Washington D.C., 1970s. Martha Mitchell was doing something dangerous: telling the truth. As the wife of John Mitchell—President Nixon's Attorney General and later his campaign director—Martha had access to the inner workings of the most powerful administration in the world. She attended dinners with presidents and cabinet members. She heard conversations that were supposed to stay secret. And unlike everyone else in Washington, Martha talked. She had a habit that terrified the Nixon administration: she called reporters. Often at midnight. Sometimes after a few drinks. Always with the unfiltered truth about what she was seeing behind closed doors. "My husband tells me nothing," she'd say. "But I know everything anyway." She spoke about corruption. About dirty tricks. About the rot she could see spreading through the Nixon White House. While everyone else in Washington whispered behind closed doors or stayed carefully silent, Martha picked up the phone and told journalists exactly what she thought. The Nixon administration had a name for this problem: "The Martha Problem." And they were about to solve it in the most brutal way possible. June 17, 1972. The Watergate break-in. Five men were arrested breaking into the Democratic National Committee headquarters at the Watergate complex. It seemed like a bizarre burglary—until reporters started connecting the burglars to Nixon's reelection campaign. Martha Mitchell was in California when she heard the news. And she knew immediately that this went all the way to the top. She tried to call her friend Helen Thomas, the legendary UPI reporter. She wanted to tell her everything—about the break-in, about the cover-up that was already beginning, about how deep the corruption really went. That's when her husband's security guard, a man named Stephen King, physically restrained her. Martha fought back. She tried to reach the phone. King ripped it from the wall. She kept fighting. She was screaming, trying to get away, desperate to tell someone what was happening. So they sedated her. Against her will, Martha Mitchell—the wife of the Attorney General of the United States—was forcibly injected with psychiatric medication to keep her quiet. She was held in that California hotel room (in Newport Beach) like a prisoner. Her fingernail was torn during the struggle. Her body showed bruises and injuries from being physically restrained. When she finally managed to contact reporters days later, Martha told them what had happened. "I'm a political prisoner," she said. "They're holding me against my will." The response from Washington was swift and coordinated: Martha Mitchell was crazy. Hysterical. Unstable. Delusional. An embarrassment to her husband. Her own husband—John Mitchell, the Attorney General—didn't defend her. Instead, he suggested she was having a mental breakdown. That she'd been drinking. That she couldn't be trusted. The media largely went along with this narrative. The Attorney General's wife, making wild claims about being kidnapped? It sounded absurd. But Martha kept talking. Over the following months, as the Watergate scandal slowly unraveled, Martha Mitchell continued calling reporters with information. She warned that the cover-up went all the way to Nixon. That her husband was involved. That the administration was capable of anything to protect itself. And with each revelation, the Nixon administration's response was the same: dismiss her as crazy. This wasn't accidental. It was a deliberate strategy—one that has been used against women throughout history. When a woman tells an inconvenient truth, question her mental stability. Call her hysterical. Suggest she's paranoid. Make people doubt her sanity so they'll stop listening to her words. Richard Nixon himself complained about "The Martha Problem" on the White House tapes. His advisors discussed how to handle her, how to silence her, how to make sure no one took her seriously. The gaslighting—literal and figurative—almost worked. But then everything Martha had warned about turned out to be true. The Watergate break-in was ordered by senior officials. There was a massive cover-up. John Mitchell himself was deeply involved. The corruption went all the way to Nixon. Martha Mitchell had been right about everything. The "crazy" woman who claimed she'd been kidnapped and sedated? Actually kidnapped and sedated. The "paranoid" accusations about a cover-up? Completely accurate. The warnings about corruption at the highest levels? All confirmed. In 1973, as John Mitchell faced criminal charges for his role in Watergate, Martha divorced him. She'd lost almost everything—her marriage, her social standing, her health. The stress and trauma had taken a terrible toll. FBI investigations would later confirm much of Martha's account of what happened in that California hotel room. She hadn't been delusional. She'd been telling the truth the whole time. But the vindication came too late. Martha Mitchell died on May 31, 1976, at age 57, from multiple myeloma (a type of blood cancer). She lived long enough to see her warnings proven correct, to watch her husband go to prison, to see Nixon resign in disgrace. But she never got the full recognition she deserved as the woman who told the truth when everyone else was lying. Here's what most people don't know: the psychiatric profession created a term because of Martha Mitchell. It's called the "Martha Mitchell Effect." It refers to when mental health professionals dismiss a patient's claims as delusional or paranoid—when those claims are actually true. When a psychiatrist mistakenly diagnoses someone as having delusions because the psychiatrist doesn't believe the person's story could possibly be real. The term is taught in psychiatry programs now. Medical students learn about the danger of dismissing patients' claims just because they sound improbable. About how important it is to investigate before diagnosing delusions. Martha Mitchell's name became a reminder to doctors: sometimes the person you're calling crazy is actually the only one telling the truth. Martha's story matters now more than ever. Because the tactics used against her—the gaslighting, the forced medication, the coordinated campaign to paint her as unstable—are still used against women who challenge powerful men. Call her crazy. Say she's hysterical. Suggest she's been drinking. Question her mental stability. Make her the problem instead of addressing the problem she's pointing to. These tactics have a name now too: DARVO (Deny, Attack, Reverse Victim and Offender). But Martha experienced them decades before the term existed. She was dismissed as the "crazy wife" when she was actually the whistleblower. She was medicated and restrained when she should have been protected. She was mocked when she should have been believed. And she was vindicated only after she'd lost almost everything. Martha Elizabeth Mitchell Born: September 2, 1918, Pine Bluff, Arkansas Died: May 31, 1976, New York City (age 57) Married: John Mitchell (1957-1973) Known for: Whistleblowing during Watergate scandal Legacy: "Martha Mitchell Effect" - psychiatric term for when true claims are dismissed as delusions She called reporters at midnight warning about corruption. They kidnapped her, sedated her, tore the phone from the wall, and called her crazy. Her own husband didn't defend her. The media dismissed her as hysterical. Nixon complained about "The Martha Problem" on tape. And she was right about everything. Watergate unfolded exactly as she warned. John Mitchell went to prison. Nixon resigned. Martha died at 57, vindicated but destroyed. Now there's a psychiatric term named after her: the "Martha Mitchell Effect"—when doctors dismiss true claims as delusions. Medical students learn her name. They learn that sometimes the person you're calling crazy is the only one telling the truth. Martha Mitchell refused to stay silent when powerful men wanted her quiet. It nearly destroyed her. But she was right. And now her name reminds doctors, journalists, and all of us: believe women. Investigate their claims. Don't dismiss truth-tellers as crazy just because their truth is inconvenient. Rest in power, Martha. You warned us all. You paid the price. You were right. And we're finally listening