Cake Theory, The
£12.00
The Root Cause of Mental Illness as Discovered by a Patient.
By Alessandro Prian
ISBN: 978-1-84747-003-4
Published: 2006
Pages: 97
Key Themes: anti-psychiatry, humour, comic strips
Description
Never far from controversy, The Cake Theory is a fascinating autobiography and critique of current thinking on mental illness. Alessandro sets out to find the root cause of his own, and then other peoples', mental ill health with often humorous and surprising results. Prian writes with sensitivity, maturity, vigour, intelligence and brilliant comedy in an enlightening, refreshing and intriguing fashion.
About the Author
Having a history of mental illness and being diagnosed with manic depression (which I dispute) I feel it only right that I contribute with my own ideas on mental health. I call my idea 'The Cake Theory', this is because schizophrenia and other mental disorders have more than one contributing factor and there are a variety of ingredients needed to develop it just as there are a number of ingredients that make up a cake.
Book Extract
In early Egypt mental illness was believed to be caused by environmental factors like the loss of status or being made destitute. The treatment involved talking about your problems and turning to religion and faith. It was acceptable to commit suicide at the time. Later the ancient Egyptians changed the theory and decided all illnesses have physical causes. They thought the heart was the root cause of mental illness.
As history progressed, the notion that the victim was to blame became the accepted norm. Explanations like evil spirits and moral decline created the stigma that is still evident today. In the 13th Century in the United Kingdom one of the first mental institutions was established. The infamous Bedlam was a place where the mentally ill were chained to walls and society conveniently forgot about their existence. Patients were later referred to as 'inmates' and there was no distinction between the mentally ill and the criminally insane. Patients were crowded into dark cells sometimes sleeping five to a mattress near damp floors, firmly chained in position. There was no fresh air or light and they were regularly whipped and beaten. It's important to remember that this was a period when the Church governed and dictated society. This only strengthened the theory that the mentally ill were the work of the devil. Some of the mentally ill were even put to death.
An American colonist referred to the mentally ill as 'lunatics'. This word comes from the word lunar meaning moon because it was thought the moon had something to do with the root cause of mental illness. Methods of treatment involved submerging the patient in iced baths until they lost consciousness, induced vomiting and the notorious bleeding practice. This procedure involved cutting the patient and draining the bad blood however it usually resulted in the death of the individual.
The first mental asylum in America opened in 1769 founded by Benjamin Rush. He also became known as America's first psychiatrist and other asylums were opened all over the country. Rush decided to abolish whips, chains and straitjackets, however he introduced his own method of keeping control of the patient. The chair which can be seen below was his personal favourite and at the time it was considered a lot more humane than being chained to a wall. Sigmund Freud (1856-1939) was the founder of the psychoanalysis movement. Freud introduced the theory that patients classified as hysterics might have purely psychological factors contributing to their illness rather than organic brain disease. Freud was born at a time when most of Europe was changing from an agricultural society into an industrialized one. This was an era of new inventions and technological developments and he decided that the mind of a man could be just as complicated and as intricate as a machine. He developed the theory that the mind has many hidden and deep layers which are all governed by the unconscious. He concluded that people with chronic mental illness have a fixation and obsession with the anal region. He believed this fixation originated from a childhood desire of getting pleasure from going to the toilet and a perversion from an infantile age. The mental person's deep dark hidden secret of the unconscious mind.
In the 1930's a new cure for the mentally ill was discovered called lobotomy, and Walter J. Freemen developed the trans-orbital technique. This procedure was performed by sedating the patient and applying quick shocks to the head. One of the eyelids was rolled back and a needle the size of a thin pencil was inserted into the patients head. The device was hammered in to position after which a swinging motion of the needle was created within the patient's skull. Lobotomy became common practice and it was only after the death of many patients that it was abolished. This period also saw a rise in the number of patients undergoing electro convulsive treatment (ECT). Because the level of electricity was so high some patients died or suffered brain damage. In the 1950's the medical profession introduced an anti-psychotic drug called Thorazine for the treatment of the mentally ill. Anti -psychotic medication helped shorten the length of time patients spent in institutions. In fact there was a decline in asylum populations and though patients are no longer physically detained many feel imprisoned within their own minds.
Friday 21 September 2007
The Cage, By Geoff O'Callaghan
Cage The
£12.00
By Geoff O'Callaghan
ISBN: 978-1-84747-396-7
Published: 2007
Pages: 94
Key Themes: self-harm, mental health services, recovery, Australian author, abuse, fiction
Description
After World War 2 it took a long time to get rid of authoritarian attitudes. In Australia, children were often victims of officially sponsored violence. There were several scandals - the so-called 'Stolen Generation'whereaboriginal children who were taken from their parents. 'Child Migration' schemes meant that orphan children were imported and sent to abusive institutions.
The discovery that many underprivileged children were being fostered into abusive homes and the fact that neglected, disturbed, and delinquent children were being treated in brutal reformatories were a shock to the nation of Australia. State governments have had to set aside hundreds of millions of dollars to pay compensation to those who survived. It is difficult to believe the intense cruelty that was meted out to these young boys.
'The Cage' is the fictional story of two such juvenile detention institutions. They didn't reform kids, they created the some of the most vicious criminals in Australia. This book describes how many of the children committed suicide, went insane, or became serial killers. This is a very strong and, at times, disturbing book which, despite being a work of fiction, exposes the state-sponsored criminal abuse of an entire generation.
About the Author
Geoff was born in Jersey, then under German occupation, during World War II. Soon after the war, his family moved to Brisbane, Australia. He was educated at All Souls’ School, Charters Towers – a rather traditional boarding school after the English style. He had a way with words, and was a skilled debater.
After secondary school Geoff took to teaching, graduated, and then obtained a post-graduate diploma in Aboriginal Education. For the next thirty years, he lived with remote aborigines in the Great Western Desert, firstly as a primary school teacher, and later as a School Principal and Administrator. During this time, he took up writing, mostly short stories and film scripts. It was a good way to while away the lonely hours of the desert evenings.
Returning to the Northern Territory, Geoff was asked to write 13 episodes of 'The Jabiru Trail' for the North Australian Film Corporation, and created the initial stories for 'Police Rescue'. He also wrote 'Extinct, but Going Home'. Retiring from Government service, he founded 'Young Actors World' to teach kids to act for commercials and feature films. He also took up advertising and ran “Top End Fliers” – one of the largest advertising distributors in the Northern Territory.
Diabetes and Heart surgery made Geoff retire from active life, and he settled in the mountain town of Stanthorpe, Queensland, where he lives quietly writing science fiction and film scripts for teens and young adults.
Geoff has a long-term interest in child welfare and has fought hard to get decent facilities built for them juvenile prisoners across Australia. He remains a committed advocate for children’s’ rights. His stories, which are often rather gritty, are often based on fact.
Book Extract
I came back to consciousness lying on a blanket. A group of men stood around me and lifted me to a stretcher. I closed my eyes and tried hard to get back to the land of black silence. The ceiling moved over my head as I was wheeled along the corridor. I tried to move, but nothing happened. Everything was turning inside out, and I felt completely weird. I couldn’t speak or call out. Everything I looked at with my left eye was bright and shining with a halo of light, while my right eye saw things normally. Later, I found out that I’d had a minor stroke. Sick bay was not an option, so they transferred me to the town’s hospital. They didn’t want to take me from the institution, but they had no choice.
£12.00
By Geoff O'Callaghan
ISBN: 978-1-84747-396-7
Published: 2007
Pages: 94
Key Themes: self-harm, mental health services, recovery, Australian author, abuse, fiction
Description
After World War 2 it took a long time to get rid of authoritarian attitudes. In Australia, children were often victims of officially sponsored violence. There were several scandals - the so-called 'Stolen Generation'whereaboriginal children who were taken from their parents. 'Child Migration' schemes meant that orphan children were imported and sent to abusive institutions.
The discovery that many underprivileged children were being fostered into abusive homes and the fact that neglected, disturbed, and delinquent children were being treated in brutal reformatories were a shock to the nation of Australia. State governments have had to set aside hundreds of millions of dollars to pay compensation to those who survived. It is difficult to believe the intense cruelty that was meted out to these young boys.
'The Cage' is the fictional story of two such juvenile detention institutions. They didn't reform kids, they created the some of the most vicious criminals in Australia. This book describes how many of the children committed suicide, went insane, or became serial killers. This is a very strong and, at times, disturbing book which, despite being a work of fiction, exposes the state-sponsored criminal abuse of an entire generation.
About the Author
Geoff was born in Jersey, then under German occupation, during World War II. Soon after the war, his family moved to Brisbane, Australia. He was educated at All Souls’ School, Charters Towers – a rather traditional boarding school after the English style. He had a way with words, and was a skilled debater.
After secondary school Geoff took to teaching, graduated, and then obtained a post-graduate diploma in Aboriginal Education. For the next thirty years, he lived with remote aborigines in the Great Western Desert, firstly as a primary school teacher, and later as a School Principal and Administrator. During this time, he took up writing, mostly short stories and film scripts. It was a good way to while away the lonely hours of the desert evenings.
Returning to the Northern Territory, Geoff was asked to write 13 episodes of 'The Jabiru Trail' for the North Australian Film Corporation, and created the initial stories for 'Police Rescue'. He also wrote 'Extinct, but Going Home'. Retiring from Government service, he founded 'Young Actors World' to teach kids to act for commercials and feature films. He also took up advertising and ran “Top End Fliers” – one of the largest advertising distributors in the Northern Territory.
Diabetes and Heart surgery made Geoff retire from active life, and he settled in the mountain town of Stanthorpe, Queensland, where he lives quietly writing science fiction and film scripts for teens and young adults.
Geoff has a long-term interest in child welfare and has fought hard to get decent facilities built for them juvenile prisoners across Australia. He remains a committed advocate for children’s’ rights. His stories, which are often rather gritty, are often based on fact.
Book Extract
I came back to consciousness lying on a blanket. A group of men stood around me and lifted me to a stretcher. I closed my eyes and tried hard to get back to the land of black silence. The ceiling moved over my head as I was wheeled along the corridor. I tried to move, but nothing happened. Everything was turning inside out, and I felt completely weird. I couldn’t speak or call out. Everything I looked at with my left eye was bright and shining with a halo of light, while my right eye saw things normally. Later, I found out that I’d had a minor stroke. Sick bay was not an option, so they transferred me to the town’s hospital. They didn’t want to take me from the institution, but they had no choice.
Burning Candle by Terence Beresford
Burning Candle
£12.00
By Terence Beresford
ISBN: 978-1-84747-108-6
Published: 2007
Pages: 173
Key Themes: poetry, manic depression, bi-polar disorder, grief
Description
Terry Beresford's Poems describe the experiences of manic depression and the range of emotions that this illness brings. A consistent theme through the poetry is Terry's experiences as a fire fighter and how this has shaped his view of the World and events such as 9/11. Terry is an accomplished poet, his poems are heartfelt, assured and full of pathos.
About the Author
Terry has been married for 36 years and has 3 children. He grew up in Rainham, Essex and in 1966 joined the Fire Service, serving in the East End of London for nearly 20 years. In 1985 Terry suffered an accident which forced him to retire. Since 1990 Terry has been diagnosed with manic depression, he was prompted to write poetry to come to terms with his illness. Many of Terry’s poems were written while he was in the depths of depression. Terry is a volunteer with Basildon Mind where, for 13 years, he has helped with their counselling service. Terry’s hobbies include collecting Fire Service memorabilia and writing. He has written four books to date, ‘Burning Candle’ is his second to be published.
Book Extract
GLAD AND SAD
Winter comes, we are sad
Summer here we are glad
Raindrops on our face
The sun within your heart
Go with the flow, at your pace
Stick with nature, don’t grow apart
Butterflies, they come and go
Buds flower, they have made a start
Birds duck and dive in the skies
Bees and wasps fly around the flowers
Pollinating and feeding all day
It comes and goes, glad and sad
Sit down; relax in sun’s warm rays
Imagine the sun is all around for days
No winter in your heart.
GO WITH THE FLOW
It came upon me in a different way,
It ripped my guts away
Damage done, for all to see,
So powerful, fearful, just not me.
Perhaps next time I’ll kill
No way – not on – time to change
It caught me out, no time to run,
But my memory stays intact.
To recall, Assess and plan defeat
Return the compliment that’s what I’ll do
Surprise, Change tack, beat the bum,
Fight, keep on, it’ll soon come.
Albeit a different way.
Boundaries 'amust, to save defeat
Others must guide me though.
If we are to gain our goal
In cotton wool I’ll win the war,
Is that a lot to ask?
Prove myself, no need for me
An open book I feel.
Slow down, take nothing on
GOING TO THE DOGS
Oh sister dear, I have a fear
It’s money down the drain, no less,
Traps one to six, oh what a fix,
The form, the odds, the silly sods
They know not head from tail.
Winners, losers, join the club,
Friday comes, you’ll need a sub
Have a drink, a bite to eat,
Tote is open, bookies to beat
Second last race! – it’s 9.30
A fiver? Bus fare home!
Honour Cheryl, A lively bitch,
Let’s put it on, I’ll have to hitch
In hot pursuit my dog leads,
It takes them all by storm,
Quids in now! A slap up feast,
Chicken legs and diet coke, oh no!
A Chinese, A drink and a bone for the beast!
£12.00
By Terence Beresford
ISBN: 978-1-84747-108-6
Published: 2007
Pages: 173
Key Themes: poetry, manic depression, bi-polar disorder, grief
Description
Terry Beresford's Poems describe the experiences of manic depression and the range of emotions that this illness brings. A consistent theme through the poetry is Terry's experiences as a fire fighter and how this has shaped his view of the World and events such as 9/11. Terry is an accomplished poet, his poems are heartfelt, assured and full of pathos.
About the Author
Terry has been married for 36 years and has 3 children. He grew up in Rainham, Essex and in 1966 joined the Fire Service, serving in the East End of London for nearly 20 years. In 1985 Terry suffered an accident which forced him to retire. Since 1990 Terry has been diagnosed with manic depression, he was prompted to write poetry to come to terms with his illness. Many of Terry’s poems were written while he was in the depths of depression. Terry is a volunteer with Basildon Mind where, for 13 years, he has helped with their counselling service. Terry’s hobbies include collecting Fire Service memorabilia and writing. He has written four books to date, ‘Burning Candle’ is his second to be published.
Book Extract
GLAD AND SAD
Winter comes, we are sad
Summer here we are glad
Raindrops on our face
The sun within your heart
Go with the flow, at your pace
Stick with nature, don’t grow apart
Butterflies, they come and go
Buds flower, they have made a start
Birds duck and dive in the skies
Bees and wasps fly around the flowers
Pollinating and feeding all day
It comes and goes, glad and sad
Sit down; relax in sun’s warm rays
Imagine the sun is all around for days
No winter in your heart.
GO WITH THE FLOW
It came upon me in a different way,
It ripped my guts away
Damage done, for all to see,
So powerful, fearful, just not me.
Perhaps next time I’ll kill
No way – not on – time to change
It caught me out, no time to run,
But my memory stays intact.
To recall, Assess and plan defeat
Return the compliment that’s what I’ll do
Surprise, Change tack, beat the bum,
Fight, keep on, it’ll soon come.
Albeit a different way.
Boundaries 'amust, to save defeat
Others must guide me though.
If we are to gain our goal
In cotton wool I’ll win the war,
Is that a lot to ask?
Prove myself, no need for me
An open book I feel.
Slow down, take nothing on
GOING TO THE DOGS
Oh sister dear, I have a fear
It’s money down the drain, no less,
Traps one to six, oh what a fix,
The form, the odds, the silly sods
They know not head from tail.
Winners, losers, join the club,
Friday comes, you’ll need a sub
Have a drink, a bite to eat,
Tote is open, bookies to beat
Second last race! – it’s 9.30
A fiver? Bus fare home!
Honour Cheryl, A lively bitch,
Let’s put it on, I’ll have to hitch
In hot pursuit my dog leads,
It takes them all by storm,
Quids in now! A slap up feast,
Chicken legs and diet coke, oh no!
A Chinese, A drink and a bone for the beast!
Breaking Down and Poetry By Maureen Oliver
By Maureen Oliver
ISBN: 978-1-84747-121-5
Published: 2007
Pages: 129
Key Themes: poetry, schizophrenia, activism
Description
This is a collection of Maureen's first two books - 'Breaking Down' & 'Poetry', both first published as e-books and now available for the first time in paperback.
Breaking Down
'Breaking Down' is the personal record of a 'psychotic' breakdown. The author was, at the time, a single mother and lesbian activist campaigning vigorously for gay rights. She faithfully recorded her visions and voices, and the diary shows her desperate attempt to make sense of, and to survive, mental disintegration and schizophrenia.
Poetry
This inspiring collection of poems was written over a twenty-five year period and documents the experiences and thoughts of Maureen during this most tumultuous period of her life. Her poems are warm and her language elegant. In the new genre of 'mad poetry' this is a key collection, written by one of its main exponents.
About the Author
Maureen Oliver is a lesbian artist and poet, a mother and grandmother, and a psychiatric survivor with a current diagnosis of Schizoaffective Disorder.
Book Extracts
Breaking Down
I keep arriving at the FIRE. Voices urge me to enter it - say I must enter it - that I am already starting to go into it. I stand in the enclosed space of the tunnel, surrounded by damp, dripping rocks. I am naked and vulnerable - the fire burns before me up into the darkness, across the pathway. Its flames are blue-green tipped, orange at centre, the pathway to one side slips away to bottomless depths where I feel dark water flows - the other side is the solid rock - I can see the pathway continuing on the other side winding on and on, twisting slightly - far in the distance is turquoise light - a black, eye-like sun blinks through a tiny opening - golden rays - like shining lashes radiate from it. I am cold - the fire does not give off warmth - I am icy-cold, ice burning in the darkness.
Voices: 'You see what you've done Maureen?'
What have I done? I don't see at all.
'You can't see us but we are here, we can read your thoughts'. These voices usually come from behind me. When I hear them I am also (usually) experiencing a numb sensation spreading from the right side of my head to the right side in the front of the face - forehead, cheekbones. Also a floating sensation and a sense of unreality? Though the world presses in on me - hyper-real.
It occurs to me later - Maureen is me/Anu - is she also me (my second name is Ann). Marina? My Grandad used to call me something like that when I was a child. So Marina and Anu are related to my own being/participate in/are connected to me/my life/my experience. The balance holds as long as Maureen has control most of the time, which she does at present/if Anu or Marina took over, if Maureen became less it would be a DISASTER. Marina is connected to the girl in the enclosed cavern who cries out naked and alone in the room without doors.
They placed me in the fire - chanting, taunting me. I was consumed by the fire. Then I was not Anu - or Maureen - I was in a vacuum. The vacuum was in me. It was utter, outer darkness. I had consciousness without existence. I was emptiness, nothingness, the void. It was terrible. It went on and on - timeless, spaceless, formless. It was hard to come to. I was in my body without feeling my body for a long time. When I first came back I was Marina - weak and afraid. I aroused disgust in S (note: my partner at that time) Now I feel true solitude and the edge of icy despair.
I try to get through my work and be fully tuned into the material plane. It is difficult. Doctor Aru says I should go back on major tranquillizers. What shit! This is surely no way to solve the problems. Should I try to find a counsellor? Is there a way through and out of the tunnel? Sussanah was clearly a gateway. Since she left me, cold and empty and sad, I have not been there so often. I still feel its pull and I have been called back by unseen forces.
I am concentrating to stay on the material plane - but am not working as well as before. I have to find some healing to make me strong and able to work well again - people expect it of me - it is my Karma to help and heal others yet this battle of my soul makes it all so difficult. Part of me wants to find a physical cause. I am having blood tests. I was beaten by the police on a demonstration 3 weeks ago and still can't straighten my left leg.
I feel a clear passage of white light from Heaven through me to the earth below. Energy returns to me- I must use it rightly.
Within me is the Spirit of Hecate - Goddess of Darkness and the Moon. The ancient priestess - death, rebirth and regeneration.
My foolish enemies were moths flying into a candle flame. A new direction awaits me - and the Ace of Swords. I must follow this pathway of my spirit and learn to loosen the ties of temporal power.
If I must go alone then Blessed Be.
Towards the end of last nights ACT UP - my mind kept going completely blank - embarrassing and difficult. I feel as though I'm slipping, sliding, trying to climb a glacier. Last Thursday I was arrested on an ACT UP demonstration - held three hours in Bow Street cells - I felt faint and dizzy. I wasn't allowed a drink of tea or to see a doctor. I was charged with obstruction.
The illness I suffered before hangs like some dread curtain in my mind. Also, I mentioned to some ACT UP women that I had been on a 'psyche ward' and caught looks of horror. I told Dennis (co-worker and friend) and he said they would automatically fear unreliability. But haven't I proved my reliability over and over again? Must I be judged for this illness and found guilty? I have vowed not to hide it in the same way I vowed not to hide being gay. But the punishment and prejudice are everywhere. I didn't do anything bad, or wicked or irresponsible. I was ILL. I hate the new idea that there's no such thing as mental illness because it makes us out to be wanton, bad people.
Having received the Talisman from Kevin (Quiveen) note: my brother, have now comprehended something VITAL. ISIS my goddess! The Bright Fertile Mother who contains the DARK MOTHER also...represents a perfect balance of spiritual manifestation. He has linked the Talisman with my NAME - Maureen - linking me to the spiritual forces implied. DARK PURPLE (I see purples and reds). Later, I got so carried away with this feeling of POWER that I was rushing around on a DIFFERENT DIMENSION to people - I'd dressed in PURPLE and put on RED lipstick (purples and reds)...
I am still trying to work...
Poetry
Little Boy Blue,
sighs and shining eyes,
stirring coffee and pining –
‘Oh secret sadness, oh tragedy,’
could I help him? Oh motherly me.
‘Let me talk to you, so sweet and kind,
so helpful, so nice, let me show you my mind.’
Oh charming, oh sad, emotionally pure,
you might think him sensitive,
you may well be wrong.
Oh, motherly ladies from Whitby to Poole
are waiting the visit of Little Boy Blue.
The ladies who understand sad little boys
are wanting to comfort him, offer him toys.
You might think him an angel,
you may be deluded.
The ladies who offered this cherub their all
are lying to husbands, some in the grave,
some knotted in strait jackets –
but the comfort they gave!
Some have taken to drink, some in therapy,
some gave him their money, some just offered tea.
Oh kindly ladies from Whitby to Poole
don’t give him sweeties, don’t warm him in bed,
don’t talk with him, offer him spiritual aid.
Your heart will be emptied, your soul will be raped –
for he swallows them whole, he digests them all,
those kind, helpful ladies from Whitby to Poole.
Trust
Trust, they tell me
is what I need.
‘Trust me, trust us and
we will pour oil on those
wounds, we will heal your pain,
if you only trust in us.’
The mask seems golden,
the smile benign,
light plays around the hollows
of the eyes,
russet shadows flicker lovingly
across cheekbones, and
I am enticed, almost under a spell.
Faltering, trusting, I reveal my secrets,
like some damned dance of the Seven Veils
in Hell, till, vulnerable in my innocence
I observe with horror that
dark lies and rude cruelty now
stain the welcoming visage, and,v at the portal of Hades, I hesitate,
turn back to retrace my steps, but
flight is impossible for
he holds the seeds
of my soul in his palm – and
now winningly,
the therapist smiles –
showing his teeth.
ISBN: 978-1-84747-121-5
Published: 2007
Pages: 129
Key Themes: poetry, schizophrenia, activism
Description
This is a collection of Maureen's first two books - 'Breaking Down' & 'Poetry', both first published as e-books and now available for the first time in paperback.
Breaking Down
'Breaking Down' is the personal record of a 'psychotic' breakdown. The author was, at the time, a single mother and lesbian activist campaigning vigorously for gay rights. She faithfully recorded her visions and voices, and the diary shows her desperate attempt to make sense of, and to survive, mental disintegration and schizophrenia.
Poetry
This inspiring collection of poems was written over a twenty-five year period and documents the experiences and thoughts of Maureen during this most tumultuous period of her life. Her poems are warm and her language elegant. In the new genre of 'mad poetry' this is a key collection, written by one of its main exponents.
About the Author
Maureen Oliver is a lesbian artist and poet, a mother and grandmother, and a psychiatric survivor with a current diagnosis of Schizoaffective Disorder.
Book Extracts
Breaking Down
I keep arriving at the FIRE. Voices urge me to enter it - say I must enter it - that I am already starting to go into it. I stand in the enclosed space of the tunnel, surrounded by damp, dripping rocks. I am naked and vulnerable - the fire burns before me up into the darkness, across the pathway. Its flames are blue-green tipped, orange at centre, the pathway to one side slips away to bottomless depths where I feel dark water flows - the other side is the solid rock - I can see the pathway continuing on the other side winding on and on, twisting slightly - far in the distance is turquoise light - a black, eye-like sun blinks through a tiny opening - golden rays - like shining lashes radiate from it. I am cold - the fire does not give off warmth - I am icy-cold, ice burning in the darkness.
Voices: 'You see what you've done Maureen?'
What have I done? I don't see at all.
'You can't see us but we are here, we can read your thoughts'. These voices usually come from behind me. When I hear them I am also (usually) experiencing a numb sensation spreading from the right side of my head to the right side in the front of the face - forehead, cheekbones. Also a floating sensation and a sense of unreality? Though the world presses in on me - hyper-real.
It occurs to me later - Maureen is me/Anu - is she also me (my second name is Ann). Marina? My Grandad used to call me something like that when I was a child. So Marina and Anu are related to my own being/participate in/are connected to me/my life/my experience. The balance holds as long as Maureen has control most of the time, which she does at present/if Anu or Marina took over, if Maureen became less it would be a DISASTER. Marina is connected to the girl in the enclosed cavern who cries out naked and alone in the room without doors.
They placed me in the fire - chanting, taunting me. I was consumed by the fire. Then I was not Anu - or Maureen - I was in a vacuum. The vacuum was in me. It was utter, outer darkness. I had consciousness without existence. I was emptiness, nothingness, the void. It was terrible. It went on and on - timeless, spaceless, formless. It was hard to come to. I was in my body without feeling my body for a long time. When I first came back I was Marina - weak and afraid. I aroused disgust in S (note: my partner at that time) Now I feel true solitude and the edge of icy despair.
I try to get through my work and be fully tuned into the material plane. It is difficult. Doctor Aru says I should go back on major tranquillizers. What shit! This is surely no way to solve the problems. Should I try to find a counsellor? Is there a way through and out of the tunnel? Sussanah was clearly a gateway. Since she left me, cold and empty and sad, I have not been there so often. I still feel its pull and I have been called back by unseen forces.
I am concentrating to stay on the material plane - but am not working as well as before. I have to find some healing to make me strong and able to work well again - people expect it of me - it is my Karma to help and heal others yet this battle of my soul makes it all so difficult. Part of me wants to find a physical cause. I am having blood tests. I was beaten by the police on a demonstration 3 weeks ago and still can't straighten my left leg.
I feel a clear passage of white light from Heaven through me to the earth below. Energy returns to me- I must use it rightly.
Within me is the Spirit of Hecate - Goddess of Darkness and the Moon. The ancient priestess - death, rebirth and regeneration.
My foolish enemies were moths flying into a candle flame. A new direction awaits me - and the Ace of Swords. I must follow this pathway of my spirit and learn to loosen the ties of temporal power.
If I must go alone then Blessed Be.
Towards the end of last nights ACT UP - my mind kept going completely blank - embarrassing and difficult. I feel as though I'm slipping, sliding, trying to climb a glacier. Last Thursday I was arrested on an ACT UP demonstration - held three hours in Bow Street cells - I felt faint and dizzy. I wasn't allowed a drink of tea or to see a doctor. I was charged with obstruction.
The illness I suffered before hangs like some dread curtain in my mind. Also, I mentioned to some ACT UP women that I had been on a 'psyche ward' and caught looks of horror. I told Dennis (co-worker and friend) and he said they would automatically fear unreliability. But haven't I proved my reliability over and over again? Must I be judged for this illness and found guilty? I have vowed not to hide it in the same way I vowed not to hide being gay. But the punishment and prejudice are everywhere. I didn't do anything bad, or wicked or irresponsible. I was ILL. I hate the new idea that there's no such thing as mental illness because it makes us out to be wanton, bad people.
Having received the Talisman from Kevin (Quiveen) note: my brother, have now comprehended something VITAL. ISIS my goddess! The Bright Fertile Mother who contains the DARK MOTHER also...represents a perfect balance of spiritual manifestation. He has linked the Talisman with my NAME - Maureen - linking me to the spiritual forces implied. DARK PURPLE (I see purples and reds). Later, I got so carried away with this feeling of POWER that I was rushing around on a DIFFERENT DIMENSION to people - I'd dressed in PURPLE and put on RED lipstick (purples and reds)...
I am still trying to work...
Poetry
Little Boy Blue,
sighs and shining eyes,
stirring coffee and pining –
‘Oh secret sadness, oh tragedy,’
could I help him? Oh motherly me.
‘Let me talk to you, so sweet and kind,
so helpful, so nice, let me show you my mind.’
Oh charming, oh sad, emotionally pure,
you might think him sensitive,
you may well be wrong.
Oh, motherly ladies from Whitby to Poole
are waiting the visit of Little Boy Blue.
The ladies who understand sad little boys
are wanting to comfort him, offer him toys.
You might think him an angel,
you may be deluded.
The ladies who offered this cherub their all
are lying to husbands, some in the grave,
some knotted in strait jackets –
but the comfort they gave!
Some have taken to drink, some in therapy,
some gave him their money, some just offered tea.
Oh kindly ladies from Whitby to Poole
don’t give him sweeties, don’t warm him in bed,
don’t talk with him, offer him spiritual aid.
Your heart will be emptied, your soul will be raped –
for he swallows them whole, he digests them all,
those kind, helpful ladies from Whitby to Poole.
Trust
Trust, they tell me
is what I need.
‘Trust me, trust us and
we will pour oil on those
wounds, we will heal your pain,
if you only trust in us.’
The mask seems golden,
the smile benign,
light plays around the hollows
of the eyes,
russet shadows flicker lovingly
across cheekbones, and
I am enticed, almost under a spell.
Faltering, trusting, I reveal my secrets,
like some damned dance of the Seven Veils
in Hell, till, vulnerable in my innocence
I observe with horror that
dark lies and rude cruelty now
stain the welcoming visage, and,v at the portal of Hades, I hesitate,
turn back to retrace my steps, but
flight is impossible for
he holds the seeds
of my soul in his palm – and
now winningly,
the therapist smiles –
showing his teeth.
Black Magic By Suzannah Knight
Black Magic
£12.00
By Suzannah Knight
ISBN: 978-1-84747-007-2
Published: 2007
Pages: 152
Key Themes: self-harm, drug abuse, eating disorders, sectioning, mental health services, schizo-affective disorder, bipolar disorder, manic depression, alcoholism, the occult
Description
After a year travelling around the World Suzannah comes back to England to start university. Things start to go wrong as she is tempted into experimenting with drugs. She drops out of university and during her first spell of mania and depression starts to believe in black magic. This is the start of a long and winding journey for Suzannah as she loses all her friends and former lifestyle and leads a dubious existence - self harming and trichotillomania plague and her psyche as she battles with an eating disorder.
Suzannah is eventually sectioned and finds herself in a secure unit battling psychosis. She will not admit to herself she has a problem and refuses to take medication. Lonely and cast adrift she tries to forge a career for herself, but she can’t escape the taboo of being labelled 'mental'. Some time later she finds herself in the slums of Darlington, in poverty, and a chronic alcoholic. Overcoming her demons and fighting her schizo-affective disorder Suzannah takes life by the balls and gets herself back to university to finally finish her degree only to once again fall into mental illness, bad relationships and brushes with the law.
With four different diagnoses along the journey and various different forms of medication Suzannah denies her mental illness for a long time and therefore the psychiatrists were unable to help. She loses all her friends through mental illness and any form of normal life until she confronts the problem.
Remarkably and with great character Suzannah's book ends on a high note as she falls in love and marries the man of her dreams to live happily ever after with her son Domini. It is through her own determination and the support of loved ones that Suzannah has changed her life. She will never be totally rid of her illness but with sensible management she has succeeded in finding euilibrium. This is a fascinating and empowering story which should be a great positive influence to those who find themselves in a similar situation to Suzannah.
Book Extract
When we returned home the drinks cabinet was locked and I was locked in the house, but I was so high I didn’t need anything to aid it .My parents were worried and were watching me carefully. It’s never been discussed whether or not there is mental illness in my family tree but I know a great aunt committed suicide years before using paracetamol. My mania continued, my parents tried to talk to me about my future, I didn’t want to know I thought great thing wee going to happen to me without me doing anything to help it. My mother dragged me down to the University of Leeds, to continue my studies there. I said no, I didn’t want to go. I couldn’t stand the stress of going back to university, it didn’t interest me. She then dragged me to the chamber of commerce where I had an awful meeting with an old man. He knew I wasn’t interested in the course on offer and he told me so. It was an awkward and embarrassing moment. So I signed on the dole, and when I had to go for job interviews I messed them up.
I’d ruined my family’s annual ski trip. They thought I was just being a brat they didn’t know there was something wrong with me and they didn’t want to admit to themselves there was anything wrong with me. I was still manic and my parents knew it, my father had turned my room upside down looking for drugs, he thought I was taking heroin. The front door was always locked and the back so that I couldn’t escape like I had done in Morzine, it was for my own good I always seemed to get into trouble when I escaped. And all the time my parents were trying to protect me from myself, and keep me away from the authorities. When I was sat in my room I thought I was with members of the English SAS who then developed into members of the elite group made up in my mind of the Belize soldiers. I stole some cans of lager from the fridge and drank them with my new soldier friends. It was the same feeling of military that I had had whilst skiing. It wasn’t as though I came from a military orientated background but the connection with the army reigned right through my illness.
When I wasn’t in my room imagining whatever I imagined I was down stairs in a massive row. I was taken into the kitchen with my parents and my brother, who had stuck his nose in and was questioned about things I didn’t want to be questioned about. A huge row would peruse to which I didn’t understand why. It seemed that my parents were constantly rowing and I was in the middle, although I was the cause. I wish I could remember what the rows were but I can’t, although now I know they were over my strange behavior. I remember being very objectionable and talking about weird things at dinner times, I would cause a row to erupt after I’d caused trouble, usually by being very nasty and rude. I was still under the illusion that this family was not mine and all I wanted was to be with my made up fantasy family. I wished this family was dead. Life wasn’t exactly perfect I had no close friends especially as Alice wasn’t talking to me after the ski trip. I never bothered to ring her, as far as I was concerned she was a piece of shit still. I had new friends; they were all that mattered now. I was going nowhere fast.
It was a dull January day; the view out of my bedroom window was as lonely as ever. We lived in a village yet I knew no one in it, I often thought that wasn’t very normal yet there were a lot of things about my family life that I didn’t find very normal, and they were thoughts I had since being a little girl. I hated my family for what they had made me, for the things they had made me do. I’d never excelled at anything and I blamed them for that too. I blamed them for never buying me the best pony, for sending me to boarding school, for not having enough money, and for everything that had gone wrong in my life.
Alice came around one day with her mother. I expect my mother was very embarrassed as to what had gone on holiday although we have never discussed what she said to Alice’s mother that day. Alice came up to my room to talk. I was sat on the bed waiting for the great things to happen to me. We spoke, me with authority and delusions and she normally. Then she went, if I’d only realized I would see her four more times in my life I might have been different towards her. I just sat on the bed and regarded her as trash; I had not the faintest bit of interest in her and was really quite rude. At this time there was no rationalizing with me, nothing mattered to me and nor did I care. I was completely selfish in my objectives, nothing was important except me. I think I really upset Alice and hurt her although she’s hurt me more since. I suppose looking back though I didn’t deserve to have her as a friend I got rid of her as if she was indispensable I pushed her away and our friendship in favor of my mind’s tricks.
The time I spent in my room was consumed by spending time with my make believe friends, people I had met around the world. I was having conversations with them in my head. I could feel them all around me. Then god came one afternoon and told me in my head, I wasn’t hearing voices yet, to get my address book. He then told me to pray that every body in the book should die and that I would never speak to any of them again. Well he was right although it was that none of them would speak to me again. I tore up the address book at his command. It was at this time that Leonardo’s spirit also entered the room; he sat besides my pine wardrobe and watched me, telling me he was coming to see me. I could see the faint outline of his body, he was such a large man, his spirit was black, and sometimes it brushed my body.
I was still pining for him and that’s when something miraculous happened.I lay in the bath each afternoon soaking up the bubbles and smoking cigarettes I had nothing else to do and it was very relaxing, when all of a sudden I found myself connecting with a spirit or rather a person. In my head I began talking to a man who at first reminded me of the bad guy in Bangkok Hilton. He had very dark hair and was very much a James Bond figure. He was incredibly beautiful; I knew exactly what he looked like as a picture in my head was visible. You see when I closed my eyes I could hallucinate and his image came to me on this wonderful afternoon. He was full of life, and also very rich. The first thing he said to me was that he would never fall in love with a girl like me. I was talking to the imaginary character for ages. He said he was in the Kings Head hotel in Richmond watching me.
He was with the navy and was going to be an ambassador of Morocco one day. He swore to send me a package of cigarettes and booze. Every day I waited by the door for the arrival, it never came. But he came back to my mind every day. He made my life worth living and I got to know him better and better. At first he had seemed quite evil but now he was nice. I could sometimes feel his spirit in the house moving around, the house had become haunted. Dark shadows would appear on the hallway and on the stairs. I could hear things in the loft and in the next door rooms. Black shadows fell and rose throughout the house. Every night Piers told me that there was a helicopter coming for me to take me away as I was so special. Every night I waited by the window ready to climb out when it came but it never did. Piers told me to do naughty things, he spoke to me when I was doing things and made me laugh. It was like having an imaginary friend. There was that film once with Rik Mayall as the illusionary friend it’s title was Drop Dead Fred, Piers was like that to me, he was every where I went and he affected everything I did.
£12.00
By Suzannah Knight
ISBN: 978-1-84747-007-2
Published: 2007
Pages: 152
Key Themes: self-harm, drug abuse, eating disorders, sectioning, mental health services, schizo-affective disorder, bipolar disorder, manic depression, alcoholism, the occult
Description
After a year travelling around the World Suzannah comes back to England to start university. Things start to go wrong as she is tempted into experimenting with drugs. She drops out of university and during her first spell of mania and depression starts to believe in black magic. This is the start of a long and winding journey for Suzannah as she loses all her friends and former lifestyle and leads a dubious existence - self harming and trichotillomania plague and her psyche as she battles with an eating disorder.
Suzannah is eventually sectioned and finds herself in a secure unit battling psychosis. She will not admit to herself she has a problem and refuses to take medication. Lonely and cast adrift she tries to forge a career for herself, but she can’t escape the taboo of being labelled 'mental'. Some time later she finds herself in the slums of Darlington, in poverty, and a chronic alcoholic. Overcoming her demons and fighting her schizo-affective disorder Suzannah takes life by the balls and gets herself back to university to finally finish her degree only to once again fall into mental illness, bad relationships and brushes with the law.
With four different diagnoses along the journey and various different forms of medication Suzannah denies her mental illness for a long time and therefore the psychiatrists were unable to help. She loses all her friends through mental illness and any form of normal life until she confronts the problem.
Remarkably and with great character Suzannah's book ends on a high note as she falls in love and marries the man of her dreams to live happily ever after with her son Domini. It is through her own determination and the support of loved ones that Suzannah has changed her life. She will never be totally rid of her illness but with sensible management she has succeeded in finding euilibrium. This is a fascinating and empowering story which should be a great positive influence to those who find themselves in a similar situation to Suzannah.
Book Extract
When we returned home the drinks cabinet was locked and I was locked in the house, but I was so high I didn’t need anything to aid it .My parents were worried and were watching me carefully. It’s never been discussed whether or not there is mental illness in my family tree but I know a great aunt committed suicide years before using paracetamol. My mania continued, my parents tried to talk to me about my future, I didn’t want to know I thought great thing wee going to happen to me without me doing anything to help it. My mother dragged me down to the University of Leeds, to continue my studies there. I said no, I didn’t want to go. I couldn’t stand the stress of going back to university, it didn’t interest me. She then dragged me to the chamber of commerce where I had an awful meeting with an old man. He knew I wasn’t interested in the course on offer and he told me so. It was an awkward and embarrassing moment. So I signed on the dole, and when I had to go for job interviews I messed them up.
I’d ruined my family’s annual ski trip. They thought I was just being a brat they didn’t know there was something wrong with me and they didn’t want to admit to themselves there was anything wrong with me. I was still manic and my parents knew it, my father had turned my room upside down looking for drugs, he thought I was taking heroin. The front door was always locked and the back so that I couldn’t escape like I had done in Morzine, it was for my own good I always seemed to get into trouble when I escaped. And all the time my parents were trying to protect me from myself, and keep me away from the authorities. When I was sat in my room I thought I was with members of the English SAS who then developed into members of the elite group made up in my mind of the Belize soldiers. I stole some cans of lager from the fridge and drank them with my new soldier friends. It was the same feeling of military that I had had whilst skiing. It wasn’t as though I came from a military orientated background but the connection with the army reigned right through my illness.
When I wasn’t in my room imagining whatever I imagined I was down stairs in a massive row. I was taken into the kitchen with my parents and my brother, who had stuck his nose in and was questioned about things I didn’t want to be questioned about. A huge row would peruse to which I didn’t understand why. It seemed that my parents were constantly rowing and I was in the middle, although I was the cause. I wish I could remember what the rows were but I can’t, although now I know they were over my strange behavior. I remember being very objectionable and talking about weird things at dinner times, I would cause a row to erupt after I’d caused trouble, usually by being very nasty and rude. I was still under the illusion that this family was not mine and all I wanted was to be with my made up fantasy family. I wished this family was dead. Life wasn’t exactly perfect I had no close friends especially as Alice wasn’t talking to me after the ski trip. I never bothered to ring her, as far as I was concerned she was a piece of shit still. I had new friends; they were all that mattered now. I was going nowhere fast.
It was a dull January day; the view out of my bedroom window was as lonely as ever. We lived in a village yet I knew no one in it, I often thought that wasn’t very normal yet there were a lot of things about my family life that I didn’t find very normal, and they were thoughts I had since being a little girl. I hated my family for what they had made me, for the things they had made me do. I’d never excelled at anything and I blamed them for that too. I blamed them for never buying me the best pony, for sending me to boarding school, for not having enough money, and for everything that had gone wrong in my life.
Alice came around one day with her mother. I expect my mother was very embarrassed as to what had gone on holiday although we have never discussed what she said to Alice’s mother that day. Alice came up to my room to talk. I was sat on the bed waiting for the great things to happen to me. We spoke, me with authority and delusions and she normally. Then she went, if I’d only realized I would see her four more times in my life I might have been different towards her. I just sat on the bed and regarded her as trash; I had not the faintest bit of interest in her and was really quite rude. At this time there was no rationalizing with me, nothing mattered to me and nor did I care. I was completely selfish in my objectives, nothing was important except me. I think I really upset Alice and hurt her although she’s hurt me more since. I suppose looking back though I didn’t deserve to have her as a friend I got rid of her as if she was indispensable I pushed her away and our friendship in favor of my mind’s tricks.
The time I spent in my room was consumed by spending time with my make believe friends, people I had met around the world. I was having conversations with them in my head. I could feel them all around me. Then god came one afternoon and told me in my head, I wasn’t hearing voices yet, to get my address book. He then told me to pray that every body in the book should die and that I would never speak to any of them again. Well he was right although it was that none of them would speak to me again. I tore up the address book at his command. It was at this time that Leonardo’s spirit also entered the room; he sat besides my pine wardrobe and watched me, telling me he was coming to see me. I could see the faint outline of his body, he was such a large man, his spirit was black, and sometimes it brushed my body.
I was still pining for him and that’s when something miraculous happened.I lay in the bath each afternoon soaking up the bubbles and smoking cigarettes I had nothing else to do and it was very relaxing, when all of a sudden I found myself connecting with a spirit or rather a person. In my head I began talking to a man who at first reminded me of the bad guy in Bangkok Hilton. He had very dark hair and was very much a James Bond figure. He was incredibly beautiful; I knew exactly what he looked like as a picture in my head was visible. You see when I closed my eyes I could hallucinate and his image came to me on this wonderful afternoon. He was full of life, and also very rich. The first thing he said to me was that he would never fall in love with a girl like me. I was talking to the imaginary character for ages. He said he was in the Kings Head hotel in Richmond watching me.
He was with the navy and was going to be an ambassador of Morocco one day. He swore to send me a package of cigarettes and booze. Every day I waited by the door for the arrival, it never came. But he came back to my mind every day. He made my life worth living and I got to know him better and better. At first he had seemed quite evil but now he was nice. I could sometimes feel his spirit in the house moving around, the house had become haunted. Dark shadows would appear on the hallway and on the stairs. I could hear things in the loft and in the next door rooms. Black shadows fell and rose throughout the house. Every night Piers told me that there was a helicopter coming for me to take me away as I was so special. Every night I waited by the window ready to climb out when it came but it never did. Piers told me to do naughty things, he spoke to me when I was doing things and made me laugh. It was like having an imaginary friend. There was that film once with Rik Mayall as the illusionary friend it’s title was Drop Dead Fred, Piers was like that to me, he was every where I went and he affected everything I did.
BIG DICK, little dick By Stephen Broughton
BIG DICK, little dick
£12.00
By Stephen Broughton
ISBN: 978-1-84747-079-9
Published: 2007
Pages: 236
Key Themes: humour, suicidal thoughts, abuse
"Can someone be broken and yet 'whole' at the same time? Is it possible to live in the light and at the same time suffer torment in the darkest pitch? Stephen Broughton proves that we can; that human endurance, intelligence and a natural God-given talent for empathising with others can set us free. The damaged child can own his pain, integrate it, live, learn and love." - Anni Meehan, Biodynamic Therapist
"Unsparing yet never self-pitying, he recalls what went wrong and how he has set about rescuing himself. His account is absorbing, sometimes wryly funny, and wonderfully evocative. Inspiring, too - the child he wanted to be was destroyed but Broughton was not". - Shaun Usher, broadcaster, writer & critic.
Description
Very funny, very sad, very moving and very strange - this is the book of one man's journey of discovery seeing mental ill health as a gift, rather than a curse. In this book Stephen attempts to understand his own dreams and suicidal thoughts on the way to meeting the man he should have been - little dick. While it was his alter-ego BIG DICK who survived an upbringing with a narcisstic mother and a disinterested Father. An honest and endearing book on schizophrenia, this is a worthy addition to the new genre of 'mad' literature.
About the Author
Author Stephen has been a trustee of his local MIND group for nearly 20 years and has had suicide as his Plan B for as long as he can remember. He presents 'Thought for the Day' on BBC local radio, sings in a choir and runs marathons very slowly. Stephen is a Solicitor, often described by clients as 'not like a real solicitor' which he takes as a great compliment. Most of his friends seem to be mad as well.
Book Extract
We all dream and we probably dream every night. But have you wondered why we only remember some of the dreams and the others are consigned to some cerebral recycle bin? And why we sometimes have the same dream over and over again. I have had, for so long as I have known, a dream where I suddenly discover that I have a house. A tiny derelict house with an over grown garden.
Hidden away with no proper path to it. And when I look at the house I see that there's so much work to be done to make it into a place to live that I know it’s beyond me and that makes me very sad. And there's another dream where I've killed someone a long time ago and nobody but me knows and I'm afraid that someone will some day find out the terrible thing that I have done. And I wake up believing the dream is true not knowing how I can live with myself having done the terrible thing that I have done. So this book is about how I found out about the person I might have killed and how I first found and then set about rebuilding the house that was nothing but an empty shell with a gaping hole in the roof.
And have you ever wondered why we have the memories of our childhood that we have? Sometimes trivial every day memories. Like a video running in our mind which never got erased by the other trivial every day memories that we record each day. I have always remembered as if it was yesterday, the day when a white van drew up outside our house and a man in a white coat got out. Our dog was a corgi we called Lightie. The man came into our living room. Lightie was behind the sofa and he picked her up in his arms and took her away. And I never knew why I remembered that so well. Many years later when I had gone past the age they call middle age I told my mother about that memory. She was amazed at what I said because she said I could only have been about 12 months at the time. I had just started to walk and the dog was getting old and no longer as reliable as it needed to be with a toddler around.
£12.00
By Stephen Broughton
ISBN: 978-1-84747-079-9
Published: 2007
Pages: 236
Key Themes: humour, suicidal thoughts, abuse
"Can someone be broken and yet 'whole' at the same time? Is it possible to live in the light and at the same time suffer torment in the darkest pitch? Stephen Broughton proves that we can; that human endurance, intelligence and a natural God-given talent for empathising with others can set us free. The damaged child can own his pain, integrate it, live, learn and love." - Anni Meehan, Biodynamic Therapist
"Unsparing yet never self-pitying, he recalls what went wrong and how he has set about rescuing himself. His account is absorbing, sometimes wryly funny, and wonderfully evocative. Inspiring, too - the child he wanted to be was destroyed but Broughton was not". - Shaun Usher, broadcaster, writer & critic.
Description
Very funny, very sad, very moving and very strange - this is the book of one man's journey of discovery seeing mental ill health as a gift, rather than a curse. In this book Stephen attempts to understand his own dreams and suicidal thoughts on the way to meeting the man he should have been - little dick. While it was his alter-ego BIG DICK who survived an upbringing with a narcisstic mother and a disinterested Father. An honest and endearing book on schizophrenia, this is a worthy addition to the new genre of 'mad' literature.
About the Author
Author Stephen has been a trustee of his local MIND group for nearly 20 years and has had suicide as his Plan B for as long as he can remember. He presents 'Thought for the Day' on BBC local radio, sings in a choir and runs marathons very slowly. Stephen is a Solicitor, often described by clients as 'not like a real solicitor' which he takes as a great compliment. Most of his friends seem to be mad as well.
Book Extract
We all dream and we probably dream every night. But have you wondered why we only remember some of the dreams and the others are consigned to some cerebral recycle bin? And why we sometimes have the same dream over and over again. I have had, for so long as I have known, a dream where I suddenly discover that I have a house. A tiny derelict house with an over grown garden.
Hidden away with no proper path to it. And when I look at the house I see that there's so much work to be done to make it into a place to live that I know it’s beyond me and that makes me very sad. And there's another dream where I've killed someone a long time ago and nobody but me knows and I'm afraid that someone will some day find out the terrible thing that I have done. And I wake up believing the dream is true not knowing how I can live with myself having done the terrible thing that I have done. So this book is about how I found out about the person I might have killed and how I first found and then set about rebuilding the house that was nothing but an empty shell with a gaping hole in the roof.
And have you ever wondered why we have the memories of our childhood that we have? Sometimes trivial every day memories. Like a video running in our mind which never got erased by the other trivial every day memories that we record each day. I have always remembered as if it was yesterday, the day when a white van drew up outside our house and a man in a white coat got out. Our dog was a corgi we called Lightie. The man came into our living room. Lightie was behind the sofa and he picked her up in his arms and took her away. And I never knew why I remembered that so well. Many years later when I had gone past the age they call middle age I told my mother about that memory. She was amazed at what I said because she said I could only have been about 12 months at the time. I had just started to walk and the dog was getting old and no longer as reliable as it needed to be with a toddler around.
Bi-Polar Expedition By Neil Walton
Bi-Polar Expedition
£12.00
By Neil Walton
ISBN: 978-1-84747-123-9
Published: 2007
Pages: 220
Key Themes: bi-polar disorder, manic depression, suicidal thoughts, alcoholism
Description
With this book about severe bi-polar disorder, Neil Walton gives the reader a real insight into what it is like to live with this common, yet misunderstood and often seriously debilitating illness. Neil's life has been something of a journey of self-realisation and enlightenment, a bi-polar expedition indeed! Neil's story reflects his many experiences; from struggling with drink to numerous nervous breakdowns and problems with family and relationships. This is a book which will appeal to many but in particular to those who have had similar experiences to Neil's. A book that will help people come to terms with their illness, as Neil has. A book that could save lives!
About the Author
After my second breakdown, a friend of mine said casually one afternoon, "Why don't you write a book about your experiences, it might help people in the same situation as yourself." I dismissed the idea as ludicrous saying "who would be interested in a book by me?" I didn't read books, much less write them, and besides my spelling and punctuation were crap! Three years later, after my fourth nervous breakdown, my friend's suggestion came to the fore. I began jotting down notes. Three months later, after reading over my notes, I saw the possibilities of a short book.
I took the idea to my Occupational Therapist (OT) and waited for fits of raucous laughter. Amazingly she approved. I couldn't believe anybody would actually take me seriously. I joined an editorial team called 'Equilibrium,' which produces a quarterly newsletter covering mental health issues in the Haringey, London area. On my first day there I tentatively mentioned my book about being diagnosed with bi-polar to the facilitator, Julia Bard. I sat back in my chair and waited for a pat on the head, followed by a bout of uncontrollable apoplexy. Julia's concise reply was "That's a great idea, strong subject too." She asked me to bring in my work so that the team could edit it and use it in our next edition. Well slap me with a four-pound trout!! That was the first time my scribblings had been described as work. That was May 1999.
In the summer of 2001, I passed my GCSE English Language exams with C and B grades. Not bad for a forty-three year old manic depressive!!
My book, 'Bi-polar Expedition' turned out to be much bigger than I had imagined it would be, I sincerely hope you find it useful.
Book Extract
I had been on the missing list for sometime; ignoring the phone, the door and the outside world. My mind and body had taken such a battering over the past three years, (1986-89) and I just couldn't take it any more. I didn’t have the energy for conversation. My brain was on overload and my body was paralysed and lethargic. I had turned into an introvert, the direct opposite of my usual character. My arms and legs were like lead and I felt bone cold, as if my core temperature was lower than any body else's. Add to that a poor diet and a feeling of utter worthlessness; I was a sorry example of a human being.
I had a loop-tape of losses and problems to come relentlessly playing in my head. The only thing that stopped this tape was sleep - the next step was obvious. I was at breaking point. If I could have laid my hands on a gun... I might not be here now. Only a fellow sufferer or a specialist would understand the mental pain I was experiencing. I found a scalpel blade in my toolbox and went into my bedroom closing the door behind me. I gazed at the sterilised Swan & Morton for hours on end, the loop-tape still playing. I slept most of the time. But there were those awful four to six hours spent awake, going over and over the reasons for ending my life. Why was this happening to me? What had I done to deserve this treatment from life? The answer of course was nothing.
I began nicking at the skin on my left arm just to test the pain factor. With a brand new blade it was quite painless. Then I cut deeper into my arm making seven to eight cuts between my forearm and biceps. I watched as my blood pumped from the wounds. I laid there in a cold sweat as it trickled down my arm and soaked into the duvet cover. Sometime later, I reached for my lighter and cigarettes which were on the bedside cabinet. I was momentarily prevented as the duvet cover was firmly stuck to my forearm with congealed blood. As I pulled it away from my arm, it opened four of the cuts I had inflicted on myself. I remember thinking that this wasn’t going to be easy. The pain was so severe that I had to stop and think of an alternative way to end it all. The options seemed endless at the time. What about an overdose of paracetamol? How many would I have to take? If I could have been sure that I would have just gone to sleep and not woken up to being resuscitated, I might have chosen that option. As it was, I continued questioning each form of suicide but had no answers - looking back it probably saved me. My lethargy was so painfully strong that I couldn’t find the energy to drag myself to the chemist, only a hundred feet from my front door. I drank a glass of water, lit another cigarette and laid there wondering what to do next.
I thought long and hard about my sons, Jack and Daniel, who I think played a key factor of my survival. How could I even think of leaving them fatherless? I felt so selfish and yet in so much pain. Suicide or death in general seems so unfair. You die and everybody who knows you suffers in one way or another. What a dilemma, what a guilt trip, as if I didn’t feel bad enough already. I went back to sleep with thoughts of my parents, children and close friends on my mind.
I came to in the early hours of the morning, with tears streaming down my face I said out loud, “Oh Christ no, not another day, why can’t I just die in my sleep?” You see the tape kicks in the second you’re conscious. Shit, shit, shit, why was I taking this out on myself? Hours later I began to pick at the tendons on my left wrist with the blade. I wondered how long it would take to die. More importantly, how painful would it be? Would my heart simply stop? Maybe my lungs would cease functioning? How was I going to breathe? As you can see my sense of logic and reasoning was out to lunch.
My indecision was getting as bad as the loop-tape. I wanted the death part but without the pain, I should be so lucky! If I slashed my wrist I would have to cut through my tendons, something I hadn’t contemplated until now. I followed a vein from my forearm to the base of my biceps with the scalpel blade. In the crease of my left arm I had a bigger target and no visible tendons. All I had to do now was push the blade in. I stabbed either side of the vein. Forty-eight hours later I was still deliberating about my attempted suicide.
I heard the third dawn chorus - you wouldn’t believe the row those bloody birds made first thing in the morning. My next stop was going to be my garage, quiet and dark all the time - perfect. I guess I had it in mind to starve my self to death. If that were the case why was I contemplating taking bottles of water with me? Probably to keep my mouth and throat lubricated as I am a heavy smoker. So, with a supply of H20 and as many fags as I could carry, this being my only source of nutrition in the last seventy-two hours, the next task would have been to haul the mattress off of my bed and dump it in the garage. But I was so weak I couldn’t shift it off the bed. Let alone pull it down two flights of stairs and drag it across the car park. It has been said that to take your life is the coward’s way out. Yeah, bollocks it is!
What caused my suicide attempt was a catalogue of disasters one after another over a three-year period. They plunged me slowly and painfully into clinical depression. I was powerless to stop it and the last person to know I was ill.
After three days I eventually answered the door. It was Bill, a close friend and school mate of mine. “We’ve been concerned about you mate, so has your Mum, nobody has heard from you in a while, we just wondered if you were all right?” “Yeah, sorry mate,” I replied. “I’m okay, I just feel a bit tired that’s all apart from that I’m fine.” I tried to make small talk to mask my real feelings but Bill saw through this like a glass book.
I couldn’t keep up the pretence any longer. The smile disappeared from my face and my head fell forward into my hands. I showed him my arm. “Why am I doing this to myself Bill?” He was very calm about the situation. “You’ve had a lot of stress in the last three years, things that were out of your control. Basically it’s affected your health.”
Bill’s mother-in-law had been in the nursing profession for over twenty years and saw my break-down coming. It was she who advised Bill on how to help me I later found out. The advice was simple. Without too much fuss, get Neil to his doctor, he is suffering from clinical depression. Bill’s words to me were, “I think we should make a trip to the quacks, what do you reckon?” “I know I’m not a hundred percent,” I said, “but is it really that serious?” He just shut his eyes and nodded a couple of times. Pre-empting my answer Bill had already phoned my GP - they were just waiting for us to arrive. “Could you take me?” I asked. “The car’s outside mate,” he said. “What, today? … What, now?” “When you’re ready,” he replied.
Bill was the sort of friend you could trust with your life. For him to be worried about me I knew I had to put my faith, what was left of it, in his judgement. I made another pot of tea, the British thing to do in a situation like this. I sat down to let the information sink in, not realising just how life-altering this visit to the doctor’s was going to be.
When we arrived at the surgery the receptionist showed us straight into my doctor’s room. She asked me some questions relating to diet, sleep pattern and motivation. My reply to all three was just one word, “Poor.” The final question from my doctor, knowing in my heart it was rhetorical, was the hardest, shortest and the most painful I have ever had to answer. There was a terrible, sickening silence after she said the words “Have you tried to harm yourself in anyway?” “Yes,” I said quietly. After that I don’t remember speaking any more. I was mentally exhausted and overwhelmed with emotion. I had to let Bill take over the proceedings. He asked my GP what the next step was. Doctor Gibbon replied, “I think it would be best for Neil to see Dr. Gadhvi, the head psychiatrist at Claybury Hospital. I have made an appointment for Neil to see him this afternoon. I need a second opinion. Based on his report Neil may have to go into hospital for a short time.”
Things were moving too quickly for me, with talk of head shrinks and hospitals, but I was in no fit state to argue. I was swept along with the tide after that. This was starting to feel like a sad episode of “Casualty” come to life. Karen Gibbon was a kind, caring and considerate person. She made sure I understood what was going on, without belittling me, emphasising that a stay in hospital would be probable, after my consultation with the other doctor. Family and friends had carefully planned my path towards hospital; the trip to the trick-cyclist was a mere formality.
After visiting Dr Gadhvi my fate was secured. I fell silent again. This was too much to cope with. Bill took over as my ears, eyes and brain. At the end of the consultation it was decided that I would go in hospital as a voluntary patient for a minimum of two weeks. Technically I was sectioned under the Mental Health Act, but I was informed I could leave the hospital any time I liked. Bill asked the doctor when this would happen and was told, “There will be a bed ready for him tonight. Perhaps this afternoon you could help Neil pack a bag,” Bill nodded in agreement. Christ, what do I pack? I’ve never been in hospital before, let alone a nut house. What the fuck is it going to be like in there? Of course I had a vivid picture in my mind, who wouldn’t? At this point I was petrified and powerless.
This was another situation that was totally out of my control. My life was now in other people's hands. I didn’t like it one little bit. Bill was still on hand for support, and later that evening he ferried me to the hospital. It was only a short ride, but I remained quiet for hours as I remember. Communication was down to hearing and nodding only. I didn’t have the strength for anything else.
£12.00
By Neil Walton
ISBN: 978-1-84747-123-9
Published: 2007
Pages: 220
Key Themes: bi-polar disorder, manic depression, suicidal thoughts, alcoholism
Description
With this book about severe bi-polar disorder, Neil Walton gives the reader a real insight into what it is like to live with this common, yet misunderstood and often seriously debilitating illness. Neil's life has been something of a journey of self-realisation and enlightenment, a bi-polar expedition indeed! Neil's story reflects his many experiences; from struggling with drink to numerous nervous breakdowns and problems with family and relationships. This is a book which will appeal to many but in particular to those who have had similar experiences to Neil's. A book that will help people come to terms with their illness, as Neil has. A book that could save lives!
About the Author
After my second breakdown, a friend of mine said casually one afternoon, "Why don't you write a book about your experiences, it might help people in the same situation as yourself." I dismissed the idea as ludicrous saying "who would be interested in a book by me?" I didn't read books, much less write them, and besides my spelling and punctuation were crap! Three years later, after my fourth nervous breakdown, my friend's suggestion came to the fore. I began jotting down notes. Three months later, after reading over my notes, I saw the possibilities of a short book.
I took the idea to my Occupational Therapist (OT) and waited for fits of raucous laughter. Amazingly she approved. I couldn't believe anybody would actually take me seriously. I joined an editorial team called 'Equilibrium,' which produces a quarterly newsletter covering mental health issues in the Haringey, London area. On my first day there I tentatively mentioned my book about being diagnosed with bi-polar to the facilitator, Julia Bard. I sat back in my chair and waited for a pat on the head, followed by a bout of uncontrollable apoplexy. Julia's concise reply was "That's a great idea, strong subject too." She asked me to bring in my work so that the team could edit it and use it in our next edition. Well slap me with a four-pound trout!! That was the first time my scribblings had been described as work. That was May 1999.
In the summer of 2001, I passed my GCSE English Language exams with C and B grades. Not bad for a forty-three year old manic depressive!!
My book, 'Bi-polar Expedition' turned out to be much bigger than I had imagined it would be, I sincerely hope you find it useful.
Book Extract
I had been on the missing list for sometime; ignoring the phone, the door and the outside world. My mind and body had taken such a battering over the past three years, (1986-89) and I just couldn't take it any more. I didn’t have the energy for conversation. My brain was on overload and my body was paralysed and lethargic. I had turned into an introvert, the direct opposite of my usual character. My arms and legs were like lead and I felt bone cold, as if my core temperature was lower than any body else's. Add to that a poor diet and a feeling of utter worthlessness; I was a sorry example of a human being.
I had a loop-tape of losses and problems to come relentlessly playing in my head. The only thing that stopped this tape was sleep - the next step was obvious. I was at breaking point. If I could have laid my hands on a gun... I might not be here now. Only a fellow sufferer or a specialist would understand the mental pain I was experiencing. I found a scalpel blade in my toolbox and went into my bedroom closing the door behind me. I gazed at the sterilised Swan & Morton for hours on end, the loop-tape still playing. I slept most of the time. But there were those awful four to six hours spent awake, going over and over the reasons for ending my life. Why was this happening to me? What had I done to deserve this treatment from life? The answer of course was nothing.
I began nicking at the skin on my left arm just to test the pain factor. With a brand new blade it was quite painless. Then I cut deeper into my arm making seven to eight cuts between my forearm and biceps. I watched as my blood pumped from the wounds. I laid there in a cold sweat as it trickled down my arm and soaked into the duvet cover. Sometime later, I reached for my lighter and cigarettes which were on the bedside cabinet. I was momentarily prevented as the duvet cover was firmly stuck to my forearm with congealed blood. As I pulled it away from my arm, it opened four of the cuts I had inflicted on myself. I remember thinking that this wasn’t going to be easy. The pain was so severe that I had to stop and think of an alternative way to end it all. The options seemed endless at the time. What about an overdose of paracetamol? How many would I have to take? If I could have been sure that I would have just gone to sleep and not woken up to being resuscitated, I might have chosen that option. As it was, I continued questioning each form of suicide but had no answers - looking back it probably saved me. My lethargy was so painfully strong that I couldn’t find the energy to drag myself to the chemist, only a hundred feet from my front door. I drank a glass of water, lit another cigarette and laid there wondering what to do next.
I thought long and hard about my sons, Jack and Daniel, who I think played a key factor of my survival. How could I even think of leaving them fatherless? I felt so selfish and yet in so much pain. Suicide or death in general seems so unfair. You die and everybody who knows you suffers in one way or another. What a dilemma, what a guilt trip, as if I didn’t feel bad enough already. I went back to sleep with thoughts of my parents, children and close friends on my mind.
I came to in the early hours of the morning, with tears streaming down my face I said out loud, “Oh Christ no, not another day, why can’t I just die in my sleep?” You see the tape kicks in the second you’re conscious. Shit, shit, shit, why was I taking this out on myself? Hours later I began to pick at the tendons on my left wrist with the blade. I wondered how long it would take to die. More importantly, how painful would it be? Would my heart simply stop? Maybe my lungs would cease functioning? How was I going to breathe? As you can see my sense of logic and reasoning was out to lunch.
My indecision was getting as bad as the loop-tape. I wanted the death part but without the pain, I should be so lucky! If I slashed my wrist I would have to cut through my tendons, something I hadn’t contemplated until now. I followed a vein from my forearm to the base of my biceps with the scalpel blade. In the crease of my left arm I had a bigger target and no visible tendons. All I had to do now was push the blade in. I stabbed either side of the vein. Forty-eight hours later I was still deliberating about my attempted suicide.
I heard the third dawn chorus - you wouldn’t believe the row those bloody birds made first thing in the morning. My next stop was going to be my garage, quiet and dark all the time - perfect. I guess I had it in mind to starve my self to death. If that were the case why was I contemplating taking bottles of water with me? Probably to keep my mouth and throat lubricated as I am a heavy smoker. So, with a supply of H20 and as many fags as I could carry, this being my only source of nutrition in the last seventy-two hours, the next task would have been to haul the mattress off of my bed and dump it in the garage. But I was so weak I couldn’t shift it off the bed. Let alone pull it down two flights of stairs and drag it across the car park. It has been said that to take your life is the coward’s way out. Yeah, bollocks it is!
What caused my suicide attempt was a catalogue of disasters one after another over a three-year period. They plunged me slowly and painfully into clinical depression. I was powerless to stop it and the last person to know I was ill.
After three days I eventually answered the door. It was Bill, a close friend and school mate of mine. “We’ve been concerned about you mate, so has your Mum, nobody has heard from you in a while, we just wondered if you were all right?” “Yeah, sorry mate,” I replied. “I’m okay, I just feel a bit tired that’s all apart from that I’m fine.” I tried to make small talk to mask my real feelings but Bill saw through this like a glass book.
I couldn’t keep up the pretence any longer. The smile disappeared from my face and my head fell forward into my hands. I showed him my arm. “Why am I doing this to myself Bill?” He was very calm about the situation. “You’ve had a lot of stress in the last three years, things that were out of your control. Basically it’s affected your health.”
Bill’s mother-in-law had been in the nursing profession for over twenty years and saw my break-down coming. It was she who advised Bill on how to help me I later found out. The advice was simple. Without too much fuss, get Neil to his doctor, he is suffering from clinical depression. Bill’s words to me were, “I think we should make a trip to the quacks, what do you reckon?” “I know I’m not a hundred percent,” I said, “but is it really that serious?” He just shut his eyes and nodded a couple of times. Pre-empting my answer Bill had already phoned my GP - they were just waiting for us to arrive. “Could you take me?” I asked. “The car’s outside mate,” he said. “What, today? … What, now?” “When you’re ready,” he replied.
Bill was the sort of friend you could trust with your life. For him to be worried about me I knew I had to put my faith, what was left of it, in his judgement. I made another pot of tea, the British thing to do in a situation like this. I sat down to let the information sink in, not realising just how life-altering this visit to the doctor’s was going to be.
When we arrived at the surgery the receptionist showed us straight into my doctor’s room. She asked me some questions relating to diet, sleep pattern and motivation. My reply to all three was just one word, “Poor.” The final question from my doctor, knowing in my heart it was rhetorical, was the hardest, shortest and the most painful I have ever had to answer. There was a terrible, sickening silence after she said the words “Have you tried to harm yourself in anyway?” “Yes,” I said quietly. After that I don’t remember speaking any more. I was mentally exhausted and overwhelmed with emotion. I had to let Bill take over the proceedings. He asked my GP what the next step was. Doctor Gibbon replied, “I think it would be best for Neil to see Dr. Gadhvi, the head psychiatrist at Claybury Hospital. I have made an appointment for Neil to see him this afternoon. I need a second opinion. Based on his report Neil may have to go into hospital for a short time.”
Things were moving too quickly for me, with talk of head shrinks and hospitals, but I was in no fit state to argue. I was swept along with the tide after that. This was starting to feel like a sad episode of “Casualty” come to life. Karen Gibbon was a kind, caring and considerate person. She made sure I understood what was going on, without belittling me, emphasising that a stay in hospital would be probable, after my consultation with the other doctor. Family and friends had carefully planned my path towards hospital; the trip to the trick-cyclist was a mere formality.
After visiting Dr Gadhvi my fate was secured. I fell silent again. This was too much to cope with. Bill took over as my ears, eyes and brain. At the end of the consultation it was decided that I would go in hospital as a voluntary patient for a minimum of two weeks. Technically I was sectioned under the Mental Health Act, but I was informed I could leave the hospital any time I liked. Bill asked the doctor when this would happen and was told, “There will be a bed ready for him tonight. Perhaps this afternoon you could help Neil pack a bag,” Bill nodded in agreement. Christ, what do I pack? I’ve never been in hospital before, let alone a nut house. What the fuck is it going to be like in there? Of course I had a vivid picture in my mind, who wouldn’t? At this point I was petrified and powerless.
This was another situation that was totally out of my control. My life was now in other people's hands. I didn’t like it one little bit. Bill was still on hand for support, and later that evening he ferried me to the hospital. It was only a short ride, but I remained quiet for hours as I remember. Communication was down to hearing and nodding only. I didn’t have the strength for anything else.
Bi-Polar Dreams By Frederic Benson
Bi-Polar Dreams
£14.99
By Frederic Benson
ISBN: 978-1-84747-164-2
Published: 2007
Pages: 230
Key Themes: bi-polar disorder, manic depression, poetry
Description
This book comprises of creative poems and coherent prose, which give you an honest insight into manic depression. This book is a very honest, real and therefore a, sometimes disturbing account of bi-polar disorder. It gives you an emotive insight into Frederick Benson's life.
About the Author
Frederic Benson has written this book as a form of empowerment. His manic depression is expressed in a frank way to give you a clearer understanding of mental illness. It is a combination of fiction and non-fiction.
Book Extract
I am the castle on the mountain,
The spire on the church,
I fly like the lightning,
Standing atop the Earth,
And with my fists I can smash through planets,
Plunging through the core,
Tearing at heat itself,
I am the fiery lightning, the electric beast,
I can paint with the stars,
And wield the sun,
Blazing through time with fire and hate,
I can build, I can destroy,
I can create, I can crush,
I can trample the Earth,
And everything in it,
I am the dragon, the demon,
The flaming eyes of God,
I see all & I know the Earth,
The world is mine in my werewolf state,
And I pine for the thorns,
As I crush the rose that dies,
I am the devil warlord,
The screaming banshee of blood,
I am the manic monster,
And the Earth is mine!
As I fly with the flame,
Up to the darkened sun filled sky,
And I fall back to Earth,
Crashing through Darkness,
Plunging through shadow,
Till I smash on the rocks below…
Then there is darkness,
The bitter light is gone,
And I am left melting,
In the stabbing acid glare of a citrus bulb,
My mind is dripping through a sieve,
What was once a tight knot is unravelling,
I can feel a damp coffin around me,
I am decaying alive.
Melting into the foul earth,
My eyes, once flame are now liquid,
Warmly dripping down my cheeks,
I am blind and cold,
The light is gone and my blood is stale,
I am the squashed insect between your fingers,
I am the miserably failed road kill,
Crushed,
Void of smiles,
Void of life,.
I slither in the mud.
My skin is leaving me,
Unshielded as the birds peck at my bloody flesh,
Trodden by the snail crusher,
Weak at the neck,
Hanging from the cliff,
Nailed to my grave,
Trapped inside my hole,
Prisoner to my mind,
Melted into darkness,
Where God is left behind,
Truly alone and abandoned to hell,
There is nothing but gloom,
And death from the well,
So crushed and beguiled,
I cry with my blood,
And then I tear myself up from the ground!
As I fly up again,
The diamond kite,
The electric firework charge, soaring through the starry bleak,
Blazing through the sky again,
Tearing the air asunder as I wail,
I am the reaper’s fiery blade,
Beautiful & crazy,
With a hunger,
For Death,
And Blood.
£14.99
By Frederic Benson
ISBN: 978-1-84747-164-2
Published: 2007
Pages: 230
Key Themes: bi-polar disorder, manic depression, poetry
Description
This book comprises of creative poems and coherent prose, which give you an honest insight into manic depression. This book is a very honest, real and therefore a, sometimes disturbing account of bi-polar disorder. It gives you an emotive insight into Frederick Benson's life.
About the Author
Frederic Benson has written this book as a form of empowerment. His manic depression is expressed in a frank way to give you a clearer understanding of mental illness. It is a combination of fiction and non-fiction.
Book Extract
I am the castle on the mountain,
The spire on the church,
I fly like the lightning,
Standing atop the Earth,
And with my fists I can smash through planets,
Plunging through the core,
Tearing at heat itself,
I am the fiery lightning, the electric beast,
I can paint with the stars,
And wield the sun,
Blazing through time with fire and hate,
I can build, I can destroy,
I can create, I can crush,
I can trample the Earth,
And everything in it,
I am the dragon, the demon,
The flaming eyes of God,
I see all & I know the Earth,
The world is mine in my werewolf state,
And I pine for the thorns,
As I crush the rose that dies,
I am the devil warlord,
The screaming banshee of blood,
I am the manic monster,
And the Earth is mine!
As I fly with the flame,
Up to the darkened sun filled sky,
And I fall back to Earth,
Crashing through Darkness,
Plunging through shadow,
Till I smash on the rocks below…
Then there is darkness,
The bitter light is gone,
And I am left melting,
In the stabbing acid glare of a citrus bulb,
My mind is dripping through a sieve,
What was once a tight knot is unravelling,
I can feel a damp coffin around me,
I am decaying alive.
Melting into the foul earth,
My eyes, once flame are now liquid,
Warmly dripping down my cheeks,
I am blind and cold,
The light is gone and my blood is stale,
I am the squashed insect between your fingers,
I am the miserably failed road kill,
Crushed,
Void of smiles,
Void of life,.
I slither in the mud.
My skin is leaving me,
Unshielded as the birds peck at my bloody flesh,
Trodden by the snail crusher,
Weak at the neck,
Hanging from the cliff,
Nailed to my grave,
Trapped inside my hole,
Prisoner to my mind,
Melted into darkness,
Where God is left behind,
Truly alone and abandoned to hell,
There is nothing but gloom,
And death from the well,
So crushed and beguiled,
I cry with my blood,
And then I tear myself up from the ground!
As I fly up again,
The diamond kite,
The electric firework charge, soaring through the starry bleak,
Blazing through the sky again,
Tearing the air asunder as I wail,
I am the reaper’s fiery blade,
Beautiful & crazy,
With a hunger,
For Death,
And Blood.
Behind A Glass Wall By Dorothy Schwarz
Behind A Glass Wall
£12.00
The Anatomy of a Suicide
By Dorothy Schwarz
ISBN: 978-1-905610-20-4
Published: 2006
Pages: 348
Key Themes: suicide, depression, grief
Description
This book is the gripping and emotional portrayal of one young woman's ultimately unsuccessful battle against chronic depression. Zoe, was Dorothy's fourth daughter, born in New Delhi in 1972. When she threw herself under a train at the age of 27 in August 2000, Zoe was suffering from deep depression following a bout of mania. After her death Dorothy found her diaries, poems and other writings which she used to build her portrait. Dorothy wants to tell her daughter's story both as a tribute to this beautiful and talented young woman, who succumbed to a terrible illness and also to chart the passage of grief for a family after suicide. Dorothy wants to help remove or lessen the stigma attached to mental illness. Zoe fought hard and long but lost the ultimate battle. Dorothy hopes that the honest account of her life may help other sufferers and their families. Zoe herself would have wanted that.
About the Author
Dorothy Schwarz was born in London in 1937. She married Walter Schwarz, a journalist, in 1956 and had six children. The family lived in many countries where Walter was stationed. Dorothy brought up the kids, taught a bit and wrote children's books and short stories. She now lives and teaches creative writing part-time in Colchester. Her main hobby, now that the nest is empty, is a growing collection of parrots and parakeets. She and Walter have written two books on ecology together, Dorothy's collection of short stories entitled 'Simple Stories about Women' were published by Iron Press in 1998.
Book Extract
PROLOGUE
After you died, we found on the top shelf in your bedroom six cardboard boxes crammed with papers in no particular order or dates, diaries in hard and soft covers, notes on loose sheets of paper, dated and undated, birthday cards and postcards, souvenirs. Business letters, bank statements, certificates won at school, medical records, letters received and letters you’d written. Maybe sent, maybe not. A box of several hundred photographs, mostly of people and animals, a few places, some of which I recognised; many I didn’t. I had no idea that you’d kept this stuff; you were such a private person. Your elder sister Habie knew. So did your friend, Kelly; I didn’t. Reading those papers brings you alive again.
You wrote two months before your sixteenth birthday:
Sunday 18th October [1987]
Woke up at 8.30. Read Lawrence’s criticism in the morning. It was a lovely day. Had lunch. …. The family was all together. The lunch was delicious. Mum & Freddie chatted in the greenhouse. Dad, Bups and me had coffee and some of my cake. We went for a walk around the reservoir. It was stunning. Two swans crossed the sunray upon the water.
I brought the horses in. Diana came. We had more of my cake and some of Dad’s bread. We talked, had tea and went to bed. It was a lovely, magical family weekend.
One month after your birthday, you wrote about your school friends:
Friday 6th January [1988]
Saw everyone again and we talked a lot. We had a really funny conversation at lunch about who was going to lose her virginity first. Everyone is either in love or going out with someone so we can talk about it a lot which is really nice and fun.
A few years later, recovered from your first breakdown and back at university, the diary entries are matter-of-fact, whom you met, what you ate, what pleased you, proud to win games of pool, happy with your friends.
At twenty-two, you wrote about them and us:
Saturday 4th May [1994]
Mylène [oldest friend] and I had a chat in the end sitting room. Zac [brother] came home. We went to Vagabonds and I asked to work there. Mylène and I had dinner at Monty’s…. We came home and watched the end of ‘Revenge’, which is unbelievably sexist. Completely happy to find Tigger purring on my bed. Nothing melodramatic – just content with your life and loving the people around you. Sunday 5th of May Mylène and I woke up late. We spent the afternoon chatting in the Peldon Rose. After dropping her at the station did some typing. … Tigger sleeping in my bed. Being close to Mum and Dad. Mylène being happy. Adnan kissing me on the cheek. Zac showing me his design projects.
Out of many entries that read, ‘chatted with Mum,’ I can’t recall whether the chats were fruitful and loving or whether we argued. And during your last illness, when we brought you back to Greenacres in the spring and you died in the summer, the first summer of the new century, during those five months you spoke little and wrote almost nothing.
You left those boxes on the top shelf in your bedroom where you knew they would be found. Your Dad believes you were too modest to think anyone would bother to examine them and we’d just throw them away. None of us would have done that. One of my oldest friends, Heather, and one of your closest friends, Kelly, came to help me. We sorted the papers into foolscap folders – in rough categories - letters, love letters, diaries, notebooks, mementos. We didn’t keep every single birthday card and postcard (there were hundreds). Although it hurts to see your handwriting, I have no qualms about reading your diaries and letters or even publishing parts of them. You did not die in a fit of florid madness or rage; you planned your suicide with care and left a hand-written list of forty friends whom we were to contact.
Perhaps those papers represent an unconscious sort of last present to us as well as a rebuke; we did not understand you well enough and not everything you wrote was complimentary. From a young age, you had a wickedly sharp way of slicing through pretension. At least one person, amongst those few to whom I’ve shown some of your writing, has said, “don’t print what she wrote, it’s too hurtful.” And in so much of what you wrote in your twenties, when outwardly you seemed happy and successful, inwardly you were grappling with demons. You gave them human faces; they resemble people you knew including your parents.
Two days after your death, we found an Internet site that claimed that one in five manic depressives eventually kill themselves. That statistic isn’t a classified secret, although we never discovered it during your lifetime. Were we, as well as you, afraid? You wanted to believe that your illness at eighteen was ‘cured’. You didn’t want the label of ‘someone suffering from mental problems’. We accepted that and went along with the idea; easier to refer to Zoë’s breakdown NOT Zoë’s first episode. Easier to let our pleasant life slide on. .
£12.00
The Anatomy of a Suicide
By Dorothy Schwarz
ISBN: 978-1-905610-20-4
Published: 2006
Pages: 348
Key Themes: suicide, depression, grief
Description
This book is the gripping and emotional portrayal of one young woman's ultimately unsuccessful battle against chronic depression. Zoe, was Dorothy's fourth daughter, born in New Delhi in 1972. When she threw herself under a train at the age of 27 in August 2000, Zoe was suffering from deep depression following a bout of mania. After her death Dorothy found her diaries, poems and other writings which she used to build her portrait. Dorothy wants to tell her daughter's story both as a tribute to this beautiful and talented young woman, who succumbed to a terrible illness and also to chart the passage of grief for a family after suicide. Dorothy wants to help remove or lessen the stigma attached to mental illness. Zoe fought hard and long but lost the ultimate battle. Dorothy hopes that the honest account of her life may help other sufferers and their families. Zoe herself would have wanted that.
About the Author
Dorothy Schwarz was born in London in 1937. She married Walter Schwarz, a journalist, in 1956 and had six children. The family lived in many countries where Walter was stationed. Dorothy brought up the kids, taught a bit and wrote children's books and short stories. She now lives and teaches creative writing part-time in Colchester. Her main hobby, now that the nest is empty, is a growing collection of parrots and parakeets. She and Walter have written two books on ecology together, Dorothy's collection of short stories entitled 'Simple Stories about Women' were published by Iron Press in 1998.
Book Extract
PROLOGUE
After you died, we found on the top shelf in your bedroom six cardboard boxes crammed with papers in no particular order or dates, diaries in hard and soft covers, notes on loose sheets of paper, dated and undated, birthday cards and postcards, souvenirs. Business letters, bank statements, certificates won at school, medical records, letters received and letters you’d written. Maybe sent, maybe not. A box of several hundred photographs, mostly of people and animals, a few places, some of which I recognised; many I didn’t. I had no idea that you’d kept this stuff; you were such a private person. Your elder sister Habie knew. So did your friend, Kelly; I didn’t. Reading those papers brings you alive again.
You wrote two months before your sixteenth birthday:
Sunday 18th October [1987]
Woke up at 8.30. Read Lawrence’s criticism in the morning. It was a lovely day. Had lunch. …. The family was all together. The lunch was delicious. Mum & Freddie chatted in the greenhouse. Dad, Bups and me had coffee and some of my cake. We went for a walk around the reservoir. It was stunning. Two swans crossed the sunray upon the water.
I brought the horses in. Diana came. We had more of my cake and some of Dad’s bread. We talked, had tea and went to bed. It was a lovely, magical family weekend.
One month after your birthday, you wrote about your school friends:
Friday 6th January [1988]
Saw everyone again and we talked a lot. We had a really funny conversation at lunch about who was going to lose her virginity first. Everyone is either in love or going out with someone so we can talk about it a lot which is really nice and fun.
A few years later, recovered from your first breakdown and back at university, the diary entries are matter-of-fact, whom you met, what you ate, what pleased you, proud to win games of pool, happy with your friends.
At twenty-two, you wrote about them and us:
Saturday 4th May [1994]
Mylène [oldest friend] and I had a chat in the end sitting room. Zac [brother] came home. We went to Vagabonds and I asked to work there. Mylène and I had dinner at Monty’s…. We came home and watched the end of ‘Revenge’, which is unbelievably sexist. Completely happy to find Tigger purring on my bed. Nothing melodramatic – just content with your life and loving the people around you. Sunday 5th of May Mylène and I woke up late. We spent the afternoon chatting in the Peldon Rose. After dropping her at the station did some typing. … Tigger sleeping in my bed. Being close to Mum and Dad. Mylène being happy. Adnan kissing me on the cheek. Zac showing me his design projects.
Out of many entries that read, ‘chatted with Mum,’ I can’t recall whether the chats were fruitful and loving or whether we argued. And during your last illness, when we brought you back to Greenacres in the spring and you died in the summer, the first summer of the new century, during those five months you spoke little and wrote almost nothing.
You left those boxes on the top shelf in your bedroom where you knew they would be found. Your Dad believes you were too modest to think anyone would bother to examine them and we’d just throw them away. None of us would have done that. One of my oldest friends, Heather, and one of your closest friends, Kelly, came to help me. We sorted the papers into foolscap folders – in rough categories - letters, love letters, diaries, notebooks, mementos. We didn’t keep every single birthday card and postcard (there were hundreds). Although it hurts to see your handwriting, I have no qualms about reading your diaries and letters or even publishing parts of them. You did not die in a fit of florid madness or rage; you planned your suicide with care and left a hand-written list of forty friends whom we were to contact.
Perhaps those papers represent an unconscious sort of last present to us as well as a rebuke; we did not understand you well enough and not everything you wrote was complimentary. From a young age, you had a wickedly sharp way of slicing through pretension. At least one person, amongst those few to whom I’ve shown some of your writing, has said, “don’t print what she wrote, it’s too hurtful.” And in so much of what you wrote in your twenties, when outwardly you seemed happy and successful, inwardly you were grappling with demons. You gave them human faces; they resemble people you knew including your parents.
Two days after your death, we found an Internet site that claimed that one in five manic depressives eventually kill themselves. That statistic isn’t a classified secret, although we never discovered it during your lifetime. Were we, as well as you, afraid? You wanted to believe that your illness at eighteen was ‘cured’. You didn’t want the label of ‘someone suffering from mental problems’. We accepted that and went along with the idea; easier to refer to Zoë’s breakdown NOT Zoë’s first episode. Easier to let our pleasant life slide on. .
Ayshe, An Anatolian Tale by Fatma Durmush
Ayshe, An Anatolian Tale
£12.00
By Fatma Durmush
ISBN: 978-1-84747-171-0
Published: 2007
Pages: 81
Key Themes: schizophrenia, ethnic minorities, Islam
Description
This book started life as a short story in a children's writing group. 'Anatolian Tale' is about the backwaters of Turkey, it is a story of Ayshe growing up in Anatolia and the hardships she endures. Girls in villages in Turkey are not encouraged to read, this is a luxury which their sisters in the cities have so Ayshe rebels. Ayshe rebels to such an extent that she conquers the societal paradigm of cheap and sometimes enforced labour. Ayshe is brave and resourceful, a great charmer. This book teaches the lesson that life is bigger than we are and that life is a gift for us to treasure.
About the Author
Fatma Durmush was born in 1959; after years spent suffering from schizophrenia she has finally achieved her ambition to be gain an art degree and become a renowned artist. She will be going on to study an MA in art this year. As well as an artist and successful author, Fatma is also a play-right. She found a modest niche in America where two of her plays have been performed, one of which will soon be published in an anthology. In the UK she has been published by the Big Issue as well as in books and pamphlets. Her artwork has featured in over sixty exhibitions at, amongst others, the Tate Modern and The National Gallery.
Book Extract
In Anatolia,
there lives Ayshe.
She doesn’t go to school.
More than anything, she wants to.
Weaving carpets has made her eyesight dim.
Weave and stretch,
make and go into patterns,
Ayshe’s clothes are hand-me-downs,
patchy from too much sewing.
Her donkey is her constant companion.
She gives him sugar,
from pockets with too many commitments.
Mrs Sadiye is Ayshe’s mother.
There are ten girls, and one boy.
Ayshe mothers her sisters,
carrying them on her back.
The big pan is where they boil the nappies,
Mrs Sadiye is constantly boiling, cooking.
Her five feet nothing is a source of pride.
A woman shouldn’t be taller than her man.
Every inch on the look out for a child in trouble.
In Muslim Festival of Sacrifice they eat meat.
Which they have to be grateful for.
Eggs they get on a Friday,
From the chickens which go to the neighbours.
Mrs Sadiye has a vegetable patch which ekes out
the subsistence of the evening meal.
When the chickens go next door,
there’s an almighty row.
£12.00
By Fatma Durmush
ISBN: 978-1-84747-171-0
Published: 2007
Pages: 81
Key Themes: schizophrenia, ethnic minorities, Islam
Description
This book started life as a short story in a children's writing group. 'Anatolian Tale' is about the backwaters of Turkey, it is a story of Ayshe growing up in Anatolia and the hardships she endures. Girls in villages in Turkey are not encouraged to read, this is a luxury which their sisters in the cities have so Ayshe rebels. Ayshe rebels to such an extent that she conquers the societal paradigm of cheap and sometimes enforced labour. Ayshe is brave and resourceful, a great charmer. This book teaches the lesson that life is bigger than we are and that life is a gift for us to treasure.
About the Author
Fatma Durmush was born in 1959; after years spent suffering from schizophrenia she has finally achieved her ambition to be gain an art degree and become a renowned artist. She will be going on to study an MA in art this year. As well as an artist and successful author, Fatma is also a play-right. She found a modest niche in America where two of her plays have been performed, one of which will soon be published in an anthology. In the UK she has been published by the Big Issue as well as in books and pamphlets. Her artwork has featured in over sixty exhibitions at, amongst others, the Tate Modern and The National Gallery.
Book Extract
In Anatolia,
there lives Ayshe.
She doesn’t go to school.
More than anything, she wants to.
Weaving carpets has made her eyesight dim.
Weave and stretch,
make and go into patterns,
Ayshe’s clothes are hand-me-downs,
patchy from too much sewing.
Her donkey is her constant companion.
She gives him sugar,
from pockets with too many commitments.
Mrs Sadiye is Ayshe’s mother.
There are ten girls, and one boy.
Ayshe mothers her sisters,
carrying them on her back.
The big pan is where they boil the nappies,
Mrs Sadiye is constantly boiling, cooking.
Her five feet nothing is a source of pride.
A woman shouldn’t be taller than her man.
Every inch on the look out for a child in trouble.
In Muslim Festival of Sacrifice they eat meat.
Which they have to be grateful for.
Eggs they get on a Friday,
From the chickens which go to the neighbours.
Mrs Sadiye has a vegetable patch which ekes out
the subsistence of the evening meal.
When the chickens go next door,
there’s an almighty row.
Am I Still Laughing? By Dolly Sen
Am I Still Laughing?
£12.00
By Dolly Sen
ISBN: 978-1-905610-94-5
Published: 2006
Pages: 184
Key Themes: schizophrenia, manic depression, bi-polar disorder, abuse, self-harm, activism
"An epistle to equality, tolerance and the true beauty of madness. Dolly Sen's powerful personal pilgrimage to love, life and humanity again is a very intimate tale about the power of dreaming, taking control and fighting for the right to be oneself and to be equal and to be accepted" - David Morris, Senior Policy Adviser to the Mayor (Disability), Greater London Authority
Description
Dolly Sen’s second book, 'Am I Still Laughing?, is the follow up to her acclaimed memoir, 'The World is Full of Laughter'. Her first book started out as a possible suicide note and ended up as a celebration of life. The brutally honest account of living with madness has been an inspiration to readers around the world, and has positively changed many peoples’ lives. In 'Am I Still Laughing' Dolly describes her childhood with a father who was a small-time singer and actor, through him she worked as an extra on various films including the Star Wars epic, The Empire Strikes Back, until Steven Spielberg sacked her because he thought her child-breasts were too big for the part of an underfed child slave. Confused by sci-fi reality and day-to-day fiction Dolly traces her madness ‘all the way back to when I worked on The Empire Strikes Back. It wasn't a film, it was reality, and it was up to me to maintain the good and evil in the universe'.
About the Author
Author, poet and activist Dolly Sen lives in Streatham, South London. Born in 1970, she had her first psychotic experience aged 14 which lead her to leave school. After years of mental illness, probably bought on by an abusive childhood, Dolly decided she should write about her experiences. She was inspired to write her own story after reading Jason Pegler's autobiography 'A Can of Madness'. She has since written five books, become a successful performance poet who has toured throughout Europe and has set up two charities. Dolly is a key figure in the mental health movement and regularly appears on television and radio talking about mental health issues.
Book Extract
Writing has always helped me. I found it when I was 22 and it has kept me alive since then. During my worst depressions, writing gave me a reason to wake up in the morning. Would I still have carried on writing if I never was published? Of course I would. One of my favourite writers, Charles Bukowski, said of writing: ‘It is the last expectation, the last explanation, that’s what writing is’. A plain piece of paper won’t judge you, criticize you. And above all it won’t lie to you. If you can’t say what needs to be said face to face, write it down.
People with mental health problems who are able should think about either writing their story or at least telling it. Their lives shouldn’t be what they think are dirty secrets they have to hide. One woman at one of my book signings shook her head sadly and said, “I can’t, it’s too painful. And besides, nobody wants to hear it.” That’s what I thought once. I now know that to be untrue. People, men and women, young and old, rich and poor, have taken me aside after reading my book and say, sometimes with tears in their eyes, “This happened to me too… but please don’t tell anyone that it did.” This is painfully heart-rending. Because I think if you don’t share it positively, it’ll manifest somewhere else, in your body, in your relationship to others and the world. For example, it can be seen in some people’s eyes; they try to smile, but their eyes don’t believe it. Their eyes are telling their story – something about their life always will. So you might as well have some control over it.
For me creativity gave me control in a world where because of a diagnosis I had no control. A South American poet said, “Take away someone’s creativity and you take away their humanity. Give someone back their creativity, and you give back their life.” I found this to be true while writing my story, and every day after too.
Writing your life story does so much for you. It gives you opportunity to reflect, it empowers you because you have nothing to hide any more.
I made a conscious decision to let it out, to give away secrets. But it was really difficult to get it onto paper sometimes without crying; or deleting, starting again, deleting, and starting again. Some of the things I wrote I didn’t tell my family about. Most of them didn’t know about the abortion or the extent of my mental illness.
Will they reject me for what needs to be said? That did definitely cross my mind. I even made plans to leave London if things got ugly. The first to read it was Paula. When she finished it, she rang me up in tears. “Why didn’t you tell me? About the abortion and other things? Oh Dolly…” So we cried together. I was so relieved that she didn’t reject me; in fact, it made our relationship stronger. This goes with the other members of my family too. Our love got stronger. It dumbfounded me. Of course, my father won’t read it – or can’t. His memory is such that he doesn’t remember what he reads. For example, he will read the same newspaper 5 or 6 times without retaining information. And nothing can change the story he tells himself anyway. Jason was intuitively supportive, just knowing exactly the right time to encourage me. His belief in me was nothing I had from anyone in my life previously. I remember thinking this is the thing that all humans need, the thing that affects change in someone, no matter what has happened in their life before. I am forever grateful for him for that. And because of his belief in me, my self-belief developed slowly.
So I didn’t get to see much of the summer of 2002. I had spent most of it, sweating inside, writing the book. When it was finished, I felt like a new person, my skin was easier to wear. The thing I thought would be the hardest thing to do was in fact very uplifting and life-refreshing. I felt I could do anything… until I realised how much my life would now change. Being a published writer, I had to engage with people, talk to them! And talk in front of them! I was shitting myself. I wanted to go back and hide, not unwrite the book but be anonymous again. As the publication date loomed closer and closer, Jason gave me things to do to occupy myself. He needed photos for the book cover, so I got my brother Kenny to emerge from behind his computers and take some pics of me with his digital camera. “What are they for?” he asked. “Oh, they are for the cover of my new book.” “Oh right, I see.” Like it was something we did everyday. But Kenny is used to my craziness. If I said, Kenny we have to burn socks so the devil doesn’t have fossil fuel. He would have said, “Oh right, I see.”
£12.00
By Dolly Sen
ISBN: 978-1-905610-94-5
Published: 2006
Pages: 184
Key Themes: schizophrenia, manic depression, bi-polar disorder, abuse, self-harm, activism
"An epistle to equality, tolerance and the true beauty of madness. Dolly Sen's powerful personal pilgrimage to love, life and humanity again is a very intimate tale about the power of dreaming, taking control and fighting for the right to be oneself and to be equal and to be accepted" - David Morris, Senior Policy Adviser to the Mayor (Disability), Greater London Authority
Description
Dolly Sen’s second book, 'Am I Still Laughing?, is the follow up to her acclaimed memoir, 'The World is Full of Laughter'. Her first book started out as a possible suicide note and ended up as a celebration of life. The brutally honest account of living with madness has been an inspiration to readers around the world, and has positively changed many peoples’ lives. In 'Am I Still Laughing' Dolly describes her childhood with a father who was a small-time singer and actor, through him she worked as an extra on various films including the Star Wars epic, The Empire Strikes Back, until Steven Spielberg sacked her because he thought her child-breasts were too big for the part of an underfed child slave. Confused by sci-fi reality and day-to-day fiction Dolly traces her madness ‘all the way back to when I worked on The Empire Strikes Back. It wasn't a film, it was reality, and it was up to me to maintain the good and evil in the universe'.
About the Author
Author, poet and activist Dolly Sen lives in Streatham, South London. Born in 1970, she had her first psychotic experience aged 14 which lead her to leave school. After years of mental illness, probably bought on by an abusive childhood, Dolly decided she should write about her experiences. She was inspired to write her own story after reading Jason Pegler's autobiography 'A Can of Madness'. She has since written five books, become a successful performance poet who has toured throughout Europe and has set up two charities. Dolly is a key figure in the mental health movement and regularly appears on television and radio talking about mental health issues.
Book Extract
Writing has always helped me. I found it when I was 22 and it has kept me alive since then. During my worst depressions, writing gave me a reason to wake up in the morning. Would I still have carried on writing if I never was published? Of course I would. One of my favourite writers, Charles Bukowski, said of writing: ‘It is the last expectation, the last explanation, that’s what writing is’. A plain piece of paper won’t judge you, criticize you. And above all it won’t lie to you. If you can’t say what needs to be said face to face, write it down.
People with mental health problems who are able should think about either writing their story or at least telling it. Their lives shouldn’t be what they think are dirty secrets they have to hide. One woman at one of my book signings shook her head sadly and said, “I can’t, it’s too painful. And besides, nobody wants to hear it.” That’s what I thought once. I now know that to be untrue. People, men and women, young and old, rich and poor, have taken me aside after reading my book and say, sometimes with tears in their eyes, “This happened to me too… but please don’t tell anyone that it did.” This is painfully heart-rending. Because I think if you don’t share it positively, it’ll manifest somewhere else, in your body, in your relationship to others and the world. For example, it can be seen in some people’s eyes; they try to smile, but their eyes don’t believe it. Their eyes are telling their story – something about their life always will. So you might as well have some control over it.
For me creativity gave me control in a world where because of a diagnosis I had no control. A South American poet said, “Take away someone’s creativity and you take away their humanity. Give someone back their creativity, and you give back their life.” I found this to be true while writing my story, and every day after too.
Writing your life story does so much for you. It gives you opportunity to reflect, it empowers you because you have nothing to hide any more.
I made a conscious decision to let it out, to give away secrets. But it was really difficult to get it onto paper sometimes without crying; or deleting, starting again, deleting, and starting again. Some of the things I wrote I didn’t tell my family about. Most of them didn’t know about the abortion or the extent of my mental illness.
Will they reject me for what needs to be said? That did definitely cross my mind. I even made plans to leave London if things got ugly. The first to read it was Paula. When she finished it, she rang me up in tears. “Why didn’t you tell me? About the abortion and other things? Oh Dolly…” So we cried together. I was so relieved that she didn’t reject me; in fact, it made our relationship stronger. This goes with the other members of my family too. Our love got stronger. It dumbfounded me. Of course, my father won’t read it – or can’t. His memory is such that he doesn’t remember what he reads. For example, he will read the same newspaper 5 or 6 times without retaining information. And nothing can change the story he tells himself anyway. Jason was intuitively supportive, just knowing exactly the right time to encourage me. His belief in me was nothing I had from anyone in my life previously. I remember thinking this is the thing that all humans need, the thing that affects change in someone, no matter what has happened in their life before. I am forever grateful for him for that. And because of his belief in me, my self-belief developed slowly.
So I didn’t get to see much of the summer of 2002. I had spent most of it, sweating inside, writing the book. When it was finished, I felt like a new person, my skin was easier to wear. The thing I thought would be the hardest thing to do was in fact very uplifting and life-refreshing. I felt I could do anything… until I realised how much my life would now change. Being a published writer, I had to engage with people, talk to them! And talk in front of them! I was shitting myself. I wanted to go back and hide, not unwrite the book but be anonymous again. As the publication date loomed closer and closer, Jason gave me things to do to occupy myself. He needed photos for the book cover, so I got my brother Kenny to emerge from behind his computers and take some pics of me with his digital camera. “What are they for?” he asked. “Oh, they are for the cover of my new book.” “Oh right, I see.” Like it was something we did everyday. But Kenny is used to my craziness. If I said, Kenny we have to burn socks so the devil doesn’t have fossil fuel. He would have said, “Oh right, I see.”
Accidental Recklessness by Ruby Holmes
Accidental Recklessness
£12.00
By Ruby Holmes
ISBN: 978-1-84747-025-6
Published: 2006
Pages: 228
Key Themes: manic depression, bi-polar disorder
Description
With post-modern wit and pre-Raphaelite passion Ruby Holmes tells how mental illness can be survived without sacrificing the adventures of youth. This book is about mental illness, the ways in which it has manifested itself throughout Ruby's life and the extraordinary times she has had along the way.
About the Author
I am ginger and in need of therapy - the two are intrinsically linked. I love the ocean and big, big waves. Lighthouses! I love lighthouses. Toffee cheesecake with zopiclone sprinkles. Wild horses. Writing my second book and taking laziness to new levels. I miss Vancouver. I also miss California. While we're on missing places I guess I miss Kosova. Marmalade cafe in Malibu does the best breakfast in the world. Strangely I know the prices of bananas in every shop in a ten mile vicinity of home. I want to move back across the pond so I can yell 'road trip' and not drop off the top of Scotland 10 hours later. Perfection is an afternoon nap. Restlessness breeds adventure. My cat will one day take over the world. I find people in scrubs rather attractive. When hell freezes over I'm going to be busy.
Book Extract
I was in my Granddad’s chilly house in Surrey on Boxing Day, 1987. I was six-years-old and wrapped up like a pile of knitting to contain the teeth in my chattering jaws. Central heating took the form of two open fires in the draughty 1920’s detached property in the wealthiest county in England. Granddad, after years of practice, had managed to get everything into the living room that could possibly be needed so that nobody had to move more than two feet from the hearth. The toilet was upstairs and thus out of reach of the warmth but, if he knew we were coming, Granddad would fill the bath with hot water from several kettles to raise the air temperature and thaw out the loo seat. The long run up the stairs from the front room to the bathroom was something of a frosty gauntlet that, although shiver-inducing, rewarded the conqueror with a renewed appreciation for the heat from the fire that roasted the toes and pinked the cheeks upon their return. It was suggested every year that Granddad travelled to Devon and stayed with us for the festive season but this, he reiterated annually, would run the risk of the pipes bursting on account of his absence from stoking the coal fires.
This Boxing Day was typical in every way: the huge roast at lunchtime, the scones and mince pies at tea time and the gorging on chocolate tree decorations that made me hyper well past bedtime. The living room at home was a scene of a wrapping paper massacre and Granddad’s was about to become something similar. My sister Sarah, three years older and slightly calmer than I, would wind me up by hiding each of my stocking filler presents behind her back until I could guess what they were which, given that I couldn’t even see the shape of the gift, was a tad unfair. The regulatory soaps, socks and snow-shakers were strewn across the hearth as I was waited for the final present. I have always thought that, no matter how pressing the curiosity, the last present should be the biggest but Boxing Day meant the presents that were small enough to fit in the boughs of the Christmas tree. When you’re six years old it’s hard to find anything that doesn’t pale in comparison to being given your first My Little Pony Fairy Castle. But there it was…the final present…I peeled the sellotape off the corners, savouring the moment in the hope of shortening the time left of the next three hundred and sixty four days of the year. All eyes on me. And then it was over, I had in my hand a Rubics Cube. The amount of sarcasm gushing into my young mind made me breathe sharply, which in turn was interpreted as delight by those around me. ‘Thank you!!’ I gasped overcompensating for the utter disappointment at a four inch box not containing a real pony. Now I’m not sure if this is universal but I learnt the unspoken rule that one must show interest in your presents for an undesignated length of time so as to ensure you have expressed lavish amounts of gratitude, no matter how sparsely genuine it may be. So there I was. Me and a Rubics cube. Wow. Where to start? More to the point how could I discard this as soon as possible to return to the Pony Palace? Luckily my bladder thought faster than I did and graced me with the need to leave the warm spot and dash up the stairs at record breaking speeds. As I waited for nature to finish I twiddled and twisted the quadrants of the puzzle. Apparently it took most people about a year to figure it out. It took me three and a half minutes. This included one minute of staring at it, one minute of trying to wiggle the cubes into lines and the final minute and a half re-sticking on the coloured stickers that had unpeeled themselves in the steam from the kettle filled bath. I returned to the living room a genius.
Now I’d like to point out the foreboding and auspicious meaning of that story about working on a problem and then say something profoundly thought-provoking about overcoming adversity but I won’t. I was six and couldn’t have cared less how it was done just so long as I could get it out of the way and carry on with more pressing matters, such as which plastic pony to put in which plastic stable (before either or both were melted by the fire). I still believe that the Rubics cube was intended for my sister who had a longer attention span than me. In fact the only time I’d spent more than ten minutes on one activity was when Mum took the spring out of my Buckaroo and I spent a tense two hours piling things on the saddle and ears. But Sarah never had a chance. I had completed the puzzle in a flash and that was that. Now, where had I put that pony brush?
£12.00
By Ruby Holmes
ISBN: 978-1-84747-025-6
Published: 2006
Pages: 228
Key Themes: manic depression, bi-polar disorder
Description
With post-modern wit and pre-Raphaelite passion Ruby Holmes tells how mental illness can be survived without sacrificing the adventures of youth. This book is about mental illness, the ways in which it has manifested itself throughout Ruby's life and the extraordinary times she has had along the way.
About the Author
I am ginger and in need of therapy - the two are intrinsically linked. I love the ocean and big, big waves. Lighthouses! I love lighthouses. Toffee cheesecake with zopiclone sprinkles. Wild horses. Writing my second book and taking laziness to new levels. I miss Vancouver. I also miss California. While we're on missing places I guess I miss Kosova. Marmalade cafe in Malibu does the best breakfast in the world. Strangely I know the prices of bananas in every shop in a ten mile vicinity of home. I want to move back across the pond so I can yell 'road trip' and not drop off the top of Scotland 10 hours later. Perfection is an afternoon nap. Restlessness breeds adventure. My cat will one day take over the world. I find people in scrubs rather attractive. When hell freezes over I'm going to be busy.
Book Extract
I was in my Granddad’s chilly house in Surrey on Boxing Day, 1987. I was six-years-old and wrapped up like a pile of knitting to contain the teeth in my chattering jaws. Central heating took the form of two open fires in the draughty 1920’s detached property in the wealthiest county in England. Granddad, after years of practice, had managed to get everything into the living room that could possibly be needed so that nobody had to move more than two feet from the hearth. The toilet was upstairs and thus out of reach of the warmth but, if he knew we were coming, Granddad would fill the bath with hot water from several kettles to raise the air temperature and thaw out the loo seat. The long run up the stairs from the front room to the bathroom was something of a frosty gauntlet that, although shiver-inducing, rewarded the conqueror with a renewed appreciation for the heat from the fire that roasted the toes and pinked the cheeks upon their return. It was suggested every year that Granddad travelled to Devon and stayed with us for the festive season but this, he reiterated annually, would run the risk of the pipes bursting on account of his absence from stoking the coal fires.
This Boxing Day was typical in every way: the huge roast at lunchtime, the scones and mince pies at tea time and the gorging on chocolate tree decorations that made me hyper well past bedtime. The living room at home was a scene of a wrapping paper massacre and Granddad’s was about to become something similar. My sister Sarah, three years older and slightly calmer than I, would wind me up by hiding each of my stocking filler presents behind her back until I could guess what they were which, given that I couldn’t even see the shape of the gift, was a tad unfair. The regulatory soaps, socks and snow-shakers were strewn across the hearth as I was waited for the final present. I have always thought that, no matter how pressing the curiosity, the last present should be the biggest but Boxing Day meant the presents that were small enough to fit in the boughs of the Christmas tree. When you’re six years old it’s hard to find anything that doesn’t pale in comparison to being given your first My Little Pony Fairy Castle. But there it was…the final present…I peeled the sellotape off the corners, savouring the moment in the hope of shortening the time left of the next three hundred and sixty four days of the year. All eyes on me. And then it was over, I had in my hand a Rubics Cube. The amount of sarcasm gushing into my young mind made me breathe sharply, which in turn was interpreted as delight by those around me. ‘Thank you!!’ I gasped overcompensating for the utter disappointment at a four inch box not containing a real pony. Now I’m not sure if this is universal but I learnt the unspoken rule that one must show interest in your presents for an undesignated length of time so as to ensure you have expressed lavish amounts of gratitude, no matter how sparsely genuine it may be. So there I was. Me and a Rubics cube. Wow. Where to start? More to the point how could I discard this as soon as possible to return to the Pony Palace? Luckily my bladder thought faster than I did and graced me with the need to leave the warm spot and dash up the stairs at record breaking speeds. As I waited for nature to finish I twiddled and twisted the quadrants of the puzzle. Apparently it took most people about a year to figure it out. It took me three and a half minutes. This included one minute of staring at it, one minute of trying to wiggle the cubes into lines and the final minute and a half re-sticking on the coloured stickers that had unpeeled themselves in the steam from the kettle filled bath. I returned to the living room a genius.
Now I’d like to point out the foreboding and auspicious meaning of that story about working on a problem and then say something profoundly thought-provoking about overcoming adversity but I won’t. I was six and couldn’t have cared less how it was done just so long as I could get it out of the way and carry on with more pressing matters, such as which plastic pony to put in which plastic stable (before either or both were melted by the fire). I still believe that the Rubics cube was intended for my sister who had a longer attention span than me. In fact the only time I’d spent more than ten minutes on one activity was when Mum took the spring out of my Buckaroo and I spent a tense two hours piling things on the saddle and ears. But Sarah never had a chance. I had completed the puzzle in a flash and that was that. Now, where had I put that pony brush?
Abi's Story By Teferra Haile-Giorgis
Abi's Story
£12.00
By Teferra Haile-Giorgis
ISBN: 978-1-84747-009-6
Published: 2006
Pages: 124
Key Themes: suicide, ethnic minorities, post-traumatic stress disorder
Description
Written by his mother, this is the tragic story of Abi, a young man from Ethiopia who took his own life after a battle against mental illness. Abi escaped the horror of Ethiopia’s Marxist military revolution, this book provides a unique insight into the psychological trauma suffered by the victims of war. This original and extraordinarily moving book charts Abi’s life in words and pictures and attempts to make sense of his tragic death.
About the Author
Dr Teferra Haile-Giorgis is Abi's mother. This book was written by her and her family in Abi's memory. Dr Haile-Giorgis set up a trust to fund research into the psychological problems of the victims of war. Her aim is to help people in a similar position to her son. She also wants to provide more insight into this area and inform psychiatrists of this type of ‘mental illness’.
Book Extract
We never know what it feels like to be with the Good Lord where we have no more earthly care to worry about. I hope, somehow, those who have left us to be with Him can see or know that their past concerns are addressed and their wishes have been fulfilled.
What was worrying our beloved Abi at the last session in the hospital consulting room, at the royal Preston Hospital, Avondale unit where we were sitting for group discussion? I clearly remember what the Psychiatrist said, “ I am afraid your son’s case does not fit into a British Black or a British white mental illness category”. I can just remember my son abruptly getting up very angry and rushing to the door, opening it and turning towards me before walking out. I can still hear him saying “ You are wasting your time, Emamma, this people are dummies. I have repeatedly told you that they do not understand my case. I think that, if I ever get healed, I will help other victims like myself. It will only be someone like me who has been through such illness that can help those in similar circumstances”. He was not only concerned for himself but for all others in similar circumstances. He obviously had a burning desire to be in a position to help those victims of political conflict, political imprisonment, displacement and other human suffering such as escapees, like himself, from enforced conscription.
In today’s world we are told that some 20 or more wars officially or unofficially go on in different parts of the world. Therefore, there must surely be more and more Abi’s whose pain, agony and depression and other related mental health problems are not understood or dismissed by the ordinary mental health services and psychiatrists.
Abi, very unfortunately, has suddenly chosen to leave us by taking his own life. We will always feel hurt and upset and cherish his memory whenever we think how much pain, agony and suffering have caused this action. But we can still save many of them who are in his ‛category’. We, as a family, have felt committed to his cause. Within our limitation we can, at least, address his concern by setting up a Trust to help carry out research which will result in attention being given and focusing on victims of wars, political conflicts, political imprisonment, enforced conscriptions and displacement as well as any direct or indirect problems related to these situations.
Abi, who has enabled this concern to be addressed, is challenging us today. May God help us to voice his grievances, be advocates for his cause and promote ideas to challenge the mental health institutions and psychiatrists, at all levels, to listen to voices of such victims and not be dismissive as Abi’s Psychiatrists were. In his death he challenges us all today, as we set up this Trust for all the neglected and misunderstood thousands whose human rights agendas had never been addressed in any meaningful way. Abi challenges us even in his death. May God almighty let him know that even though he is gone those who have suffered like him will get a relief in the future- however few or however many. May God make Abi’s dream a reality then for him the bells will toll to congratulate him for including us in his endeavour.
£12.00
By Teferra Haile-Giorgis
ISBN: 978-1-84747-009-6
Published: 2006
Pages: 124
Key Themes: suicide, ethnic minorities, post-traumatic stress disorder
Description
Written by his mother, this is the tragic story of Abi, a young man from Ethiopia who took his own life after a battle against mental illness. Abi escaped the horror of Ethiopia’s Marxist military revolution, this book provides a unique insight into the psychological trauma suffered by the victims of war. This original and extraordinarily moving book charts Abi’s life in words and pictures and attempts to make sense of his tragic death.
About the Author
Dr Teferra Haile-Giorgis is Abi's mother. This book was written by her and her family in Abi's memory. Dr Haile-Giorgis set up a trust to fund research into the psychological problems of the victims of war. Her aim is to help people in a similar position to her son. She also wants to provide more insight into this area and inform psychiatrists of this type of ‘mental illness’.
Book Extract
We never know what it feels like to be with the Good Lord where we have no more earthly care to worry about. I hope, somehow, those who have left us to be with Him can see or know that their past concerns are addressed and their wishes have been fulfilled.
What was worrying our beloved Abi at the last session in the hospital consulting room, at the royal Preston Hospital, Avondale unit where we were sitting for group discussion? I clearly remember what the Psychiatrist said, “ I am afraid your son’s case does not fit into a British Black or a British white mental illness category”. I can just remember my son abruptly getting up very angry and rushing to the door, opening it and turning towards me before walking out. I can still hear him saying “ You are wasting your time, Emamma, this people are dummies. I have repeatedly told you that they do not understand my case. I think that, if I ever get healed, I will help other victims like myself. It will only be someone like me who has been through such illness that can help those in similar circumstances”. He was not only concerned for himself but for all others in similar circumstances. He obviously had a burning desire to be in a position to help those victims of political conflict, political imprisonment, displacement and other human suffering such as escapees, like himself, from enforced conscription.
In today’s world we are told that some 20 or more wars officially or unofficially go on in different parts of the world. Therefore, there must surely be more and more Abi’s whose pain, agony and depression and other related mental health problems are not understood or dismissed by the ordinary mental health services and psychiatrists.
Abi, very unfortunately, has suddenly chosen to leave us by taking his own life. We will always feel hurt and upset and cherish his memory whenever we think how much pain, agony and suffering have caused this action. But we can still save many of them who are in his ‛category’. We, as a family, have felt committed to his cause. Within our limitation we can, at least, address his concern by setting up a Trust to help carry out research which will result in attention being given and focusing on victims of wars, political conflicts, political imprisonment, enforced conscriptions and displacement as well as any direct or indirect problems related to these situations.
Abi, who has enabled this concern to be addressed, is challenging us today. May God help us to voice his grievances, be advocates for his cause and promote ideas to challenge the mental health institutions and psychiatrists, at all levels, to listen to voices of such victims and not be dismissive as Abi’s Psychiatrists were. In his death he challenges us all today, as we set up this Trust for all the neglected and misunderstood thousands whose human rights agendas had never been addressed in any meaningful way. Abi challenges us even in his death. May God almighty let him know that even though he is gone those who have suffered like him will get a relief in the future- however few or however many. May God make Abi’s dream a reality then for him the bells will toll to congratulate him for including us in his endeavour.
AARGH! By Joss Smith Weston
AARGH!
£12.00
By Joss Smith Weston
ISBN: 978-1-84747-085-0
Published: 2007
Pages: 246
Key Themes: manic depression, bi-polar disorder, poetry
"The writing is a fascinating blend of wry, contemporary social narrative (a la Nick Hornby), yet conveying a message about the divisive South African culture reminiscent of JM Coetzee. Some of the brutally honest accounts of Joss' early sexual encounters would probably shock if taken out of context but he somehow manages to make them seem wholly acceptable as he struggles to come to terms with his many desires in an Apartheid-governed world." - Rupert Reid
Description
This eccentric book is an attempt to make manic depression more widely understood given the stigmatism that it is usually associated with. The illness creates a jaundiced perception of people and reality and it is probably for this reason that the characters’ names are changed; otherwise it is a real story. However, there is no distinction between reality and dreams. It is not a story about success, victory or triumph, although equally given the circumstances it is also not one of failure either. It is a journey that starts in normality and ends in the opposite corner, beginning with a disturbed and violent dream. The book charts the experiences of Joss through Africa and Australia, marriage and running a business. On a few occasions the narrative fails and the author expresses his nightmares, secret thoughts, imagery and disbeliefs in poetry. The sudden loss of control, or sanity and his arrival in a mental asylum and the view from inside is both very distressing and strangely humorous. It ends on a note of poignancy, recalling Joss' supposed recovery and his attempted assimilation back into society. A fascinating and thoroughly engaging read, a must for anybody who wishes to further understand the thoughts and actions of a manic depressive.
About the Author
Joss has been a Company Director and is now a student at the Open University. Joss is a republican who does not use products that have been tested on animals; prefers to buy second hand clothes from Oxfam; reads the Telegraph and listens to Radio Four. His experiences include; seeing a UFO; scratching a white rhino and a tarantula's stomach; riding an ostrich and he has been in a high-speed police car chase. Joss has run the Comrades Marathon (89 kilometres) in 7 hours 29 minutes and 59 seconds. For nine years Joss was a vegetarian, did not eat chocolate, or drink alcohol. He is a one-time member of Greenpeace, votes Labour, is a pacifist, asthmatic, left hander, bow-legged, has one kidney and suffers from manic depression.
Book Extract
…one of my many adolescent, repeating, disturbed dreams…
“They’re lifting the last few bales, are you ready lads?” Pitchforks and spades raised above shoulders. The question hardly needed answering as the few remaining parts of our previously safe home were toppled over. Exposed, and surrounding us, were our enemy and their dogs. They were huge, barbaric, merciless killers. For milliseconds we stared at each other before… “Get ‘em!” The barbarians shrieked. About twenty yards to make it to the long grass, and then another ten to the barley, Ben and I were running, breathlessly desperately together. He was young and powerfully built, and if anyone could make it, he would. The men-of-war were stamping and beating the ground with sticks and blades and screaming when they killed one of us. The dogs were yapping, howling and baying incessantly. Those bastard, evil terriers - tearing flesh, maiming and killing us.
Ben was slightly ahead of me, nearly there, almost safe, when a pitchfork, seemed to hang in the air before plunging into his side. He immediately whirled round, screaming, and breaking his teeth on the cruel steel bar that had brutally pinned him to the ground. At the grass verge I stopped. A very ugly violent man stood over Ben grinning, then his steel-heel crashed heavily down. Ben had been screaming in agony, the bar tearing through his kidneys, his liver and his gut, now lay still, his race over. Others lay dead and bleeding as the now insane dogs tore at our bodies. Mad-men ran after those of us who were wounded, some with legs broken, and some even with broken backs and were mercilessly killed.
I knew I was not yet safe. The sea of pasture only gave little cover so long as I remained still. Caesar was an old bull terrier. I knew him well and had managed to stay one step ahead of him in the last four years. He had seen me get to the grass and had come to within five yards of me before I smelt him. I sprinted for my life for the taller, deeper barley field. Caesar did not yap as he came up behind me. He may have been old, but not slow. I hurled myself to one side as his hot, rancid, poisonous breath passed over the terrified hairs of my back. I made it to the high barley just before having to side step again to avoid him. Now Caesar slowed down as he crashed loudly into the field. Fifteen yards in I stopped. The bad-men who had been watching our race had lost interest. Their dogs did not usually catch us in there. Caesar was not breathing and he was down-wind now and in a different row. And suddenly he was there again, crashing down on me. Three. Two yards to go! I leapt frantically to the right and ran for my life once more! Suddenly to my horror, I was out of the barley and on the concrete loading bay again. I knew that the old hole in the far wall was my only hope. Only too late as I sprinted towards it I realized it was boarded over. Breathless and terrified, I turned to face Caesar. His tongue flashed in and out of his horrible-pointed, evil head, his glazed eyes staring in triumph. He had time as he had me cornered. He had to be careful though; cornered and terrified, I could still give a nasty bite. He lunged and I sank my teeth deep into his lip as he crushed my back right leg in his jaws. He howled as he hurled me in the air. He was going to snap me in half!
A loud near explosion and my battered body was racked with an even worse agony. One of the killer enemy men had seen me come out of the field and dart for my hole. It had been boarded it up. As the fearful dog threw me in the air, he lifted his rifle and fired. The bullet tore through my skin, throwing me into the fertiliser stack.
That autumn when the men took down the last bags of the fertiliser stack, they were ready again with their sticks, flailing and dogs yapping. Most of us rats were killed although one with only three legs, and some of my sons somehow made it through…
£12.00
By Joss Smith Weston
ISBN: 978-1-84747-085-0
Published: 2007
Pages: 246
Key Themes: manic depression, bi-polar disorder, poetry
"The writing is a fascinating blend of wry, contemporary social narrative (a la Nick Hornby), yet conveying a message about the divisive South African culture reminiscent of JM Coetzee. Some of the brutally honest accounts of Joss' early sexual encounters would probably shock if taken out of context but he somehow manages to make them seem wholly acceptable as he struggles to come to terms with his many desires in an Apartheid-governed world." - Rupert Reid
Description
This eccentric book is an attempt to make manic depression more widely understood given the stigmatism that it is usually associated with. The illness creates a jaundiced perception of people and reality and it is probably for this reason that the characters’ names are changed; otherwise it is a real story. However, there is no distinction between reality and dreams. It is not a story about success, victory or triumph, although equally given the circumstances it is also not one of failure either. It is a journey that starts in normality and ends in the opposite corner, beginning with a disturbed and violent dream. The book charts the experiences of Joss through Africa and Australia, marriage and running a business. On a few occasions the narrative fails and the author expresses his nightmares, secret thoughts, imagery and disbeliefs in poetry. The sudden loss of control, or sanity and his arrival in a mental asylum and the view from inside is both very distressing and strangely humorous. It ends on a note of poignancy, recalling Joss' supposed recovery and his attempted assimilation back into society. A fascinating and thoroughly engaging read, a must for anybody who wishes to further understand the thoughts and actions of a manic depressive.
About the Author
Joss has been a Company Director and is now a student at the Open University. Joss is a republican who does not use products that have been tested on animals; prefers to buy second hand clothes from Oxfam; reads the Telegraph and listens to Radio Four. His experiences include; seeing a UFO; scratching a white rhino and a tarantula's stomach; riding an ostrich and he has been in a high-speed police car chase. Joss has run the Comrades Marathon (89 kilometres) in 7 hours 29 minutes and 59 seconds. For nine years Joss was a vegetarian, did not eat chocolate, or drink alcohol. He is a one-time member of Greenpeace, votes Labour, is a pacifist, asthmatic, left hander, bow-legged, has one kidney and suffers from manic depression.
Book Extract
…one of my many adolescent, repeating, disturbed dreams…
“They’re lifting the last few bales, are you ready lads?” Pitchforks and spades raised above shoulders. The question hardly needed answering as the few remaining parts of our previously safe home were toppled over. Exposed, and surrounding us, were our enemy and their dogs. They were huge, barbaric, merciless killers. For milliseconds we stared at each other before… “Get ‘em!” The barbarians shrieked. About twenty yards to make it to the long grass, and then another ten to the barley, Ben and I were running, breathlessly desperately together. He was young and powerfully built, and if anyone could make it, he would. The men-of-war were stamping and beating the ground with sticks and blades and screaming when they killed one of us. The dogs were yapping, howling and baying incessantly. Those bastard, evil terriers - tearing flesh, maiming and killing us.
Ben was slightly ahead of me, nearly there, almost safe, when a pitchfork, seemed to hang in the air before plunging into his side. He immediately whirled round, screaming, and breaking his teeth on the cruel steel bar that had brutally pinned him to the ground. At the grass verge I stopped. A very ugly violent man stood over Ben grinning, then his steel-heel crashed heavily down. Ben had been screaming in agony, the bar tearing through his kidneys, his liver and his gut, now lay still, his race over. Others lay dead and bleeding as the now insane dogs tore at our bodies. Mad-men ran after those of us who were wounded, some with legs broken, and some even with broken backs and were mercilessly killed.
I knew I was not yet safe. The sea of pasture only gave little cover so long as I remained still. Caesar was an old bull terrier. I knew him well and had managed to stay one step ahead of him in the last four years. He had seen me get to the grass and had come to within five yards of me before I smelt him. I sprinted for my life for the taller, deeper barley field. Caesar did not yap as he came up behind me. He may have been old, but not slow. I hurled myself to one side as his hot, rancid, poisonous breath passed over the terrified hairs of my back. I made it to the high barley just before having to side step again to avoid him. Now Caesar slowed down as he crashed loudly into the field. Fifteen yards in I stopped. The bad-men who had been watching our race had lost interest. Their dogs did not usually catch us in there. Caesar was not breathing and he was down-wind now and in a different row. And suddenly he was there again, crashing down on me. Three. Two yards to go! I leapt frantically to the right and ran for my life once more! Suddenly to my horror, I was out of the barley and on the concrete loading bay again. I knew that the old hole in the far wall was my only hope. Only too late as I sprinted towards it I realized it was boarded over. Breathless and terrified, I turned to face Caesar. His tongue flashed in and out of his horrible-pointed, evil head, his glazed eyes staring in triumph. He had time as he had me cornered. He had to be careful though; cornered and terrified, I could still give a nasty bite. He lunged and I sank my teeth deep into his lip as he crushed my back right leg in his jaws. He howled as he hurled me in the air. He was going to snap me in half!
A loud near explosion and my battered body was racked with an even worse agony. One of the killer enemy men had seen me come out of the field and dart for my hole. It had been boarded it up. As the fearful dog threw me in the air, he lifted his rifle and fired. The bullet tore through my skin, throwing me into the fertiliser stack.
That autumn when the men took down the last bags of the fertiliser stack, they were ready again with their sticks, flailing and dogs yapping. Most of us rats were killed although one with only three legs, and some of my sons somehow made it through…
A Smoker's and Dog's Guide to the Gal-Alexy
A Smoker's and Dog's Guide to the Gal-Alexy
£12.00
A Year of random thoughts which lead me from insanity to sanity and back again.
By Bess Howard McPherson
ISBN: 978-1-84747-183-3
Published: 2007
Pages: 90
Key Themes: mania, psychosis, spirituality
Description
Bess Howard McPherson brings us her thoughts in this explosive and intimate biography. Bess' experiences as a sufferer of mental illness, a life as a physic and a divorcee are all included in this testimony. This is a classic Chipmunka book; full of humour, emotion and alternative ideas.
About the Author
The beauty of being a psychic is that one is never alone. My channel is usually extremely overcrowded and hectic. Sometimes I can't help wishing that those dear people who have 'passed' would give me some peace for my own thoughts! I needed medication in order to live with my husband who, with hindsight, I consider to be completely insane. I also needed medication to help me survive the war zone that was my divorce.
Book Extract
Bewdley Town Centre needs an avenging angel, but it's not me. Being selfish is usually quite a nasty criticism. However, if we need to be selfish in order to achieve something that is going to benefit others in the long run, then we should be as selfish as we like. If and when my book gets published, I would like it to be a book of home truths that will be an inspiration to others.
The Christmas card debate: every year I think about the pros and cons of sending millions of cards at Christmas. The conclusion I have reached this year is that if we enjoy writing cards, then they're a good thing. If they're like some boring chore, then we shouldn't bother. For me personally I like writing cards, because it is an opportunity for me to express my love for people. I shall certainly be sending Christmas cards this year.
I've always wondered why God made so many flies. One possible thought is that 'Blue Arsed Flies' make us realise we're not the only ones rushing around achieving absolutely nothing.
I believe I have all the tricks of the trade to teach my family how to have some fun. Yesterday was such a black day I found it impossible to work on my book. The row between my husband and I had reached its apex and we managed to send each other to hell.
I'm not afraid of superstition, even though I don't understand it. I think we're less afraid of anything we've grown up with. I must be careful of naming people in my book, because I would never want to become a 'Kiss and Tell'. It seems that people who are mentally ill suffer fewer physical problems. A bad man is scary, but an unintentionally bad woman is terrifying. My book is going so well I think I may need a bigger desk. God allows us to judge ourselves through our consciences. We have no greater judge than ourselves.
£12.00
A Year of random thoughts which lead me from insanity to sanity and back again.
By Bess Howard McPherson
ISBN: 978-1-84747-183-3
Published: 2007
Pages: 90
Key Themes: mania, psychosis, spirituality
Description
Bess Howard McPherson brings us her thoughts in this explosive and intimate biography. Bess' experiences as a sufferer of mental illness, a life as a physic and a divorcee are all included in this testimony. This is a classic Chipmunka book; full of humour, emotion and alternative ideas.
About the Author
The beauty of being a psychic is that one is never alone. My channel is usually extremely overcrowded and hectic. Sometimes I can't help wishing that those dear people who have 'passed' would give me some peace for my own thoughts! I needed medication in order to live with my husband who, with hindsight, I consider to be completely insane. I also needed medication to help me survive the war zone that was my divorce.
Book Extract
Bewdley Town Centre needs an avenging angel, but it's not me. Being selfish is usually quite a nasty criticism. However, if we need to be selfish in order to achieve something that is going to benefit others in the long run, then we should be as selfish as we like. If and when my book gets published, I would like it to be a book of home truths that will be an inspiration to others.
The Christmas card debate: every year I think about the pros and cons of sending millions of cards at Christmas. The conclusion I have reached this year is that if we enjoy writing cards, then they're a good thing. If they're like some boring chore, then we shouldn't bother. For me personally I like writing cards, because it is an opportunity for me to express my love for people. I shall certainly be sending Christmas cards this year.
I've always wondered why God made so many flies. One possible thought is that 'Blue Arsed Flies' make us realise we're not the only ones rushing around achieving absolutely nothing.
I believe I have all the tricks of the trade to teach my family how to have some fun. Yesterday was such a black day I found it impossible to work on my book. The row between my husband and I had reached its apex and we managed to send each other to hell.
I'm not afraid of superstition, even though I don't understand it. I think we're less afraid of anything we've grown up with. I must be careful of naming people in my book, because I would never want to become a 'Kiss and Tell'. It seems that people who are mentally ill suffer fewer physical problems. A bad man is scary, but an unintentionally bad woman is terrifying. My book is going so well I think I may need a bigger desk. God allows us to judge ourselves through our consciences. We have no greater judge than ourselves.
A Modern Medical Miracle by Anthony Haselton
A Modern Medical Miracle
£12.00
By Anthony Haselton
ISBN: 978-1-84747-166-6
Published: 2007
Pages: 84
Key Themes: brain injury, schizophrenia, music, football, Christianity
"Brothers I am born again! And what follows is my testimony, a story of what I believe to be a Christian healing, set against the backdrop of the revival of Everton football club in the 1976-77 season and the infamous rise of punk-rock." - Anthony Haselton
Description
'A Modern Medical Miracle' is split into two parts. Part one tells of how Anthony battled against a brain tumour from the age of 12. The story is set against the backdrop of the punk-rock revolution of the time and the fortunes of Everton Football Club, who play just a stone's throw from Walton Hospital where Anthony received life saving, life changing brain surgery. Anthony's life takes on a surreal, almost dreamlike quality as his mind is shaped by images of Everton players and the words of Johnny Rotten and Joe Strummer. Inspired by his combined love of football and music, this passion proves to be not only his inspiration but his salvation too.
Part Two, The Big S, carries on the story as Anthony develops schizophrenia and uses writing and the English language to stay sane, fighting with the weapons of love, faith and hope. As his love for football and music brings an uncanny magic into his life, depression is a demon destroying his dreams. Discovering the double edged sword of the Word he defeats his demons and finds a heaven in the hell of the modern world, seeing the light at the end of his tunnel illuminating the way.
About the Author
It was on a midsummer evening in 1964 that Anthony Haselton was born into a mad world of mods and rockers and English moptops invading America. It could be that his life is 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'. The Beatles and The Beano, which his mother taught him to read with, combined to make the sixties an exceedingly happy period. The next six years were as normal as any healthy child's until Anthony was struck down with a brain tumour. His fight to defeat his illness and the subsequent schizophrenia he developed in adult years, shaped his writing style.
Educated at Selwyn Jones High School and St. Helens College, he has written for local newspapers, had a regular page in the award winning Everton FC programme of 1986-87 and contributes to Everton's fanzine 'When Skies Are Grey'. Anthony was the editor of a hospital magazine for seven years and is a Spotlight poet, appearing in 'A Sense Of Perception' (1988) and 'Enigma Of Life' (2002). Anthony now works trying to reduce stigma regarding mental illness in mainstream society, this is the reasoning behind writing 'A Modern Medical Miracle'.
Book Extract
Brothers, I am born again! And what follows is my testimony, a story of what I believe to be a Christian healing, set against the backdrop of the revival of Everton Football Club in the 1976-77 football season and the infamous rise of the musical punk rock movement.
The blues of Everton were nearing their 100th anniversary, having formed as a methodist church team, St Domingo’s, in 1878. They had been an important part of my life since my arrival into this mad world via the bedroom at 130 Legh Street in 1964 as mods and rockers fought on the beaches of Britain and The Beatles were conquering America, bringing a massive swing in cultural and social ways of life both here and over the pond.
At home my dad was teaching me to speak, “Say E-ver-ton”. I had no chance, my granddad was even more fanatical in things Everton. Away from the blues he had a ritual with all grandchildren of which I was the fourth. On arrival at Harvey Avenue the baby was duly placed under the sideboard. I repeat, I had no chance!
On the music scene, things were changing. Tony Wilson, a TV reporter, was at the forefront of the burgeoning punk scene in the North West. His influence reached far and wide with his showcasing of the Sex Pistols on the ‘So It Goes’ music programme. Johnny Lydon, now known as Rotten, was of Irish descent, suffering great prejudice in the London of the seventies. He was an angry young man, lurching forward on stage at Granada studios, spitting out the words, “Get off your arse, I am an antichrist.” The song was ‘Anarchy in the UK’, a chilling warning of the right wing tyranny that the punks were vainly trying to steer England away from. Wilson would lead post punk Manchester bands Joy Division and Happy Mondays to cult hero worship and open one of the greatest night spots in Manchester, The Hacienda, where bands like 808 State, A Certain Ratio and Cabaret Voltaire achieved cult status. Wilson’s famous quote was “Oh, to be alive in that glorious dawn”, and it was, it really was. I was nearly 13 with the world at my feet. The world was my oyster, but as Paul Weller of The Jam said, “When the world is your oyster and your future’s a clam.”
The drama of the football and the socially enlightening music scene combined to make it a memorable mind blowing time, particularly considering the events that were about to unfold in my life. Yes, I was born again, and yes I do believe I was, in some mysterious way, touched by the hand of God. That is not to say it has not been a hard life, the lows have matched the highs, but the highs have made the lows worthwhile.
£12.00
By Anthony Haselton
ISBN: 978-1-84747-166-6
Published: 2007
Pages: 84
Key Themes: brain injury, schizophrenia, music, football, Christianity
"Brothers I am born again! And what follows is my testimony, a story of what I believe to be a Christian healing, set against the backdrop of the revival of Everton football club in the 1976-77 season and the infamous rise of punk-rock." - Anthony Haselton
Description
'A Modern Medical Miracle' is split into two parts. Part one tells of how Anthony battled against a brain tumour from the age of 12. The story is set against the backdrop of the punk-rock revolution of the time and the fortunes of Everton Football Club, who play just a stone's throw from Walton Hospital where Anthony received life saving, life changing brain surgery. Anthony's life takes on a surreal, almost dreamlike quality as his mind is shaped by images of Everton players and the words of Johnny Rotten and Joe Strummer. Inspired by his combined love of football and music, this passion proves to be not only his inspiration but his salvation too.
Part Two, The Big S, carries on the story as Anthony develops schizophrenia and uses writing and the English language to stay sane, fighting with the weapons of love, faith and hope. As his love for football and music brings an uncanny magic into his life, depression is a demon destroying his dreams. Discovering the double edged sword of the Word he defeats his demons and finds a heaven in the hell of the modern world, seeing the light at the end of his tunnel illuminating the way.
About the Author
It was on a midsummer evening in 1964 that Anthony Haselton was born into a mad world of mods and rockers and English moptops invading America. It could be that his life is 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'. The Beatles and The Beano, which his mother taught him to read with, combined to make the sixties an exceedingly happy period. The next six years were as normal as any healthy child's until Anthony was struck down with a brain tumour. His fight to defeat his illness and the subsequent schizophrenia he developed in adult years, shaped his writing style.
Educated at Selwyn Jones High School and St. Helens College, he has written for local newspapers, had a regular page in the award winning Everton FC programme of 1986-87 and contributes to Everton's fanzine 'When Skies Are Grey'. Anthony was the editor of a hospital magazine for seven years and is a Spotlight poet, appearing in 'A Sense Of Perception' (1988) and 'Enigma Of Life' (2002). Anthony now works trying to reduce stigma regarding mental illness in mainstream society, this is the reasoning behind writing 'A Modern Medical Miracle'.
Book Extract
Brothers, I am born again! And what follows is my testimony, a story of what I believe to be a Christian healing, set against the backdrop of the revival of Everton Football Club in the 1976-77 football season and the infamous rise of the musical punk rock movement.
The blues of Everton were nearing their 100th anniversary, having formed as a methodist church team, St Domingo’s, in 1878. They had been an important part of my life since my arrival into this mad world via the bedroom at 130 Legh Street in 1964 as mods and rockers fought on the beaches of Britain and The Beatles were conquering America, bringing a massive swing in cultural and social ways of life both here and over the pond.
At home my dad was teaching me to speak, “Say E-ver-ton”. I had no chance, my granddad was even more fanatical in things Everton. Away from the blues he had a ritual with all grandchildren of which I was the fourth. On arrival at Harvey Avenue the baby was duly placed under the sideboard. I repeat, I had no chance!
On the music scene, things were changing. Tony Wilson, a TV reporter, was at the forefront of the burgeoning punk scene in the North West. His influence reached far and wide with his showcasing of the Sex Pistols on the ‘So It Goes’ music programme. Johnny Lydon, now known as Rotten, was of Irish descent, suffering great prejudice in the London of the seventies. He was an angry young man, lurching forward on stage at Granada studios, spitting out the words, “Get off your arse, I am an antichrist.” The song was ‘Anarchy in the UK’, a chilling warning of the right wing tyranny that the punks were vainly trying to steer England away from. Wilson would lead post punk Manchester bands Joy Division and Happy Mondays to cult hero worship and open one of the greatest night spots in Manchester, The Hacienda, where bands like 808 State, A Certain Ratio and Cabaret Voltaire achieved cult status. Wilson’s famous quote was “Oh, to be alive in that glorious dawn”, and it was, it really was. I was nearly 13 with the world at my feet. The world was my oyster, but as Paul Weller of The Jam said, “When the world is your oyster and your future’s a clam.”
The drama of the football and the socially enlightening music scene combined to make it a memorable mind blowing time, particularly considering the events that were about to unfold in my life. Yes, I was born again, and yes I do believe I was, in some mysterious way, touched by the hand of God. That is not to say it has not been a hard life, the lows have matched the highs, but the highs have made the lows worthwhile.
A Mind To Be Free Marie Berger
A Mind To Be Free
£12.00
A Personal Search for Therapy
By Marie Berger
ISBN: 978-1-84747-190-1
Published: 2007
Pages: 128
Key Themes: mental health services, psychiatry, depression
Description
This is a wonderfully moving and brilliant account of Marie Berger's dark secret - her mental illness and her constant attempts to regain control of her life through whatever means possible. In order to do this Marie resolves that she must look deep inside herself to discover the real reason for her illness; a troubled childhood and feelings of rejection from her family seem the most likely cause, but who really understands the workings of the mind?! An engaging and fulfilling read, this book poses many questions about mental illness and how it is dealt with in this society of ours.
About the Author
Marie Berger was born in May 1945 in Reading, Berkshire. She trained to become a teacher and is also a qualified masseuse. She is now an author by profession and lives with her husband and her children in Lincoln. She is fond of travelling, foreign languages, pastel drawing and of course her writing.
Book Extract
I have decided to start a new life in another country. When Mummy showed me the advertisement for teachers in Ontario, Canada, I knew I could leave with her blessing. Sharing a flat close to home was an insult it seemed, but going to another country to live met with her approval. And anything I did only felt right to me if it was acceptable to Mummy. Even at twenty-three I longed for her to be proud of me, to love me as I felt she loved Rita, her natural daughter.
Determined to make her and Daddy proud of me I boarded the liner, The Empress of Canada, at Liverpool. I waved to Daddy until he became a tiny dot on the quayside grateful that he, at least, had come to see me off. I left full of hope that finally I could break free from the unhappiness within me.But feeling lost and childlike, I fell out with my flatmates and work colleagues within weeks. I tried desperately to get on with them but they didn’t appear to like me. Whatever I did always annoyed those around me. But nobody bothered to explain why. Feeling totally rejected, I moved out to rent a place on my own. I loved my job, got on well with the eight to ten year old children in my class. If they liked me how come people of my own age did not?
I confided in the Principal about my unhappy childhood in a family where I felt sure my adopted parents loved their own daughter better than me, despite everything I did to try to please them. I told her of my distress when they adopted Teresa when I was twelve years old, how I felt they were trying to replace me because I wasn’t good enough.
Sister Carla Marie seemed to understand my unhappiness. “I think I hate my mother,” I told her. She nodded sympathetically. I even told her how guilty I felt when I let my boyfriend touch my breasts. “Can’t you ever forgive yourself?” She asked. But Mummy, Daddy and the Catholic Church required me to be perfect in every thought, word and deed. Each failing was yet another sin to be declared in Confession in church, in order to be forgiven by God. There was no excuse for giving in to my sexual desires in any way.
Sister feels sorry for me. She was the one I rang when I overdosed just before Christmas. Had she not taken me from my attic apartment to the Emergency Room I would have died. She agreed not to tell the rest of the staff what I’d done but to side with me when I concocted a story about arriving at the hospital feeling unwell and the doctor deciding to keep me in for investigation.
Now I’m back at school, attending weekly sessions of therapy. My teaching is fine but my private life is fraught with loneliness and self-loathing.
*
Doctor Lessier, my psychiatrist, leans back in his chair calmly puffing on his pipe, watching me light a cigarette.
“Please tell me what to do. My life is all messed up.”
“You’re looking for the Big Breast again,” he sighs. He’s often said that in the three months I’ve been seeing him.
I’m confused. I don’t know what he’s trying to imply.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say angrily.
He doesn’t answer me. My anger turns to hopelessness.
“Please put me in the hospital.”
“No – I won’t do that.” He looks at his watch. “Time’s up. See you next week.”
“You won’t see me – I’m not coming again.”
He shrugs and opens the door.
I leave feeling as desperate as when I arrived. During the past few weeks at school the despair has become overwhelming. Every time I see the Principal’s kind, calm face I long for her to hold me close, talk to me gently, promise me that she will look after me always. My mind knows I must not regard her as a mother figure. At twenty-three years old I’m a teacher, not a small, helpless child. But the little girl inside me doesn’t understand. She won’t accept the adult concept. She’s still looking for a warm, loving mummy to care for her every need, a mummy she cannot have because this woman is a nun, her life devoted to God, the Catholic Church and the school.
Now she’s really worried about me. I’m getting no better. Sometimes I have to leave the classroom early to go home because it’s becoming increasingly difficult to contain my emotions. I ring her on leaving the doctor’s office.
“I’m going to admit myself to the mental hospital on the hill.” I can’t hold back the tears as I talk.
“If you do that I shall have no option but to tell the School Board.” Her voice is quiet, sympathetic as she continues, “I shall send a priest to your house to take you. Are you quite sure you want to go?”
“Yes – I’ve got to,” I reply.
The priest arrives soon after I return home. He doesn’t try to engage me in conversation except to ask, “Are you certain you want to do this? You can change your mind, it’s not too late.” “If I don’t go into hospital I won’t be able to cope.”
He drives me the short distance up what is known locally as The Mountain. The Reception staff do not want to admit me.
“If you don’t I’ll take my life.”
I leave them with no alternative. The priest leaves. I’m taken to a small ward with several beds, all empty. The nurse gives me some tablets. She doesn’t explain what they’re for. She waits until I’ve taken them.
“This is your bed,” she says matter-of-factly, pointing out the one nearest the door. She turns, walks away without so much as a backward glance.
I feel terribly unhappy. I don’t want to stay here. I lie down feeling so alone, so mixed up…
OTHER WORKS BY THIS AUTHOR
£12.00
A Personal Search for Therapy
By Marie Berger
ISBN: 978-1-84747-190-1
Published: 2007
Pages: 128
Key Themes: mental health services, psychiatry, depression
Description
This is a wonderfully moving and brilliant account of Marie Berger's dark secret - her mental illness and her constant attempts to regain control of her life through whatever means possible. In order to do this Marie resolves that she must look deep inside herself to discover the real reason for her illness; a troubled childhood and feelings of rejection from her family seem the most likely cause, but who really understands the workings of the mind?! An engaging and fulfilling read, this book poses many questions about mental illness and how it is dealt with in this society of ours.
About the Author
Marie Berger was born in May 1945 in Reading, Berkshire. She trained to become a teacher and is also a qualified masseuse. She is now an author by profession and lives with her husband and her children in Lincoln. She is fond of travelling, foreign languages, pastel drawing and of course her writing.
Book Extract
I have decided to start a new life in another country. When Mummy showed me the advertisement for teachers in Ontario, Canada, I knew I could leave with her blessing. Sharing a flat close to home was an insult it seemed, but going to another country to live met with her approval. And anything I did only felt right to me if it was acceptable to Mummy. Even at twenty-three I longed for her to be proud of me, to love me as I felt she loved Rita, her natural daughter.
Determined to make her and Daddy proud of me I boarded the liner, The Empress of Canada, at Liverpool. I waved to Daddy until he became a tiny dot on the quayside grateful that he, at least, had come to see me off. I left full of hope that finally I could break free from the unhappiness within me.But feeling lost and childlike, I fell out with my flatmates and work colleagues within weeks. I tried desperately to get on with them but they didn’t appear to like me. Whatever I did always annoyed those around me. But nobody bothered to explain why. Feeling totally rejected, I moved out to rent a place on my own. I loved my job, got on well with the eight to ten year old children in my class. If they liked me how come people of my own age did not?
I confided in the Principal about my unhappy childhood in a family where I felt sure my adopted parents loved their own daughter better than me, despite everything I did to try to please them. I told her of my distress when they adopted Teresa when I was twelve years old, how I felt they were trying to replace me because I wasn’t good enough.
Sister Carla Marie seemed to understand my unhappiness. “I think I hate my mother,” I told her. She nodded sympathetically. I even told her how guilty I felt when I let my boyfriend touch my breasts. “Can’t you ever forgive yourself?” She asked. But Mummy, Daddy and the Catholic Church required me to be perfect in every thought, word and deed. Each failing was yet another sin to be declared in Confession in church, in order to be forgiven by God. There was no excuse for giving in to my sexual desires in any way.
Sister feels sorry for me. She was the one I rang when I overdosed just before Christmas. Had she not taken me from my attic apartment to the Emergency Room I would have died. She agreed not to tell the rest of the staff what I’d done but to side with me when I concocted a story about arriving at the hospital feeling unwell and the doctor deciding to keep me in for investigation.
Now I’m back at school, attending weekly sessions of therapy. My teaching is fine but my private life is fraught with loneliness and self-loathing.
*
Doctor Lessier, my psychiatrist, leans back in his chair calmly puffing on his pipe, watching me light a cigarette.
“Please tell me what to do. My life is all messed up.”
“You’re looking for the Big Breast again,” he sighs. He’s often said that in the three months I’ve been seeing him.
I’m confused. I don’t know what he’s trying to imply.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say angrily.
He doesn’t answer me. My anger turns to hopelessness.
“Please put me in the hospital.”
“No – I won’t do that.” He looks at his watch. “Time’s up. See you next week.”
“You won’t see me – I’m not coming again.”
He shrugs and opens the door.
I leave feeling as desperate as when I arrived. During the past few weeks at school the despair has become overwhelming. Every time I see the Principal’s kind, calm face I long for her to hold me close, talk to me gently, promise me that she will look after me always. My mind knows I must not regard her as a mother figure. At twenty-three years old I’m a teacher, not a small, helpless child. But the little girl inside me doesn’t understand. She won’t accept the adult concept. She’s still looking for a warm, loving mummy to care for her every need, a mummy she cannot have because this woman is a nun, her life devoted to God, the Catholic Church and the school.
Now she’s really worried about me. I’m getting no better. Sometimes I have to leave the classroom early to go home because it’s becoming increasingly difficult to contain my emotions. I ring her on leaving the doctor’s office.
“I’m going to admit myself to the mental hospital on the hill.” I can’t hold back the tears as I talk.
“If you do that I shall have no option but to tell the School Board.” Her voice is quiet, sympathetic as she continues, “I shall send a priest to your house to take you. Are you quite sure you want to go?”
“Yes – I’ve got to,” I reply.
The priest arrives soon after I return home. He doesn’t try to engage me in conversation except to ask, “Are you certain you want to do this? You can change your mind, it’s not too late.” “If I don’t go into hospital I won’t be able to cope.”
He drives me the short distance up what is known locally as The Mountain. The Reception staff do not want to admit me.
“If you don’t I’ll take my life.”
I leave them with no alternative. The priest leaves. I’m taken to a small ward with several beds, all empty. The nurse gives me some tablets. She doesn’t explain what they’re for. She waits until I’ve taken them.
“This is your bed,” she says matter-of-factly, pointing out the one nearest the door. She turns, walks away without so much as a backward glance.
I feel terribly unhappy. I don’t want to stay here. I lie down feeling so alone, so mixed up…
OTHER WORKS BY THIS AUTHOR
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