ABSTRACT
The first night in the nuthouse was starkly sweet. It was generously warm on the ward and no one needed much in the way of robes or covers. The lights were turned low but still offered enough illumination for the sleepless wandering that would keep our floor busy all night. The dependable rules were a relief from the chaos and doom in my mind. It wasn't a locked unit, but you had to earn privileges, incrementally, to walk past the double doors, venture down the hall, get into the elevator, and step out into the cold fresh air of Massachusetts. The psych ward felt safe, secure, and even cozy, like a small Club Med for troubled minds. She had discovered a hormonally triggered obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) and had, in the past two years, helped two dozen other new mothers with the disorder regain their lives.
