The Lonely

Rolando Olmedo, wrote the following true story while living in Palmerston North.

The Lonely

Mike’s voice was stuttering, agitated and sad when he told me "Brian has hung himself". I cannot react. I can’t begin to comprehend what he is saying. I ask "What are you saying?" He looks at me, his eyes are filled with tears as he repeats "Brian’s hung himself!" Then he repeats over and over "He hung himself in his house in Tangimoana"...

Without a word to anyone, I walk along the hall of this old building that used to be the first school in Palmerston North, built at the end of last century. It is now the venue of the Community Arts and Culture Training Centre, where I work as a tutor and coordinator of drama activities. All I can hear are my footsteps, the image of Brian slowly entering my mind. The memories of this lonely thirty six year old man, with his long beard and his stooped body.

I first met him five years ago in autumn, when he attended my drama course. I asked him "Why do you want to do a year long course in drama?" He responded "Because I want to improve my confidence in speaking, and express myself better!" I was surprised by his response, since his Curriculum Vitae showed he had three university degrees in Sociology, Social Work, and Political Science.

It interested me to know him better, so during the development of the course we established a friendship that was reflected in our conversations after classes in a cafe, and Brian’s incessant chain smoking. I discovered that he was a great communicator, intelligent, and with a wide vision of humans and the world. When he spoke with me he was brilliant, but he had a great fear of speaking in public, with people he didn’t know. He had psychiatric problems and was living in a psychiatric hospital.

My interest in him increased when one morning he arrived at class and said to me "I want to do an improvisation in drama that I thought of last night before going to sleep. It is a part of my life."

"But of course!" I said enthusiastically. He prepared the scene with an old sofa as the bed, and a crate of beer as the night table. He began his improvisation walking across the stage slouching more than usual, and supporting himself by a walking cane. Coughing from time to time, he went to prepare a cup of coffee. He drank it slowly, smoking his cigarette. Coughing continuously, he walks in circles on the stage, like a prisoner. Later he goes towards the sofa and goes to bed. The cough worsens, becomes an asthma attack. He tries to reach his small bottle of medicine which is on the night table, but he drops it and it rolls towards the middle of the stage.

Coughing incessantly, and gasping for breath, he rises and falls from the bed. Wriggling on the floor and still coughing, he goes towards the medicine. He grabs the bottle, struggles to open it, only to find there is nothing inside. Exhausted, the cough grows worse. Slowly the energy disappears and his body lies still on the ground... his breathing has stopped.

His acting was so convincing that the other students and I presented him with a long applause. He didn’t want to make any comment after his performance. He left the room to have a cigarette.

In that winter afternoon, after the class I approached him to congratulate him for his magnificent improvisation. He said to me "I live alone, and I would like to die like that." I guard myself with silence, I don’t know what to say. I remember the words of my grandmother. "We all have to die somehow" I told him. "All of us have to die."

"But I want to die now!" he exclaimed with despair. "I have problems with the mother of my son. I cant see him often because she opposes it. She is very violent and is also a patient at the psychiatric hospital. She has even threatened to kill me!" He takes a break, to breathe deeply, take more energy, and continues talking with me as if it is a great relief to him.

"My life is a disaster. I cant undertake anything because I have a mental illness. Recently my mother died, which hit me very hard. I was interned in the hospital for a long time trying to recuperate from her death. She was the only person who would listen to me." There was a long pause, as if he was talking to himself - it is very difficult to understand a psychiatric patient...

"In the hospital only drugs are given to patients, the sicker you are the more drugs are administered, and you have little freedom. So patients are like prisoners, physically and mentally. They don’t have the ability to show initiative, and they don’t have the desire to do anything. It is as if they are sleepwalking. So what is the point of living like this? What type of life does one have in these conditions?"

There is a silence that seemed to last a century. Later he adds decisively "There is a loud voice here in my brain that tells me to kill myself!!"

I am chilled by his words and tell him "Brian, I think that you are a positive man. These months that you have spent with us in the drama course, you have taught us lots of things about life. Today with your improvisation we have been taught to understand more about human beings. I am sure that in the future you will be able to teach us much more. Your soul’s richness is very valuable to us."

He looks into my eyes and there are tears. In a whisper he says "Thank you", and he hugs me.