The Dregs

Talking about spiritual disorder brings us to Mad Trevor. This afternoon I took him the third set of groceries in a week, and have said I won’t be doing it again until his benefits are paid next. I also paid off his phone bill. His current acute lack of money arose from two computer antivirus companies emptying his bank account: he accidentally took out subscriptions to them a year ago, when in fact he didn’t need either. He promises he will repay me: he is expecting up to £100K to be paid to him in the autumn by an insurance company who he has a funeral policy with. His social worker has warned him that no insurance company pays ‘loyalty bonuses’ of six figures to someone who’s had a £30-per-month policy for under a year, but he won’t be told. I tried to raise the subject today and he put the phone down. I don’t overly want to be repaid, even if I thought it was possible; what I want is not to be asked, though I know this is an instinct which reflects badly on me.

When I called round at the flat I knew Trevor was in as I could hear the keyboard (well, one of his keyboards) being played, but couldn’t make him hear: he had headphones on and I had to wait for a gap in the music. He was playing via the phone to a cousin who also plays the piano, someone who, the last time he was mentioned in conversation, Trevor characterised as a ‘fucking bastard’ and ‘a shit player, nothing compared to me’. But then I also found his crosses thrown outside on the gravel, presumably as a result of one of his at-least-weekly fallings-out with God.

Longstanding readers will be aware of my interactions with Trevor over the years. I am not sure my conclusion that nothing I can do, spiritually speaking, can help him, has improved our relationship, as such, though it has improved my sense of equilibrium. I strive not to argue, reason, cajole, or even comfort him, because ultimately his beliefs are so engrained that I can offer no comfort he will accept. When he is adamant that his dead Aunty Renee (mother of the forementioned cousin) is now an angel of such power that God is helpless to stop her attacking Trevor and taking away his musical abilities, there are no resources normal Christian belief can bring to bear even to make him feel better. If I tell him that's not how angels work, he insists that he is psychic, or a prophet, and knows I am wrong, so I end up limply remarking that I am sorry he has to put up with this. Seeing a soul so imprisoned is truly awful.

The consolation is that, however horrible the things he feels or experiences, he doesn’t feel them for long before moving on to something else; it’s taken me years to realise how childlike his responses are, flitting unreflectively from one thing to another, from rage to exultation to misery and back. There isn’t anything to be gained from engaging with any of them. How is it that I hadn't really cottoned onto this until so late in the day?

This means we’ve got very little now to talk about and our relationship is mainly reduced to him asking me for food. Today he included dishwasher tablets in the order which at least provided some variety. Given how resentful I get at his requests – a mirror-image of Trevor’s resentment aimed at God and the world in general – it was very uncomfortable when his social worker told me ‘I don’t know how he would manage without you helping him’. She is trying to arrange a legal guardianship for him so his finances will be dealt with and bills paid. In his more lucid times he knows he can’t manage, but she will have to catch him in one of those times to get him to sign the form. I hold onto that, as a possible light at the end of the tunnel.