Dan grieves his loss of confidence and struggles to continue with his training. He makes a significant decision by the end of the chapter. To access previous chapters, visit Jane Read’s Author Page.

Chapter 30.

DAN

        

  ‘Insanity is often the logic of an accurate mind, overtasked.’

Oliver Wendell Holmes

 

 My second day back goes well, I think. I play the piano, some post-war pieces that we’ve been given to accompany our project about Old London Town. Even the harsh director seems relatively pleased with me and singles me out to the others in the group,

‘You will notice that Dan has learned all his lines as well as perfecting his piano pieces. You can probably tell that he has worked with me before!’

But quite soon I start worrying that I’m not being given enough ‘notes’ I seriously doubt that my performances really are flawless. I suspect that I am being handled with ‘kid gloves’ because they know I am still in recovery. Tutors and directors are probably trying to keep the pressure off me to begin with. Dad says I don’t need to worry either way, as I’ve already passed this particular module and can just regard it as a trial run, to get me back into acting again.

Most weeks Mum stays with me and sometimes Dad, then I tell them that I want to challenge myself and try to be on my own from now on. I don’t feel particularly confident about this plan though. Something is different about me these days, perhaps it’s something to do with the side effects of the meds. I manage ok until the week I develop a bad cold, an ordinary virus, just a touch of ‘man flu’. I phone in sick, but three days later I still haven’t been able to face going back to class. I put off telling my parents, knowing that they will probably try and push me to get up and carry on, but they guess anyway. I end up sobbing down the phone.

“I hate myself, I really don’t think I can do this anymore. I’ve had enough. I just want to come home!”

Instead of allowing me to give up and retreat, back to York, Dad decides to take the early morning train to London to come and join me. He arrives before I’m even out of bed, determined to help me find the courage to venture back into drama school and to finish my course.

He provides me with masses of encouragement, tempting meals on my return each day, evening walks along the river and a welcome structure to my day. It helps a lot to have someone there when I get back from training, so either Dad or Mum stays with me for the remaining weeks, until the project is completed.

A few weeks after that, we return to London to find a flat to rent for my final year. We know things don’t stay on the market for long in London, so we’ll have to choose quickly and put a deposit on something right away. Mum and dad want to get one with a second bedroom so that they can come and stay to check on me regularly. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but I guess they are going to need plenty of reassurance after everything that has happened.

We take a week’s holiday in Tenerife, and the remainder of the summer is taken up with barbecues and social gatherings. On the day of the Prom, Em’s friends come for a photo shoot in our garden. I admire the line-up of beautiful young ladies creating a rainbow of colours with their long dresses, styled hair and glittering accessories. They appear to me to be grown up, glamorous women but the lads lining up beside them, look more like awkward schoolboys, uncomfortable in their smart suits and stiffly gelled hairstyles.

My mood is ‘stable’, but I still feel that I am lacking the sharpness and the ability to be free that I’d enjoyed so much before. Every morning, I struggle to get myself going and being left to sleep or rest always comes as something of a relief. My daily, habitual mood level can at best be described as one of quiet passivity and I am resigned to the fact that this will probably be me for ever. I know I will never again be the instigator of rapid, witty conversations with others. I can’t seem to sustain my positive moods for very long.

Mum tells me to try to let go of those elusive ‘good feelings’ the longing to be the ‘life and soul’ of the party, (which I now miss so badly). It’s been such a difficult uphill struggle to get me as far as here. But there is still further to go, and despite everyone being convinced that things will continue to improve, I believe I have lost something precious and that loss will be permanent.

Whereas my willingness to talk about my illness and to laugh at things I said and did when manic is helpful to those around me, I soon find myself wanting to distance myself from it all and I’m sometimes tempted to minimise what happened or to dismiss it altogether. My family say they need me to recognise what the early warning signs would be if I became ill again, but I really don’t want to be defined by my psychosis and some days I prefer to pretend that it never happened at all.

I continue to see my consultant and my key worker, right up until the start of the Autumn term. Everyone is encouraging me about my return to London, and they make statements about me being amongst the top one percent of recovery rates after psychosis, but this means nothing to me. As far as I am concerned, I’m not the same person as I was before and as September approaches, my doubts have multiplied.

I am determined to return to London by myself this time, to start the term independently. Mum and Dad respect my wishes and are also aware that they also need to get back to their jobs and their own lives and to be more present to offer support to my sister as she begins her A’ level studies.

I make my own arrangements for my twenty-first birthday party and celebrate in Hammersmith with students from my previous year group who remained in the City, as well as some of my new friends. I contact the two agents who had expressed interest in me last year, to see if I can reinstate the interviews with them, to let them know that I am back in action. (But I’m not sure they even remember who I am.) Some of my peers who graduated in the summer, are already beginning to get jobs in TV or theatre. I don’t want to be left behind. Mum and Dad are quite pleased that I’m showing some initiative and taking back control of my life.

Once my mistaken belief in myself as the Messiah dissolved, I begin to realise that my faith had also dwindled away to almost nothing. People still tell me they are praying for me, but only the faintest shadow of belief remains. I have no desire to go to church at all. I am coming to the conclusion that religion is a human creation, born out of our helplessness and need. Once I adopt this opinion, it seems safer to steer away from the spiritual stuff completely for the time being.

Rehearsals for the first production of the term are beginning. I am ok with the smaller part I’ve been given, as the marine doctor in ‘A Few Good Men’, but I’m not as busy nor as occupied as I would have liked to have been. During breaks I tend to hang out in the cloakroom, or skulk in the costume store, to avoid having to go into the common room. Handicapped by my now, boring personality and my inability to engage with others when off-stage, I feel more comfortable when armed with a script to hide behind. At least that provides me with lines to say. I am not satisfied with my performance in the main scene, which is a short, but crucial part of the plot. I seem to have lost confidence to make the bold choices I needed in acting.

The night before I am due to meet with another agent, I stand and stare at myself in the mirror for a long while, wondering where the decisive, self-assured Dan has gone, the vibrant and powerful person I can distinctly remember being. My need for him to return is so strong, that without telling anyone what I am doing, I take the decision that night, to stop taking my meds.