice over the intercom asked.
“Yes,” he replied with a slow, slightly slurred, weak speech.
Dr. Erickson continued. “Dave, you are to change Jim’s wet diaper just as you have been shown. You will find the necessary supplies next to the toilet in your cell. You will not release him from the straitjacket but may remove his other restraints. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Dave replied.
“Good Dave. When you have finished you will climb into your bunk, close your eyes and enjoy the wonderful deep relaxation that I have found for you. You will then drift into a natural sleep. Now go over to Jim and check his diaper. Tell me if it is wet,” Dr. Erickson ordered.
Dave came over to my bunk and removed the blanket throwing it on the floor. He released the straps holding me to the bunk and pulled me to a standing position. Then Dave moved behind me and undid the crotch strap of my camisole as well as the lowest back buckle. Then Dave felt the bottom part of the diaper.
“It is wet,” he said in a drowsy quiet voice.
“Proceed Dave, and then you may sleep,” Dr. Erickson said.
“What have you done to him?” I called out at the intercom box.
“Jim,” Dr. Erickson answered, “I see you still have not learned proper respect. I have done nothing to Dave but help him relax and obey. Eventually you will find deep relaxation but you need to be ready to accept it. Tomorrow you will receive your next treatment.” And the intercom went silent.
I was getting ready to answer back when suddenly Dave taped my mouth closed with medical white tape. He was under their control. Without saying a word Dave put on latex gloves that were in the supplies bag, undid the tapes holding the diaper around my hips and put the wet mess into a plastic bag. He then cleaned my penis and balls with a damp cloth, sprinkled baby powder over my privates and rear end, and taped on another plastic disposable diaper. He pulled the lower back strap of the straitjacket closed and did the same with the crotch strap. Dave cleaned up the floor of the cell, put the supplies back next to the steel combination toilet/sink and then climbed into his bunk and closed his eyes.
There I was, standing in the cell in a straitjacket and diaper, my mouth taped shut, an IV in my left leg and feeling totally helpless. And what “treatment” would I be facing?
With effort I got back into my bunk and fell asleep. Sometime during my sleep period the IV had been removed from my leg. During the past few days I had lost all track of time. I did not know if it was day or night. I woke up to the sound of Dave pissing into the toilet. When he finished he came over to me and removed the tape.
“Please get me out of this jacket, Dave,” I pleaded.
“I can’t,” he replied. “I don’t know why, but I can’t. But I may change the diaper. Are you wet?”
“No,” I answered. “Let me use the toilet.”
“You must use the diaper,” he responded with a blank look on his face. “Then I may change it. They will bring our breakfast and I will feed you.”
I suddenly realized that I was totally dependent on Dave. He had been conditioned to be my caretaker while I was held in restraint. What I didn’t know, nor did Dave, was that he would have an active role in my next “treatment.”
To be continued …