I walked into Real’s room and told her that there would not
be a sexual assault examination conducted, but that I had requested that the
doctor perform a medical exam.
“Is there anything more I can do for you?” I asked in
somewhat doting but concerned voice.
“Why do you talk like a child?” she asked.
I sat down, propped my elbow on her bedrail and leaned by
head on my hand and inquired, “Can you help me understand what you mean by
that? How do I talk like a child?”
“Oh, I get what you are saying. I make you feel like I am
being condescending because of the tone of voice I am using.” I quickly tried
to start talking in my usual, matter-of-fact tone. "You know, I never thought
about that. I think I tend to use that voice when I am concerned. I never
thought about how it might be perceived. I appreciate you telling me that, Real.
That is something I should really be more conscious of.”
“It is not just you. It is everyone here. They talk to me
with that voice. You know, it is like that voice people use when they tell you
that your grandpa is dying, and there is nothing they can do about him dying,
but they talk to you in that voice telling you everything is going to be fine
and he is going to be ok, but really they know – and you know – that he is
going to die regardless of the voice they use.”
“Hmmm. You are so right. I think right now, I am helpless to help you, and yet I want to comfort you. So, I use ‘that voice’ hoping it will help ease the pain a little bit. I am concerned. I have definitely been using my concerned voice tonight.”
“Well, it is not comforting,” Real said matter-of-factly. “It
is actually the exact opposite of comforting.”
“You know, Real, I totally admire your honesty. That is such
a beautiful quality in a person. So few of us are honest with one another, and
you just say it like it is. And because of you, I will always be conscious of
my tone of voice when I speak to people.”
We just stared at each other for a few moments. Over the
last two hours, she had held my gaze for many seconds during our conversations,
in-between her eyes shifting side to side while she fumbled around in her mind
for the words needed to compile her next coherent phrase.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help to you,” she said after a
long silence.
I was caught off-guard by her apology. “It was not your job
to do anything tonight. It was my job to be helpful this time. I am sorry I could
not be more helpful to you.”
“Well, I guess neither one of us were very helpful to each
other,” she said as I stared at her, probably with a pathetically helpless face
that just confirmed how pointless I felt.
I looked at her for a moment, not sure what to say before I
left that would actually make any difference. So, I said something that was
cordial, and made me feel better as I left the room.
“Well Real. It was nice to meet you. I hope you have a good
night.”
And as I left, I was disgusted with myself. A good night?
Really? Could I have chosen a more cliché, meaningless and obnoxious parting
phrase? She was not going to have a good night. She was a schizophrenic off of
her meds, who had no place to lay her head once the hospital discharged her
from the safety of a quiet, sterile room. Who knew where she would go once she
exited the hospital. Who knew where she would lay her head. Who knew if she
would even be able to remember the phone number of a family member.
You see, the police knew Real. She had a history with them.
She was infamous for ‘lying,’ according to the police. So, Real’s reputation preceded her, and that
reputation colored the investigating officer’s approach. That officer’s opinion
carries weight when he calls the District Attorney’s (DA) office, because the
story he tells the DA is colored with his opinions and perceptions of the
legitimacy of Real’s rape outcry. And here is the loophole: if a person has a
history of lying to law enforcement, the DA can refuse a sexual assault exam.
And if the DA refuses a sexual assault exam, the Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner
(SANE) does not have as much footing to justify spending tax dollars on a
forensic sexual assault examination. And coloring this entire decision-making
process, are two words: schizophrenia and hallucinations. Does Real know what
she is saying? Were the rapists real or imaginary? Why does her timeline keep
changing? Why does she not know the phone number of the boyfriend with whom she
shares a home?
As one police officer put it, “You cry wolf enough times…”
He stopped with that, as if he did not need to say anymore.
My question is: How hard must a person with schizophrenia
cry before we decide her tears are sincere and truth-filled? If she had been in
her “right mind” like all the “normal people” that do not make us feel
uncomfortable, she could have advocated for herself. If she was on her meds,
maybe her recalling of events would have been more linear for the linear system
on which Real must depend in her moment of desperation.
A history of lying, also known as a history of
hallucinations brought on by a severe mental illness called schizophrenia that
causes one to have an incredibly difficult time distinguishing between events
that occur on a plane of existence “all of us” see and understand and events
happening on a plane that only she can see and understand. So because she is a “liar,”
we do not deem her worthy of an exam that will prove or disprove her claim. She
told me she was wearing the same clothes she was wearing when she was raped by
two men two nights prior. She had crime evidence on her person. The clothes and
the sexual assault examination specimen might have been taken to the lab and
they would have quickly determined whether or not there was evidence of an
assault. But, we will never know whose story was true. We’ll never know because
we – the Normal Folks – decided who was telling the truth before we gave a
chance to let the truth be revealed through a time-tested process.
I once had a good friend whose aunt, Sass, had
schizophrenia. We were at a family event, and I was sitting next to her,
texting on my cell phone. She said to me, “You are all connected with those
things. There is a line that connects you to each person in this room who has
one of those. There are lines everywhere. It is a web. A web you are all
trapped in. I’m not trapped though. I cannot get trapped. I’m not connected to
a line.”
I looked at her a bit perplexed because at first I did not
understand what she was saying. I was sitting next to my friend’s son, B. He
looked at me with a half-smile, but his eyes showed he was engaged in what she
had said to me.
I asked “Can you see those lines Sass?”
She said to me, “Yes. They are all over this room. It is
very crowded. All of you are kind of jumbled up in the lines. Sometimes, I’m
afraid you are going to trip or get wound up in the lines cuz there are so
many.”
I just looked at her. I was speechless. I was fascinated by
her perception. All I could say to her was, “That is amazing that you can see
that.”
“I can see a lot of things that you cannot. Everyone thinks
I’m lying, but I’m not. It is real.”
Later that day, I was taking my friend’s son home. It was
quiet in the car; both of us were in our own heads. It is sometimes difficult
to find a convo topic interesting to a sixteen-year-old guy.
“Everyone is so hard on Sass,” B said. “Like everyone laughs
at her when she talks, or if they do not laugh they just ignore her. Have you
ever thought that maybe she is actually more advanced than we are? I mean, what
if she can see what we cannot because our minds are too limited? Like, maybe
she is really more in touch with what is real than we are? Maybe, her mind is
capable of seeing another dimension of existence – like on a different plane?
What if we are the ones who are limited? There are just more of us, so we make
her feel like she is the weird one. Maybe she is more connected to what is true
than we are.”
It was a day of being wowed. I thought for a moment, and
looked over at him and said, “You know B, that is what makes you so special.
You see people as they are. I never thought of it that way. I think what you
have just said is pithy insight. I hope you never lose that gift. Never stop
being who you are right now.”
A person who has schizophrenia can be a little frightening
at times, with the shifty eyes and the rapid breathing and the sudden changes
in affect. It can be a little unnerving to stare into the eyes of someone who
will not shy away from staring right back at you. Sometimes when you look into
their eyes, you see a terrifying pointedness that seems to be sizing you up and
looking right into your core. Other times, their eyes will flutter, and almost
half close, as if they are trying to piece together thoughts and perception and
feeling as they push against a thick hazy, fog that is making it difficult for
them to see the things they wish to grasp.
Their words are so to-the-point, so unfiltered. It is almost
like talking to a small child who has not yet been socialized to edit her
thoughts and feelings in order to appease rather than offend. That brutal,
get-to-the-point and say-it-like-it-is honesty makes the “normal” person
uncomfortable. But, if you will sit there, and allow yourself to hear what they
are saying, you will find that their words are profound. And you will walk away
wiser. Humbled. With a clearer
understanding of how little you really know.
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