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Defying the Verdict Page 13


  My Mama is an amazing woman.

  I ACKNOWLEDGED MY parents’ love for me and accepted their interactions as unique to their relationship. I decided individual couples set the parameters for their relationships. A few years ago, I summoned enough courage to ask my elderly mother, “Why didn’t you leave Daddy?” She replied, “I had seven children.” I now understand that she, like my father, was committed to their marital relationship.

  Because Elder Hickey was a pastoral counselor, we applied Biblical principles in my recovery process. He encouraged me to move beyond mental assent—knowing in my head that a scripture is true—to faith, personally applying the scriptures I read. In addition to traditional clinical conversational practices, he encouraged me to memorize specific scriptures, especially those that counterbalanced the fear I internalized and embraced in response to bipolar illness. I came to understand that I didn’t fear failure. I feared success. Finally realizing why I lived in a self-constructed box, I asked myself, do I possess the temerity to step out of my box?

  By 1988, I formed a visual description of whom I had become: a faceless little girl in a yellow dress who had consigned herself to the west wing. In reality, the whole mansion and property belonged to her. For me, yellow was the color that symbolized hope. Even though my face was indistinct, it wasn’t distorted like the face of Merrick, the elephant man. I decided to embrace strength and move forward. Though it sounds trite, I had to figure out who I really was.

  I noticed I had changed over the course of my illness. My former haughtiness had been replaced by humility and compassion. I figured nobody could exhibit the levels of out-of-control public mania I did and remain arrogant. Now, my interpersonal skills were even stronger than they had been in my Arts Circus days. Emotionally, I was developing both social expressiveness and social control.

  It was most difficult for me to explore the shame I felt in the depressive phase of each episode, especially regarding the fiancé theme. I worked through a lot of psychic pain to ready myself for a loving relationship. As an eye-witness to my parents’ in-fighting, I had grown reluctant to surrender control in a relationship. No man was going to boss me around. I finally understood what a young man in my college class was seeing in me in 1977 when he asserted, “Charita, you intimidate guys.” I learned to allow myself to appear more vulnerable.

  Toward the end of the therapeutic process, the unboxed me was forced to discover I was not as open to having a husband in real life as my delusional reveries suggested.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “I have the nerve to walk my own way, however hard, in my search for reality, rather than climb upon the rattling wagon of wishful illusions.”

  —ZORA NEALE HURSTON

  OSCAR WILLIAM BROWN, Jr., a minister I knew from church, called me for the first time in September of 1988. He had been thinking of me. “The best way to get someone out of your head is to talk to them” he insisted.

  I had known Oscar for many years. We were part of a four-church fellowship that met quarterly, the Apostolic Festival—comprised of churches from Baltimore; Washington D.C.; Philadelphia; and Penns Grove, New Jersey. As members of the New Jersey congregation, Oscar directed the choir for those services while his wife Mary played the piano. She died of breast cancer complications in 1985, having declined medical intervention. Oscar’s sister Gloria and I were present at his parents’ home in Delaware the night he came home from claiming her body from a hospital in New Jersey. Mary passed away while visiting her sister, who insisted she go to the emergency room. The couple had moved in with his parents while she was ill.

  One of the more ebullient people I have known, Oscar entered the room deflated by grief. The four family members assembled in the room asked him how he was doing with no displays of physical affection. Belonging to a family that embraced in times of grief, I wanted to hug him, but decided against it. Having spent several hours in the Browns’ home while waiting for Oscar, I noticed how emotionally detached they seemed from one another. I didn’t want to violate their cultural boundaries.

  We talked for over an hour about various topics. He remembered the birthday card I sent to cheer him up the year after his wife died. He had kept that card since 1986. During our initial phone conversation, I informed Oscar I had deferred admission to the Masters in Library Science program at Simmons College in Boston, Massachusetts. Having deferred my admission for a year, I would matriculate in September 1989. I didn’t share why I had decided to defer.

  After hanging up the phone, Oscar later said, he thought, Lord, she’s moving to Boston, and laid on his bed to ponder that glitch in his plan.

  After our phone conversation, I didn’t speak to Oscar again until November. Meanwhile, I had changed my mind about attendance at Simmons. Given the distance from Baltimore to Boston, I questioned my ability to stay healthy so far away from my supportive family. Oscar and I reconnected at a birthday party for one of his closest friends. I attended the birthday bash, in spite of a cold, because I expected to see Oscar there.

  When I saw Oscar, I told him I had changed my mind about graduate school without sharing my rationale regarding the change. He gave me his number and asked me to call. I did wait a day.

  AFTER CONTACTING OSCAR, I told Jo Ann about Oscar’s call in September, asking if she thought he had a romantic interest in me, as I suspected. Jo laughed and said, “No man calls a woman and talks for an hour just to talk. Women do that.” Oscar later confirmed her statement, informing me, “I’m not looking for a friend. I already have female friends.”

  Oscar pursued me, something I had grown unaccustomed to while battling bipolar disorder. By my birthday on December fifteenth, we had gone out three times, spoken by phone daily, and corresponded by mail. For my twenty-eighth birthday present, I received a marriage proposal. According to Oscar, our union was inevitable. He likened himself to the man in the Biblical parable who, finding the treasure in the field, sold all he had to buy the field, thereby obtaining the treasure. Knowing I might minimize the significance of this analogy, he assured me, “You are the treasure.”

  Years later, a friend teased me about how quickly I had agreed to marry Oscar. When I shared this anecdote, she exclaimed, “No wonder you married him! I would have married him too.”

  Motivated by Oscar’s unconditional positive regard, I shared the unboxed me. I had rediscovered I could live healthily outside the fortress I had created around myself. That was the woman I allowed Oscar Brown to get to know. On our second date, I read him poetry from for colored girls. One Saturday night, we attended a puppetry show at Theatre Project. I was delighted to see Philip Arnoult, who remembered me as one of the theater kids.

  Of course it was essential that Oscar understand my illness. I invited him to a therapy session in which Elder Hickey could help me explain bipolar disorder coherently. After our discussion, Elder Hickey gave Oscar literature that described what was known at that time about this brain-based disease. The only other person I had invited to a therapy session had been Karen. I wanted to silence her insistence that I was doing better because of medication alone.

  With some understanding of bipolar disorder, Karen suggested I wait until Oscar and I were married to reveal my bipolar diagnosis. I informed her, “He already knows.” Then I asked, “Don’t you think it would be unfair to hide something that major from somebody who’s promising to stay with me for the rest of my life?” She didn’t seem convinced my decision was best.

  The Tuesday night Oscar returned home after our meeting with Jim Hickey, his mother asked, “Did you know Charita spent time in a mental hospital?” Having been members of the same church, Oscar’s sister, Gloria knew about at least one of my hospitalizations and had shared my mental health history with their mother. My fiancé was relieved to be able to share information about bipolar disorder with her, but in truth, the mental institution part hadn’t crossed his mind.

  Oscar was the pastor of the remnant of the Church of the Lord Jesus Christ his fat
her had shepherded until his death from cardiac arrest in December 1986. I suggested he convene a meeting in Delaware to discuss my illness with the fundamentalist Christian members of his family as well as his congregation. Many of them thought mental illness wouldn’t affect faith believers, as they called themselves. At that time, and even today, some Pentecostal believers erroneously attributed mental illness to demon possession. Oscar nixed my idea. Adamantly opposed, he declared, “We don’t need to have a meeting. In comparison to the members of the congregation, you are as spiritual as any of them if not more so.”

  The devoutly Apostolic members of Oscar’s family tried to convince him to not marry me. Interestingly enough, one of the naysayers was Oscar’s grandmother. I had visited her several times with Gloria. On one occasion, unaware of my bipolar diagnosis, she told me I was “a wonderful example of a young, saved sister.” When he continued to date me, some family members told him outright that God was against our union.

  Oscar did pose a question to me that I pondered, finding it reasonable. “Would you want someone in your family to marry someone with your illness?” Without answering, I thought, if they have the faith they claim, shouldn’t it conquer any disease? The real issue was that they viewed mental illness as demonic possession, not as an illness.

  Oscar tried to convince me it didn’t matter what his family thought about our relationship. “After all,” he insisted, “you’re marrying me, not them. After our marriage, I understood why Oscar refused to green-light that meeting. He knew if I had met with his people, it was likely their attitudes toward me would have changed my mind about joining his family and congregation. Exposing me to his them was a risk he was unwilling to take.

  Since Mary’s death, I was the third woman Oscar had courted. One of the women he pursued was not a fit due to scriptural differences. The other decided the relationship wasn’t right for her. Our relationship was both loving and harmonious. Oscar shared that his wife Mary, having interacted with me at church, once mentioned, “Sister Charita is going to make someone a good wife.” Since this affirmation predated her illness, Mary’s words counted as a vote in my favor.

  Although I wanted Oscar’s circle to embrace our union, it was not the issue I stumbled over. When my close friends inquired about my relationship with Oscar, I described it as warm, relaxing, and pleasant. When we were together, my heart didn’t race, my hands didn’t shake, and there were no knots in my stomach. Good news. I wasn’t afraid of him. But with a proposal in play, I was forced to acknowledge my truth: marriage terrified me.

  I loved Oscar deeply, and the sincerity of his love had erased my fear of being dumped, that had taken root after my relationship with Jerry ended. Still, I wasn’t sure I could marry anybody. I asked him, “What if our relationship mirrors my parents’ marriage, happy for a few years before becoming an emotional battle royal?”

  Oscar shared his feelings, brought on by my hesitancy about being married.

  In this letter dated February 24, 1989, he wrote:

  Dearest Charita:

  I think of how much I have come to love you, and I am delighted to know this love. To have had a glimpse of who and what you are only increases my desire to love you more. It is heartwarming to know that it is received and returned with equal fervor.

  As we labor to overcome our inadequacies, know above all else that I love you dearly. As long as we keep sight of our love for each other, we will pull together and not apart. Any urge to pull away would be dangerous for us. Real safety lies in the center of love not on its fringes. I ask you to try to understand my reaction when my heart perceives a pulling from the center.

  While on your part, in your attempt to deal with these pulls, this is a necessary process. My first reaction is that I try to deal with thoughts of you trying to get away from me. A flood of thought comes to bear all at once saying:

  A) Stupid, can’t you see that she is trying to tell you without really telling you that she doesn’t want to do this.

  B) How long will it take to get through your thick head that maybe she’d rather not love you, for whatever reason.

  C) If she really loved you, she wouldn’t be going through this. After all, you’re not.

  So while you are addressing your concerns, they bring out concerns in me. As we struggle to overcome, let us be considerate of each other’s dilemma.

  Love you, Oscar

  Oscar included a poem he wrote for me with that letter.

  Your Love

  I want your love to have and to hold

  To love you with every fiber of my being is my goal

  To see our love excel each preceding day in tenderness and strength

  To cultivate it, to motivate it, to stimulate it I’d go to any length

  To manifest it, to testify of it with the uttermost glee

  Rest assured, my love, your love is cherished by me

  To feel the power and flow of your love excites me beyond measure

  I liken it unto the man who found the field of great treasure

  When I think of the joy of having your love all my life long

  It causes my soul to rejoice and my heart to break forth in song

  My Love Always

  Oscar

  2-24-89

  While Oscar and I continued our daily communication, I confronted the roots of my feelings to decide whether or not I possessed the desire and the strength of character required to be someone’s wife. I concluded, my mind, will, and emotions were more than stable enough for me to commit to marriage to Oscar Brown, Jr.

  On March 9, 1989, I wrote:

  Oscar Brown,

  Years ago, some poor misguided souls sang a song about “a love that bears no strings . . . a love that touches, but never clings.” Back then, such a concept sounded pretty nice. (I was young then.) In more recent times, I abandoned non-cling love for an all-encompassing, life-altering love. The Lord knew what I wanted and needed; he sent me the desire of my heart: Oscar William Brown, Jr.

  To my surprise (or was I surprised?), your love scared me. And that story you had to live through with me. But, I believe the tumult has ceased. I knew I’d be alright if I pressed my way through the shaking. Thank you for pressing through with me and assuring me your love is and always will be a constant in my life. I am amazed by the level of love you show me as well as its superlative quality.

  I am convinced that you are the man I want to commit myself to as long as we both shall live. Fortunately, you plan to pledge yourself to me as well. Behind closed doors, alone together, we can abandon any false fronts we show others and relax into one another. I marvel that I feel so comfortable with you.

  You may never know how much I praise God for sending you my way. We came together in the fullness of time. Spending the rest of my life completing your life with my love looks better and better to me as June 10 approaches.

  I promise you all the love you need as you need it . . . it’s what you deserve in return for the eternal love you’ve given me and the wellspring of love you’ve awakened in me.

  My love is yours forever,

  Charita

  I included a heartfelt companion poem with my letter—not to be outdone.

  For Oscar Brown, Jr.—1989

  i had almost convinced myself

  that the good things in life

  were too good for me

  i could see them

  i kept them at a distance

  slightly beyond my grasp

  then one day . . . you touched me

  i couldn’t convince you to leave—

  i attempted my usual method

  let him think

  i’m really not interested

  he’ll find a way out on his own

  and I escape commitment once more

  but you refused to let me go that easily

  thank you for hanging in there

  for weeding through the mixed signals

  and the idiosyncrasies

  to discover

>   the untapped wellspring of love

  that lay dormant

  waiting for someone to activate it gently

  and nourish its free flow

  —Charita L. Cole

  I had a wedding to plan. That Saturday, Valerie and I went to Sonia’s Bridal where I purchased my wedding gown.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Faith is . . . Ceasing to worry, leaving the FUTURE To the God who controls the future.”

  —PAMELA REEVE

  I DESIGNED OUR carefully worded wedding invitation with Oscar’s feedback. Printed with black italicized script on pale pink parchment paper, it read, in part,

  Knowing we have chosen

  God’s will for our lives

  Charita Lynette Cole

  And

  Oscar William Brown, Jr.

  together with our parents

  Mr. and Mrs. Leonard Cole

  and Mrs. Anna V. Brown

  invite you to share in our joy

  as we pledge our lives to each other

  before the Lord Jesus Christ

  Mama, Val, Karen, and I mailed out invitations to most of the guests on Oscar’s and my lists. Oscar hand-delivered invitations to his family and congregants. I hand-delivered invitations to the adult members of my small church as well, to avoid exclusions. During our pre-marital counseling sessions, my pastor and his wife told us they were sure the congregation would look forward to celebrating with us. I was the founder of the Children’s Ministry, and Oscar was a ministerial favorite.