Encounter with Psychosis: 02

I met with the psychiatrist early the next week, relaying everything that had happened in excruciating detail, including how Steve scared the shit out of me with his bizarre behavior. After that he and the university psychologist worked a deal with the Dean’s office, making Steve’s continued attendance in class conditional on him seeing the psychiatrist and stopping his twice a day visits to my office. Thank God for small favors.

Either later that week or early the next I met with Steve, his parents, the university psychologist, and the University of Michigan clinical psychiatrist at one of the University’s conference rooms. Immediately prior to the meeting the psychiatrist warned me that Steve’s mother was as paranoid-psychotic-whacko as he was and was making getting Steve into treatment doubly difficult as she consistently denied her son had a mental or emotional problem. I was causing all the difficulties Steve was having at the university. Viola, it was all my fault. I was the problem, not her beloved boy.

Needless to say the meeting didn’t go well. Steve was in full rant/rave mode and was supported at every turn by his mother, who accused me of doing everything Steve had. At one point Steve’s father turned to me and asked why his son would make all those accusations against me. I said that I hadn’t the slightest idea, that I had never once seen Steve off-campus, didn’t know one single thing about his personal life, and NEVER EVER involved myself in my students’ private lives, that I had a wife and three children and didn’t need to find other outlets for what little spare time I had.

From my point of view the meeting went badly. But afterwards the U of M psychiatrist was pleased. He thought I had made a significant impression on the father and things were looking up. It had come out in the meeting that Steve was failing in every class and had failed many of his classes the previous semester. Apparently, I was the only one of his professors who had tried to work with him and help him improve. The psychiatrist said because I was the only sympathetic professor and tried to help, Steve had transferred his delusions to me, blaming me for all the problems in his life, even going so far as to make up having a girlfriend (who we later found out he had never spoken to and had admired from afar) and accusing me of telling her he had raped and beaten several other girls at EMU. All totally untrue. Whoa! I couldn’t make that shit up. Well, as a writer I could but never would in a real life situation.

The next Thursday afternoon Steve showed up at my office a little after 2:00. Somehow he knew I had an Economic Geography class at 3:00 in Strong Hall. He stood in the doorway and mumbled nonsensically until I told him in a loud and forceful voice that he wasn’t permitted to talk to me any more and would have to leave or I would call the Campus Police.

He then stared at me and said very calmly and clearly: “I’m coming back to kill you.” Or: “When I come back I’m going to kill you.” And walked away.

I immediately called the Campus Police Lieutenant I had spoken with several times before and told him what had happened. My voice and hands were shaking badly. Although I really didn’t think Steve was violent, I have to admit I was scared shitless. I couldn’t possibly know what was going through his head or what was driving his actions. But whatever it was wasn’t good from my point of view or for my state of health.

The Lieutenant ordered me to close and lock my door immediately and wait for two plainclothes detectives to show up. Which I did as soon as I hung up the phone. Not five minutes later someone knocked on my door and identified themselves as being from the University Police. I opened the door and let them in. Both were surprisingly young looking and were dressed like students. The shorter white policeman looked 19 or 20 but had to be older. He wore a modish tee-shirt and jeans and looked like he had just walked out of a lecture hall. The taller, heavier-muscled black man wore jeans, a sort of hip cowboy shirt, and a golf jacket. He looked and carried himself exactly like a college football linebacker. They told me that they would accompany me to class and arrest Steve if he appeared. If he didn’t they would sit in class for the entire period and escort me back to my office and then my car when I left for home.

Both waited with me with the office door closed and locked. I was too nervous to make much more than small talk so we basically sat quietly until 2:58. They then escorted me from my office to the main corridor, which was jammed with students who were either leaving or arriving for class. Literally dozens and dozens of kids milled around each classroom door. As you can imagine it was a typical college scene of noisy near-chaos.

The black policeman walked in front of me and told me to keep my right hand on his right shoulder. As soon as I saw Steve I should tap his shoulder and identify him. The second cop had his hand on my left shoulder and walked a half pace behind me, keeping up a running dialog: “Is he here? Do you see him? Tell me where he is. What’s he wearing? What’s he look like?”

My classroom was near the far end of the corridor so we had to walk slowly through the crush of students. My eyes searched the crowd but I couldn’t spot him. Kids where everywhere, laughing, talking, horsing around. Normal shit. No one threatening. No one obviously crazy. My nerves were at the breaking point. My stomach muscles so tense I trembled like a leaf in a hurricane. Suddenly, the crowd parted slightly and I saw him leaning against the wall opposite the classroom door. He was looking in the other direction and didn’t see us.

I gripped the detective’s shoulder hard and identified Steve: “Light blue jean pants and darker jean jacket. Tall kid, brown hair, the only one leaning against the wall, one leg propped up. He’s not carrying any books or notepads.”

“Got him,” was all the black detective said. The second detective pushed past me and positioned himself directly in front of me. At that moment Steve saw me. He stood up, turned, and took a step towards me, his hand disappearing into his front pants pocket. He never saw the black detective who took one step past him, turned as fast as a snake strike, and knocked his ass flat on the floor as he yelled in surprise. Pandemonium, chaos. Kids shouting, trying to get out of the way of what looked initially like a street fight. Steve, on the floor bleeding from the mouth and nose as the black cop, one knee in the middle of his back, handcuffed him and pulled him to his feet. Everything happening so fast you couldn’t figure out what was going on

The white detective’s gun out pointing at the floor, badge displayed in the other hand, yelling loudly. “Police! Police officers! Stay back. This is an arrest. Everyone move back. This man’s under arrest.”

Minutes later Steve and the detectives were gone. Unnatural quiet filled the corridor. The remaining students, whispering to each other, scared, wondering what the fuck had happened. Some of them staring at me; they thought I was involved because I had spoken to the detectives before they hauled Steve away. I took several deep breaths, tried unsuccessfully to stop shaking, and walked into my classroom. All the students were standing at the door, questions and uncertainty written on their faces.

Standing at the front of the room I told them I was unable to teach class that afternoon. One of my students from another course threatened to kill me and had been arrested. You could see shock and disbelief on their innocent faces. I couldn’t say another word or I knew I’d break down and sob like a baby. So I turned and left.

Back in my office I tried to calm down but wasn’t particularly successful. My hands refused to stop shaking. The phone rang, it was the Police Lieutenant. Steve had been carrying a pocket knife whose blade was an inch longer that what was legal in Michigan and by stepping toward me had committed an overt, unprovoked physical act against me. The weapon, his earlier verbal threat, and the physical threat of him attempting to approach me and reaching into his pocket for the knife were enough for him to be arrested and for the County prosecutor to file an involuntary commitment petition with a judge for observation.

The U of M psychiatrist called me the following week and told me Steve’s father had agreed in a court hearing that his son was a threat to me. The judge had granted the petition legally committing him to treatment at the U of M Neuropsychiatric Institute based on the father’s testimony, my signed complaint, the signed affidavit of the psychiatrist who had interviewed Steve three times and found him disturbed and a threat to others (meaning me), and the Police arrest report. Then the doctor told me that Steve had suffered an acute psychotic break in my office and he was a little jealous of me. When I incredulously asked why he said he saw patients after their initial breakdown but had never seen one in first full bloom. Then I asked about the horrific facial distortions and body twitching. He said that those were symptoms of a mind that no longer had full control of the central nervous system and was misfiring. A typical characteristic of psychotics.

A year later I was strolling across the Quad scoping out the hot chicks when a male student stopped and said hello. He asked if I remembered him. When I said no he laughed and said he was Steve. Knock me over with a feather. The guy was happy, smiling, and all but unrecognizable as the Steve I had known. He told me that he had been diagnosed with psychosis and had spent nine months in treatment. He was taking lithium and other medications and would probably have to do so the rest of his life. He not only did not remember taking any classes from me but had no memory of accusing me of what were obviously delusions. He then apologized for his disturbing behavior and asked if I could forgive him for him involving me in his personal mental problems. Jesus, you could have knocked me over with a feather.

Of course I did and told him that all I ever wanted to do was to help him. I asked how he was doing and he said he felt great and was getting all As and Bs that semester in accounting and finance. We shook hands and I wished him well. I never saw him again.

Several years later San and I were in a Chesterfield cinema watching the movie, Fatal Attraction. When Glen Close became profoundly psychotic at the end of the film and was slashing her own leg with a butcher knife and couldn’t feel the pain, I bolted from my seat and left the show until the scene played out. The vivid flashback of how frightened and helpless I felt when Steve had threatened me disturbed me so badly I was trembling all over.

I still can’t watch that fucking movie.

Encounter with Psychosis: 01

Exactly when the following incident occurred is obscured by the fog of time. I have searched my personal files/records and have found no notes to help me with the date. But it happened in Ypsilanti, Michigan, between 1972 and 1974 when I was a full-time professor at Eastern Michigan University.

By way of background, the offices of the Geography/Geology Department where I taught were located on the first floor of Strong Hall, a general classroom building on one side of the Quadrangle. My office was on an inside hallway separated from the daily hustle-bustle of student traffic on the main corridor.

On that particular Monday, I was in my office at 1:00 PM preparing for one of the classes, most likely Urban Geography, which was an upper division offering largely for juniors and seniors, when Steve (real first name last name completely forgotten) knocked and asked if I had time to talk. Steve had done very poorly on the last Urban Geog exam, taken about a week ago. I assumed he wanted to discuss where he had gone wrong. He had taken another geography class from me in the previous semester and had done okay. So, I was surprised when his grade on the first Urban exam was a D-. I casually invited him to sit across from me at my desk. By way of physical description Steve was about six foot two inches tall and weighed somewhere around 220 lbs. In other words, he was considerably larger than I and, of course, much younger.

To my initial astonishment and confusion, he immediately began berating me for following him around and telling the people in his apartment building that he was the one who had set several fires at the residential complex and for telling his girlfriend that he was violent and she should stay away from him. As he was speaking I was struck by his increasingly bizarre appearance. His face was something out of a horror movie. Although normal at first, seconds after he started talking it exhibited a weirdly deformed appearance, as if his facial muscles were popping out in hard knots, first on one side of his face and then the other in an almost random sequencing. That’s when I noticed that big bumps were working their way across his forehead and into his hairline. The physical distortion of his face was horribly disconcerting and frightening as hell. No exaggeration. And by that time his body had started twitching, particularly his upper torso, like he was being given one electrical shock after another. All in all the effect was fucking terrifying.

Naturally, not being catatonic, I knew that the young man was experiencing some sort of extreme mental or emotional distress. The very next thing I realized was his hand was on my desk only inches away from a very large and sharp scissors. And it was positioned sufficiently far from where I was across the desk that if he grabbed for it I had no chance of beating him to it. Given his size, the last thing I wanted was for a deranged guy to leap across the desk at me wielding a potentially lethal scissors. Plus, I thought that if he decided to jump me I would be better off closer than farther away. So I could grapple with him while screaming for help. With my heart beating like a snare drum, I stood up and indicated two chairs against the wall behind him and said we’d be more comfortable sitting there instead of talking across the desk. Christ, was I relieved when he moved to the chair nearest my open office door.

But neither the move nor my immediate proximity deterred him from ranting and raving about my supposed unwanted involvement in his life. Each story was more bizarre and deranged than the preceding. Not more than five minutes later Drew Nazzaro, whose office was right across the hall from mine, poked his head in the door, gave me a look that told me he had heard everything, and said, “Bob, if you need me I’ll be right here.”

But Steve acted as though he hadn’t noticed Drew and continued with his rant about me doing all sorts of literally crazy shit to him, including somehow sabotaging his car so he had to spend hundreds to have it repaired. Although I was nervous as hell, I focused on trying to inject reality into the conversion. I told him I had never seen him off campus, didn’t know where he lived, who his girlfriend was, or what kind of car he drove. Despite the effort, nothing I said made the slightest difference. As soon as I had my supposedly rational say he would immediately return to the delusional ranting and raving, his body twitching uncontrollably and his face contorted by God knew what. It was like something out of a horror movie except it was happening in my office.

I was fucking scared to death, convinced Steve was about to launch a full attack on me. Among the things he said in a serious, threatening tone was: “I don’t know why I haven’t done something about you before now.” My God, talk about chilling my blood.

That went on until ten minutes before our Urban class started. When I told Steve I had to get ready for the class he stood up and left the room. Drew had placed one of the chairs from his office out in the hall and was sitting next to my door. As Steve passed him Drew gave him a look that would kill and after he had disappeared down the hallway said: “Jesus Christ, that fucker’s crazy.” His exact words.

“No shit,” I exclaimed, trembling from acute stress. And then told him the guy was in my upcoming Urban class and I had to get in front of the class and lecture on whatever topic we were discussing with him sitting in the second damned row.

I can’t recall what I lectured about but do remember trying to keep my eyes on Steve without seeming to stare at him the whole time. I thought he might be dangerous but really didn’t know what to do. Lucky for me all he did was sit there and stare back with empty eyes.

When class was over I returned to my office and to my absolute dismay Steve followed me and sat in the chair against the wall and immediately resumed ranting and raving as if no time had elapsed. I sat next to him for nearly another hour, desperately trying to get him on some sort of rational track with no success whatsoever. When I thought I couldn’t take it another second he stopped talking, got up, and walked out.

I hurried to Drew’s office and asked if he had heard the second session. When he said he did, I picked up the phone directory and called the University psychologist. His secretary tried to make an appointment for the next day and I told her it was a flat out emergency and had to see him immediately.

Drew and I hurried across campus to the guy’s office and introduced ourselves. I told him exactly what happened and that Drew had seen and heard everything, which of course Drew confirmed. The psychologist asked if Steve had overtly threatened to harm me in any way, verbally or physically. When I said he hadn’t he told me that there was no way for either him or me to have the police pick him up and have him committed involuntarily for observation. In Michigan, a person must be a threat to himself or another person before he can be committed involuntarily to a mental hospital. So, until that happened, there wasn’t much he could do except notify the campus police of the situation (the campus police were also legally part of the County Sheriff’s Department and were not glorified watchmen or security guards).

That news took the wind out of my sails. I had expected . . . what? For the problem to somehow be removed from my plate and be taken care of by experts in the field. No way was that going to happen.

And so my nightmare week started. On Wednesday and Friday, before my Urban class and after it, Steve would sit in my office, face contorting, body twitching violently, ranting and raving about totally delusional crap. It does no good to further describe the situation except to say that he continued accusing me of all sorts of heinous acts in a way that was both alarming and nerve-racking. After each of those sessions, as soon as I returned home I locked and re-locked every door, every window, hoping he wouldn’t find out where I lived. And warned Sandy to stay away from every young man who even remotely resembled him.

In my office on that final day of that awful week, after an hour of ranting Steve shook his head and in an off-hand, almost casual manner, said these exact words: “I don’t know why I haven’t killed you yet.”

As soon as he left I called the campus police chief and related the story to him. He said that he still didn’t have anything he could use to have Steve committed. But I should call him immediately if the situation changed. He then referred me to the Lieutenant responsible for the Plainclothes Division, who listened patiently to my story but gave me the same news. Talk about being helpless and frustrated. When I hung up I called the university psychologist back and went to see him. I told him that Steve was scaring the shit out of me and I was very afraid of being attacked. I couldn’t go on with things the way they were. Something had to change. To my immense relief, he agreed to call a psychiatrist from the University of Michigan Neuropsychiatric Institute and the Dean of Arts and Sciences and get them both involved. For the first time in a week I felt a tiny bit better.