Chapter 6: A PADDED ROOM (THE PICKLE SUIT)

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From Surviving to Living

(05) A PADDED ROOM: Pursuit of The Good Life

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Suicide watch in Shakopee takes place in the facility’s segregation unit. While inmates are taken to seg for disciplinary reasons, it is also used for suicide watch and health concerns. Soon I would be seeing it for myself.

Seven months had slid by since my arrival at prison. One Thursday night I called my parents’ home and my newest nightmare began. “Your husband is moving to Washington. With the kids,” my dad said. “He dropped them off. He’s packing. He’ll return Monday to get them.”

“What?!” I shouted. “You can’t let him! Call the police!” Trembling started in my stomach. Shaking hit my arms and legs. Tensing, I tried to stop it. Head to toe shivering hit. My teeth chattered.

“Why can’t he?” my dad asked.

Dumbfounded, I answered, “The restraining order. I have custody.”

“I doubt that’s true,” my dad answered. His tone changed. “If it is, why did you let him have the kids this summer?”

Good question. My parents knew about the restraining order. My dad was the supervisor for the visits. Instead of pointing this out, I insisted, “Yes, it is true. I can prove it.”

“Well, if he can’t take them,” my dad angrily responded, “get immediate foster care. I don’t want them. Not for another minute!” With horror I hung up. I fled to the dayroom. Surely other women here can help? My mind raced.

Could I call the police? Slamming open cupboards I grabbed phone books. I threw them on a table. Shaking fingers traced the pages.

Down the hallway. I raced to a phone. Fingers attacked the keypad. An officer accepted my call. With her instructions I called my parents. Their position was unchanged.

The next day, Friday, my parents refused to pick my kids up after school. The principal called the police. Police from two different jurisdictions arrived. Arguing began between them. No one wanted responsibility. Both left without resolution. My kids were left behind. The principal called my parents again. “You must get these kids. I have to go home.” Reluctantly, they did.

The prison has crisis staff. Friday, I explained all. Staff handed me a phone. Connected with a social worker, I again explained.

“We only help children with nowhere to go,” the worker responded.

“My parents insist I rehome them,” I cried.

“That makes no sense. Why?” she demanded. As if I agreed with my parents. She ended the call demanding I rethink things. A guard returned me to my room.

Monday the nightmare birthed reality. “He took the kids,” my dad said. “We called the police. They were busy and arrived after he left. I’m sorry.”

“How did he get the kids at all?” I asked. “Didn’t you lock the doors?”

“He threatened to kill us!” my dad shouted.

“All the more reason to keep him outside with your doors locked!” I shouted back.

“It’s done,” my dad finished. Conversation over. Who were these people? I no longer recognized my parents.

Stricken, I called my husband. I struggled to dial. The numbers jumbled. Chad accepted the call, but passed the phone. “Hi Mom!” Tommy answered breathlessly. “We’re on our way to Washington!” Adventure sang in his voice. Wind blew through the open windows. He struggled to be heard over the noise. Someone called out, “Timmy to roll up your window,” in the background.

My stomach lurched; I might throw-up. My mind was empty. My hesitation spoke volumes. Tommy’s enthusiasm changed. He adopted a calming, reasoning tone, “Dad asked us if we wanted to go. We can return if we don’t like it. It’ll be fine, Mom.” I sucked in a sob. Tommy passed the phone to Lukas. I don’t remember what I said. Fifteen minutes came and went. I called back. And back. And back. I pleaded. I begged. I became a pathetic mess, desperate to turn that car around.

Finally in desperation, I threw out, “I’m going to kill myself then.” I dropped the phone. Dead inside, I went to my room.

I was on a train. A speeding bullet. A horror show gaining speed and getting uglier by the minute. I was used to the illusion of control. I enjoyed micromanaging. Being a know-it-all. Being in charge. Calling the shots. (That’s so attractive isn’t it?).

Well I certainly wasn’t good at it. Look where it got me! My choices led an increasing awareness – I knew much less than I thought. No one put me in charge. I did not call the shots. My last ditch efforts were pathetic.

Some time later, maybe 15 minutes, maybe hours, a guard knocked on my cell door. I opened it and she asked if I would come with her. In flip flop sandals I slumped after her out of Tubman and across the courtyard to the Core building. Passing the OCO desk I dully noticed Ashley waiting for medical. We continued on deeper into the building and the guard brought me into offices I’d never seen before. A guard ushered me into a deep cushioned seat and told me to wait.

A few minutes later another guard entered and took a chair. Several other guards arrived and remained standing. The seated guard was the Watch Commander. With an expression of concern he said, “Your husband called us. He says you are threatening to kill yourself. Is that true?” Turning a flat stare in his direction, I felt nothing, was past caring. A small table stretched between us. My eyes dropped to the candy dish, colorful wrappers capturing my attention. “I want to help you,” the man continued. “Have you taken any pills? Did you do anything to hurt yourself?” I raised my eyes to his face again, then studied my hands in my lap. Nothing mattered. My face became numb, breathing a wasted effort. I sighed. We all waited.

Looking up at the guards in the doorway, the Watch Commander echoed my sigh and with a shrug he said, “Take her to seg. I don’t know what else to do with her.” Suddenly hands were gripping my arms, lifting me from the chair. Metal handcuffs were clicked into place behind my back. Cold metal pressed against my wrists as each guard clutched a bicep and directed me out of the room and down the long walk to seg. Again we passed medical, Ashley’s face dropping open in shock as I whisked by her with my escort.

A guard told me to dress in a “pickle suit.” The pickle suit is sometimes called a banana suit. It’s a stiff green or yellow tube made of thick padded material. Holes for arms and head are the suit’s only resemblance to clothing, and it’s as comfortable as bomb squad protective gear. The purpose of the pickle suit is to keep the wearer from being naked while removing any opportunities for self-harm. The room’s furniture was like a jail cell, everything bolted to the floor. Prison policy does not permit toilet paper in this room (I may request a few squares of toilet paper at a time, when needed). No books were allowed, not a thing. The room had a camera and guards watched me day and night. Policy also did not permit me underwear, unfortunately, as I had my period and was left to bleed on myself, the pickle suit.

I lay on the bed and the days passed in a fog for me. Everything was meaningless and I understood nothing. I lived in a daze. Sometimes a nurse would appear at the door with meds, telling me to come to the door. Standing there stupidly at the door, uncomprehending, someone passed me a cup. I would stand there, unaware my hand grasped a cup.

I felt mentally fractured. From Wikipedia: “Acute stress disorder (ASD, also known as acute stress reaction, psychological shock, mental shock, or simply shock) is a psychological response to a terrifying, traumatic, or surprising experience….The DSM-IV specifies that Acute Stress Disorder must be accompanied by the presence of dissociative symptoms, which largely differentiates it from PTSD. Dissociative symptoms include a sense of numbing or detachment from emotional reactions, a sense of physical detachment – such as seeing oneself from another perspective, decreased awareness of one’s surroundings, the perception that one’s environment is unreal or dreamlike.”

At times I slept, at other times I tried to think. It really felt like I’d been stunned by a physical blow. As I stared at the wall or ceiling it even seemed I was staring out through a broken lens, as if the entire world had cracked and gone wrong – jagged seams and cracks of broken glass splitting down the middle of the walls and ceiling. I wondered, ‘Was everything I had ever known been …wrong?’ Shaken to my core, I no longer trusted myself, no longer unquestioningly trusted my parents, no longer understood the world and how to move in it. I found no answers. In the end I decided to shake it off and try harder.

I came out of this fugue after several days and wanted to find out how my children were doing, how my family was doing, and in short, I wanted out of seg.

Discussion Questions:

Holly describes reaching what she feels is rock bottom upon entering prison. How do you personally define “rock bottom,” and have you or someone you know experienced a moment that felt like hitting rock bottom? How did it influence your or their life? Are you experiencing this challenge today? Do you need help?
The passage highlights Holly’s escalating emotional pain, including her bedwetting as a response to stress. In what ways do people manifest stress physically, emotionally, or behaviorally? How do you cope with stress, and what coping mechanisms have you observed in others?
Holly recounts the challenging situation involving her husband’s mental health, custody issues, and the threat of her children being moved to another state. Can you empathize with the complex emotions and decisions she faced during this difficult time? How do external factors impact an individual’s mental and emotional well-being?
The passage explores Holly’s feelings of helplessness when her husband takes their children to another state, despite her efforts to prevent it. Have you ever felt powerless in a situation, and how did you cope with or overcome that sense of helplessness? Are you struggling with these issues today? Are you looking for support?
Holly admits to contemplating a desperate statement about self-harm during a phone call with her husband. How do you interpret her emotional state at that moment? Have you ever felt similarly desperate?
Holly reflects on her perceived loss of control and how her choices had led to a realization that she knew less than she thought. Have you ever experienced a situation that challenged your sense of control or understanding? Where did you turn for help?
The passage describes Holly’s experience in segregation (seg) after expressing thoughts of self-harm. How do you view the prison’s response to her statement, and what are your thoughts on the use of segregation as a disciplinary measure?
Holly undergoes a period of acute stress disorder, feeling mentally fractured and detached from her surroundings. Have you or someone you know ever experienced symptoms of acute stress disorder, and how did it affect your or their daily life? Are you affected by this situation today? Do you need help?
Holly touches on questioning everything she had ever known and feeling a loss of trust in herself and her understanding of the world. Can you relate to moments of profound self-doubt or a reevaluation of your beliefs? How do individuals rebuild trust in themselves and the world after such experiences? Are you unsure where to turn in your own situation?

Discussion Questions:

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