His Bright Light

by Danielle Steel

  I spoke to my own therapist about Nick then, as he was a constant worry to me, and she said something to me that no one else had. She said that although she had never seen him, she suspected that he was indeed mentally ill to a serious degree, possibly either schizophrenic or manic-depressive, which shocked me, and she expressed surprise that his own therapist hadn’t expressed greater concern about him. And at first, I resisted what she was saying, and insisted he was normal, which I knew he wasn’t, but what she said was very threatening to me.

  She also said that when I stopped having normal expectations of him, and treated him like “our crazy aunt in the attic,” things would go better, or at least they would be more realistic. He was fourteen years old and the idea that he was truly mentally ill, and maybe even severely, appalled me, and made my heart ache, but I couldn’t deny it. But she was right in what she said. What difference did it make if he came to dinner? In fact, it would be easier for all of us if he didn’t. Every night at the dinner table had become a nightmare, he argued about everything, insulted everyone, farted, burped, sneered, screamed at anyone he chose to, and obsessed constantly about things he wanted to do that were months away, like what concert he could go to three months hence, and who would take him. He made conversation impossible, and the other children could never get a word in. I tried to set rules that wouldn’t allow him to ruin the meal for everyone, but they were just more rules he either couldn’t, or wouldn’t follow. And it broke my heart to see him. He had started looking unkempt, refused to comb or brush his hair, and he seemed to take pleasure in torturing everyone, particularly me, by starting arguments and being insulting day and night, and especially at every meal.

  In a matter of months despite everything we were trying to do for him, he seemed to have lost both control over and respect for himself, and he had plummeted unchecked into an abyss of depression. But for the first time in his life, he was both abusive and aggressive. He was fourteen years old and he was in love with a girl three years older than he was, and he insisted they were going to get married. His life was a tangle suddenly of irrational behavior of monumental proportions.

  Julie started out seeing him once or twice a week at home, and as the end of the school year drew near, and his fifteenth birthday approached, she came to the house to see him daily. I couldn’t have survived without her. Her calming influence, scalpel-sharp insights, and wise words not only made his life more bearable, but ours as well. She was like an interpreter between warring factions. Sometimes she would deal with the smallest problems of daily life, like getting him to take a shower, or put on shoes. And sometimes she dealt with issues of far greater proportions.

  In addition, like all parents dealing with problem children, John and I had divergent views at times, and the angst of dealing with Nick minute by minute, day by day, put an almost inevitable strain on our marriage. Sometimes Nick would be in our room at two and three and four A.M., arguing about something trivial, and Julie wasn’t there at those hours to help us. If nothing else, it was exhausting and painful and sad for all concerned.

  Nick’s behavior by then was putting a strain on everyone, although we did our best to deal with him separately, and not allow him to disrupt the younger children. But it wasn’t always possible, and it surely wasn’t easy. In those days particularly, living with Nick was really a nightmare, and John and I were both worried. There were so many things and aspects to think and worry about, his physical well-being, his academic life, his behavior at home, and the example he set, negative or positive, and beyond that, the far greater fear that what was fueling his obstreperousness was actually something far more disturbing than adolescence.

  My whole focus seemed to be on Nick on a daily basis, and I was always fighting for time to spend with the other children. Having Julie there to step in for me, and talk to Nick, gave me the time I needed to pay attention to them.

  And there were days when I wanted to lie on the floor and scream, or thought I would go crazy. The worst part of it was that I didn’t know how to help him. Patience and reason made little or no impression on Nick, threats and consequences didn’t sway him. We tried writing contracts with him, which he argued about for hours, negotiated endlessly, eventually signed, and would break minutes or hours later. The contracts were worthless.

  I was worried that the time he was spending at the psychiatrist was having little effect on him, and as yet no one had suggested medication. When I mentioned to Nick’s therapist what mine had said, about Nick possibly being seriously ill, I got the feeling he was not yet ready to come to that conclusion, and after all, he knew Nick better. Instead, he suggested more “structure,” and suggested we write up another contract. I could have papered the walls with the ones we’d already written with him, and knew by then that they were useless. No matter how reasonable they sounded at the time we concocted them, or feasible for him, he never lived up to them. Not for a day, or a minute. It was as though the agreements we made with him evaporated the minute we made them. They were of no interest to him.

  I know now that his journals would have said it all to us, and to his doctors, certainly, if we could have seen them. Therein lay the key, but the key was in Nick’s possession. Only he knew how truly tormented he was, and he told no one. What we saw was a deeply troubled boy, hostile, aggressive, sad, afraid, awake half the night, and wandering the house in uncombed hair, in his bedspread, sometimes sleeping on the floor. And still no one I spoke to seemed to share my concerns.

  These are from Nick’s journal. These particular entries are from a journal he called “Monkey Boy,” which was a name he gave himself then. Some of the entries are utterly incoherent. Others, most of them, are quite brilliant, particularly for a boy of fourteen.

  “Demons”

  Demons kick their way into my head, spinning and laughing. Senses are dead. I cringe at their timing. They giggle and pinch me, their evil nails digging into my flesh. I twist away, retching, coughing up vomit colored blood, dying. Hanging up here on this hook is no easy task, so here I swing, being tortured, swallowed up by the great escape. I see no other background besides the green steel wall, leering above the piles of destruction left by my tormentors…

  This journal is still full of stories about Sarah, his little friend who had died nearly two years before, in seventh grade. But he still missed her so acutely, and longed to be with her.

  And then on … into his private hell, where he must have been so lonely. It makes my heart ache to read what he wrote.

  The smell of burnt flesh bites at my nostrils. I’m sitting here, slouched over, sleepy, itchy. They’re talking. Everything’s soft and fuzzy. Eyes out of focus, blurry, beating their fists at me, faces red. They tell me “You’re bad. You’ve been a bad boy.” I don’t feel like it. I’m not bad. I’m not crazy. I just want everyone to be quiet, leave me alone. I want to be warm and comfy and to tingle all over. I just can’t find that place. That small, peaceful place to rest my head, put my feet up. “Come in, stay awhile, take off your hat, your shoes, make yourself at home.” I want to feel wanted, hugged, looked at. I want to be told I’m beautiful. I’m perfect. But they never tell me those things. It’s the endless battle to get where I want to be, away from everyone else, lounging in the smoky lounge of misanthropy. I just want my boots off, my feet resting on the coffee table. I want to feel this way forever, away from the bad things, the mean people, the endless grey treadmills filled with suffering grey people, old and mean, stuffed with resentments, and cold sharp hatred for things different from themselves. I don’t like them. They all look at me funny, laugh at my back, point their fingers in my face. They make me hurt and not feel wanted. I hate that.

  Nick in his bedspread (photo credit 1.19)

  More journal entries.

  “Hurt”

  I’m sick and tired of it! I do my best all the time. I do what I have to do. No matter how it makes me cry and throb on the inside. I feel like no one cares. No one sees the effort. I do it and do it a
nd do it until I’m sweating and sobbing and shaking. I get so filled with fury and bate that I can’t see. Everything starts to spin. I twitch and grope at the rope that will drag me to salvation but every inch closer I crawl, someone pulls it farther away, laughing at my tears, my sweat, my blood. It makes me sick. It’s not worth it. I find relief from it. I get up off my knees, brush off my clothes, the blood off my face. And then I go away. I leave your laughter, your joy. All the fighting and trying is pointless. It’s like trying to walk through a wall. And your bony pointless hatred still pokes me no matter where I run to get away from it. I can’t run, no matter how fast my legs move. Can’t hide no matter how dirty I’m willing to get. It’s all a game to you, a trick to see how far down the line you can push me. I’m over the line now. What is a game to you is my life.

  “Strength”

  Did you ever wrap your arms around yourself just to imagine someone else holding you? Did you ever wish you could talk to them and hold their hands? Did you ever feel like you were ugly and worthless and try to find your flaws, staring in the mirror for days on end? Did you ever get laughed at? Did you ever feel strange and foreign? Did you ever get singled out and fucked with, being burned and raped in your head? You couldn’t see what they wanted. Couldn’t find what they needed. Did you ever hide your sensitivity, your true feelings, because you feared getting stepped on? Well, I did. I did all of that. I lived through it. I am living through it. I keep myself company and try to imagine somebody loving my hate-racked body and soul. I have to be strong to do it. I have to clench my fists, grit my teeth, pretend to be pure and get on with my business, despite the consequences. Despite the pain and fire that will scorch my chest, I need to put my feelings in check and deal with it. No food, no laughter, no applause, just survival. Just the sweaty rotting toothed skeleton that guides me and scares the shit out of me that I have to deal with. I have to find my ultimate addiction and take it to the last page so I can go with a loud smoky fucking bang.

  “Sneaky Lil Fucker”

  I am just an angry boy. I am not an imbecile. I sit on his windowsill and let the rain make my back wet. I don’t know where I will go from here. Every time I bend over, the black tar spills from my lips. My lungs collapse and my stomach fills with blood. When I die, I too will turn to dust. I’ll fly my little kite and run in the big wide open field. I’ll have friends. I’ll have a family. I’ve had enough of this life. I’m tired of trying to get away with everything, tired of having to get away with everything. I have to do it everyone else’s way, and all I want is to not be so filled with the dirty black hatred that rots my insides.

  “Explode”

  Normal is bad, balance is shit. I want to be angry and fierce and shirtless and sweating, screaming at the top of my lungs and clawing at my own skin for the rest of my life. I want to roll on the dirty carpet, the air raid sirens exploding above me, ripping the air to shreds. I want to be angry and alone, hating the world, hating my parents, hating myself. I don’t want to have to call anybody on the phone, and have to pretend to be happy, have to pretend to be everything I’m not. I can’t handle all of it anymore. I want to throw myself into the machine and get all tangled up in my own insides and just stay there, panting, being violent and loud. And it is all I have ever dreamt of doing, and all I have ever wanted to do. It’s such a simple thing. But they won’t let me do it. They hold my arms, laughing evilly at my rationalizations. They ask me why I do the things I do, and why I’m such an evil boy and why I am so bad. But I don’t have any answers. I just strain against their wall of psychosis and think I will burst soon if I can’t escape, if I can’t make it to the other side to scream and pound and follow my heart. They have their fists around my heart, squeezing, constricting and all the while telling me I’m getting better. I’m being healed. I can’t see anything through the water and red puffy dragons that are stuffed into my head, barely contained by my bulging eyelids. I have to get away from them, launch myself into safety. Why don’t they just go away? I guess it’s not that simple anymore.

  “Lovely Ugly Brutal World”

  Why am I so confused and unhappy and fucking angry all the time? What goes on in my brain that makes everything seem so twisted and shitty? Or is everything really so ugly and bad? It can’t be. People say it’s not. But if it’s not, why is there blood on the ground, and blood on the walls, and blood on my hands? Sex is violent, pain is silent. I stand in the eye of the hurricane with carnage and body parts twisting and flying all around me. And I can’t seem to move because I’m afraid to get caught in that whirlpool called Sanity.

  Do you ever watch couples on the street? When they are young, they hold hands so they don’t kill each other. When they are old, they hold hands so they don’t fall down.

  When I am in love

  It is like an ice cube

  tickling its trail of numbness

  behind. I feel queasy but

  content, nervous but excited.

  It is the ultimate feeling

  of fear and hope combined,

  When I am loved

  it is like cold hands touching me.

  It is pleasing but frightening.

  I feel uncomfortable though I am

  sitting on a fluffy pink cloud,

  I feel alone.

  “Control”

  Broken evil sunshine filters through the walls of my cell, I close my eyes to it, I don’t need its warmth or its healing light. I want to stay here in darkness, pale, panting and bleeding, wishing for an escape into reality, but I find none. My soul is empty. I am weak, hollow, alone. I pray to the empty black sky at night and ask the Being my parents told me of to save me, but he won’t. There is no God watching over me, no Heaven awaiting my arrival. I scream into the echoing abyss and lash out at the darkness, my fists striking out at the air. I wish I could hit something just to know I wasn’t alone in here. But I am. Nowhere to go, and nothing to see. I am locked into my cage, like an animal, and I begin to feel like one. All I know is I must spend night after strangled night here in my room alone.

  “Dream”

  A dream crashed down upon my head this afternoon. It left my skull fractured, my mind ruptured, and my heart torn. I know I can fix it but that might be just as hard as letting it slip through my fingers. I weep at the thought of that and I know I cannot let that happen. I can’t let myself slip away from the light I’ve struggled so hard to reach. I don’t want to live in darkness anymore. I have too much to lose. I have more good and happy things in my life than I have ever had or thought I would ever have. And I no longer have the weapons to beat away reality. I can no longer numb myself away from it, and I’m not sure I even want to anymore. I want happiness more than anything and I’ve found new tools to help me find it. I need to make life work for me and I can only achieve that if I work for it. I know I can do it, and I know how scary it is to actually try to make myself into anything. I’m sure I can do it. I have love clutching my right hand and she is helping me reach toward life with my left. She is what I need to help make me strong again. I no longer want to be afraid and weak. I’ve seen the light, and I want to try and get there fast.

  This particular journal, though so devastatingly raw and agonized, seems to end on a note of hope, while he was still fourteen. But there was no question in our minds that he was getting sicker then. The demons that raged inside him were slowly getting out of control. Julie and I spent hours talking about it, trying to find ways to drag him back to “normal.”

  He was having more and more trouble in school, as the school year came to an end, and he turned fifteen. They finally called us in and said he needed some kind of treatment before he could return in the fall. Julie and I put our minds to it, as did John, and she researched it for us. He was playing with drugs at the time, though not seriously, but obviously still to find relief. A drug program wasn’t appropriate for him, a mental hospital seemed too cruel, and his psychiatrist wouldn’t have gone along with it. Not living with Nick, he couldn’t see
the problem as clearly as we could. I asked about a program or hospital for Nick and he didn’t seem to feel Nick’s problems were severe enough to warrant in-patient treatment.

  Nick at fifteen (photo credit 1.20)

  I went to a session with Nick and his psychiatrist that spring, and all Nick did was sit and insult the man, while the doctor spoke patiently to him. But I could see easily that Nick had no respect or affection for him. From a medical/psychiatric standpoint, we seemed to be going nowhere. This had been Nick’s third shrink in four years, and Nick had no interest in cooperating with his treatment.

  Julie seemed to be the only one who got anywhere with Nick, although she was the first to admit that she had little or no training in the field of mental illness. Her expertise was in the area of drug abuse, and kids with ordinary teenage problems, but she loved Nick by then, and wanted to do everything she could to help him. But the world of the mentally ill was new to her. The beauty of it was she had no preconceptions. She was willing to try anything to help him, as I was. But it was clear to us, if to no one else by then, that Nick was mentally ill, whether or not his “problem” had a name.

  Julie was willing to learn as she went along, as were we, but it was becoming clear to all of us by then that the issues that plagued Nick were mental ones, there were vast psychiatric holes in him, which we struggled desperately to fill, just the three of us, John, Julie, and I, with no one else to help us. It was like trying to stop Nick from bleeding to death. He had cut an artery somewhere, deep in his soul, and all we knew was that we had to find it, and sew it up again. Quickly. Before it killed him.

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