G-The Beer and Fags Diet:Chapter Six: Terror

CHAPTER SIX

Terror

"Through the gate you carry on in roughly the same direction through
another hedge and then towards
a low tiled barn alongside the next hedge. Pass through this just to
the right of the barn and turn 60
degrees left and cross the next field to its top right corner (towards
the houses)."

As I went through the kissing gate the ground changed from watermeadow
pasture
to cultivated ground. I don't know what the crop is that's being
cultivated, I've only
lived in the country for a few years. It looks like grass. The path
goes straight
through the middle of the field. I never feel comfortable walking
through the middle
of someone's cultivated field, even if there is a Public
Footpath.

Is it normal to sometimes think you're the only person in the universe?
When I was
younger I'd often speculate as to whether everything around me was fake
and only
existed when it was in my sphere of awareness, and that maybe it was
all a great big test
set up by God. I'm still not absolutely sure of the answer, but I
suspect it's a common
feeling because when Arthur Dent describes it in "The Hitch Hiker's
Guide To The
Galaxy", Ford Prefect tells him it's just "perfectly normal paranoia".
Unless that's just
another part of God's elaborate test.

There's a statistic that gets bandied around. It claims that some huge
proportion like one-
third of all adults will need treatment for mental illness at some
point in their lives. It's
meant to show that mental illness is more common than people think. But
one third of all
adults is a lot of people. I used to wonder where all these loonies
were. I certainly didn't
know any of them, and I knew with absolute certainty that it couldn't
happen to me. And
then it did. It's very distressing when you think you're going
mad.

A couple of months after I stopped work I went to Amsterdam on a stag
weekend. I only
went on the trip to make up the numbers. All the other blokes were in
their late twenties
and I hardly knew any of them. They'd chosen Amsterdam because they
were all heavily
into dope. Over the weekend there was a lot of dope and a lot of booze.
I've never done
much dope, I've had enough trouble with beer and fags. I've never had
more than the odd
drag of a reefer, but to be friendly I joined in with the youngsters
whenever a joint was
passed around. I suppose I must have smoked quite a lot over the three
days. I suppose I
also used it as an excuse to smoke tobacco. I don't remember it making
me feel giggly
and relaxed like it's supposed to. I do remember sitting and staring
into space for long
periods, lost in my own thoughts. It was like tunnel vision except it
was tunnel psyche. I
put it down to an extreme hangover and thought nothing of it.

It's very upsetting and painful for me to describe it even now. It's
also very difficult to
actually find the words to adequately express what happened. Gradually,
over the next
few weeks, I began to have the most terrible and appalling intrusive
thoughts. I began to
develop absurd irrational fears that my children were going to be hurt
somehow. When it
first started, vague fuzzy pictures would flash into my head. The
pictures weren't
detailed, and I didn't have time to study them or flesh them out
because I could tell they
involved my children being harmed and I forced them out of my head as
quickly as I
could. But as the days and weeks went by it got worse. The pictures
were forcing their
way into my head more often and I was finding it harder and harder to
get them out. The
pictures were still sketchy, but by now I knew they were scenes of my
children sitting up
in bed with their throats slashed.

Then the real terror began, a greater terror than I can possibly
describe. I started to fear
that it was me, the besotted father of the two most beautiful children
in the world, who
was going to harm the kids. I never actually pictured myself doing
anything but the
horror was real enough. We'd recently bought a set of extremely sharp
kitchen knives
from John Lewis in High Wycombe. I developed a phobia about them. I
would avoid
touching them and where possible I'd hide them out of sight. It got so
I could hardly
sleep at night. I had to stay awake because I had to stay in control. I
was terrified that if I
fell asleep I could somehow lose control and act on my thoughts. I was
scared to go
downstairs during the night for a drink or a biscuit in case I snapped
and went for the
knives instead. I would eventually fall asleep and wake up exhausted
early the next
morning. Then I'd check on the children. I would nervously open their
bedroom doors,
afraid of what I might find. Dread would turn to huge relief when I
found them sleeping
peacefully and unharmed.

I kept it all from B for a couple of weeks. I've always had a vivid and
bizarre imagination
and I'd briefly had vaguely similar thoughts in the past. I used to
worry a lot about
leaning over my sleeping daughter in the dark to kiss her goodnight. It
would scare me
that as an adult she might go to some crank psychotherapist. She might
have this memory
dredged up as some kind of repressed abuse and I might lose her
forever. It was around
that time that I would see flashes of me actually abusing her, but this
didn't worry me, it
was only my dramatic imagination daring me to think the unthinkable. I
dealt with it then
and I thought I could deal with it now, but eventually I broke down one
night as we were
going to bed.

B was very sympathetic. She helped me a lot and never doubted me for a
second. She
urged me to go to the doctors but I wanted a few more days to deal with
it myself. I knew
I could never ever hurt my children, but then who knows what goes
through the mind of a
madman. At one point I became convinced it was all because I'd recently
stopped taking
St Johns Wort. This is a non-prescription natural remedy. It's taken in
Britain as a general
tonic or pick-me-up, though it's widely prescribed in other countries
as a treatment for
mild depression. I'd started taking it a few years earlier on the basis
that it couldn't do me
any harm, but had recently stopped taking it as I couldn't see any
specific benefits. It now
became crystal clear to me that my problems were obviously a result of
withdrawal. I
leapt into my car and dashed to the nearest chemist. With a huge
feeling of relief I bought
a pack of St John's Wort and threw a handful down my throat, in no
doubt that my
problems were over. But that the next day as I was playing football I
couldn't concentrate
on the match because of my thoughts. I was back to square one.

Over the next few days it all became too much. Every time I saw a
garden or household
tool, say a spade or an electric drill, I would imagine what damage I
could do to the kids
if I snapped. At one point I took my son for a cycle ride round the
perimeter of a nearby
disused airfield. It's a desolate and remote place. As we entered the
airfield from the road
I was trembling with fear as I realized how far my boy would be from
help if I broke
down and attacked him. I couldn't get the thoughts out of my head. I
made ludicrous
compacts with myself. I didn't hear voices, but I did hear my own voice
saying that if I
didn't finish mowing the lawn by four o'clock I'd have to kill the kids
tonight. All of this
took place against the background of a national debate as to whether
the laws on cannabis
usage should be relaxed. The main argument of the anti-cannabis faction
was that it could
bring out psychotic and paranoid personality traits in a minority of
susceptible people.
Given my experience in Amsterdam a few weeks earlier this just about
sent me over the
edge. I was convinced I had become a psycho. When I talked to friends
in the pub I'd ask
myself what they'd think of me when they found out I was a child
murderer. I thought
about driving to the local police station and asking to be locked up. I
even considered
suicide. I quickly dismissed it as a coward's way out, but at least the
kids would have
been safe.

I was overwhelmed and I just couldn't cope anymore. I rang the local
surgery and
requested an immediate appointment. The receptionist said she didn't
have a free slot but
I insisted I had to see a doctor today. She asked why it was so urgent
and I told her I was
too embarrassed to explain. She said she'd get a doctor to call me back
and fifteen
minutes later a doctor did so. I told her I was concerned about my
mental state and gave
her a brief description of the problem. She said I should go and see
her at once.

I truly thought I was going mad. As the four of us drove up the hill to
the surgery I didn't
know what to expect. For all I knew I was about to be carted off in a
straitjacket to rot in
the local bedlam, never to see my family again.

The kids flicked through comics as B and I went through to the
consulting room. Through
sobs I told the doctor everything. As you probably know, nobody could
accuse me of
carrying a torch for doctors, but she was good. She said I wasn't going
mad. She said
she'd seen this type of thing many times before from people unused to
cannabis and that
the Amsterdam trip was almost certainly the cause. She said that my new
nurturing role at
home with the family was also probably a factor. Most importantly, she
said I would
almost certainly not act on my thoughts. I would have preferred a
"certainly" to an
"almost certainly" but I wasn't going to argue. She said she'd arrange
an appointment for
me with the local mental health team and prescribed me a course of
amitriptyline, an
antidepressant and sedative. She also suggested that B could sleep so
as to block the
bedroom door if it would make me feel more comfortable about the
chances of going
roaming with a knife during the night.

When I left the surgery I felt that the worst of the nightmare was
over. It was such a
release to know that someone else had a clue what I was talking about,
that I didn't have
to deal with it alone, and that I wasn't a freak or a fruitcake. I was
elated and we all went
to McDonald's to celebrate even though the kids didn't know why we were
celebrating.
To tell the truth I was proud of myself. It may sound silly but it took
a lot of guts for me
to turn myself in at the docs as an apprentice nutter. Even today we
live in a society
where men think they should deal with things themselves without seeking
help or making
a fuss. It's considered manly and it should be considered manly and in
its right place
there's nothing wrong with that. I've also always had a great pride,
probably conceit, in
my own intellect and my own ability to deal with my problems, combined
with a passive
scorn for the medical profession. So all in all I'd had to eat quite a
few portions of
humble pie. I'm claiming it as an act of courage, though if you wanted
to put it down as
an act of desperation I couldn't really argue.

I felt better immediately. A few days later we all set off for a week
in a cottage in Jersey.
I still anxiously checked on the kids every morning, but I was sleeping
through the night,
and the terrible pictures only came into my head when I deliberately
sat down to
contemplate what had happened to me over the previous weeks.

As soon as we arrived back from Jersey I had a call from a nurse with
the local mental
health team. Her name was Ruth. She was very undemanding over the
phone, avoiding
anything which might seem challenging and leading me gently through the
conversation
one step at a time. She spoke softly and if she made a statement like
"I'd like to have a
chat with you" or "I'd like to make an appointment for you" she would
qualify it with "Is
that OK?" or "If that's OK". It was like she felt she was dealing with
something that was
very fragile and could break at any moment. I felt like telling her to
pull herself together
and stop fannying around, and that she was dealing with me and not one
of her usual
headcases. "Oh my God" I thought as I put the phone down, "what the
hell do they think
I am?". Then I realized that of course, "one of her usual headcases"
was exactly what I
was. I told you I was conceited.

I arranged to meet her at a clinic in Aylesbury. I had mixed feelings
as I approached. The
big sign outside proclaimed to anyone watching that I was entering a
"Buckinghamshire
Mental Health NHS Trust" building. "There goes another one" bystanders
would surely
smirk. I'd often passed these places and wondered what went on inside.
I never thought
I'd enter one as a patient. Though as well as the stigma of the mental
patient I felt a
certain childish satisfaction at being recognized as someone special
and deserving of
attention.

Ruth was about my age, and of average height and build. I suppose she
could be called
attractive. She led me into a small room where a tall girl in her early
twenties was waiting
for us. Ruth explained that the interview would last about an hour and
asked if I'd mind if
the trainee stayed in the room to observe? I didn't mind the trainee
but I was a little put
out that I wasn't barking mad enough to qualify for a full-scale
psychiatrist. She asked
me to describe the events of the previous few weeks so once again I
went through the
whole thing in detail. Then she launched into a series of questions.
Some of these were
quite normal and to be expected. She asked what I thought had caused
it, had I seriously
considered acting on my thoughts, was everything fine at home etc. She
also asked if I'd
considered suicide. She then almost encouraged me to say I'd heard
voices in my head
and she seemed quite disappointed when I denied it. But as she
continued the questions
became increasingly bizarre and personal. Did I love my mother? Had I
had any pets as a
child? Had I had sex with other women before B? How old was I when I
lost my
virginity? Who was it with? How often did I masturbate? It was so
clich?d, I was actually
sitting in a therapist scene from a Woody Allen film. It was also
strangely arousing to be
sitting there and telling all the details of my private life to two
attractive strangers. This
time, unlike at the doctors, I remembered to tell her about the
OCD.

I was expecting a big finish. I thought that after all these questions
she'd reach a
spectacular conclusion about what was wrong with me and what had caused
it, and she'd
reveal dramatic insights into the internal workings of my head. But
eventually it all just
sort-of petered out. Ruth mumbled that OCD was caused by anxiety and
that I was
probably suffering again from another anxiety-related condition. She
said that I should
continue with the amitriptyline but I should also try exposure therapy.
I asked her what
she meant and she said that instead of forcing the thoughts out of my
head I should think
them through to their conclusion and so realize that I was not going to
act on them and
that there was nothing to fear. It's fair to say I was surprised and
unnerved at the prospect
of sitting down to deliberately visualize the slashing of my children's
throats.

To this day I've never been offered either a clinical diagnosis or a
proper explanation of
my illness. Several weeks after the interview during a routine
telephone call to Ruth I
asked her for both. Either she didn't explain it very well or I'm thick
because I'm still
none the wiser.

I'm just about OK now but I still feel a little fragile, a little
precarious. I'm at my lowest
when I've got a bad hangover and I'm feeling paranoid. Of course, the
worst thing about
any mental illness is having to live with the fear of it coming back.
And what if it came
back but you didn't realize it had come back? I mean, I presume these
people who
strangle their kids then put a shotgun in their mouths believe
themselves to be behaving
quite rationally. God it's terrifying.

I'll be at the Old Fisherman's in Shabbington soon. It used to be a
nice pub until a
few years ago when the brewery refurbished it. I suppose it's still a
nice pub but
now it's nice in a clean, new, pine and brass lager tap way rather than
a grubby old
hand-pulled bitter and comfortable way. I'm not going in for a pint, I
haven't got
time.

CHAPTER ENDS

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