Our son was in his final year at drama school when we were plunged headlong into a protracted nightmare. He developed the unshakeable belief that he was God’s Messiah, destined to lead a world-changing revolution and possessing power to breathe life and healing into anyone he met. Dan was a talented actor and a convincing performer. Some assumed that what was happening to him was nothing more than an exciting conversion experience. He had been trained at one of the world’s leading drama academies. He knew how to stay in role even though the part he played was an unusual one.

It became clear that our own lives would be on hold until our son had recovered but we had no idea how long this might take, how inadequate mental health treatments would prove to be, nor how many replays of this nightmare were ahead. Throughout this traumatic time, I kept a detailed diary of events as they took place. Once Dan had gained insight, he described to me everything that he had believed while in the grip of his psychosis. He told me his story and I wrote it down. The narrative is a combined, completely true account of what happened between 2012 and the present day.

It is a story of the relationship of a mother and her son and the love and commitment of a family who navigate this crisis together and refuse to give up. It is a compelling tale of humour, irony and the search for truth. Our hope is that it will be helpful to those undergoing similar journeys. Dan’s account gives a glimpse of what it is like to experience the extremes end of mental illness and my reflections share something of the heartache of being a carer.

 

My Son was the Messiah

by Jane and Dan Read

 

Introduction

I fall silent as I turn the iron handle of the solid, wooden door. It groans, then gapes reluctantly. Once inside I am asked for my name by a receptionist behind an opaque glass window. My mouth is dry. I speak too quietly, so I have to announce it for a second time. I am allowed in through the security gate then walk the length of the tiled passage, tiptoeing around the outside of the smokers’ yard with its scattering of desolate looking men as they light up with trembling hands. I glimpse their hopelessness as I catch the first whiff of their tobacco. Six steep stone steps to reach the final set of locked doors, then I wait unbearable seconds until staff respond to our buzzer. When the moment is right, they will allow me inside.

My eyes scan left to right, right to left, searching, frantically peering through the unbreakable glass. I catch sight of my son, my beautiful boy, dressed in his coat and scarf, bag packed, pacing the corridor and sobbing. He wants to get out! He thinks he can come home today but I already know this is going to be impossible. He might see me as the cause of his imprisonment. I watch his tears fall faster as I press my hand against the cold glass of the window. On his side of the divide, he stops momentarily, to place his palm against mine.

 

Chapter 1.

DAN

 

‘In order to act, you must be somewhat insane. A sensible man is satisfied with thinking’

Georges Clemenceau

       

Being an actor, being cast as a character, it’s all about the look. The look is everything. Your face needs to fit the role for a start. You need the right features, the right expression, the right haircut and even the right sort of teeth.  This is clear from the line-up of headshots in the entrance hall. I am staring at the row of portraits. Almost every face has the same noble, classic shape, nearly all of them attractive and perfect-looking. Tutors have recently threatened to stick a photo of the director’s dog where the headshot should be, if students don’t hand them in on time.

‘That’ll probably improve Tony’s job prospects, poor sod,’ jokes one of the guys. But I’m assuming there’ll be plenty of decent parts offered to the grim-faced as well as the beautiful in the end. I don’t think my own features are too bad and I took a long time over choosing my best headshot to put on display.

‘You have a nice visage for screen work darling,’ my TV tutor had commented. ‘Plenty going on behind the eyes.’

They can change how you look pretty easily, these days anyway. Some people lose weight and go without sleep to make their character more convincing. Some are even told to gain weight for a part. Acting can put quite a strain on your body over time. I sometimes wonder what it does to your mind.

The first two years are intense. The third, completely insane. My best mates become my competitors. I am watching the other actors in my year group, Reece’s raw talent, Simon’s magnetic personality. Nathan, ‘the stage natural.’ All of them have the right look, the right physicality, the right voice.

It’s all about the voice really. The voice is everything. You are constantly asking yourself, ‘Is my voice interesting? Is it convincing enough? Is my accent any good? Have I inhabited my character yet? Can I stay in role?’ alongside the more basic question, ‘Can I remember my lines?’ At least being given a part, being told to be someone else all the time, means I don’t have to decide who I really am. Not yet anyway.

People assume that someone choosing to be an actor is likely to be super-confident, extrovert, or at the very least, noticeable. But this wasn’t me at all. As a small kid I was pretty much the opposite, sensitive, quiet, reluctant to be the centre of attention.  I used to hide from the over-zealous Sunday school teacher when it was time to sing our jolly Jesus action songs on stage. I abandoned my violin lessons altogether, once I discovered I was being lined up for the school orchestra. I did my best to avoid Beaver outings and Cub camps, which sounded terrifying and I was always the earliest to bed out of our family, dreading being late for school, or late for anything.

I found out by accident that I could make people laugh, so I used my wits to keep friends entertained and bullies distracted. I was good at accents, playing the piano, walking on my hands and break dancing. My popularity grew, but my favourite games were those I played alone. To relax, I’d escape into fictional scenarios of phenomenal super-heroes performing breath-taking feats. Inside my private world of make-believe, I was secretly fulfilling some crucial, action-packed, world-changing role. Sometimes, I took my ideas from films or computer games. Most came from my own imagination.

Mid-teens, I began to have a recurring nightmare to do with acting, finding myself on stage, pre-performance, without a script or a single rehearsal. I had no choice but to blag it. My dreams turned to panic when I discovered too late, that I had neither props, nor costume and on one embarrassing occasion, no clothes on at all.

I am not quite sure when this awkward reticence turned into a desire to act. The why is even more of a mystery. I think it all began when I was about ten, sitting with my family in a London West End theatre watching my first musical, “We will Rock You,” It was Rob’s choice, for his eighteenth birthday treat. I was taken up the whole theatre vibe, the lighting, the exciting sounds of drums and electric guitar, the enthusiastic participation of the audience.  Between mouthfuls of popcorn, I ask my brother,

‘Who is this guy on stage?’

He checks in his programme, ‘Tony Vincent’. He whispers. ‘Probably earns quite a bit from playing the lead in a show like this.’

I’m busy exploring the roof of my mouth with my finger, trying to extract popcorn kernels from between my teeth, ‘You mean being on the stage can be a person’s actual job, not just a hobby? How cool is that?’

I must look into this. It seems much less boring than some jobs I could end up doing. So, I join local theatre groups and find I can learn lines more quickly than most kids, especially anything with a bit of rhythm to it. People say they enjoy watching my performances, but I’m not convinced I’m any good until the day I get into the National Youth Theatre, at thirteen and get invited to take part in my first West End production. This early taste of the professional scene creates a deeper hunger in me. I begin exploring possible routes into acting.

Competition for places at good drama schools is huge, so we decide that some early audition experience might be a good starting point. (I can always have another go the following year if unsuccessful.) When the letter arrives a week or two later, I feel a bit like Billy Elliot, shaking with nerves, so I ask mum to open it, trusting she’ll say the right thing if it’s a rejection.  She is much more excited than I am when she sees I’ve been offered a place.

‘You are in Dan! That’s brilliant! And they are asking for you to go back for another audition. They are putting you forward for the talent scholarship!’.

I didn’t even know that there were any talent scholarships! Getting in would have been enough, but if I win that, it will save dad some of the fees.

Mum rehearses lines with me. She did English lit at Uni, so she understands Shakespeare a bit better than I do. I do the audition, then another letter arrives from Roland, one of the tutors to say I’ve got the scholarship. It’s just two days before Tom and Cath’s wedding. Dad is busy outside, hosing down the car so we have to shout quite loudly, to get his attention.

‘Come over here! Quickly.’ We are beckoning to him. Dad is frowning. He doesn’t generally like being interrupted when he’s in the middle of a job.

‘Good News!’ Mum bellows

‘The letter came! The letter! She is waving it around in the air. ‘He’s got it! He got the scholarship!’

Everyone’s rushing around, hyper-busy today but mum insists on squeezing in a quick celebration lunch, ham sandwiches and Prosecco. Winning this scholarship convinces my family that I should go ahead, even though I’m only just old enough to get in and will be the youngest in my year group. I’ve done one year of sixth form, but I’m loving the idea of being in London instead of having to go back to boring old school. An exciting, future beckons and I can’t wait to get started.

I meet Carl at the open day and discover that he’s from York too, so it makes sense to look for a flat share together. We get on well, reading scripts, learning lines, watching actor interviews on our laptops. We laugh and joke and do impressions of our tutors and the other first year undergrads. We cook roast chickens on Sundays and invite friends round to help us eat them. Carl is untidy but knows quite a bit about the different agents and casting directors. We go out of the flat, forgetting our keys and slamming the door behind us (his fault). We discover we have mice under the sofa. (I blame Carl for that too.) We gradually stop noticing the smell of leaking gas from the kitchen boiler. One evening we cause a loud and very messy explosion when we put a pottery casserole on the hob to warm up Mum’s Bolognese. She explains afterwards,

‘Crock pots go in the oven, not on the hob. I thought you knew that already.’

At the start of the long summer break, we unplug everything in the flat, to save on electricity, returning weeks later to the stench of rotting meat inside a flooded freezer. We even get ourselves beaten up one Saturday night by a random gang of thugs with angry faces and knuckle dusters. I do my best to protect Carl, who’s been knocked out so I end up with a black eye, which might have been helpful for some roles. Mum demands to look at my injuries on skype. Dad says,

‘You must avoid London clubs after midnight and always pay attention when you are crossing that busy Talgarth Road, especially if you’ve had a drink.’

I turn up on time to classes, keen and focussed. But my confidence is shaky. I know this is going to be a lot harder than I’d ever imagined. I interpret any comments or feedback as criticism. If I’m asked to repeat a scene, I take this it to mean that I must have done everything wrong the first time. I am the sort of person who needs clear, positive direction as well as masses of encouragement, but this doesn’t seem to be the tutors’ priority at all. They assume that we are all expert actors already, dropping us in it from day one, then waiting in the wings, for us to fail.  I really don’t get what they want from me. I am left believing that they are much happier with the performances of the other students. Some of them will end up being ‘the ones to watch’ not me.

It’s the Christmas break, after my first term in London and I daren’t tell my folks that I feel like giving up already. Mum and Dad will be so disappointed. Tom comes across me in tears in my bedroom on Christmas day.

‘What’s up Danny?’ He sits next to me on my bed. Like my brother, I have always been more anxious on the inside than people realise and I’m driven, like he is, to achieve perfection.

‘I’m just not good enough. I won’t be able to live up to what other people expect of me. The students in my year group are doing so well already. They are more deserving of the talent scholarship and the attention of the top agents, than I am’.

‘Maybe they are just more confident than you. It doesn’t mean they are better. But I know what it’s like to have self-doubt, Danny. I’ve been there too.’ Tom gives me a hug. Mum comes in to find us and is surprised to see me sad. She feels responsible for everyone’s happiness most of the time but finds it difficult to understand how anyone could possibly be sad on Christmas day.’

‘Just relax and try to enjoy your three years at drama school,’ the family tell me. ‘You don’t need to be the best all the time.’

So, I return to London feeling scared but driven to improve, to attain the unattainable. I am vulnerable, suggestible, ready to follow every bit of advice to the letter, but never quite satisfied with what I manage to produce.

 

Chapter 2.                                                                                                   

JANE

 

‘Insanity is not a distinct and separate Empire, our ordinary life borders upon it and we cross the frontier in some part of our nature.’

Henri Taine

 

Everyone fears madness, yet the potential for us to take leave of our senses is merely a hair’s breadth away, the dividing line, a fragile one. The crossover into insanity can take place almost imperceptibly. We might be aware of our own bizarre traits, some of which we privately indulge but hide from others to avoid being judged as slightly unhinged or even completely bonkers. The most reckless act for the majority of us is probably that of having children. Reproducing ourselves despite the incalculable risks involved is surely an act of sheer madness.

Christmas is another source of borderline insanity for me. I’m not one of those people who wish it could be Christmas every day or anything, forcing it to extend artificially and leaving all the decorations up all year. But as soon as the nights draw in, I start to feel a magnetic pull towards festive shop windows and Christmas lights. If I walk down any street in December, I don’t get very far before I am sidetracked by an illuminated display. I see it as a type of seasonal affliction. Maybe I just need to invest in a lightbox.

Good Christmas is the title Em gives to the ones we all spend all together as a family, and ‘bad or ‘Boring Christmas’ is her name for the alternate year, when her two married brothers are duty-bound to spend the festive season with their in-laws. I like to unpack the loft boxes as soon as the clocks go back, remembering past celebrations as I unwrap each treasured thing. A happy accumulation of whimsical objects, of no value to anyone else, but holding a wealth of memories for me; where I was when I bought each one, who it was intended for, like this miniature wooden violin dangling from my finger by a ribbon loop. I chose this one for Danny when he started learning the violin, almost sixteen years ago now.

There is a kind of fevered intensity to my preparations a welcome shot of adrenal energy to help me through the dark, depressing months of autumn and winter. Making Christmas happy became an obsession and shows no sign of abating as I get older. I put myself under considerable pressure to get it ‘right’, then make the mistake of thinking that everyone else loves the season as much as I do.

The “Most Wonderful time of the Year” has felt less so, since the death of Grandma Jean.  My mother-in-law had always been a central part of our Christmases. Far from resenting her presence and her influence, I was grateful for her input. In her absence, I now feel responsible for continuing to do things her way. One year, I tentatively mentioned to my own parents that we might visit them instead, because we hadn’t spent a Christmas at theirs for some years, but my step-mum responded both quickly and just a bit too emphatically to my enquiry,

‘We don’t mind! Believe me. We really don’t mind!’  There could be no mistaking the implications.  I make up my mind there and then that I will go out of my way to welcome my children, their partners, and all of my potential grandchildren always, however many there are and not only at Christmas.

Sitting cross-legged on our living room floor with rolls of red, gold and green wrapping paper, scissors, Sellotape, and gift tags surrounding me and the familiar smells of brandy and cinnamon drifting from the bombsite of a kitchen where I have been opening drawers to look for Grandma’s special stuffing recipe at the same time as starting a fruit cake mixture and tipping out currants and sultanas ready for the first batch of homemade mincemeat.

I used to love watching ‘The Sound of Music’ in the holidays. My secondary school was a Catholic Convent, so I had all but decided to become a nun myself until I discovered that they were brides of Jesus and not allowed to get married or have children. Significant losses had punctuated my early life, with the death of my birth mother when I was only three, followed by several changes of childminder over the next few years. The need to fill these holes fed my longing for a large and close-knit family of my own.

I gave birth to two boys in two years, returning from a scan a few short years later to share the thrilling news with my husband that we were going to have another son. I recall Graham’s frozen stare through fogging spectacles, small beads of perspiration breaking out on his furrowed brow. ‘More hassle,’ were his words, barely audible, but hardly the ecstatic response I’d been hoping for!

He has never been an impulsive, nor a reckless man, and coming from a small family with only one brother, I suppose the prospect of three sons might have seemed excessive, inevitably expensive, and my very sensible husband is generally accurate in his prediction of hassles ahead. In the short term, these took the form of relentless pressure from me to provide further seed for the creation of just one more potential baby, the elusive daughter, thus rendering our family complete.

Not that Dan himself was much of a hassle at all, neither as a baby nor throughout his childhood. If I were to pick one of my kids out as the most likely to suffer psychosis, it would not have been Dan. He was the easiest of our four in many ways, crying just a little bit in the back of the car on our way home from the hospital, his two brothers sitting anxiously either side of his safety seat, patting him gently. I let out a deep sigh of satisfaction at the sight of my three beautiful boys, my precious, personal productions. Meanwhile, their father drove us home with a distracted air of prevailing gloom, fretting about another arrival that same morning, an unexpected tax bill which, according to his calculations, was significantly larger than it should have been.

I scoop out a Christmas card from last year’s pile, now strewn across the lounge floor. It is a picture of a steam train winding its way through snow-covered hills. I smile as I remember our weekend bike rides on the disused rail tracks, nine-year-old Robert pretending his mountain bike was a ‘Harley Davidson’ (long distances were never a problem for him). His younger brother Thomas, a more anxious child, always required plenty of reassurance about the manageability of any inclines ahead. And two-year-old Dan sitting bolt upright on the child seat behind me, singing at the top of his voice for the duration of the ride.

With gay abandon, I continued to add to our growing family and Graham’s career accelerated at a comparable rate. We had moved to Belgium by the time my fourth and final pregnancy was underway. The day of my twenty-week scan became an exciting, family day out, brought into sharp focus by the sound of our three boys racing along hospital corridors, proclaiming loudly to the lines of pregnant, Flemish ladies, that they were going to have a sister!

My eyes stray to another card in the heap, an old-fashioned painting this time, of skaters on a frozen pond. This image transports me back to Emily’s birth, which took place during the coldest winter Europe had seen for a century. The local lake had frozen over that year, and Tervuren Park became a spectacular wonderland. People skated and towed sledges overflowing with laughing children. Though tempted, I was forbidden to join them on the ice in my heavily pregnant state, so had to be content with watching.

The Spring thaw arrived, and the sunshine produced an abundance of pink cherry blossoms on the tree branches outside my baby girl’s bedroom window. In my state of benign, post-natal ecstasy, it would not have surprised me at all to see blue blossom instead of pink, had I given birth to another boy.

My family, now complete, was going to become every bit as big, as remarkable and as happy as I had always dreamed. Anticipating challenges and lonely times ahead, I was determined to endure them stoically. I had made my choices. If things proved difficult, I had only myself to blame as I was reminded many times by several people. This didn’t stop me longing for Graham’s return from his lengthy business trips and long-haul travel. I needed him to nurture me, to take over being the grown-up for a while. When he did, dismissive of his jet lag and work stresses and instantly turning his mind to whatever practical things needed to be done in the home, my behaviour resembled that of a thwarted child, demanding attention and unconsciously punishing him for his absence, with little idea of the responsibilities he carried.

Today my brood is fully fledged and ready to fly, my nest, rapidly emptying. Despite my dread of this stage, I realise I must let them go. Only Em is still at home now, the two eldest already married, Rob running his own music production business, Tom a doctor, and Dan in London, finishing his actor training. What will I do when Em leaves? Who will I be, if not a mother? I am going to be a grandmother in the New Year, which will be a new adventure, and I could ask to increase my working hours at school. Graham has also talked about downsizing from our big three-story home, so I’m secretly hatching a plan to move to the countryside, buy some land, a dog, a horse or two, some chickens, goats, alpacas perhaps? I need to fill my emptying nest with something to look after.

I am startled out of my guilty daydream and look up, sensing that Graham has arrived home. He is standing in the doorway, casting a disapproving eye around the room.

‘So, this will be the permanent state of things between now and the New Year, I suppose.’

He has never been a fan of Christmas and is always tired by the end of the day. Just one look or word from him can have the effect of flattening my mood instantaneously. Over the years we have been together, he has attempted to exchange his negative outlook for a mindset of stoic resignation, sometimes successfully. I glance around the room laughing.

‘Not necessarily, but I wanted to get a head start this week, before school starts again. Besides, it’s best to get organised now, don’t you agree? Because you never know what’s around the corner.’

I am not sure what made me say this. My words were almost prophetic in the light of what was about to unfold.

I start tackling the lounge floor, now liberally strewn with colourful and glittering debris. Graham can’t resist getting involved, especially with the kitchen clearing. He is always very thorough and speeds up the process considerably, unable to relax with any mess or clutter around. The atmosphere is always one of extreme diligence and intense industry until everything is thoroughly cleaned, tidied away, or screwed up and thrown into the waste bin.

When Em was little, she decided that her father, had developed a serious dose of ‘repetitive repulsive disease’ evidenced by his constant need to clear up and dispose of things, plus his frequent trips to the refuse site. I think the term she was searching for was ‘obsessive compulsive disorder’, but I have to admit, I prefer her own inventive label.

And I have plenty of obsessive-compulsive tendencies of my own, of course, like… building happy families and making everything perfect at Christmas.

 

Chapter 3.                                                                                                   

DAN

                                                                                

            ‘Crazy isn’t being broken or swallowing a dark secret. It’s you or me, amplified’

Suzannah Keyson

                                                                        

After my 20^th birthday, Carl and friends notice changes in me. I am louder and more talkative and suspect that I might be getting there, finally. My confidence grows. My energy is increasing. Mum notices that I am even ‘sitting like an actor’, my posture upright, my stance more powerful. Life, it seems, is about to get easier.

We are taught about the pros and cons of method acting. Strasberg’s theory urges actors to use emotional memories and personal experiences to connect with their character’s inner life. Adler on the other hand, promotes careful research, and a cultural and visual approach. Meisner, the third expert, writes about behaviour, with a strong emphasis on the actor’s instincts and intuitions. I’ve tried to take in all three of these elements, but they keep overlapping and getting muddled in my brain. I’ve been asking my tutors, which is the best one? What do they think is the right way to go about it? But they all have different opinions and don’t give me any straight answers.

Whatever method I’m adopting, this term my character seems to take me over more than usual. I am completely obsessed with the play. I can’t stop talking about it. Even when we go to the pub to relax after rehearsals, I take my laptop with me to do further research. I’m generating exciting debates about the moral and religious questions raised by the plot of ‘Faustus’, demanding that everyone to join in and give their opinions. After one animated discussion, the guy playing the role of my brother, takes me to one side.

‘Dan, I know you’re excited about the play, I am too, but will you please shut up and let me get a word in?’

Friends notice me more and are drawn to my energy and enthusiasm. Some wonder why I’m being so loud. Others dismiss my behaviour as ‘attention seeking’. A few seem unsure whether they like the new me or not. But I am feeling supremely confident, more powerful than I’ve ever felt before. Every conversation is worth taking part in. I need to be in on every joke. I push to be at the centre of everything. The loudest, most popular students used to get me down, but these days I overshadow them, ready with rapid-fire, quick-witted responses to anything anyone says. I have finally lost my inhibitions. Nothing can slow me down, despite the fact that I’m a bit shocked by some of the things I find myself saying. My brain seems to be working faster than most other people’s. At the start of term, I hadn’t enjoyed being around the arrogant, opinionated, loud mouths on my course, but I now realise that I have supremacy over them. I am completely unstoppable.

Dave and I are told to find a barbers at lunch time to get our hair cut short for our parts. It is hot and stuffy in the small salon, with an overwhelming smell of pungent after-shave in the air, making me choke. I sit down in the black leather chair and before long, I’m swivelling around to see where Dave is and how his haircut is going. Eventually the Korean hairdresser loses patience with me and taking my head firmly between her cool hands, she turns me to face forwards towards the mirror saying,

‘Please stop! You have to sit still!’

I feel more driven in rehearsals too, turning up early each day to begin my warm-ups before the others arrive. I’m enthusiastic about absolutely everything. I have now discovered the difference between being an ordinary actor and being a true artist. I am on fire!

We get warned that our new director is one of the most demanding people we’ve worked with so far. He’s apparently on the harsher side with his criticisms. Some of the cast might find him off-putting, but I know I won’t have a problem. I’ll aim to achieve everything he wants and more. By the end of the process, he’ll so appreciate my talent that he’ll be seeking opportunities to work with me again.

I’ve been invited along with a few other actors, to take part in an episode of Downton Abbey. I gather that this is something of a big deal when I phone mum to tell her and she literally screams down the phone. Although I’m not personally into these old-fashioned costume dramas, I’m a professional, and it’s clear that at least half England’s population are hooked. On top of that, I’ve just been contacted by two of the bigger agents, Curtis Brown and Independent. Both want to meet me for an interview after my first public performance. My future is a dead cert.

From this point on, for some reason, everything becomes one big joke. I can’t stop laughing. My family come to see the plays for their second run in Bowness. I walk right past them and stride right on down the street, caught up in my own world. Rehearsals over, I’m off for drinks with the cast, my mood high, my voice amplified. Mum calls my name when she spots me. She says I look different with my cropped hair, and I sound different too. She really doesn’t get that for us actors, it’s all about the look and it’s all about the voice.

The only slight annoyance for me is that I’m struggling to eat, gagging on every mouthful and can’t seem to digest anything. I sometimes throw up when I try. This bothers other people more than it does me. My parents watch me struggling over meals and they persuade me to phone our Tom (now a bona fide, Junior Doctor) and talk to him about it. I think they’re putting it down to tiredness or nerves or being keyed up about the shows.

After the first performance, I stay out all night with friends, but I still feel pretty good by morning, not even tired. I’ve only had a couple of drinks and haven’t eaten all day. I’ve no idea what is fuelling me, so before I go on stage, I down a bottle of Lucozade to give me energy, then instantly spew up the fluorescent orange liquid. Hilarious! Despite the concerns of the rest of the cast, I’m not fazed by this. I go right ahead, performing with sharpness and precision, remembering every one of my lines, punching the air in triumph, like a marathon runner crossing the finish line as we take the final bow. I’m grinning and waving idiotically at my sister, who’s sitting directly opposite me in the audience.

It feels good to be joining my family for the weekend. We take a boat ride across Bowness and a steam train back. I relax just a little bit and sleep better that night in the hotel but weirdly, I get emotional, teary and choked up for some reason. Perhaps I’m feeling deflated now that the shows are done, maybe it’s to do with being with my folks.

It’s the start of the autumn half term break for my sister. Mum’s a bit concerned and says that she’d like to bring me home to get some proper rest. But there is no such thing as a mid-term break from drama school and besides, I’m way too geared up for the next project which is the Shakespeare. Our director has instructed us all to be ‘off book’ by the Monday after our return to London. While Dad drives me to the train station, I hand Mum my script so that I can go through some lines for my part in “Much Ado.” I know the play well. For an initial run, I would normally recite stuff in a boring monotone, but this time I’m projecting strongly, with dramatic impact as though I am already on stage. Mum’s eyes widen and she smiles at my exhibitionism. My sister just rolls her eyes and puts her headphones back on. But to be fair, she’s never been a big fan of Shakespeare.

                                    

It’s the first day of rehearsals. I’m more excited than nervous. I can tell that Reece is scared shitless, mainly ‘cos he hasn’t bothered to learn his lines (amateur!). I’m restless and impatient to get started. Reece and I are best mates now, mucking around like sparring partners, miming gunfights in the breaks. I’m incredibly agile, anticipating all his moves accurately, dodging sideways, then springing out to launch my ambush. I’m asking our director dozens of intelligent questions during rehearsals, sensing that I’m making a strong connection with her, demonstrating my understanding of the most difficult lines in the play. I get bored so quickly these days. It is as though things are a bit too easy for me now.

In the lunch break we’re analysing the symbolism of the play and thinking about its historical context. We soon get into a pretty heavy discussion about religion. One cynical guy tells me that he thinks the Bible is full of fantasy stories and he doesn’t believe any of it, but I argue with him, insisting that he’s wrong.

‘Are you a believer then Dan?’ He sounds surprised. I guess it hasn’t been obvious until now. I tell him that God’s existence is ‘indisputable, undeniable fact’ so he’s more careful about what he says to me after that. Sometimes I step outside and look up at the sky during rehearsals, ‘What is going on?’  I feel as though I’m being taken over by something huge.

By the end of the week, we are back in the auditorium, listening to a terribly long lecture by some forty-five-year-old bloke giving us advice about how to manage our time and our earnings, once we qualify. His voice is totally draining, and I can see right through him, into the heart of his insecurities. I’m convinced that he’s just some failed actor having to do this boring, lecturing stuff instead. I share my opinion later with a bunch of friends smoking joints outside the pub. They high five me, nodding in agreement.

‘You’re a legend, mate, an avenger, welcome to the club.’ I grin at them sensing that I’ve been accepted. I’m establishing my place as one of them now.

That night, when I get back to our flat, I have this weird, light-headed feeling as I step inside. Carl has gone to bed. I’m not even tired. I find myself searching on my laptop for the song ‘History Maker’ by the Christian band, Delirious. I remember it being played at one of the faith camps I’d attended as a kid. It seems a bit of a random thing to be doing.

I try to focus on more mundane things like washing up the pile of dirty dishes stacked in the kitchen. But I can’t even start on this simple task before I feel the overwhelming urge to go back to listen to the song a second time. I turn it up to full volume and suddenly find my arms are raised high up above my head, as though I’m in some high-powered, emotion-filled, worship festival. The washing up doesn’t seem important now and I don’t even think about the possibility that I could be disturbing Carl. My fingers are fizzing and tingling, as though I am alive with a powerful, electrical charge.

‘What the fuck is happening to me?’

I know I’ll have to surrender, so I fall on my knees and cry out. ‘I’m not sure I am ready for this. I am not sure I’m ready to be a History Maker!’

Freaked out and unable to sleep, I decide to phone home. I need to tell someone what just happened.

 

Chapter 4.                                                                                                   

Jane

 

‘He appears mad indeed, but to a few because the majority is infected with the same disease’

Graham Dryden

 

They are nearly always bad news, midnight phone calls. The urgent ringing forcing harsh propulsion from peaceful slumber, into a state of alert readiness. I jump up to grab the receiver, a clenching dread in the pit of my stomach. But it’s just a bit odd really, Dan’s call, the things he describes, a random, ‘out of the blue’ sort of thing.

‘Dan, it’s you! It’s quite late. Are you Ok?’

Graham’s eyes are closed, but I know that he’s listening to every word.

‘I needed to talk to someone. I’ve been laughing and crying at the same time. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I think God’s doing something really major.’

He is gabbling away breathless with excitement.

‘What? Slow down. What’s happened?  What do you mean?’

‘It is as though God is controlling all my muscles. I’ve had to kneel down on the floor and raise my arms up in the air. Maybe I should just surrender!’

‘Oh… that sounds quite… intense. Are you sure you are not just over-tired? You have been working quite hard, under a lot of pressure lately. Where is Carl tonight?’

‘He’s in bed. I just think I have been fighting off these promptings for a while now Mum. I think maybe this is God’s way of getting through to me. It feels like he’s…. he’s taking me over.’

In the past, we’d been active members of various Church communities (mainly through my influence, I think, my need to cultivate good, Christian values in my children!), but Dan and his siblings had lost interest in it all quite a while ago.

‘I’m relieved it’s nothing serious, Dan. You made me worried, ringing at midnight. I thought something bad might have happened to you again.’

The last thing I want to do is dismiss what he’s telling me as unimportant when it seems major to him. I need to listen, however late at night.  I want him to feel he can get in touch and share anything with us.

‘Try and get some rest and we’ll talk about this again tomorrow.’

Perhaps it really is God’s call. I can’t tell from what he is describing.

‘You know you can always phone us at any time, day or night, though, don’t you?’

Graham is muttering away next to me, irritated now. He is worried that this will create a distraction and take Dan’s focus away from the interviews with the agents and the practical things he needs to organise, such as his travel arrangements. The following day, I phone again to remind him of this. But Dan repeats to me almost word for word the description of the strange event from the night before and assures me that I don’t need to worry.

Maybe it is a genuine conversion! How much influence can we expect to have over such things in our children’s lives, once they’ve left home? There is a big world out there that is going to influence them and might at times, unbalance, or threaten to take them over completely. Right now, I am thinking to myself that there are potentially many worse things than a person’s discovery of God.

Dan tells me,

‘I have spoken to Mark, the Christian friend in my year group, and he’s really happy to have another believer around. He’s invited me to his church this Sunday and wants to introduce me to his pastor.’

‘That’s nice of him. Does anyone else know what’s happened?’ I ask.

‘Some of the students saw me getting a bit emotional yesterday, while I was sitting with Mark.  They said, “What’s the matter with you mate? Have you found God or something?” I wasn’t sure what to say, “Yeah, I think so.” I’ve been telling Mark that I’m not completely sure about giving my life to God quite yet. I’d rather stay selfish for a bit longer. But he said it sounds more like God has chosen me.  He’s invited Carl and me to his twenty-first this weekend, at his parents’ place.’

I am relieved that Dan is getting away from drama school again, for another mini-break, a bit of a change, a brief chance to relax.

 

Chapter 5.                                                                                                   

Dan

                               

‘I do not suffer from insanity. I enjoy every minute of it.’

Edgar Allan Poe

 

Carl and I are heading out of London by tube and train. I’m filled with a wonderful confidence about the way ahead. Carl seems tense, worrying about engineering works on the train line, for some reason. I’m completely chilled, just knowing everything will be fine. In this moment, standing on the edge of the platform, I feel powerful, indestructible, as though I am part of a major blockbuster action movie. Pumped up and ready for battle, my thoughts flow unhindered through my mind. I am the one leading the way.

We eventually arrive at Mark’s folks’ house, and I spot the grand piano in the living room, so I sit myself down and begin playing right away.  I get the sense that God is enjoying my music and inspiring me with what to play next. My excitement builds. Something monumental is dawning. This thing is much bigger than just being born again. I know now that the Almighty has a truly epic plan for me.

 Mark’s family are trying to persuade me to eat with them.

‘I don’t eat.’ I explain, but I’m starting to understand the source of all my energy. After tea, everyone heads into the lounge, but I stay where I am, near the piano.  I am here for a purpose, not just to party or have a good time. Carl comes back in whistling to himself and is tentatively plucking at the string board, underneath the lid of the piano.

‘That’s amazing, Carl. Keep going, your plucking is completely in sync with my playing, can you hear it?’

‘I’m just plucking random strings, just messing around. I can’t play at all.’

‘Don’t stop. I’ll choose chords to accompany you.” I love how he is responding to my music.

The family sit to watch a film, but I can’t concentrate. Later, we wander upstairs to get ready for bed. Everyone is getting tired. I’m not sleepy at all. Mark’s mum has laid out mattresses and there are bunk beds in one of the kids’ bedrooms. I try to rest but it’s impossible to relax. My mind is too busy. I don’t lie still for long. Carl is in the bunk below me, but I hear him getting out of bed and starting to creep downstairs, so I follow him.

He says he wants to be left alone to learn his lines, to prepare for the Shakespeare, but something urges me to stalk him until I get through to him with my message. There is this one incredible moment when I pray that he will be so moved by the playscript, that it will have a visible effect on him. He starts to cry. This is the sign I need to prove that I am penetrating the souls of others.

By morning, I’m feeling queasy, and then I’m suddenly up, on my feet and being sick in the bathroom. I realise this is God’s unmistakable way of warning me never to drink alcohol, ever again (although I’d only actually had one glass of mulled wine the night before).  His parents keep offering food and coffee all day, but I refuse everything. I need some fresh air. Mark and his girlfriend say that they are planning a walk, but I’m getting impatient. They are taking way too long to get ready. We eventually step outside, and I shoot off, racing ahead. I’m practically running now, gabbling away non-stop.

‘Slow down, Dan!’

‘You don’t understand,’ I shout. ‘Everything is from God! Everything!’ I gesticulate, waving my arms around wildly.

I come to a sudden halt and stand completely still.  ‘Something weird is happening.’

‘What is going on, Dan?’

I want to announce, ‘I believe I am Jesus Christ.’ It’s on the tip of my tongue to say it.

‘No, I can’t say that… I just can’t.’

‘What can’t you say?’

I take a breath, then speak out, ‘This is going to sound ridiculous– I am God’s Son. The Greatest Saviour that ever lived!’

My voice is loud, I’m breathing fast. My pulse is racing. They stop dead, but don’t challenge or disagree with me.

‘Dan, it’s quite normal to feel at one with Jesus once you have accepted the Lord into your life,’ Claire says to me in a gentle voice.

But what I am saying is that I am literally Him. The actual, friggin’ human embodiment of Jesus Christ! Unlikely as it may seem, God has chosen this skinny kid from York to carry out his vital work in the world and to pick up from where he has left off. I have not just been transformed into his likeness. I actually am Him! I try to remember Jesus’ words from John’s gospel to say them aloud, with my arms raised:

‘I…. I am the Way, the Truth and the Life!’

But I can’t remember the second part, so I make something up:

‘Those who follow me…., they can do…. ANYTHING!’

Mark seems a bit undecided about following me, but he still doesn’t argue. We come to a huge puddle in the middle of the lane. My two friends are standing opposite me, on the far side. Smiling, I glide across the puddle towards them. It is a magical, supernatural moment when I know I am completely transformed into the person of Jesus. Here I am, walking on water!

I embrace them both with a radiant smile. They look worried and ask if I can remember the route back to the house, then they walk on ahead, without me. Mark turns around as they set off, ‘Dan are you SURE you know the way?’

I reply with complete certainty, ‘Of course I know the way… I am The Way!’

Clouds gather, and it starts to pour with rain as I walk. I am singing aloud, knowing that this shower is God’s anointing on me. I’m completely drenched with his blessing. I feel more elated and more powerful in this moment than I have ever felt my whole life. The transformation is complete. I have become Jesus Christ, the one who has been promised to mankind. The one who will save the world.

Eventually, I arrive back at Mark’s.  I’m standing on the doorstep grinning, dripping on the mat, assuring everyone that I’m fine. Mark’s mum looks confused and hands me a towel. I strip off my wet clothes briskly, rubbing myself and shouting to Carl to ‘Come on! I’m ready to get going!’ He seems subdued, in a bit of a mood (maybe because I kept him awake). He then says that he wants to stay at Mark’s house for a bit longer.

‘But listen, Carl, I really think you should be following me.’

I catch sight of Mark’s younger brother doing something on his laptop, so I order him to stop, turn it off right away. I close the lid firmly. I am beginning to sense God’s disapproval of technology and people spending too much time on computers, social media and electronic games and phones. The teenager looks a bit taken aback, but does as he is told. When I hear him and his brother squabbling a bit later, I step into the kitchen to bring my peace to the situation. I tell Mark’s mum that she must not be discouraged, because God sees that she is doing a great job as a mother and He will bless her.

Mark’s grandparents are apparently on their way over, so I think I ought to stick around for a bit to meet with them, too. It’s my responsibility to ensure that everyone is converted, healed and completely at peace before I leave. I see my presence as a force for transformation and pure, unadulterated living. Every time I catch sight of a bottle of wine in the house, I pick it up and hide it away somewhere, saying, ‘Now, we don’t need this, do we?’  I am kind of doing the reverse of the miracle at the wedding in Cana!

Mark’s granny and grandpa arrive and introduce themselves with a smile.

‘How nice to meet you, Dan. Where are you from?’

I don’t reply in words. I just wink at them, pointing my index finger heavenwards.

The others gather around in the dining room for their meal. They try to persuade me to sit down, and I wonder whether I should be breaking bread with them all, like the Last Supper. I know that it will be impossible for me to eat so, I start to strum Mark’s guitar and occupy myself by shimmying sideways around the table, while the others tuck into their Sunday lunch. I’m grinning broadly, knowing that my music has the power to penetrate this family’s hearts and bring them all closer to God and to each other.

Just then, we hear a piercing yell. Mark’s youngest brother has burned his hand on the oven door. They hold it under the tap and as I watch, I can feel his pain searing through me. I go into the kitchen holding one hand over my heart and placing my other hand gently on top of the boy’s head to bring about his healing. It is an emotional moment, and I suddenly begin to feel weak, as though some kind of Divine power has left my body. My legs and arms have lost their strength. I feel a bit lightheaded and realise I need to rest. I drag myself upstairs to lie down and I think perhaps I fall asleep for a few seconds.

Mark comes up a short time later, saying that Carl is ready to get back to London. His mum has offered to give us a lift back. She thinks I look exhausted and is a little bit worried about me. She lowers the passenger seat of her car so that I can rest some more on the way. During the drive, I overhear them having a whispered conversation, so I sit up, fully alert. They are using my name. ‘But listen to me.’ I shout out. ‘I’m not called Dan!’ I’m banging my hand repeatedly on the arm rest of the car door. Mark looks scared as his mum swerves slightly, then he tries to calm everything down by singing a gentle worship song for the remainder of the journey. I think everyone around is feeling a bit tense.

‘Fear not,’ I assure them, ‘For I am with you.’