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This book has 71 pages in the PDF version, and was originally published in 1887.
Ten Days in a Mad-House; or, Nellie Bly's Experience on Blackwell's Island is a piece of investigative journalism by American journalist Nellie Bly, first published in 1887. It is based on the articles that Bly wrote whilst on an undercover assignment for the New York World, where she feigned insanity at a women's boarding house so as to be involuntarily committed to an insane asylum (the Women's Lunatic Asylum on Blackwell's Island). Her account reports upon the brutality and neglect that she witnessed whilst there.
After talking her way into the undercover job with the newspaper, she checked into the boarding house and by the next morning, the boarders had called the police, convinced that Bly was crazy. She had been telling them she was afraid of them and claimed to have amnesia. She was then examined by several doctors, all of whom declared her insane. Once in the asylum however, Bly returned to acting completely normally. Incredibly, the hospital staff began to report her ordinary actions, and her pleas to be released as symptoms of her mental illness. Speaking with her fellow patients, Bly was convinced that some were as sane as she was. She witnessed staff berating and hitting patients, the serving of inedible food and dirty drinking water, dangerous patients being tied together with ropes, and an infestation of rats.
After ten days, Bly left and her book caused a sensation, as well as leading to a grand jury investigation and financial increase in the Department of Public Charities and Corrections.
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Production notes: This edition of Ten Days in a Mad-House was published by Global Grey ebooks on the 28th March 2021. The artwork used for the cover is 'The Laundress' by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.
Thoughts whilst doing this book: A similar study, the Rosenhan experiment was carried out in the 1970's.
On the 22d of September I was asked by the World if I could have myself committed to one of the asylums for the insane in New York, with a view to writing a plain and unvarnished narrative of the treatment of the patients therein and the methods of management, etc. Did I think I had the courage to go through such an ordeal as the mission would demand? Could I assume the characteristics of insanity to such a degree that I could pass the doctors, live for a week among the insane without the authorities there finding out that I was only a “chiel amang ’em takin’ notes?” I said I believed I could. I had some faith in my own ability as an actress and thought I could assume insanity long enough to accomplish any mission intrusted to me. Could I pass a week in the insane ward at Blackwell’s Island? I said I could and I would. And I did.
My instructions were simply to go on with my work as soon as I felt that I was ready. I was to chronicle faithfully the experiences I underwent, and when once within the walls of the asylum to find out and describe its inside workings, which are always so effectually hidden by white-capped nurses, as well as by bolts and bars, from the knowledge of the public. “We do not ask you to go there for the purpose of making sensational revelations. Write up things as you find them, good or bad; give praise or blame as you think best, and the truth all the time. But I am afraid of that chronic smile of yours,” said the editor. “I will smile no more,” I said, and I went away to execute my delicate and, as I found out, difficult mission.
If I did get into the asylum, which I hardly hoped to do, I had no idea that my experiences would contain aught else than a simple tale of life in an asylum. That such an institution could be mismanaged, and that cruelties could exist ’neath its roof, I did not deem possible. I always had a desire to know asylum life more thoroughly—a desire to be convinced that the most helpless of God’s creatures, the insane, were cared for kindly and properly. The many stories I had read of abuses in such institutions I had regarded as wildly exaggerated or else romances, yet there was a latent desire to know positively.
I shuddered to think how completely the insane were in the power of their keepers, and how one could weep and plead for release, and all of no avail, if the keepers were so minded. Eagerly I accepted the mission to learn the inside workings of the Blackwell Island Insane Asylum.
“How will you get me out,” I asked my editor, “after I once get in?”
“I do not know,” he replied, “but we will get you out if we have to tell who you are, and for what purpose you feigned insanity—only get in.”
I had little belief in my ability to deceive the insanity experts, and I think my editor had less.
All the preliminary preparations for my ordeal were left to be planned by myself. Only one thing was decided upon, namely, that I should pass under the pseudonym of Nellie Brown, the initials of which would agree with my own name and my linen, so that there would be no difficulty in keeping track of my movements and assisting me out of any difficulties or dangers I might get into. There were ways of getting into the insane ward, but I did not know them. I might adopt one of two courses. Either I could feign insanity at the house of friends, and get myself committed on the decision of two competent physicians, or I could go to my goal by way of the police courts.
On reflection I thought it wiser not to inflict myself upon my friends or to get any good-natured doctors to assist me in my purpose. Besides, to get to Blackwell’s Island my friends would have had to feign poverty, and, unfortunately for the end I had in view, my acquaintance with the struggling poor, except my own self, was only very superficial. So I determined upon the plan which led me to the successful accomplishment of my mission. I succeeded in getting committed to the insane ward at Blackwell’s Island, where I spent ten days and nights and had an experience which I shall never forget. I took upon myself to enact the part of a poor, unfortunate crazy girl, and felt it my duty not to shirk any of the disagreeable results that should follow. I became one of the city’s insane wards for that length of time, experienced much, and saw and heard more of the treatment accorded to this helpless class of our population, and when I had seen and heard enough, my release was promptly secured. I left the insane ward with pleasure and regret—pleasure that I was once more able to enjoy the free breath of heaven; regret that I could not have brought with me some of the unfortunate women who lived and suffered with me, and who, I am convinced, are just as sane as I was and am now myself.
But here let me say one thing: From the moment I entered the insane ward on the Island, I made no attempt to keep up the assumed role of insanity. I talked and acted just as I do in ordinary life. Yet strange to say, the more sanely I talked and acted the crazier I was thought to be by all except one physician, whose kindness and gentle ways I shall not soon forget.