I stood inside the entrance of Central State Hospital in Indianapolis, Indiana, waiting to get patted down. It was my first visit to the institution, in 1992. I was twenty-four and had been working in the field of disability and mental health for two years. The paperwork was mind-numbing, as were the seemingly endless acronyms rattled off during lengthy treatment-team meetings. My official title was “job coach,” and my annual salary was $13,480, less than I had made at the ceiling-tile factory where I’d worked to pay my college tuition and where my dad was still employed.