Imagine being in the midst of a mental health crisis, only to be forcibly hospitalized in a way that feels more traumatic than helpful. This is the stark reality Derek DeForest faced, an experience that not only left him scarred but also fueled his advocacy for the rights of those involuntarily committed. But here’s where it gets controversial: while DeForest staunchly opposes forced hospitalization, he believes people in crisis still need support—just not the kind that strips them of their autonomy. This belief led him to champion peer respites, short-term, voluntary residential programs staffed by individuals who’ve walked similar paths. Research backs their effectiveness, yet fewer than 50 exist in the U.S. Why? That’s the question this story dives into, and it’s more complex than you might think.
In 2021, Oregon took a bold step by passing a bill to fund its first peer respites, aiming to provide an alternative for those who might resist or be ill-suited for psychiatric hospitalization. With nearly 30% of Oregon adults experiencing mental illness—the highest rate in the nation—lawmakers allocated $6 million to launch four programs statewide. And this is the part most people miss: five years later, only two centers have opened. One of the groups that failed to launch was Stabbin Wagon, a harm reduction nonprofit where DeForest played a key role. Their story is a tangled web of hope, resistance, and systemic hurdles.
Stabbin Wagon, known for its controversial yet vital work—distributing clean needles, pipes, and overdose reversal medication—was awarded $1.5 million by the Oregon Health Authority (OHA) to open Mountain Beaver House in Jackson County. But the trouble began almost immediately. Here’s the kicker: even before receiving the grant, the group faced fierce pushback from Medford city officials and residents, who viewed their harm reduction efforts as enabling drug use. The organization’s vocal criticism of police further fueled the fire. Emails later revealed that the Medford Police Department and other nonprofits actively lobbied OHA to revoke the grant, with one official calling it ‘a disaster waiting to happen.’
Undeterred, Stabbin Wagon shifted its focus to Ashland, a city with a more progressive reputation. A supportive landlord offered a large house in a quiet neighborhood above Lithia Park, and things seemed to be falling into place. Mountain Beaver House was envisioned as a sanctuary, offering two-week stays for up to four people to rest and connect with social services. But then came the zoning battles. This is where it gets messy: the peer respite bill lacked clear zoning guidelines, leaving Ashland officials to debate whether such a program belonged in a residential area. Neighbors chimed in, with one resident bluntly stating, ‘Only a special few people can live here.’ As opposition grew, even the most hopeful staffers began to lose faith.
Despite assurances from their lawyers and OHA’s advice to ‘rent first, figure out zoning later,’ Stabbin Wagon found itself in a bureaucratic quagmire. Communication with OHA broke down, with DeForest describing the experience as being ‘ghosted.’ The final blow came when OHA terminated the agreement, citing missed milestones, and demanded the return of grant funds. DeForest and his colleague Sam Strong left the project in March, disillusioned but not defeated.
But here’s the bigger question: Why did this happen? Stabbin Wagon wasn’t alone in facing setbacks. OHA pulled grants from other organizations, including Black Mental Health Oregon and The Stronghold, citing financial and logistical issues. Meanwhile, two groups—Project ABLE and Folk Time—successfully opened peer respites. What set them apart? Experience. Both had a history of running mental health services, a factor OHA’s grant scoring system oddly overlooked. Is this a case of systemic oversight or intentional neglect?
Kevin Fitts, the lobbyist behind Oregon’s peer respite bill, believes OHA failed to do its due diligence. ‘They gave grants to contractors who weren’t prepared,’ he said, calling the process ‘irresponsible.’ Yet, despite the challenges, peer respites like Folk Time’s have shown remarkable success, providing a family-like environment for those who feel isolated and helping many avoid psychiatric hospitalization.
Here’s the real takeaway: Peer respites have the potential to save lives and reduce public costs, but their counter-cultural nature makes them hard to implement, especially in rural or conservative areas. DeForest, now volunteering at the Bear Creek Social Center, remains committed to building community but is wary of working with the state again. ‘They don’t care if it works for rural communities,’ he said. So, what do you think? Are peer respites a lifeline worth fighting for, or a risky experiment doomed by bureaucracy? Let’s hear your thoughts in the comments.
