Recently I visited a 45-year-old woman I will call "Mary," living in a locked behavior unit in a state-run developmental center where almost 850 people live. I can't begin to understand why such a place exists.

I was allowed to enter after the door was unlocked, and stood for just a moment looking down a narrow and dimly lit hallway where fifteen or twenty people with developmental disabilities were milling around. The lighting seemed yellow.

I'm not sure if the lights were actually yellow, or the light fixtures just hadn't been cleaned in a long time. Whatever the reason, my own spirit darkened immediately. I could feel it.

The walls were gray. Well, at least that is what I remember. They may have been white, Navajo white, blue or green - they just seemed gray, as did the tile floors. I could hear the heals of my boots click as I started to walk down the hall - the sound seemed to echo.

There wasn't a picture or a decoration on the wall - nothing that would reflect a person's image. Did people know they had an image? I didn't see any framed landscapes adorning the hall so one could spend time with their imagination smelling the pine needles, listening to the water flow in a mountain stream, or watch the birds soar in the sky above. Imaginations must get lost in that place.

I know the reason why décor was non-existent, but the explanation doesn't change the scene.

There weren't any windows that would give a person a view of the day. I looked around and wondered if people inside knew how lovely the weather was outside. Earlier that day I saw some gentlemen teeing off at the golf course that surrounds the institution. Do they think about the people inside or even care?

Most everyone I saw and met was behaving in an inappropriate manner, and asking inappropriate questions of strangers that entered the hall where they stood. I was asked a few questions too, but don't remember what they were. I remember the faces though. They weren't faces like yours or mine - they were faces lost and searching for something to do, a reason to be. Some of the people were screaming, and pounding on walls and doors, and others watched and learned from their peers.

The philosophy of this institution includes, "People do not lose their inherent value simply because of a disability." Yes they do.

Mary will be moving out of the behavior unit soon into her own home in supported living. The thought of a home is an exciting and frightening prospect for Mary. She hates it there in the developmental center. I asked her how she felt about leaving and she looked me square in the eyes and said, "Thank God!"

Mary tells me her every move is watched there, her every action is monitored, and she has been physically abused by her roommate. There is little privacy - not even on the toilet, and the screaming never ends. "It gets worse around lunchtime," she said. The agitation grows and festers as the morning hours accumulate - then the restraints come out and more screaming. "It never stops." Mary won't eat breakfast or lunch anymore because the same thing is served every day. Yes, every single day. A person on staff confirmed this and didn't blame Mary for not wanting to eat.

How do we go to bed at night, shut our eyes fall asleep and dream? Money, budgets, and "The Governor doesn't care," are no longer excuses. We know how to support people better than this and have the capabilities to do so.

Mary is also afraid to leave. Living in the community has been a nightmare. She has lived in psychiatric units, friends' houses, cheap motels, group homes, independent living situations, hooked up with the wrong kind of men, wondered the streets homeless, and her family doesn't want her because she won't do what they tell her. Mary has failed miserably. This is what she thinks.

Mary is preparing to move into a first floor walk-in apartment in an area she knows, with a roommate she likes. Her furniture, and kitchen counters will have rounded corners, and every room will be carpeted, in case she falls during a seizure. Mary will have 24-hour supports from supported living professionals, and a psychiatrist will work with her to help her regain the self-esteem that disappeared decades ago. A dentist will give Mary new teeth - she doesn't have any.

A job awaits her arrival, and she will go to the grocery store to buy the food she likes - when she wants. "I'm a good cook."

She can hardly wait to move, she's afraid to leave, and worries abut making poor choices again.

I asked Mary what she would do if a person supporting her in her new home became concerned about some of the life choices she was making. She said, "I will have a talk with myself, and ask if this is really a good idea."

Mary, good luck in your new life. You have been so patient, and I don't understand why.

Terry Boisot is Ben's mom. She serves on the board of directors of Alpha Resource Center of Santa Barbara and The Arc of the United States, and is concerned about all disability matters. Terry welcomes comments. Please address them to her at tboisot@thearclink.org.

The views expressed in this column are those of the author.

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