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.
Friday, 21 September 2007
Behind A Glass Wall By Dorothy Schwarz
Behind A Glass Wall
£12.00
The Anatomy of a Suicide
By Dorothy Schwarz
ISBN: 978-1-905610-20-4
Published: 2006
Pages: 348
Key Themes: suicide, depression, grief
Description
This book is the gripping and emotional portrayal of one young woman's ultimately unsuccessful battle against chronic depression. Zoe, was Dorothy's fourth daughter, born in New Delhi in 1972. When she threw herself under a train at the age of 27 in August 2000, Zoe was suffering from deep depression following a bout of mania. After her death Dorothy found her diaries, poems and other writings which she used to build her portrait. Dorothy wants to tell her daughter's story both as a tribute to this beautiful and talented young woman, who succumbed to a terrible illness and also to chart the passage of grief for a family after suicide. Dorothy wants to help remove or lessen the stigma attached to mental illness. Zoe fought hard and long but lost the ultimate battle. Dorothy hopes that the honest account of her life may help other sufferers and their families. Zoe herself would have wanted that.
About the Author
Dorothy Schwarz was born in London in 1937. She married Walter Schwarz, a journalist, in 1956 and had six children. The family lived in many countries where Walter was stationed. Dorothy brought up the kids, taught a bit and wrote children's books and short stories. She now lives and teaches creative writing part-time in Colchester. Her main hobby, now that the nest is empty, is a growing collection of parrots and parakeets. She and Walter have written two books on ecology together, Dorothy's collection of short stories entitled 'Simple Stories about Women' were published by Iron Press in 1998.
Book Extract
PROLOGUE
After you died, we found on the top shelf in your bedroom six cardboard boxes crammed with papers in no particular order or dates, diaries in hard and soft covers, notes on loose sheets of paper, dated and undated, birthday cards and postcards, souvenirs. Business letters, bank statements, certificates won at school, medical records, letters received and letters you’d written. Maybe sent, maybe not. A box of several hundred photographs, mostly of people and animals, a few places, some of which I recognised; many I didn’t. I had no idea that you’d kept this stuff; you were such a private person. Your elder sister Habie knew. So did your friend, Kelly; I didn’t. Reading those papers brings you alive again.
You wrote two months before your sixteenth birthday:
Sunday 18th October [1987]
Woke up at 8.30. Read Lawrence’s criticism in the morning. It was a lovely day. Had lunch. …. The family was all together. The lunch was delicious. Mum & Freddie chatted in the greenhouse. Dad, Bups and me had coffee and some of my cake. We went for a walk around the reservoir. It was stunning. Two swans crossed the sunray upon the water.
I brought the horses in. Diana came. We had more of my cake and some of Dad’s bread. We talked, had tea and went to bed. It was a lovely, magical family weekend.
One month after your birthday, you wrote about your school friends:
Friday 6th January [1988]
Saw everyone again and we talked a lot. We had a really funny conversation at lunch about who was going to lose her virginity first. Everyone is either in love or going out with someone so we can talk about it a lot which is really nice and fun.
A few years later, recovered from your first breakdown and back at university, the diary entries are matter-of-fact, whom you met, what you ate, what pleased you, proud to win games of pool, happy with your friends.
At twenty-two, you wrote about them and us:
Saturday 4th May [1994]
Mylène [oldest friend] and I had a chat in the end sitting room. Zac [brother] came home. We went to Vagabonds and I asked to work there. Mylène and I had dinner at Monty’s…. We came home and watched the end of ‘Revenge’, which is unbelievably sexist. Completely happy to find Tigger purring on my bed. Nothing melodramatic – just content with your life and loving the people around you. Sunday 5th of May Mylène and I woke up late. We spent the afternoon chatting in the Peldon Rose. After dropping her at the station did some typing. … Tigger sleeping in my bed. Being close to Mum and Dad. Mylène being happy. Adnan kissing me on the cheek. Zac showing me his design projects.
Out of many entries that read, ‘chatted with Mum,’ I can’t recall whether the chats were fruitful and loving or whether we argued. And during your last illness, when we brought you back to Greenacres in the spring and you died in the summer, the first summer of the new century, during those five months you spoke little and wrote almost nothing.
You left those boxes on the top shelf in your bedroom where you knew they would be found. Your Dad believes you were too modest to think anyone would bother to examine them and we’d just throw them away. None of us would have done that. One of my oldest friends, Heather, and one of your closest friends, Kelly, came to help me. We sorted the papers into foolscap folders – in rough categories - letters, love letters, diaries, notebooks, mementos. We didn’t keep every single birthday card and postcard (there were hundreds). Although it hurts to see your handwriting, I have no qualms about reading your diaries and letters or even publishing parts of them. You did not die in a fit of florid madness or rage; you planned your suicide with care and left a hand-written list of forty friends whom we were to contact.
Perhaps those papers represent an unconscious sort of last present to us as well as a rebuke; we did not understand you well enough and not everything you wrote was complimentary. From a young age, you had a wickedly sharp way of slicing through pretension. At least one person, amongst those few to whom I’ve shown some of your writing, has said, “don’t print what she wrote, it’s too hurtful.” And in so much of what you wrote in your twenties, when outwardly you seemed happy and successful, inwardly you were grappling with demons. You gave them human faces; they resemble people you knew including your parents.
Two days after your death, we found an Internet site that claimed that one in five manic depressives eventually kill themselves. That statistic isn’t a classified secret, although we never discovered it during your lifetime. Were we, as well as you, afraid? You wanted to believe that your illness at eighteen was ‘cured’. You didn’t want the label of ‘someone suffering from mental problems’. We accepted that and went along with the idea; easier to refer to Zoë’s breakdown NOT Zoë’s first episode. Easier to let our pleasant life slide on. .
£12.00
The Anatomy of a Suicide
By Dorothy Schwarz
ISBN: 978-1-905610-20-4
Published: 2006
Pages: 348
Key Themes: suicide, depression, grief
Description
This book is the gripping and emotional portrayal of one young woman's ultimately unsuccessful battle against chronic depression. Zoe, was Dorothy's fourth daughter, born in New Delhi in 1972. When she threw herself under a train at the age of 27 in August 2000, Zoe was suffering from deep depression following a bout of mania. After her death Dorothy found her diaries, poems and other writings which she used to build her portrait. Dorothy wants to tell her daughter's story both as a tribute to this beautiful and talented young woman, who succumbed to a terrible illness and also to chart the passage of grief for a family after suicide. Dorothy wants to help remove or lessen the stigma attached to mental illness. Zoe fought hard and long but lost the ultimate battle. Dorothy hopes that the honest account of her life may help other sufferers and their families. Zoe herself would have wanted that.
About the Author
Dorothy Schwarz was born in London in 1937. She married Walter Schwarz, a journalist, in 1956 and had six children. The family lived in many countries where Walter was stationed. Dorothy brought up the kids, taught a bit and wrote children's books and short stories. She now lives and teaches creative writing part-time in Colchester. Her main hobby, now that the nest is empty, is a growing collection of parrots and parakeets. She and Walter have written two books on ecology together, Dorothy's collection of short stories entitled 'Simple Stories about Women' were published by Iron Press in 1998.
Book Extract
PROLOGUE
After you died, we found on the top shelf in your bedroom six cardboard boxes crammed with papers in no particular order or dates, diaries in hard and soft covers, notes on loose sheets of paper, dated and undated, birthday cards and postcards, souvenirs. Business letters, bank statements, certificates won at school, medical records, letters received and letters you’d written. Maybe sent, maybe not. A box of several hundred photographs, mostly of people and animals, a few places, some of which I recognised; many I didn’t. I had no idea that you’d kept this stuff; you were such a private person. Your elder sister Habie knew. So did your friend, Kelly; I didn’t. Reading those papers brings you alive again.
You wrote two months before your sixteenth birthday:
Sunday 18th October [1987]
Woke up at 8.30. Read Lawrence’s criticism in the morning. It was a lovely day. Had lunch. …. The family was all together. The lunch was delicious. Mum & Freddie chatted in the greenhouse. Dad, Bups and me had coffee and some of my cake. We went for a walk around the reservoir. It was stunning. Two swans crossed the sunray upon the water.
I brought the horses in. Diana came. We had more of my cake and some of Dad’s bread. We talked, had tea and went to bed. It was a lovely, magical family weekend.
One month after your birthday, you wrote about your school friends:
Friday 6th January [1988]
Saw everyone again and we talked a lot. We had a really funny conversation at lunch about who was going to lose her virginity first. Everyone is either in love or going out with someone so we can talk about it a lot which is really nice and fun.
A few years later, recovered from your first breakdown and back at university, the diary entries are matter-of-fact, whom you met, what you ate, what pleased you, proud to win games of pool, happy with your friends.
At twenty-two, you wrote about them and us:
Saturday 4th May [1994]
Mylène [oldest friend] and I had a chat in the end sitting room. Zac [brother] came home. We went to Vagabonds and I asked to work there. Mylène and I had dinner at Monty’s…. We came home and watched the end of ‘Revenge’, which is unbelievably sexist. Completely happy to find Tigger purring on my bed. Nothing melodramatic – just content with your life and loving the people around you. Sunday 5th of May Mylène and I woke up late. We spent the afternoon chatting in the Peldon Rose. After dropping her at the station did some typing. … Tigger sleeping in my bed. Being close to Mum and Dad. Mylène being happy. Adnan kissing me on the cheek. Zac showing me his design projects.
Out of many entries that read, ‘chatted with Mum,’ I can’t recall whether the chats were fruitful and loving or whether we argued. And during your last illness, when we brought you back to Greenacres in the spring and you died in the summer, the first summer of the new century, during those five months you spoke little and wrote almost nothing.
You left those boxes on the top shelf in your bedroom where you knew they would be found. Your Dad believes you were too modest to think anyone would bother to examine them and we’d just throw them away. None of us would have done that. One of my oldest friends, Heather, and one of your closest friends, Kelly, came to help me. We sorted the papers into foolscap folders – in rough categories - letters, love letters, diaries, notebooks, mementos. We didn’t keep every single birthday card and postcard (there were hundreds). Although it hurts to see your handwriting, I have no qualms about reading your diaries and letters or even publishing parts of them. You did not die in a fit of florid madness or rage; you planned your suicide with care and left a hand-written list of forty friends whom we were to contact.
Perhaps those papers represent an unconscious sort of last present to us as well as a rebuke; we did not understand you well enough and not everything you wrote was complimentary. From a young age, you had a wickedly sharp way of slicing through pretension. At least one person, amongst those few to whom I’ve shown some of your writing, has said, “don’t print what she wrote, it’s too hurtful.” And in so much of what you wrote in your twenties, when outwardly you seemed happy and successful, inwardly you were grappling with demons. You gave them human faces; they resemble people you knew including your parents.
Two days after your death, we found an Internet site that claimed that one in five manic depressives eventually kill themselves. That statistic isn’t a classified secret, although we never discovered it during your lifetime. Were we, as well as you, afraid? You wanted to believe that your illness at eighteen was ‘cured’. You didn’t want the label of ‘someone suffering from mental problems’. We accepted that and went along with the idea; easier to refer to Zoë’s breakdown NOT Zoë’s first episode. Easier to let our pleasant life slide on. .
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.
AARGH! By Joss Smith Weston
AARGH!
£12.00
By Joss Smith Weston
ISBN: 978-1-84747-085-0
Published: 2007
Pages: 246
Key Themes: manic depression, bi-polar disorder, poetry
"The writing is a fascinating blend of wry, contemporary social narrative (a la Nick Hornby), yet conveying a message about the divisive South African culture reminiscent of JM Coetzee. Some of the brutally honest accounts of Joss' early sexual encounters would probably shock if taken out of context but he somehow manages to make them seem wholly acceptable as he struggles to come to terms with his many desires in an Apartheid-governed world." - Rupert Reid
Description
This eccentric book is an attempt to make manic depression more widely understood given the stigmatism that it is usually associated with. The illness creates a jaundiced perception of people and reality and it is probably for this reason that the characters’ names are changed; otherwise it is a real story. However, there is no distinction between reality and dreams. It is not a story about success, victory or triumph, although equally given the circumstances it is also not one of failure either. It is a journey that starts in normality and ends in the opposite corner, beginning with a disturbed and violent dream. The book charts the experiences of Joss through Africa and Australia, marriage and running a business. On a few occasions the narrative fails and the author expresses his nightmares, secret thoughts, imagery and disbeliefs in poetry. The sudden loss of control, or sanity and his arrival in a mental asylum and the view from inside is both very distressing and strangely humorous. It ends on a note of poignancy, recalling Joss' supposed recovery and his attempted assimilation back into society. A fascinating and thoroughly engaging read, a must for anybody who wishes to further understand the thoughts and actions of a manic depressive.
About the Author
Joss has been a Company Director and is now a student at the Open University. Joss is a republican who does not use products that have been tested on animals; prefers to buy second hand clothes from Oxfam; reads the Telegraph and listens to Radio Four. His experiences include; seeing a UFO; scratching a white rhino and a tarantula's stomach; riding an ostrich and he has been in a high-speed police car chase. Joss has run the Comrades Marathon (89 kilometres) in 7 hours 29 minutes and 59 seconds. For nine years Joss was a vegetarian, did not eat chocolate, or drink alcohol. He is a one-time member of Greenpeace, votes Labour, is a pacifist, asthmatic, left hander, bow-legged, has one kidney and suffers from manic depression.
Book Extract
…one of my many adolescent, repeating, disturbed dreams…
“They’re lifting the last few bales, are you ready lads?” Pitchforks and spades raised above shoulders. The question hardly needed answering as the few remaining parts of our previously safe home were toppled over. Exposed, and surrounding us, were our enemy and their dogs. They were huge, barbaric, merciless killers. For milliseconds we stared at each other before… “Get ‘em!” The barbarians shrieked. About twenty yards to make it to the long grass, and then another ten to the barley, Ben and I were running, breathlessly desperately together. He was young and powerfully built, and if anyone could make it, he would. The men-of-war were stamping and beating the ground with sticks and blades and screaming when they killed one of us. The dogs were yapping, howling and baying incessantly. Those bastard, evil terriers - tearing flesh, maiming and killing us.
Ben was slightly ahead of me, nearly there, almost safe, when a pitchfork, seemed to hang in the air before plunging into his side. He immediately whirled round, screaming, and breaking his teeth on the cruel steel bar that had brutally pinned him to the ground. At the grass verge I stopped. A very ugly violent man stood over Ben grinning, then his steel-heel crashed heavily down. Ben had been screaming in agony, the bar tearing through his kidneys, his liver and his gut, now lay still, his race over. Others lay dead and bleeding as the now insane dogs tore at our bodies. Mad-men ran after those of us who were wounded, some with legs broken, and some even with broken backs and were mercilessly killed.
I knew I was not yet safe. The sea of pasture only gave little cover so long as I remained still. Caesar was an old bull terrier. I knew him well and had managed to stay one step ahead of him in the last four years. He had seen me get to the grass and had come to within five yards of me before I smelt him. I sprinted for my life for the taller, deeper barley field. Caesar did not yap as he came up behind me. He may have been old, but not slow. I hurled myself to one side as his hot, rancid, poisonous breath passed over the terrified hairs of my back. I made it to the high barley just before having to side step again to avoid him. Now Caesar slowed down as he crashed loudly into the field. Fifteen yards in I stopped. The bad-men who had been watching our race had lost interest. Their dogs did not usually catch us in there. Caesar was not breathing and he was down-wind now and in a different row. And suddenly he was there again, crashing down on me. Three. Two yards to go! I leapt frantically to the right and ran for my life once more! Suddenly to my horror, I was out of the barley and on the concrete loading bay again. I knew that the old hole in the far wall was my only hope. Only too late as I sprinted towards it I realized it was boarded over. Breathless and terrified, I turned to face Caesar. His tongue flashed in and out of his horrible-pointed, evil head, his glazed eyes staring in triumph. He had time as he had me cornered. He had to be careful though; cornered and terrified, I could still give a nasty bite. He lunged and I sank my teeth deep into his lip as he crushed my back right leg in his jaws. He howled as he hurled me in the air. He was going to snap me in half!
A loud near explosion and my battered body was racked with an even worse agony. One of the killer enemy men had seen me come out of the field and dart for my hole. It had been boarded it up. As the fearful dog threw me in the air, he lifted his rifle and fired. The bullet tore through my skin, throwing me into the fertiliser stack.
That autumn when the men took down the last bags of the fertiliser stack, they were ready again with their sticks, flailing and dogs yapping. Most of us rats were killed although one with only three legs, and some of my sons somehow made it through…
£12.00
By Joss Smith Weston
ISBN: 978-1-84747-085-0
Published: 2007
Pages: 246
Key Themes: manic depression, bi-polar disorder, poetry
"The writing is a fascinating blend of wry, contemporary social narrative (a la Nick Hornby), yet conveying a message about the divisive South African culture reminiscent of JM Coetzee. Some of the brutally honest accounts of Joss' early sexual encounters would probably shock if taken out of context but he somehow manages to make them seem wholly acceptable as he struggles to come to terms with his many desires in an Apartheid-governed world." - Rupert Reid
Description
This eccentric book is an attempt to make manic depression more widely understood given the stigmatism that it is usually associated with. The illness creates a jaundiced perception of people and reality and it is probably for this reason that the characters’ names are changed; otherwise it is a real story. However, there is no distinction between reality and dreams. It is not a story about success, victory or triumph, although equally given the circumstances it is also not one of failure either. It is a journey that starts in normality and ends in the opposite corner, beginning with a disturbed and violent dream. The book charts the experiences of Joss through Africa and Australia, marriage and running a business. On a few occasions the narrative fails and the author expresses his nightmares, secret thoughts, imagery and disbeliefs in poetry. The sudden loss of control, or sanity and his arrival in a mental asylum and the view from inside is both very distressing and strangely humorous. It ends on a note of poignancy, recalling Joss' supposed recovery and his attempted assimilation back into society. A fascinating and thoroughly engaging read, a must for anybody who wishes to further understand the thoughts and actions of a manic depressive.
About the Author
Joss has been a Company Director and is now a student at the Open University. Joss is a republican who does not use products that have been tested on animals; prefers to buy second hand clothes from Oxfam; reads the Telegraph and listens to Radio Four. His experiences include; seeing a UFO; scratching a white rhino and a tarantula's stomach; riding an ostrich and he has been in a high-speed police car chase. Joss has run the Comrades Marathon (89 kilometres) in 7 hours 29 minutes and 59 seconds. For nine years Joss was a vegetarian, did not eat chocolate, or drink alcohol. He is a one-time member of Greenpeace, votes Labour, is a pacifist, asthmatic, left hander, bow-legged, has one kidney and suffers from manic depression.
Book Extract
…one of my many adolescent, repeating, disturbed dreams…
“They’re lifting the last few bales, are you ready lads?” Pitchforks and spades raised above shoulders. The question hardly needed answering as the few remaining parts of our previously safe home were toppled over. Exposed, and surrounding us, were our enemy and their dogs. They were huge, barbaric, merciless killers. For milliseconds we stared at each other before… “Get ‘em!” The barbarians shrieked. About twenty yards to make it to the long grass, and then another ten to the barley, Ben and I were running, breathlessly desperately together. He was young and powerfully built, and if anyone could make it, he would. The men-of-war were stamping and beating the ground with sticks and blades and screaming when they killed one of us. The dogs were yapping, howling and baying incessantly. Those bastard, evil terriers - tearing flesh, maiming and killing us.
Ben was slightly ahead of me, nearly there, almost safe, when a pitchfork, seemed to hang in the air before plunging into his side. He immediately whirled round, screaming, and breaking his teeth on the cruel steel bar that had brutally pinned him to the ground. At the grass verge I stopped. A very ugly violent man stood over Ben grinning, then his steel-heel crashed heavily down. Ben had been screaming in agony, the bar tearing through his kidneys, his liver and his gut, now lay still, his race over. Others lay dead and bleeding as the now insane dogs tore at our bodies. Mad-men ran after those of us who were wounded, some with legs broken, and some even with broken backs and were mercilessly killed.
I knew I was not yet safe. The sea of pasture only gave little cover so long as I remained still. Caesar was an old bull terrier. I knew him well and had managed to stay one step ahead of him in the last four years. He had seen me get to the grass and had come to within five yards of me before I smelt him. I sprinted for my life for the taller, deeper barley field. Caesar did not yap as he came up behind me. He may have been old, but not slow. I hurled myself to one side as his hot, rancid, poisonous breath passed over the terrified hairs of my back. I made it to the high barley just before having to side step again to avoid him. Now Caesar slowed down as he crashed loudly into the field. Fifteen yards in I stopped. The bad-men who had been watching our race had lost interest. Their dogs did not usually catch us in there. Caesar was not breathing and he was down-wind now and in a different row. And suddenly he was there again, crashing down on me. Three. Two yards to go! I leapt frantically to the right and ran for my life once more! Suddenly to my horror, I was out of the barley and on the concrete loading bay again. I knew that the old hole in the far wall was my only hope. Only too late as I sprinted towards it I realized it was boarded over. Breathless and terrified, I turned to face Caesar. His tongue flashed in and out of his horrible-pointed, evil head, his glazed eyes staring in triumph. He had time as he had me cornered. He had to be careful though; cornered and terrified, I could still give a nasty bite. He lunged and I sank my teeth deep into his lip as he crushed my back right leg in his jaws. He howled as he hurled me in the air. He was going to snap me in half!
A loud near explosion and my battered body was racked with an even worse agony. One of the killer enemy men had seen me come out of the field and dart for my hole. It had been boarded it up. As the fearful dog threw me in the air, he lifted his rifle and fired. The bullet tore through my skin, throwing me into the fertiliser stack.
That autumn when the men took down the last bags of the fertiliser stack, they were ready again with their sticks, flailing and dogs yapping. Most of us rats were killed although one with only three legs, and some of my sons somehow made it through…
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