Breaking through

PART III

By JOE PETRUCCI

jpetrucci@leader.net

Charlie leans heavily on a table, hovering over a young female student inside the Stark Learning Center at Wilkes University.

He's wearing a gray suit and sharp brown shirt. It's one of the few times in the past 20 years the ex-football star is dressed up.

The woman looks up and, with some caution, asks: "Do you remember the manic states?"

Charlie looks down for a moment - his trembling hands are steadied by the weight of his 300-pound frame against the table - and replies: "Sometimes."

A crowd of about 30 Wilkes students, mostly from the school's psychology club, listens intently as Charlie describes what he remembers: Incessant talking on the telephone, difficulty sleeping, grandiose thoughts.

With slurred, nearly drunken diction, Charlie reads off a list of the nine different medications and 27 pills he consumes daily to treat his bipolar disorder. The Wilkes students' mouths slowly drop in astonishment as Charlie continues: "Sur-kwol (Seroquel) ... dep-ko (Depakote) ... "

"What do you do?" another student asks Charlie, who quickly moves across the room to listen because his hearing isn't what it used to be. "I want to open a soul food restaurant," Charlie says.

A male student announces his approval and Charlie rushes over to shake hands with him, like two teammates on the same page.

Charlie speaks of his recent jobs: moving merchandise for a Scranton Goodwill store and washing dishes in a University of Scranton kitchen. The Goodwill closed and Charlie wasn't thrilled about getting Palmolive hands. He's excited, though, about a possible new job:

Scooping up roadkill.

This is Charlie Wysocki, 22 years removed from a derailed football career, failed suicide attempts and a life-changing diagnosis. The former Meyers High School and University of Maryland star athlete is more than three years removed from his last stay at Clarks Summit State Hospital.

Theresa Chemlik started as an intensive case manager at Tri-County Human Services on Dec. 5, 2000. She opened a folder in her Carbondale office that contained a pile of records of her new patients, or "consumers," as they're referred to in the mental health field.

Chemlik read Charlie's file, easily the thickest in the heap.

"I was mortified," Chemlik says. "I'm thinking, here's this very large man with a history of aggressive behavior, an ex-football player, he's going to beat the tar out of me."

That same day, Clarks Summit released Charlie.

The following day, Chemlik took Charlie to the Wyoming Valley Mall. Charlie shopped for a gift for a new girlfriend.

"He is friendly," Theresa wrote in her case notes.

The 5-foot-3 Chemlik felt at ease with the hulking man with a tattered past. Charlie was instantly soothed by Chemlik's soft voice.

"Charlie, he's just a big baby," Chemlik says. "He's all talk. I don't think he'd hurt anybody. Charlie, from the beginning, liked me."

There were no immediate goals, except to make sure Charlie took his medication. Chemlik was to be Charlie's primary link to the therapeutic services he needed and to the community into which he was to be reintegrated.

In the summer of 2001, Charlie spent more time in Marion Community Hospital in Carbondale. Behavioral, not necessarily psychiatric problems, led to three short stints. They served as a reset button for Charlie's recovery.

Most important, despite Charlie's cycle of admission into mental hospitals, Chemlik believed he could get better.

"I didn't think he was a lost cause."

Misericordia professor Tom Swartwood of Dallas worked at Clarks Summit as a part-time consultant with patients in group settings. Charlie joined one of the groups, labeled "Today's Modern Men," during his final stay at the hospital that started in late 1999 and lasted 13 1/2 months.

Charlie immediately became a leader of the group. In addition to his imposing stature, Charlie used generosity and great care when solving problems within the group.

Swartwood, about 10 years older than Charlie, remembered the former Meyers High School standout athlete, having watched him wrestle at the District 2 tournament more than 20 years ago.

"His kindheartedness was evident then," says Swartwood, recalling a time Charlie took it easy on a clearly overmatched opponent. "I think it's a characteristic of Charlie that still stands out."

By early 2002, Swartwood planned to attend the American Occupational Therapy Association's national conference in Philadelphia. He wanted to talk about the group Charlie was in. The more Swartwood thought about it, the more effective he thought it would be to bring along a member of the group.

Discharged from Clarks Summit for more than a year, Charlie was perfect for the job.

In the car on the way to the conference, Charlie rehearsed with Swartwood what he would say. The more they talked, however, the more nervous Charlie became. So Swartwood stopped talking, figuring Charlie could do well in a question-and-answer setting.

"He stood up to that microphone and before he was done, he had people almost crying," Swartwood says.

Charlie displayed a raw honesty that shocked and moved about 100 well-placed professionals, most of whom had seen all the ugliness various illnesses caused their patients.

"You don't know how much you impact people's lives," Charlie told them.

Attendees of the conference stopped Charlie wherever he went to tell him how much he moved them. Even after he left, they came to Swartwood, asking about Charlie.

"Charlie literally stole the show," says Swartwood.

For some 10 years, Charlie had wanted to speak publicly about mental illness. This proved he could. It was something else he was good at, besides football or wrestling. Or running. He latched onto it.

"I was shaking," Charlie says of his first speaking engagement. "But I feel I'm speaking the truth and you've got to make them understand."

When Charlie returned from the conference, he spoke with Jan Mroz, a regular at National Alliance of Mental Illness meetings in Scranton. Charlie told Mroz, a computer applications teacher at Valley View High School and whose son is bipolar, he'd like a video to present when he speaks. The two developed a friendship, and Mroz and Charlie produced a 20-minute film called "The Charlie Wysocki Story: Hope and Recovery - Living with Bipolar Disorder."

Charlie's favorite part of the video is the opening. As a Van Morrison song plays, the names of famous people who suffered from mental illness, Michelangelo, Patti Duke, etc., appear. Charlie Wysocki is the final name. "Mental illness" is then highlighted in red, spelled via a letter from each notable's name.

The video consists of interviews with Charlie, who talks about coming to terms with bipolar disorder, the importance of taking medications and his quality of life. Chemlik; Charlie's psychiatrist at Clarks Summit, Dr. Robert Yager; and his former boss at Goodwill, Earl Brinkman, were also interviewed.

The video became a prologue for Charlie's speaking engagements, which became more numerous over the next two years.

"We're just two Polish guys trying to help people out," Mroz joked.

Charlie speaks at alliance meetings in Clarks Summit, in Philadelphia, at College Misericordia, even at his high school alma mater just last fall.

Charlie enjoyed being back at Meyers, where he had shown such talent and promise and made a new name for himself two decades before. But in the back of his mind, Charlie felt strange.

"I really felt bad though, due to the fact that I had a shot with the Dallas Cowboys and didn't make it. People can look at it like that, 'He didn't make it, how can he tell us anything?' "

But Charlie has plenty to tell, and he pulls no punches. His life is an open book. Go ahead, just ask.

In the summer of 2003, someone did. At a weeklong camp for diversity at Misericordia, a high school student asked Charlie if he would have had a better chance of making it with the Dallas Cowboys had he been diagnosed earlier.

Charlie paused to think.

"No, I wouldn't have wanted to change any experiences I've had," Charlie explained to the student, "because it brought me to this place and gave me a gift to give to other people."

The response floored Swartwood, listening in the back of the room.

"This is a man, (football) is all he wanted in his life, and not making it was such a powerful blow," Swartwood says. "You'd think if anything, he'd like to see things go the other way. My knees buckled when I heard that. It speaks to the greatest gift he has, to give back to others."

Charlie sat in Chemlik's small office in Carbondale in February, filling out a form for a class action lawsuit for people who had developed diabetes as a result of taking certain medications to treat mental illness.

Charlie, a diabetic, believed the suit could net him a million dollars or so.

A little grandiose thinking, but it beats imagined real estate deals with Donald Trump.

Charlie talked about getting in shape to play football for the semi-pro Scranton Eagles, for whom he played sparingly as a lineman in 2000 and 2001.

"It's not playing for the Dallas Cowboys, but it's still playing," Charlie said as he sat on a couch in his apartment. Charlie knew he could still do it, even at age 44.

A little grandiose thinking, but it beats talking about playing for the Philadelphia Eagles.

Charlie is happy to be living in the second-floor apartment on Church Street in Carbondale. The two-story home is run by Step By Step, Inc., which provides semi-independent living facilities for adults with a wide range of disabilities, including mental illness.

There is round-the-clock supervision, but Charlie can come and go as he pleases, as long as he takes his medications and is respectful of his housemates.

There are a few pictures of Charlie in his Maryland uniform hanging on the wall. He keeps dozens of the hundreds of recruiting letters he received more than 25 years ago in the drawer of a night stand.

Charlie gets by on little money. He receives $590 per month from Social Security disability payments, and the Advocacy Alliance handles his money by paying his bills. Charlie's health care is covered by his Access card.

He usually eats soup or pasta for dinner. He lives simply, watching his favorite television programs like "COPS" or "Judge Judy." Chemlik takes him and other patients of hers to the movies regularly. Charlie is also perhaps the most vocal member at Revival Baptist Church of Scranton, where he attends services every Sunday.

In mid-January, Charlie was walking out the door to get some lunch. He abruptly stopped and said, "Wait a minute, I have to take my pills."

Charlie has come a long way from hiding pills in the fireplace.

"This is living, man," Charlie says. "This is living. I've got friends. A lot of good things are happening."

By no means is Charlie cured. He never will be. But Charlie's recovery, as it stands, is unprecedented.

But why now? Why is Charlie doing so well since that fall of 1982? Since the arrests? Since the suicide attempts?

For one, Charlie has grown to understand his medications, their purpose, how they affect him and the importance of taking them consistently.

"Not only did he feel empowered with the medication, but the fact he was changing his life and not repeating the pattern he had before. ... His own input into the medications he was using was very important," says Dr. Yager.

Chemicals are just a piece to solving the bipolar puzzle. For the first time, Charlie has a wide-ranging, consistent support system. It is made up of people such as Chemlik and Mroz. Charlie speaks regularly with Andy Pappas, now retired from his psychiatric aide post at Clarks Summit (Charlie still likes to talk on the phone).

Then there's a "partial" hospitalization program he attends twice a week at Tri-County in Carbondale. There, he meets with others with mental illness to talk about a range of topics and receives therapeutic services. Charlie sees a psychiatrist usually once every three months.

Charlie also attends National Alliance of Mental Illness meetings the first Tuesday of every month without fail. Because of his difficult childhood, his promising athletic career and his two-decade battle with bipolar disorder, Charlie is often called upon to speak out about his battle with mental illness. He was featured on an hourlong television program about bipolar disorder on WVIA-TV last summer.

He was one of two recipients of scholarships to attend the Pennsylvania Mental Health Consumers Association 16th Annual Statewide Conference in June in Scranton. The scholarships are awarded annually to emerging leaders in the state's mental health consumer/survivor movement.

To Charlie, it meant as much, maybe more than the scholarship he received from the University of Maryland in 1978.

Charlie's older brother Robert, the one who used to terrorize him, the one who never offered an explanation, the one who drove Charlie from his biological family, the DeGraffenreids, now lives in Norristown State Hospital, according to Charlie.

Robert spent some time in Clarks Summit State Hospital -at one time, Robert and Charlie lived on the same floor - and the State Correctional Institution at Waymart in Wayne County.

Robert's life of crime continued when Charlie's athletic career started to blossom in 1976.

Robert, it was later learned, also suffered from mental illness. Charlie said Robert suffered from several different types, including schizophrenia and bipolar.

After so many years, the pain Robert would regularly inflict on Charlie has waned. Charlie has somehow risen above it all and wants his brother to do the same.

"I love my brother. He's family," Charlie says. "When I get some money together, I'm going to take care of him. My mom would love that.

"I want my brother to get out of the hospital."

Charlie regularly calls his old high school coach, Mickey Gorham, and has visited with him on more than one occasion. Gorham has recently had some health problems, and Charlie wants him to know how much he cares about him.

Charlie is still in Gorham's thoughts.

"I pray for him all the time that he can beat this and have a productive life," the former Meyers coach says.

Although Charlie's relationship with the Wysockis had been strained for several years, the rift seems to be closing. For the past two years, Charlie visits the Wysockis on Christmas or Thanksgiving. Charlie also talks regularly on the phone with Stan, Charlie's adoptive father.

Perhaps the ideal would be for Charlie to return to the Wysocki's Charles Street home, where he found relief, solace and hope 28 years ago. But it's not realistic.

"To be honest, we could bring him home," says Patricia Wysocki, "but he's much better (where he is) because they can regulate his medications."

The Wysockis' hopes for success and prosperity for their adopted son have been whittled down to simpler dreams.

"It feels great, knowing he can fit himself into society and he can if he really wanted to push himself a little harder," says Stan Wysocki.

Perhaps more than anything, Charlie needs a job. He was at his best when driving a forklift and performing other manual labor tasks for Goodwill in Scranton, but the facility closed almost two years ago.

A job gives Charlie's life structure, something to wake up for every day. Something to keep focused on. Something to take pride in. He's had several leads: the roadkill gig, working in a sportswear store in the Mall at Steamtown, a security officer job at Viewmont Mall are just a few.

However, they don't seem to pan out.

But Charlie, ever the optimist, takes it in stride.

"For the most part, he's resilient," Chemlik says. "It really takes a lot to get him down. ... He doesn't let things bother him as much as other people would."

Charlie says everyone asks what happened to him.

Charlie's usual response?

"It was too much of a load to carry."

"It" was a difficult childhood, leaving his biological family, an untimely ankle injury.

"It" was a lost dream.

Charlie is wearing a red golf shirt with the collar up, green sweatpants and a blue Scranton Eagles visor. He's lying on the artificial turf at Lake-Lehman High School, drained by the early evening August sun.

"That's what I'm talking about," he tells the Eagles offense after a well-executed running play during a recent practice.

"Way to look it in," he says to a pass-catcher.

Next to Charlie's leg is a folder with the words "Coach Wysocki." It holds a roster, depth chart, play diagrams and nutrition guides. He has recently been invited to be an Eagles assistant coach.

Eagles head coach Dan Lamagna heard of Charlie through a mutual acquaintance and remembered hearing about him when he played briefly with the Eagles in 2000 and 2001.

"Knowing who he was, I knew he was a good person and he could bring a lot to the team," Lamagna says. "You have to take a timeout to listen to Charlie and his stories and about life.

"It's been nothing but a positive experience having him around the football team."

Charlie isn't big on Xs and Os - he played mostly in one formation, the "I," at Meyers and Maryland. But Charlie has much more he can offer.

At a recent practice, Lamagna tells his team coach Wysocki has something to say. Charlie steps forward and looks at the sweaty men.

"This is the first time I missed a NAMI meeting in three years," Charlie tells them, "because I love you guys."

The team claps and cheers wildly.

Charlie finally realizes he's never going to be a pro football star. He knows he's never going to be perfect.

And he knows he might not get everything he wants.

But he seems to have found himself. For now, he's done running.

"I want the world to know ... Charlie Wysocki's movin' in."

Now, he can teach others how to run.

And when to stop.

NAMI PA Scranton