I was about 16 when I met Father Pete, he was fat, talkative and happy. He spent a lot of time around the kids in the parish, always looking to get us playing board games with him. He loved Scrabble, Risk and Monopoly. He had no qualms beating anyone, even little kids who agreed to play him.
It was easy to forget he was the priest, particularly when we caught him stealing our donuts during some post-confirmation youth meeting. He looked guilty, and said “My sin is gluttony, and I guess theft too.” He laughed, and said “I’ve never met a perfect person, myself included.” A week later he brought us candy to 'settle his karmic debt.'
At the time Mom was very sick, and I kept all of my thoughts about it to myself. Father Pete knew something was off, most teenagers don’t go to church without their families. He often found me to ask “How is your family.”
“Ok.”
“I don’t see your mother anymore, is she alright?”
I could have said a lot. I could have said she can barely get dressed and cries all the time. Or maybe I could mention the latest suicide attempt, but instead I said “Yeah, she’s busy.”
I’m not a good liar. I won’t pretend I was all right during that time either, but I was convinced that I had done a good job keeping my secret business to myself. Father Pete didn’t press any further.
As a teenager the church was one of the only places where I was comfortable, I could walk there from home in a few minutes. It cleared my head. The church was in the middle of a densely wooded area, and even the air smelled cleaner. I could just go there, space out and have good thoughts even if it was only for an hour. I liked the predictability of Mass, it was a constant and that’s exactly what I needed.
One school day afternoon, I was at church helping someone get ready for some children’s program. I was sitting at a table cutting out shapes and Father Pete asked me to walk with him. There was a a little wood adjacent to the parking lot, he headed off in that direction and I followed him.
He waddled into the woods, and as we walked he talked about Buddhism. He was convinced that Catholicism and Buddhist practices are complimentary. Suddenly we were in a place where I couldn’t see the parking lot anymore, or anything really.
“I have a question that I want you to answer honestly. Can you do that?”
“Yeah.”
He paused then very quietly asked “Is it schizophrenia?”
I was a little stunned, and managed to say “No.”
“She’s been gone a long time, but I think my Mom had schizophrenia. It was different back then, she went to a sanatorium when it got bad and then no one ever talked about it again. I want to help you, but I don’t know where to start. Can you tell me?”
I just stood there embarrassed about the intimacy of the question. It was a violation. Instead of responding I escaped to the place in my mind I went to in church. Weightless. I thought about nothing.
“You know Maryann, she’s always here. She’s a psychologist, I talk to her all the time. If you can’t talk to me, maybe you can talk to her.”
He stood there for a moment looking at me, then said “I think this might be a good place for a prayer garden.” Then he started walking back to the church, talking about getting a bench and how lovely it would be to have a spot in nature to pray.
I avoided both of them the best I could in the following weeks, until one day while I was cutting out construction paper easter eggs and Maryann saw a burn on my arm. She pulled me aside and grabbed both of my wrists, hissing “I’m going to call protective services right now unless you tell me what’s going on.”
“I burnt myself with a curling iron.” I showed her the long skinny burn and she let go.
“No one’s hurting you? Are you sure?”
“Yes!” She searched my face, and quickly apologized. Then she told me what happened. A month earlier Father Pete saw Mom at the grocery store. She had a cart stacked high with nothing but toothpaste tubes and salad dressing. He said hello and she started to cry. She made a scene; thanking him for being nice to me and apologizing for everything.
Suddenly I understood everyone already knew, and I finally talked about it.
It was easy to forget he was the priest, particularly when we caught him stealing our donuts during some post-confirmation youth meeting. He looked guilty, and said “My sin is gluttony, and I guess theft too.” He laughed, and said “I’ve never met a perfect person, myself included.” A week later he brought us candy to 'settle his karmic debt.'
At the time Mom was very sick, and I kept all of my thoughts about it to myself. Father Pete knew something was off, most teenagers don’t go to church without their families. He often found me to ask “How is your family.”
“Ok.”
“I don’t see your mother anymore, is she alright?”
I could have said a lot. I could have said she can barely get dressed and cries all the time. Or maybe I could mention the latest suicide attempt, but instead I said “Yeah, she’s busy.”
I’m not a good liar. I won’t pretend I was all right during that time either, but I was convinced that I had done a good job keeping my secret business to myself. Father Pete didn’t press any further.
As a teenager the church was one of the only places where I was comfortable, I could walk there from home in a few minutes. It cleared my head. The church was in the middle of a densely wooded area, and even the air smelled cleaner. I could just go there, space out and have good thoughts even if it was only for an hour. I liked the predictability of Mass, it was a constant and that’s exactly what I needed.
One school day afternoon, I was at church helping someone get ready for some children’s program. I was sitting at a table cutting out shapes and Father Pete asked me to walk with him. There was a a little wood adjacent to the parking lot, he headed off in that direction and I followed him.
He waddled into the woods, and as we walked he talked about Buddhism. He was convinced that Catholicism and Buddhist practices are complimentary. Suddenly we were in a place where I couldn’t see the parking lot anymore, or anything really.
“I have a question that I want you to answer honestly. Can you do that?”
“Yeah.”
He paused then very quietly asked “Is it schizophrenia?”
I was a little stunned, and managed to say “No.”
“She’s been gone a long time, but I think my Mom had schizophrenia. It was different back then, she went to a sanatorium when it got bad and then no one ever talked about it again. I want to help you, but I don’t know where to start. Can you tell me?”
I just stood there embarrassed about the intimacy of the question. It was a violation. Instead of responding I escaped to the place in my mind I went to in church. Weightless. I thought about nothing.
“You know Maryann, she’s always here. She’s a psychologist, I talk to her all the time. If you can’t talk to me, maybe you can talk to her.”
He stood there for a moment looking at me, then said “I think this might be a good place for a prayer garden.” Then he started walking back to the church, talking about getting a bench and how lovely it would be to have a spot in nature to pray.
I avoided both of them the best I could in the following weeks, until one day while I was cutting out construction paper easter eggs and Maryann saw a burn on my arm. She pulled me aside and grabbed both of my wrists, hissing “I’m going to call protective services right now unless you tell me what’s going on.”
“I burnt myself with a curling iron.” I showed her the long skinny burn and she let go.
“No one’s hurting you? Are you sure?”
“Yes!” She searched my face, and quickly apologized. Then she told me what happened. A month earlier Father Pete saw Mom at the grocery store. She had a cart stacked high with nothing but toothpaste tubes and salad dressing. He said hello and she started to cry. She made a scene; thanking him for being nice to me and apologizing for everything.
Suddenly I understood everyone already knew, and I finally talked about it.
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Jonathan Wolfman
Ronald Allan
Duane Gundrum
Amy A
Anna Voy
RARobertsJr.
Salon.com
Comments
R
Rated
This could have been my life story-- schizophrenic mother, adolescent in pain, and refuge in the church. In my case, however, no one outside my family knew and the suffocating secret was an enormous burden for my siblings and I to bear.
I am thankful you had adults who were paying attention and who stumbled towards compassion.
I grew in a time when everyone was hyper-aware of child abuse, but still when the prism of mental disorders was just not talked about, let alone understood. I was so lucky to have my church and a few adults who we're paying attention even though I didn't want it at all at the time.
Mom has, or has had: Major depression, a full spectrum of anxiety disorders, delusions, compulsions; and somehow always managed to have enough capacity to be a good parent when it mattered. Then again, my definition of parent may be far different than yours...
Next time I'll tell a funny story, I promise.
My husband's mother is manic-depressive, and his life hasn't been easy. I can only imagine...
I'm glad the church was there for you when you needed it.
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