This is a short story I wrote about 10 years ago. It was in a creative fiction class. I found it again recently. And I was amazed to see how it signposted much of my journey ahead. I hope you find it works as a story, but also like a memoir of living with mental illness.
Emmet noted from his guide book that St Bartholomew was the patron saint of nervous disorders, butchers and bookbinders. The saint was also associated with gingerbread which was why Emmet had been able to buy some gingerbread apostle cookies at a stall in the church lobby.
Emmet had sat down in what he thought was an empty confessional box to finish his apostle cookie in peace. He was startled when another voice in the box asked him to start his confession. It seemed Emmet was destined to have his confession heard through the little grille that divides the repentant sinner and the Lord's representative on earth. Under his tee-shirt, Emmet touched the miraculous medal his father had passed down to him on his communion day.
Emmet felt he had his own crosses to bear and shared them as part of his confession. At 48 years old, as well as psoriasis, he suffered acutely with an anxiety disorder. This made it difficult for him to truly give anything his full attention. He spent most of his days in internal monologues of worry and self-criticism. Emmet was a God-fearing man. His God traded in fire and brimstone.
Emmet had lived alone for almost two years since the death of his beloved mother after a long struggle with Alzheimers, that destroyer of the human memory. He lived in a small terraced house where he kept the grass short and the garden exceedingly tidy. Emmet took enormous pride in small details.
Emmet was tending now to his own broken heart after the sudden end to his 13 year long relationship with Nuala, a palliative care nurse. Every relationship hits turbulence. It is like a law of nature. Physics tells us that no two particles can move independently. Each one's motion depends very much on its neighbours. Turbulence can pluck down an airplane from the sky.
Nuala had wanted them to stop living atomised lives and fuse together in a single cell structure. When faced with possibility of major change, Emmet always retreated for cover. By the time he realised how much he loved Nuala it was too late. Her heart had been broken by his default position of detachment.
Emmet was always reading. His systematic mind enjoyed being fed with logic and reason. He didn't expect to figure out the meaning of life, but he sometimes enjoyed the almost obsessive search. Our capacity for thought is what distinguishes us from animals by giving us uniquely human characteristics such as self-consciousness, tool-making, imagination, planning, play, and a sense of humour.
The trip was Emmet's idea of a holiday. Nobody was asking for two fuzzy nipples or sex on the beach. Emmet worked as a system analyst in the IT section of the Department of Agriculture. His therapist had told him to try and stop thinking about himself so much but Emmet realised that he was the only thing he could ever think of.
As Emmet finished his confession he could hear the music of 'The Lord is my Shepherd' reverberating around the church. The choir were practising for the special festival mass being held that evening to celebrate the feast of St Bartholomew. It sounded to Emmet like a small piece of heaven on earth.
The choir were placed in the sweetspot of the church. The idea of a room having a sweetspot dates back to when monks where using tuning forks to tune church pillars 600 years ago. Emmet's heart soared momentarily and it felt good to be alive.
'Padre, I think I am afraid of dying', said Emmet in the dark.
'My son, you are only afraid of living', was the reply he heard.
It was at that point that Emmet realized he was alone in the confessional box.
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