My Prison Journey part 4 – Mental Dysmorphia

 

Part 4 of the ‘My Prison Journey’ set of short stories. See also

Part 1:  Sweat Box Odyssey (My Prison Journey part 1)

Part 2:  Leaves on the Line (My Prison Journey part 2)

Part 3: Mr. Shoes Pie (My Prison Journey Part 3)

 

Mental Dysmorphia.

It was a non-descript Tuesday night slash Wednesday morning. It was about 2AM and I had gotten the knock from a Kanga*. There was a prisoner on the medical unit in crisis asking for a Listener and I was up on the rota. So I made a smoke, had a piss, splashed water on my face and went for the long walk through the prison.

 

The jail was deathly quiet, the only sounds were the muted jangle of the Kanga’s keys and the rippling, scurrying of the cockroaches. In fairness I don’t know how the night watch lads patrol those landings on their own, if it were me I don’t mind telling you that they would come back in the morning and find me curled up in the foetal position with my thumb in my mouth and my bowels evacuated in my shorts.

 

Anyway, we pass along the landings, through locked back gates, along corridors, past the corner were the executions used to be carried out, over the viaduct and land in the medical unit. The nurse on duty at the desk is a good sort (doesn’t give you the third degree when you need a paracetamol) and he steers me towards one of the Constant Observation Cells (suicide watch to thee and me).

 

If you weren’t crazy before you went into a C.O. Cell, you soon would be. They are stark places, like limbo in a goldfish bowl. Bed, bog and bugger all else. The cell door is a heavy metal gate covered with a meaty sheet of Perspex so the staff (and other residents) can observe you. I check that the Kanga’s are far enough away that they are out of earshot – but close enough if anything goes wrong. Satisfied I step in front of the cell door.

 

“You were looking for a Listener bud, how can I help you?”

 

A shape unfurled itself from the bed and shuffled delicately over to the door, “You’re not Tommo. Where’s Tommo? I know Tommo.” The lad was in his mid to late 20’s. Skinny, prison issue tracksuit, close cropped hair.

 

“Sorry lad, I’m on call tonight, they don’t like people calling specific Listeners out. But I’m here now lad so is there anything I can help you with?”

 

I need to clarify here that I had never laid eyes on this guy before. If you weren’t on my wing it was unlikely that we would have crossed paths. In a jail with over 1,200 men that is hardly surprising. So you can imagine my surprise when this lad suddenly dropped his trousers to his ankles and said:

“That’s messed up innit?”

And it was messed up. I am not unfamiliar with the vagaries of a man’s meat and two veg. I possess the tools myself and even before prison showers I had played football and swam regularly, so I have seen my fair share of danglers. But what this lad showed me was more than a little unusual. He had one gigantic bollock. My new friend did have the meat and other veg, but they were dwarfed by the behemothic bollock. I didn’t want to look, but it was one of those weird things that the mind needs to discredit – it’s like it wouldn’t let me move my eyes until this apparition had faded and reality been restored.

 

This Titanic testicle seemed to be trying to burst from his scrotum, the skin of his coin purse was stretched, bruised and discoloured, rainbows of colours from yellows, through purple and on to black.

 

“Jesus lad, what happened to you?”

 

“I had no choice, I had to cut him out!” His facial expression was somewhere between triumphant, relieved and resigned.

 

“Cut what out lad?” I asked.

 

“The bastard had kept me awake for three days lad. He kept going on at me, kept talking in my ear. He was telling me I wasn’t good enough for his daughter. He said she would find somebody decent now that I was in prison and she would forget about me.  He was going to introduce her to a better class of man and she would realise what she had been missing.” He was looking through me as he spoke, like he was testifying for a camera.

 

“Who was going on at you lad?”

 

“My Father-in-law was. He was non-stop, every minute, day – night; didn’t matter. So I had to get rid of him, no choice lad. So I smashed my TV on the ground and used the glass to cut him out of my bollock.”

 

He was proud. That only threw me briefly, because his follow up really knocked me for six. He asked / told me:

 

“You know what that’s like lad? When somebody you hate possesses you?”

 

Now he was looking me in the eye. He might have been looking for understanding, a shared experience, a commonality. But whatever it was, he did not find it in me.

 

I had learned in my years as a Listener that the worst thing I could do was to pretend to be something I am not. When you are found out you lose all credibility and can exacerbate certain paranoid conditions. I did my best to keep my face neutral as I answered him.

 

“I’m sorry lad, I don’t know what that’s like. But I’m here if you want to tell me about it. Is this the first time that your bollocks have been possessed?” I defy anybody to ask that in a matter-of-fact manner.

 

I remember the look he gave me. He was shocked that I hadn’t ever had my bollocks possessed. In his world – at that time – he was looking at a crazy person!

 

“That’s alright lad! (he spoke to me in calming platitudes) I feel better now. Thanks for your help.”

 

With that he pulled up his trousers, turned on his heel and went back to his bed. It took a few seconds for me to get my own bearings again and I made my way back to the desk and the staff there.

 

“That wasn’t long, is he ok? Do we need to worry about him tonight?” The nurse asked me for my opinion.

 

Confused as I was I remembered the rules when I answered, “Well considering he is in the goldfish bowl there I would guess that you should be worrying about him.”

 

The Nurse persisted, “Obviously, but did he say anything specific to you that I need to be aware of?”

 

The rules of the Listeners are clear cut, I politely explained, “Even if he did, I can’t tell you about it. It’s confidential. If he told me that there was an imminent terrorist attack I could warn you, but other than that it has to stay between him and me.”

 

The Kanga chimed in and actually backed me up. I said goodnight to the nurse and we made the trip back to my cell. I vaguely remember the Kanga telling me what had happened when one of his colleagues had opened a cell’s observation flap to see the kid with his exposed nut in his blood soaked hands. When I got back to my cell I smoked a few before I got into bed. It took a couple of hours of the late night shopping channel on Film 4 to finally put me to sleep.

 

 

I thought about the lad the next morning. I found Tommo (the other listener) and told him roughly what had happened. We reassured ourselves that the lad was crazy. For a long time that was how it stood. The kid was crazy, within a few hours I had pigeon-holed him and put him out of my mind. Job done. Easy.

 

But recent coverage highlighting the increased instances of Body Dysmorphia resonated with me and I have thought about that guy again as I have made my own realisations.

 

Crazy is merely a matter of perspective. He had looked at me thinking that I was the crazy one in his world – I did the same with him. At that time I had never really looked at myself and my own mental health.

 

I describe my old ‘pre-prison’ self as having some form of Mental Dysmorphia, this is not an excuse for my crime – merely an observation. When I looked into the emotional mirror, the image I observed was quite different to that which others may have seen – and far removed from reality. I assumed everything was fine and normal – I did not foresee the risks that now, in hindsight were almost inevitable.

 

For example, I used to see myself as being chilled out and laid-back. I thought of myself as being easy-going and able to shrug things off. I realise now I was too passive and afraid of confrontation. I was eager to please and needed to be well thought of.

 

The outward image that I observed (and portrayed) was very much at odds with the increasing pressure that was bubbling up and building inside me.

 

Now, as I think back on that lad with the gargantuan gonad I have a different perspective on my role as a Listener. Back then I looked in my mental mirror and saw a man who was compassionate and selfless, willing to climb out of bed at all hours to help strangers in times of crisis. I did help many men, but my intentions were nowhere near as altruistic as I thought back then.

 

My motivation was to focus my attention on other peoples’ problems – my Mental Dysmorphia was preventing me from seeing my own.

 

 

*Kanga = Kangaroo =Screw