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.
Showing posts with label chipmunka. Show all posts
Showing posts with label chipmunka. Show all posts
Friday, 21 September 2007
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.
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?
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 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
A Life Worth Living by Marie Berger
A Life Worth Living
£12.00
By Marie Berger
ISBN: 978-1-84747-188-8
Published: 2007
Pages: 123
Key Themes: borderline personality disorder,
Description
This immensely reflective and emotional book deals with the difficulties faced by a person suffering from borderline personality disorder. BPD is often thought of as the most severe of the most common mental illnesses and is considered by some to be untreatable. This book replaces much of the myths surrounding this illness with cold, hard facts and as such is a very important and profound read.
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
Declaring my sins in another language feels easier. A short break in an attractive town on the French coast provides a brief respite from the overwhelming negativity inside my head.
On impulse I’ve wandered into a church, found a priest willing to hear my Confession. A modern-minded priest who wears no collar and has dispensed with the traditional confessional box. We sit facing each other across a table.
I reel off a list of offences against a God I’m not even sure I believe in. The priest gives me absolution, asks me about myself, my life. I refer briefly to my unhappy childhood, my rigid, often-harsh religious upbringing, my present emotional problems. He listens sympathetically. Daringly, I say I’ve only occasionally attended Mass in recent years.
“Which means I’m doomed to Hell when I die, aren’t I?” I challenge him. “God loves you, He is not there to punish you.” His tone is kindly.
“So that wasn’t a mortal sin?” The priest smiles, shakes his head. I stare at him, amazed. I’d expected a sermon on the evil of my ways.
“You’re the first priest not to condemn my actions. But I think I’ve lost my faith, I don’t know if there is a God or where to find Him.” “He’s inside you,” the priest answers with conviction. I remind him that he’s not given me the usual penance for my sins.
“When you are sitting beside the sea today just say thank you to God,” he says gently. What, no Our Fathers, no Hail Marys, no act of retribution for my offences? I thank him profusely. Already I’m feeling better. I walk out into the bright sunshine feeling an inner warmth, an unaccustomed sense of well-being.
*
The vast expanse of beautifully kept lawns looks welcoming. Today represents my last possibility of therapy. At almost sixty years old I’m running out of options. I feel irritable, sick, intensely nervous. I haven’t slept properly for a week.
I’m being ushered along an expensively carpeted corridor to an office. A friendly-looking man introduces himself as the psychiatrist. His handshake is firm, warm. He invites me to sit, begins by asking about my problems. Suddenly my carefully rehearsed words disappear. I can hardly concentrate on what he’s asking or on how I’m responding. I’m talking about the past, trying to show how I came to be in the mess I’m in today. I explain that my natural mother breastfed me for three months before fostering me out eight times. She finally realized she couldn’t keep her nine-month-old baby. I tell him bitterly that Mummy and Daddy adopted me as a “pet” for their own daughter, Rita. I refer to my happy early years with Mummy, describe how things went terribly wrong when I started school, when I was not completely under her control. Suddenly nothing I did was right; I could never match up to Rita. I want him to understand the extent of my efforts to please her, my desperation to become exactly like my sister so that Mummy and Daddy would find me as lovable. I feel shame wash over me as I tell him about Mummy’s scornful reaction.
I talk about the awful beatings from Daddy which resulted in a neighbour threatening to call the NSPCC, my pleading with her not to and vowing inwardly she would never again hear my cries.
I’m lost in the past.
“Did he hit ever you again?” The psychiatrist asks. “I don’t remember. But I knew, despite everything, that Daddy truly loved me. I was never sure if Mummy did since she continued to tell me how stupid and worthless I was. She always ignored my tears, my pain, my unhappiness.”
I feel like crying.
I tell him about my compulsion to be perfect, to become like the saints the nuns at school always talked about. I confide my horrible fear of hurting Christ by, as we were told, banging the nails further into his hands and feet on the cross whenever we were naughty. I recall Evelyn’s funeral, when our class had to watch our ten-year-old classmate being buried and then were told, “Now, Evelyn was a good girl - but what if it had been one of you…?”
The psychiatrist is listening intently. “How do you see your problems now?”
“I feel empty, self-destructive. I dislike everything about myself.”
I mention my life-threatening overdose, little over a year ago, an action I deeply regret, the memory of it so raw it makes talking difficult.
“There are still times that I want to destroy myself. Only the thought of this dreadful legacy for my family holds me back.”
He looks thoughtful. “I think our type of therapy will suit you.”
Relief spreads through me.
“Four months should do it.”
I’m astounded. They can turn my life around in four months? Perhaps miracles do happen!
Our interview over, he takes me to the dining room where I’m introduced to some of the residents. The food is good, the residents and staff friendly. One of the residents shows me round. Each room has its own en suite. If I could forget the reason I’m here I could easily imagine that this tastefully decorated, airy, spacious building is a five star hotel. During the drive home I silently carry out endless tortuous post-mortems.
“Most people stay for eight months so I don’t know why they’re thinking of throwing me out after four.” “You’re being negative again,” my husband sighs. But, if the psychiatrist is right, in a few months he’ll see a changed wife - one he’ll scarcely recognize!
£12.00
By Marie Berger
ISBN: 978-1-84747-188-8
Published: 2007
Pages: 123
Key Themes: borderline personality disorder,
Description
This immensely reflective and emotional book deals with the difficulties faced by a person suffering from borderline personality disorder. BPD is often thought of as the most severe of the most common mental illnesses and is considered by some to be untreatable. This book replaces much of the myths surrounding this illness with cold, hard facts and as such is a very important and profound read.
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
Declaring my sins in another language feels easier. A short break in an attractive town on the French coast provides a brief respite from the overwhelming negativity inside my head.
On impulse I’ve wandered into a church, found a priest willing to hear my Confession. A modern-minded priest who wears no collar and has dispensed with the traditional confessional box. We sit facing each other across a table.
I reel off a list of offences against a God I’m not even sure I believe in. The priest gives me absolution, asks me about myself, my life. I refer briefly to my unhappy childhood, my rigid, often-harsh religious upbringing, my present emotional problems. He listens sympathetically. Daringly, I say I’ve only occasionally attended Mass in recent years.
“Which means I’m doomed to Hell when I die, aren’t I?” I challenge him. “God loves you, He is not there to punish you.” His tone is kindly.
“So that wasn’t a mortal sin?” The priest smiles, shakes his head. I stare at him, amazed. I’d expected a sermon on the evil of my ways.
“You’re the first priest not to condemn my actions. But I think I’ve lost my faith, I don’t know if there is a God or where to find Him.” “He’s inside you,” the priest answers with conviction. I remind him that he’s not given me the usual penance for my sins.
“When you are sitting beside the sea today just say thank you to God,” he says gently. What, no Our Fathers, no Hail Marys, no act of retribution for my offences? I thank him profusely. Already I’m feeling better. I walk out into the bright sunshine feeling an inner warmth, an unaccustomed sense of well-being.
*
The vast expanse of beautifully kept lawns looks welcoming. Today represents my last possibility of therapy. At almost sixty years old I’m running out of options. I feel irritable, sick, intensely nervous. I haven’t slept properly for a week.
I’m being ushered along an expensively carpeted corridor to an office. A friendly-looking man introduces himself as the psychiatrist. His handshake is firm, warm. He invites me to sit, begins by asking about my problems. Suddenly my carefully rehearsed words disappear. I can hardly concentrate on what he’s asking or on how I’m responding. I’m talking about the past, trying to show how I came to be in the mess I’m in today. I explain that my natural mother breastfed me for three months before fostering me out eight times. She finally realized she couldn’t keep her nine-month-old baby. I tell him bitterly that Mummy and Daddy adopted me as a “pet” for their own daughter, Rita. I refer to my happy early years with Mummy, describe how things went terribly wrong when I started school, when I was not completely under her control. Suddenly nothing I did was right; I could never match up to Rita. I want him to understand the extent of my efforts to please her, my desperation to become exactly like my sister so that Mummy and Daddy would find me as lovable. I feel shame wash over me as I tell him about Mummy’s scornful reaction.
I talk about the awful beatings from Daddy which resulted in a neighbour threatening to call the NSPCC, my pleading with her not to and vowing inwardly she would never again hear my cries.
I’m lost in the past.
“Did he hit ever you again?” The psychiatrist asks. “I don’t remember. But I knew, despite everything, that Daddy truly loved me. I was never sure if Mummy did since she continued to tell me how stupid and worthless I was. She always ignored my tears, my pain, my unhappiness.”
I feel like crying.
I tell him about my compulsion to be perfect, to become like the saints the nuns at school always talked about. I confide my horrible fear of hurting Christ by, as we were told, banging the nails further into his hands and feet on the cross whenever we were naughty. I recall Evelyn’s funeral, when our class had to watch our ten-year-old classmate being buried and then were told, “Now, Evelyn was a good girl - but what if it had been one of you…?”
The psychiatrist is listening intently. “How do you see your problems now?”
“I feel empty, self-destructive. I dislike everything about myself.”
I mention my life-threatening overdose, little over a year ago, an action I deeply regret, the memory of it so raw it makes talking difficult.
“There are still times that I want to destroy myself. Only the thought of this dreadful legacy for my family holds me back.”
He looks thoughtful. “I think our type of therapy will suit you.”
Relief spreads through me.
“Four months should do it.”
I’m astounded. They can turn my life around in four months? Perhaps miracles do happen!
Our interview over, he takes me to the dining room where I’m introduced to some of the residents. The food is good, the residents and staff friendly. One of the residents shows me round. Each room has its own en suite. If I could forget the reason I’m here I could easily imagine that this tastefully decorated, airy, spacious building is a five star hotel. During the drive home I silently carry out endless tortuous post-mortems.
“Most people stay for eight months so I don’t know why they’re thinking of throwing me out after four.” “You’re being negative again,” my husband sighs. But, if the psychiatrist is right, in a few months he’ll see a changed wife - one he’ll scarcely recognize!
A Divine Dance of Madness by Mairi Colme
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.
£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.
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 Collection of My Thoughts by Anna Ballard
A Collection of My Thoughts
£12.00
Living With Depression
By Anna Ballard
ISBN: 978-1-84747-008-9
Published: 2006
Pages: 226
Key Themes: depression, poetry
Description
This insightful book takes you on a journey through the feelings of mental health sufferers on the long road to recovery. Anna provides an emotive understanding of depression and seeks to eliminate the stigma related to it. Heart warming and emotional poetry which will be enjoyed by anybody but particularly those who have a similar history to Anna.
What prompted me to start writing was a change in antidepressant, which I believe stimulated the creative part of my brain (the right hemisphere) that wasn’t being used before. The effect was quite dramatic and within a week of starting on the new drug I began to churn out my thoughts as poetry. I had never written anything before but what initially started out as a whim rapidly turned into something more substantial. At my peak I was composing one or two poems a day but this has now moderated and I only write when something new happens in my life that I want to document it. Anna Ballard
About the Author
I was born and brought up in the Vale of Evesham, in the heart of England. As the youngest of four children (I have three older brothers) I was some what spoiled particularly by my father.
It was after the birth of my second child that I started to have mental health problems. Firstly I was diagnosed with post-natal depression but this soon turned into clinical depression and in 2000 I suffered a 'nervous breakdown'. I was sectioned under the Mental Health Act and detained in hospital for many weeks.
The road to recovery has been a bumpy one but my illness is now well managed with drugs and psychological backup. My research work has been curtailed but I am still employed in a hospital environment and I get a lot of job satisfaction from helping others. Recently I have started to give back to the system from which I have taken so much by sharing my poetry with other sufferers. I hope that what I have done will enlighten and inspire you the reader.
Book Extract
I was born and brought up in the Vale of Evesham, in the heart of England. As the youngest of four children (I have three older brothers) I was somewhat spoiled particularly by my father. However, as the youngest I spent my childhood striving to keep up with my siblings and this nurtured a very competitive spirit within me.
In consequence at school this spirit drove me forward and I became a high achiever gaining straight A grades at both O and A level. I was also very fortunate in that I was athletic. To begin with I was a fine swimmer and tennis player reaching county standard in both but when the swimming started to wane I transferred my efforts into canoeing. The village in which I lived had its own canoe club and the opportunities were there for the taking. My canoeing career spanned almost 20 years and I represented my country at four World Championships with my best result being 12th place. Sadly I don’t canoe anymore, except recreationally, but in order to satisfy my competitiveness I still play tennis two or three times a week.
During all these years in competitive sport I continued with my academic studies. I attended the University of Birmingham reading Biochemistry and was awarded a 1st Class honours degree followed by my PhD. I also gained two scholarships and received the RT Jones Prize which is awarded to a first year undergraduate who is outstanding in scholarship, personality and contribution to the life of the University as a whole. After University I spent the next 12 years doing medical research mainly looking at mutant strains of Hepatitis B. Again I was very successful as demonstrated by the 15 papers published during that time.
Since 1980 I have been supported by my husband who is himself a canoeing Olympian and who now joins me on the tennis courts. We have two children aged 13 and 10 and we live in a rural area just outside Lichfield to the north of Birmingham.
It was after the birth of my second child that I started to have mental health problems. Firstly I was diagnosed with post natal depression but this soon turned into clinical depression and in 2000 I suffered what you would call a “nervous breakdown”. At the time the children were young and demanding plus I was commuting everyday to Nottingham to carry out my research. Eventually something had to give and it was me. I was “sectioned” under the Mental Health Act and detained in hospital for many weeks.
The road to recovery has been a bumpy one but my illness is now well managed with drugs and psychological backup. My research work has been curtailed but I am still employed in a hospital environment and I get a lot of job satisfaction from helping others. Recently I have started to give back to the system from which I have taken so much by sharing the poetry in this book with other people, particularly with those whose lives are touched by mental illness. I hope that what I have done will enlighten and inspire you the reader in the future.
The take home message is one of hope in that for all sufferers of mental illness there is always the possibility of recovery. Of course this may involve taking medication and altering one’s perspective of life but eventually a way forward will be found. The poems I have written illustrate how recovery has happened for me and I would like to think that by writing down my experiences I may help others overcome their problems too.
£12.00
Living With Depression
By Anna Ballard
ISBN: 978-1-84747-008-9
Published: 2006
Pages: 226
Key Themes: depression, poetry
Description
This insightful book takes you on a journey through the feelings of mental health sufferers on the long road to recovery. Anna provides an emotive understanding of depression and seeks to eliminate the stigma related to it. Heart warming and emotional poetry which will be enjoyed by anybody but particularly those who have a similar history to Anna.
What prompted me to start writing was a change in antidepressant, which I believe stimulated the creative part of my brain (the right hemisphere) that wasn’t being used before. The effect was quite dramatic and within a week of starting on the new drug I began to churn out my thoughts as poetry. I had never written anything before but what initially started out as a whim rapidly turned into something more substantial. At my peak I was composing one or two poems a day but this has now moderated and I only write when something new happens in my life that I want to document it. Anna Ballard
About the Author
I was born and brought up in the Vale of Evesham, in the heart of England. As the youngest of four children (I have three older brothers) I was some what spoiled particularly by my father.
It was after the birth of my second child that I started to have mental health problems. Firstly I was diagnosed with post-natal depression but this soon turned into clinical depression and in 2000 I suffered a 'nervous breakdown'. I was sectioned under the Mental Health Act and detained in hospital for many weeks.
The road to recovery has been a bumpy one but my illness is now well managed with drugs and psychological backup. My research work has been curtailed but I am still employed in a hospital environment and I get a lot of job satisfaction from helping others. Recently I have started to give back to the system from which I have taken so much by sharing my poetry with other sufferers. I hope that what I have done will enlighten and inspire you the reader.
Book Extract
I was born and brought up in the Vale of Evesham, in the heart of England. As the youngest of four children (I have three older brothers) I was somewhat spoiled particularly by my father. However, as the youngest I spent my childhood striving to keep up with my siblings and this nurtured a very competitive spirit within me.
In consequence at school this spirit drove me forward and I became a high achiever gaining straight A grades at both O and A level. I was also very fortunate in that I was athletic. To begin with I was a fine swimmer and tennis player reaching county standard in both but when the swimming started to wane I transferred my efforts into canoeing. The village in which I lived had its own canoe club and the opportunities were there for the taking. My canoeing career spanned almost 20 years and I represented my country at four World Championships with my best result being 12th place. Sadly I don’t canoe anymore, except recreationally, but in order to satisfy my competitiveness I still play tennis two or three times a week.
During all these years in competitive sport I continued with my academic studies. I attended the University of Birmingham reading Biochemistry and was awarded a 1st Class honours degree followed by my PhD. I also gained two scholarships and received the RT Jones Prize which is awarded to a first year undergraduate who is outstanding in scholarship, personality and contribution to the life of the University as a whole. After University I spent the next 12 years doing medical research mainly looking at mutant strains of Hepatitis B. Again I was very successful as demonstrated by the 15 papers published during that time.
Since 1980 I have been supported by my husband who is himself a canoeing Olympian and who now joins me on the tennis courts. We have two children aged 13 and 10 and we live in a rural area just outside Lichfield to the north of Birmingham.
It was after the birth of my second child that I started to have mental health problems. Firstly I was diagnosed with post natal depression but this soon turned into clinical depression and in 2000 I suffered what you would call a “nervous breakdown”. At the time the children were young and demanding plus I was commuting everyday to Nottingham to carry out my research. Eventually something had to give and it was me. I was “sectioned” under the Mental Health Act and detained in hospital for many weeks.
The road to recovery has been a bumpy one but my illness is now well managed with drugs and psychological backup. My research work has been curtailed but I am still employed in a hospital environment and I get a lot of job satisfaction from helping others. Recently I have started to give back to the system from which I have taken so much by sharing the poetry in this book with other people, particularly with those whose lives are touched by mental illness. I hope that what I have done will enlighten and inspire you the reader in the future.
The take home message is one of hope in that for all sufferers of mental illness there is always the possibility of recovery. Of course this may involve taking medication and altering one’s perspective of life but eventually a way forward will be found. The poems I have written illustrate how recovery has happened for me and I would like to think that by writing down my experiences I may help others overcome their problems too.
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.
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