Dan has a significant breakthrough in his understanding but feels constantly depressed and is struggling.  He starts some routine activities and eventually manages a trip back to London to watch his friends in the musical. To access previous chapters, visit Jane Read’s Author Page.

Chapter 28

DAN 

   

‘How do you take away from a man his madness, without taking away his identity?’

      William Saroyant

It’s Friday and I have arrived at Rob’s studio. I plonk myself down on the piano stool, headphones on and start to try to focus on composing something. Mid way through the morning, I stop, remove my headset and look at my brother. (I’ve always trusted Rob to tell me the truth)

‘What is this thing called again, this thing I’ve got?’

‘It’s Psychosis’ he replies, so then I ask,

‘So, if I’ve had ‘psychosis’, what does that make me? ‘Crazy?’ ‘Bipolar?’  ‘Schizophrenic?’ or what?’

‘I don’t think the labels matter that much. You are doing well now bro. Just concentrate on getting completely better, then you can put it all behind you and get on with your life again.’

I appreciate his words because I don’t want to think of myself as some sort of sick ‘psycho.’ Nor do I want the stigma of a very negative-sounding life-sentence hanging over me. But I am starting to believe that I really have been ill. Everything was so easy for me before. Now I feel as though I’m wading through sinking sand. Maybe the meds are to blame. I have no choice other than to stay on them for the time being, while I try and work out how to get through each day.

By Tuesday my DBS checks are completed, so I start my voluntary work with the Learning Support Department. I step reluctantly into the classroom feeling awkward and embarrassed. Finding myself back in my old school makes me feel as though my life is moving backwards instead of forwards. I notice how slowly time creeps by while I perch on the small chairs in the little classroom. I keep glancing at the clock and waiting for the lesson to end. (Maybe the kids are all doing the same!) I feel sure that I have become a very dull and uninteresting person to be around, but despite my negative view of myself, the kids seem enthusiastic about sitting next to me!

“Yessss” they hiss, pulling a spontaneous fist pump, when I walk into their class.

“Can I sit next to sir today, pleeeease?” they beg, straining forwards, with their hands up in the air. (I wonder who they are referring to at first. It is weird to discover that they mean me!)

I have another meeting with Leo, my care co-ordinator and tell him that I am finding it harder and harder to tell people who I really am. He asks if perhaps I’m beginning to question things a little bit which he says is a good sign and is what needs to happen, but inside, I am resisting the changes. My beliefs are the only things that give me a sense of purpose. The idea that they might be false, through some absurd trick of the mind, is unbearable.

Over tea I talk to Mum and Dad about my sad mood and the doubts I have been having. Em promptly picks up her plate of food and marches off to eat alone in the living room. Can’t say I blame her! Once the door has closed, I break down in tears,

‘I hate how I feel. It’s like I have no purpose anymore. But the thing making me the most upset is that I’ve realised that….that  the things that I said… the things that I believed… are not true.’

Mum and Dad are crying now. They say that although they understand this realisation is painful for me, it is something they have been hoping for.

‘I have been doubting it for about a week or more and even now, there is a part of me that still wants to carry on believing what I did before.’

It feels something of a relief to have told them though. We talk for a while longer, then we go into the lounge to join Em, so that she is not left on her own all evening. The next morning, I wake up, expecting to feel happier and lighter and less burdened, but I don’t. I feel flat and empty and more depressed than ever. Dad is getting ready to go to work around midday,

‘Will you be alright on your own until mum gets back?’

I burst into tears of panic. He is surprised at my apparent helplessness but agrees to stay home to keep me company.

‘Before this, I knew who I was and where I was going, but now I feel as though I have lost everything.’

I can’t even face going to the gym or to my piano lesson, which was meant to be this afternoon. When Mum gets home, she takes one look at me and rings to cancel it. I wonder if I will ever want to do anything ever again.  I can’t eat much. I am miserable and lethargic, until late evening.  Tom phones to encourage me, saying that my breakthrough in understanding, this insight is ‘really important progress’ but to me, it just feels like a dead end.

I drag myself through the week to Friday. Once I’m in the studio I just sit and sob all morning, so Rob abandons the planned composing session and sits close to me to listen to my thoughts. He tries so hard to comfort me and decides to take me out for lunch instead. I try to eat something for his sake. Then he drives me back to the station and puts me on an earlier train home.

‘This isn’t like me. Why can’t I even enjoy a day’s work at Rob’s studio anymore? I normally look forward to being with him and with the team.’

My mood picks up, very slightly by evening.  I say to my parents that I really can’t imagine being back at drama school at all if I am still feeling like this.

“With zero confidence, how will I ever do any acting again?” They tell me that I don’t need to even think about it yet, as it is still months off.  I ask mum how long she thinks this depression will last. She says she doesn’t know but is sure that it is only a temporary stage of the illness and that it will pass. I want to read any books and articles to learn more about it. I google the name of the drug I’m on, ‘Olanzapine’ and I read about how other people hate being on it too. Some of them describe graphically how it has ruined their lives!

The following day we hear news that Cath is in labour and that their baby boy will be arriving very soon. At midday on the twenty-first of January, Tom phones to tell us that baby Christopher has arrived safely, weighing nine pounds, six and a half ounces and both Cath and my new nephew are doing fine. Tom sounds happier than I’ve ever heard him and I really want to be excited for him too, but I feel nothing at all, just emptiness. All of my feelings seem to have been used up. I do a bit of furniture shifting at school that afternoon to pass the time, then some backstage work for the drama department.

Dad is taking us all to visit the new baby. Christoper is so small and so perfect, with soft tufts of strawberry-blond hair and deep blue eyes. I hold him in my arms for a long time. For some reason, my feelings are ones of sadness and as I cradle him against me, I start crying again and apologising to everyone, but at least I am feeling something! I know my family are worrying about me now instead of enjoying the new arrival. Mum suspects that I won’t have eaten for a few hours as I’ve been working at school all day and I’m probably hungry. Sometimes I really can’t tell if I am or not. I often simply forget to eat these days.

Tom offers to go out to buy some fish and chips. He takes me with him so that we can chat on the way. Dad drives us to the chippy. We leave Mum and Em to talk to Cath and hear the full account of her labour and Em takes some photos of little Christopher with her new camera. At least they seem to be enjoying the special occasion a little bit more. Tom is so understanding about my depression. He says he knows how paralysing it can be. He remembers well how it felt. Now I am burdened with guilty feelings on top of everything else, feeling regret for failing to show my brother more understanding during the times that he was struggling.

Gradually, over time, I adapt to the activities that have been arranged for me and settle into a predictable pattern as the weeks go by. The new challenges, though difficult to enter into, prove a welcome distraction, giving me something to think about other than myself. But I can’t seem to get excited about anything anymore, not about the prospect of returning to drama school, not about the new baby, not even the new flat screen TV which Dad bought for us all, to put in the upstairs lounge. It feels as though I am existing rather than living. I’m just about getting through each day. ‘Is this it?’ I wonder. ‘Will this be me for ever?’

Another annoying problem is that my nerves seemed to affect my stomach muscles. I feel quite stressed when I get up in the morning. Often, I will gag on my breakfast. Sometimes I throw up after eating. The doctor says this isn’t a known side effect of the medication, so maybe it’s just me! We have been told that trauma can be another cause of psychosis.  Although we wrack our brains, we really can’t recall many actual traumas in my childhood, but mum organises twelve sessions with a local trauma therapist she knows of, just in case. This helps me process stuff, especially the remembered stresses of drama school. But some days I just sit and weep through these sessions. (I worry about wasting everyone’s time and money when that happens!)

Weirdly, one thing I do enjoy, is telling mum the stories of what happened to me when I was manic, describing to her everything that was going on inside my head during that time. I recall more and more detail about the events which lead up to my episode. I am enthusiastic and engaged as I describe them, remembering the good feelings, because I miss them so much since their disappearance. Dad is quite uneasy about this activity though. He worries that it might trigger something in me again and even drag me back into my delusional world. So, I we select our times carefully and talk when Dad is at work, or busy in the garden or kitchen. Mum just asks me a couple of questions to start me off, then I take up the account.

I later discover an interesting email from two students in the second year, who tell me that they are looking forward to me joining their year group in June. They mention that they were inspired by my words when all the undergrads met up for the end of term barbecue. I think I’d been saying something to them about needing to be free and learning to live in the moment, in order to be a really good actor. (Some pretentious crap like that anyway). Mum laughs when I tell her that I’ve messaged them back telling them not to take too much notice of what I was saying last term, because I was completely psychotic at the time!

Eventually I do arrange to go to London. A short trip initially, just to see if I can do it by myself. Carl offers to organise a lunch with some of our year group, but I tell him I’m not ready for anything big. I’d rather just meet with a couple of friends this first time. Dad buys me a breakfast bagel at York station. I find out later that he’d been preparing to get himself a last-minute train ticket, in order to come with me, if I couldn’t face travelling alone. I start to realise what a selfless and supportive dad he really is. I misjudged him before. My ideas about him were distorted. Although I am admittedly nervous, I do want to do this trip on my own if possible. I have done these train journeys plenty of times before. I am relaxed about the travel side of things.

It turns out to be a positive step. I even pop into the drama school office to speak to the principal, (which feels pretty brave). She suggests that I join the new class for the six-week script-devising exercise in June. This is similar to the one I completed in my second year so she says I can afford to be completely relaxed about it as I’ve already passed this module. It will be a good opportunity to get to know the year group I’ll be working with in September. It seems like a sensible idea, but already I can feel myself tensing up. I wonder how I will fit in with a completely new set of actors who have already spent two years bonding with one another. I’ll be the outsider. I buy myself a ticket for the musical, ‘Parade’ which is the last event of the term. I choose a night when the majority of my actor friends will be in the cast. Dad even books a hotel room for me near to the theatre, so that I don’t need to worry about trains or taxis late at night. When I go backstage to meet the cast at the end of the performance, I am virtually mobbed. They seem genuinely excited to see me, and I feel a bit like a celebrity as they grab hold of me and hug me and say it’s the best day ever because I’m back. I’m genuinely touched because I had no idea that they’d missed me so much.

Rob got invited to the Baftas earlier in the year, having composed the music for a nominated short film, he messaged Mum and Dad from his seat;

‘So, I am sitting at the top of the Royal Albert Hall, having just walked the length of the red carpet. I think this is all because of you Mum and Dad.  You are the absolute best, most supportive parents in the world. I want to say thank you for all you have done and all you continue to do.’

They shed some tears as they read and I find myself wishing I was at the Albert Hall being awarded a Bafta. I vow that one day I’ll achieve something significant to make my family proud.

That evening, after the musical. I’m back in my hotel, so I write them a message of my own,

 

‘So! I’m sitting here in my posh hotel room, feeling happy, after watching a great performance. I’ve had something to eat and I’m now relaxing in front of the TV.

            This is all thanks to you two, Mum and Dad. You are my rock.’  

 

That one made them cry too apparently.