Shadows of Suspicion
A Story from my book: Harrogate to Kisumu
The worst aspect of Peter’s paranoia is the distrust, it’s as if there’s an inner voice continually sowing seeds of suspicion. From the moment he wakes up in the morning, until he falls asleep in the evening he is convinced that he is under surveillance and feels like he’s a prisoner in his own bedroom. Every gesture, every glance is suspicious. This hyper-vigilance is present in every aspect of Peter’s life converting innocent coincidences into sinister omens. He’s incapable of having any kind of normal social interaction.
Another tragic aspect of this condition is the isolation, being cut off from practically all human interaction. He’s in a kind of exile, believing all his friends and family are out to get him. All of Peter’s friends have alienated him, along with most of his family. It’s a tragic state of affairs.
I was on my usual daily delivery route from Hertford to Brighton when the phone rang. I flipped the answer switch on my steering wheel, it was Emily. Usually so bubbly and refreshing, I was instantly on high alert, detecting a tone of despair in her voice. “What’s wrong now?” I mumbled under my breath. With apprehension she told me of Peter’s deterioration. It seemed his paranoia was spiralling out of control. Emily asked if it was at all possible for me to fly over to South Africa to try and persuade Peter to seek professional help before it’s too late.
I told Emily that I would have a chat to Ami and see if it would be possible. An hour later I arrived in Brighton, my mind racing. It was going to be a huge challenge to pull this one off. The logistics of the flight, re-arranging my leave. You see, I had a trip planned for early the following year to visit Ami and the kids in Nairobi. We had already been apart for six or so months and I was looking forward to the trip. Deliveries finished, I set off back to Hertford.
An hour or so later, I was on the M25 (what I call the orbital carpark) approaching Heathrow with all six lanes of traffic at a standstill. I decided to give Ami a call. I explained the predicament I was in and without hesitation, Ami said “You need to go and sort him out.” Ami was a darling that way, always willing to sacrifice in times of need. With Ami’s blessing, I knew I had to go.
So, I did a bit of juggling with my leave, booked a flight, and within a couple of days, I found myself seated in row 17A by the window, my favourite seat. Landing in Johannesburg was always exciting for me. As soon as you walk out of the airport building, Africa hits you like being reunited with a long-lost friend.
I spent a few days with Peter, trying my best to keep him occupied and away from all of his devices, which seemed to be the main instigators of his paranoia. We went on short walks with his dog and did grocery shopping at the local supermarket. Doing normal everyday stuff seemed to distract him. Unfortunately, his mum couldn’t help with this because she didn’t do these daily normal things. She spent most of her time locked away in her bedroom, fearing Peter’s condition.
It took me the best part of four days of persistent coaching to get him to finally agree to see the psychologist. Myself and Emily had done our research and found a highly recommended therapist for him. He still grumbled and protested that we were wasting our money. In Peter’s mind there was nothing wrong with him, or as he put it “my mental health is solid.”
The following morning, Emily arrived to drive us to the appointment. As soon as Peter got into the car, he started voicing his objections about having to go through all this nonsense. He shouted insults at both of us, convinced we were dragging him into hell. Emily, unable to bear the bickering any longer, slammed the brakes on, bringing the car to a screeching stop. She shouted at the top of her voice that she couldn’t stand it any longer. She started to cry.
Emily pulled into the medical centre carpark more composed, thank goodness! We’d finally arrived and not a minute too soon. Peter was very nervous and jittery. We sat down in the doctors reception room and got ourselves ready for the next hurdle, the application form. Trying to convince Peter that we needed to fill in a form and that it was ok to give personal details. It was worse than pulling teeth. Peter protested and groaned at every question, why they needed this or that detail. I managed to persuade him to fill in most of it, but he conveniently left a few blanks (well, every personal detail to be exact). The secretary seemed to catch on, giving me a knowing wink. “We’ll catch up shortly,” she said with a sympathetic smile.
Peter disappeared into the psychiatrist’s office for what felt like an eternity, but turned out to be only 45 minutes — a tad short for a hour-long consultation. With Peter occupied, I seized the opportunity to fill in all the remaining blanks on his form. As it turned out, the doctor had saved the last 15 minutes for a little chat with Emily and I.
Peter came out not looking too happy. He said “This chick is up to something.” “She’s trying to find out personal stuff about me.” I said “That’s her job, she’s trying to help you!” Emily and I walked in and had quite an eye-opening chat with her. She was pretty much convinced that Peter was suffering from Paranoid Schizophrenia with a 95% certainty. We were also quizzed about his mother because she said something is not right at home. Ideally, she would like to see Peter and his mother next time. In the meantime, she gave me a prescription for Peter and said it was imperative that he takes the medication. Oh, joy — just what we needed, another mountain to climb. This was beginning to feel like Everest.
It took a good five hours of counselling before Peter begrudgingly agreed to take his medication. Far from happy, he swallowed the tablet as he gave me a sideways glance of contempt. We’d have to go through this torture twice a day. After two days, Peter was protesting less and seemed a lot more calm. Was this actually working? I felt a slight relief. I’d managed to get Peter to a psychologist and take medication for two days. This was beginning to feel like a win.
The day of Peter’s second appointment had arrived and as we entered the waiting room Peter unleashed a tsunami of abuse on the poor receptionist, demanding his application form back! She seemed stunned at the outburst but scurried off to the filing cabinet at full speed. She handed it over to Peter who very methodically tore it into pieces and threw it on the floor by his feet. He then declared “ I no longer need help and I am firing my therapist.”
I was planning on leaving for the UK the following evening but after that outburst, I extended my stay for another couple of days. I tried to keep Peter occupied. We decided to get away from Wi-Fi, laptops and other distractive devices by visiting the Johannesburg Botanical Gardens. Surprisingly, Peter managed to keep his cool for the most part — we had a fantastic couple of hours walking around the gardens, eating ice cream and chatting.
I packed my suitcases, gave Peter a hug and made him promise that he would stay on the medication. I pleaded with his Mum, stressing that she had to ensure he remained on the medication. Always focusing on the negatives, she said, “Oh, it’s going to be so hard making sure Peter takes his meds, I don’t know if I can manage it,” I said “You don’t have a choice, it’s the only way Peter will get better!”
Back in the UK, I’d chat to Peter most days. He promised me that he was still on his medication and was feeling much better. I called Emily just to check if Peter was telling me the truth. I was so angry when I heard the response “Oh sorry Dad. Mum told Peter he didn’t need to stay on the meds.” All that effort I put in, and poof! We were right back where we started. I couldn’t believe it.
To be continued…
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