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…

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