Cage The
£12.00
By Geoff O'Callaghan
ISBN: 978-1-84747-396-7
Published: 2007
Pages: 94
Key Themes: self-harm, mental health services, recovery, Australian author, abuse, fiction
Description
After World War 2 it took a long time to get rid of authoritarian attitudes. In Australia, children were often victims of officially sponsored violence. There were several scandals - the so-called 'Stolen Generation'whereaboriginal children who were taken from their parents. 'Child Migration' schemes meant that orphan children were imported and sent to abusive institutions.
The discovery that many underprivileged children were being fostered into abusive homes and the fact that neglected, disturbed, and delinquent children were being treated in brutal reformatories were a shock to the nation of Australia. State governments have had to set aside hundreds of millions of dollars to pay compensation to those who survived. It is difficult to believe the intense cruelty that was meted out to these young boys.
'The Cage' is the fictional story of two such juvenile detention institutions. They didn't reform kids, they created the some of the most vicious criminals in Australia. This book describes how many of the children committed suicide, went insane, or became serial killers. This is a very strong and, at times, disturbing book which, despite being a work of fiction, exposes the state-sponsored criminal abuse of an entire generation.
About the Author
Geoff was born in Jersey, then under German occupation, during World War II. Soon after the war, his family moved to Brisbane, Australia. He was educated at All Souls’ School, Charters Towers – a rather traditional boarding school after the English style. He had a way with words, and was a skilled debater.
After secondary school Geoff took to teaching, graduated, and then obtained a post-graduate diploma in Aboriginal Education. For the next thirty years, he lived with remote aborigines in the Great Western Desert, firstly as a primary school teacher, and later as a School Principal and Administrator. During this time, he took up writing, mostly short stories and film scripts. It was a good way to while away the lonely hours of the desert evenings.
Returning to the Northern Territory, Geoff was asked to write 13 episodes of 'The Jabiru Trail' for the North Australian Film Corporation, and created the initial stories for 'Police Rescue'. He also wrote 'Extinct, but Going Home'. Retiring from Government service, he founded 'Young Actors World' to teach kids to act for commercials and feature films. He also took up advertising and ran “Top End Fliers” – one of the largest advertising distributors in the Northern Territory.
Diabetes and Heart surgery made Geoff retire from active life, and he settled in the mountain town of Stanthorpe, Queensland, where he lives quietly writing science fiction and film scripts for teens and young adults.
Geoff has a long-term interest in child welfare and has fought hard to get decent facilities built for them juvenile prisoners across Australia. He remains a committed advocate for children’s’ rights. His stories, which are often rather gritty, are often based on fact.
Book Extract
I came back to consciousness lying on a blanket. A group of men stood around me and lifted me to a stretcher. I closed my eyes and tried hard to get back to the land of black silence. The ceiling moved over my head as I was wheeled along the corridor. I tried to move, but nothing happened. Everything was turning inside out, and I felt completely weird. I couldn’t speak or call out. Everything I looked at with my left eye was bright and shining with a halo of light, while my right eye saw things normally. Later, I found out that I’d had a minor stroke. Sick bay was not an option, so they transferred me to the town’s hospital. They didn’t want to take me from the institution, but they had no choice.
Showing posts with label recovery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label recovery. Show all posts
Friday, 21 September 2007
Breaking Down and Poetry By Maureen Oliver
By Maureen Oliver
ISBN: 978-1-84747-121-5
Published: 2007
Pages: 129
Key Themes: poetry, schizophrenia, activism
Description
This is a collection of Maureen's first two books - 'Breaking Down' & 'Poetry', both first published as e-books and now available for the first time in paperback.
Breaking Down
'Breaking Down' is the personal record of a 'psychotic' breakdown. The author was, at the time, a single mother and lesbian activist campaigning vigorously for gay rights. She faithfully recorded her visions and voices, and the diary shows her desperate attempt to make sense of, and to survive, mental disintegration and schizophrenia.
Poetry
This inspiring collection of poems was written over a twenty-five year period and documents the experiences and thoughts of Maureen during this most tumultuous period of her life. Her poems are warm and her language elegant. In the new genre of 'mad poetry' this is a key collection, written by one of its main exponents.
About the Author
Maureen Oliver is a lesbian artist and poet, a mother and grandmother, and a psychiatric survivor with a current diagnosis of Schizoaffective Disorder.
Book Extracts
Breaking Down
I keep arriving at the FIRE. Voices urge me to enter it - say I must enter it - that I am already starting to go into it. I stand in the enclosed space of the tunnel, surrounded by damp, dripping rocks. I am naked and vulnerable - the fire burns before me up into the darkness, across the pathway. Its flames are blue-green tipped, orange at centre, the pathway to one side slips away to bottomless depths where I feel dark water flows - the other side is the solid rock - I can see the pathway continuing on the other side winding on and on, twisting slightly - far in the distance is turquoise light - a black, eye-like sun blinks through a tiny opening - golden rays - like shining lashes radiate from it. I am cold - the fire does not give off warmth - I am icy-cold, ice burning in the darkness.
Voices: 'You see what you've done Maureen?'
What have I done? I don't see at all.
'You can't see us but we are here, we can read your thoughts'. These voices usually come from behind me. When I hear them I am also (usually) experiencing a numb sensation spreading from the right side of my head to the right side in the front of the face - forehead, cheekbones. Also a floating sensation and a sense of unreality? Though the world presses in on me - hyper-real.
It occurs to me later - Maureen is me/Anu - is she also me (my second name is Ann). Marina? My Grandad used to call me something like that when I was a child. So Marina and Anu are related to my own being/participate in/are connected to me/my life/my experience. The balance holds as long as Maureen has control most of the time, which she does at present/if Anu or Marina took over, if Maureen became less it would be a DISASTER. Marina is connected to the girl in the enclosed cavern who cries out naked and alone in the room without doors.
They placed me in the fire - chanting, taunting me. I was consumed by the fire. Then I was not Anu - or Maureen - I was in a vacuum. The vacuum was in me. It was utter, outer darkness. I had consciousness without existence. I was emptiness, nothingness, the void. It was terrible. It went on and on - timeless, spaceless, formless. It was hard to come to. I was in my body without feeling my body for a long time. When I first came back I was Marina - weak and afraid. I aroused disgust in S (note: my partner at that time) Now I feel true solitude and the edge of icy despair.
I try to get through my work and be fully tuned into the material plane. It is difficult. Doctor Aru says I should go back on major tranquillizers. What shit! This is surely no way to solve the problems. Should I try to find a counsellor? Is there a way through and out of the tunnel? Sussanah was clearly a gateway. Since she left me, cold and empty and sad, I have not been there so often. I still feel its pull and I have been called back by unseen forces.
I am concentrating to stay on the material plane - but am not working as well as before. I have to find some healing to make me strong and able to work well again - people expect it of me - it is my Karma to help and heal others yet this battle of my soul makes it all so difficult. Part of me wants to find a physical cause. I am having blood tests. I was beaten by the police on a demonstration 3 weeks ago and still can't straighten my left leg.
I feel a clear passage of white light from Heaven through me to the earth below. Energy returns to me- I must use it rightly.
Within me is the Spirit of Hecate - Goddess of Darkness and the Moon. The ancient priestess - death, rebirth and regeneration.
My foolish enemies were moths flying into a candle flame. A new direction awaits me - and the Ace of Swords. I must follow this pathway of my spirit and learn to loosen the ties of temporal power.
If I must go alone then Blessed Be.
Towards the end of last nights ACT UP - my mind kept going completely blank - embarrassing and difficult. I feel as though I'm slipping, sliding, trying to climb a glacier. Last Thursday I was arrested on an ACT UP demonstration - held three hours in Bow Street cells - I felt faint and dizzy. I wasn't allowed a drink of tea or to see a doctor. I was charged with obstruction.
The illness I suffered before hangs like some dread curtain in my mind. Also, I mentioned to some ACT UP women that I had been on a 'psyche ward' and caught looks of horror. I told Dennis (co-worker and friend) and he said they would automatically fear unreliability. But haven't I proved my reliability over and over again? Must I be judged for this illness and found guilty? I have vowed not to hide it in the same way I vowed not to hide being gay. But the punishment and prejudice are everywhere. I didn't do anything bad, or wicked or irresponsible. I was ILL. I hate the new idea that there's no such thing as mental illness because it makes us out to be wanton, bad people.
Having received the Talisman from Kevin (Quiveen) note: my brother, have now comprehended something VITAL. ISIS my goddess! The Bright Fertile Mother who contains the DARK MOTHER also...represents a perfect balance of spiritual manifestation. He has linked the Talisman with my NAME - Maureen - linking me to the spiritual forces implied. DARK PURPLE (I see purples and reds). Later, I got so carried away with this feeling of POWER that I was rushing around on a DIFFERENT DIMENSION to people - I'd dressed in PURPLE and put on RED lipstick (purples and reds)...
I am still trying to work...
Poetry
Little Boy Blue,
sighs and shining eyes,
stirring coffee and pining –
‘Oh secret sadness, oh tragedy,’
could I help him? Oh motherly me.
‘Let me talk to you, so sweet and kind,
so helpful, so nice, let me show you my mind.’
Oh charming, oh sad, emotionally pure,
you might think him sensitive,
you may well be wrong.
Oh, motherly ladies from Whitby to Poole
are waiting the visit of Little Boy Blue.
The ladies who understand sad little boys
are wanting to comfort him, offer him toys.
You might think him an angel,
you may be deluded.
The ladies who offered this cherub their all
are lying to husbands, some in the grave,
some knotted in strait jackets –
but the comfort they gave!
Some have taken to drink, some in therapy,
some gave him their money, some just offered tea.
Oh kindly ladies from Whitby to Poole
don’t give him sweeties, don’t warm him in bed,
don’t talk with him, offer him spiritual aid.
Your heart will be emptied, your soul will be raped –
for he swallows them whole, he digests them all,
those kind, helpful ladies from Whitby to Poole.
Trust
Trust, they tell me
is what I need.
‘Trust me, trust us and
we will pour oil on those
wounds, we will heal your pain,
if you only trust in us.’
The mask seems golden,
the smile benign,
light plays around the hollows
of the eyes,
russet shadows flicker lovingly
across cheekbones, and
I am enticed, almost under a spell.
Faltering, trusting, I reveal my secrets,
like some damned dance of the Seven Veils
in Hell, till, vulnerable in my innocence
I observe with horror that
dark lies and rude cruelty now
stain the welcoming visage, and,v at the portal of Hades, I hesitate,
turn back to retrace my steps, but
flight is impossible for
he holds the seeds
of my soul in his palm – and
now winningly,
the therapist smiles –
showing his teeth.
ISBN: 978-1-84747-121-5
Published: 2007
Pages: 129
Key Themes: poetry, schizophrenia, activism
Description
This is a collection of Maureen's first two books - 'Breaking Down' & 'Poetry', both first published as e-books and now available for the first time in paperback.
Breaking Down
'Breaking Down' is the personal record of a 'psychotic' breakdown. The author was, at the time, a single mother and lesbian activist campaigning vigorously for gay rights. She faithfully recorded her visions and voices, and the diary shows her desperate attempt to make sense of, and to survive, mental disintegration and schizophrenia.
Poetry
This inspiring collection of poems was written over a twenty-five year period and documents the experiences and thoughts of Maureen during this most tumultuous period of her life. Her poems are warm and her language elegant. In the new genre of 'mad poetry' this is a key collection, written by one of its main exponents.
About the Author
Maureen Oliver is a lesbian artist and poet, a mother and grandmother, and a psychiatric survivor with a current diagnosis of Schizoaffective Disorder.
Book Extracts
Breaking Down
I keep arriving at the FIRE. Voices urge me to enter it - say I must enter it - that I am already starting to go into it. I stand in the enclosed space of the tunnel, surrounded by damp, dripping rocks. I am naked and vulnerable - the fire burns before me up into the darkness, across the pathway. Its flames are blue-green tipped, orange at centre, the pathway to one side slips away to bottomless depths where I feel dark water flows - the other side is the solid rock - I can see the pathway continuing on the other side winding on and on, twisting slightly - far in the distance is turquoise light - a black, eye-like sun blinks through a tiny opening - golden rays - like shining lashes radiate from it. I am cold - the fire does not give off warmth - I am icy-cold, ice burning in the darkness.
Voices: 'You see what you've done Maureen?'
What have I done? I don't see at all.
'You can't see us but we are here, we can read your thoughts'. These voices usually come from behind me. When I hear them I am also (usually) experiencing a numb sensation spreading from the right side of my head to the right side in the front of the face - forehead, cheekbones. Also a floating sensation and a sense of unreality? Though the world presses in on me - hyper-real.
It occurs to me later - Maureen is me/Anu - is she also me (my second name is Ann). Marina? My Grandad used to call me something like that when I was a child. So Marina and Anu are related to my own being/participate in/are connected to me/my life/my experience. The balance holds as long as Maureen has control most of the time, which she does at present/if Anu or Marina took over, if Maureen became less it would be a DISASTER. Marina is connected to the girl in the enclosed cavern who cries out naked and alone in the room without doors.
They placed me in the fire - chanting, taunting me. I was consumed by the fire. Then I was not Anu - or Maureen - I was in a vacuum. The vacuum was in me. It was utter, outer darkness. I had consciousness without existence. I was emptiness, nothingness, the void. It was terrible. It went on and on - timeless, spaceless, formless. It was hard to come to. I was in my body without feeling my body for a long time. When I first came back I was Marina - weak and afraid. I aroused disgust in S (note: my partner at that time) Now I feel true solitude and the edge of icy despair.
I try to get through my work and be fully tuned into the material plane. It is difficult. Doctor Aru says I should go back on major tranquillizers. What shit! This is surely no way to solve the problems. Should I try to find a counsellor? Is there a way through and out of the tunnel? Sussanah was clearly a gateway. Since she left me, cold and empty and sad, I have not been there so often. I still feel its pull and I have been called back by unseen forces.
I am concentrating to stay on the material plane - but am not working as well as before. I have to find some healing to make me strong and able to work well again - people expect it of me - it is my Karma to help and heal others yet this battle of my soul makes it all so difficult. Part of me wants to find a physical cause. I am having blood tests. I was beaten by the police on a demonstration 3 weeks ago and still can't straighten my left leg.
I feel a clear passage of white light from Heaven through me to the earth below. Energy returns to me- I must use it rightly.
Within me is the Spirit of Hecate - Goddess of Darkness and the Moon. The ancient priestess - death, rebirth and regeneration.
My foolish enemies were moths flying into a candle flame. A new direction awaits me - and the Ace of Swords. I must follow this pathway of my spirit and learn to loosen the ties of temporal power.
If I must go alone then Blessed Be.
Towards the end of last nights ACT UP - my mind kept going completely blank - embarrassing and difficult. I feel as though I'm slipping, sliding, trying to climb a glacier. Last Thursday I was arrested on an ACT UP demonstration - held three hours in Bow Street cells - I felt faint and dizzy. I wasn't allowed a drink of tea or to see a doctor. I was charged with obstruction.
The illness I suffered before hangs like some dread curtain in my mind. Also, I mentioned to some ACT UP women that I had been on a 'psyche ward' and caught looks of horror. I told Dennis (co-worker and friend) and he said they would automatically fear unreliability. But haven't I proved my reliability over and over again? Must I be judged for this illness and found guilty? I have vowed not to hide it in the same way I vowed not to hide being gay. But the punishment and prejudice are everywhere. I didn't do anything bad, or wicked or irresponsible. I was ILL. I hate the new idea that there's no such thing as mental illness because it makes us out to be wanton, bad people.
Having received the Talisman from Kevin (Quiveen) note: my brother, have now comprehended something VITAL. ISIS my goddess! The Bright Fertile Mother who contains the DARK MOTHER also...represents a perfect balance of spiritual manifestation. He has linked the Talisman with my NAME - Maureen - linking me to the spiritual forces implied. DARK PURPLE (I see purples and reds). Later, I got so carried away with this feeling of POWER that I was rushing around on a DIFFERENT DIMENSION to people - I'd dressed in PURPLE and put on RED lipstick (purples and reds)...
I am still trying to work...
Poetry
Little Boy Blue,
sighs and shining eyes,
stirring coffee and pining –
‘Oh secret sadness, oh tragedy,’
could I help him? Oh motherly me.
‘Let me talk to you, so sweet and kind,
so helpful, so nice, let me show you my mind.’
Oh charming, oh sad, emotionally pure,
you might think him sensitive,
you may well be wrong.
Oh, motherly ladies from Whitby to Poole
are waiting the visit of Little Boy Blue.
The ladies who understand sad little boys
are wanting to comfort him, offer him toys.
You might think him an angel,
you may be deluded.
The ladies who offered this cherub their all
are lying to husbands, some in the grave,
some knotted in strait jackets –
but the comfort they gave!
Some have taken to drink, some in therapy,
some gave him their money, some just offered tea.
Oh kindly ladies from Whitby to Poole
don’t give him sweeties, don’t warm him in bed,
don’t talk with him, offer him spiritual aid.
Your heart will be emptied, your soul will be raped –
for he swallows them whole, he digests them all,
those kind, helpful ladies from Whitby to Poole.
Trust
Trust, they tell me
is what I need.
‘Trust me, trust us and
we will pour oil on those
wounds, we will heal your pain,
if you only trust in us.’
The mask seems golden,
the smile benign,
light plays around the hollows
of the eyes,
russet shadows flicker lovingly
across cheekbones, and
I am enticed, almost under a spell.
Faltering, trusting, I reveal my secrets,
like some damned dance of the Seven Veils
in Hell, till, vulnerable in my innocence
I observe with horror that
dark lies and rude cruelty now
stain the welcoming visage, and,v at the portal of Hades, I hesitate,
turn back to retrace my steps, but
flight is impossible for
he holds the seeds
of my soul in his palm – and
now winningly,
the therapist smiles –
showing his teeth.
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?
A Smoker's and Dog's Guide to the Gal-Alexy
A Smoker's and Dog's Guide to the Gal-Alexy
£12.00
A Year of random thoughts which lead me from insanity to sanity and back again.
By Bess Howard McPherson
ISBN: 978-1-84747-183-3
Published: 2007
Pages: 90
Key Themes: mania, psychosis, spirituality
Description
Bess Howard McPherson brings us her thoughts in this explosive and intimate biography. Bess' experiences as a sufferer of mental illness, a life as a physic and a divorcee are all included in this testimony. This is a classic Chipmunka book; full of humour, emotion and alternative ideas.
About the Author
The beauty of being a psychic is that one is never alone. My channel is usually extremely overcrowded and hectic. Sometimes I can't help wishing that those dear people who have 'passed' would give me some peace for my own thoughts! I needed medication in order to live with my husband who, with hindsight, I consider to be completely insane. I also needed medication to help me survive the war zone that was my divorce.
Book Extract
Bewdley Town Centre needs an avenging angel, but it's not me. Being selfish is usually quite a nasty criticism. However, if we need to be selfish in order to achieve something that is going to benefit others in the long run, then we should be as selfish as we like. If and when my book gets published, I would like it to be a book of home truths that will be an inspiration to others.
The Christmas card debate: every year I think about the pros and cons of sending millions of cards at Christmas. The conclusion I have reached this year is that if we enjoy writing cards, then they're a good thing. If they're like some boring chore, then we shouldn't bother. For me personally I like writing cards, because it is an opportunity for me to express my love for people. I shall certainly be sending Christmas cards this year.
I've always wondered why God made so many flies. One possible thought is that 'Blue Arsed Flies' make us realise we're not the only ones rushing around achieving absolutely nothing.
I believe I have all the tricks of the trade to teach my family how to have some fun. Yesterday was such a black day I found it impossible to work on my book. The row between my husband and I had reached its apex and we managed to send each other to hell.
I'm not afraid of superstition, even though I don't understand it. I think we're less afraid of anything we've grown up with. I must be careful of naming people in my book, because I would never want to become a 'Kiss and Tell'. It seems that people who are mentally ill suffer fewer physical problems. A bad man is scary, but an unintentionally bad woman is terrifying. My book is going so well I think I may need a bigger desk. God allows us to judge ourselves through our consciences. We have no greater judge than ourselves.
£12.00
A Year of random thoughts which lead me from insanity to sanity and back again.
By Bess Howard McPherson
ISBN: 978-1-84747-183-3
Published: 2007
Pages: 90
Key Themes: mania, psychosis, spirituality
Description
Bess Howard McPherson brings us her thoughts in this explosive and intimate biography. Bess' experiences as a sufferer of mental illness, a life as a physic and a divorcee are all included in this testimony. This is a classic Chipmunka book; full of humour, emotion and alternative ideas.
About the Author
The beauty of being a psychic is that one is never alone. My channel is usually extremely overcrowded and hectic. Sometimes I can't help wishing that those dear people who have 'passed' would give me some peace for my own thoughts! I needed medication in order to live with my husband who, with hindsight, I consider to be completely insane. I also needed medication to help me survive the war zone that was my divorce.
Book Extract
Bewdley Town Centre needs an avenging angel, but it's not me. Being selfish is usually quite a nasty criticism. However, if we need to be selfish in order to achieve something that is going to benefit others in the long run, then we should be as selfish as we like. If and when my book gets published, I would like it to be a book of home truths that will be an inspiration to others.
The Christmas card debate: every year I think about the pros and cons of sending millions of cards at Christmas. The conclusion I have reached this year is that if we enjoy writing cards, then they're a good thing. If they're like some boring chore, then we shouldn't bother. For me personally I like writing cards, because it is an opportunity for me to express my love for people. I shall certainly be sending Christmas cards this year.
I've always wondered why God made so many flies. One possible thought is that 'Blue Arsed Flies' make us realise we're not the only ones rushing around achieving absolutely nothing.
I believe I have all the tricks of the trade to teach my family how to have some fun. Yesterday was such a black day I found it impossible to work on my book. The row between my husband and I had reached its apex and we managed to send each other to hell.
I'm not afraid of superstition, even though I don't understand it. I think we're less afraid of anything we've grown up with. I must be careful of naming people in my book, because I would never want to become a 'Kiss and Tell'. It seems that people who are mentally ill suffer fewer physical problems. A bad man is scary, but an unintentionally bad woman is terrifying. My book is going so well I think I may need a bigger desk. God allows us to judge ourselves through our consciences. We have no greater judge than ourselves.
A Life Worth Living by Marie Berger
A Life Worth Living
£12.00
By Marie Berger
ISBN: 978-1-84747-188-8
Published: 2007
Pages: 123
Key Themes: borderline personality disorder,
Description
This immensely reflective and emotional book deals with the difficulties faced by a person suffering from borderline personality disorder. BPD is often thought of as the most severe of the most common mental illnesses and is considered by some to be untreatable. This book replaces much of the myths surrounding this illness with cold, hard facts and as such is a very important and profound read.
About the Author
Marie Berger was born in May 1945 in Reading, Berkshire. She trained to become a teacher and is also a qualified masseuse. She is now an author by profession and lives with her husband and her children in Lincoln. She is fond of travelling, foreign languages, pastel drawing and of course her writing.
Book Extract
Declaring my sins in another language feels easier. A short break in an attractive town on the French coast provides a brief respite from the overwhelming negativity inside my head.
On impulse I’ve wandered into a church, found a priest willing to hear my Confession. A modern-minded priest who wears no collar and has dispensed with the traditional confessional box. We sit facing each other across a table.
I reel off a list of offences against a God I’m not even sure I believe in. The priest gives me absolution, asks me about myself, my life. I refer briefly to my unhappy childhood, my rigid, often-harsh religious upbringing, my present emotional problems. He listens sympathetically. Daringly, I say I’ve only occasionally attended Mass in recent years.
“Which means I’m doomed to Hell when I die, aren’t I?” I challenge him. “God loves you, He is not there to punish you.” His tone is kindly.
“So that wasn’t a mortal sin?” The priest smiles, shakes his head. I stare at him, amazed. I’d expected a sermon on the evil of my ways.
“You’re the first priest not to condemn my actions. But I think I’ve lost my faith, I don’t know if there is a God or where to find Him.” “He’s inside you,” the priest answers with conviction. I remind him that he’s not given me the usual penance for my sins.
“When you are sitting beside the sea today just say thank you to God,” he says gently. What, no Our Fathers, no Hail Marys, no act of retribution for my offences? I thank him profusely. Already I’m feeling better. I walk out into the bright sunshine feeling an inner warmth, an unaccustomed sense of well-being.
*
The vast expanse of beautifully kept lawns looks welcoming. Today represents my last possibility of therapy. At almost sixty years old I’m running out of options. I feel irritable, sick, intensely nervous. I haven’t slept properly for a week.
I’m being ushered along an expensively carpeted corridor to an office. A friendly-looking man introduces himself as the psychiatrist. His handshake is firm, warm. He invites me to sit, begins by asking about my problems. Suddenly my carefully rehearsed words disappear. I can hardly concentrate on what he’s asking or on how I’m responding. I’m talking about the past, trying to show how I came to be in the mess I’m in today. I explain that my natural mother breastfed me for three months before fostering me out eight times. She finally realized she couldn’t keep her nine-month-old baby. I tell him bitterly that Mummy and Daddy adopted me as a “pet” for their own daughter, Rita. I refer to my happy early years with Mummy, describe how things went terribly wrong when I started school, when I was not completely under her control. Suddenly nothing I did was right; I could never match up to Rita. I want him to understand the extent of my efforts to please her, my desperation to become exactly like my sister so that Mummy and Daddy would find me as lovable. I feel shame wash over me as I tell him about Mummy’s scornful reaction.
I talk about the awful beatings from Daddy which resulted in a neighbour threatening to call the NSPCC, my pleading with her not to and vowing inwardly she would never again hear my cries.
I’m lost in the past.
“Did he hit ever you again?” The psychiatrist asks. “I don’t remember. But I knew, despite everything, that Daddy truly loved me. I was never sure if Mummy did since she continued to tell me how stupid and worthless I was. She always ignored my tears, my pain, my unhappiness.”
I feel like crying.
I tell him about my compulsion to be perfect, to become like the saints the nuns at school always talked about. I confide my horrible fear of hurting Christ by, as we were told, banging the nails further into his hands and feet on the cross whenever we were naughty. I recall Evelyn’s funeral, when our class had to watch our ten-year-old classmate being buried and then were told, “Now, Evelyn was a good girl - but what if it had been one of you…?”
The psychiatrist is listening intently. “How do you see your problems now?”
“I feel empty, self-destructive. I dislike everything about myself.”
I mention my life-threatening overdose, little over a year ago, an action I deeply regret, the memory of it so raw it makes talking difficult.
“There are still times that I want to destroy myself. Only the thought of this dreadful legacy for my family holds me back.”
He looks thoughtful. “I think our type of therapy will suit you.”
Relief spreads through me.
“Four months should do it.”
I’m astounded. They can turn my life around in four months? Perhaps miracles do happen!
Our interview over, he takes me to the dining room where I’m introduced to some of the residents. The food is good, the residents and staff friendly. One of the residents shows me round. Each room has its own en suite. If I could forget the reason I’m here I could easily imagine that this tastefully decorated, airy, spacious building is a five star hotel. During the drive home I silently carry out endless tortuous post-mortems.
“Most people stay for eight months so I don’t know why they’re thinking of throwing me out after four.” “You’re being negative again,” my husband sighs. But, if the psychiatrist is right, in a few months he’ll see a changed wife - one he’ll scarcely recognize!
£12.00
By Marie Berger
ISBN: 978-1-84747-188-8
Published: 2007
Pages: 123
Key Themes: borderline personality disorder,
Description
This immensely reflective and emotional book deals with the difficulties faced by a person suffering from borderline personality disorder. BPD is often thought of as the most severe of the most common mental illnesses and is considered by some to be untreatable. This book replaces much of the myths surrounding this illness with cold, hard facts and as such is a very important and profound read.
About the Author
Marie Berger was born in May 1945 in Reading, Berkshire. She trained to become a teacher and is also a qualified masseuse. She is now an author by profession and lives with her husband and her children in Lincoln. She is fond of travelling, foreign languages, pastel drawing and of course her writing.
Book Extract
Declaring my sins in another language feels easier. A short break in an attractive town on the French coast provides a brief respite from the overwhelming negativity inside my head.
On impulse I’ve wandered into a church, found a priest willing to hear my Confession. A modern-minded priest who wears no collar and has dispensed with the traditional confessional box. We sit facing each other across a table.
I reel off a list of offences against a God I’m not even sure I believe in. The priest gives me absolution, asks me about myself, my life. I refer briefly to my unhappy childhood, my rigid, often-harsh religious upbringing, my present emotional problems. He listens sympathetically. Daringly, I say I’ve only occasionally attended Mass in recent years.
“Which means I’m doomed to Hell when I die, aren’t I?” I challenge him. “God loves you, He is not there to punish you.” His tone is kindly.
“So that wasn’t a mortal sin?” The priest smiles, shakes his head. I stare at him, amazed. I’d expected a sermon on the evil of my ways.
“You’re the first priest not to condemn my actions. But I think I’ve lost my faith, I don’t know if there is a God or where to find Him.” “He’s inside you,” the priest answers with conviction. I remind him that he’s not given me the usual penance for my sins.
“When you are sitting beside the sea today just say thank you to God,” he says gently. What, no Our Fathers, no Hail Marys, no act of retribution for my offences? I thank him profusely. Already I’m feeling better. I walk out into the bright sunshine feeling an inner warmth, an unaccustomed sense of well-being.
*
The vast expanse of beautifully kept lawns looks welcoming. Today represents my last possibility of therapy. At almost sixty years old I’m running out of options. I feel irritable, sick, intensely nervous. I haven’t slept properly for a week.
I’m being ushered along an expensively carpeted corridor to an office. A friendly-looking man introduces himself as the psychiatrist. His handshake is firm, warm. He invites me to sit, begins by asking about my problems. Suddenly my carefully rehearsed words disappear. I can hardly concentrate on what he’s asking or on how I’m responding. I’m talking about the past, trying to show how I came to be in the mess I’m in today. I explain that my natural mother breastfed me for three months before fostering me out eight times. She finally realized she couldn’t keep her nine-month-old baby. I tell him bitterly that Mummy and Daddy adopted me as a “pet” for their own daughter, Rita. I refer to my happy early years with Mummy, describe how things went terribly wrong when I started school, when I was not completely under her control. Suddenly nothing I did was right; I could never match up to Rita. I want him to understand the extent of my efforts to please her, my desperation to become exactly like my sister so that Mummy and Daddy would find me as lovable. I feel shame wash over me as I tell him about Mummy’s scornful reaction.
I talk about the awful beatings from Daddy which resulted in a neighbour threatening to call the NSPCC, my pleading with her not to and vowing inwardly she would never again hear my cries.
I’m lost in the past.
“Did he hit ever you again?” The psychiatrist asks. “I don’t remember. But I knew, despite everything, that Daddy truly loved me. I was never sure if Mummy did since she continued to tell me how stupid and worthless I was. She always ignored my tears, my pain, my unhappiness.”
I feel like crying.
I tell him about my compulsion to be perfect, to become like the saints the nuns at school always talked about. I confide my horrible fear of hurting Christ by, as we were told, banging the nails further into his hands and feet on the cross whenever we were naughty. I recall Evelyn’s funeral, when our class had to watch our ten-year-old classmate being buried and then were told, “Now, Evelyn was a good girl - but what if it had been one of you…?”
The psychiatrist is listening intently. “How do you see your problems now?”
“I feel empty, self-destructive. I dislike everything about myself.”
I mention my life-threatening overdose, little over a year ago, an action I deeply regret, the memory of it so raw it makes talking difficult.
“There are still times that I want to destroy myself. Only the thought of this dreadful legacy for my family holds me back.”
He looks thoughtful. “I think our type of therapy will suit you.”
Relief spreads through me.
“Four months should do it.”
I’m astounded. They can turn my life around in four months? Perhaps miracles do happen!
Our interview over, he takes me to the dining room where I’m introduced to some of the residents. The food is good, the residents and staff friendly. One of the residents shows me round. Each room has its own en suite. If I could forget the reason I’m here I could easily imagine that this tastefully decorated, airy, spacious building is a five star hotel. During the drive home I silently carry out endless tortuous post-mortems.
“Most people stay for eight months so I don’t know why they’re thinking of throwing me out after four.” “You’re being negative again,” my husband sighs. But, if the psychiatrist is right, in a few months he’ll see a changed wife - one he’ll scarcely recognize!
A Collection of My Thoughts by Anna Ballard
A Collection of My Thoughts
£12.00
Living With Depression
By Anna Ballard
ISBN: 978-1-84747-008-9
Published: 2006
Pages: 226
Key Themes: depression, poetry
Description
This insightful book takes you on a journey through the feelings of mental health sufferers on the long road to recovery. Anna provides an emotive understanding of depression and seeks to eliminate the stigma related to it. Heart warming and emotional poetry which will be enjoyed by anybody but particularly those who have a similar history to Anna.
What prompted me to start writing was a change in antidepressant, which I believe stimulated the creative part of my brain (the right hemisphere) that wasn’t being used before. The effect was quite dramatic and within a week of starting on the new drug I began to churn out my thoughts as poetry. I had never written anything before but what initially started out as a whim rapidly turned into something more substantial. At my peak I was composing one or two poems a day but this has now moderated and I only write when something new happens in my life that I want to document it. Anna Ballard
About the Author
I was born and brought up in the Vale of Evesham, in the heart of England. As the youngest of four children (I have three older brothers) I was some what spoiled particularly by my father.
It was after the birth of my second child that I started to have mental health problems. Firstly I was diagnosed with post-natal depression but this soon turned into clinical depression and in 2000 I suffered a 'nervous breakdown'. I was sectioned under the Mental Health Act and detained in hospital for many weeks.
The road to recovery has been a bumpy one but my illness is now well managed with drugs and psychological backup. My research work has been curtailed but I am still employed in a hospital environment and I get a lot of job satisfaction from helping others. Recently I have started to give back to the system from which I have taken so much by sharing my poetry with other sufferers. I hope that what I have done will enlighten and inspire you the reader.
Book Extract
I was born and brought up in the Vale of Evesham, in the heart of England. As the youngest of four children (I have three older brothers) I was somewhat spoiled particularly by my father. However, as the youngest I spent my childhood striving to keep up with my siblings and this nurtured a very competitive spirit within me.
In consequence at school this spirit drove me forward and I became a high achiever gaining straight A grades at both O and A level. I was also very fortunate in that I was athletic. To begin with I was a fine swimmer and tennis player reaching county standard in both but when the swimming started to wane I transferred my efforts into canoeing. The village in which I lived had its own canoe club and the opportunities were there for the taking. My canoeing career spanned almost 20 years and I represented my country at four World Championships with my best result being 12th place. Sadly I don’t canoe anymore, except recreationally, but in order to satisfy my competitiveness I still play tennis two or three times a week.
During all these years in competitive sport I continued with my academic studies. I attended the University of Birmingham reading Biochemistry and was awarded a 1st Class honours degree followed by my PhD. I also gained two scholarships and received the RT Jones Prize which is awarded to a first year undergraduate who is outstanding in scholarship, personality and contribution to the life of the University as a whole. After University I spent the next 12 years doing medical research mainly looking at mutant strains of Hepatitis B. Again I was very successful as demonstrated by the 15 papers published during that time.
Since 1980 I have been supported by my husband who is himself a canoeing Olympian and who now joins me on the tennis courts. We have two children aged 13 and 10 and we live in a rural area just outside Lichfield to the north of Birmingham.
It was after the birth of my second child that I started to have mental health problems. Firstly I was diagnosed with post natal depression but this soon turned into clinical depression and in 2000 I suffered what you would call a “nervous breakdown”. At the time the children were young and demanding plus I was commuting everyday to Nottingham to carry out my research. Eventually something had to give and it was me. I was “sectioned” under the Mental Health Act and detained in hospital for many weeks.
The road to recovery has been a bumpy one but my illness is now well managed with drugs and psychological backup. My research work has been curtailed but I am still employed in a hospital environment and I get a lot of job satisfaction from helping others. Recently I have started to give back to the system from which I have taken so much by sharing the poetry in this book with other people, particularly with those whose lives are touched by mental illness. I hope that what I have done will enlighten and inspire you the reader in the future.
The take home message is one of hope in that for all sufferers of mental illness there is always the possibility of recovery. Of course this may involve taking medication and altering one’s perspective of life but eventually a way forward will be found. The poems I have written illustrate how recovery has happened for me and I would like to think that by writing down my experiences I may help others overcome their problems too.
£12.00
Living With Depression
By Anna Ballard
ISBN: 978-1-84747-008-9
Published: 2006
Pages: 226
Key Themes: depression, poetry
Description
This insightful book takes you on a journey through the feelings of mental health sufferers on the long road to recovery. Anna provides an emotive understanding of depression and seeks to eliminate the stigma related to it. Heart warming and emotional poetry which will be enjoyed by anybody but particularly those who have a similar history to Anna.
What prompted me to start writing was a change in antidepressant, which I believe stimulated the creative part of my brain (the right hemisphere) that wasn’t being used before. The effect was quite dramatic and within a week of starting on the new drug I began to churn out my thoughts as poetry. I had never written anything before but what initially started out as a whim rapidly turned into something more substantial. At my peak I was composing one or two poems a day but this has now moderated and I only write when something new happens in my life that I want to document it. Anna Ballard
About the Author
I was born and brought up in the Vale of Evesham, in the heart of England. As the youngest of four children (I have three older brothers) I was some what spoiled particularly by my father.
It was after the birth of my second child that I started to have mental health problems. Firstly I was diagnosed with post-natal depression but this soon turned into clinical depression and in 2000 I suffered a 'nervous breakdown'. I was sectioned under the Mental Health Act and detained in hospital for many weeks.
The road to recovery has been a bumpy one but my illness is now well managed with drugs and psychological backup. My research work has been curtailed but I am still employed in a hospital environment and I get a lot of job satisfaction from helping others. Recently I have started to give back to the system from which I have taken so much by sharing my poetry with other sufferers. I hope that what I have done will enlighten and inspire you the reader.
Book Extract
I was born and brought up in the Vale of Evesham, in the heart of England. As the youngest of four children (I have three older brothers) I was somewhat spoiled particularly by my father. However, as the youngest I spent my childhood striving to keep up with my siblings and this nurtured a very competitive spirit within me.
In consequence at school this spirit drove me forward and I became a high achiever gaining straight A grades at both O and A level. I was also very fortunate in that I was athletic. To begin with I was a fine swimmer and tennis player reaching county standard in both but when the swimming started to wane I transferred my efforts into canoeing. The village in which I lived had its own canoe club and the opportunities were there for the taking. My canoeing career spanned almost 20 years and I represented my country at four World Championships with my best result being 12th place. Sadly I don’t canoe anymore, except recreationally, but in order to satisfy my competitiveness I still play tennis two or three times a week.
During all these years in competitive sport I continued with my academic studies. I attended the University of Birmingham reading Biochemistry and was awarded a 1st Class honours degree followed by my PhD. I also gained two scholarships and received the RT Jones Prize which is awarded to a first year undergraduate who is outstanding in scholarship, personality and contribution to the life of the University as a whole. After University I spent the next 12 years doing medical research mainly looking at mutant strains of Hepatitis B. Again I was very successful as demonstrated by the 15 papers published during that time.
Since 1980 I have been supported by my husband who is himself a canoeing Olympian and who now joins me on the tennis courts. We have two children aged 13 and 10 and we live in a rural area just outside Lichfield to the north of Birmingham.
It was after the birth of my second child that I started to have mental health problems. Firstly I was diagnosed with post natal depression but this soon turned into clinical depression and in 2000 I suffered what you would call a “nervous breakdown”. At the time the children were young and demanding plus I was commuting everyday to Nottingham to carry out my research. Eventually something had to give and it was me. I was “sectioned” under the Mental Health Act and detained in hospital for many weeks.
The road to recovery has been a bumpy one but my illness is now well managed with drugs and psychological backup. My research work has been curtailed but I am still employed in a hospital environment and I get a lot of job satisfaction from helping others. Recently I have started to give back to the system from which I have taken so much by sharing the poetry in this book with other people, particularly with those whose lives are touched by mental illness. I hope that what I have done will enlighten and inspire you the reader in the future.
The take home message is one of hope in that for all sufferers of mental illness there is always the possibility of recovery. Of course this may involve taking medication and altering one’s perspective of life but eventually a way forward will be found. The poems I have written illustrate how recovery has happened for me and I would like to think that by writing down my experiences I may help others overcome their problems too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)