Tunnel Vision

The lighting was strong and steady, but my heart was in my throat. It was closing time at the Glore Psychiatric Museum and I wanted to see one more thing, one not in the exhibits that take up most of four floors in a brick building from the 1960s. It had been the administration building of a state hospital first known as Missouri State Lunatic Asylum No. 2. In its basement are four morgue lockers, unused but still kept cold. And other parts of the old campus stand behind fencing and barbed wire—an asylum converted to state correctional facility. One of the earliest buildings is empty, crumbling, and, according to a museum employee, so full of asbestos officials seem to be waiting for it to fall down.

So maybe it’s not surprising I felt rattled when the guide said, “Go ahead, I’ll wait here”—and “here” meant in the sunlight on the other side of two gated doorways. I wasn’t afraid of ghosts—I was afraid of being locked in, the way my mother was locked in so many times in her life. Those hospital doors didn’t actually clang each time Dad and I left the ward, but my body felt it just the same.

Why was I in this tunnel? Because from 1988 to 1990, a handful of patients painted murals on the walls of a dank passageway that had been used years ago to shuttle patients from surgery back to their quarters. Printed info at the museum said staff used the tunnel to move supplies from one place to another, but the guide said it was used to move people. The tunnel itself is blocked maybe 100 feet in (if that) where the prison grounds begin. I thought seeing the restraint corsets, early electroshock equipment, and instruments used in lobotomies would be emotional but had no idea I’d fear being locked in. True, I tensed when I locked the door to the museum bathroom, but that was during business hours. Now, after hours—if they locked the door, no one would find me. And yes, I had a cell phone, but my body didn’t care.

Of course, I had no trouble leaving after taking photos and even returned to the museum the next day. The tunnel is lined with colorful art (except for one large image in black and gray), all interesting. The museum exhibits other paintings, sculptures, embroidery, and various therapy projects too. The visit taught me a couple of things: My dislike of being hemmed in might be connected to my mother’s many experiences on locked wards, and if I ever visit the state hospital she was in, I’ll bring a friend to remind me I can leave.