I spent my morning at the state historical archives trying to find out some information about my great-grandmother. Until recently, I've never thought much about my great-grandmother. Her husband, my great-grandfather, was a guide in southern utah, a teller of tall tales, a folkloric, heroic sort of figure. He's attractive and compelling; I can mention his name to people who know about the southwest and they know him and they're charmed that I belong to him. I have a certain sort of longing for him, wishing I could have known him, wishing I could have accompanied him on a few adventures. I have spent hours researching, reading, writing about him.
I know very little about Annetta, my great-grandmother. As with most women of the past, her story is hidden behind the lives of men. Family stories about her mention her apple pie, her penuche fudge, her honey candy. And her mental illness. Her illness is mentioned, but in a hushed way, not out of shame but out of misunderstanding, ignorance. No one really knows what happened to her. Her daughter, my grandmother, had her own battle with mental illness, so I don't think she wanted to talk about the sorrows of her mother's life.
I never gave her much thought because it was Zeke who interested me. The family lore about Zeke and Annetta was that Zeke loved her dearly; she was the mother of his five children. As I researched Zeke's desert adventures, I also learned that Annetta was not Zeke's first wife. I learned that after Annetta, Zeke married three more women (he outlived all but the last). I learned that Zeke divorced Annetta. While she was a patient at the Utah State Hospital. Where she died.
Annetta could have been released from the hospital but no one came for her.
She was a patient at the hospital for seven years, six months, and twenty-five days.
Her diagnosis: manic depression, paranoia, psychosis.
Today, I read reports of conditions at the Utah State Hospital from the Board of Insanity. They categorized patients' likelihood of recovery into three categories: favorable, doubtful, and hopeless. Most patients were either in the "doubtful" and "hopeless" categories. This was not a place to get better. Each patient had approximately 35 square feet of living space, 398 cubic feet of air space, and 52 square feet of bed space. At the time, one of the most popular treatments was hydrotherapy which described a range of procedures: prolonged baths of sometimes days, showers with pressurized water, and wrapping in wet sheets that would dry and shrink around the patient.
There is more to learn.
I feel awkward writing this post--it feels so personal. I am trying to write an essay about Annetta, so I guess this is my beginning. And, beyond that, I guess I want someone to hear her story, to know the life that she lived. Thanks for hearing her story.
3 comments:
An essay? That sounds like a book. At least a book. And can I say that I love the measurements? There is something comforting and horrifying about exact numbers. I like the exactness.
In the book, I would like to see some of the stuff you read. What did it look like? So interesting.
And the cures? Yikes. The one about being wrapped in wet sheets sounds like some nightmares I've had. It's really amazing what we used to think would heal people. It's scary.
Thanks for writing the post and I look forward to reading, that's right, your book.
Yes, thanks for writing this post. I agree with Dr. Write--this is potentially a really big, complex story. My great grandmother, too, had what is spoken of in our family's lore as a "nervous breakdown." After bearing 12 children. Yeah, breakdown. I want to read what you write.
Wow. I'd love to hear more as you discover it.
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