Defying the Verdict Read online

  PRAISE FOR DEFYING THE VERDICT

  “Defying the Verdict is a wonderful book: deeply human, full of life’s joys and suffering. Full of the author’s courage and faith. Charita Brown describes her bipolar illness in telling detail; her writing is powerful and eloquent. I highly recommend this book.”

  —KAY REDFIELD JAMISON, author of An Unquiet Mind

  “Charita Cole Brown writes with grace, vulnerability, and a fearless urgency about being a black woman with bipolar disorder. Her story is remarkable, full of insight and inspiration.”

  —NANA-AMA DANQUAH, author of Willow Weep For Me: A Black Woman’s Journey Through Depression

  “In an artful and gripping account of life inside an over-imaginative brain, Charita’s fierce determination to ride the waves of her illness with unshakeable resolve inspires fortitude in the most challenging of personal circumstances. Grounded by her family’s love and her own undeniable intellect, this victorious story activates hope for those with and without a brain-based illness.”

  —CASSANDRA JOUBERT, author of Losing Control: Loving A Black Child With Bipolar Disorder

  “Most people who buy a book about mental illness are seeking education. With style and grace Defying the Verdict does just that. But Charita Cole Brown’s narrative also gives the reader a positive dose of hope and encouragement—just what the reader needs. Brown’s account of her journey is straightforward, her symptoms carefully worded. Be open, don’t hide. Her life is not easy, but she finds a way to exist in a dignified and satisfying manner. As a member of a family where mental illness is well known, I recommend this exceptional book.”

  —MIMI BAIRD, author of He Wanted the Moon: The Madness and Medical Genius of Dr. Perry Baird and His Daughter’s Quest to Know Him

  “We don’t talk about mental illness—especially in African-America families! In Defying the Verdict: My Bipolar Life, Charita Cole Brown shares her arduous journey living through bipolar disorder. With honesty and in raw detail, Ms. Brown illustrates how genetics, childhood experiences, family dynamics, race and shame affect diagnosis and treatment. She eventually overcomes the intertwined obstacles and roadblocks along her path, demonstrating how to live your best life in the midst of a traumatic illness. It is a must read!”

  —ANDREA M. COLE, Producer, Opening Minds, Ending Stigma documentary series

  “In Defying the Verdict, Brown vividly presents a compelling story of her descent into and through the frightening depths and euphoric heights of Bipolar Disorder. She deftly plants the early seeds, within herself, and within her family, that later manifested in the full-blown disease that overtook her as a college student. It was then that her disease threatened to destroy her promising future.

  Defying the Verdict underscores the notion that it is possible to not only survive a diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder but that one can live a full life and thrive. Brown’s book is a document of the strength, resilience, and encouragement for others who face this journey.”

  —DIANE C. POMERANTZ, PH.D., Clinical Psychologist, author, Lost in the Reflecting Pool: A Memoir

  CURBSIDE SPLENDOR PUBLISHING

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of short passages quoted in reviews.

  Published by Curbside Splendor Publishing, Inc., Chicago, Illinois in 2018.

  First Edition

  Copyright © 2018 by Charita Cole Brown

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018932087

  ISBN 9781945883248

  Edited by Josh Bohnsack

  Cover and interior design by Alban Fischer

  curbsidesplendor.com

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I relied on my memories to create Defying the Verdict: My Bipolar Life. Therefore, it is a subjective recollection: My truth.

  Although this is a work of nonfiction, I have changed the names of some people and places to protect the privacy of specific loved ones.

  To my family of origin: Leonard and Anita Cole,

  Valerie Cole-James, Karen Cole Wouldridge,

  Kelvin Cole, Ernestine Cole Nelson,

  Linda Cole Little, and Martin Cole.

  To my cousin, Theodora Stanley (1949-2015)

  for praying that I would one day

  share what I did to get well.

  CONTENTS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  AFTERWORD

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Stare the rat down.”

  —JAMES BALDWIN

  SPRINGFIELD HOSPITAL CENTER HISTORY SHEET

  D:3-15-82

  R:3-16-82

  T:3-16-82

  NAME COLE, Charita Lynette CASE NO. 103278

  MARCH 15, 1982

  This 22-year-old, black, female, college student is admitted on A-Certificates from Sinai Hospital because “She is excited, manicky, hallucinating auditorily from God, paranoid, grandiose and delusional, unpredictable, somewhat violent and out of control”.

  She is brought in on stretcher, quite agitated, uncooperative to interview saying, “where is my husband?” and refuses to answer. When questioned again to get more information says, “fuck you”, then very agitated and unmanageable. So, she is taken directly to ward and seclusion room. She is well developed, well nourished and physically not in distress. Denies alcohol and drug abuse. Her memory, intelligence, orientation and abstraction capacity cannot be assessed. She has no insight, totally impaired judgement and excited and agitated mood and unpredictable behavior. She is quite angry and hostile.

  PROVISIONAL DIAGNOSES:

  Axis I:

  296.40

  Bipolar disorder, manic type

  295.70

  Schizoaffective Disorder, excited type

  295.20

  Schizophrenia, catatonic, excited

  Axis II:

  799.90

  Diagnosis deferred on Axis II

  Axis III:

  Deferred

  ADMIT: Hitchman A-Wing

  MKK:cab

  CONFIDENTIAL

  FOR PROFESSIONAL USE ONLY

  INFORMATION NOT TO BE REDISCLOSED

  M-234

  INTAKE - RECEPTION NOTE

  SPRINGFIELD HOSPITAL CENTER HISTORY SHEET

  D:3-16-82

  R:3-17-82

  T:3-17-82

  NAME COLE, Charita Lynette CASE NO. 103278

  MARCH 16, 1982

  This 22-year-old, black, female patient was admitted to this hospital for the first time on March 15, 1982 with two doctors certificates signed at Sinai Hospital beacause she was excited, manicky, hallucinating auditorily, hearing voices from God, paranoid with grandiose delusional ideation, unpredictability
and some violent behavior.

  On admission here she was quite uncooperative to the interviewer saying where is her husband and refusing to answer any questions and when she was further questioned she said, “fuck you” and in a very agitated manner. She was immediately taken to the ward and placed in the seclusion room.

  In this interview the patient was quite out of contact with reality and not wanting to cooperate with the interviewing situation, so, I obtained the following information from her mother.

  The patient was born in Baltimore City and was raised by her parents. Her mother is 50-years-old and a Teacher. Her father is also 50-years-old, a Chemical Operator. They seem to be getting along well. She has four sisters, the oldest one is 26, married with no children. She is a Senior Accountant Executive in a bank. She has another sister who is 24 and living with her aunt because she is single and she works as a Correctional Officer. She has another sister who is 18, a student at Coppin State College and a 15-year-old sister who is a student in high school. According to the mother, the patient’s mother’s mother, the grandmother, was in Springfield Hospital and Crownsville Hospital several times. The patent’s mother’s uncle was seen by a psychiatrist and the patient’s father’s sister was mentally retarded and died. The patient’s mother was seen in psychiatric outpatient at Phipps Clinic and she has not been on any medicine since 1973. There was nobody in the family who committed suicide.

  The patient attends Wesleyan College in Connecticut and she was in her fourth year, a very good student, majoring in English.

  The patient was never married. She has had no recent boy friends but in the past she was observed to have a boy friend by her mother. She has been hospitalized once in December, 1980 and January, 1981 at Connecticut Valley State Hospital in Middletown, Connecticut for two weeks, Diagnosed as Hypomanic. Since then, she has had no outpatient therapy except a few times she was seen at Sinai Outpatient Clinic and was not given any medication. The patient is reported to have no medical problems. According to the mother, the patient is not drinking and does not abuse Marijuana and takes no other drugs. According to the mother, the patient is in Apostolic Religion since 1979 converting from Catholic and according to this religion, is not allowed to abuse those drugs. She has never been arrested.

  I. Turek, M.D.:cab

  M-236

  I PSYCHIATRIC HISTORY

  CONFIDENTIAL

  FOR PROFESSIONAL USE ONLY

  INFORMATION NOT TO BE REDISCLOSED

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Are we all captive to the scars of our family history, no matter what we do?”

  —JOHN BLAKE (CNN)

  WHEN I WAS seven years old, my maternal grandmother, Ruth Stanley Ross, came to live with my family, the Coles, in Baltimore, Maryland. She joined my parents, my five siblings: Valerie, Karen, Kelvin, Ernestine, Linda and me plus our dog Rover in our two story row house.

  I can still see Granny Ruth, a caramel-colored black lady in her fifties who stood five feet, three inches tall. She always wore a housecoat, socks and slides or slippers in the house. When going out, she wore stockings tied just above the knee with matronly slip-on shoes. She never wore makeup. Her eyes sparkled. She had a ready smile and an irreverent sense of humor, speaking things in my hearing that my devout, sober-minded Catholic mother would have prohibited, deeming such utterances inappropriate for young ears. My favorite was, “If you’re sad, stick two fingers up your tail and get glad.” Of course I didn’t know the connotation of this phrase. The idea of anyone doing that seemed outlandishly funny to me. I welcomed the occasional bawdiness. Granny’s zest for life amused and delighted me.

  Granny quickly became a welcomed member of our working class Baltimore neighborhood. It was the late 1960s, a time when people were neighborly, sharing flour, sugar, eggs and ketchup. My mom shared these things and loaned encyclopedias as well. As the neighborhood’s elementary school teacher in residence, she promoted education and willingly lent from her stockpile of books which included the Harvard Classics.

  Our corner house had one of the largest yards—plus, a non-working barbecue pit in its corner—plenty of space to play and make mud pies. Since my outgoing grandmother spent much of her time at home with our family, she quickly became a part of the neighborhood. The children in the neighborhood grew to know and love her. Many of them called her Granny right along with “the Cole clan,” as Mama referred to us.

  Granny’s residency at our house on Finney Avenue ended abruptly on a spring day in 1969. After I arrived home from school, before I could change out of my school uniform, I noticed my grandmother had propped our front door open with a porch chair. This was unusual. Granny always lectured, “Keep that door closed so bugs won’t fly in this house,” What happened next was even stranger.

  Wild eyed, my grandmother began hefting our living room furniture onto the porch. Out went a lamp. Out went an end table. Out went a chair . . . She performed her task frantically, with unusual strength, like an erratic Hercules.

  My three-year-old sister, Linda, who was usually right up under my grandmother, was staring at Granny from the couch that remained in the living room, tears forming in her eyes.

  Though she spoke to herself under her breath, I think I heard my mother say, “I have to do this.” Trembling a little, she picked up the phone’s receiver and dialed. I scrambled over to the sofa to grab my baby sister. She was crying, silently.

  Mama pleaded into the phone for help before placing it back on the hook. Standing transfixed on the far side of the living room, she could see the street outside our front window, while keeping an eye on my sister and me. She avoided Granny until the police arrived, in what seemed like less than a minute.

  My mother walked out to the porch and stood behind Granny as two officers walked up our front steps. They spoke calmly to my grandmother. “Ma’am, exactly what’s happening here? What’s going on?”

  From inside the house, I heard Granny scream, “Go away and leave me alone.”

  I ran to the window and saw one of the officers take my grandmother by the arm. She yelled, “Get away from me,” then turned and punched him in the chest.

  In response to this unexpected resistance, the policemen handcuffed my usually docile grandmother, cited her with disturbing the peace and placed her in the police car. Not long after they arrived, they drove away. By this time, my older sisters were standing inside the front door with our mother. She was shaken, not tearful.

  Grabbing my little sister by the hand, we walked upstairs to my parents’ room. She began to cry audibly. I sat on the bed and held her on my lap. Five-year-old, Teenie, lay next to us in wide-eyed silence.

  At the time, I couldn’t understand why Mama didn’t ask the officers to calm Granny down without taking her away.

  Years later, Mama explained that she had been forced to call for police assistance on an earlier occasion, when we lived in an apartment on Lakewood Avenue in 1961. Having grown up with an actively bipolar mother, she was acutely aware of the times when her mother’s behavior escalated beyond her control.

  After this incident, I did not trust police officers, despite Officer Friendly’s yearly visits to my elementary school classrooms.

  That night, after the pieces of furniture had been returned to their respective places and every child had been sent to bed, I listened through my parents’ closed bedroom door as my father comforted my mother in hushed tones. No one attempted to quell the fear I felt in response to Granny being forcibly removed from our home. For me, it seemed like “out of sight, out of mind.” Worse yet . . . I had no idea where the police had taken her. About two weeks later, I got my answer.

  It was a lovely Sunday afternoon. My father announced that our family would be visiting our grandmother. We drove for about an hour. When we got to the grounds there was a sign that read, “Springfield State Hospital.” When had Granny gotten sick? I wondered. I looked around at the grounds. At least she’s in a beautiful place, I thought. After entering the building, I wa
s jarred by the buzzer that sounded as we entered the door of the locked ward. We were entering a Maryland state psychiatric hospital, a holding center for the mentally insane. Looking back, I was so overwhelmed by the experience that I do not remember whether or not my four younger siblings, including my new baby brother were with us. I do remember my parents and my two older sisters being there. My parents acted like this was an ordinary Sunday visit.

  Because this was an asylum for blacks without financial means, the walls were cheerless and the room had a slight pungency—not clean, like I expected a hospital to be. Some of the patients moved stiffly, like zombies, while others moved erratically, like wind-up toys at the end of a rotation. I didn’t know I was witnessing the effects of heavy sedation, medication or even electroshock therapy in the zombies—these were the primary psychiatric remedies of that time. I guess the wind-up group needed their medication adjusted.

  As the attendant led an older female zombie to the area where my family was seated, I asked myself, Who is this lifeless old lady? And why are they bringing her over to join my family? Then I realized: This was my beloved Granny. Where was the sparkle in her eyes?

  My parents talked. My sisters smiled and sat nicely. Normally the most loquacious of the Cole sisters, I had nothing to say. After hugging Granny, I sat silently, longing to go home. The hour-long visit seemed unending. We left the ward accompanied by the sound of that buzzer and the clanging of the door closing behind us. We had to leave my grandmother at Springfield. We got back in the car and my father drove home. Though my mother had been pretty quiet on our way to the hospital, she conversed with my sisters a little on the way home. As for me, I sat silently between my sisters, my thoughts in overdrive. My nine-year-old mind began to process my Springfield visit. I concluded that people who walked around like zombies or behaved erratically were definitely crazy. This conclusion unnerved me even more than Granny’s departure in handcuffs had.