Cake Theory, The
£12.00
The Root Cause of Mental Illness as Discovered by a Patient.
By Alessandro Prian
ISBN: 978-1-84747-003-4
Published: 2006
Pages: 97
Key Themes: anti-psychiatry, humour, comic strips
Description
Never far from controversy, The Cake Theory is a fascinating autobiography and critique of current thinking on mental illness. Alessandro sets out to find the root cause of his own, and then other peoples', mental ill health with often humorous and surprising results. Prian writes with sensitivity, maturity, vigour, intelligence and brilliant comedy in an enlightening, refreshing and intriguing fashion.
About the Author
Having a history of mental illness and being diagnosed with manic depression (which I dispute) I feel it only right that I contribute with my own ideas on mental health. I call my idea 'The Cake Theory', this is because schizophrenia and other mental disorders have more than one contributing factor and there are a variety of ingredients needed to develop it just as there are a number of ingredients that make up a cake.
Book Extract
In early Egypt mental illness was believed to be caused by environmental factors like the loss of status or being made destitute. The treatment involved talking about your problems and turning to religion and faith. It was acceptable to commit suicide at the time. Later the ancient Egyptians changed the theory and decided all illnesses have physical causes. They thought the heart was the root cause of mental illness.
As history progressed, the notion that the victim was to blame became the accepted norm. Explanations like evil spirits and moral decline created the stigma that is still evident today. In the 13th Century in the United Kingdom one of the first mental institutions was established. The infamous Bedlam was a place where the mentally ill were chained to walls and society conveniently forgot about their existence. Patients were later referred to as 'inmates' and there was no distinction between the mentally ill and the criminally insane. Patients were crowded into dark cells sometimes sleeping five to a mattress near damp floors, firmly chained in position. There was no fresh air or light and they were regularly whipped and beaten. It's important to remember that this was a period when the Church governed and dictated society. This only strengthened the theory that the mentally ill were the work of the devil. Some of the mentally ill were even put to death.
An American colonist referred to the mentally ill as 'lunatics'. This word comes from the word lunar meaning moon because it was thought the moon had something to do with the root cause of mental illness. Methods of treatment involved submerging the patient in iced baths until they lost consciousness, induced vomiting and the notorious bleeding practice. This procedure involved cutting the patient and draining the bad blood however it usually resulted in the death of the individual.
The first mental asylum in America opened in 1769 founded by Benjamin Rush. He also became known as America's first psychiatrist and other asylums were opened all over the country. Rush decided to abolish whips, chains and straitjackets, however he introduced his own method of keeping control of the patient. The chair which can be seen below was his personal favourite and at the time it was considered a lot more humane than being chained to a wall. Sigmund Freud (1856-1939) was the founder of the psychoanalysis movement. Freud introduced the theory that patients classified as hysterics might have purely psychological factors contributing to their illness rather than organic brain disease. Freud was born at a time when most of Europe was changing from an agricultural society into an industrialized one. This was an era of new inventions and technological developments and he decided that the mind of a man could be just as complicated and as intricate as a machine. He developed the theory that the mind has many hidden and deep layers which are all governed by the unconscious. He concluded that people with chronic mental illness have a fixation and obsession with the anal region. He believed this fixation originated from a childhood desire of getting pleasure from going to the toilet and a perversion from an infantile age. The mental person's deep dark hidden secret of the unconscious mind.
In the 1930's a new cure for the mentally ill was discovered called lobotomy, and Walter J. Freemen developed the trans-orbital technique. This procedure was performed by sedating the patient and applying quick shocks to the head. One of the eyelids was rolled back and a needle the size of a thin pencil was inserted into the patients head. The device was hammered in to position after which a swinging motion of the needle was created within the patient's skull. Lobotomy became common practice and it was only after the death of many patients that it was abolished. This period also saw a rise in the number of patients undergoing electro convulsive treatment (ECT). Because the level of electricity was so high some patients died or suffered brain damage. In the 1950's the medical profession introduced an anti-psychotic drug called Thorazine for the treatment of the mentally ill. Anti -psychotic medication helped shorten the length of time patients spent in institutions. In fact there was a decline in asylum populations and though patients are no longer physically detained many feel imprisoned within their own minds.
Friday, 21 September 2007
The Cage, By Geoff O'Callaghan
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.
£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.
Burning Candle by Terence Beresford
Burning Candle
£12.00
By Terence Beresford
ISBN: 978-1-84747-108-6
Published: 2007
Pages: 173
Key Themes: poetry, manic depression, bi-polar disorder, grief
Description
Terry Beresford's Poems describe the experiences of manic depression and the range of emotions that this illness brings. A consistent theme through the poetry is Terry's experiences as a fire fighter and how this has shaped his view of the World and events such as 9/11. Terry is an accomplished poet, his poems are heartfelt, assured and full of pathos.
About the Author
Terry has been married for 36 years and has 3 children. He grew up in Rainham, Essex and in 1966 joined the Fire Service, serving in the East End of London for nearly 20 years. In 1985 Terry suffered an accident which forced him to retire. Since 1990 Terry has been diagnosed with manic depression, he was prompted to write poetry to come to terms with his illness. Many of Terry’s poems were written while he was in the depths of depression. Terry is a volunteer with Basildon Mind where, for 13 years, he has helped with their counselling service. Terry’s hobbies include collecting Fire Service memorabilia and writing. He has written four books to date, ‘Burning Candle’ is his second to be published.
Book Extract
GLAD AND SAD
Winter comes, we are sad
Summer here we are glad
Raindrops on our face
The sun within your heart
Go with the flow, at your pace
Stick with nature, don’t grow apart
Butterflies, they come and go
Buds flower, they have made a start
Birds duck and dive in the skies
Bees and wasps fly around the flowers
Pollinating and feeding all day
It comes and goes, glad and sad
Sit down; relax in sun’s warm rays
Imagine the sun is all around for days
No winter in your heart.
GO WITH THE FLOW
It came upon me in a different way,
It ripped my guts away
Damage done, for all to see,
So powerful, fearful, just not me.
Perhaps next time I’ll kill
No way – not on – time to change
It caught me out, no time to run,
But my memory stays intact.
To recall, Assess and plan defeat
Return the compliment that’s what I’ll do
Surprise, Change tack, beat the bum,
Fight, keep on, it’ll soon come.
Albeit a different way.
Boundaries 'amust, to save defeat
Others must guide me though.
If we are to gain our goal
In cotton wool I’ll win the war,
Is that a lot to ask?
Prove myself, no need for me
An open book I feel.
Slow down, take nothing on
GOING TO THE DOGS
Oh sister dear, I have a fear
It’s money down the drain, no less,
Traps one to six, oh what a fix,
The form, the odds, the silly sods
They know not head from tail.
Winners, losers, join the club,
Friday comes, you’ll need a sub
Have a drink, a bite to eat,
Tote is open, bookies to beat
Second last race! – it’s 9.30
A fiver? Bus fare home!
Honour Cheryl, A lively bitch,
Let’s put it on, I’ll have to hitch
In hot pursuit my dog leads,
It takes them all by storm,
Quids in now! A slap up feast,
Chicken legs and diet coke, oh no!
A Chinese, A drink and a bone for the beast!
£12.00
By Terence Beresford
ISBN: 978-1-84747-108-6
Published: 2007
Pages: 173
Key Themes: poetry, manic depression, bi-polar disorder, grief
Description
Terry Beresford's Poems describe the experiences of manic depression and the range of emotions that this illness brings. A consistent theme through the poetry is Terry's experiences as a fire fighter and how this has shaped his view of the World and events such as 9/11. Terry is an accomplished poet, his poems are heartfelt, assured and full of pathos.
About the Author
Terry has been married for 36 years and has 3 children. He grew up in Rainham, Essex and in 1966 joined the Fire Service, serving in the East End of London for nearly 20 years. In 1985 Terry suffered an accident which forced him to retire. Since 1990 Terry has been diagnosed with manic depression, he was prompted to write poetry to come to terms with his illness. Many of Terry’s poems were written while he was in the depths of depression. Terry is a volunteer with Basildon Mind where, for 13 years, he has helped with their counselling service. Terry’s hobbies include collecting Fire Service memorabilia and writing. He has written four books to date, ‘Burning Candle’ is his second to be published.
Book Extract
GLAD AND SAD
Winter comes, we are sad
Summer here we are glad
Raindrops on our face
The sun within your heart
Go with the flow, at your pace
Stick with nature, don’t grow apart
Butterflies, they come and go
Buds flower, they have made a start
Birds duck and dive in the skies
Bees and wasps fly around the flowers
Pollinating and feeding all day
It comes and goes, glad and sad
Sit down; relax in sun’s warm rays
Imagine the sun is all around for days
No winter in your heart.
GO WITH THE FLOW
It came upon me in a different way,
It ripped my guts away
Damage done, for all to see,
So powerful, fearful, just not me.
Perhaps next time I’ll kill
No way – not on – time to change
It caught me out, no time to run,
But my memory stays intact.
To recall, Assess and plan defeat
Return the compliment that’s what I’ll do
Surprise, Change tack, beat the bum,
Fight, keep on, it’ll soon come.
Albeit a different way.
Boundaries 'amust, to save defeat
Others must guide me though.
If we are to gain our goal
In cotton wool I’ll win the war,
Is that a lot to ask?
Prove myself, no need for me
An open book I feel.
Slow down, take nothing on
GOING TO THE DOGS
Oh sister dear, I have a fear
It’s money down the drain, no less,
Traps one to six, oh what a fix,
The form, the odds, the silly sods
They know not head from tail.
Winners, losers, join the club,
Friday comes, you’ll need a sub
Have a drink, a bite to eat,
Tote is open, bookies to beat
Second last race! – it’s 9.30
A fiver? Bus fare home!
Honour Cheryl, A lively bitch,
Let’s put it on, I’ll have to hitch
In hot pursuit my dog leads,
It takes them all by storm,
Quids in now! A slap up feast,
Chicken legs and diet coke, oh no!
A Chinese, A drink and a bone for the beast!
Breaking Down and Poetry By Maureen Oliver
By Maureen Oliver
ISBN: 978-1-84747-121-5
Published: 2007
Pages: 129
Key Themes: poetry, schizophrenia, activism
Description
This is a collection of Maureen's first two books - 'Breaking Down' & 'Poetry', both first published as e-books and now available for the first time in paperback.
Breaking Down
'Breaking Down' is the personal record of a 'psychotic' breakdown. The author was, at the time, a single mother and lesbian activist campaigning vigorously for gay rights. She faithfully recorded her visions and voices, and the diary shows her desperate attempt to make sense of, and to survive, mental disintegration and schizophrenia.
Poetry
This inspiring collection of poems was written over a twenty-five year period and documents the experiences and thoughts of Maureen during this most tumultuous period of her life. Her poems are warm and her language elegant. In the new genre of 'mad poetry' this is a key collection, written by one of its main exponents.
About the Author
Maureen Oliver is a lesbian artist and poet, a mother and grandmother, and a psychiatric survivor with a current diagnosis of Schizoaffective Disorder.
Book Extracts
Breaking Down
I keep arriving at the FIRE. Voices urge me to enter it - say I must enter it - that I am already starting to go into it. I stand in the enclosed space of the tunnel, surrounded by damp, dripping rocks. I am naked and vulnerable - the fire burns before me up into the darkness, across the pathway. Its flames are blue-green tipped, orange at centre, the pathway to one side slips away to bottomless depths where I feel dark water flows - the other side is the solid rock - I can see the pathway continuing on the other side winding on and on, twisting slightly - far in the distance is turquoise light - a black, eye-like sun blinks through a tiny opening - golden rays - like shining lashes radiate from it. I am cold - the fire does not give off warmth - I am icy-cold, ice burning in the darkness.
Voices: 'You see what you've done Maureen?'
What have I done? I don't see at all.
'You can't see us but we are here, we can read your thoughts'. These voices usually come from behind me. When I hear them I am also (usually) experiencing a numb sensation spreading from the right side of my head to the right side in the front of the face - forehead, cheekbones. Also a floating sensation and a sense of unreality? Though the world presses in on me - hyper-real.
It occurs to me later - Maureen is me/Anu - is she also me (my second name is Ann). Marina? My Grandad used to call me something like that when I was a child. So Marina and Anu are related to my own being/participate in/are connected to me/my life/my experience. The balance holds as long as Maureen has control most of the time, which she does at present/if Anu or Marina took over, if Maureen became less it would be a DISASTER. Marina is connected to the girl in the enclosed cavern who cries out naked and alone in the room without doors.
They placed me in the fire - chanting, taunting me. I was consumed by the fire. Then I was not Anu - or Maureen - I was in a vacuum. The vacuum was in me. It was utter, outer darkness. I had consciousness without existence. I was emptiness, nothingness, the void. It was terrible. It went on and on - timeless, spaceless, formless. It was hard to come to. I was in my body without feeling my body for a long time. When I first came back I was Marina - weak and afraid. I aroused disgust in S (note: my partner at that time) Now I feel true solitude and the edge of icy despair.
I try to get through my work and be fully tuned into the material plane. It is difficult. Doctor Aru says I should go back on major tranquillizers. What shit! This is surely no way to solve the problems. Should I try to find a counsellor? Is there a way through and out of the tunnel? Sussanah was clearly a gateway. Since she left me, cold and empty and sad, I have not been there so often. I still feel its pull and I have been called back by unseen forces.
I am concentrating to stay on the material plane - but am not working as well as before. I have to find some healing to make me strong and able to work well again - people expect it of me - it is my Karma to help and heal others yet this battle of my soul makes it all so difficult. Part of me wants to find a physical cause. I am having blood tests. I was beaten by the police on a demonstration 3 weeks ago and still can't straighten my left leg.
I feel a clear passage of white light from Heaven through me to the earth below. Energy returns to me- I must use it rightly.
Within me is the Spirit of Hecate - Goddess of Darkness and the Moon. The ancient priestess - death, rebirth and regeneration.
My foolish enemies were moths flying into a candle flame. A new direction awaits me - and the Ace of Swords. I must follow this pathway of my spirit and learn to loosen the ties of temporal power.
If I must go alone then Blessed Be.
Towards the end of last nights ACT UP - my mind kept going completely blank - embarrassing and difficult. I feel as though I'm slipping, sliding, trying to climb a glacier. Last Thursday I was arrested on an ACT UP demonstration - held three hours in Bow Street cells - I felt faint and dizzy. I wasn't allowed a drink of tea or to see a doctor. I was charged with obstruction.
The illness I suffered before hangs like some dread curtain in my mind. Also, I mentioned to some ACT UP women that I had been on a 'psyche ward' and caught looks of horror. I told Dennis (co-worker and friend) and he said they would automatically fear unreliability. But haven't I proved my reliability over and over again? Must I be judged for this illness and found guilty? I have vowed not to hide it in the same way I vowed not to hide being gay. But the punishment and prejudice are everywhere. I didn't do anything bad, or wicked or irresponsible. I was ILL. I hate the new idea that there's no such thing as mental illness because it makes us out to be wanton, bad people.
Having received the Talisman from Kevin (Quiveen) note: my brother, have now comprehended something VITAL. ISIS my goddess! The Bright Fertile Mother who contains the DARK MOTHER also...represents a perfect balance of spiritual manifestation. He has linked the Talisman with my NAME - Maureen - linking me to the spiritual forces implied. DARK PURPLE (I see purples and reds). Later, I got so carried away with this feeling of POWER that I was rushing around on a DIFFERENT DIMENSION to people - I'd dressed in PURPLE and put on RED lipstick (purples and reds)...
I am still trying to work...
Poetry
Little Boy Blue,
sighs and shining eyes,
stirring coffee and pining –
‘Oh secret sadness, oh tragedy,’
could I help him? Oh motherly me.
‘Let me talk to you, so sweet and kind,
so helpful, so nice, let me show you my mind.’
Oh charming, oh sad, emotionally pure,
you might think him sensitive,
you may well be wrong.
Oh, motherly ladies from Whitby to Poole
are waiting the visit of Little Boy Blue.
The ladies who understand sad little boys
are wanting to comfort him, offer him toys.
You might think him an angel,
you may be deluded.
The ladies who offered this cherub their all
are lying to husbands, some in the grave,
some knotted in strait jackets –
but the comfort they gave!
Some have taken to drink, some in therapy,
some gave him their money, some just offered tea.
Oh kindly ladies from Whitby to Poole
don’t give him sweeties, don’t warm him in bed,
don’t talk with him, offer him spiritual aid.
Your heart will be emptied, your soul will be raped –
for he swallows them whole, he digests them all,
those kind, helpful ladies from Whitby to Poole.
Trust
Trust, they tell me
is what I need.
‘Trust me, trust us and
we will pour oil on those
wounds, we will heal your pain,
if you only trust in us.’
The mask seems golden,
the smile benign,
light plays around the hollows
of the eyes,
russet shadows flicker lovingly
across cheekbones, and
I am enticed, almost under a spell.
Faltering, trusting, I reveal my secrets,
like some damned dance of the Seven Veils
in Hell, till, vulnerable in my innocence
I observe with horror that
dark lies and rude cruelty now
stain the welcoming visage, and,v at the portal of Hades, I hesitate,
turn back to retrace my steps, but
flight is impossible for
he holds the seeds
of my soul in his palm – and
now winningly,
the therapist smiles –
showing his teeth.
ISBN: 978-1-84747-121-5
Published: 2007
Pages: 129
Key Themes: poetry, schizophrenia, activism
Description
This is a collection of Maureen's first two books - 'Breaking Down' & 'Poetry', both first published as e-books and now available for the first time in paperback.
Breaking Down
'Breaking Down' is the personal record of a 'psychotic' breakdown. The author was, at the time, a single mother and lesbian activist campaigning vigorously for gay rights. She faithfully recorded her visions and voices, and the diary shows her desperate attempt to make sense of, and to survive, mental disintegration and schizophrenia.
Poetry
This inspiring collection of poems was written over a twenty-five year period and documents the experiences and thoughts of Maureen during this most tumultuous period of her life. Her poems are warm and her language elegant. In the new genre of 'mad poetry' this is a key collection, written by one of its main exponents.
About the Author
Maureen Oliver is a lesbian artist and poet, a mother and grandmother, and a psychiatric survivor with a current diagnosis of Schizoaffective Disorder.
Book Extracts
Breaking Down
I keep arriving at the FIRE. Voices urge me to enter it - say I must enter it - that I am already starting to go into it. I stand in the enclosed space of the tunnel, surrounded by damp, dripping rocks. I am naked and vulnerable - the fire burns before me up into the darkness, across the pathway. Its flames are blue-green tipped, orange at centre, the pathway to one side slips away to bottomless depths where I feel dark water flows - the other side is the solid rock - I can see the pathway continuing on the other side winding on and on, twisting slightly - far in the distance is turquoise light - a black, eye-like sun blinks through a tiny opening - golden rays - like shining lashes radiate from it. I am cold - the fire does not give off warmth - I am icy-cold, ice burning in the darkness.
Voices: 'You see what you've done Maureen?'
What have I done? I don't see at all.
'You can't see us but we are here, we can read your thoughts'. These voices usually come from behind me. When I hear them I am also (usually) experiencing a numb sensation spreading from the right side of my head to the right side in the front of the face - forehead, cheekbones. Also a floating sensation and a sense of unreality? Though the world presses in on me - hyper-real.
It occurs to me later - Maureen is me/Anu - is she also me (my second name is Ann). Marina? My Grandad used to call me something like that when I was a child. So Marina and Anu are related to my own being/participate in/are connected to me/my life/my experience. The balance holds as long as Maureen has control most of the time, which she does at present/if Anu or Marina took over, if Maureen became less it would be a DISASTER. Marina is connected to the girl in the enclosed cavern who cries out naked and alone in the room without doors.
They placed me in the fire - chanting, taunting me. I was consumed by the fire. Then I was not Anu - or Maureen - I was in a vacuum. The vacuum was in me. It was utter, outer darkness. I had consciousness without existence. I was emptiness, nothingness, the void. It was terrible. It went on and on - timeless, spaceless, formless. It was hard to come to. I was in my body without feeling my body for a long time. When I first came back I was Marina - weak and afraid. I aroused disgust in S (note: my partner at that time) Now I feel true solitude and the edge of icy despair.
I try to get through my work and be fully tuned into the material plane. It is difficult. Doctor Aru says I should go back on major tranquillizers. What shit! This is surely no way to solve the problems. Should I try to find a counsellor? Is there a way through and out of the tunnel? Sussanah was clearly a gateway. Since she left me, cold and empty and sad, I have not been there so often. I still feel its pull and I have been called back by unseen forces.
I am concentrating to stay on the material plane - but am not working as well as before. I have to find some healing to make me strong and able to work well again - people expect it of me - it is my Karma to help and heal others yet this battle of my soul makes it all so difficult. Part of me wants to find a physical cause. I am having blood tests. I was beaten by the police on a demonstration 3 weeks ago and still can't straighten my left leg.
I feel a clear passage of white light from Heaven through me to the earth below. Energy returns to me- I must use it rightly.
Within me is the Spirit of Hecate - Goddess of Darkness and the Moon. The ancient priestess - death, rebirth and regeneration.
My foolish enemies were moths flying into a candle flame. A new direction awaits me - and the Ace of Swords. I must follow this pathway of my spirit and learn to loosen the ties of temporal power.
If I must go alone then Blessed Be.
Towards the end of last nights ACT UP - my mind kept going completely blank - embarrassing and difficult. I feel as though I'm slipping, sliding, trying to climb a glacier. Last Thursday I was arrested on an ACT UP demonstration - held three hours in Bow Street cells - I felt faint and dizzy. I wasn't allowed a drink of tea or to see a doctor. I was charged with obstruction.
The illness I suffered before hangs like some dread curtain in my mind. Also, I mentioned to some ACT UP women that I had been on a 'psyche ward' and caught looks of horror. I told Dennis (co-worker and friend) and he said they would automatically fear unreliability. But haven't I proved my reliability over and over again? Must I be judged for this illness and found guilty? I have vowed not to hide it in the same way I vowed not to hide being gay. But the punishment and prejudice are everywhere. I didn't do anything bad, or wicked or irresponsible. I was ILL. I hate the new idea that there's no such thing as mental illness because it makes us out to be wanton, bad people.
Having received the Talisman from Kevin (Quiveen) note: my brother, have now comprehended something VITAL. ISIS my goddess! The Bright Fertile Mother who contains the DARK MOTHER also...represents a perfect balance of spiritual manifestation. He has linked the Talisman with my NAME - Maureen - linking me to the spiritual forces implied. DARK PURPLE (I see purples and reds). Later, I got so carried away with this feeling of POWER that I was rushing around on a DIFFERENT DIMENSION to people - I'd dressed in PURPLE and put on RED lipstick (purples and reds)...
I am still trying to work...
Poetry
Little Boy Blue,
sighs and shining eyes,
stirring coffee and pining –
‘Oh secret sadness, oh tragedy,’
could I help him? Oh motherly me.
‘Let me talk to you, so sweet and kind,
so helpful, so nice, let me show you my mind.’
Oh charming, oh sad, emotionally pure,
you might think him sensitive,
you may well be wrong.
Oh, motherly ladies from Whitby to Poole
are waiting the visit of Little Boy Blue.
The ladies who understand sad little boys
are wanting to comfort him, offer him toys.
You might think him an angel,
you may be deluded.
The ladies who offered this cherub their all
are lying to husbands, some in the grave,
some knotted in strait jackets –
but the comfort they gave!
Some have taken to drink, some in therapy,
some gave him their money, some just offered tea.
Oh kindly ladies from Whitby to Poole
don’t give him sweeties, don’t warm him in bed,
don’t talk with him, offer him spiritual aid.
Your heart will be emptied, your soul will be raped –
for he swallows them whole, he digests them all,
those kind, helpful ladies from Whitby to Poole.
Trust
Trust, they tell me
is what I need.
‘Trust me, trust us and
we will pour oil on those
wounds, we will heal your pain,
if you only trust in us.’
The mask seems golden,
the smile benign,
light plays around the hollows
of the eyes,
russet shadows flicker lovingly
across cheekbones, and
I am enticed, almost under a spell.
Faltering, trusting, I reveal my secrets,
like some damned dance of the Seven Veils
in Hell, till, vulnerable in my innocence
I observe with horror that
dark lies and rude cruelty now
stain the welcoming visage, and,v at the portal of Hades, I hesitate,
turn back to retrace my steps, but
flight is impossible for
he holds the seeds
of my soul in his palm – and
now winningly,
the therapist smiles –
showing his teeth.
Black Magic By Suzannah Knight
Black Magic
£12.00
By Suzannah Knight
ISBN: 978-1-84747-007-2
Published: 2007
Pages: 152
Key Themes: self-harm, drug abuse, eating disorders, sectioning, mental health services, schizo-affective disorder, bipolar disorder, manic depression, alcoholism, the occult
Description
After a year travelling around the World Suzannah comes back to England to start university. Things start to go wrong as she is tempted into experimenting with drugs. She drops out of university and during her first spell of mania and depression starts to believe in black magic. This is the start of a long and winding journey for Suzannah as she loses all her friends and former lifestyle and leads a dubious existence - self harming and trichotillomania plague and her psyche as she battles with an eating disorder.
Suzannah is eventually sectioned and finds herself in a secure unit battling psychosis. She will not admit to herself she has a problem and refuses to take medication. Lonely and cast adrift she tries to forge a career for herself, but she can’t escape the taboo of being labelled 'mental'. Some time later she finds herself in the slums of Darlington, in poverty, and a chronic alcoholic. Overcoming her demons and fighting her schizo-affective disorder Suzannah takes life by the balls and gets herself back to university to finally finish her degree only to once again fall into mental illness, bad relationships and brushes with the law.
With four different diagnoses along the journey and various different forms of medication Suzannah denies her mental illness for a long time and therefore the psychiatrists were unable to help. She loses all her friends through mental illness and any form of normal life until she confronts the problem.
Remarkably and with great character Suzannah's book ends on a high note as she falls in love and marries the man of her dreams to live happily ever after with her son Domini. It is through her own determination and the support of loved ones that Suzannah has changed her life. She will never be totally rid of her illness but with sensible management she has succeeded in finding euilibrium. This is a fascinating and empowering story which should be a great positive influence to those who find themselves in a similar situation to Suzannah.
Book Extract
When we returned home the drinks cabinet was locked and I was locked in the house, but I was so high I didn’t need anything to aid it .My parents were worried and were watching me carefully. It’s never been discussed whether or not there is mental illness in my family tree but I know a great aunt committed suicide years before using paracetamol. My mania continued, my parents tried to talk to me about my future, I didn’t want to know I thought great thing wee going to happen to me without me doing anything to help it. My mother dragged me down to the University of Leeds, to continue my studies there. I said no, I didn’t want to go. I couldn’t stand the stress of going back to university, it didn’t interest me. She then dragged me to the chamber of commerce where I had an awful meeting with an old man. He knew I wasn’t interested in the course on offer and he told me so. It was an awkward and embarrassing moment. So I signed on the dole, and when I had to go for job interviews I messed them up.
I’d ruined my family’s annual ski trip. They thought I was just being a brat they didn’t know there was something wrong with me and they didn’t want to admit to themselves there was anything wrong with me. I was still manic and my parents knew it, my father had turned my room upside down looking for drugs, he thought I was taking heroin. The front door was always locked and the back so that I couldn’t escape like I had done in Morzine, it was for my own good I always seemed to get into trouble when I escaped. And all the time my parents were trying to protect me from myself, and keep me away from the authorities. When I was sat in my room I thought I was with members of the English SAS who then developed into members of the elite group made up in my mind of the Belize soldiers. I stole some cans of lager from the fridge and drank them with my new soldier friends. It was the same feeling of military that I had had whilst skiing. It wasn’t as though I came from a military orientated background but the connection with the army reigned right through my illness.
When I wasn’t in my room imagining whatever I imagined I was down stairs in a massive row. I was taken into the kitchen with my parents and my brother, who had stuck his nose in and was questioned about things I didn’t want to be questioned about. A huge row would peruse to which I didn’t understand why. It seemed that my parents were constantly rowing and I was in the middle, although I was the cause. I wish I could remember what the rows were but I can’t, although now I know they were over my strange behavior. I remember being very objectionable and talking about weird things at dinner times, I would cause a row to erupt after I’d caused trouble, usually by being very nasty and rude. I was still under the illusion that this family was not mine and all I wanted was to be with my made up fantasy family. I wished this family was dead. Life wasn’t exactly perfect I had no close friends especially as Alice wasn’t talking to me after the ski trip. I never bothered to ring her, as far as I was concerned she was a piece of shit still. I had new friends; they were all that mattered now. I was going nowhere fast.
It was a dull January day; the view out of my bedroom window was as lonely as ever. We lived in a village yet I knew no one in it, I often thought that wasn’t very normal yet there were a lot of things about my family life that I didn’t find very normal, and they were thoughts I had since being a little girl. I hated my family for what they had made me, for the things they had made me do. I’d never excelled at anything and I blamed them for that too. I blamed them for never buying me the best pony, for sending me to boarding school, for not having enough money, and for everything that had gone wrong in my life.
Alice came around one day with her mother. I expect my mother was very embarrassed as to what had gone on holiday although we have never discussed what she said to Alice’s mother that day. Alice came up to my room to talk. I was sat on the bed waiting for the great things to happen to me. We spoke, me with authority and delusions and she normally. Then she went, if I’d only realized I would see her four more times in my life I might have been different towards her. I just sat on the bed and regarded her as trash; I had not the faintest bit of interest in her and was really quite rude. At this time there was no rationalizing with me, nothing mattered to me and nor did I care. I was completely selfish in my objectives, nothing was important except me. I think I really upset Alice and hurt her although she’s hurt me more since. I suppose looking back though I didn’t deserve to have her as a friend I got rid of her as if she was indispensable I pushed her away and our friendship in favor of my mind’s tricks.
The time I spent in my room was consumed by spending time with my make believe friends, people I had met around the world. I was having conversations with them in my head. I could feel them all around me. Then god came one afternoon and told me in my head, I wasn’t hearing voices yet, to get my address book. He then told me to pray that every body in the book should die and that I would never speak to any of them again. Well he was right although it was that none of them would speak to me again. I tore up the address book at his command. It was at this time that Leonardo’s spirit also entered the room; he sat besides my pine wardrobe and watched me, telling me he was coming to see me. I could see the faint outline of his body, he was such a large man, his spirit was black, and sometimes it brushed my body.
I was still pining for him and that’s when something miraculous happened.I lay in the bath each afternoon soaking up the bubbles and smoking cigarettes I had nothing else to do and it was very relaxing, when all of a sudden I found myself connecting with a spirit or rather a person. In my head I began talking to a man who at first reminded me of the bad guy in Bangkok Hilton. He had very dark hair and was very much a James Bond figure. He was incredibly beautiful; I knew exactly what he looked like as a picture in my head was visible. You see when I closed my eyes I could hallucinate and his image came to me on this wonderful afternoon. He was full of life, and also very rich. The first thing he said to me was that he would never fall in love with a girl like me. I was talking to the imaginary character for ages. He said he was in the Kings Head hotel in Richmond watching me.
He was with the navy and was going to be an ambassador of Morocco one day. He swore to send me a package of cigarettes and booze. Every day I waited by the door for the arrival, it never came. But he came back to my mind every day. He made my life worth living and I got to know him better and better. At first he had seemed quite evil but now he was nice. I could sometimes feel his spirit in the house moving around, the house had become haunted. Dark shadows would appear on the hallway and on the stairs. I could hear things in the loft and in the next door rooms. Black shadows fell and rose throughout the house. Every night Piers told me that there was a helicopter coming for me to take me away as I was so special. Every night I waited by the window ready to climb out when it came but it never did. Piers told me to do naughty things, he spoke to me when I was doing things and made me laugh. It was like having an imaginary friend. There was that film once with Rik Mayall as the illusionary friend it’s title was Drop Dead Fred, Piers was like that to me, he was every where I went and he affected everything I did.
£12.00
By Suzannah Knight
ISBN: 978-1-84747-007-2
Published: 2007
Pages: 152
Key Themes: self-harm, drug abuse, eating disorders, sectioning, mental health services, schizo-affective disorder, bipolar disorder, manic depression, alcoholism, the occult
Description
After a year travelling around the World Suzannah comes back to England to start university. Things start to go wrong as she is tempted into experimenting with drugs. She drops out of university and during her first spell of mania and depression starts to believe in black magic. This is the start of a long and winding journey for Suzannah as she loses all her friends and former lifestyle and leads a dubious existence - self harming and trichotillomania plague and her psyche as she battles with an eating disorder.
Suzannah is eventually sectioned and finds herself in a secure unit battling psychosis. She will not admit to herself she has a problem and refuses to take medication. Lonely and cast adrift she tries to forge a career for herself, but she can’t escape the taboo of being labelled 'mental'. Some time later she finds herself in the slums of Darlington, in poverty, and a chronic alcoholic. Overcoming her demons and fighting her schizo-affective disorder Suzannah takes life by the balls and gets herself back to university to finally finish her degree only to once again fall into mental illness, bad relationships and brushes with the law.
With four different diagnoses along the journey and various different forms of medication Suzannah denies her mental illness for a long time and therefore the psychiatrists were unable to help. She loses all her friends through mental illness and any form of normal life until she confronts the problem.
Remarkably and with great character Suzannah's book ends on a high note as she falls in love and marries the man of her dreams to live happily ever after with her son Domini. It is through her own determination and the support of loved ones that Suzannah has changed her life. She will never be totally rid of her illness but with sensible management she has succeeded in finding euilibrium. This is a fascinating and empowering story which should be a great positive influence to those who find themselves in a similar situation to Suzannah.
Book Extract
When we returned home the drinks cabinet was locked and I was locked in the house, but I was so high I didn’t need anything to aid it .My parents were worried and were watching me carefully. It’s never been discussed whether or not there is mental illness in my family tree but I know a great aunt committed suicide years before using paracetamol. My mania continued, my parents tried to talk to me about my future, I didn’t want to know I thought great thing wee going to happen to me without me doing anything to help it. My mother dragged me down to the University of Leeds, to continue my studies there. I said no, I didn’t want to go. I couldn’t stand the stress of going back to university, it didn’t interest me. She then dragged me to the chamber of commerce where I had an awful meeting with an old man. He knew I wasn’t interested in the course on offer and he told me so. It was an awkward and embarrassing moment. So I signed on the dole, and when I had to go for job interviews I messed them up.
I’d ruined my family’s annual ski trip. They thought I was just being a brat they didn’t know there was something wrong with me and they didn’t want to admit to themselves there was anything wrong with me. I was still manic and my parents knew it, my father had turned my room upside down looking for drugs, he thought I was taking heroin. The front door was always locked and the back so that I couldn’t escape like I had done in Morzine, it was for my own good I always seemed to get into trouble when I escaped. And all the time my parents were trying to protect me from myself, and keep me away from the authorities. When I was sat in my room I thought I was with members of the English SAS who then developed into members of the elite group made up in my mind of the Belize soldiers. I stole some cans of lager from the fridge and drank them with my new soldier friends. It was the same feeling of military that I had had whilst skiing. It wasn’t as though I came from a military orientated background but the connection with the army reigned right through my illness.
When I wasn’t in my room imagining whatever I imagined I was down stairs in a massive row. I was taken into the kitchen with my parents and my brother, who had stuck his nose in and was questioned about things I didn’t want to be questioned about. A huge row would peruse to which I didn’t understand why. It seemed that my parents were constantly rowing and I was in the middle, although I was the cause. I wish I could remember what the rows were but I can’t, although now I know they were over my strange behavior. I remember being very objectionable and talking about weird things at dinner times, I would cause a row to erupt after I’d caused trouble, usually by being very nasty and rude. I was still under the illusion that this family was not mine and all I wanted was to be with my made up fantasy family. I wished this family was dead. Life wasn’t exactly perfect I had no close friends especially as Alice wasn’t talking to me after the ski trip. I never bothered to ring her, as far as I was concerned she was a piece of shit still. I had new friends; they were all that mattered now. I was going nowhere fast.
It was a dull January day; the view out of my bedroom window was as lonely as ever. We lived in a village yet I knew no one in it, I often thought that wasn’t very normal yet there were a lot of things about my family life that I didn’t find very normal, and they were thoughts I had since being a little girl. I hated my family for what they had made me, for the things they had made me do. I’d never excelled at anything and I blamed them for that too. I blamed them for never buying me the best pony, for sending me to boarding school, for not having enough money, and for everything that had gone wrong in my life.
Alice came around one day with her mother. I expect my mother was very embarrassed as to what had gone on holiday although we have never discussed what she said to Alice’s mother that day. Alice came up to my room to talk. I was sat on the bed waiting for the great things to happen to me. We spoke, me with authority and delusions and she normally. Then she went, if I’d only realized I would see her four more times in my life I might have been different towards her. I just sat on the bed and regarded her as trash; I had not the faintest bit of interest in her and was really quite rude. At this time there was no rationalizing with me, nothing mattered to me and nor did I care. I was completely selfish in my objectives, nothing was important except me. I think I really upset Alice and hurt her although she’s hurt me more since. I suppose looking back though I didn’t deserve to have her as a friend I got rid of her as if she was indispensable I pushed her away and our friendship in favor of my mind’s tricks.
The time I spent in my room was consumed by spending time with my make believe friends, people I had met around the world. I was having conversations with them in my head. I could feel them all around me. Then god came one afternoon and told me in my head, I wasn’t hearing voices yet, to get my address book. He then told me to pray that every body in the book should die and that I would never speak to any of them again. Well he was right although it was that none of them would speak to me again. I tore up the address book at his command. It was at this time that Leonardo’s spirit also entered the room; he sat besides my pine wardrobe and watched me, telling me he was coming to see me. I could see the faint outline of his body, he was such a large man, his spirit was black, and sometimes it brushed my body.
I was still pining for him and that’s when something miraculous happened.I lay in the bath each afternoon soaking up the bubbles and smoking cigarettes I had nothing else to do and it was very relaxing, when all of a sudden I found myself connecting with a spirit or rather a person. In my head I began talking to a man who at first reminded me of the bad guy in Bangkok Hilton. He had very dark hair and was very much a James Bond figure. He was incredibly beautiful; I knew exactly what he looked like as a picture in my head was visible. You see when I closed my eyes I could hallucinate and his image came to me on this wonderful afternoon. He was full of life, and also very rich. The first thing he said to me was that he would never fall in love with a girl like me. I was talking to the imaginary character for ages. He said he was in the Kings Head hotel in Richmond watching me.
He was with the navy and was going to be an ambassador of Morocco one day. He swore to send me a package of cigarettes and booze. Every day I waited by the door for the arrival, it never came. But he came back to my mind every day. He made my life worth living and I got to know him better and better. At first he had seemed quite evil but now he was nice. I could sometimes feel his spirit in the house moving around, the house had become haunted. Dark shadows would appear on the hallway and on the stairs. I could hear things in the loft and in the next door rooms. Black shadows fell and rose throughout the house. Every night Piers told me that there was a helicopter coming for me to take me away as I was so special. Every night I waited by the window ready to climb out when it came but it never did. Piers told me to do naughty things, he spoke to me when I was doing things and made me laugh. It was like having an imaginary friend. There was that film once with Rik Mayall as the illusionary friend it’s title was Drop Dead Fred, Piers was like that to me, he was every where I went and he affected everything I did.
BIG DICK, little dick By Stephen Broughton
BIG DICK, little dick
£12.00
By Stephen Broughton
ISBN: 978-1-84747-079-9
Published: 2007
Pages: 236
Key Themes: humour, suicidal thoughts, abuse
"Can someone be broken and yet 'whole' at the same time? Is it possible to live in the light and at the same time suffer torment in the darkest pitch? Stephen Broughton proves that we can; that human endurance, intelligence and a natural God-given talent for empathising with others can set us free. The damaged child can own his pain, integrate it, live, learn and love." - Anni Meehan, Biodynamic Therapist
"Unsparing yet never self-pitying, he recalls what went wrong and how he has set about rescuing himself. His account is absorbing, sometimes wryly funny, and wonderfully evocative. Inspiring, too - the child he wanted to be was destroyed but Broughton was not". - Shaun Usher, broadcaster, writer & critic.
Description
Very funny, very sad, very moving and very strange - this is the book of one man's journey of discovery seeing mental ill health as a gift, rather than a curse. In this book Stephen attempts to understand his own dreams and suicidal thoughts on the way to meeting the man he should have been - little dick. While it was his alter-ego BIG DICK who survived an upbringing with a narcisstic mother and a disinterested Father. An honest and endearing book on schizophrenia, this is a worthy addition to the new genre of 'mad' literature.
About the Author
Author Stephen has been a trustee of his local MIND group for nearly 20 years and has had suicide as his Plan B for as long as he can remember. He presents 'Thought for the Day' on BBC local radio, sings in a choir and runs marathons very slowly. Stephen is a Solicitor, often described by clients as 'not like a real solicitor' which he takes as a great compliment. Most of his friends seem to be mad as well.
Book Extract
We all dream and we probably dream every night. But have you wondered why we only remember some of the dreams and the others are consigned to some cerebral recycle bin? And why we sometimes have the same dream over and over again. I have had, for so long as I have known, a dream where I suddenly discover that I have a house. A tiny derelict house with an over grown garden.
Hidden away with no proper path to it. And when I look at the house I see that there's so much work to be done to make it into a place to live that I know it’s beyond me and that makes me very sad. And there's another dream where I've killed someone a long time ago and nobody but me knows and I'm afraid that someone will some day find out the terrible thing that I have done. And I wake up believing the dream is true not knowing how I can live with myself having done the terrible thing that I have done. So this book is about how I found out about the person I might have killed and how I first found and then set about rebuilding the house that was nothing but an empty shell with a gaping hole in the roof.
And have you ever wondered why we have the memories of our childhood that we have? Sometimes trivial every day memories. Like a video running in our mind which never got erased by the other trivial every day memories that we record each day. I have always remembered as if it was yesterday, the day when a white van drew up outside our house and a man in a white coat got out. Our dog was a corgi we called Lightie. The man came into our living room. Lightie was behind the sofa and he picked her up in his arms and took her away. And I never knew why I remembered that so well. Many years later when I had gone past the age they call middle age I told my mother about that memory. She was amazed at what I said because she said I could only have been about 12 months at the time. I had just started to walk and the dog was getting old and no longer as reliable as it needed to be with a toddler around.
£12.00
By Stephen Broughton
ISBN: 978-1-84747-079-9
Published: 2007
Pages: 236
Key Themes: humour, suicidal thoughts, abuse
"Can someone be broken and yet 'whole' at the same time? Is it possible to live in the light and at the same time suffer torment in the darkest pitch? Stephen Broughton proves that we can; that human endurance, intelligence and a natural God-given talent for empathising with others can set us free. The damaged child can own his pain, integrate it, live, learn and love." - Anni Meehan, Biodynamic Therapist
"Unsparing yet never self-pitying, he recalls what went wrong and how he has set about rescuing himself. His account is absorbing, sometimes wryly funny, and wonderfully evocative. Inspiring, too - the child he wanted to be was destroyed but Broughton was not". - Shaun Usher, broadcaster, writer & critic.
Description
Very funny, very sad, very moving and very strange - this is the book of one man's journey of discovery seeing mental ill health as a gift, rather than a curse. In this book Stephen attempts to understand his own dreams and suicidal thoughts on the way to meeting the man he should have been - little dick. While it was his alter-ego BIG DICK who survived an upbringing with a narcisstic mother and a disinterested Father. An honest and endearing book on schizophrenia, this is a worthy addition to the new genre of 'mad' literature.
About the Author
Author Stephen has been a trustee of his local MIND group for nearly 20 years and has had suicide as his Plan B for as long as he can remember. He presents 'Thought for the Day' on BBC local radio, sings in a choir and runs marathons very slowly. Stephen is a Solicitor, often described by clients as 'not like a real solicitor' which he takes as a great compliment. Most of his friends seem to be mad as well.
Book Extract
We all dream and we probably dream every night. But have you wondered why we only remember some of the dreams and the others are consigned to some cerebral recycle bin? And why we sometimes have the same dream over and over again. I have had, for so long as I have known, a dream where I suddenly discover that I have a house. A tiny derelict house with an over grown garden.
Hidden away with no proper path to it. And when I look at the house I see that there's so much work to be done to make it into a place to live that I know it’s beyond me and that makes me very sad. And there's another dream where I've killed someone a long time ago and nobody but me knows and I'm afraid that someone will some day find out the terrible thing that I have done. And I wake up believing the dream is true not knowing how I can live with myself having done the terrible thing that I have done. So this book is about how I found out about the person I might have killed and how I first found and then set about rebuilding the house that was nothing but an empty shell with a gaping hole in the roof.
And have you ever wondered why we have the memories of our childhood that we have? Sometimes trivial every day memories. Like a video running in our mind which never got erased by the other trivial every day memories that we record each day. I have always remembered as if it was yesterday, the day when a white van drew up outside our house and a man in a white coat got out. Our dog was a corgi we called Lightie. The man came into our living room. Lightie was behind the sofa and he picked her up in his arms and took her away. And I never knew why I remembered that so well. Many years later when I had gone past the age they call middle age I told my mother about that memory. She was amazed at what I said because she said I could only have been about 12 months at the time. I had just started to walk and the dog was getting old and no longer as reliable as it needed to be with a toddler around.
Bi-Polar Expedition By Neil Walton
Bi-Polar Expedition
£12.00
By Neil Walton
ISBN: 978-1-84747-123-9
Published: 2007
Pages: 220
Key Themes: bi-polar disorder, manic depression, suicidal thoughts, alcoholism
Description
With this book about severe bi-polar disorder, Neil Walton gives the reader a real insight into what it is like to live with this common, yet misunderstood and often seriously debilitating illness. Neil's life has been something of a journey of self-realisation and enlightenment, a bi-polar expedition indeed! Neil's story reflects his many experiences; from struggling with drink to numerous nervous breakdowns and problems with family and relationships. This is a book which will appeal to many but in particular to those who have had similar experiences to Neil's. A book that will help people come to terms with their illness, as Neil has. A book that could save lives!
About the Author
After my second breakdown, a friend of mine said casually one afternoon, "Why don't you write a book about your experiences, it might help people in the same situation as yourself." I dismissed the idea as ludicrous saying "who would be interested in a book by me?" I didn't read books, much less write them, and besides my spelling and punctuation were crap! Three years later, after my fourth nervous breakdown, my friend's suggestion came to the fore. I began jotting down notes. Three months later, after reading over my notes, I saw the possibilities of a short book.
I took the idea to my Occupational Therapist (OT) and waited for fits of raucous laughter. Amazingly she approved. I couldn't believe anybody would actually take me seriously. I joined an editorial team called 'Equilibrium,' which produces a quarterly newsletter covering mental health issues in the Haringey, London area. On my first day there I tentatively mentioned my book about being diagnosed with bi-polar to the facilitator, Julia Bard. I sat back in my chair and waited for a pat on the head, followed by a bout of uncontrollable apoplexy. Julia's concise reply was "That's a great idea, strong subject too." She asked me to bring in my work so that the team could edit it and use it in our next edition. Well slap me with a four-pound trout!! That was the first time my scribblings had been described as work. That was May 1999.
In the summer of 2001, I passed my GCSE English Language exams with C and B grades. Not bad for a forty-three year old manic depressive!!
My book, 'Bi-polar Expedition' turned out to be much bigger than I had imagined it would be, I sincerely hope you find it useful.
Book Extract
I had been on the missing list for sometime; ignoring the phone, the door and the outside world. My mind and body had taken such a battering over the past three years, (1986-89) and I just couldn't take it any more. I didn’t have the energy for conversation. My brain was on overload and my body was paralysed and lethargic. I had turned into an introvert, the direct opposite of my usual character. My arms and legs were like lead and I felt bone cold, as if my core temperature was lower than any body else's. Add to that a poor diet and a feeling of utter worthlessness; I was a sorry example of a human being.
I had a loop-tape of losses and problems to come relentlessly playing in my head. The only thing that stopped this tape was sleep - the next step was obvious. I was at breaking point. If I could have laid my hands on a gun... I might not be here now. Only a fellow sufferer or a specialist would understand the mental pain I was experiencing. I found a scalpel blade in my toolbox and went into my bedroom closing the door behind me. I gazed at the sterilised Swan & Morton for hours on end, the loop-tape still playing. I slept most of the time. But there were those awful four to six hours spent awake, going over and over the reasons for ending my life. Why was this happening to me? What had I done to deserve this treatment from life? The answer of course was nothing.
I began nicking at the skin on my left arm just to test the pain factor. With a brand new blade it was quite painless. Then I cut deeper into my arm making seven to eight cuts between my forearm and biceps. I watched as my blood pumped from the wounds. I laid there in a cold sweat as it trickled down my arm and soaked into the duvet cover. Sometime later, I reached for my lighter and cigarettes which were on the bedside cabinet. I was momentarily prevented as the duvet cover was firmly stuck to my forearm with congealed blood. As I pulled it away from my arm, it opened four of the cuts I had inflicted on myself. I remember thinking that this wasn’t going to be easy. The pain was so severe that I had to stop and think of an alternative way to end it all. The options seemed endless at the time. What about an overdose of paracetamol? How many would I have to take? If I could have been sure that I would have just gone to sleep and not woken up to being resuscitated, I might have chosen that option. As it was, I continued questioning each form of suicide but had no answers - looking back it probably saved me. My lethargy was so painfully strong that I couldn’t find the energy to drag myself to the chemist, only a hundred feet from my front door. I drank a glass of water, lit another cigarette and laid there wondering what to do next.
I thought long and hard about my sons, Jack and Daniel, who I think played a key factor of my survival. How could I even think of leaving them fatherless? I felt so selfish and yet in so much pain. Suicide or death in general seems so unfair. You die and everybody who knows you suffers in one way or another. What a dilemma, what a guilt trip, as if I didn’t feel bad enough already. I went back to sleep with thoughts of my parents, children and close friends on my mind.
I came to in the early hours of the morning, with tears streaming down my face I said out loud, “Oh Christ no, not another day, why can’t I just die in my sleep?” You see the tape kicks in the second you’re conscious. Shit, shit, shit, why was I taking this out on myself? Hours later I began to pick at the tendons on my left wrist with the blade. I wondered how long it would take to die. More importantly, how painful would it be? Would my heart simply stop? Maybe my lungs would cease functioning? How was I going to breathe? As you can see my sense of logic and reasoning was out to lunch.
My indecision was getting as bad as the loop-tape. I wanted the death part but without the pain, I should be so lucky! If I slashed my wrist I would have to cut through my tendons, something I hadn’t contemplated until now. I followed a vein from my forearm to the base of my biceps with the scalpel blade. In the crease of my left arm I had a bigger target and no visible tendons. All I had to do now was push the blade in. I stabbed either side of the vein. Forty-eight hours later I was still deliberating about my attempted suicide.
I heard the third dawn chorus - you wouldn’t believe the row those bloody birds made first thing in the morning. My next stop was going to be my garage, quiet and dark all the time - perfect. I guess I had it in mind to starve my self to death. If that were the case why was I contemplating taking bottles of water with me? Probably to keep my mouth and throat lubricated as I am a heavy smoker. So, with a supply of H20 and as many fags as I could carry, this being my only source of nutrition in the last seventy-two hours, the next task would have been to haul the mattress off of my bed and dump it in the garage. But I was so weak I couldn’t shift it off the bed. Let alone pull it down two flights of stairs and drag it across the car park. It has been said that to take your life is the coward’s way out. Yeah, bollocks it is!
What caused my suicide attempt was a catalogue of disasters one after another over a three-year period. They plunged me slowly and painfully into clinical depression. I was powerless to stop it and the last person to know I was ill.
After three days I eventually answered the door. It was Bill, a close friend and school mate of mine. “We’ve been concerned about you mate, so has your Mum, nobody has heard from you in a while, we just wondered if you were all right?” “Yeah, sorry mate,” I replied. “I’m okay, I just feel a bit tired that’s all apart from that I’m fine.” I tried to make small talk to mask my real feelings but Bill saw through this like a glass book.
I couldn’t keep up the pretence any longer. The smile disappeared from my face and my head fell forward into my hands. I showed him my arm. “Why am I doing this to myself Bill?” He was very calm about the situation. “You’ve had a lot of stress in the last three years, things that were out of your control. Basically it’s affected your health.”
Bill’s mother-in-law had been in the nursing profession for over twenty years and saw my break-down coming. It was she who advised Bill on how to help me I later found out. The advice was simple. Without too much fuss, get Neil to his doctor, he is suffering from clinical depression. Bill’s words to me were, “I think we should make a trip to the quacks, what do you reckon?” “I know I’m not a hundred percent,” I said, “but is it really that serious?” He just shut his eyes and nodded a couple of times. Pre-empting my answer Bill had already phoned my GP - they were just waiting for us to arrive. “Could you take me?” I asked. “The car’s outside mate,” he said. “What, today? … What, now?” “When you’re ready,” he replied.
Bill was the sort of friend you could trust with your life. For him to be worried about me I knew I had to put my faith, what was left of it, in his judgement. I made another pot of tea, the British thing to do in a situation like this. I sat down to let the information sink in, not realising just how life-altering this visit to the doctor’s was going to be.
When we arrived at the surgery the receptionist showed us straight into my doctor’s room. She asked me some questions relating to diet, sleep pattern and motivation. My reply to all three was just one word, “Poor.” The final question from my doctor, knowing in my heart it was rhetorical, was the hardest, shortest and the most painful I have ever had to answer. There was a terrible, sickening silence after she said the words “Have you tried to harm yourself in anyway?” “Yes,” I said quietly. After that I don’t remember speaking any more. I was mentally exhausted and overwhelmed with emotion. I had to let Bill take over the proceedings. He asked my GP what the next step was. Doctor Gibbon replied, “I think it would be best for Neil to see Dr. Gadhvi, the head psychiatrist at Claybury Hospital. I have made an appointment for Neil to see him this afternoon. I need a second opinion. Based on his report Neil may have to go into hospital for a short time.”
Things were moving too quickly for me, with talk of head shrinks and hospitals, but I was in no fit state to argue. I was swept along with the tide after that. This was starting to feel like a sad episode of “Casualty” come to life. Karen Gibbon was a kind, caring and considerate person. She made sure I understood what was going on, without belittling me, emphasising that a stay in hospital would be probable, after my consultation with the other doctor. Family and friends had carefully planned my path towards hospital; the trip to the trick-cyclist was a mere formality.
After visiting Dr Gadhvi my fate was secured. I fell silent again. This was too much to cope with. Bill took over as my ears, eyes and brain. At the end of the consultation it was decided that I would go in hospital as a voluntary patient for a minimum of two weeks. Technically I was sectioned under the Mental Health Act, but I was informed I could leave the hospital any time I liked. Bill asked the doctor when this would happen and was told, “There will be a bed ready for him tonight. Perhaps this afternoon you could help Neil pack a bag,” Bill nodded in agreement. Christ, what do I pack? I’ve never been in hospital before, let alone a nut house. What the fuck is it going to be like in there? Of course I had a vivid picture in my mind, who wouldn’t? At this point I was petrified and powerless.
This was another situation that was totally out of my control. My life was now in other people's hands. I didn’t like it one little bit. Bill was still on hand for support, and later that evening he ferried me to the hospital. It was only a short ride, but I remained quiet for hours as I remember. Communication was down to hearing and nodding only. I didn’t have the strength for anything else.
£12.00
By Neil Walton
ISBN: 978-1-84747-123-9
Published: 2007
Pages: 220
Key Themes: bi-polar disorder, manic depression, suicidal thoughts, alcoholism
Description
With this book about severe bi-polar disorder, Neil Walton gives the reader a real insight into what it is like to live with this common, yet misunderstood and often seriously debilitating illness. Neil's life has been something of a journey of self-realisation and enlightenment, a bi-polar expedition indeed! Neil's story reflects his many experiences; from struggling with drink to numerous nervous breakdowns and problems with family and relationships. This is a book which will appeal to many but in particular to those who have had similar experiences to Neil's. A book that will help people come to terms with their illness, as Neil has. A book that could save lives!
About the Author
After my second breakdown, a friend of mine said casually one afternoon, "Why don't you write a book about your experiences, it might help people in the same situation as yourself." I dismissed the idea as ludicrous saying "who would be interested in a book by me?" I didn't read books, much less write them, and besides my spelling and punctuation were crap! Three years later, after my fourth nervous breakdown, my friend's suggestion came to the fore. I began jotting down notes. Three months later, after reading over my notes, I saw the possibilities of a short book.
I took the idea to my Occupational Therapist (OT) and waited for fits of raucous laughter. Amazingly she approved. I couldn't believe anybody would actually take me seriously. I joined an editorial team called 'Equilibrium,' which produces a quarterly newsletter covering mental health issues in the Haringey, London area. On my first day there I tentatively mentioned my book about being diagnosed with bi-polar to the facilitator, Julia Bard. I sat back in my chair and waited for a pat on the head, followed by a bout of uncontrollable apoplexy. Julia's concise reply was "That's a great idea, strong subject too." She asked me to bring in my work so that the team could edit it and use it in our next edition. Well slap me with a four-pound trout!! That was the first time my scribblings had been described as work. That was May 1999.
In the summer of 2001, I passed my GCSE English Language exams with C and B grades. Not bad for a forty-three year old manic depressive!!
My book, 'Bi-polar Expedition' turned out to be much bigger than I had imagined it would be, I sincerely hope you find it useful.
Book Extract
I had been on the missing list for sometime; ignoring the phone, the door and the outside world. My mind and body had taken such a battering over the past three years, (1986-89) and I just couldn't take it any more. I didn’t have the energy for conversation. My brain was on overload and my body was paralysed and lethargic. I had turned into an introvert, the direct opposite of my usual character. My arms and legs were like lead and I felt bone cold, as if my core temperature was lower than any body else's. Add to that a poor diet and a feeling of utter worthlessness; I was a sorry example of a human being.
I had a loop-tape of losses and problems to come relentlessly playing in my head. The only thing that stopped this tape was sleep - the next step was obvious. I was at breaking point. If I could have laid my hands on a gun... I might not be here now. Only a fellow sufferer or a specialist would understand the mental pain I was experiencing. I found a scalpel blade in my toolbox and went into my bedroom closing the door behind me. I gazed at the sterilised Swan & Morton for hours on end, the loop-tape still playing. I slept most of the time. But there were those awful four to six hours spent awake, going over and over the reasons for ending my life. Why was this happening to me? What had I done to deserve this treatment from life? The answer of course was nothing.
I began nicking at the skin on my left arm just to test the pain factor. With a brand new blade it was quite painless. Then I cut deeper into my arm making seven to eight cuts between my forearm and biceps. I watched as my blood pumped from the wounds. I laid there in a cold sweat as it trickled down my arm and soaked into the duvet cover. Sometime later, I reached for my lighter and cigarettes which were on the bedside cabinet. I was momentarily prevented as the duvet cover was firmly stuck to my forearm with congealed blood. As I pulled it away from my arm, it opened four of the cuts I had inflicted on myself. I remember thinking that this wasn’t going to be easy. The pain was so severe that I had to stop and think of an alternative way to end it all. The options seemed endless at the time. What about an overdose of paracetamol? How many would I have to take? If I could have been sure that I would have just gone to sleep and not woken up to being resuscitated, I might have chosen that option. As it was, I continued questioning each form of suicide but had no answers - looking back it probably saved me. My lethargy was so painfully strong that I couldn’t find the energy to drag myself to the chemist, only a hundred feet from my front door. I drank a glass of water, lit another cigarette and laid there wondering what to do next.
I thought long and hard about my sons, Jack and Daniel, who I think played a key factor of my survival. How could I even think of leaving them fatherless? I felt so selfish and yet in so much pain. Suicide or death in general seems so unfair. You die and everybody who knows you suffers in one way or another. What a dilemma, what a guilt trip, as if I didn’t feel bad enough already. I went back to sleep with thoughts of my parents, children and close friends on my mind.
I came to in the early hours of the morning, with tears streaming down my face I said out loud, “Oh Christ no, not another day, why can’t I just die in my sleep?” You see the tape kicks in the second you’re conscious. Shit, shit, shit, why was I taking this out on myself? Hours later I began to pick at the tendons on my left wrist with the blade. I wondered how long it would take to die. More importantly, how painful would it be? Would my heart simply stop? Maybe my lungs would cease functioning? How was I going to breathe? As you can see my sense of logic and reasoning was out to lunch.
My indecision was getting as bad as the loop-tape. I wanted the death part but without the pain, I should be so lucky! If I slashed my wrist I would have to cut through my tendons, something I hadn’t contemplated until now. I followed a vein from my forearm to the base of my biceps with the scalpel blade. In the crease of my left arm I had a bigger target and no visible tendons. All I had to do now was push the blade in. I stabbed either side of the vein. Forty-eight hours later I was still deliberating about my attempted suicide.
I heard the third dawn chorus - you wouldn’t believe the row those bloody birds made first thing in the morning. My next stop was going to be my garage, quiet and dark all the time - perfect. I guess I had it in mind to starve my self to death. If that were the case why was I contemplating taking bottles of water with me? Probably to keep my mouth and throat lubricated as I am a heavy smoker. So, with a supply of H20 and as many fags as I could carry, this being my only source of nutrition in the last seventy-two hours, the next task would have been to haul the mattress off of my bed and dump it in the garage. But I was so weak I couldn’t shift it off the bed. Let alone pull it down two flights of stairs and drag it across the car park. It has been said that to take your life is the coward’s way out. Yeah, bollocks it is!
What caused my suicide attempt was a catalogue of disasters one after another over a three-year period. They plunged me slowly and painfully into clinical depression. I was powerless to stop it and the last person to know I was ill.
After three days I eventually answered the door. It was Bill, a close friend and school mate of mine. “We’ve been concerned about you mate, so has your Mum, nobody has heard from you in a while, we just wondered if you were all right?” “Yeah, sorry mate,” I replied. “I’m okay, I just feel a bit tired that’s all apart from that I’m fine.” I tried to make small talk to mask my real feelings but Bill saw through this like a glass book.
I couldn’t keep up the pretence any longer. The smile disappeared from my face and my head fell forward into my hands. I showed him my arm. “Why am I doing this to myself Bill?” He was very calm about the situation. “You’ve had a lot of stress in the last three years, things that were out of your control. Basically it’s affected your health.”
Bill’s mother-in-law had been in the nursing profession for over twenty years and saw my break-down coming. It was she who advised Bill on how to help me I later found out. The advice was simple. Without too much fuss, get Neil to his doctor, he is suffering from clinical depression. Bill’s words to me were, “I think we should make a trip to the quacks, what do you reckon?” “I know I’m not a hundred percent,” I said, “but is it really that serious?” He just shut his eyes and nodded a couple of times. Pre-empting my answer Bill had already phoned my GP - they were just waiting for us to arrive. “Could you take me?” I asked. “The car’s outside mate,” he said. “What, today? … What, now?” “When you’re ready,” he replied.
Bill was the sort of friend you could trust with your life. For him to be worried about me I knew I had to put my faith, what was left of it, in his judgement. I made another pot of tea, the British thing to do in a situation like this. I sat down to let the information sink in, not realising just how life-altering this visit to the doctor’s was going to be.
When we arrived at the surgery the receptionist showed us straight into my doctor’s room. She asked me some questions relating to diet, sleep pattern and motivation. My reply to all three was just one word, “Poor.” The final question from my doctor, knowing in my heart it was rhetorical, was the hardest, shortest and the most painful I have ever had to answer. There was a terrible, sickening silence after she said the words “Have you tried to harm yourself in anyway?” “Yes,” I said quietly. After that I don’t remember speaking any more. I was mentally exhausted and overwhelmed with emotion. I had to let Bill take over the proceedings. He asked my GP what the next step was. Doctor Gibbon replied, “I think it would be best for Neil to see Dr. Gadhvi, the head psychiatrist at Claybury Hospital. I have made an appointment for Neil to see him this afternoon. I need a second opinion. Based on his report Neil may have to go into hospital for a short time.”
Things were moving too quickly for me, with talk of head shrinks and hospitals, but I was in no fit state to argue. I was swept along with the tide after that. This was starting to feel like a sad episode of “Casualty” come to life. Karen Gibbon was a kind, caring and considerate person. She made sure I understood what was going on, without belittling me, emphasising that a stay in hospital would be probable, after my consultation with the other doctor. Family and friends had carefully planned my path towards hospital; the trip to the trick-cyclist was a mere formality.
After visiting Dr Gadhvi my fate was secured. I fell silent again. This was too much to cope with. Bill took over as my ears, eyes and brain. At the end of the consultation it was decided that I would go in hospital as a voluntary patient for a minimum of two weeks. Technically I was sectioned under the Mental Health Act, but I was informed I could leave the hospital any time I liked. Bill asked the doctor when this would happen and was told, “There will be a bed ready for him tonight. Perhaps this afternoon you could help Neil pack a bag,” Bill nodded in agreement. Christ, what do I pack? I’ve never been in hospital before, let alone a nut house. What the fuck is it going to be like in there? Of course I had a vivid picture in my mind, who wouldn’t? At this point I was petrified and powerless.
This was another situation that was totally out of my control. My life was now in other people's hands. I didn’t like it one little bit. Bill was still on hand for support, and later that evening he ferried me to the hospital. It was only a short ride, but I remained quiet for hours as I remember. Communication was down to hearing and nodding only. I didn’t have the strength for anything else.
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