A Divine Dance of Madness
£17.00
By Mairi Colme
ISBN: 978-1-84747-023-2
Published: 2006
Pages: 488
Key Themes: spirituality, secure units, manic depression, bi-polar disorder
Description
A strong and emotional book which captures the feelings and experiences of someone who is condemned as 'insane' and held in a secure unit. Mairi Colme's writing is full of mysticism and depth as she uses her given talent for writing to make sense of her lost years and her treatment at the hands of those who should be protecting her. This book will find resonance in anybody who has experienced what Mairi has and can act as a guide to those who would like to understand more about the debate over sectioning and secure units.
About the Author
Mairi Colme has an MA Honours degree in English language and literature, has trained in theology, and is now a Benedictine Oblate. She has written a great deal, including poetry and mystical texts. She is now working to set up a charitable foundation, promoting mental well-being and spiritual knowledge. This book is chiefly about a period in her life, the seven years from 1988 to 1995, when she was permanently sectioned and 'certified insane'. It is about all the adventures, the pain and the love, that she experienced as she struggled to escape from a dire fate.
Book Extract
This story is about “madness”; about the suffering which may drive us into madness, what that madness is like, and how we may return from such madness. It is I hope an insight for others into the condition labelled as “manic depression.” It is also about love; the universal love of God which was revealed to me in madness, and the love of one particular man, which was light to me in the darkness.
When I began this book two years ago it seemed to me it was primarily about the anguished scream of my motherhood, for I needed to express that scream. After explaining that for 7 years, from ’88 to ’95, I was permanently sectioned under the Mental Health act, robbed of my freedom, my integrity, my rights, I wrote at the time;-
“What they did to me was to take my young son, my only child, away from me; and I hardly ever saw him from the age of 4 till the age of 11! Why this was done I’ll never comprehend; for I was a single parent who gave her child a good upbringing from being a baby, and I never harmed him and was never a danger to him. Yet I suffered so acutely as a mother from the loss of my son, during those 7 years when I was sectioned, that I kept going “insane with pain.” The father, who abused me whilst I lived with him, and threw me out into the snow when I was pregnant, demanded to see “his son” after he was born; then he applied to the courts and continued to harass me until I fell ill; then when I was ill in the hospital he took custody off me, claiming that I was an “unfit mother” because “mentally ill.” Why did this happen? If I were a mother in hospital with a broken leg, would I not have had Access rights to my son? Would I have been denied seeing my young son for 6 months at a time? But because it was a “mental illness,”-a broken mind,- and a “mental hospital,” I wasn’t allowed to see him, no-one arranged that I could see him! I fought like hell for him, and I suffered abominably, and hardly anyone can comprehend what it is like to suffer as a mother in such a way! But this is my story; the story of what it is like to be driven mad by suffering!”
Having now finished the book, having expressed the pain and suffering of my own life and told my story, having “let it go,” letting it fall into the endlessness which is God, I can see it is about more than that. It is because it is about more than my own suffering that I have been inspired on Iona to commit myself to being there for others who are suffering similarly, and to work as far as I can to help others.
What is the book really about?
It is about the stigma against mental illness, which made me suffer so much as a mother deprived of her young son. It is about the fact that the only way I could get well and transcend my illness was by escaping from the System, breaking the power that the mental health law held over me. It is a protest of my own, on behalf of everyone who is accounted “mentally ill,” an outcry of “Don’t do this to us!” We are not to be treated this way, in the way I myself was treated.
More than this, it is about the fact that in that madness I experienced, I “touched” God. It is a strange fact that throughout the centuries people have been considered “touched” by God when mad; only recently are people locked away and discarded as suffering a form of “sickness” or “abnormality.” We need to rethink this, so that we respect, we honour those who are mad rather than rubbishing them. My story is about an understanding of God, about the energy I touched, - the energy at the core of the universe which is Love.
This book is indeed “my story,” of my own solitary suffering; but all the universal dimensions are what the book is really about.
I have entitled it as I have because the notion of “dancing” with God comes from the Book of the Beloved, Page 20; for in that mystical story, when God invites “Come and embrace me,” I hang back because fearful that to embrace God would entail cold and death-like suffering. I didn’t have the courage or strength to embrace him, until he touched the pulse-point of the love within me; then when I did, I found Him “warm and living,” and He whispered “Come dance with me.” This story, which shows my willingness to suffer, forms the connection between the mystical perfect ideal of “saying Yes to God,” and my own physical, miserable, abused condition in the conceiving of my son. For in giving birth, the dance of suffering God led me into, was really the dance of life!
I recently told someone whose opinion I trust, “no-one will want to read this story because it is so tragic, and so, so sad,” and she replied “but what comes across is your courage.” And so I hope at the end of the day that my story comes over as life-affirming.
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Friday, 21 September 2007
A Cry For Help by Stephen Drake
A Cry For Help
£12.00
By Stephen Drake
ISBN: 978-1-84747-001-0
First published: 2003
This edition: 2006
Pages: 192
Key Themes: obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD), agoraphobia, prison
AS FEATURED IN 'THAT'S LIFE' MAGAZINE!
Description
This is the true story of a young man who suffers from obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD). This condition drives him to crime and to periods in custody. The author writes with vigour of his dealings with other people, especially in a young offender's institution. This is a raw book, and the prose style mirrors that rawness. Stephen has a terrible fear, amongst others, of harming an elderly lady. Having to continually check that each and every elderly woman he passed in the street or came into everyday contact had not suffered at his hands. He had no urge to harm them, he just had terrible fears that he might. He was obsessed with 'not' being responsible for any harm to an elderly lady. Life, in general society, became unbearable! He decided that prison was the answer to his prayers; a safe haven. No old women in prison! A life of crime, with little regard to detection, followed. Life in British jails as a young prisoner and terms in young offenders institutions are described. You might feel pity or, perhaps, disgust when reading his unusual, but true, story.
About the Author
Stephen Drake was born in Surrey in 1970 and was diagnosed with OCD in 1989, having spent periods in jail due to the condition. Further custody followed as stress heightened his obsessions. In 2006 Stephen wrote his first book entitled 'A Cry For Help' as a way of expressing his problems and changing his wayward course. 'A Cry For Ever' followed a year later, having been encouraged by benefits from his first book.
Book Extract
He didn’t care. Maybe that wasn’t true. As the words of fury passed his lips his left hand grasped his right. He knew the reason - he certainly wasn’t going to strike an old woman. No chance. The road was quiet with fields on one side and trees the other.
“Did you hit that woman?” Charlie asked himself yet again. “Can you remember punching her?”
He replayed the moment in his mind attempting to ease his fears.
“No, I can’t picture myself clumping her,” he answered his own question.
“What if you did harm her in some way,” the voice, presumably his, forced an entrance.
Charlie, too concerned with his own predicament, ignored the distant sounds of laughter.
He failed to notice the three youths until he walked into them. Maybe he had seen them but, being so on edge, didn’t care. He wouldn’t even deny walking into the group on purpose. What had he got to lose?
“Watch it, mate,” shouted one of the group, “why can’t you look where you’re going?”
“Get fucked,” Charlie growled, in no mood for sensible suggestions.
He wasn’t scared of their reaction, his mind being filled with more urgent matters. It wouldn’t have bothered the young man if he finished the evening in a casualty department; all he craved was reassurance that he hadn’t assaulted the elderly female. While that concern occupied his thoughts, nothing else was of importance. This single-minded approach exasperated the stocky youth - it took a great deal to infuriate Charlie but where much had failed, his deranged thought process succeeded. He attempted to push pass the gang who prevented his progress. Caution had been thrown to the wind - why should he show respect to others when his own mind was intent on destruction.
OTHER BOOKS ON OCD
£12.00
By Stephen Drake
ISBN: 978-1-84747-001-0
First published: 2003
This edition: 2006
Pages: 192
Key Themes: obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD), agoraphobia, prison
AS FEATURED IN 'THAT'S LIFE' MAGAZINE!
Description
This is the true story of a young man who suffers from obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD). This condition drives him to crime and to periods in custody. The author writes with vigour of his dealings with other people, especially in a young offender's institution. This is a raw book, and the prose style mirrors that rawness. Stephen has a terrible fear, amongst others, of harming an elderly lady. Having to continually check that each and every elderly woman he passed in the street or came into everyday contact had not suffered at his hands. He had no urge to harm them, he just had terrible fears that he might. He was obsessed with 'not' being responsible for any harm to an elderly lady. Life, in general society, became unbearable! He decided that prison was the answer to his prayers; a safe haven. No old women in prison! A life of crime, with little regard to detection, followed. Life in British jails as a young prisoner and terms in young offenders institutions are described. You might feel pity or, perhaps, disgust when reading his unusual, but true, story.
About the Author
Stephen Drake was born in Surrey in 1970 and was diagnosed with OCD in 1989, having spent periods in jail due to the condition. Further custody followed as stress heightened his obsessions. In 2006 Stephen wrote his first book entitled 'A Cry For Help' as a way of expressing his problems and changing his wayward course. 'A Cry For Ever' followed a year later, having been encouraged by benefits from his first book.
Book Extract
He didn’t care. Maybe that wasn’t true. As the words of fury passed his lips his left hand grasped his right. He knew the reason - he certainly wasn’t going to strike an old woman. No chance. The road was quiet with fields on one side and trees the other.
“Did you hit that woman?” Charlie asked himself yet again. “Can you remember punching her?”
He replayed the moment in his mind attempting to ease his fears.
“No, I can’t picture myself clumping her,” he answered his own question.
“What if you did harm her in some way,” the voice, presumably his, forced an entrance.
Charlie, too concerned with his own predicament, ignored the distant sounds of laughter.
He failed to notice the three youths until he walked into them. Maybe he had seen them but, being so on edge, didn’t care. He wouldn’t even deny walking into the group on purpose. What had he got to lose?
“Watch it, mate,” shouted one of the group, “why can’t you look where you’re going?”
“Get fucked,” Charlie growled, in no mood for sensible suggestions.
He wasn’t scared of their reaction, his mind being filled with more urgent matters. It wouldn’t have bothered the young man if he finished the evening in a casualty department; all he craved was reassurance that he hadn’t assaulted the elderly female. While that concern occupied his thoughts, nothing else was of importance. This single-minded approach exasperated the stocky youth - it took a great deal to infuriate Charlie but where much had failed, his deranged thought process succeeded. He attempted to push pass the gang who prevented his progress. Caution had been thrown to the wind - why should he show respect to others when his own mind was intent on destruction.
OTHER BOOKS ON OCD
A Can of Madness
£12.00 £11.00Save: 8% off
By Jason PeglerFifth Edition
ISBN: 978-0-954221-82-9First Published: 2002This Edition: 2005Pages: 246Key Themes: bi-polar, manic depression, depression, alcoholism, mania, drug abuse, recovery
“A Can of Madness does what it says in the… er can. A brilliant memoir of mania; all the pain, humour, fear and despair is chronicled here in prose of clarity and distinction. Unforgettable and important" - Stephen Fry
“This book will help people to understand one of the greatest issues of our time, how to treat those who are mentally disturbed, as human beings” – Rt. Hon. Tony Benn MP
“The author has done all of us a service by writing about how it feels, not just to be manic depressive, but to have a life of fraught and edgy encounters with just about everyone” – The Times
“A Can of Madness takes you as close to the manic experience as you can get, it makes ‘Prozac Nation’ look like a walk in the park.” – The Big Issue
Description
A vivid, honest and sometimes disturbing memoir about the experience of having a diagnosis of manic-depression. It was written using extracts from a diary written at the time of the author's flights into mania and his descents into depression. Like other books in this genre, the author is often painfully honest about his experiences. He recounts a dizzying, dark and sometimes euphoric journey through a world of elation, despair, binge drinking, drugs, raves and psychiatric wards. As well as attempting to educate the reader, the book also provides optimism and hope, showing that it is finally possible to learn to live with, and accept, having a mental health problem.
About the Author
Jason Pegler is 31 and lives in Vauxhall, South London. Jason was diagnosed with manic depression in 1993 and wrote 'A Can of Madness' to stop other seventeen year olds going through what he went through. Graduating from Manchester University in 1998 he founded Chipmunkapublishing and Equal Lives, non-profit making organisations which aim to help mental health sufferers. he then set up The Chipmunka Foundation (registered charity number 1109537) in 2004. Pegler is a mental health activist, journalist, rapper, public speaker and consultant on anything that promotes a positive image on mental health. In 2005 Pegler won the New Statesman's Young Social Entrepreneur of the Year Award. He is a key figure in the mental health movement.
Book Extract
As I was being driven off in the back of a police van in a space suit, I thought I was Donovan Bad Boy Smith being driven to a rave. I could hear music in my head and flashed back to another night at The Brunel Rooms in Swindon. The Brunel Rooms, a hard-core Mecca for druggies from Gloucester and surrounding areas in the early to mid nineties. Donovan was so hardcore when I saw him there that he'd refused to turn off his set at 3. He'd carried on until 3.30 when someone finally turned off the electricity mid flow.
Talking of flows (as opposed to stable mindsets), just how the fuck do you live with a mental illness? Don't ask me, I'm still trying to find out now. After all, it's not something you plan, let alone something you'd ever expect to have. As we all say: it won't happen to me. But it can. And in this case, it did.
And if Hercules and Ajax couldn't hack it, how the hell could I? Unsurprisingly, I didn't - and that's why I wallowed in self-pity for so long.
So, do you want to know what it's like to be crazy, mad, loopy? Well I'm about to tell you. I'm also going to tell you how it feels to be suicidal for months on end - the fate of the manic. One thing, however, is for sure: The sooner you kill mania the better. For you're a danger to yourself and other people when you don't know what you're doing. The longer mania is allowed to continue, the longer and more severe the inevitable depression will be.
The problem is that mania is a unique and sometimes beautiful experience, even though its genius is flawed and must be quelled. The irony is that it draws strength from imperfection. Think of the Mona Lisa without her eyebrows. She's more appealing because there's something that's not quite right. She is in some way different, contrary to the norm and thus fascinates the observer.
I also draw strength from Van Gogh, as I imagine him painting just down the road from me in Stockwell. Slipping in and out of consciousness when writing, I try to summon up his own 'madness'.
Finally, I take comfort from the poet and composer, Ivor Gurney. Like me, he was manic, and like me, he came from Gloucester and moved to South London. Apparently, he would often walk from one to the other, singing folk music and sleeping in barns along the way.
Hucclecote, one of the more pleasant areas of Gloucester (although still with its fair share of pingheads and run-of-the-mill crims) is about a mile, mile and a half outside the town centre, on the Cheltenham side. We moved there because my parents were keen that my brother, Harvey, and I did well at school - Hucclecote is a bike ride away from the renowned Grammar school, Sir Thomas Rich's, in Longlevens. The plan was that we would each would pass our 11+ and get in.
Green Lane, where I lived, was quiet, (lower-) middle class and had a huge green at the end of it. Because it's right on Hucclecote Road, access to either Gloucester or its more upmarket neighbour Cheltenham, located only seven miles away, is easy. But that's enough on Gloucester for now. Let's meet the family.
£12.00 £11.00Save: 8% off
By Jason PeglerFifth Edition
ISBN: 978-0-954221-82-9First Published: 2002This Edition: 2005Pages: 246Key Themes: bi-polar, manic depression, depression, alcoholism, mania, drug abuse, recovery
“A Can of Madness does what it says in the… er can. A brilliant memoir of mania; all the pain, humour, fear and despair is chronicled here in prose of clarity and distinction. Unforgettable and important" - Stephen Fry
“This book will help people to understand one of the greatest issues of our time, how to treat those who are mentally disturbed, as human beings” – Rt. Hon. Tony Benn MP
“The author has done all of us a service by writing about how it feels, not just to be manic depressive, but to have a life of fraught and edgy encounters with just about everyone” – The Times
“A Can of Madness takes you as close to the manic experience as you can get, it makes ‘Prozac Nation’ look like a walk in the park.” – The Big Issue
Description
A vivid, honest and sometimes disturbing memoir about the experience of having a diagnosis of manic-depression. It was written using extracts from a diary written at the time of the author's flights into mania and his descents into depression. Like other books in this genre, the author is often painfully honest about his experiences. He recounts a dizzying, dark and sometimes euphoric journey through a world of elation, despair, binge drinking, drugs, raves and psychiatric wards. As well as attempting to educate the reader, the book also provides optimism and hope, showing that it is finally possible to learn to live with, and accept, having a mental health problem.
About the Author
Jason Pegler is 31 and lives in Vauxhall, South London. Jason was diagnosed with manic depression in 1993 and wrote 'A Can of Madness' to stop other seventeen year olds going through what he went through. Graduating from Manchester University in 1998 he founded Chipmunkapublishing and Equal Lives, non-profit making organisations which aim to help mental health sufferers. he then set up The Chipmunka Foundation (registered charity number 1109537) in 2004. Pegler is a mental health activist, journalist, rapper, public speaker and consultant on anything that promotes a positive image on mental health. In 2005 Pegler won the New Statesman's Young Social Entrepreneur of the Year Award. He is a key figure in the mental health movement.
Book Extract
As I was being driven off in the back of a police van in a space suit, I thought I was Donovan Bad Boy Smith being driven to a rave. I could hear music in my head and flashed back to another night at The Brunel Rooms in Swindon. The Brunel Rooms, a hard-core Mecca for druggies from Gloucester and surrounding areas in the early to mid nineties. Donovan was so hardcore when I saw him there that he'd refused to turn off his set at 3. He'd carried on until 3.30 when someone finally turned off the electricity mid flow.
Talking of flows (as opposed to stable mindsets), just how the fuck do you live with a mental illness? Don't ask me, I'm still trying to find out now. After all, it's not something you plan, let alone something you'd ever expect to have. As we all say: it won't happen to me. But it can. And in this case, it did.
And if Hercules and Ajax couldn't hack it, how the hell could I? Unsurprisingly, I didn't - and that's why I wallowed in self-pity for so long.
So, do you want to know what it's like to be crazy, mad, loopy? Well I'm about to tell you. I'm also going to tell you how it feels to be suicidal for months on end - the fate of the manic. One thing, however, is for sure: The sooner you kill mania the better. For you're a danger to yourself and other people when you don't know what you're doing. The longer mania is allowed to continue, the longer and more severe the inevitable depression will be.
The problem is that mania is a unique and sometimes beautiful experience, even though its genius is flawed and must be quelled. The irony is that it draws strength from imperfection. Think of the Mona Lisa without her eyebrows. She's more appealing because there's something that's not quite right. She is in some way different, contrary to the norm and thus fascinates the observer.
I also draw strength from Van Gogh, as I imagine him painting just down the road from me in Stockwell. Slipping in and out of consciousness when writing, I try to summon up his own 'madness'.
Finally, I take comfort from the poet and composer, Ivor Gurney. Like me, he was manic, and like me, he came from Gloucester and moved to South London. Apparently, he would often walk from one to the other, singing folk music and sleeping in barns along the way.
Hucclecote, one of the more pleasant areas of Gloucester (although still with its fair share of pingheads and run-of-the-mill crims) is about a mile, mile and a half outside the town centre, on the Cheltenham side. We moved there because my parents were keen that my brother, Harvey, and I did well at school - Hucclecote is a bike ride away from the renowned Grammar school, Sir Thomas Rich's, in Longlevens. The plan was that we would each would pass our 11+ and get in.
Green Lane, where I lived, was quiet, (lower-) middle class and had a huge green at the end of it. Because it's right on Hucclecote Road, access to either Gloucester or its more upmarket neighbour Cheltenham, located only seven miles away, is easy. But that's enough on Gloucester for now. Let's meet the family.
And This Is My Adopted Daughter
And This Is My Adopted Daughter
£12.00
By Marie Berger
ISBN: 978-1-84747-189-5Published: 2007Pages: 180Key Themes: relationships, adoption
Description
This emotional, turbulent and poignant book tells the story of Marie Berger's discovery that she was adopted. Marie only discovered this fact as the result of a playground argument. The book describes Marie's childhood and chronicles how she felt in finding that she was adopted, how she searched for and eventually found her natural mother – and how there was no fairytale ending. This is an intensely moving and excellently written book.
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
On the doormat is a letter. I pick it up. I don’t recognise the handwriting. It’s postmarked New York, United States of America.
I only know of one person who lives there. And it couldn’t possibly be from her…could it?
Feverishly I tear open the envelope, unfold the notepaper.
My mind’s in a whirl. It’s impossible to take in the words. They swim across my line of vision. The bits I manage to read here and there don’t make sense…
I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here mesmerised. My mind’s blank. The neat script is dancing before my eyes.
This can’t be happening. It must be a dream.
I blink rapidly, shake my head, and try to focus on reality. But there’s no way I can get a grip on myself standing like a zombie here in the hallway. I must get out.
I put on my coat, wander bewildered into the first café I come to. I sit in a corner, order a coffee, sip the hot liquid. I can’t stop shivering.
I hold my breath, force myself to start at the beginning, concentrate on each word. I begin to read…
Dear Marie Teresa,
I really don’t know how to begin. Aunt Maud and Aunt Margaret came to visit me a week ago. I hadn’t seen them for twenty-five years and they waited a week before telling me about you. They were scared. They gave me your letters and the lovely photos of the children I had never told anyone but Lorne, my husband.
Marie Teresa, it wasn’t on your birthday I thought of you. My heart cried out for you every day. When I had you I had no one to turn to and then I had to work and it was so hard to find anyone to take care of you. It wasn’t like today. I gave you up so you would have a happy life with a mother and a father. I was never given their address and I knew years later that I should have taken you to Belfast to your granny but I thought the shock would kill them. When you were born you were the image of your grandpa.
So I had a long talk with Lady Winifred Ewes who was in charge of the adoption agency. She was about seventy and her advice to me was to give you up for your sake.
I didn’t get married in England, I came to America to a great aunt. If I’d been married in England I would never have parted with you. I came to America in 1947 and then met Lorne in 1948. But after I came to America I saw things were different and I wrote to Lady Winifred to see if I could get you back. She wrote back and said that in a few months she was coming to America to visit some relatives and she would contact me when she arrived, which she did. This was in 1947. I asked her then, “Could you get my baby back because I could provide for her now?” and she said, “I could try but I doubt it. Leave Marie Teresa where she is, she has a little sister named Rita and she’s happy and it might break her heart.” So I kept in contact with Lady Winifred. Then one day a letter was returned – “deceased.”
I married Lorne, told him everything, and he wanted you but we had no one to contact. Never a day went by that I didn’t wonder how you were and at night I prayed to God to keep you safe. I took it as my cross to carry. John was born in 1949 and he looked like his grandpa, too. How many times he said, “Mammy, I wish I had a sister,” and I would cry and he wouldn’t understand.
When Aunt Maud told me about you it took her a week because she was afraid about Lorne. When I told Lorne that Maud had said you’d written and she gave me all your letters and photos Lorne cried too. Then John came in. Of course he wanted to know why we were all crying so I told him the story and he cried and said, “I have a sister! Why didn’t you tell me years ago?” I told him I was afraid to and he said, “Mammy, you carried that secret and your heartbreak, all those long years wasted.”
I’ll regret till the day I die that I gave you up. I hope you will forgive me but I thought I was doing the right thing so you would be happy. I read all your letters to Aunt Maud and I feel better that you are so wise and understand. Every day was hard but your birthday was awful. But Marie Teresa, I dreamed, loved and prayed for you all these years.
In one photo you look like I looked when I was young and in another photo you are the image of your Aunt Margaret. They say she looks like me.
Too bad Aunt Maud didn’t tell me sooner but I told her I’m so grateful that she wrote to you and kept in touch. After lady Winifred died I had no place to contact. I went back to Belfast in 1955 for a few months. Then I got arthritis and I had to use crutches and I never seemed to get better. A few months ago I fell down the doctor’s steps and broke my arm and John’s wife Laura wrote to Aunt Maud. She cried and said, “I wish I could see Mary” and Uncle Albert says, “Well you are going,” and went and booked the plane. She didn’t tell you because she wanted to tell me first and God help her, she was scared, it took her almost a week.
Thank God you have a good husband, Les, and three beautiful children. How I have regretted all these years not seeing you growing up. I’ve read all your letters to Aunt Maud many times over and looked at the lovely photos. John is thirty-one years old now and was so happy and understanding. I was afraid to tell him but he saw his dad and me and Aunt Maud and Aunt Margaret crying so we told him. He cried and was so happy.
I hope this letter won’t interfere with your mother and father for all I ever wanted was for you to be happy. I had no choice when I gave you up and I saw your mother and father were nice. Lady Winifred said you would be happy there and I was doing the best thing.
The children are beautiful. One day, please God, I will see you and your husband and children. I am unable to travel at this time, but knowing Aunt Maud heard from you has made me so happy. It’s too bad we’re so far apart. John said right away, “Tell my sister to come.” John is married and has two beautiful girls, six and three.
Well, Marie Teresa, I’ll end now. It has eased the pain seeing your photo and the three beautiful babies. I hope I will hear from you. Letters today take from five to twelve days airmail. The mails are terrible.
So God bless you and Les and the children and keep you safe. And well you were loved and prayed for thirty-six years.
Love,Mum
Clutching the letter tightly I walk out into the street. Tears are streaming down my face. Nothing can make up for the lost years.
*
It’s been an arduous journey across the Atlantic.
Eleven-week-old Ben has slept in his air cot throughout most of the long flight. Les and I have tried hard to keep Simon, Rachel and Nathan calm on their first plane journey, their first visit to the Nana they’ve never met. Quite naturally, with so much happening they’re over-excited.
They also have to cope with a postnatally depressed mum. Ben and I were only discharged yesterday from the Mother and Baby Unit in the Psychiatric Department. And Mummy never visited, wrote or phoned. Pills help mask the despair and hopelessness but they don’t take them away. I’m looking out of the window, praying I can continue to act normally during our month-long stay with Mum.
It’s taken a year since her first letter to save for this moment. I mustn’t let anyone down, especially her; not after the many letters of love, hope, regrets that she parted with her baby.
In my bag is a black-and-white photo she sent. She says it’s the one decent picture she’s kept. I treasure this image of my mother taken twenty years ago when she was in her thirties. The sleek dress shows off a good figure. She holds her head high. Thick, wavy dark hair frames an attractive face. I admire her fine bone structure, lovely eyes and full lips. I love her soft Irish / American accent when we talk on the phone.
I’m proud of my mother. She’s beautiful in every way.
We go though Passport Control.
I wonder how I’m going to recognise my half-brother. John has given us a rather unflattering description of himself and told us he’ll be wearing a short-sleeved, light-blue shirt.
A heavy-set man, jumping up and down, his bearded face wreathed in smiles, has spotted our noisy brood. He’s hurrying towards us. He’s in tears.
Perhaps I should be emotional but I’m drained. I’m intrigued, though, by the round, freckled face, the non-stop talk. At first sight he’s so like me. Extremely demonstrative, he hugs us each in turn, lingering to hold me by my shoulders at arm’s length.
“You look just like Mum! I can’t get over it!” he exclaims. “Come on, she can’t wait to see you.”
He drives us to upstate New York, chatting about his wife, his three children, Mum, his dad.
I doze fitfully. John is still talking. We’ve come at a good time, he enthuses. They’re having a hot summer.
I can’t say much. I leave Les to make conversation with him.
It’s hours since we left the airport. I stare out of the window. We drive through a small town, past meadows, fields…
We turn sharply off the road down a narrow track that John says is part of the acres of land owned by his parents. I wind the window down, peer out into the twilight.
The car screeches to a halt outside a house. I fully expect to see Mum rushing towards us...
Suddenly I feel sick. This can’t be real.
£12.00
By Marie Berger
ISBN: 978-1-84747-189-5Published: 2007Pages: 180Key Themes: relationships, adoption
Description
This emotional, turbulent and poignant book tells the story of Marie Berger's discovery that she was adopted. Marie only discovered this fact as the result of a playground argument. The book describes Marie's childhood and chronicles how she felt in finding that she was adopted, how she searched for and eventually found her natural mother – and how there was no fairytale ending. This is an intensely moving and excellently written book.
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
On the doormat is a letter. I pick it up. I don’t recognise the handwriting. It’s postmarked New York, United States of America.
I only know of one person who lives there. And it couldn’t possibly be from her…could it?
Feverishly I tear open the envelope, unfold the notepaper.
My mind’s in a whirl. It’s impossible to take in the words. They swim across my line of vision. The bits I manage to read here and there don’t make sense…
I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here mesmerised. My mind’s blank. The neat script is dancing before my eyes.
This can’t be happening. It must be a dream.
I blink rapidly, shake my head, and try to focus on reality. But there’s no way I can get a grip on myself standing like a zombie here in the hallway. I must get out.
I put on my coat, wander bewildered into the first café I come to. I sit in a corner, order a coffee, sip the hot liquid. I can’t stop shivering.
I hold my breath, force myself to start at the beginning, concentrate on each word. I begin to read…
Dear Marie Teresa,
I really don’t know how to begin. Aunt Maud and Aunt Margaret came to visit me a week ago. I hadn’t seen them for twenty-five years and they waited a week before telling me about you. They were scared. They gave me your letters and the lovely photos of the children I had never told anyone but Lorne, my husband.
Marie Teresa, it wasn’t on your birthday I thought of you. My heart cried out for you every day. When I had you I had no one to turn to and then I had to work and it was so hard to find anyone to take care of you. It wasn’t like today. I gave you up so you would have a happy life with a mother and a father. I was never given their address and I knew years later that I should have taken you to Belfast to your granny but I thought the shock would kill them. When you were born you were the image of your grandpa.
So I had a long talk with Lady Winifred Ewes who was in charge of the adoption agency. She was about seventy and her advice to me was to give you up for your sake.
I didn’t get married in England, I came to America to a great aunt. If I’d been married in England I would never have parted with you. I came to America in 1947 and then met Lorne in 1948. But after I came to America I saw things were different and I wrote to Lady Winifred to see if I could get you back. She wrote back and said that in a few months she was coming to America to visit some relatives and she would contact me when she arrived, which she did. This was in 1947. I asked her then, “Could you get my baby back because I could provide for her now?” and she said, “I could try but I doubt it. Leave Marie Teresa where she is, she has a little sister named Rita and she’s happy and it might break her heart.” So I kept in contact with Lady Winifred. Then one day a letter was returned – “deceased.”
I married Lorne, told him everything, and he wanted you but we had no one to contact. Never a day went by that I didn’t wonder how you were and at night I prayed to God to keep you safe. I took it as my cross to carry. John was born in 1949 and he looked like his grandpa, too. How many times he said, “Mammy, I wish I had a sister,” and I would cry and he wouldn’t understand.
When Aunt Maud told me about you it took her a week because she was afraid about Lorne. When I told Lorne that Maud had said you’d written and she gave me all your letters and photos Lorne cried too. Then John came in. Of course he wanted to know why we were all crying so I told him the story and he cried and said, “I have a sister! Why didn’t you tell me years ago?” I told him I was afraid to and he said, “Mammy, you carried that secret and your heartbreak, all those long years wasted.”
I’ll regret till the day I die that I gave you up. I hope you will forgive me but I thought I was doing the right thing so you would be happy. I read all your letters to Aunt Maud and I feel better that you are so wise and understand. Every day was hard but your birthday was awful. But Marie Teresa, I dreamed, loved and prayed for you all these years.
In one photo you look like I looked when I was young and in another photo you are the image of your Aunt Margaret. They say she looks like me.
Too bad Aunt Maud didn’t tell me sooner but I told her I’m so grateful that she wrote to you and kept in touch. After lady Winifred died I had no place to contact. I went back to Belfast in 1955 for a few months. Then I got arthritis and I had to use crutches and I never seemed to get better. A few months ago I fell down the doctor’s steps and broke my arm and John’s wife Laura wrote to Aunt Maud. She cried and said, “I wish I could see Mary” and Uncle Albert says, “Well you are going,” and went and booked the plane. She didn’t tell you because she wanted to tell me first and God help her, she was scared, it took her almost a week.
Thank God you have a good husband, Les, and three beautiful children. How I have regretted all these years not seeing you growing up. I’ve read all your letters to Aunt Maud many times over and looked at the lovely photos. John is thirty-one years old now and was so happy and understanding. I was afraid to tell him but he saw his dad and me and Aunt Maud and Aunt Margaret crying so we told him. He cried and was so happy.
I hope this letter won’t interfere with your mother and father for all I ever wanted was for you to be happy. I had no choice when I gave you up and I saw your mother and father were nice. Lady Winifred said you would be happy there and I was doing the best thing.
The children are beautiful. One day, please God, I will see you and your husband and children. I am unable to travel at this time, but knowing Aunt Maud heard from you has made me so happy. It’s too bad we’re so far apart. John said right away, “Tell my sister to come.” John is married and has two beautiful girls, six and three.
Well, Marie Teresa, I’ll end now. It has eased the pain seeing your photo and the three beautiful babies. I hope I will hear from you. Letters today take from five to twelve days airmail. The mails are terrible.
So God bless you and Les and the children and keep you safe. And well you were loved and prayed for thirty-six years.
Love,Mum
Clutching the letter tightly I walk out into the street. Tears are streaming down my face. Nothing can make up for the lost years.
*
It’s been an arduous journey across the Atlantic.
Eleven-week-old Ben has slept in his air cot throughout most of the long flight. Les and I have tried hard to keep Simon, Rachel and Nathan calm on their first plane journey, their first visit to the Nana they’ve never met. Quite naturally, with so much happening they’re over-excited.
They also have to cope with a postnatally depressed mum. Ben and I were only discharged yesterday from the Mother and Baby Unit in the Psychiatric Department. And Mummy never visited, wrote or phoned. Pills help mask the despair and hopelessness but they don’t take them away. I’m looking out of the window, praying I can continue to act normally during our month-long stay with Mum.
It’s taken a year since her first letter to save for this moment. I mustn’t let anyone down, especially her; not after the many letters of love, hope, regrets that she parted with her baby.
In my bag is a black-and-white photo she sent. She says it’s the one decent picture she’s kept. I treasure this image of my mother taken twenty years ago when she was in her thirties. The sleek dress shows off a good figure. She holds her head high. Thick, wavy dark hair frames an attractive face. I admire her fine bone structure, lovely eyes and full lips. I love her soft Irish / American accent when we talk on the phone.
I’m proud of my mother. She’s beautiful in every way.
We go though Passport Control.
I wonder how I’m going to recognise my half-brother. John has given us a rather unflattering description of himself and told us he’ll be wearing a short-sleeved, light-blue shirt.
A heavy-set man, jumping up and down, his bearded face wreathed in smiles, has spotted our noisy brood. He’s hurrying towards us. He’s in tears.
Perhaps I should be emotional but I’m drained. I’m intrigued, though, by the round, freckled face, the non-stop talk. At first sight he’s so like me. Extremely demonstrative, he hugs us each in turn, lingering to hold me by my shoulders at arm’s length.
“You look just like Mum! I can’t get over it!” he exclaims. “Come on, she can’t wait to see you.”
He drives us to upstate New York, chatting about his wife, his three children, Mum, his dad.
I doze fitfully. John is still talking. We’ve come at a good time, he enthuses. They’re having a hot summer.
I can’t say much. I leave Les to make conversation with him.
It’s hours since we left the airport. I stare out of the window. We drive through a small town, past meadows, fields…
We turn sharply off the road down a narrow track that John says is part of the acres of land owned by his parents. I wind the window down, peer out into the twilight.
The car screeches to a halt outside a house. I fully expect to see Mum rushing towards us...
Suddenly I feel sick. This can’t be real.
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