Dan confesses his sins to his mother then makes a request about some special clothing. During an evening visit, he confronts her about the reasons for his hospital confinement. This convinces Jane of his growing awareness. To access previous chapters, visit Jane Read’s Author Page.

Chapter 16.

JANE

   

  ‘A casual stroll through the lunatic asylum shows that faith does not prove anything.’

Friedrich Nietzsche

 

I go into the dining room with Dan, once he is called for his evening meal.  Between his roast chicken dinner and jam sponge pudding, he suddenly announces, ‘I need you to bring some white clothes in tomorrow for me, Mum. I don’t have any white jeans, so maybe you could go and buy some for me?’

I am about to point out that white clothes are not practical as they will show the dirt and need washing more often, when it dawns on me that he is dreaming up some appropriate costume for his current role. More he expects me to take this request seriously. Graham and I had in fact been planning to buy some extra clothes for Dan, having grabbed only a handful of things from his London flat in our urgency to get away, but how far should we be going with him into this delusional world? I don’t want him to remain entrenched in his beliefs or to inadvertently collude in any pretence that he is the messiah, nor do I particularly want to spend money on things that will most probably be discarded later. But at the same time, I’m anxious to make him feel that he is being listened to and his views are respected, to minimise any frustration. I wonder what Graham’s reaction will be to this latest request? I decide I will put off telling him for now.

Dan suddenly stops eating and looks at me.

‘There is a reason I can’t finish eating these potatoes!’

‘What reason is that?’ I enquire tentatively.

‘Sin!’

‘Oh I see…What type of sin? Do you feel able to talk about it?’

I hardly dare ask. I feel that I’m prying into areas of his life which under normal circumstances, he almost certainly would not be sharing with me. Deciding this probably isn’t the right moment to point out that the core tenet of Christian belief is that Jesus is without sin, I swiftly adopt my neutral, non-reactive, counsellor stance whilst Dan confesses a list of things he is ashamed of in his past; impulsive acts, sexual encounters, getting drunk, then setting off the fire alarm during the National Youth theatre training course, telling various lies to impress his peers, boasting that he’d used street drugs before, when he hadn’t and that he had previously been accepted for training at the New York Julliard school.

‘Sorry Mum,’ he places his hand very gently on my arm and gazes sincerely at me. Although what he has told me is mostly pretty mild stuff, nothing too shocking, confessing his guilty secrets appears to be a necessary process for him, probably to raise his behavioural bar higher, in keeping with his new persona. (A role which requires the spotless purity of white garments.)

Of course, I had always hoped that my children would develop good moral standards in their lives, I am after all, the one who encouraged their Church attendance in the first place, hoping it might provide them with a set of solid values to live by which ultimately would help keep them safe. But I find myself wondering in these moments about how much pressure such personal expectations might put on Dan and how unsustainable his target of perfection would be in the future. I worry that the youth camps I encouraged him to take part in might even have been the cause of some sort of subliminal brainwashing! Dan doesn’t appear at all troubled by these revelations however and is relaxed enough to finish his lunch with enthusiasm, once the confession is done.

The following day Dan’s ex-girlfriend arrives at the hospital at the same time as we do. She has stayed in touch with him and is happy to visit a few times during this hospital stay. Dan seems more ‘normal’ around Lizzy somehow, avoiding the incessant ‘god-talk’.

‘I am pretty bored in here and fully ready to go back to London now,” he tells her. “I can’t believe that I have to stay here until Monday’!

Where has this idea come from I wonder? Startled by his words, I go out of the room to ask some questions and to do some digging. I discover that when he’d requested to be allowed out, he was told by staff that nothing could be decided before the consultant’s meeting on Monday. He must have jumped to the unfortunate conclusion that this meant he might be discharged on Monday. I know that convincing him otherwise is going to be another difficult and heart-breaking challenge.

While Dan is happily occupied, chatting to Lizzy, Graham and I take the opportunity to go into town, to buy some extra clothes for him. We enter a shop displaying, ‘Up to 50% off in our Autumn Sale’ signs, in the window, and we focus on what we need to find, more underwear, socks a hoodie maybe, but he also needs T-Shirts and jeans and a few long-sleeved shirts as well.

‘Should we get white?’  I ask, ‘As he’s requested?’

Graham glances at me, a stressed look on his face.

‘I am not dressing him up as Jesus!’ he hisses through gritted teeth.

Fair enough! That said, I decide that perhaps a bit of a compromise might be the best way forward. We buy a selection of different coloured T shirts, including some white ones. (We collect his dirty washing every day and bring back clean things for him, so he isn’t likely to run out of clothes). After searching through Dan’s wardrobe at home, I come across a pair of loose, cream cotton trousers we’d bought before a summer holiday. Perhaps it won’t matter that they aren’t pure white and not actually jeans. (I’m pretty sure Jesus didn’t own any white jeans anyway.)  They will be more suitable, especially as it is so warm on the hospital ward. It helps me a little when I can focus on these small, practical tasks for my son.

We return later to find that Lizzy has gone back home, and Dan has been given more sedatives, so is sleeping. Maybe he’d got too animated again or been disturbing the other patients. We are never told why he is sedated. We leave him for a while longer, then wake him, in order to have a little time together before we leave. He seems more subdued, less certain about everything when he wakes. I am bustling about, showing him his new clothes and hanging them up in his wardrobe when he speaks out,

‘Mum, I’m not sure what is going on. What am I doing in here? Tell me the truth.’  He seems to be more aware of a disturbing reality, not a comfortable experience for him and another unexpected challenge for me too, but certainly not one I wish to duck. I know I must choose my words carefully. I sit on the bed facing him, holding both his hands in mine and looking into his eyes. (Maybe this is the breakthrough we have been waiting for?)

‘You are in here because you are unwell, Dan. It is not an illness where your body is affected, not a physical illness, but an illness in your mind.’

He goes quiet and doesn’t seem fully able to take in what I have said. Then he quickly changes the subject.

I finish putting all his clothes away and collect his discarded washing, much of which he’s simply dropped into the waste bin, using it as some sort of ironic linen basket. We walk back to join Graham, and Dan switches to talking about musicians, headphones and guitars. He keeps saying how important music is to him, picking up a plastic pack of tic-tac mints, which he uses as a percussion instrument, rattling it and shaking it vigorously as he walks around, improvising a rhythm. It is as though music is in his very soul, and he needs to play something, in order to thrive.

People noticed Dan’s innate musicality from a young age. Once he’d discovered that piano was his passion, he could listen to any piece of music once then repeat it, note for note. We arranged piano lessons for him too of course, but his formal and traditional teachers (all elderly ladies) got frustrated with him when he opted for short cuts and instead of reading the notes on the sheet music in front of him, he would play it by ear. Maybe his musical instinct was one of the reasons he could act. His detailed observation of people, his ability to reproduce their mannerisms, voices and accents aided his craft.

Dan is telling us,

‘There is a dilapidated piano in the café downstairs. It really needs tuning, but I sometimes get to play it when we are taken down there for coffees or snacks. There’s a battered guitar on the ward too, so I sometimes have a go at playing that when I can. One of the staff is teaching me some chords.’

We know how therapeutic music can be and I can predict that Graham is already considering buying Dan a guitar of his own. We are both prepared to do anything in our power, to spend any amount of money to help him survive these long days in hospital. We plan to ask Rob to download some of Dan’s favourite pieces onto an i-pod or a cassette player, something portable and easy for him to listen to as he roams around the hospital corridors.

Once outside, I relay to Graham, the serious, searching question that Dan asked me that evening. We are both tempted to feel excited by this new development but are not sure how much to read into his words. Maybe he is taking some tentative steps back into the real world and is more ready to hear the truth. Maybe we really are moving on. Shortly after we arrive back home that Friday night, the telephone rings. It is Dan, but his voice is sad and flat,

‘When you were here Mum, you know what you said about me being unwell. It shook me up a bit. I’ve got more questions.  Could you and Dad come back to the hospital to collect me? I don’t want to ask you over the phone. Can I come home so that we can talk face to face.’

I am daunted by his request. I hate to think of him struggling to work everything out on his own. But I also feel encouraged. Surely this is a significant breakthrough towards true insight. I wonder if we should go back and get him, but it is getting late and visiting time is over. Graham won’t want to drive back there this late and I know staff don’t consider him to be ready to come home yet. But at least it is the weekend. We are free to go and see him again, first thing in the morning.

His words have been some of the most rational I’ve heard him speak, since the start of this nightmare, but he also sounds confused and emotional. I so want to be with him.  I want to hold his hands in mine, looking into his eyes while I tell him how much I love him and that I will be with him, every step of the way to his recovery.

‘Hang on to all your questions, Dan. Try to get a good night’s sleep now and I promise we will be back early in the morning to answer anything you want. It really is a good sign that you are asking these things. We can spend the whole day talking tomorrow if you like.’ I ask him to fetch one of the night staff. I don’t like to think about him sitting alone with these troubling thoughts. The nurse says he’ll keep an eye on him.

We sound lighter and more hopeful during our evening phone calls with relatives and I go to bed feeling much more optimistic. Graham (always the more cautious of the two of us) gently reminds me that things could be quite different by the following day. But I don’t want to consider that possibility at all. I assure him that I’ll not build my hopes too much, but secretly I am already planning what I will say to Dan during this window of opportunity.

 

17.

JANE.

                                       

    ‘One person’s madness is another person’s reality.’

Tim Burton

 

We arrive early at the hospital the following day. But before we are even admitted through the glass security doors, I catch sight of my boy, dressed from head to toe in white, clutching his Bible in one hand as he strides up and down the corridor, his arms raised high above his head. Even before I can hear him, I read his lips and recognise his unmistakable claim.

‘I am the Way the Truth and the Life!’  and I know that the conversation I have promised to him and to myself, is going to be impossible.

He is so fired up and animated this morning. I find myself wondering if he had been given extra tranquilising meds the night before, lowering his mood, causing him to temporarily behave in a more reflective way. Perhaps the effects of the medication have worn off by now, so the deep-rooted beliefs are once again re-emerging. But I am only guessing. No-one tells us anything.

He preaches at us for quite a while, then disappears into the kitchen to make a drink, I pull out two paperback books from my bag while he is out of the room. We sometimes manage to read for short periods of time during our visits, giving us a welcome break from the intensity of the conversation. It also helps to pass the time if Dan is resting or sleeping. Today I hand over a crime novel to Graham, which I have only just finished. It’s a murder mystery, entitled ‘The Guilty One’ by Lisa Ballantyne, paralleling an ongoing investigation with the detective’s intriguing personal history. Although Graham isn’t generally an avid reader, I imagine this to be the type of book he might possibly get into and even enjoy.

If I could have predicted what was about to happen, I would most certainly have left it at home. As soon as Dan re-enters the room and notices the book in his father’s hands, he pounces in his distorted way.

‘Look at the title of that book!’ he yells pointing at it.

I launch immediately into describing what it is about for his benefit.

‘No, just look at the title!’ he repeats. ‘And look who is reading it!’

‘What are you saying Dan? I have given it to Dad to read because I’ve just finished it.’

Dan ignores me and gets louder and more agitated.

‘Confess to her!’ he yells at Graham. ‘Confess to her now! You are guilty! God is angry!’

He thumps his fists on the coffee table. Graham jerks upright, a shocked and anguished look on his face. I need to step in and challenge Dan.

‘What are you saying? What are you implying? Dad hasn’t done anything wrong!’

Whatever unfortunate conclusion Dan has arrived at with such ferocity, simply from reading the title, is astonishing. The idea that Graham might have been cheating on me or betraying me in some way is such an alien concept to us both. I realise Dan doesn’t understand what he is doing but decide I must step in and try to silence his angry accusations and come to Graham’s defence.

‘What are you saying? Dad hasn’t done anything wrong!’

He completely ignores me and turns again to his father, the shouting and demanding getting louder all the time. Staff come in to see if we need any assistance. I say that I think it is best if we abandon our visit and leave the ward for a little while, to go for a short walk and return later, when Dan is calmer. Much as I’d promised to be with him, to accompany him on his journey towards recovery, these visits are hard enough. We do not have to subject ourselves to additional torture.

Graham is distressed, quietly weeping, as we walk hand in hand, towards the town. I try to be some comfort as I know how hard it is for him not to take the things that Dan is saying personally. Besides, I feel it is all my fault for bringing the bloody book in the first place. Over the years it has been Graham’s habitual role to provide comfort and protection to me through times of distress. He has always been ready to respond to my tears and to remain ‘the strong one’. Perhaps this is my cue today, to take more of a lead. I try to lift the mood a little, by joking about our need to arm ourselves with an alternative book from Waterstones, perhaps with the title ‘Christian Discipleship’ or ‘Following Jesus,’ which Dan might approve of in his current state of mind. We will go shopping now and we will also get something to eat before we return. Neither of us have any direct experience of psychotic illness. No-one ever tells us what to expect nor how to manage it, but it dawns on me after his, that we need to protect ourselves as well as Dan. Our own suffering is relentless.

When we return to the ward, Dan is calmer. He even apologises to us for his outburst. His shouting had apparently been overheard by another patient who’d been very quiet and withdrawn since his arrival. On hearing Dan’s yells, he was alerted. asking what all the noise was about. It got him talking, which Dan saw as a positive thing, God’s way of using him to help other people on the ward to open-up and interact. Sometimes during our visits, he would suddenly hold his hand up and say,

‘Stop. Just Listen to that!’  We’d hear chattering and laughter outside in the corridors.

‘You see! Everyone is happier. I’ve got them all talking.’

Everything he says and does is for a purpose. Everything holds such profound meaning for him, and he can always rationalise his actions according to God’s plans.

Thursday evening’s visit is a much harder one. Regrettably, Graham ends up going in on his own, because I get called into work. It seems that I had completely failed to communicate to the Relate office receptionists, the magnitude of our crisis. To be honest I had little idea about how intense or how lengthy our family emergency was likely to be. I discover too late that my client sessions had been cancelled the day I phoned in but then re-booked for the following week.

Too weary to argue, and too worried about dashing the hopes of the couples involved, I go ahead with the sessions. But far from holding my usual empathy I am completely numb, unable to engage with their seemingly petty quarrels knowing that I am in the grip of a much more serious situation of my own. I spend the evening feigning empathy but constantly distracted by intrusive thoughts about the one I really care about. I explain at the end of each hour, that due to unexpected and unforeseen circumstances, and a family crisis of some seriousness, I will have to hand their remaining sessions over to another counsellor.

Graham comes to pick me up me from town and I can see instantly on his face, how hard his evening visit has been. He tells me that the atmosphere on the ward was much more unsettled that night. The police had arrived with an aggressive new admission. The visitors’ lounge was unavailable, so he and Dan had had to sit on some chairs in the open corridor to talk. Although Dan currently has no inhibitions to get in his way, Graham has plenty and his acute discomfort is quickly detected by Dan, who interprets it as further evidence of his dad’s lack of faith. He begins his merciless persecution of Graham once again, assuming that when someone comes on their own to see him, there must be a need for some ‘on-the-spot’ spiritual overhaul to take place. He was relentless, spouting hurtful things about his father being a ‘negative energy’ and ‘caring too much about money’ and ‘not having enough faith in his son’ and even being ‘the twist in the hosepipe blocking God’s holy, lifegiving water!’ Graham said he had been half-tempted to walk away at this point, but bravely persevered.

My absence had been ill-timed and regrettable. I resolve that there will be no more external distractions from now on. I am beginning to wonder if our lives will ever get back on track, or that we might end up being Dan’s carers for evermore.

 

Chapter 18.                                         

DAN               

“There is no genius free from some tincture of madness.”

Seneca

 

Monday has arrived! My brain is super-charged as the consultant’s meeting begins. Doctors, nurses, care workers, medical students my key worker and my whole family in the room, all here to listen to me. First off, I explain why I refused to take my meds last night. I know the tablets are doing nothing good for me and are not necessary, because I’m perfectly well and have never felt better. The doctor says that I am of course entitled to my opinion, but others might hold a different view.  They reckon I have a mental health condition, which will be helped by taking medication. I argue back saying,

‘But I have everything I need right here, in my hands,’ and I hold up the Bible to show them.

The consultant asks my family exactly when it was that I started saying unusual things? He talks about the option to have me sectioned if I continue to refuse to accept medication.

‘So what exactly is this ‘being sectioned’?’ I ask.

They explain. One nurse apologises to my family, saying that she did try very hard to persuade me to take my pills the night before. I interrupt again,

‘Hang on, I don’t like the sound of this, do you mean that patients are locked up and can be forced to do things they don’t want to? Like taking medication they don’t want? That’s just wrong, surely.’

The doctor repeats that he hopes they will be able to avoid it. Later my brother tells me that I do in fact have a valid point about patient rights and that these types of decisions are a daily ethical dilemma for medics. But I know that my situation is different. Mine is a much bigger concern and it is hard for people to accept but they will be forced to in the end, because it’s the truth.

The doctors mention wanting to increase my meds dose as well but say that they can’t do this without my consent. Mum asks if she might be given the chance to talk to me privately before they make any decisions about sectioning. I get quite bored after that, because my brain is working so much faster than everyone else’s. I decide to leave the meeting, to make myself a cup of tea and to play the guitar. The doctor asks if I’m happy for him to continue talking to my family without me in there?

‘Sure. Fine. No problem.’ I close the door behind me.

I can always sense when a patient is sad or upset because I am led by God to their room. I make my way to the bedroom of a new guy who is very depressed. I greet him. He’s been crying but he looks up when I come in,

‘Are you my brother?’ he asks me through his tears.

‘Yes, I am your brother,’ I confirm, placing my hands on his shoulders.  (I see all the patients on the ward as my brothers now.) I give him a hug, then leave. This is just the sort of healing God will use me for in this place.

Later Mum comes into my room to collect my washing. She points out that I’ve changed my shirt five times already that day and that maybe their buying me new clothes has given me a bit too much choice. She picks up the two photos she brought in the other day and stares at them. She seems to be thinking hard.

‘I am just looking at the ‘strong’ Dan in this photo;’ she says. ‘I am wondering if taking your meds might help you to be stronger still, to help build you up to do God’s will and follow God’s plans in the future. Do you think it might be best to follow the advice of the doctors. I need to trust you to do this Dan, even when I am not around to remind you.’

Whenever people look me in the eyes and smile when they speak to me, I know for certain that they are telling the truth.

‘What you have said is true,’ I reply. ‘I will do it.’

Mum seems a bit surprised as well as relieved and suggests I go and tell the nurse my decision right away. So even though it’s mid-afternoon, I swallow them. They make me quite sleepy. Mum kisses me and says they will come back later when I am awake again. I feel very calm.

We talk a lot about music on their next visit and I tell them how much I need a guitar of my own as the ward one is not always available. (I’m hoping Dad might be willing to splash out on one right away.) Rob has already put some of my favourite pieces onto an i-pod and I’ve been given some headphones, so at least I have something to listen to. Kate, the prettiest nurse on the ward, takes us all out, for a walk around the grounds. I feel really happy. When we get back inside, I say to Mum,

‘Kate is beautiful, isn’t she? God has told me that she’s the girl I am going to marry. But she doesn’t know it yet. I’ve been dressing smartly in my new clothes for her.

The following morning, I phone Dad to remind him that the guitar is becoming an urgent requirement. I tell him that it’s something to help me pass the long hours in hospital, (but I’m also thinking I need it for the purpose of serenading Kate and winning her heart. I am already planning to write some original love songs for her.)

My parents arrive at three and staff agree that I can go into town with them, provided they feel confident enough to take me there by themselves. I start to laugh,

‘What do you think I am going to do?  Run away?’

So, we set off to Banks, the big music shop in town, to buy my guitar. The walk is another opportunity for some intense ‘God talk,’ aimed mainly at Dad. I can tell that he’s uncomfortable when I mention the ‘G’ word because he always tries to change the subject. This just makes me all the more determined to get through to him because I can detect any doubt or scepticism in people’s facial expressions. I’ll have to work on him for a bit longer. He tries to steer me towards talking about guitars rather than God. But as guitar begins with the letter ‘G’ I decide it is an acceptable topic of conversation.

When we get to the music store, I begin trying out all the guitars on display and some of the pianos too. I’m searching for one that looks smart and has a decent resonance and tone. Mum is urging Dad to quickly give me an upper price limit as a guideline, but I know that equipping myself with the right instrument for the work ahead of me is much more important than any money considerations. Dad seems to understand this, and he encourages me to take my time and try them out as many as I like and also reminds me to ask plenty of questions. There is one guitar I keep going back to. It looks special and has a nice mellow tone. This the one I choose in the end. Dad seems to think the price is acceptable. He buys me a strap and a case for it as well, a plectrum and a book about learning basic chords.

We have a coffee in town afterwards and Mum goes off to buy something that Em wants for Christmas. After a while, Dad starts panicking, phoning her, telling her to hurry back because they’ve promised the hospital staff that I’ll be back by five. I reassure him that there’s no rush. I’m dead proud of my new guitar and I’m delighted to see Lizzy again, who’s there waiting for me in the foyer of the hospital. She’s been doing a health and beauty training at college and has promised to give me an Indian head massage.

Things are starting to look up.

While she works on my scalp, I’m telling her important facts about social media and Facebook and what God doesn’t like about them and I’m instructing her to make sure she deletes all her accounts. I’m aware that she still fancies me, which is why she keeps visiting, I suppose.  Although I do respect her loyalty, I will have to break the news to her that I can never be hers, due to the fact that Kate is destined to be my future bride.

I get hungry most days between meals. There is a café downstairs where I could buy some snacks, if I had any money on me. Everyone likes to hang out with me down there and listen to me playing the piano. I need someone to bring my wallet in. The meals in hospital don’t fill me up and I can’t always get seconds so I’m constantly hungry.

‘I mean what’s that all about? Not feeding patients properly. How can they be expected to get better if they are not well fed?’

Staff in this hospital mainly think that the patients here are insane. In fact, most of them aren’t, they just need listening to.’

Mum asks what I’m thinking about myself now, the reason I am in here and if I have any questions.  I pause.

‘One thing I do want to know is when I can stop taking the medication. I don’t need it because I am perfectly well. It doesn’t do anything for me. It only makes me hungry and makes me fart.  I keep taking it because everyone seems to want me to, but then I just fart it all straight out as I walk down the corridor, so what is the point?’

I see Mum glancing at Lou. I think they are trying not to laugh.

‘But I’m looking forward to Christmas and being at home with the family again,’

On Saturday Rob and Louise take me into York to buy a birthday card for Mum. It feels good to get out into the fresh air but being in town soon sends me into a panic. I am overwhelmed by the crowds and the sights, sounds and smells of the shops. Everything is so loud and so busy, I get quickly exhausted and start breathing fast. Maybe Mum’s right. Maybe I really am ill! I didn’t used to find town a problem. I can’t even walk past the strong-smelling soap shop, ‘Lush’, so we all have to cross over the road. Then I’m avoiding HMV because the music is way too loud. I hear Rob say to Lou that they’ll ‘grab any old card and get straight back’. I get my headphones out of my bag and put them on to shut out the noise then I feel a bit calmer. There must be a simple explanation for my panic. Maybe God is teaching me something important about the evils of consumerism. I hold tightly onto Rob’s arm as we walk back to the hospital. I am quite honestly relieved to get back to the safety of the ward.

When Mum and Dad visit me, I am in the bath, trying to relax after the trauma of the morning’s outing. I get dressed again and wrap Rob’s black woollen scarf around my neck which he left with me this morning. It is soft and comforting. I rest for a while with my head on Mum’s lap. Then I suddenly jump up saying, ‘I am fine now.’ I feel quite as refreshed as if I’d had a much longer sleep.

‘I have been thinking about when I went into town this morning. It was a bit strange. I’m thinking maybe I have been ill but I’m feeling a lot better now and I’m ready to get out of here’. ‘I really don’t need the medication. I’ve been thinking that I’ll probably stop taking meds altogether once I’m out.’

Dad looks panic stricken and shifts uncomfortably in his seat.  He launches in with his arguments, dictating that if I do mess things up, I will have a relapse and be thrown out of drama school. I hate it when he talks at me in this negative way.

‘It’s as simple as this. If you don’t take your medication. You can’t be an actor!’

I am about to fight back when I’m called into the canteen for my evening meal, so I leave them alone to go and eat. My energy is fully restored after tea and I spend the remaining time chastising my parents and trying to shake them up by telling them a few home truths, like the fact that they are old-fashioned people with boring personalities and their voices are boring too. I tell them God wants them to, ‘Wake up, and learn the truth through your son.’

I pause briefly then announce, ‘I can see that I might well be in here until Christmas because that is probably how long it will take for you guys to get it.’

They smile, sigh, give me a hug and leave, saying they will come and see me again tomorrow. I think, ‘Sod it! What’s the point? Let them stay blind.’

I grab my guitar to make music with some of my fellow prisoners.

 

Chapter 19.                                                               

JANE  

                  

                      ‘Sanity is very rare. Almost every man and every woman has a dash of madness.’

Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

 

Em is quite fearful of seeing her brother again and so far, she has opted out of any hospital visits. Keeping her distance and protecting herself from involvement, putting her energies into maintaining some normality and routine in her life is most probably her way of surviving the relentless nightmare which she can see is consuming her parents.

By the end of November, I do manage to persuade her to come with us.

‘You don’t have to go inside the ward or anything if you don’t want, but we are planning to take Dan out for a meal, maybe to the ‘Gourmet Burger Kitchen’, (a bit posher than MacDonalds) which I am sure you’d enjoy too’. She looks down and is very hesitant as she thinks about it.

‘Dan’s recovery will be quite a long process Em. There won’t be one magical day where we can say he’s better. He’ll be coming home soon for some short visits, so you won’t be able to avoid him for much longer. Anyway, I’m sure he’d appreciate seeing you again.’

‘Ok, I’ll come if you want, but I’ll probably just sit there in silence and not say anything.’

‘That’s ok my love. Entirely your choice.’

We drive to Bootham. I go inside to collect Dan. Graham waits near to the car with Em. I’ve let the hospital staff know that he won’t be needing his evening meal today. As we step outside, I am relieved to see him greet his sister warmly. He mentions that he’s missed her and he compliments her on how pretty she looks. But as we walk down the long the hospital driveway, he suddenly gravitates towards Graham once again, with his energetic god-talk and his ‘urgent mission’ voice. He is shouting and slamming his fist into his palm.

Em hangs back and starts to cry. I quickly join her and she turns to me,

‘You see! This is why I didn’t want to come.’

‘Wait here, Em. I’ll go and ask him to stop.’ But Dan ignores my words initially and continues his rant. I can feel Graham’s stress levels rising.

‘You guys are my rock, and I need you to be on my side.’ Dan is shouting. He grows so animated and so agitated that he doesn’t even notice that he has stepped into the path of an oncoming car. Graham grabs his arms and pulls him back onto the kerb, then bursts into shocked tears. This show of emotion seems to soften Dan just a little and he stops yelling. I rush across to join them.

‘We are your rock Dan. whatever happens and whoever you say you are, even if that changes every day, we will be with you every step of the way,’ I say, trying to soothe him and Graham and Em, all at the same time.

Graham holds onto Dan and repeats how much he loves him and wants him to stay safe whilst looking into his eyes. (He is learning fast!) This type of body language has a powerfully transforming effect on our son and everything seems to change from that moment on. Graham had been about to abort the outing and turn back to the hospital, worried about getting back before they cleared away the evening meal. Dan calls out,

‘Well come on, who’s for a tasty burger treat then? Let’s go!’ rubbing his hands eagerly and turning back to put his arm around his sister.

I slip my hand into Graham’s and whisper that I think we’ll be ok now because he seems happy with what’s been said. I’m confident it will be safe to carry on. Usually, my husband will take the lead and play the role of decision maker. But today he clings so tightly to my left hand as we walk, it begins to hurt. I realise he needs me to transmit my strength to him in this situation and to communicate plenty of reassurance. He is still hesitant, ‘But what if he kicks off in the street or in the restaurant?’ he whispers.

‘Well we will head straight back if he does,’ I say. ‘We have to try. We have to start somewhere.’

But I can feel that Dan’s mood and focus have changed. He is walking quite close beside Em, chatting naturally to her about her ‘A’ levels and Sixth form choices and asking how her GCSE revision is going. However frightened Em is inside, she’s doing her best to answer naturally and actively encouraging the conversation to continue. Dan remembers to ask about her school skiing trip. which is coming up at the end of term. She mentions the current lack of snow at the resort but that she is hoping there will be more by the time they get there. Dan jokes about their plight, comically miming a thwarted attempt to ski without snow, holding his imaginary ski sticks in his hands and dragging his feet awkwardly behind him to make Em laugh.

He doesn’t mention his god-obsessions to Em, not even once, and we find this to be the case, both on this first outing, and during all his future interactions with her. He somehow manages to remain her comical and affectionate big brother throughout the evening, sharing little family jokes and memories and increasing our confidence that we really will be able to manage him at home after his discharge.

Because Emily is feeling more comfortable around her brother, she agrees to go inside the hospital at the end of the evening, to see his room and to have a look at his new guitar. We spend about twenty minutes in there, say our goodnights to Dan, then set off for home.

Back at the car, we compliment our teenage daughter on how brave and grown up she had been that day. But never one to crave the limelight, she simply tells us not to be so patronising.

 

Chapter 20

DAN

 

“I would say that any behaviour that is not the status quo is interpreted as insanity, when in fact it might actually be enlightened.”

                                                                   Chuck Palanuik

 

 

Mum collects my washing. I put on my coat and grab my new guitar. It’s here, the day of my first visit home. I can’t wait to set foot in the house again. I feel as though I’ve been away for years and years. The dog rushes into the hallway to greet me, a flurry of furry panting and tail wagging. I shout upstairs to Em that I’ve arrived, then I sit straight down at the piano and begin to play to my heart’s content. When I stop, Mum and Dad are standing there in the doorway, both in tears and I’m guessing it’s because of the Einaudi I’m playing which was the entry piece Rob and Lou chose for the start of their wedding day. I take out my guitar to demonstrate a few of the chords I’ve learned recently but I’m soon drawn back to the piano again.

It feels amazing to be eating proper food once more and I am extra hungry today, so I eat a second and a third helping. Rob and Lou arrive to see me and after tea we watch Em’s choice of film. Mum opens a box of chocolates to celebrate my first visit home. I just can’t stop hugging everyone. Tom phones me later in the evening to ask me about life in hospital and to check that I’m still taking my meds regularly. I tell him,

‘I am. But I’m not sure why, or what they actually do’.

Too soon, it’s seven thirty and time to go back to Bootham. The afternoon has flown by so quickly but I’m ok, because they’ve told me they’ll come and pick me up for another home visit tomorrow.

There is just not enough to do in the hospital and the hours seem to drag until they arrive. After lunch we go out for a dog walk, and I tell them I’m ready to get back into using my phone and my laptop again.

‘I’m worried about being out of touch with people for long. I want to get in contact with the agents who’ve shown an interest in me. Agents aren’t the sort of people who’ll wait around,’ I tell them.

 

Dad says he will help me draft out the message to drama school admin for the time being. They have offered to deal with all the agency stuff apparently, so I don’t need to worry. They seem pleased that I am talking about drama school and agents and not God for once, so I think I’ll try and keep it that way a bit more from now on.

When I sit down to start wording the emails, I find it impossible. Just opening my laptop makes my brain become frazzled once again. Perhaps I’m not ready for technology back in my life yet, or maybe it’s really God who is telling me not to get involved with it. I ask if I can stay home for dinner as well, so Mum rings the ward.

Later I have a conversation with my nan on the phone. She tells mum afterwards that she thinks there’s nothing much wrong with me at all.  She’s right of course. Dad shows me some of the printouts describing my condition. They contain a bunch of medical words, and I struggle to read them. Besides, I know that my case is unique and doesn’t fit with any of the usual theories.

‘I understand now why I had to be locked up for a bit. I think I was a bit over-excited and a bit too loud before. But it is not the medication calming me down, I’m learning the self-control by myself. I’m finding out how God wants me to behave. He is teaching me that I don’t need to worry or to rush around quite as much. Maybe I wasn’t looking after myself very well at drama school.’

After tea I walk into the lounge, where I catch a news report on TV, about the rivers in York rising and bursting their banks, after all the heavy rain we’ve had. Some of the pubs on the edge of the Ouse have been completely flooded again.

‘Look at that! It is so genius what God is doing!’ I yell. ‘By flooding the pubs, he’s showing all the drinkers and the alcoholics that it is time to stop. I knew there was a storm coming!’  (For some reason no-one else in the family seems to share my excitement.)

A few days on I am visiting home again. Dad is in the loft space at the top of the house, stressing about some damp patch which has appeared in the corner of Em’s bedroom ceiling. He’s cursing the fact that he’ll have to call a plumber and find out where the leak is from. He is slinging bags and boxes of stuff, out of the loft, onto the landing. At the same time, Mum is trying to rescue her precious Christmas items, grabbing each of them as they appear and quickly moving them into the spare room, out of Dad’s way to prevent them ending up in the dustbin. It is quite entertaining to watch, but I know it is my job to bring peace to the situation.

‘Why are you getting worked up about this small problem? These things aren’t important. They are not worth getting cross about. Chill the pair of you! Relax! All will be well!’

Em is getting ready to take part in a school presentation about her recent trip to Romania. She’s been showing us some of the slides she prepared and playing us the music she’s downloaded, to accompany them. It’s almost time for me to go back to the ward, but I tell Mum that it is getting harder to return to hospital after my visits home. God then quietly reminds me that Jason (one of the new admissions) is very lonely and he needs someone kind around to listen to him, so perhaps I had better get back after all. (I am also anticipating that I might get to see that good looking nurse, Katie, if it happens to be her shift. So, there’s enough to look forward to.)  I spot a ukulele lying on the window seat when I go back on the ward, so I pick it up and start to strum. Mum is fussing about whether I want an extra pillow for my bed. I tell her I’m fine. I have everything I need.

By the weekend, Em is out, so Mum and Dad take the opportunity to drive me into York to buy new jeans. They didn’t get any on their last shopping trip, because I needed to be there, to try them on. I’ve lost weight over the past few weeks. I tell them on the way to town that being cooped up in a mental hospital all week is driving me completely mad.

‘No-one listens to anyone in that place. I want to get out of there as soon as I can.’

But then I start to feel stressed and panicky as soon as we get inside the clothes store, with its harsh lighting and loud music. The first things I try on are no good at all and I want to give up quickly and get away. Eventually we find a pair of jeans that fit. Mum points out that because I’ve been dressing and undressing so erratically, I’ve managed to use four separate fitting rooms in the process, leaving my stuff strewn all over the shop floor.  I gradually become calmer and more acclimatised to the shopping experience, so then I get quite carried away, seizing the most expensive and the most stylish things off the rails, nice jackets, hoodies and really cool clothes. I’d happily buy everything I see after that. I tell them I want a smart outfit for my trip to London on Saturday. My parents suddenly look panic stricken.

‘Pardon? What did you say?’

‘I want to go to see my friends again.’

‘We understand, but we don’t think you are ready to travel to London by yourself Dan. Remember how stressful busy cities are for you just now. Even a visit to the shops like this is quite difficult for you. Maybe you’ll be more ready for a trip like that by the New Year.’

I can’t quite believe I have lost all the independence I enjoyed, such a short time ago. I wish that everyone could start to trust me a bit more. I should at least, be allowed out into the hospital grounds without a chaperone.  I’m tired of feeling like a prisoner.

But then they march me swiftly along the busy streets of York to return me to my prison.