Camo Jesus

I really had no idea of the extent that people will go to hurt themselves. The disgust and hate for themselves combined with creativity becomes a breeding ground for self-destruction.

I met a young man who shot himself in the stomach because he knew it would hurt more. He wanted to feel the hurt because it related directly to how he felt inside. He went behind his barn with a shotgun and pulled the trigger. He wasn't prepared for someone to find him.

I met burners, cutters, hair-pullers, starvers, shooters, and jumpers. We could pick each other out. A cutter can see another cutter, and starvers could give tips to each other on how to keep on starving.

I didn't realize that you could swallow a knife to end your life. Another thing I didn't realize was that the nurses and doctors at the ward would give up on you and send you out in the world if you didn't try. The girl swallowed the knife one too many times and I watched as she was wheeled out for her last surgery there, and then out to the world.

After watching her go, I went into the dining room. We were lucky to have a kitchen with a toaster and fruit, some tea and coffee, and small things like that. I really was terrified. There was a lot of screaming going on. A guy was in hospital gear and hollering for his clothes back. He looked rough, missing some teeth, some sores. It turned out he was a heroin addict and had come to clean up.

I was making some toast and was carefully keeping my eye on the door. I watch as this fairly good looking guy came in. He was dressed entirely in black. Black combat boots, pants, shirt, and coat. On the back of his coat he had drawn red eyes. They were all over, and were only on the back of the coat.

He sat at my table and looked at me.

"My name is Stephen."

I told him my name.

"You look scared."

I told him I was.

"You don't need to be. This is my 17th trip here, and it is a good place to be. Most people are all right, and no one will hurt you here. The first time I came I thought I was Jesus. Now I am not that bad. I realize now that I am not Jesus."

He told me that he was schizophrenic and had to come in every so often to get sorted out. He told me that he wore clothes that matched the time and weather of the day. At night he wore all black, and during the day all green or white if it snowed. This allowed him to hide.

I asked him what the eyes were for.

"So no one can sneak up on me."

He told me that he was eventually he was going to get an eye tattooed on the back of his head.

During the time there I became pretty good friends with Stephen. As good of friends a manic-depressive and a schizophrenic can be I guess. I was one of the few allowed in his room and share his things. I could tell the days he didn't want to be seen. He walked with his arms tense and big around him. He looked ahead and wouldn't speak. He protected me from what he thought were aggressive patients. He told me of the house he was going to build with false walls. He wanted to be able to hide his wife and children inside if trouble came. (When he first told me I thought he meant he was going to kill his family and put them in the walls, but some careful questioning helped with that.)

I hope he is okay. Whenever I feel bad about being bipolar, I am always grateful for not being schizophrenic. One thing I do envy is his certainty. I wish I could put some eyes on my clothes that could ward off the evil. Maybe being Jesus for a few days would would enlighten me.

I am glad to have met him.