Defying the Verdict Page 10

  The next evening my parents and I visited a psychotherapist in the Mt. Vernon area of Baltimore. Knowing a lot of artistic types resided there, I concluded, He’ll know what to do.

  The psychotherapist spent about twenty minutes talking to my parents and me before sharing his assessment of my condition. “Your daughter’s mental health history suggests she suffers with the maturing form of bipolar disorder,” he diagnosed. “Eventually she could require custodial care.” He clarified his diagnosis, making sure my parents understood the unlikelihood of my finishing college. Marrying and having children were off the table.

  He dismissed us with a book he had written in my hand. Back at home, I read through it, highlighting sections with my green marker and writing nonsensical notes in the margin. At the time, they seemed to me the illuminations of a genius.

  When we left the doctor’s office, I don’t know why my parents did not take me directly to The Johns Hopkins Hospital for inpatient treatment. My mother knew it existed. Some years before, Val, Karen, and I had visited my mom’s first cousin Theodora at The JHH psychiatric unit on Christmas day. Like me, she was living with a bipolar diagnosis.

  Denial is a powerful and sometimes dangerous thing.

  That night, while my parents slept, I sat in the living room comparing photos of myself. Did I look happier when I was thinner or heavier? I chose heavier.

  Then I decided to slip out of the house for a late-night walk. I walked two blocks from Finney Avenue to Greenspring Avenue, the main street. As I climbed up the hill, it magically became part of The Underground Railroad. I remembered Granny Ruth saying sometimes, when no one in her family knew where she was, she hid in plain sight, just like I was doing now. And then I was Billie Holliday, another Baltimorean. Carrying my Hello Kitty bag, my Shakespeare anthology, my green marker, some ribbons, and other miscellanea, I walked, songs from the movie Lady Sings the Blues reverberating in my head.

  A gentleman saw me walking and offered me a ride. Without a thought about getting into a car with power locks driven by a stranger, I had him take me to the corner of Park Heights Avenue and Taney Road, less than a mile away. He said he was going in that direction. When we reached my destination, I got out of the car and noticed a City Paper box on the corner. The papers were free. I took one out and wrote some important messages on it with my green marker before returning it to the box. I removed a tiny stuffed bear from my bag and attached it to the box handle with a piece of ribbon I had been clever enough to bring. I needed to leave an Underground Railroad marker for the next traveler on my route.

  I walked for a while thinking about my new task: establishing the new world order I had begun to outline in the back of my Shakespeare anthology. Without planning to, I had reached Nome Avenue where Debbie W. lived. Granny Ruth always said, “God protects babes and fools.”

  Though surprised to see me, Debbie invited me into her familiar kitchen where I rattled on about this and that. Mrs. W. made me some tea before insisting she drive me back home. I accepted the ride, although I assured her I could have made it home by foot. When I let myself back in the house just before midnight, everyone was asleep.

  The next day, my mother went to work. My father stayed home with me. I called a cab to go to noon-hour prayer with a group of mothers from my church, but my dad tipped the driver and sent him away after mentioning something about my “condition.” Confused, I asked myself, Does he think I’m pregnant?

  Later that day, I called another cab. Fortunately, it came while my dad was in the bathroom. I had the driver take me to Valerie’s job at a bank in Towson. Never having been there before, I don’t know how I was able to direct the driver to the branch. While the cabbie waited outside, I marched into my sister’s office. She would know how to get our father off my back. “Val, Daddy’s micromanaging me,” came out in a whiny torrent. “I needed to get away from him, so I decided to visit, but only for a minute—my cab’s waiting outside.”

  She looked at me directly and commanded, “Charita, wait here while I go talk to my manager.” When she came back, she grabbed her purse, exhaled and announced, “I’m taking you back home.” Valerie is wise, I figured, that must be where we need to be next. As we rode home, she seemed frustrated and a little angry. Thankfully, the anger didn’t seem to be directed at me.

  As my improvisational fervor increased over the next few days, my parents managed to keep me at home, giving me plenty of time to outline my new world order on the blank pages of my Shakespeare anthology. I also had time to read magazines. But, at the end of the week, I managed to elude my parents.

  I walked five blocks and caught a bus downtown, compelled to attend happy hour at the Hyatt Regency Hotel. I never drink alcoholic beverages, but I ordered and drank a wine cooler. When it was time to pay, I didn’t have any money. When I pretended I had left my money at home, a gentleman at the bar paid for my drink, no strings attached. When I tried to order another wine cooler, the bartender reminded me I had no money and politely asked me to leave.

  When I refused, he summoned a member of the hotel security staff. I sat on the floor, refusing to move. “I’m staging a sit in!” I yelled. Soon, two Baltimore police officers arrived. Karen says my family was told I slapped one of the officers. I don’t remember that, but I do remember an officer cuffing me before placing me in the back of the paddy wagon. One of the officers had to tighten the cuffs after I slipped my hand out of the cuff on my right wrist. At the station, they removed the cuffs and allowed me to do something I found exciting in the moment. They let me put my fingertips on a black inkpad and place my fingerprints on paper, like in kindergarten. I was glad I left my Hello Kitty bag at home. I might have gotten black ink on it.

  That night, I stayed up all night in a cell singing, full voice. Some of the other women would yell out, “Shut up,” from time to time. I guessed I wasn’t singing the hymns they liked.

  The next day was a Sunday. My mother, Valerie, and Karen came for a visit, as did my cousin Lela. I noticed they all looked worried. I told them about the tasty bologna sandwiches I had eaten and showed them the earring one of the women had given me that I had put through the piercing in my left ear. “It’s a cannabis leaf,” Karen noted disparagingly. “Take that out of your ear.” After I did what she said, I lost my earring. My mother said something about an arraignment the next day. Val’s brother-in-law, the attorney, would represent me. I tried to make sense of what they were saying.

  Elder James Hickey, an apostolic minister from Baltimore, also visited me. He had received a master’s in pastoral counseling from Loyola University, a Jesuit college that boasted one of the premier programs in the United States. He hoped to set up counseling sessions with me when I was released. Knowing of Elder Hickey’s expertise, Bishop Geddis had put him in touch with my parents, hoping we could set up a beneficial therapeutic relationship.

  My arraignment was held on Monday morning. My lawyer, noticing my wet linen jacket, grimaced, then asked, “How did your coat get wet? You didn’t put it in the toilet, did you?” I had needed it to be wet so I could put it on to cool myself off. That small sink was not large enough for me to saturate it with water. I refused to answer his question.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Herman Hesse called suicide a state of mind—and there are a great many people nominally alive, who have committed a suicide much worse than physical death: they have vacated life.”

  —JEANETTE WINTERSON

  IN THE COURTROOM, my parents and my Baltimore pastor, Bishop B., stood with my lawyer and me as the judge heard my case. The judge’s ruling included something about my need to be evaluated. That night, I woke up in a medication-induced fog at Springfield Hospital Center, the upgraded version of the Maryland State mental institution where my grandmother resided years earlier.

  I had been committed again.

  On March 15, 1982, Dr. M. Kim prepared an intake note which reads in part:

  NAME COLE, Charita Lynette CASE NO. 103278


  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

  The following day, March 16, 1982, Dr. I. Turek provided the following Mental Status Examination, which is used to determine a patient’s readiness for discharge.

  In this interview Charita is observed to be tall, physically healthy, appearing her chronological age, female who was dressed properly. She, however, carried a posture which was markedly bizarre and facial expression which was quite grimacing, silly and inappropriate. Her motor behavior is observed to be moderately impared. She is pacing, restless, fidgety. Her general attitude was markedly uncooperative, moderately inappropriate. She had impaired functioning goal-directed activities. She was dramatic, sexually seductive. Her mood was markedly euphoric and hypomanic. Her affect was inappropriate in a moderate degree. Her speech was quite dramatic with an average rate and productivity. However, she was incoherent, irrelevant, evasive, with loosening associations. She was muttering at times in an unintelligent way. The content of thought could not be ascertained from her because she was so uncooperative. However, when she was left to spontaneous conversation, she stated the following: “Kelvin, stop those voices.” She kept on screaming about Kelvin and Kelvin, she stated, was her brother. Then she continued on saying, “Do you know where Kelvin was born? Where is Kelvin? Are you Kelvin? I talked to him yesterday. Pluto is Elva’s sister. Earth to Pluto, Earth to Pluto, Come in Elva, come in Elva. You don’t have to do that that way. This is a new City.” She then stood up and walked to the window and looked outside and said, “Beautiful, this is really Sykesville. I want to be in Brooklandville. Blue is for hope, for Penny. My name is Gloria Penny. Penny is my best friend. Gloria is my best friend. I need Bill.” All my efforts to get her to talk rationally were fruitless. She tried to seduce me; tried to sit next to me. He wanted to read what I was writing. She was laughing and having a good time. She did not respond to the questions of delusions or hallucinatory experiences.

  Her orientation could not be tested. Her cognitive functions seems to be disturbed. She had marked degree of destructibility and marked degree of attention disturbances. Her judgement was poor. Insight nil.

  PROVISIONAL DIAGNOSES:

  Axis I:

  296.44

  Bipolar disorder, manic, with psychotic features

  Axis II:

  V71.09

  No diagnosis on Axis II

  Axis III:

  Her previous laboratory reports indicated Cushing’s Syndrome. Needs to be clarified further.

  NOTE FOR HEARING OFFICER:

  This patient is mentally in need of impatient hospitalization. She will be a danger to her own safety if she is discharged into her own custody.

  This time, the doctors refused to let me come home if I did not agree to be medicated with lithium. It took weeks for me to benefit from it. I was also prescribed thorazine, a potent antipsychotic that is now administered to patients in much smaller doses than that prescribed to me. Internally, the combination of drugs flattened my affect, making me feel like a zombie and bringing back unwelcome memories of my childhood visit to see Granny in Springfield.

  As the psychotherapist predicted, each successive manic-depressive episode I experienced brought a higher high and a lower low than its predecessors.

  With prolonged use, lithium’s most dangerous side effect is kidney damage. When I discussed not wanting to take the risk with Valerie, she assured me, with chief sibling assurance, “You’ll be all right.” Adding humor, she continued, “If your kidneys fail, you have six siblings. One of us is sure to be a match.”

  Karen visited daily. Since she is not a talkative person, she encouraged me by showing up. Anytime I was ill, she dropped whatever she was doing to do, what I labeled, asylum duty. Her presence felt like she was sitting shivah for me, as is the Jewish custom after someone dies. I was still in my body, but the life I had embraced had ended. Most evenings, she brought my mother with her.

  Besides the first night of my commitment, my contact with my father was solely by phone. I believe his experience in Connecticut in 1980 when he could not prevent my CVH commitment had traumatized both of us. For the second time, he could not protect me from myself. His command that I rest my nerves was no longer enough to keep my mood balanced.

  My mother brought a gentleman who had entertained a romantic interest in me to the institution in an attempt to cheer me up. As you might guess, the visit extinguished that spark. My dad had warned my mother that bringing him to visit me at a psych ward was a bad idea. I had no romantic interest in this suitor, but my mother saw his potential as a son-in-law. Yet I wondered, Is this a bad omen? If I was indeed broken, as in no longer smart—would anyone ever want to marry me?

  Members of my church visited along with their children. A few years ago, I told my friend Jo Ann, “I was horrified when you brought your children to visit me at Springfield.” I related the fear awakened in me when I visited my grandmother in an institution.

  She laughed a little, then challenged, “Charita, name one child who was traumatized by those visits. We brought them because they loved you and asked to see you.” At least this Springfield upgrade smelled clean, I concluded internally, after admitting the children suffered no harm.

  At one point in my commitment, I was assigned a roommate who punched me in the jaw in a fit of rage that had nothing to do with me. A tech arrived in response to my shrieking and removed her from the room. She was assigned to another room where the staff could watch her more closely. This is the incident I remember most vividly from this nightmarish experience.

  My Springfield Hospital Center Release Summary was submitted by M. Malayeri, M.D.

  APRIL 16, 1982

  22-year-old, black, single, female admitted to Springfield Hospital Center March 15, 1982 with two doctors certificates from Sinai hospital because she was excited, manicky, hallucinating auditorily, hearing voices from God, paranoid, grandiose, delusional, unpredictable, and exhibited some violent behavior.

  When she was seen for Mental Status Examination on March 17, 1982, she was found to be grossly psychotic. She was angry, hostile, demanding and abusive. She presented psychomotor agitation and she was unable to give proper account for her admission. Most of the background information was obtained from her mother [who] reported that she had a previous psychiatric hospitalization from December, 1980 until January, 1981. She was hospitalized at Connecticut Valley State hospital in Middletown, Connecticut for two weeks. She was diagnosed as hypomanic. Apparently, since then she had no outpatient therapy, except for the few times she was seen at Sinai Outpatient Clinic and was not given any medication. There was no history of using drugs or alcohol in the past. On mental status examination she was observed to be tall, physically healthy, appearing her chronological age. She was dressed properly. However, she carried a posture, which was markedly bizarre and facial expression, which was quite grimacing, silly, and inappropriate. She presented psychomotor agitation. She was pacing, restless. Her general attitude was markedly uncooperative. She was grossly incoherent and irrelevant. Affect was inappropriate and she was mumbling at times in an unintelligent way. She had grandiose delusions with persecutory thoughts. Her impulse control was poor. Her behavior indicated having auditory hallucinations. She denies suicidal and homicidal thoughts. She was alert and oriented. Her insight and judgment were poor. Impression was Bipolar disorder, manic, with psychotic features.
During this term of hospitalization, she received chemotherapy, milieu therapy and supportive therapy. She also participated in activity therapy. She was treated with the anti-psychotic drug; Thorazine. She gradually and slowly showed improvement. Psychomotor agitation, delusional thoughts, auditory hallucinations subsided. Since March 24, 1982, Lithium Carbonate was added to her treatment. She started home visit on 4-2-82, which was reported successful, and on 4-16-82 she was discharged to her family from home visit.

  FINAL DIAGNOSIS:

  Axis I:

  296.44

  Bipolar disorder, manic with psychotic features

  CONDITION ON DISCHARGE: She was quiet and cooperative and she was free from psychotic symptomatology. She was considered to be in full remission.

  PROGNOSIS: Short term prognosis is favorable. Long term prognosis considered to be guarded.

  MEDICATION:

  Thorazine 100mg. a.m. and 200 mg. at bedtime Lithium Carbonate 300 mg. three times a day

  AFTERCARE PLAN: Arrangement was made by social worker to be followed at Sinai Outpatient Clinic. (Psychiatric and Medical)

  RESIDENCE:

  4536 Finney Avenue, Baltimore, Maryland, 21215

  When I got home in April, my body felt heavy, like wet rags needing to be wrung out. Mentally, I felt like I was slogging through molasses, blindfolded. Meanwhile, I tried to forget the therapist’s diagnosis of eventual custodial care, but it recurred in my thoughts, awakening a feeling of dread. My family did their best to cheer me. No longer on a manic high, I concluded, I must be a real embarrassment to my family. I certainly embarrass myself.

  In May, I resumed my temp job in the accounts payable department at Johns Hopkins. Determined to avoid custodial care, I made my life as small as necessary, minimizing my innate theatricality whenever possible. In alignment with my erroneous assumption, I rehearsed, my dramatic flair must be triggering these improvisational manias. I cannot serve both God and theater.