Rockland Psychiatric Center
The early morning of May 18th, 1927 is
splintered as a steam shovel engine rumbles to life, it's slow-moving
maws digging deep into the earth. These were the first moments which
marked the creation of New York's latest psychiatric hospital, and
what was to go on to be one of the largest mental health complexes in
the world - the Rockland Psychiatric Center.
Operating the steam shovel was governor
Alfred Emanuel Smith, Jr., who offered this quote shortly thereafter:
"We need a new state hospital at least every three years to keep
up with the growth in the number of the committed insane... The state
hospitals are today overcrowded about 30 percent, and the census is
growing so rapidly that we can't catch up."
Countless more pieces of construction
equipment flowed through the property following that day, and
together they slowly shaped some 600 acres into a sprawling mental
health complex. Like many state-run facilities of this era, it housed
its own power plant, and farm-raised much of its own food. Later on
the campus opened industrial shops crafting mattresses and furniture,
primarily operated by the patients who resided there. Insulin-shock
therapy (aka insulin coma therapy) was introduced to the facility in
1937. This somewhat unheard of, but one-time popular process,
consists of injecting the patient with large amounts of insulin,
enough to put them into a coma. This was often done on a daily basis
for a designated period of time, at times spanning several weeks in
total. Following insulin-shock therapy, electroshock therapy, and
lobotomies were also practiced at the hospital. During its day, this
massive complex was hailed as one of the nations best-planned mental
health centers.
Though the acclaimed facility's
prosperous beginnings was thought to have indicated a bright future
for the asylum, within the first ten years of operations the
hospital had fallen victim to the same blight which was affecting
many other mental health institutions across the nation at that time
- Severe overcrowding. To further worsen matters, the drafts of World
War II found much of the hospital staff away at war. This forced the
center to seek out new crew members as quickly as possible. Due to
this many of the personnel here were under-trained and terribly
unqualified for the tasks asked of them. Further compounding things
the hospital lacked the means to properly house and care for the all
the patients currently living there. This found beds being placed in
hallways and day rooms, creating a breeding ground for the spread of
illness and infection. 1959 marked the peak year for admittance to
the hospital, pushing the total patient population to over 7,000. To
put that into a proper perspective, that meant there was just one
psychologist for every 300 patients.
Our visit found the property in a strange state - It has survived all the aforementioned hardships, and remains a massive and functioning hospital center focusing primarily on out-patient treatment, operating almost exclusively out of new modern buildings. The original campus is left forgotten, and has come to be severely overgrown in areas. In some cases, between the trees and ivy, entire wings of buildings are lost behind the foliage of summer. As a molting insect discards its shell as it grows, this facility has shed off its former campus in lieu of impressive towers which gleam with all the promises and majesty of modern medicine. Just as the the old campus once did generations ago. Perhaps it is wished that nature reclaim the these old buildings, and with it the dark history contained within. Like many other forgotten asylums across the country, these storied grounds physically represent America's great transition in mental health care.
Much like the forest slowly hides away
these old buildings, the passing of time can fog over our memories of
even the most tragic events. To disregard what happened here, and
across the country during this time is to deny meaning to those who
lived through it.
This upper porch window view gives a good idea of how overgrown some of the grounds are.
Lonely.
Nurses quarters when freshly completed.
There's a building in there. Probably.
After documenting the hospital proper,
we made our way over to the much more recently abandoned building which had once housed a children's
center. A place which, until relatively recently, was operating out
of a disused ward building that had been re-purposed. Though lacking the historic intensity which was found in the
true asylum buildings, it did contain its share of unique and eerie scenes.
The forgotten baby dolls are a bit cliche, but at least none muttered "come play with me".
