First Person Letters

THE AFTERMATH

A year ago I was arrested by the sheriffs. Then, after two days on the streets of Louisville, the cops picked me up. U of L trauma ward can tend to frighten one, even among the toughest. During the time I was detained there, officials led me to another room and strapped me into a chair. Reminding me of executions. Because I'd grown out of control. I ultimately got sent to Central State. Twice.

It's no exaggeration to say that the past year has changed me, in ways that seem irrevocable. I no longer feel safe doing errands or taking the bus across the city. A basic sense of security has been lost. And with that, my confidence.

Breaking my leg in early December further complicated the situation. My voices tell me I will fall again. They've shared that it would have been preferable for them if I had broken both arms, after my inopportune pellmell descent down a flight of stairs. The content of their messages to me can be scary.

Unfortunately this terror translates to my trips around Louisville. Specifically the fear of coming into contact with law enforcement again. Up until last April I had lived as an entitled white girl. My skin gets me in the door. I'm under no illusions about the systemic abuses of police; however I remained convinced I personally had nothing to worry about. That changed with the disorderly conduct charge.

Disorderly conduct: three days in custody (where I yelled for the duration) and then a court date because criminal charges had been filed? Dorothy, we're not in Kansas anymore. In California there were a total of two incidents over a thirty year period. The officers were accommodating when they learned about my schizophrenia diagnosis. Each time, I received a ticket. The fines were cancelled when I later told my story in a court room.

No such luck here in The Bluegrass State. Yes, to refresh your memory, I immediately mentioned to the sheriff that I had a diagnosis and that my medications were at home. Before he stepped closer to tell me to get into the vehicle I raised my arm. Unthinkingly, irrationally. "Menacing behavior" was added to the charges.

My arraignment date was delayed until early February. I had had surgery on my leg and was immobilized. Prior to my facing a judge the Sheriffs set out their terms for the public defender. Either I accepted conditional release, as part of a guilty plea, or I'd be charged with a felony. Because I'd lifted my arm during the arrest. And, if entering a different plea, which would have meant a jury trial, the risk of losing amounted to this: I could face 45 days in jail and a felony conviction on my record. Not a tough call. I pled guilty.

I had planned on pleading innocent. Then the attorney read me the list of charges. They were shocking: according to the business adjacent to the parking lot where I was arrested, I had taken off my clothes and shouted racial slurs. None of that happened.

But I've got no proof other than my memory of what transpired. I was watching - unmedicated! - two white guys fighting in a parking lot, and was cheering them on. Fully clothed. The accusation that I'd made racial slurs was the most troubling of the charges. I knew in my bones that the witness, whomever it had been, was lying. Yes, I had earned the disorderly conduct charge. I wasn't in my right mind. The details, though, had been falsified.

After my ordeal in custody, which entailed some egregious mistreatment, I explored bringing suit against the Sheriff's Department. The first few attorneys I contacted declined to represent me. I assumed my mental health history was the main issue, that my account couldn't be verified; I was what they might deem "an unreliable witness." Then I found a Civil Rights attorney who was willing to investigate my claim.

Six months later the attorney had gathered my medical information and informed me that she, too would not be representing me. She had also read my description of events around the arrest. How different the actual charges were! (I didn't realize this until after my sentencing.) Of course I was disappointed. As it turned out I will find no redress.

Back to the theme of law enforcement, my own entitled sense of basic security, and how different things would have been in Los Angeles - I am dumbfounded that the Louisville sheriffs thought nothing of taking someone in the midst of psychosis to jail. That I was released without psychiatric treatment. (The officer, in a moment of feigned kindness, told me I'd be seeing a nurse onsite after he strip searched me for the first time. What nurse?) It would be months before new medications stabilized me.

Now for what's hardest: I am forced to ask if I am misremembering entire events and episodes. Much of the past 35 years has amounted to voices, situations, comments that clearly indicated I was hallucinating.

Did the business proprietor see anything that differed significantly from my own account? Yes, obviously! Unless it was a deliberate lie. And what about the two guys fighting? Were they a hallucination? By the time law enforcement arrived they had vanished.

How could such a dramatic departure from reality be possible?  Where I may have the clearest recall of what happened, and the person reporting me witnessed something completely different?

This is perhaps the primary reason schizophrenia is such a scary diagnosis. Often you can't trust your senses - sight, hearing - much less the circular and unreliable nature of your own thoughts.

But what if both accounts of my arrest were valid, and constituted two realities, instead of one? Please bear with me. As I've told several people, it's like picking up different radio frequencies. I have one foot planted in each world. The landscape beyond the known plane of reality can be terrifying, and occasionally beautiful. (But let's stick with terrifying.)

I learned about multiple realities, and the potential to inhabit different realms from none other but the master, the illustrious Carlos Castaneda.  From his books. My experience as a schizophrenic means I give more credence to the belief system he described than others might.

But I'll be damned. What can I affirm with certainty? The arrest deprived me of a basic sense of wellbeing in the world. And the arraignment, where I learned of the charges, led me to doubt the truth of what constitutes reality.

The Sisyphus myth reasserts its hold. Rolling boulders uphill. Another day. It's been a hard year since my release from Central State. But a good year. Yes, even with the memories. Though my inclination will always be to distrust the police - I’m confident a sense of stability will return.

Bless you, Ginny. You fought to keep me on medication. The world isn't completely upside down anymore. “Keep your chin up” you told me, dozens of times. Ánimo. You didn't give up on me. As a result I won’t give up on myself.