In the 1940s, you were diagnosed with autism. Packed up and shipped off, your parents sent you to an asylum. Calling it a hospital was generous. Hospitals are supposed to make you better. If you weren’t insane before, you would be by the time you were released from (if at all) the asylum.

You were in your room. It was dirty and small. There was a shortage of beds, forcing you to share a bed with the insane man who shared a room with you.