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Once around the Prickly Pear
A memoir by Robin Cunningham
Mental ill health is rampant in South Africa. Much of it is fueled by poverty, violence and the knock-on effect of physical nasties such as cholera, hepatitis and AIDS. But some of it - like schizophrenia - can be a chemical imbalance, inherited from our ancestors but treatable by drugs. Dimitri Tsafendas was declared schizophrenic three months before he knifed to death Prime Minister Hendrik Verwoerd, fueling a dispute about whether he acted from political motives or the voice of a tapeworm.
We will never know what went on in Tsafendas' mind. But now top American businessman Robin Cunningham has described his descent from devout schoolboy into madness, and back again to success in his career and personal life, courtesy of a daily regimen of powerful drugs. His upcoming memoir makes craziness seem perfectly logical. In fact, the most illogical aspect of his schizophrenia was his family's denial of it, which continues to this day. Here is how his descent into madness began, as a young adolescent….
It was a Sunday afternoon in April when Satan spoke to me. I was riding in the back seat of our station wagon while my father drove, my mother at his side. We were on our way home after visiting my brother at prep school and were winding our way through a mountain pass when it happened.
"Your father is God."
"Of course, He is God the Father."
"No. Your father is God."
"What do you mean?"
"Your father. You know, the one at the breakfast table every morning."
I felt a sudden burst of cold terror. The chill of it was in the tips of my fingers and in my toes. The bitter, numbing presence of evil forced its way through my body until it filled me up.
By the tender age of 13, I had long learned from my parents that Satan was real. He had led the entire world astray, save for a few faithful - us, the Missouri Synod Lutherans. Buddhists, Hindus, Muslims, other Christians like the Catholics, Methodists and Baptists, even members of the American Lutheran Church were headed straight for perdition because of his treachery. Given Satan's grandeur, I was absolutely stunned when he first spoke directly to me.
"Your father is God."
"That's very wrong."
"Your father is God."
"I can't listen to this."
"Your father is God."
"I don't believe you."
"Your father is God."
"I will not listen to you."
"Your father is God."
He would not stop and I could not shut him out.
"Your father is God."
"No! No! No! It's not true."
"Your father is God."
"Get thee behind me, Satan."
I quoted Christ when He had been tempted by Satan, thinking this scripture might have some special power over him. It didn't.
"Your father is God."
"Leave me alone. Get out of my mind. You have no right. I will think of God and he will drive you out."
"Your father is God. Think of him. Pray to him."
"No. No."
I pleaded with God, the real God, to drive Satan out of my mind. He did not respond. I realized with shock that Satan was trying to work his way into my actual, physical heart, to deliver me into hell. Well, I'd been warned repeatedly by every adult I knew. What should I do?
I hunkered down in the back of the car so I could not be seen from the front. First and foremost I had to protect my heart.
I decided I would scrape him out. I began to tear at my chest with my thumb and fingernails in an effort to dislodge him. I knew that my gesture was largely symbolic. Nothing as simple as this pathetic act could counter the power of Satan but it seemed to be my only weapon.
I offered God a deal.
"God, if you save me from this, I will never again skip church to go fishing or hunting, or swear."
God did not respond. Satan did.
"Your father is God."
I remained out of sight in the back seat of the car for the next six hours, hiding under a blanket and pretending to sleep. Besides, my parents were busy discussing my older brother, who would be leaving in a couple of years for the seminary in St. Louis, Missouri. They were enormously proud of him. Meanwhile, I waged a desperate battle. I tore at my chest until my fingernails drew blood. The red stain on my shirt slowly enlarged.
"I heard a voice all the way home," I told my mother that night. "It was telling me lies. And someone is talking to me right now, someone no one else can hear."
"Your father is God."
I did not tell my mother that it was Satan because I knew this would greatly upset her.
"Are you sure you're not just imagining this voice?" my mother asked.
"Yes."
"How can you be so sure? You have a vivid imagination."
"I'm sure because I can't control the voice. Besides, the voice is low and it grumbles. It belongs to someone who is very old."
"Well, just put it out of your mind," my mother said. "You're tired and all wound up from the trip. Get a good night's sleep and it will all be gone in the morning. And stop scratching your chest. Just look what you've done to your new shirt."
"Your father is God."
"No. No."
"Your father is God"
"Stop. Please stop."
I continued to deny the lies each time Satan mouthed them into my mind. Failure might imply that I accepted Satan's assertions, sending me straight to hell along with all the Mormons. Sometimes Satan chanted his preposterous claims into my ear so rapidly that it required my complete attention to keep pace.
I knew my mother was wrong. Satan certainly would not be dislodged by a good night's sleep. I tried again.
"It's not because I'm tired. This is someone talking directly into my mind. No one else can hear him. He shouldn't be there and he mustn't be allowed to stay."
She didn't understand.
"Your father is God."
These were the last words I heard before slipping into sleep.
"Your father is God."
The first words I heard when I awoke. I had fallen asleep against my will, somewhere in the midst of a continuous stream of denials.
When my mother learned that I was still hearing voices, she decided that I should talk to our minister, Reverend Hellwege. I was hopeful. By all rights, he should know of some weapon I could employ in my struggle with Satan. He was, after all, our anointed expert in residence.
My mother took me to Reverend Hellwege's office later that afternoon, after my fellow students in parochial school had all gone home. Reverend Hellwege's office was lined along one wall with a floor to ceiling bookcase loaded with scholarly works. This made me feel as if I were in a library, that my voice should be muted. Satan, on the other hand, seemed to increase the volume, of his claims.
"Your father is God! Your father is God!"
Reverend Hellwege was a clumsy gargoyle, tall and angular, with a small crop remaining of long, disheveled, graying hair. His face was strangely distorted by prominent, deep wrinkles.
"Your mother tells me you're hearing voices. Is that true?"
"Not exactly."
"What are you hearing then?"
"I'm hearing one voice."
"So you think someone is talking to you?"
"Someone is talking to me."
"And no one else can hear this person, is that right?"
"Yes."
"Is this person talking to you now?"
"Yes."
"Your father is God," Satan said, right on cue.
Reverend Hellwege leaned forward in his chair.
"Well, can you tell me who is talking to you?"
"Satan."
Reverend Hellwege flinched, then gave an understanding smile.
"Son, I'm sure you don't realize what you are saying."
"What do you mean?"
"You know that Satan can be in only one place at a time?"
"Yes, sir. I learned that from you."
"Remember, Satan is at war with God. He's most certainly quite busy with weighty matters."
"Yes."
"Do you really think he can afford the time to talk to you? Keep in mind that I've been devoted to God's service for 30 years now and he's never found time to talk to me."
Reverend Hellwege leaned back in his chair with a self-satisfied smile.
"All I can tell you is that it's Satan,"
Reverend Hellwege remained silent for a long moment, a sour look on his face.
"I think we should pray, that we should ask for God's help."
Help. At last.
"Dear God Almighty, please help your son, Robin. His faith is weak. He is unruly and he tests the patience of his elders. Send him the trial he needs to strengthen his faith. In the name of Jesus we pray. Amen."
Having made this prayer, Reverend Hellwege quickly ushered me out of his office. I was sorely disappointed. For as long as I could remember, Reverend Hellwege had warned me and everyone else in our congregation about Satan and his seductive ways. Obviously, Hellwege simply didn't believe that Satan would call on me. But why? Because of my age? Was I not worthy of Satan's time and effort?
And Reverend Hellwege had been quick to assume that I didn't really believe it either. He hadn't even suggested that my mind might be playing tricks on me, as my mother had. He'd gone straight to the conviction that I was making trouble. He was condemning me for something over which I had no control.
One thing became clear soon enough, however. I got the trial for which Reverend
Hellwege had prayed.
In the last week I had attended school only once. My teacher phoned on Monday evening to ask my mother to keep me home. I was too disruptive in class. The scraping and bleeding continued, plus I had undertaken additional symbolic activities in an effort to hold Satan at bay. If I did not step on cracks of any kind, it would be understood that I in no way encouraged what Satan was doing. I had not been won over by the Prince of Darkness. This required enormous concentration. As I soon discovered, there were cracks everywhere. What's more, if I did step on a crack despite my best efforts, this failure had to be cancelled out.
I made another bargain with God. If I tapped the toe of my right shoe twice on the floor behind me immediately after stepping on a crack, it would nullify the effect of my error. It had to be my right shoe, though, because it was symbolic of sitting on the right hand of God. Within a week, I had begun to wear a hole in the toe of my right shoe. My mother took my shoes away from me.
"You've got to straighten up. You don't understand the consequences of what you are doing," my mother said. "If you're going to continue to act up, I'm going to have to take you to see the doctor." She ran fingers nervously through her graying dark brown hair. What I saw in her eyes was fear.
I said nothing. As I had tossed in my bed the night before, trying desperately to stay awake to fight off Satan, I had overheard her talking with my father.
"I just think it's premature," my Dad said. "Give him a little time to work it out before you make such an important decision."
"Your family has always avoided the truth," my mother responded. "You've all tried to hide it and then hoped that it'll go away."
"What are you talking about?" he said. "I just think we should wait."
"Just like your family did with Walt and Mildred, wait until it's too late, until they were too far gone to be helped."
"But committing him to a doctor . . . I don't know. It could destroy his life."
"And mental illness won't? Look at Walt and Mildred."
"Once you start taking him to a doctor, it will never end. He'll be dependent all his life. If he can only work it out in his own way, then he'll bear no scars."
"Are you worried about him? Or are you worried that you may be the source of his problem?"
"That's not fair. I've done nothing. No matter what happens, he's still our son and I'll stand by him to the end."
"That's what I'm afraid of," my mother said. "You'll stand by him and do nothing, as he sinks. With or without your permission, I'm taking him to Dr. Levy."
My father said nothing. I heard him leave the room and then the house. He didn't return until about 4:00 a.m. He slept on the couch that night.
What is she thinking of? My father's right. How could a doctor possibly help me with Satan?
Dr. Levy's waiting room had an old fashioned tile floor, windows covered by wooden blinds and dark leather office chairs. A couple of beaten-up end tables were covered by out-of-date magazines. The doctor had no receptionist. We waited for about 45 minutes for our turn. I began to pace around his office, avoiding the cracks between the tiles and tapping my right toe behind me when I failed. My mother had taped several layers of gauze to my chest to absorb the blood that seeped out from the abrasions and the large patch of raw skin in the center of it, and to prevent further damage. From the moment I began these rituals, no one had approved of them. Yet no-one offered alternatives.
Other visitors tried to avoid staring at me. It had been 10 days since it had all started.
My mother went in to see Dr. Levy first. At this point, I was convinced of two things. First, there was no reason for me to see a psychiatrist. I most certainly was not crazy. Second, there was surely nothing this doctor could do for me.
I was surprised to find that Dr. Levy was shorter than me. His face wore a day's stubble. His wrinkled gray wool suit appeared to have never been pressed. It was also covered with the ashes and small holes of a smoker. It was clear that his mind was not on his appearance. I came in time to be thankful that this was so.
"I understand that Satan is talking to you," Dr. Levy said.
I did not respond. But I took note of what he had said and how he had said it. Was hope to be found here? Did he believe me? Or was he trying something clever? Then Satan shrieked inside my head and I was forced yet again to concentrate exclusively on protecting myself.
"Your mother also tells me that you've injured your chest. Is that true?"
I did not respond. I was preoccupied.
Dr. Levy got up and called my mother back.
"He is obviously hallucinating," he said. "I'm sure that he is terrified and completely exhausted. My recommendation is to hospitalize him briefly, just long enough for us to get him stabilized."
My mother jerked to attention.
"Not the State Hospital. Never. He'll never get out. His grandfather and uncle died there, and his aunt is there now."
"I know," Dr. Levy replied. "I've treated both his uncle and his aunt. No, I would not send him there. There is a private hospital right here in the city that would be much better. It's more like a large boarding house but staffed by experienced professionals.
"Don't be unduly swayed by the experiences of his grandfather, or his aunt and uncle. There are new medications that may help him. They could make a considerable difference with someone so young and still so early in the course of his illness."
Dr. Levy's words were the last things I could remember. My awareness slipped away. I was alone. Had Satan already defeated me? Was this hell? Where were the Mormons?
This article is adapted from Once Around the Prickly Pear, Robin
Cunningham's yet-to-be published memoir on battling schizophrenia.
Robin
has had successful careers as a Wall Street MBA, a senior executive with
several Fortune 500 companies and as an entrepreneur. He is also very
proud of his long standing marriage and his only child. Anyone with
questions or interest in Robin Cunningham's book may contact him at InPricklyPear@aol.com.
Mr. Cunningham would like to thank SABC journalist Christina Scott for her
interest in his book, for her assistance in editing a portion of the book,
for inclusion in this article and for submitting the article for
publication.
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