Euphemism of Place

 J. is in a psych ward in New Lenox, Illinois, some place called Silver Oaks or something equally grandiose and meaningless. She says it's "the bottom of the barrel" for her, the worst place she's ever been. I know she's been some places. The food gives her diarrhea. Group therapy consists of joining other patients in a room where a movie is turned on. She has had just 10 minutes with a therapist since she arrived. She repeatedly asks the nurses for more, and is told that he'll see her if he feels like it. The staff have no training, she says. They don't tell her when someone has called. She is only allowed access to the bathroom at certain times of day, and if she misses the window, must wait another hour. The bathroom door doesn't lock, and they're not allowed shoes. J. says she keeps telling everyone that she's dry now and can go home, but her sister, who dragged her by the hair across their parents' living room floor last weekend, had called the cops, told them J. was suicidal. J. saw the therapist's file notes on her -- "extremely suicidal." She says she's not, it's just that alcohol makes her this way.