Mom, My Gay Therapist, and The Chief

          After reading my recent self disclosure of Bipolar Disorder (”Having a Great Time, Wish I Were Dead”), I was sent the following story.  It is written by a man who wishes to remain anonymous (I’ll call him “Pastor Paul”.  Also, for purposes of confidentiality, the images used in this post are not of him or his life.) 

 

{artist’s rendering of Pastor Paul}

 

          Pastor Paul and I were once in a support group for clergy members with mental illnesses.  It dissolved, however, when two members began to have grandiose delusions.  One insisted he was Moses.  The other, that he was Jesus.  Each week, they got into this ferocious debate over whether it was a bigger miracle to part water or walk on top of it.  The group was divided on the subject.  Split right down the middle.  So, we broke up and I never heard from Pastor Paul again.  That is, until I received this story ….

{artist’s rendering of Pastor Paul’s drawing of his mother}

          Nothing like a good crayon drawing of your mother to soothe the troubled inner child within.  We did a lot of great stuff in art therapy when I was at the C______ Psychiatric Center.  Popsicle stick dream villages.  Potted ashtrays.  Ink blots.  Silly putty imprints of the funnies.  They had a very gifted art therapist.

{artist’s rendering of Pastor Paul’s art therapist}

        Bart, the art therapist was nice.  Very compassionate.  Brilliant.  Wore a gray goutee.  Sharp dresser.  Tortoise-shell glasses.  He was gay.  Definitely gay.  Just for kicks one day I told him homosexuality had been reclassified as a psychotic disorder.  He scurried over to the nurses’ cubicule, picked up the diagnostic manual and began frantically rummaging through it until he realized I was just messing with his head.  He stormed off, but not before writing something in my chart.   I’m pretty sure I got some extra meds that night..

          You know The Chief from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?  He was there with me.  No kidding.  The guy was 6′ 11” if he was an inch.  350, maybe 400 pounds.  Big as a Mack truck.  Arms thick as tree trunks.  Long, straight black hair.  Leathery, weather-beaten face.  No expression.  All he did was pace.  Just pace.  Back and forth.  Down one hall, then down the other.  Staring straight ahead, at no one and everyone at the same time. 

{artist’s rendering of Pastor Paul with The Chief}   

   

          Word got out that The Chief was after me.  It started one morning when I was asked to “share something” at the beginning of Council (as they called it).  Being a pastor, I naturally did a Bible devotion and reflected on my faith and mental illness.  Evidently, The Chief was not pleased.  One of the patients came up to me after Council. 

“He’s gonna kill you.” 

“Who’s going to kill me?”

“The Chief.  He’s going to kill you.”

“He’s not going to kill me.”

“He’s done worse.”

“What could be worse than killing someone?”

  “You don’t want to know.”    

         I began to think this guy was right.  The Chief was going to kill me.  Or worse.  Hadn’t he been staring at me from across the room during Council?  Didn’t he have a sneer on his lip during the Bible reading?  Wasn’t he growling as I shared the devotion?

         I went right to the nurse and demanded she let me go.  After all, I was a voluntary admit.  They couldn’t keep me.  I’d been there longer than 48 hours.  I wasn’t a suicide risk.  There was no way they could keep me there.  Not with the Chief after me.

{artist’s rendering of Pastor Paul and his nurse} 

          The nurse calmed me down, mostly by reminding me I was paranoid (funny how a good diagnosis can create a sense of normalcy).  

         I stayed -6 weeks total.  And that was it.  Never went back.  15 years now as an out-patient.  Thank God.  And my family.  And my faith community.  And good drugs.  Lots and lots of good drugs.

          Now, I’m doing quite well for a lunatic.  I work full time.  Have a nice home.  Provide for my family.   No, I can’t complain.  I’m grateful to God.  Life is good and it only gets better.

 

{artist’s rendering of Pastor Paul as a grateful man}