And I felt more shame, because a not-so-secret part of me was wishing there was a place, an institution of some kind, where I could take my loved one for healing or rest or safety. A place where the experts would be wearing white coats but never gun holsters. A place where doctors would promise me that my loved one was safe, they were sleeping, and they were going to get the best of whatever treatment was available. But because I’ve studied the history of mental healthcare systems in the United States, I know such a guarantee never really existed. Not for my loved one, anyway.
