Month: January 2014

Something Sweet

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Sweet Moments

There were moments that were akin to a sunset painted in magenta or cold and sweet like the air of a new day. These moments passed quickly and if you blinked, it was like a dream that you almost remember. Ruby would be overcome with something that would solicit affection from nowhere. During those times, she would bestow upon me a trinity of kisses; cheek, forehead, cheek and say, “Sweet sugar baby.” I wanted to wrap myself in those moments and never peak out into the world again. I would say, “Do it again.” But, it was over in one breath. Sometimes, she would do it twice but never more. She would disappear into a menthol cloud like an apparation.

Those times left me so hungry for love and affection. I never really outgrew that hunger and it could easily be seen in the way that I conducted or lack of conducted most of my romantic relationships. I looked and still look at the interactions between my friends and their mothers wistfully knowing that I am forever locked out of forming what I see and saw as normal interactions even when Ruby was here.

As an adult, you have to own your life no matter what happened in childhood;  still… there are some things about you that are an intrinsic part of who you are like DNA. It took me over twenty years before I realized that no matter how hard I run, I can’t run away from me. More importantly, I will never find those sweet moments with anyone else.

Every once in a while I will recall these seldom and brief sessions of affection and allow myself to feel. Sometimes, I wish they never happened because their absence felt like purgatory. But whenever possible, Ruby would allow herself to show love and I realize now that I have taken these moments and squirreled them away for the dark times when I cannot see the sun.

Revisiting a Painful Past

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Ruby grabbed me and my little brothers and ran to the front yard wearing nothing but her underwear. She shouted, “The aliens are coming to get us!” and the neighbors watched the spectacle.

This is what my eldest brother told me. At the time he was about 12 years old and trying his best to calm our hysterical mother and bring us all back inside. Each time incidents such as this is recalled by various family members, a detail is added that was unknown because the pain may not be fresh, but it still throbs. For instance, I never asked my brother if the police came or if he called our uncle or someone else. And as I ruminate over this particular incident, my heart breaks a little each time.

Can you imagine yourself at 12 years old and the only sane person in the house? How scared he must have been when this happened? For ten years, he had our mother to himself. How would a 3 year old, a 7 year old child now 12 who is watching his mother devolve know what to do to help her? He watched her unravel overtime. He was with her through two bad marriages. He watched Ruby evolve from a pretty woman who loved fashion, makeup, and hair into this person screaming at the top of her lungs in the front yard-in front of everyone.

My younger brothers and I were babies and our eldest brother felt responsible for us all but he didn’t know what to do. My grandmother saw it but could do nothing and my heart breaks when I picture how much Ruby’s unraveling cut my grandmother to the core. The family prayed… a lot.

Then THE worst thing that could happen to a family happened to us.

When it became apparent that Ruby could no longer care for us, the county took us away. They split us apart and had already placed my brothers with a family but that was not the end of it.

Before crack cocaine shredded what was left of the African American family, the children were taken in by relatives. Through court proceedings and tenacity, our family regained custody of us but we were still split apart. My brothers grew up in another state and I was raised mainly by our maternal grandmother. Our eldest brother suffered most of all and shuffled between various relatives because no one really wanted custody of a teenage boy.

Soul History – The Short Version

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In times when people feel troubled, most turn to their families or to their church. This was probably true of most Americans across the board especially before families migrated from a rural environment to the cities in search of work. Still, those who migrated to the cities remained within a community that shared a common culture. One example of this can be seen from the film Lakawana Blues where the main character, Rachel ‘Nanny’ Crosby’s boarding house was central to seeking safety and solace within the African American community prior to integration. Many African Americans do not see the utility of mental health and therefore dismiss it as another means for “white people to get paid.” As a result of this attitude, psychologist or other mental health care professionals are not only an aberration within the context of community, they are also unwelcomed and viewed with suspicion. What is the origin of this suspicion?

Prior to the beginning of psychology in the U.S., enslaved Africans who attempted escape were diagnosed with Drapetomania. Dr. Samuel A. Cartwright, a general medical practitioner suggested treatment for slaves who refused to accept their fate should  be to  have the devil whipped out of them as a “preventive measure” and treatment.  Cartwright also believed that enslaved Africans who were treated humanely became too familiar with their masters and as a result, expected some level of equality. Although liberty and justice may be a part of the American Constitution, these same ideas when conceived by African Americans would take on other connotations equating black anger with madness.

 Scholar Jonathan M. Metzl’s book, The Protest Psychosis:How Schizophrenia Became a Black Disease describes a period during the Civil Rights era where African American men who participated in the civil rights protests were forcibly hospitalized at Ionia State Hospital in Michigan. Their anger and participation in sit-ins, protests and other forms of civil disobedience classified them as criminally insane. All of these “patients” were diagnosed with schizophrenia.

The history above is not the only reason why African Americans are reluctant to seek help and while most people do not know about this history, the implicit messages have been passed down from one generation to the next: Do not trust doctors especially psychiatrist and psychologist.

In Need of Help

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I was asked this weekend, how do you get your loved one help when it is apparent that they are not mentally healthy? This is one of the most difficult topics to cover in mental health because in many states you cannot have a loved one committed unless a.) s/he is a danger to himself; b.) is a danger to others; c.) both a and b.

In the case of Ruby’s first time in a mental health hospital, it was her sister that helped to get her admitted. My mother had taken off with me to St. Louis and at that time we had relatives there. They called my aunt in Arkansas and said, “Something’s not right with Ruby.” She brought my mother and I back to her home and it was there that she was diagnosed. I cannot tell if my mother fought vigorously against being hospitalized or not but that is when she first received help.

One of the hardest tasks to accomplish is getting a loved one help; especially if they are in the 50+ age range and have certain beliefs about doctors in general. I grew up watching people surgically remove their own corns using a razor and rubbing alcohol. This was the norm. Now, when I reflect on those times, I want to scream, “You have medical insurance! Go see a damm doctor ‘fore you kill yourself!!”

Before I go further, I will remind my readers that I do not work in the field of mental health (MH). Nevertheless, my experience in the mental health field is connected to my mother’s diagnoses and dealing with the ins and outs of the MH system.

So to respond to my friend’s question above, I would say try to get that loved one to a medical doctor if they are not in immediate danger. Also, tell the doctor about what has been happening in your home. There are physical health conditions that can manifest in the form of marked changes in behavior to where the person is deteriorating mentally.

Also, seek outside support. One of the major tools that helped me get better care for Ruby and for myself was the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI). This organization is located in many cities and states. I listened to other people who were having a similar experience with their loved ones and I learned how to effectively interact with my mother when she was symptomatic. One suggestion I will make is, DO NOT ARGUE WITH YOUR LOVED ONE when s/he is symptomatic. Mental illness turns any logical argument or response to your loved one’s accusations into a never ending cycle. During these periods, Ruby accused me of being in collusion with (everyone) and to her, I was everything but a child of God, let alone her daughter.

Who Do You Turn To?

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Who do you run to when you need help and how do you describe the nature of the help you need? The past forty to fifty years have expanded American society in that we discuss more and more issues openly instead of remaining in our dark closets.

One example of the new openness is sexual child abuse. When I was a child during the seventies, there was no public awareness campaigns geared toward children. Few parents discussed the “touch” that would make us feel uncomfortable. There were seldom reports on the news about pedophiles or molesters. Many of the victims of this type of abuse felt ashamed and they remained silent. These feelings were the prevailing attitude up until the past twenty years or so.

Admitting to having a relative with a mental illness or worse yet, being diagnosed with a mental illness is something that still remains taboo, especially in communities of color. When someone does need help, this is what I have heard over the years.

 “Naw. Your mamma don’t need to be going to no psychologist messin’ round in her head. White folks don’ did too much of that already.” -From a Personal Conversation about getting help for my mother.

 If I want help, I just call on my family. Chil’d, I ain’t bout to talk to nobody’s doctor! -From a Personal Conversation

 Even though there are films such as Silver Lining’s Playbook and novels such as the late Bebe Moore Campbell’s 72 Hour Hold, it is still seen as the problem of white folks.

 There is more information available online and in printed text about African Americans who have been diagnosed with a depression disorder. Still, it is more difficult to discuss other mental health issues that adversely affect us especially when the symptoms are obvious to everyone around them.

 Think about that neighbor, that man or that woman who walks up and down the streets of your neighborhood talking to him/herself. Ruby’s mental illness was easy to conceal because she remained behind closed doors. Our family’s biggest secret.

What it Is.

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During the periods when my mother would fall into a cycle of laughing, babbling, and crying to herself Mamastella would say, “She’s having a nervous breakdown,” or “She’s having a spell.” What exactly did that mean?? Bewitch was in syndication during the seventies and I knew that the main character Samantha casted spells and so did her witch relatives. Were the “spells” a curse? A form of witchcraft? Could someone put a spell on me?? When your 8 years old, you have to figure it out for yourself. For the readers of this blog however, I will offer the explanation below.

So what is Schizophrenia? How is it defined by professions in the field of mental health?  I will use small portions based on the symptom description in the (DSM IV) Diagnostic and Statistical Manual on Mental Disorders ed 4. First, Schizophrenia falls under the category of “Psychotic Disorders.” Some (but not all) of the symptoms are: distortions in thought content (delusions); perception (hallucinations that can be audio or visual); language and thought process distortions; and restrictions in the range and intensity of emotional expression (affective flattening) (APA, p. 299).

So during my Ruby’s episodes of riding an emotional rollercoaster, where was she? She seemed far away. I would pull her on her dress and ask, “Momma what’s wrong?” Sometimes, the answer was short and coarse, “Nothing!” Her face would evolve from a jag of laughter as if she was listening to a friend telling a good joke and I had been the interloper who walked in at the wrong time.

Other times, the tears would rip out my heart. “Momma, what’s wrong?” Ruby’s response, “Nothing,” but without the bitterness and pain. I would sit silently waiting for her to return.

Imageby Deviant Art at http://vipinraphel.deviantart.com/art/tears-of-the-son-243850668

BTW: Do not use the short definition provided above to diagnose friends or relatives or yourself. The entire description for Schizophrenia in the 4th edition ranges from pages 297-314 +.

Scissors and Hands

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Why are there so many pairs of scissors in my drawers?? I am well known amongst my friends for misplacing small items but it seemed that every drawer I opened, I found scissors. It didn’t dawn on me until one of the many encounters I had with my mother.

My mother used scissors to cut her long fingernails and as a form of protection. I hated that she cut her nails with scissors because a.) they were beautiful, and b.) why not use nail clippers? She wouldn’t have it any other way.

The problem with my mother owning scissors is the second reason mentioned above; protection. She kept them hidden under her pillow which was not a problem until she began living in a board and care with a roommate. There were periods where we (the staff and I) could not get her to take her psychotropic medications and therein problems ensued.

Prior to being diagnosed with cancer, Ruby could be a formidable person to encounter. No, she never harmed anyone but still… She was also antisocial and would not eat in the common dining area with the other residents. This made me sad because prior to her new residence, she seldom interacted with non-family.

When her symptoms were at their worse, she would threaten the attendants who brought her food. Bless them. Bless the administrator also who could have called the police but instead allowed me to deal with it. First, her meals were brought to her by a burly male. That was funny. The second course of action was stealing her scissors in front of her.

“Mommy. Mommy. I lost my phone. Can you help me look for it?” She’d rise from the chair wherein I proceeded to search under the covers and finally her pillow to slip the scissors into my sleeves. (I always wore long sleeves to make it more successful). My phone would magically appear and wala!

Once again, I’d have to begin the process of rebuilding her trust in me and the staff to get her to take her medication. “Are you in on it too?” she would demand more than ask searching for signs of lying.   She was paranoid and I was forgetful because finally I could get her to take her medications again. Then when the calm, soft spoken Ruby asked for another pair of scissors, I would provide them because I always obeyed my mother.Image

Pit of My Stomach

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When I heard the verdict for the Kelly Thomas trial, I grew sick. What happened to Thomas is the fear that every family member has for a loved one who lives on the streets. We usually think that it will be another homeless person that does them or that they die from illness or disease. Mostly, we don’t think that law enforcement would needlessly take the life of our loved ones; except of course, if you are a person of color.

It was Thomas’s mental illness that placed him in harm’s way of a deadly confrontation that normally does not happen between “most” police officers and middle class white people but is normal for others. Nevertheless, I feel for his family and had my own fears about my mother interacting with the law; particularly, when her diagnosis of schizophrenia was compounded by dementia. When she lived with my cousins, she would call 911 to report that someone was breaking in the house. That someone was a younger cousin. Situations like that could have ended his life and even hers.

My mother lived in South Central Los Angeles for approximately forty years and slept with a hammer and/or knife under her pillow. In the hood, the threat of someone breaking in your house was no illusion-it could get real in a hurry. The problem was she continued this habit and had dementia. My cousins called me and I had to hurry to get to her less she pulled out a pair of scissors or a knife on an officer.

I will blog on this later on but wanted to touch on it because of the recent verdict and to say that this could  happen to anyone whether we have or have not been diagnosed with a mental illness.

The Jewel in Our Mist: Ruby and her Mental Illness

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In July of 2013, my mother died. As most people who have experienced this know, the death of a child or parent is one of the most devastating events that occur in our lives. This blog does not end with her death but begins with her life and how our family was affected by mental illness. When I was between the ages of a toddler and a small child, my mother was in a psychiatric ward circa late 1960s early 1970s. She was diagnosed with Schizophrenia.

This blog is about having a parent who had been diagnosed with a serious mental illness. It is also about how ones culture and economic background can affects how the family copes with a loved one who has been diagnosed with a mental illness. Throughout the blog, I will touch upon other mental illness diagnoses but the main focus is Schizophrenia.

Disclaimer: This is NOT a first person account of Schizophrenia and is mainly observational. I am writing from an observational and reflective position because I was too young to interpret and understand its impact on our family until later. Family members who were instrumental in getting our mother help are gone; and also like many families, it is easier to get a camel through the eye of a needle than have elderly family members recall painful events from the past.

Also, I am writing from a particular cultural outlook; African American. I do NOT claim that this blog represents all African American experiences but from my own observations and talking to people throughout the years, our family is certainly not alone. There are other cultures that share similar experiences and/or beliefs about mental illness and I cannot speak to how it impacted their daily lives, I invite others to read and share. Nor is this blog a forum for advice but I will definitely have links to the proper agencies to get help.