I’ve never appreciated grand gestures—they invariably crash and burn.
I think of Lucifer, the brightest of the heavenly host, who devolved into the Serpent of Old, crawling on his belly.
For that reason, I prize contentment above striving.
Whatever challenges I take on, I assume them out of negative ambition—to avoid causing a greater harm. Thus, when Bishop Boyd McKnight summoned me to assist a distressed diocesan priest, I readily agreed, so long as my role in the matter was kept in the strictest confidence.
“I’m concerned Alec—Father Cam’s behaviour is bizarre, to say the least. He’s a completely changed man from the way he used to be. He was in line to be the next monsignor, and in fact, we were thinking of sending him to Rome.”
“You say he’s changed—How?”
“Come to the window and I’ll show you.”
The Chancery office was located near a small playground and in a small parkette across the street, a young man in his mid-thirties was sitting perched on some monkey bars.
“That’s Father Cam?” I asked.
“I’m afraid so.
The man was behaving like a child. It was shocking.
“Does he show other signs of regressing toward childhood?”
“It’s difficult for me to say—I’m sure his relatives might help—but his parents are dead and he was distant from the rest of the family, so I’m not sure what you’d gather from questioning them.”
“Does he continue to perform his priestly duties?”
Outwardly, he does—says Mass, administers the sacraments and reads his office—but inwardly, something is profoundly changed. His parishioners have complained and the housekeeper agrees something’s funny.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Could you counsel him, Alec? You’re a psychiatrist—I trust you implicitly—and you know my suspicions and I trust your discernment there as well.”
“I’m not ruling out demonization, Your Excellency, I just prefer to exhaust all other avenues first.”
“A wise course of action. I wholeheartedly agree—and, of course, you have our complete cooperation.”
I chose not to see Father Drummond that day—instead I talked to the housekeeper and the assistant priest—a young, Slav named Father Roman.
Neither was helpful, although the assistant overheard Father Cam muttering to himself while looking at his reflection in a mirror.
And by the end of the day, the case seemed to grow murkier.
“Been a rough patch?” Meg looked sympathetic. We were having drinks on the terrace of the Park Hotel overlooking the Toronto skyline.
Meg was a vivacious redhead when I met her—and now, she’s nearly forty and still retaining the high cheekbones and dramatic looks she possessed at twenty, when I admired her from afar.
So, here we are, almost two decades later, sitting together in a romantic setting, colleagues and friends—and I’m still uncomfortable in her presence. Every time I see her I revert to my shy, twenty-year old persona and just can’t seem to get past it.
“I just don’t get it, Meg—usually, I can get a line on patients fairly quickly and have a feel for where things are headed, but so far, the pieces don’t add up.”
“When that happens to me, it’s usually the result of some small, inconsequential thing that becomes a spanner in the works.”
“You’re right. Maybe I’m put off seeing a priest on a set of monkey bars.”
She laughed. “With me, it was a nun who wore Victoria Secret lingerie.”
I shook my head and grinned. “Classic—although, I must admit, that was never one of my fetishes.”
“You have fetishes?” She teased, her eyes danced and I felt myself turning red up to the roots of my hair.
“Not fetishes—more like Peter Sellers in Being There—I like to watch.”
“But that’s a fetish,” she smiled flirtatiously, “and speaking of Peter Sellers—you do resemble him, you know.”
“Well, at least I haven’t told you, My God, you’re lovely.”
“No, you haven’t,” she said, a sad look in her eyes.
Awkward.
I quickly changed the subject, “but Father Cam’s muttering to himself in the mirror—now, that’s interesting.”
Her eyes were still wistful, but she replied, “Yes, that was interesting.”
I kicked myself the rest of the evening for missing my significant moment—but honestly, I just didn’t know how to react and so my usual default is not to act at all. It probably explains why I’m forty and still unmarried.
At any rate, apart from my love life perplexing me, I was even more mystified by my priest—but as for him, I’ll at least find out more when I interview him tomorrow.
We met in the parlour of the diocesan rectory—I thought he’d be more relaxed in a familiar setting.
“Come in and sit down Father Drummond—I’m Alec Barnes—I was asked by the Bishop to meet with you.”
“Please, call me Father Cam—everyone does.”
I liked him. He seemed pleasant and humble—quite easy to talk to in fact.
“So then, you’re a psychiatrist, I assume?”
“I am.”
“And I suppose Bishop McKnight thinks I’m totally mad.”
“On the contrary—he thinks you’re a promising young man with a bright future. He thinks you’ve hit a rough spot and might need some help.”
“I suppose he’s right,” he conceded.
“Why don’t you tell me about what’s been troubling you?”
“I would, but I’m not sure you can help.”
“And why is that?”
“Because,” he hesitated, “…because my problem isn’t just psychological, but spiritual. They’re two quite different realms, Dr. Barnes.”
“I agree, Father Cam, but you must understand the Church needs to assess and rule out any physical or psychological causes before proceeding further.”
“You mean with exorcism?”
I was taken aback he drew the conclusion so swiftly.
“I mean with discernment. We’re not quick to attribute unusual phenomena to either God or the devil. I need to know more about your situation and what has caused this change in you.”
The priest relaxed. “Oh, is that all? Well, the answer is simple—I look in the mirror and see an imposter.”
“You feel you’re covering up some secret sin?”
“Oh, nothing like that. I mean someone has assumed my outward shape—stolen my identity.”
“Father Roman said he overheard you muttering at your reflection in the mirror.”
“It’s true—I’m sure he did. I’d stand there sometimes for hours—just staring and pinching my arms and trying to convince myself that the man I saw was me—but he wasn’t.”
“Why are you behaving differently—like playing on the monkey bars, for instance?”
He immediately crossed his arms. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
He seemed to go into a shell and cocoon himself from all further queries. It was puzzling.
In the afternoon, he was scheduled to hear confessions at the local parish elementary school in preparation for an end of the year liturgy. With the bishop’s permission, I used the opportunity to examine his room.
His bedroom-cum-study was as austere as a monastic cell—there was a bureau, a chest of drawers, a bed, a sofa chair and a few books on a shelf. There was one item of personal significance, however, a photo of a young boy with an older man taken in a playground.
I ran the picture through the church office photocopier and then, returned it to the priest’s room.
Later, after showing the photo to a cousin and an aunt, I found out the boy was Cam at about ten years of age and the older man was his Uncle Billie.
I shared my findings with the bishop and he confirmed Cam had been forthcoming about his relationship with his uncle. He admitted he had been sexually abused and had been treated for depression—it was all part of Cam’s record.
He had been free of symptoms for fifteen years.
Meg connected the dots faster than I. “So, Cam’s under stress—perceives he’s about to be transferred to Rome and this is a trigger for a relapse.”
I nodded. “Even positive experiences can be a stress and Cam reacted by regressing to his ten-year old self. Still, I’m stumped for a diagnosis.”
“Capgras’ Syndrome,” Meg smiled. “The episode with the uncle was never fully resolved and Cam’s negative feelings toward his uncle made him feel he couldn’t accept a promotion.”
The lights went on in my head. “So, he attributes his angry feelings to the imposter because he can’t accept he was still harbouring unforgiveness in his heart.”
“Exactly,” Meg continued. “He could be paranoid schizophrenic or have a brain disorder, but I don’t see indications of those.”
“Nor, do I, but I think I’ll treat him with anti-psychotics and take it from there.”
“I concur, Doctor,” She teased. “Shall we celebrate tonight over drinks?”
“And I too definitely concur, Doctor,” I smiled, “ We’ll confer from our lofty perch.”
Her eyes were dancing again, “and we’ll continue our investigation into your voyeurism,” she teased.
“I don’t know if I’ve told you this lately, but, my God, you’re lovely.”
I watched the colour creep up her neck and shoot up to the roots of her hair.
It turns out our diagnosis was correct--the priest wasn't demonized but struggling with his past trauma.
After a few months of treatment, Father Cam was his usual self—all symptoms totally disappeared.
As I told His Excellency, if a pill removes the symptoms, it’s obviously not the devil.
In the case of Father Cam, the bishop was delighted to be proved wrong.
As is the case in many adult struggles, including my own, the cause of such challenges can often be traced back to resolving childhood traumas and perhaps connecting again as an adult with the inner child of your past...the Me you used to be and never quite consolidated into the adult you are now.
