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 mental health. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mental health. Show all posts
Friday, 21 September 2007
BIG DICK, little dick By Stephen Broughton
BIG DICK, little dick
£12.00
By Stephen Broughton
ISBN: 978-1-84747-079-9
Published: 2007
Pages: 236
Key Themes: humour, suicidal thoughts, abuse
"Can someone be broken and yet 'whole' at the same time? Is it possible to live in the light and at the same time suffer torment in the darkest pitch? Stephen Broughton proves that we can; that human endurance, intelligence and a natural God-given talent for empathising with others can set us free. The damaged child can own his pain, integrate it, live, learn and love." - Anni Meehan, Biodynamic Therapist
"Unsparing yet never self-pitying, he recalls what went wrong and how he has set about rescuing himself. His account is absorbing, sometimes wryly funny, and wonderfully evocative. Inspiring, too - the child he wanted to be was destroyed but Broughton was not". - Shaun Usher, broadcaster, writer & critic.
Description
Very funny, very sad, very moving and very strange - this is the book of one man's journey of discovery seeing mental ill health as a gift, rather than a curse. In this book Stephen attempts to understand his own dreams and suicidal thoughts on the way to meeting the man he should have been - little dick. While it was his alter-ego BIG DICK who survived an upbringing with a narcisstic mother and a disinterested Father. An honest and endearing book on schizophrenia, this is a worthy addition to the new genre of 'mad' literature.
About the Author
Author Stephen has been a trustee of his local MIND group for nearly 20 years and has had suicide as his Plan B for as long as he can remember. He presents 'Thought for the Day' on BBC local radio, sings in a choir and runs marathons very slowly. Stephen is a Solicitor, often described by clients as 'not like a real solicitor' which he takes as a great compliment. Most of his friends seem to be mad as well.
Book Extract
We all dream and we probably dream every night. But have you wondered why we only remember some of the dreams and the others are consigned to some cerebral recycle bin? And why we sometimes have the same dream over and over again. I have had, for so long as I have known, a dream where I suddenly discover that I have a house. A tiny derelict house with an over grown garden.
Hidden away with no proper path to it. And when I look at the house I see that there's so much work to be done to make it into a place to live that I know it’s beyond me and that makes me very sad. And there's another dream where I've killed someone a long time ago and nobody but me knows and I'm afraid that someone will some day find out the terrible thing that I have done. And I wake up believing the dream is true not knowing how I can live with myself having done the terrible thing that I have done. So this book is about how I found out about the person I might have killed and how I first found and then set about rebuilding the house that was nothing but an empty shell with a gaping hole in the roof.
And have you ever wondered why we have the memories of our childhood that we have? Sometimes trivial every day memories. Like a video running in our mind which never got erased by the other trivial every day memories that we record each day. I have always remembered as if it was yesterday, the day when a white van drew up outside our house and a man in a white coat got out. Our dog was a corgi we called Lightie. The man came into our living room. Lightie was behind the sofa and he picked her up in his arms and took her away. And I never knew why I remembered that so well. Many years later when I had gone past the age they call middle age I told my mother about that memory. She was amazed at what I said because she said I could only have been about 12 months at the time. I had just started to walk and the dog was getting old and no longer as reliable as it needed to be with a toddler around.
£12.00
By Stephen Broughton
ISBN: 978-1-84747-079-9
Published: 2007
Pages: 236
Key Themes: humour, suicidal thoughts, abuse
"Can someone be broken and yet 'whole' at the same time? Is it possible to live in the light and at the same time suffer torment in the darkest pitch? Stephen Broughton proves that we can; that human endurance, intelligence and a natural God-given talent for empathising with others can set us free. The damaged child can own his pain, integrate it, live, learn and love." - Anni Meehan, Biodynamic Therapist
"Unsparing yet never self-pitying, he recalls what went wrong and how he has set about rescuing himself. His account is absorbing, sometimes wryly funny, and wonderfully evocative. Inspiring, too - the child he wanted to be was destroyed but Broughton was not". - Shaun Usher, broadcaster, writer & critic.
Description
Very funny, very sad, very moving and very strange - this is the book of one man's journey of discovery seeing mental ill health as a gift, rather than a curse. In this book Stephen attempts to understand his own dreams and suicidal thoughts on the way to meeting the man he should have been - little dick. While it was his alter-ego BIG DICK who survived an upbringing with a narcisstic mother and a disinterested Father. An honest and endearing book on schizophrenia, this is a worthy addition to the new genre of 'mad' literature.
About the Author
Author Stephen has been a trustee of his local MIND group for nearly 20 years and has had suicide as his Plan B for as long as he can remember. He presents 'Thought for the Day' on BBC local radio, sings in a choir and runs marathons very slowly. Stephen is a Solicitor, often described by clients as 'not like a real solicitor' which he takes as a great compliment. Most of his friends seem to be mad as well.
Book Extract
We all dream and we probably dream every night. But have you wondered why we only remember some of the dreams and the others are consigned to some cerebral recycle bin? And why we sometimes have the same dream over and over again. I have had, for so long as I have known, a dream where I suddenly discover that I have a house. A tiny derelict house with an over grown garden.
Hidden away with no proper path to it. And when I look at the house I see that there's so much work to be done to make it into a place to live that I know it’s beyond me and that makes me very sad. And there's another dream where I've killed someone a long time ago and nobody but me knows and I'm afraid that someone will some day find out the terrible thing that I have done. And I wake up believing the dream is true not knowing how I can live with myself having done the terrible thing that I have done. So this book is about how I found out about the person I might have killed and how I first found and then set about rebuilding the house that was nothing but an empty shell with a gaping hole in the roof.
And have you ever wondered why we have the memories of our childhood that we have? Sometimes trivial every day memories. Like a video running in our mind which never got erased by the other trivial every day memories that we record each day. I have always remembered as if it was yesterday, the day when a white van drew up outside our house and a man in a white coat got out. Our dog was a corgi we called Lightie. The man came into our living room. Lightie was behind the sofa and he picked her up in his arms and took her away. And I never knew why I remembered that so well. Many years later when I had gone past the age they call middle age I told my mother about that memory. She was amazed at what I said because she said I could only have been about 12 months at the time. I had just started to walk and the dog was getting old and no longer as reliable as it needed to be with a toddler around.
Bi-Polar Expedition By Neil Walton
Bi-Polar Expedition
£12.00
By Neil Walton
ISBN: 978-1-84747-123-9
Published: 2007
Pages: 220
Key Themes: bi-polar disorder, manic depression, suicidal thoughts, alcoholism
Description
With this book about severe bi-polar disorder, Neil Walton gives the reader a real insight into what it is like to live with this common, yet misunderstood and often seriously debilitating illness. Neil's life has been something of a journey of self-realisation and enlightenment, a bi-polar expedition indeed! Neil's story reflects his many experiences; from struggling with drink to numerous nervous breakdowns and problems with family and relationships. This is a book which will appeal to many but in particular to those who have had similar experiences to Neil's. A book that will help people come to terms with their illness, as Neil has. A book that could save lives!
About the Author
After my second breakdown, a friend of mine said casually one afternoon, "Why don't you write a book about your experiences, it might help people in the same situation as yourself." I dismissed the idea as ludicrous saying "who would be interested in a book by me?" I didn't read books, much less write them, and besides my spelling and punctuation were crap! Three years later, after my fourth nervous breakdown, my friend's suggestion came to the fore. I began jotting down notes. Three months later, after reading over my notes, I saw the possibilities of a short book.
I took the idea to my Occupational Therapist (OT) and waited for fits of raucous laughter. Amazingly she approved. I couldn't believe anybody would actually take me seriously. I joined an editorial team called 'Equilibrium,' which produces a quarterly newsletter covering mental health issues in the Haringey, London area. On my first day there I tentatively mentioned my book about being diagnosed with bi-polar to the facilitator, Julia Bard. I sat back in my chair and waited for a pat on the head, followed by a bout of uncontrollable apoplexy. Julia's concise reply was "That's a great idea, strong subject too." She asked me to bring in my work so that the team could edit it and use it in our next edition. Well slap me with a four-pound trout!! That was the first time my scribblings had been described as work. That was May 1999.
In the summer of 2001, I passed my GCSE English Language exams with C and B grades. Not bad for a forty-three year old manic depressive!!
My book, 'Bi-polar Expedition' turned out to be much bigger than I had imagined it would be, I sincerely hope you find it useful.
Book Extract
I had been on the missing list for sometime; ignoring the phone, the door and the outside world. My mind and body had taken such a battering over the past three years, (1986-89) and I just couldn't take it any more. I didn’t have the energy for conversation. My brain was on overload and my body was paralysed and lethargic. I had turned into an introvert, the direct opposite of my usual character. My arms and legs were like lead and I felt bone cold, as if my core temperature was lower than any body else's. Add to that a poor diet and a feeling of utter worthlessness; I was a sorry example of a human being.
I had a loop-tape of losses and problems to come relentlessly playing in my head. The only thing that stopped this tape was sleep - the next step was obvious. I was at breaking point. If I could have laid my hands on a gun... I might not be here now. Only a fellow sufferer or a specialist would understand the mental pain I was experiencing. I found a scalpel blade in my toolbox and went into my bedroom closing the door behind me. I gazed at the sterilised Swan & Morton for hours on end, the loop-tape still playing. I slept most of the time. But there were those awful four to six hours spent awake, going over and over the reasons for ending my life. Why was this happening to me? What had I done to deserve this treatment from life? The answer of course was nothing.
I began nicking at the skin on my left arm just to test the pain factor. With a brand new blade it was quite painless. Then I cut deeper into my arm making seven to eight cuts between my forearm and biceps. I watched as my blood pumped from the wounds. I laid there in a cold sweat as it trickled down my arm and soaked into the duvet cover. Sometime later, I reached for my lighter and cigarettes which were on the bedside cabinet. I was momentarily prevented as the duvet cover was firmly stuck to my forearm with congealed blood. As I pulled it away from my arm, it opened four of the cuts I had inflicted on myself. I remember thinking that this wasn’t going to be easy. The pain was so severe that I had to stop and think of an alternative way to end it all. The options seemed endless at the time. What about an overdose of paracetamol? How many would I have to take? If I could have been sure that I would have just gone to sleep and not woken up to being resuscitated, I might have chosen that option. As it was, I continued questioning each form of suicide but had no answers - looking back it probably saved me. My lethargy was so painfully strong that I couldn’t find the energy to drag myself to the chemist, only a hundred feet from my front door. I drank a glass of water, lit another cigarette and laid there wondering what to do next.
I thought long and hard about my sons, Jack and Daniel, who I think played a key factor of my survival. How could I even think of leaving them fatherless? I felt so selfish and yet in so much pain. Suicide or death in general seems so unfair. You die and everybody who knows you suffers in one way or another. What a dilemma, what a guilt trip, as if I didn’t feel bad enough already. I went back to sleep with thoughts of my parents, children and close friends on my mind.
I came to in the early hours of the morning, with tears streaming down my face I said out loud, “Oh Christ no, not another day, why can’t I just die in my sleep?” You see the tape kicks in the second you’re conscious. Shit, shit, shit, why was I taking this out on myself? Hours later I began to pick at the tendons on my left wrist with the blade. I wondered how long it would take to die. More importantly, how painful would it be? Would my heart simply stop? Maybe my lungs would cease functioning? How was I going to breathe? As you can see my sense of logic and reasoning was out to lunch.
My indecision was getting as bad as the loop-tape. I wanted the death part but without the pain, I should be so lucky! If I slashed my wrist I would have to cut through my tendons, something I hadn’t contemplated until now. I followed a vein from my forearm to the base of my biceps with the scalpel blade. In the crease of my left arm I had a bigger target and no visible tendons. All I had to do now was push the blade in. I stabbed either side of the vein. Forty-eight hours later I was still deliberating about my attempted suicide.
I heard the third dawn chorus - you wouldn’t believe the row those bloody birds made first thing in the morning. My next stop was going to be my garage, quiet and dark all the time - perfect. I guess I had it in mind to starve my self to death. If that were the case why was I contemplating taking bottles of water with me? Probably to keep my mouth and throat lubricated as I am a heavy smoker. So, with a supply of H20 and as many fags as I could carry, this being my only source of nutrition in the last seventy-two hours, the next task would have been to haul the mattress off of my bed and dump it in the garage. But I was so weak I couldn’t shift it off the bed. Let alone pull it down two flights of stairs and drag it across the car park. It has been said that to take your life is the coward’s way out. Yeah, bollocks it is!
What caused my suicide attempt was a catalogue of disasters one after another over a three-year period. They plunged me slowly and painfully into clinical depression. I was powerless to stop it and the last person to know I was ill.
After three days I eventually answered the door. It was Bill, a close friend and school mate of mine. “We’ve been concerned about you mate, so has your Mum, nobody has heard from you in a while, we just wondered if you were all right?” “Yeah, sorry mate,” I replied. “I’m okay, I just feel a bit tired that’s all apart from that I’m fine.” I tried to make small talk to mask my real feelings but Bill saw through this like a glass book.
I couldn’t keep up the pretence any longer. The smile disappeared from my face and my head fell forward into my hands. I showed him my arm. “Why am I doing this to myself Bill?” He was very calm about the situation. “You’ve had a lot of stress in the last three years, things that were out of your control. Basically it’s affected your health.”
Bill’s mother-in-law had been in the nursing profession for over twenty years and saw my break-down coming. It was she who advised Bill on how to help me I later found out. The advice was simple. Without too much fuss, get Neil to his doctor, he is suffering from clinical depression. Bill’s words to me were, “I think we should make a trip to the quacks, what do you reckon?” “I know I’m not a hundred percent,” I said, “but is it really that serious?” He just shut his eyes and nodded a couple of times. Pre-empting my answer Bill had already phoned my GP - they were just waiting for us to arrive. “Could you take me?” I asked. “The car’s outside mate,” he said. “What, today? … What, now?” “When you’re ready,” he replied.
Bill was the sort of friend you could trust with your life. For him to be worried about me I knew I had to put my faith, what was left of it, in his judgement. I made another pot of tea, the British thing to do in a situation like this. I sat down to let the information sink in, not realising just how life-altering this visit to the doctor’s was going to be.
When we arrived at the surgery the receptionist showed us straight into my doctor’s room. She asked me some questions relating to diet, sleep pattern and motivation. My reply to all three was just one word, “Poor.” The final question from my doctor, knowing in my heart it was rhetorical, was the hardest, shortest and the most painful I have ever had to answer. There was a terrible, sickening silence after she said the words “Have you tried to harm yourself in anyway?” “Yes,” I said quietly. After that I don’t remember speaking any more. I was mentally exhausted and overwhelmed with emotion. I had to let Bill take over the proceedings. He asked my GP what the next step was. Doctor Gibbon replied, “I think it would be best for Neil to see Dr. Gadhvi, the head psychiatrist at Claybury Hospital. I have made an appointment for Neil to see him this afternoon. I need a second opinion. Based on his report Neil may have to go into hospital for a short time.”
Things were moving too quickly for me, with talk of head shrinks and hospitals, but I was in no fit state to argue. I was swept along with the tide after that. This was starting to feel like a sad episode of “Casualty” come to life. Karen Gibbon was a kind, caring and considerate person. She made sure I understood what was going on, without belittling me, emphasising that a stay in hospital would be probable, after my consultation with the other doctor. Family and friends had carefully planned my path towards hospital; the trip to the trick-cyclist was a mere formality.
After visiting Dr Gadhvi my fate was secured. I fell silent again. This was too much to cope with. Bill took over as my ears, eyes and brain. At the end of the consultation it was decided that I would go in hospital as a voluntary patient for a minimum of two weeks. Technically I was sectioned under the Mental Health Act, but I was informed I could leave the hospital any time I liked. Bill asked the doctor when this would happen and was told, “There will be a bed ready for him tonight. Perhaps this afternoon you could help Neil pack a bag,” Bill nodded in agreement. Christ, what do I pack? I’ve never been in hospital before, let alone a nut house. What the fuck is it going to be like in there? Of course I had a vivid picture in my mind, who wouldn’t? At this point I was petrified and powerless.
This was another situation that was totally out of my control. My life was now in other people's hands. I didn’t like it one little bit. Bill was still on hand for support, and later that evening he ferried me to the hospital. It was only a short ride, but I remained quiet for hours as I remember. Communication was down to hearing and nodding only. I didn’t have the strength for anything else.
£12.00
By Neil Walton
ISBN: 978-1-84747-123-9
Published: 2007
Pages: 220
Key Themes: bi-polar disorder, manic depression, suicidal thoughts, alcoholism
Description
With this book about severe bi-polar disorder, Neil Walton gives the reader a real insight into what it is like to live with this common, yet misunderstood and often seriously debilitating illness. Neil's life has been something of a journey of self-realisation and enlightenment, a bi-polar expedition indeed! Neil's story reflects his many experiences; from struggling with drink to numerous nervous breakdowns and problems with family and relationships. This is a book which will appeal to many but in particular to those who have had similar experiences to Neil's. A book that will help people come to terms with their illness, as Neil has. A book that could save lives!
About the Author
After my second breakdown, a friend of mine said casually one afternoon, "Why don't you write a book about your experiences, it might help people in the same situation as yourself." I dismissed the idea as ludicrous saying "who would be interested in a book by me?" I didn't read books, much less write them, and besides my spelling and punctuation were crap! Three years later, after my fourth nervous breakdown, my friend's suggestion came to the fore. I began jotting down notes. Three months later, after reading over my notes, I saw the possibilities of a short book.
I took the idea to my Occupational Therapist (OT) and waited for fits of raucous laughter. Amazingly she approved. I couldn't believe anybody would actually take me seriously. I joined an editorial team called 'Equilibrium,' which produces a quarterly newsletter covering mental health issues in the Haringey, London area. On my first day there I tentatively mentioned my book about being diagnosed with bi-polar to the facilitator, Julia Bard. I sat back in my chair and waited for a pat on the head, followed by a bout of uncontrollable apoplexy. Julia's concise reply was "That's a great idea, strong subject too." She asked me to bring in my work so that the team could edit it and use it in our next edition. Well slap me with a four-pound trout!! That was the first time my scribblings had been described as work. That was May 1999.
In the summer of 2001, I passed my GCSE English Language exams with C and B grades. Not bad for a forty-three year old manic depressive!!
My book, 'Bi-polar Expedition' turned out to be much bigger than I had imagined it would be, I sincerely hope you find it useful.
Book Extract
I had been on the missing list for sometime; ignoring the phone, the door and the outside world. My mind and body had taken such a battering over the past three years, (1986-89) and I just couldn't take it any more. I didn’t have the energy for conversation. My brain was on overload and my body was paralysed and lethargic. I had turned into an introvert, the direct opposite of my usual character. My arms and legs were like lead and I felt bone cold, as if my core temperature was lower than any body else's. Add to that a poor diet and a feeling of utter worthlessness; I was a sorry example of a human being.
I had a loop-tape of losses and problems to come relentlessly playing in my head. The only thing that stopped this tape was sleep - the next step was obvious. I was at breaking point. If I could have laid my hands on a gun... I might not be here now. Only a fellow sufferer or a specialist would understand the mental pain I was experiencing. I found a scalpel blade in my toolbox and went into my bedroom closing the door behind me. I gazed at the sterilised Swan & Morton for hours on end, the loop-tape still playing. I slept most of the time. But there were those awful four to six hours spent awake, going over and over the reasons for ending my life. Why was this happening to me? What had I done to deserve this treatment from life? The answer of course was nothing.
I began nicking at the skin on my left arm just to test the pain factor. With a brand new blade it was quite painless. Then I cut deeper into my arm making seven to eight cuts between my forearm and biceps. I watched as my blood pumped from the wounds. I laid there in a cold sweat as it trickled down my arm and soaked into the duvet cover. Sometime later, I reached for my lighter and cigarettes which were on the bedside cabinet. I was momentarily prevented as the duvet cover was firmly stuck to my forearm with congealed blood. As I pulled it away from my arm, it opened four of the cuts I had inflicted on myself. I remember thinking that this wasn’t going to be easy. The pain was so severe that I had to stop and think of an alternative way to end it all. The options seemed endless at the time. What about an overdose of paracetamol? How many would I have to take? If I could have been sure that I would have just gone to sleep and not woken up to being resuscitated, I might have chosen that option. As it was, I continued questioning each form of suicide but had no answers - looking back it probably saved me. My lethargy was so painfully strong that I couldn’t find the energy to drag myself to the chemist, only a hundred feet from my front door. I drank a glass of water, lit another cigarette and laid there wondering what to do next.
I thought long and hard about my sons, Jack and Daniel, who I think played a key factor of my survival. How could I even think of leaving them fatherless? I felt so selfish and yet in so much pain. Suicide or death in general seems so unfair. You die and everybody who knows you suffers in one way or another. What a dilemma, what a guilt trip, as if I didn’t feel bad enough already. I went back to sleep with thoughts of my parents, children and close friends on my mind.
I came to in the early hours of the morning, with tears streaming down my face I said out loud, “Oh Christ no, not another day, why can’t I just die in my sleep?” You see the tape kicks in the second you’re conscious. Shit, shit, shit, why was I taking this out on myself? Hours later I began to pick at the tendons on my left wrist with the blade. I wondered how long it would take to die. More importantly, how painful would it be? Would my heart simply stop? Maybe my lungs would cease functioning? How was I going to breathe? As you can see my sense of logic and reasoning was out to lunch.
My indecision was getting as bad as the loop-tape. I wanted the death part but without the pain, I should be so lucky! If I slashed my wrist I would have to cut through my tendons, something I hadn’t contemplated until now. I followed a vein from my forearm to the base of my biceps with the scalpel blade. In the crease of my left arm I had a bigger target and no visible tendons. All I had to do now was push the blade in. I stabbed either side of the vein. Forty-eight hours later I was still deliberating about my attempted suicide.
I heard the third dawn chorus - you wouldn’t believe the row those bloody birds made first thing in the morning. My next stop was going to be my garage, quiet and dark all the time - perfect. I guess I had it in mind to starve my self to death. If that were the case why was I contemplating taking bottles of water with me? Probably to keep my mouth and throat lubricated as I am a heavy smoker. So, with a supply of H20 and as many fags as I could carry, this being my only source of nutrition in the last seventy-two hours, the next task would have been to haul the mattress off of my bed and dump it in the garage. But I was so weak I couldn’t shift it off the bed. Let alone pull it down two flights of stairs and drag it across the car park. It has been said that to take your life is the coward’s way out. Yeah, bollocks it is!
What caused my suicide attempt was a catalogue of disasters one after another over a three-year period. They plunged me slowly and painfully into clinical depression. I was powerless to stop it and the last person to know I was ill.
After three days I eventually answered the door. It was Bill, a close friend and school mate of mine. “We’ve been concerned about you mate, so has your Mum, nobody has heard from you in a while, we just wondered if you were all right?” “Yeah, sorry mate,” I replied. “I’m okay, I just feel a bit tired that’s all apart from that I’m fine.” I tried to make small talk to mask my real feelings but Bill saw through this like a glass book.
I couldn’t keep up the pretence any longer. The smile disappeared from my face and my head fell forward into my hands. I showed him my arm. “Why am I doing this to myself Bill?” He was very calm about the situation. “You’ve had a lot of stress in the last three years, things that were out of your control. Basically it’s affected your health.”
Bill’s mother-in-law had been in the nursing profession for over twenty years and saw my break-down coming. It was she who advised Bill on how to help me I later found out. The advice was simple. Without too much fuss, get Neil to his doctor, he is suffering from clinical depression. Bill’s words to me were, “I think we should make a trip to the quacks, what do you reckon?” “I know I’m not a hundred percent,” I said, “but is it really that serious?” He just shut his eyes and nodded a couple of times. Pre-empting my answer Bill had already phoned my GP - they were just waiting for us to arrive. “Could you take me?” I asked. “The car’s outside mate,” he said. “What, today? … What, now?” “When you’re ready,” he replied.
Bill was the sort of friend you could trust with your life. For him to be worried about me I knew I had to put my faith, what was left of it, in his judgement. I made another pot of tea, the British thing to do in a situation like this. I sat down to let the information sink in, not realising just how life-altering this visit to the doctor’s was going to be.
When we arrived at the surgery the receptionist showed us straight into my doctor’s room. She asked me some questions relating to diet, sleep pattern and motivation. My reply to all three was just one word, “Poor.” The final question from my doctor, knowing in my heart it was rhetorical, was the hardest, shortest and the most painful I have ever had to answer. There was a terrible, sickening silence after she said the words “Have you tried to harm yourself in anyway?” “Yes,” I said quietly. After that I don’t remember speaking any more. I was mentally exhausted and overwhelmed with emotion. I had to let Bill take over the proceedings. He asked my GP what the next step was. Doctor Gibbon replied, “I think it would be best for Neil to see Dr. Gadhvi, the head psychiatrist at Claybury Hospital. I have made an appointment for Neil to see him this afternoon. I need a second opinion. Based on his report Neil may have to go into hospital for a short time.”
Things were moving too quickly for me, with talk of head shrinks and hospitals, but I was in no fit state to argue. I was swept along with the tide after that. This was starting to feel like a sad episode of “Casualty” come to life. Karen Gibbon was a kind, caring and considerate person. She made sure I understood what was going on, without belittling me, emphasising that a stay in hospital would be probable, after my consultation with the other doctor. Family and friends had carefully planned my path towards hospital; the trip to the trick-cyclist was a mere formality.
After visiting Dr Gadhvi my fate was secured. I fell silent again. This was too much to cope with. Bill took over as my ears, eyes and brain. At the end of the consultation it was decided that I would go in hospital as a voluntary patient for a minimum of two weeks. Technically I was sectioned under the Mental Health Act, but I was informed I could leave the hospital any time I liked. Bill asked the doctor when this would happen and was told, “There will be a bed ready for him tonight. Perhaps this afternoon you could help Neil pack a bag,” Bill nodded in agreement. Christ, what do I pack? I’ve never been in hospital before, let alone a nut house. What the fuck is it going to be like in there? Of course I had a vivid picture in my mind, who wouldn’t? At this point I was petrified and powerless.
This was another situation that was totally out of my control. My life was now in other people's hands. I didn’t like it one little bit. Bill was still on hand for support, and later that evening he ferried me to the hospital. It was only a short ride, but I remained quiet for hours as I remember. Communication was down to hearing and nodding only. I didn’t have the strength for anything else.
Bi-Polar Dreams By Frederic Benson
Bi-Polar Dreams
£14.99
By Frederic Benson
ISBN: 978-1-84747-164-2
Published: 2007
Pages: 230
Key Themes: bi-polar disorder, manic depression, poetry
Description
This book comprises of creative poems and coherent prose, which give you an honest insight into manic depression. This book is a very honest, real and therefore a, sometimes disturbing account of bi-polar disorder. It gives you an emotive insight into Frederick Benson's life.
About the Author
Frederic Benson has written this book as a form of empowerment. His manic depression is expressed in a frank way to give you a clearer understanding of mental illness. It is a combination of fiction and non-fiction.
Book Extract
I am the castle on the mountain,
The spire on the church,
I fly like the lightning,
Standing atop the Earth,
And with my fists I can smash through planets,
Plunging through the core,
Tearing at heat itself,
I am the fiery lightning, the electric beast,
I can paint with the stars,
And wield the sun,
Blazing through time with fire and hate,
I can build, I can destroy,
I can create, I can crush,
I can trample the Earth,
And everything in it,
I am the dragon, the demon,
The flaming eyes of God,
I see all & I know the Earth,
The world is mine in my werewolf state,
And I pine for the thorns,
As I crush the rose that dies,
I am the devil warlord,
The screaming banshee of blood,
I am the manic monster,
And the Earth is mine!
As I fly with the flame,
Up to the darkened sun filled sky,
And I fall back to Earth,
Crashing through Darkness,
Plunging through shadow,
Till I smash on the rocks below…
Then there is darkness,
The bitter light is gone,
And I am left melting,
In the stabbing acid glare of a citrus bulb,
My mind is dripping through a sieve,
What was once a tight knot is unravelling,
I can feel a damp coffin around me,
I am decaying alive.
Melting into the foul earth,
My eyes, once flame are now liquid,
Warmly dripping down my cheeks,
I am blind and cold,
The light is gone and my blood is stale,
I am the squashed insect between your fingers,
I am the miserably failed road kill,
Crushed,
Void of smiles,
Void of life,.
I slither in the mud.
My skin is leaving me,
Unshielded as the birds peck at my bloody flesh,
Trodden by the snail crusher,
Weak at the neck,
Hanging from the cliff,
Nailed to my grave,
Trapped inside my hole,
Prisoner to my mind,
Melted into darkness,
Where God is left behind,
Truly alone and abandoned to hell,
There is nothing but gloom,
And death from the well,
So crushed and beguiled,
I cry with my blood,
And then I tear myself up from the ground!
As I fly up again,
The diamond kite,
The electric firework charge, soaring through the starry bleak,
Blazing through the sky again,
Tearing the air asunder as I wail,
I am the reaper’s fiery blade,
Beautiful & crazy,
With a hunger,
For Death,
And Blood.
£14.99
By Frederic Benson
ISBN: 978-1-84747-164-2
Published: 2007
Pages: 230
Key Themes: bi-polar disorder, manic depression, poetry
Description
This book comprises of creative poems and coherent prose, which give you an honest insight into manic depression. This book is a very honest, real and therefore a, sometimes disturbing account of bi-polar disorder. It gives you an emotive insight into Frederick Benson's life.
About the Author
Frederic Benson has written this book as a form of empowerment. His manic depression is expressed in a frank way to give you a clearer understanding of mental illness. It is a combination of fiction and non-fiction.
Book Extract
I am the castle on the mountain,
The spire on the church,
I fly like the lightning,
Standing atop the Earth,
And with my fists I can smash through planets,
Plunging through the core,
Tearing at heat itself,
I am the fiery lightning, the electric beast,
I can paint with the stars,
And wield the sun,
Blazing through time with fire and hate,
I can build, I can destroy,
I can create, I can crush,
I can trample the Earth,
And everything in it,
I am the dragon, the demon,
The flaming eyes of God,
I see all & I know the Earth,
The world is mine in my werewolf state,
And I pine for the thorns,
As I crush the rose that dies,
I am the devil warlord,
The screaming banshee of blood,
I am the manic monster,
And the Earth is mine!
As I fly with the flame,
Up to the darkened sun filled sky,
And I fall back to Earth,
Crashing through Darkness,
Plunging through shadow,
Till I smash on the rocks below…
Then there is darkness,
The bitter light is gone,
And I am left melting,
In the stabbing acid glare of a citrus bulb,
My mind is dripping through a sieve,
What was once a tight knot is unravelling,
I can feel a damp coffin around me,
I am decaying alive.
Melting into the foul earth,
My eyes, once flame are now liquid,
Warmly dripping down my cheeks,
I am blind and cold,
The light is gone and my blood is stale,
I am the squashed insect between your fingers,
I am the miserably failed road kill,
Crushed,
Void of smiles,
Void of life,.
I slither in the mud.
My skin is leaving me,
Unshielded as the birds peck at my bloody flesh,
Trodden by the snail crusher,
Weak at the neck,
Hanging from the cliff,
Nailed to my grave,
Trapped inside my hole,
Prisoner to my mind,
Melted into darkness,
Where God is left behind,
Truly alone and abandoned to hell,
There is nothing but gloom,
And death from the well,
So crushed and beguiled,
I cry with my blood,
And then I tear myself up from the ground!
As I fly up again,
The diamond kite,
The electric firework charge, soaring through the starry bleak,
Blazing through the sky again,
Tearing the air asunder as I wail,
I am the reaper’s fiery blade,
Beautiful & crazy,
With a hunger,
For Death,
And Blood.
Ayshe, An Anatolian Tale by Fatma Durmush
Ayshe, An Anatolian Tale
£12.00
By Fatma Durmush
ISBN: 978-1-84747-171-0
Published: 2007
Pages: 81
Key Themes: schizophrenia, ethnic minorities, Islam
Description
This book started life as a short story in a children's writing group. 'Anatolian Tale' is about the backwaters of Turkey, it is a story of Ayshe growing up in Anatolia and the hardships she endures. Girls in villages in Turkey are not encouraged to read, this is a luxury which their sisters in the cities have so Ayshe rebels. Ayshe rebels to such an extent that she conquers the societal paradigm of cheap and sometimes enforced labour. Ayshe is brave and resourceful, a great charmer. This book teaches the lesson that life is bigger than we are and that life is a gift for us to treasure.
About the Author
Fatma Durmush was born in 1959; after years spent suffering from schizophrenia she has finally achieved her ambition to be gain an art degree and become a renowned artist. She will be going on to study an MA in art this year. As well as an artist and successful author, Fatma is also a play-right. She found a modest niche in America where two of her plays have been performed, one of which will soon be published in an anthology. In the UK she has been published by the Big Issue as well as in books and pamphlets. Her artwork has featured in over sixty exhibitions at, amongst others, the Tate Modern and The National Gallery.
Book Extract
In Anatolia,
there lives Ayshe.
She doesn’t go to school.
More than anything, she wants to.
Weaving carpets has made her eyesight dim.
Weave and stretch,
make and go into patterns,
Ayshe’s clothes are hand-me-downs,
patchy from too much sewing.
Her donkey is her constant companion.
She gives him sugar,
from pockets with too many commitments.
Mrs Sadiye is Ayshe’s mother.
There are ten girls, and one boy.
Ayshe mothers her sisters,
carrying them on her back.
The big pan is where they boil the nappies,
Mrs Sadiye is constantly boiling, cooking.
Her five feet nothing is a source of pride.
A woman shouldn’t be taller than her man.
Every inch on the look out for a child in trouble.
In Muslim Festival of Sacrifice they eat meat.
Which they have to be grateful for.
Eggs they get on a Friday,
From the chickens which go to the neighbours.
Mrs Sadiye has a vegetable patch which ekes out
the subsistence of the evening meal.
When the chickens go next door,
there’s an almighty row.
£12.00
By Fatma Durmush
ISBN: 978-1-84747-171-0
Published: 2007
Pages: 81
Key Themes: schizophrenia, ethnic minorities, Islam
Description
This book started life as a short story in a children's writing group. 'Anatolian Tale' is about the backwaters of Turkey, it is a story of Ayshe growing up in Anatolia and the hardships she endures. Girls in villages in Turkey are not encouraged to read, this is a luxury which their sisters in the cities have so Ayshe rebels. Ayshe rebels to such an extent that she conquers the societal paradigm of cheap and sometimes enforced labour. Ayshe is brave and resourceful, a great charmer. This book teaches the lesson that life is bigger than we are and that life is a gift for us to treasure.
About the Author
Fatma Durmush was born in 1959; after years spent suffering from schizophrenia she has finally achieved her ambition to be gain an art degree and become a renowned artist. She will be going on to study an MA in art this year. As well as an artist and successful author, Fatma is also a play-right. She found a modest niche in America where two of her plays have been performed, one of which will soon be published in an anthology. In the UK she has been published by the Big Issue as well as in books and pamphlets. Her artwork has featured in over sixty exhibitions at, amongst others, the Tate Modern and The National Gallery.
Book Extract
In Anatolia,
there lives Ayshe.
She doesn’t go to school.
More than anything, she wants to.
Weaving carpets has made her eyesight dim.
Weave and stretch,
make and go into patterns,
Ayshe’s clothes are hand-me-downs,
patchy from too much sewing.
Her donkey is her constant companion.
She gives him sugar,
from pockets with too many commitments.
Mrs Sadiye is Ayshe’s mother.
There are ten girls, and one boy.
Ayshe mothers her sisters,
carrying them on her back.
The big pan is where they boil the nappies,
Mrs Sadiye is constantly boiling, cooking.
Her five feet nothing is a source of pride.
A woman shouldn’t be taller than her man.
Every inch on the look out for a child in trouble.
In Muslim Festival of Sacrifice they eat meat.
Which they have to be grateful for.
Eggs they get on a Friday,
From the chickens which go to the neighbours.
Mrs Sadiye has a vegetable patch which ekes out
the subsistence of the evening meal.
When the chickens go next door,
there’s an almighty row.
Am I Still Laughing? By Dolly Sen
Am I Still Laughing?
£12.00
By Dolly Sen
ISBN: 978-1-905610-94-5
Published: 2006
Pages: 184
Key Themes: schizophrenia, manic depression, bi-polar disorder, abuse, self-harm, activism
"An epistle to equality, tolerance and the true beauty of madness. Dolly Sen's powerful personal pilgrimage to love, life and humanity again is a very intimate tale about the power of dreaming, taking control and fighting for the right to be oneself and to be equal and to be accepted" - David Morris, Senior Policy Adviser to the Mayor (Disability), Greater London Authority
Description
Dolly Sen’s second book, 'Am I Still Laughing?, is the follow up to her acclaimed memoir, 'The World is Full of Laughter'. Her first book started out as a possible suicide note and ended up as a celebration of life. The brutally honest account of living with madness has been an inspiration to readers around the world, and has positively changed many peoples’ lives. In 'Am I Still Laughing' Dolly describes her childhood with a father who was a small-time singer and actor, through him she worked as an extra on various films including the Star Wars epic, The Empire Strikes Back, until Steven Spielberg sacked her because he thought her child-breasts were too big for the part of an underfed child slave. Confused by sci-fi reality and day-to-day fiction Dolly traces her madness ‘all the way back to when I worked on The Empire Strikes Back. It wasn't a film, it was reality, and it was up to me to maintain the good and evil in the universe'.
About the Author
Author, poet and activist Dolly Sen lives in Streatham, South London. Born in 1970, she had her first psychotic experience aged 14 which lead her to leave school. After years of mental illness, probably bought on by an abusive childhood, Dolly decided she should write about her experiences. She was inspired to write her own story after reading Jason Pegler's autobiography 'A Can of Madness'. She has since written five books, become a successful performance poet who has toured throughout Europe and has set up two charities. Dolly is a key figure in the mental health movement and regularly appears on television and radio talking about mental health issues.
Book Extract
Writing has always helped me. I found it when I was 22 and it has kept me alive since then. During my worst depressions, writing gave me a reason to wake up in the morning. Would I still have carried on writing if I never was published? Of course I would. One of my favourite writers, Charles Bukowski, said of writing: ‘It is the last expectation, the last explanation, that’s what writing is’. A plain piece of paper won’t judge you, criticize you. And above all it won’t lie to you. If you can’t say what needs to be said face to face, write it down.
People with mental health problems who are able should think about either writing their story or at least telling it. Their lives shouldn’t be what they think are dirty secrets they have to hide. One woman at one of my book signings shook her head sadly and said, “I can’t, it’s too painful. And besides, nobody wants to hear it.” That’s what I thought once. I now know that to be untrue. People, men and women, young and old, rich and poor, have taken me aside after reading my book and say, sometimes with tears in their eyes, “This happened to me too… but please don’t tell anyone that it did.” This is painfully heart-rending. Because I think if you don’t share it positively, it’ll manifest somewhere else, in your body, in your relationship to others and the world. For example, it can be seen in some people’s eyes; they try to smile, but their eyes don’t believe it. Their eyes are telling their story – something about their life always will. So you might as well have some control over it.
For me creativity gave me control in a world where because of a diagnosis I had no control. A South American poet said, “Take away someone’s creativity and you take away their humanity. Give someone back their creativity, and you give back their life.” I found this to be true while writing my story, and every day after too.
Writing your life story does so much for you. It gives you opportunity to reflect, it empowers you because you have nothing to hide any more.
I made a conscious decision to let it out, to give away secrets. But it was really difficult to get it onto paper sometimes without crying; or deleting, starting again, deleting, and starting again. Some of the things I wrote I didn’t tell my family about. Most of them didn’t know about the abortion or the extent of my mental illness.
Will they reject me for what needs to be said? That did definitely cross my mind. I even made plans to leave London if things got ugly. The first to read it was Paula. When she finished it, she rang me up in tears. “Why didn’t you tell me? About the abortion and other things? Oh Dolly…” So we cried together. I was so relieved that she didn’t reject me; in fact, it made our relationship stronger. This goes with the other members of my family too. Our love got stronger. It dumbfounded me. Of course, my father won’t read it – or can’t. His memory is such that he doesn’t remember what he reads. For example, he will read the same newspaper 5 or 6 times without retaining information. And nothing can change the story he tells himself anyway. Jason was intuitively supportive, just knowing exactly the right time to encourage me. His belief in me was nothing I had from anyone in my life previously. I remember thinking this is the thing that all humans need, the thing that affects change in someone, no matter what has happened in their life before. I am forever grateful for him for that. And because of his belief in me, my self-belief developed slowly.
So I didn’t get to see much of the summer of 2002. I had spent most of it, sweating inside, writing the book. When it was finished, I felt like a new person, my skin was easier to wear. The thing I thought would be the hardest thing to do was in fact very uplifting and life-refreshing. I felt I could do anything… until I realised how much my life would now change. Being a published writer, I had to engage with people, talk to them! And talk in front of them! I was shitting myself. I wanted to go back and hide, not unwrite the book but be anonymous again. As the publication date loomed closer and closer, Jason gave me things to do to occupy myself. He needed photos for the book cover, so I got my brother Kenny to emerge from behind his computers and take some pics of me with his digital camera. “What are they for?” he asked. “Oh, they are for the cover of my new book.” “Oh right, I see.” Like it was something we did everyday. But Kenny is used to my craziness. If I said, Kenny we have to burn socks so the devil doesn’t have fossil fuel. He would have said, “Oh right, I see.”
£12.00
By Dolly Sen
ISBN: 978-1-905610-94-5
Published: 2006
Pages: 184
Key Themes: schizophrenia, manic depression, bi-polar disorder, abuse, self-harm, activism
"An epistle to equality, tolerance and the true beauty of madness. Dolly Sen's powerful personal pilgrimage to love, life and humanity again is a very intimate tale about the power of dreaming, taking control and fighting for the right to be oneself and to be equal and to be accepted" - David Morris, Senior Policy Adviser to the Mayor (Disability), Greater London Authority
Description
Dolly Sen’s second book, 'Am I Still Laughing?, is the follow up to her acclaimed memoir, 'The World is Full of Laughter'. Her first book started out as a possible suicide note and ended up as a celebration of life. The brutally honest account of living with madness has been an inspiration to readers around the world, and has positively changed many peoples’ lives. In 'Am I Still Laughing' Dolly describes her childhood with a father who was a small-time singer and actor, through him she worked as an extra on various films including the Star Wars epic, The Empire Strikes Back, until Steven Spielberg sacked her because he thought her child-breasts were too big for the part of an underfed child slave. Confused by sci-fi reality and day-to-day fiction Dolly traces her madness ‘all the way back to when I worked on The Empire Strikes Back. It wasn't a film, it was reality, and it was up to me to maintain the good and evil in the universe'.
About the Author
Author, poet and activist Dolly Sen lives in Streatham, South London. Born in 1970, she had her first psychotic experience aged 14 which lead her to leave school. After years of mental illness, probably bought on by an abusive childhood, Dolly decided she should write about her experiences. She was inspired to write her own story after reading Jason Pegler's autobiography 'A Can of Madness'. She has since written five books, become a successful performance poet who has toured throughout Europe and has set up two charities. Dolly is a key figure in the mental health movement and regularly appears on television and radio talking about mental health issues.
Book Extract
Writing has always helped me. I found it when I was 22 and it has kept me alive since then. During my worst depressions, writing gave me a reason to wake up in the morning. Would I still have carried on writing if I never was published? Of course I would. One of my favourite writers, Charles Bukowski, said of writing: ‘It is the last expectation, the last explanation, that’s what writing is’. A plain piece of paper won’t judge you, criticize you. And above all it won’t lie to you. If you can’t say what needs to be said face to face, write it down.
People with mental health problems who are able should think about either writing their story or at least telling it. Their lives shouldn’t be what they think are dirty secrets they have to hide. One woman at one of my book signings shook her head sadly and said, “I can’t, it’s too painful. And besides, nobody wants to hear it.” That’s what I thought once. I now know that to be untrue. People, men and women, young and old, rich and poor, have taken me aside after reading my book and say, sometimes with tears in their eyes, “This happened to me too… but please don’t tell anyone that it did.” This is painfully heart-rending. Because I think if you don’t share it positively, it’ll manifest somewhere else, in your body, in your relationship to others and the world. For example, it can be seen in some people’s eyes; they try to smile, but their eyes don’t believe it. Their eyes are telling their story – something about their life always will. So you might as well have some control over it.
For me creativity gave me control in a world where because of a diagnosis I had no control. A South American poet said, “Take away someone’s creativity and you take away their humanity. Give someone back their creativity, and you give back their life.” I found this to be true while writing my story, and every day after too.
Writing your life story does so much for you. It gives you opportunity to reflect, it empowers you because you have nothing to hide any more.
I made a conscious decision to let it out, to give away secrets. But it was really difficult to get it onto paper sometimes without crying; or deleting, starting again, deleting, and starting again. Some of the things I wrote I didn’t tell my family about. Most of them didn’t know about the abortion or the extent of my mental illness.
Will they reject me for what needs to be said? That did definitely cross my mind. I even made plans to leave London if things got ugly. The first to read it was Paula. When she finished it, she rang me up in tears. “Why didn’t you tell me? About the abortion and other things? Oh Dolly…” So we cried together. I was so relieved that she didn’t reject me; in fact, it made our relationship stronger. This goes with the other members of my family too. Our love got stronger. It dumbfounded me. Of course, my father won’t read it – or can’t. His memory is such that he doesn’t remember what he reads. For example, he will read the same newspaper 5 or 6 times without retaining information. And nothing can change the story he tells himself anyway. Jason was intuitively supportive, just knowing exactly the right time to encourage me. His belief in me was nothing I had from anyone in my life previously. I remember thinking this is the thing that all humans need, the thing that affects change in someone, no matter what has happened in their life before. I am forever grateful for him for that. And because of his belief in me, my self-belief developed slowly.
So I didn’t get to see much of the summer of 2002. I had spent most of it, sweating inside, writing the book. When it was finished, I felt like a new person, my skin was easier to wear. The thing I thought would be the hardest thing to do was in fact very uplifting and life-refreshing. I felt I could do anything… until I realised how much my life would now change. Being a published writer, I had to engage with people, talk to them! And talk in front of them! I was shitting myself. I wanted to go back and hide, not unwrite the book but be anonymous again. As the publication date loomed closer and closer, Jason gave me things to do to occupy myself. He needed photos for the book cover, so I got my brother Kenny to emerge from behind his computers and take some pics of me with his digital camera. “What are they for?” he asked. “Oh, they are for the cover of my new book.” “Oh right, I see.” Like it was something we did everyday. But Kenny is used to my craziness. If I said, Kenny we have to burn socks so the devil doesn’t have fossil fuel. He would have said, “Oh right, I see.”
Accidental Recklessness by Ruby Holmes
Accidental Recklessness
£12.00
By Ruby Holmes
ISBN: 978-1-84747-025-6
Published: 2006
Pages: 228
Key Themes: manic depression, bi-polar disorder
Description
With post-modern wit and pre-Raphaelite passion Ruby Holmes tells how mental illness can be survived without sacrificing the adventures of youth. This book is about mental illness, the ways in which it has manifested itself throughout Ruby's life and the extraordinary times she has had along the way.
About the Author
I am ginger and in need of therapy - the two are intrinsically linked. I love the ocean and big, big waves. Lighthouses! I love lighthouses. Toffee cheesecake with zopiclone sprinkles. Wild horses. Writing my second book and taking laziness to new levels. I miss Vancouver. I also miss California. While we're on missing places I guess I miss Kosova. Marmalade cafe in Malibu does the best breakfast in the world. Strangely I know the prices of bananas in every shop in a ten mile vicinity of home. I want to move back across the pond so I can yell 'road trip' and not drop off the top of Scotland 10 hours later. Perfection is an afternoon nap. Restlessness breeds adventure. My cat will one day take over the world. I find people in scrubs rather attractive. When hell freezes over I'm going to be busy.
Book Extract
I was in my Granddad’s chilly house in Surrey on Boxing Day, 1987. I was six-years-old and wrapped up like a pile of knitting to contain the teeth in my chattering jaws. Central heating took the form of two open fires in the draughty 1920’s detached property in the wealthiest county in England. Granddad, after years of practice, had managed to get everything into the living room that could possibly be needed so that nobody had to move more than two feet from the hearth. The toilet was upstairs and thus out of reach of the warmth but, if he knew we were coming, Granddad would fill the bath with hot water from several kettles to raise the air temperature and thaw out the loo seat. The long run up the stairs from the front room to the bathroom was something of a frosty gauntlet that, although shiver-inducing, rewarded the conqueror with a renewed appreciation for the heat from the fire that roasted the toes and pinked the cheeks upon their return. It was suggested every year that Granddad travelled to Devon and stayed with us for the festive season but this, he reiterated annually, would run the risk of the pipes bursting on account of his absence from stoking the coal fires.
This Boxing Day was typical in every way: the huge roast at lunchtime, the scones and mince pies at tea time and the gorging on chocolate tree decorations that made me hyper well past bedtime. The living room at home was a scene of a wrapping paper massacre and Granddad’s was about to become something similar. My sister Sarah, three years older and slightly calmer than I, would wind me up by hiding each of my stocking filler presents behind her back until I could guess what they were which, given that I couldn’t even see the shape of the gift, was a tad unfair. The regulatory soaps, socks and snow-shakers were strewn across the hearth as I was waited for the final present. I have always thought that, no matter how pressing the curiosity, the last present should be the biggest but Boxing Day meant the presents that were small enough to fit in the boughs of the Christmas tree. When you’re six years old it’s hard to find anything that doesn’t pale in comparison to being given your first My Little Pony Fairy Castle. But there it was…the final present…I peeled the sellotape off the corners, savouring the moment in the hope of shortening the time left of the next three hundred and sixty four days of the year. All eyes on me. And then it was over, I had in my hand a Rubics Cube. The amount of sarcasm gushing into my young mind made me breathe sharply, which in turn was interpreted as delight by those around me. ‘Thank you!!’ I gasped overcompensating for the utter disappointment at a four inch box not containing a real pony. Now I’m not sure if this is universal but I learnt the unspoken rule that one must show interest in your presents for an undesignated length of time so as to ensure you have expressed lavish amounts of gratitude, no matter how sparsely genuine it may be. So there I was. Me and a Rubics cube. Wow. Where to start? More to the point how could I discard this as soon as possible to return to the Pony Palace? Luckily my bladder thought faster than I did and graced me with the need to leave the warm spot and dash up the stairs at record breaking speeds. As I waited for nature to finish I twiddled and twisted the quadrants of the puzzle. Apparently it took most people about a year to figure it out. It took me three and a half minutes. This included one minute of staring at it, one minute of trying to wiggle the cubes into lines and the final minute and a half re-sticking on the coloured stickers that had unpeeled themselves in the steam from the kettle filled bath. I returned to the living room a genius.
Now I’d like to point out the foreboding and auspicious meaning of that story about working on a problem and then say something profoundly thought-provoking about overcoming adversity but I won’t. I was six and couldn’t have cared less how it was done just so long as I could get it out of the way and carry on with more pressing matters, such as which plastic pony to put in which plastic stable (before either or both were melted by the fire). I still believe that the Rubics cube was intended for my sister who had a longer attention span than me. In fact the only time I’d spent more than ten minutes on one activity was when Mum took the spring out of my Buckaroo and I spent a tense two hours piling things on the saddle and ears. But Sarah never had a chance. I had completed the puzzle in a flash and that was that. Now, where had I put that pony brush?
£12.00
By Ruby Holmes
ISBN: 978-1-84747-025-6
Published: 2006
Pages: 228
Key Themes: manic depression, bi-polar disorder
Description
With post-modern wit and pre-Raphaelite passion Ruby Holmes tells how mental illness can be survived without sacrificing the adventures of youth. This book is about mental illness, the ways in which it has manifested itself throughout Ruby's life and the extraordinary times she has had along the way.
About the Author
I am ginger and in need of therapy - the two are intrinsically linked. I love the ocean and big, big waves. Lighthouses! I love lighthouses. Toffee cheesecake with zopiclone sprinkles. Wild horses. Writing my second book and taking laziness to new levels. I miss Vancouver. I also miss California. While we're on missing places I guess I miss Kosova. Marmalade cafe in Malibu does the best breakfast in the world. Strangely I know the prices of bananas in every shop in a ten mile vicinity of home. I want to move back across the pond so I can yell 'road trip' and not drop off the top of Scotland 10 hours later. Perfection is an afternoon nap. Restlessness breeds adventure. My cat will one day take over the world. I find people in scrubs rather attractive. When hell freezes over I'm going to be busy.
Book Extract
I was in my Granddad’s chilly house in Surrey on Boxing Day, 1987. I was six-years-old and wrapped up like a pile of knitting to contain the teeth in my chattering jaws. Central heating took the form of two open fires in the draughty 1920’s detached property in the wealthiest county in England. Granddad, after years of practice, had managed to get everything into the living room that could possibly be needed so that nobody had to move more than two feet from the hearth. The toilet was upstairs and thus out of reach of the warmth but, if he knew we were coming, Granddad would fill the bath with hot water from several kettles to raise the air temperature and thaw out the loo seat. The long run up the stairs from the front room to the bathroom was something of a frosty gauntlet that, although shiver-inducing, rewarded the conqueror with a renewed appreciation for the heat from the fire that roasted the toes and pinked the cheeks upon their return. It was suggested every year that Granddad travelled to Devon and stayed with us for the festive season but this, he reiterated annually, would run the risk of the pipes bursting on account of his absence from stoking the coal fires.
This Boxing Day was typical in every way: the huge roast at lunchtime, the scones and mince pies at tea time and the gorging on chocolate tree decorations that made me hyper well past bedtime. The living room at home was a scene of a wrapping paper massacre and Granddad’s was about to become something similar. My sister Sarah, three years older and slightly calmer than I, would wind me up by hiding each of my stocking filler presents behind her back until I could guess what they were which, given that I couldn’t even see the shape of the gift, was a tad unfair. The regulatory soaps, socks and snow-shakers were strewn across the hearth as I was waited for the final present. I have always thought that, no matter how pressing the curiosity, the last present should be the biggest but Boxing Day meant the presents that were small enough to fit in the boughs of the Christmas tree. When you’re six years old it’s hard to find anything that doesn’t pale in comparison to being given your first My Little Pony Fairy Castle. But there it was…the final present…I peeled the sellotape off the corners, savouring the moment in the hope of shortening the time left of the next three hundred and sixty four days of the year. All eyes on me. And then it was over, I had in my hand a Rubics Cube. The amount of sarcasm gushing into my young mind made me breathe sharply, which in turn was interpreted as delight by those around me. ‘Thank you!!’ I gasped overcompensating for the utter disappointment at a four inch box not containing a real pony. Now I’m not sure if this is universal but I learnt the unspoken rule that one must show interest in your presents for an undesignated length of time so as to ensure you have expressed lavish amounts of gratitude, no matter how sparsely genuine it may be. So there I was. Me and a Rubics cube. Wow. Where to start? More to the point how could I discard this as soon as possible to return to the Pony Palace? Luckily my bladder thought faster than I did and graced me with the need to leave the warm spot and dash up the stairs at record breaking speeds. As I waited for nature to finish I twiddled and twisted the quadrants of the puzzle. Apparently it took most people about a year to figure it out. It took me three and a half minutes. This included one minute of staring at it, one minute of trying to wiggle the cubes into lines and the final minute and a half re-sticking on the coloured stickers that had unpeeled themselves in the steam from the kettle filled bath. I returned to the living room a genius.
Now I’d like to point out the foreboding and auspicious meaning of that story about working on a problem and then say something profoundly thought-provoking about overcoming adversity but I won’t. I was six and couldn’t have cared less how it was done just so long as I could get it out of the way and carry on with more pressing matters, such as which plastic pony to put in which plastic stable (before either or both were melted by the fire). I still believe that the Rubics cube was intended for my sister who had a longer attention span than me. In fact the only time I’d spent more than ten minutes on one activity was when Mum took the spring out of my Buckaroo and I spent a tense two hours piling things on the saddle and ears. But Sarah never had a chance. I had completed the puzzle in a flash and that was that. Now, where had I put that pony brush?
Abi's Story By Teferra Haile-Giorgis
Abi's Story
£12.00
By Teferra Haile-Giorgis
ISBN: 978-1-84747-009-6
Published: 2006
Pages: 124
Key Themes: suicide, ethnic minorities, post-traumatic stress disorder
Description
Written by his mother, this is the tragic story of Abi, a young man from Ethiopia who took his own life after a battle against mental illness. Abi escaped the horror of Ethiopia’s Marxist military revolution, this book provides a unique insight into the psychological trauma suffered by the victims of war. This original and extraordinarily moving book charts Abi’s life in words and pictures and attempts to make sense of his tragic death.
About the Author
Dr Teferra Haile-Giorgis is Abi's mother. This book was written by her and her family in Abi's memory. Dr Haile-Giorgis set up a trust to fund research into the psychological problems of the victims of war. Her aim is to help people in a similar position to her son. She also wants to provide more insight into this area and inform psychiatrists of this type of ‘mental illness’.
Book Extract
We never know what it feels like to be with the Good Lord where we have no more earthly care to worry about. I hope, somehow, those who have left us to be with Him can see or know that their past concerns are addressed and their wishes have been fulfilled.
What was worrying our beloved Abi at the last session in the hospital consulting room, at the royal Preston Hospital, Avondale unit where we were sitting for group discussion? I clearly remember what the Psychiatrist said, “ I am afraid your son’s case does not fit into a British Black or a British white mental illness category”. I can just remember my son abruptly getting up very angry and rushing to the door, opening it and turning towards me before walking out. I can still hear him saying “ You are wasting your time, Emamma, this people are dummies. I have repeatedly told you that they do not understand my case. I think that, if I ever get healed, I will help other victims like myself. It will only be someone like me who has been through such illness that can help those in similar circumstances”. He was not only concerned for himself but for all others in similar circumstances. He obviously had a burning desire to be in a position to help those victims of political conflict, political imprisonment, displacement and other human suffering such as escapees, like himself, from enforced conscription.
In today’s world we are told that some 20 or more wars officially or unofficially go on in different parts of the world. Therefore, there must surely be more and more Abi’s whose pain, agony and depression and other related mental health problems are not understood or dismissed by the ordinary mental health services and psychiatrists.
Abi, very unfortunately, has suddenly chosen to leave us by taking his own life. We will always feel hurt and upset and cherish his memory whenever we think how much pain, agony and suffering have caused this action. But we can still save many of them who are in his ‛category’. We, as a family, have felt committed to his cause. Within our limitation we can, at least, address his concern by setting up a Trust to help carry out research which will result in attention being given and focusing on victims of wars, political conflicts, political imprisonment, enforced conscriptions and displacement as well as any direct or indirect problems related to these situations.
Abi, who has enabled this concern to be addressed, is challenging us today. May God help us to voice his grievances, be advocates for his cause and promote ideas to challenge the mental health institutions and psychiatrists, at all levels, to listen to voices of such victims and not be dismissive as Abi’s Psychiatrists were. In his death he challenges us all today, as we set up this Trust for all the neglected and misunderstood thousands whose human rights agendas had never been addressed in any meaningful way. Abi challenges us even in his death. May God almighty let him know that even though he is gone those who have suffered like him will get a relief in the future- however few or however many. May God make Abi’s dream a reality then for him the bells will toll to congratulate him for including us in his endeavour.
£12.00
By Teferra Haile-Giorgis
ISBN: 978-1-84747-009-6
Published: 2006
Pages: 124
Key Themes: suicide, ethnic minorities, post-traumatic stress disorder
Description
Written by his mother, this is the tragic story of Abi, a young man from Ethiopia who took his own life after a battle against mental illness. Abi escaped the horror of Ethiopia’s Marxist military revolution, this book provides a unique insight into the psychological trauma suffered by the victims of war. This original and extraordinarily moving book charts Abi’s life in words and pictures and attempts to make sense of his tragic death.
About the Author
Dr Teferra Haile-Giorgis is Abi's mother. This book was written by her and her family in Abi's memory. Dr Haile-Giorgis set up a trust to fund research into the psychological problems of the victims of war. Her aim is to help people in a similar position to her son. She also wants to provide more insight into this area and inform psychiatrists of this type of ‘mental illness’.
Book Extract
We never know what it feels like to be with the Good Lord where we have no more earthly care to worry about. I hope, somehow, those who have left us to be with Him can see or know that their past concerns are addressed and their wishes have been fulfilled.
What was worrying our beloved Abi at the last session in the hospital consulting room, at the royal Preston Hospital, Avondale unit where we were sitting for group discussion? I clearly remember what the Psychiatrist said, “ I am afraid your son’s case does not fit into a British Black or a British white mental illness category”. I can just remember my son abruptly getting up very angry and rushing to the door, opening it and turning towards me before walking out. I can still hear him saying “ You are wasting your time, Emamma, this people are dummies. I have repeatedly told you that they do not understand my case. I think that, if I ever get healed, I will help other victims like myself. It will only be someone like me who has been through such illness that can help those in similar circumstances”. He was not only concerned for himself but for all others in similar circumstances. He obviously had a burning desire to be in a position to help those victims of political conflict, political imprisonment, displacement and other human suffering such as escapees, like himself, from enforced conscription.
In today’s world we are told that some 20 or more wars officially or unofficially go on in different parts of the world. Therefore, there must surely be more and more Abi’s whose pain, agony and depression and other related mental health problems are not understood or dismissed by the ordinary mental health services and psychiatrists.
Abi, very unfortunately, has suddenly chosen to leave us by taking his own life. We will always feel hurt and upset and cherish his memory whenever we think how much pain, agony and suffering have caused this action. But we can still save many of them who are in his ‛category’. We, as a family, have felt committed to his cause. Within our limitation we can, at least, address his concern by setting up a Trust to help carry out research which will result in attention being given and focusing on victims of wars, political conflicts, political imprisonment, enforced conscriptions and displacement as well as any direct or indirect problems related to these situations.
Abi, who has enabled this concern to be addressed, is challenging us today. May God help us to voice his grievances, be advocates for his cause and promote ideas to challenge the mental health institutions and psychiatrists, at all levels, to listen to voices of such victims and not be dismissive as Abi’s Psychiatrists were. In his death he challenges us all today, as we set up this Trust for all the neglected and misunderstood thousands whose human rights agendas had never been addressed in any meaningful way. Abi challenges us even in his death. May God almighty let him know that even though he is gone those who have suffered like him will get a relief in the future- however few or however many. May God make Abi’s dream a reality then for him the bells will toll to congratulate him for including us in his endeavour.
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.
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