It's a mad, mad world

I used to work in a psychiatric hospital in Oxford.

I went to work there because mental illness scared me. I knew it was the only way to conquer this fear. And it turned out to be one of the most poignant, funny and self-transforming periods of my life.

Here are some of the stories that stay with me even to this day.

Meeting famous people

I’ve met Jesus, Moses, the Virgin Mary, several other messianic-type figures, and William Shakespeare on the wards of the hospital in which I work. Sometimes, you see, the only way to escape the tragic reality of one’s life is literally to give up being oneself and take on the persona of another. The more famous the better; after all, there is hardly any point in going to all this trouble if you aren’t going to get yourself noticed.

Before I arrived at the hospital, there was a famous incident in which a man – believing himself to be Jesus Christ – was asked by the Chaplain to build some shelves for one of the wards. Given the fact that everyone knew Jesus was a carpenter, the man felt unable to refuse and set about the business of learning to build shelves – the all the necessary advice and learning a new set of skills.

In time he actually became rather good at woodwork; so good, in fact, that he began to do other jobs around the hospital.

Only, what really began to annoy him was that Jesus always got all the credit.

So he ditched the ‘disguise’ and went back to being himself.

Anyone fancy a sweet?

It all came to a head for Marion, one Sunday morning as the chaplain administered communion. Marion suddenly let out a scream and collapsed, sobbing over the rail in front of the altar.

‘I am not worthy,’ she shouted.

The woman next to her responded by reached into her pocket.

   ‘In that case, my dear, have a polo mint,’ she said.

 Stunned, the woman looked at the mint and then at the chaplain.

   ‘Have whatever you feel able to accept just now,’ he said.

The woman thought and we waited. And she thought some more and we waited some more. Then, finally, she concluded her deliberations.

  ‘Think I’ll stick with the polo mint.’

  ‘Fine,’ said the chaplain and he gave her a blessing.

Next Sunday, she was back. But this time she knelt at the rail and there were no screams and there was no sobbing. Marion simply leaned over and stuck her thumb up in the air and shouted:

  ‘Worthy this week, Father’.

And everyone in the chapel spontaneously cheered and shouted.

Give me a bite!

Daniel tells me that he is a vampire, and that he has been a vampire for the last seven or eight years now. He describes in detail the events that led up to this discovery of who he really was. He also tells me about his craving for blood – human blood.

He even offers to demonstrate his self-perfected blood sucking technique on his own hand.

Awkwardly, I decline and try to move the conversation on.

Upon leaving the room, I consider the messiness of the situation. I reflect upon my own stress in this presence of this Halloween-styled individual – stress borne both of fear for my personal safety, as well as the realization that my ability to respond had been so awkward and inadequate.

Daniel and I meet in chapel every now and again. He still believes he is a vampire, but I am no longer so stressed about that. This is a measure of trust between us. It is amazing how quickly the bizarre becomes commonplace.

And Daniel is exploring for himself, as one who thirsts for blood, what it means to him to participate in the act of Holy Communion and to receive the blood of Christ. Is there a chance that this blood will heal, rather than destroy him?

I wonder.

What I really, really want...

Sitting in the chapel, alongside Daniel, is Annie. Annie is another person made awkward by the ravaging effects of chronic mental illness.

I cannot always understand her disjointed speech and find myself inwardly retreating because of the way she looks, yet it is clear that the chapel represents some measure of relief from the stresses and strains of her complicated existence.

But Annie hasn’t always felt this way about church. When I first met her, all she could talk about was the fact that she was possessed by the devil – evil, damned, caught up in a diabolical spiritual state that was beyond her control. And, in case anyone questioned her self-understanding, she made a good point of telling me that it must be true because the man who first told her this was himself a priest.

Week after week, Annie sits in the chapel and struggles with who she recalls who she really is: a child of God or one who is forever cursed. And as I watch her struggle, I recall the many other people I have met who live with the curse of the church – the curse of those who mistake the fact of their being ill for something more sinister. With a collar around my neck, I think to myself how much I have become for such people a symbol of abuse, rather than freedom.

The great thing about working in a psychiatric hospital is that you don’t need to conform. In fact, it is probably better if you don’t.

So sometimes the patients give the sermons, not us.

It was Annie’s turn to give the Christmas address.

It was only two lines long, but went straight to the point:

‘When I think of Christmas, all I can think about is the little baby Jesus in the manger; and of how much I would like to crawl into the crib with him and start all over. But I have come to know that I can’t do that and that is why it hurts.’

Probably the best sermon I have ever heard.