This space I occupy – my head, my world, my universe

I comprehend as you do yours, but mine is liquid – changing, flowing

Facets presenting themselves before me, communicating differing aspects

My head feels as if it must explode – information overload

I get no rest, no peace although I am alone – I am not

I respond to them – they tease and taunt, my mind they haunt

I am in fear of what they know.

You know not who I am, who sent me, but to his will, I bend

I have no time for Worldly things – my way is set.  I follow.

Messages only for me, whispered in my ear, through the radio or TV

My life is a mission – resenting interference from you and your kind

Who are you who think you know what is best for me?

I am of the ancient world and live by the old rule

Unhand me.  Through fear I shall fight and for what is right.

Degraded yet again – I know this place and those who dwell here

Unable to move, I struggle to make sense of the battle within

The haze inside my mind – blades of light and clarity

Penetrate and buzz to the very core of my brain and then

It dawns, I am unwell again – no sickness, no broken bone

No visible signature of physical trauma, but my mind –

Oh my mind, it torments me as it screams for tranquillity

Last visit is Chris, haven’t seen him for a while

Got himself a job in some gardens, or the other way round.

“Hello Peter!”  Chris greets me with a huge smile.

I find it hard to believe it’s the same man I’m seeing today!

So bright, alert and happy with a sparkle in his eye

Perhaps the one we inadvertently medicated away

He talks enthusiastically about his various jobs and activities

Planting, tractor driving, and chainsaw wielding

My mind begins to boggle with issues of risk and vulnerability

Chris then says “I’ll take you to meet Ed, The gaffer.”

Ed’s lean and has a face marked with years of joy and toil

“Hello there.”  He says and shakes my hand with the grip of a lobster

Whilst grinning with laughter lines like deep furrows in soil.

I automatically start to go through Chris’s file in my mind, and enquire

“Ed, has Chris had any seizure activity you can recall?”

“No, but just in case we steer him clear of pointy things and open fire.”

“Aggressive outbursts or violence you know of?”

“He was gobby at first and acted like a right prat”

“So I told him, either do the job or F.... off”

“Mood swings or lengthy bouts of depression?”

“When he gets down we’ll go for a pint and a chat”

“Any interaction between alcohol and his medication?”

“I don’t actually think he’s still on a lot of that.”

Next Chris hands out mugs of tea he’s made

Which is something I didn’t even realise he could do

We all sit sipping it in the sun-dappled shade

A light breeze gentle sways white chrysanthemums

Soft echoes of birdsong and buzzing of bees

Flower scents mingles with fresh earth and old hessian

Such natural tranquillity.  I could get so used to this!

I ask Ed if he’s always been gardening; he replies

“For twenty-three years I was a consultant psychiatrist.”

Unknowing, apparently, she sits and stares          

Who knows what happens behind those blank eyes                .

Forgotten, apparently, by those who cared

Her own forgetfulness alienating her.

Alone, apparently.

Does she know sometimes, can she understand?

Can she see herself

Sailing into the dark?

Discomfited, apparently, I draw away

The smell of the home lingering in my nose

Untouched, apparently, by the visit today

My own equanimity surrounding me.

Safe, apparently.

But I see now, I can understand

I can see myself

Sailing into the dark.

I watch her as she inhales

Fragrant eau de rose soaps, shaped like snails               ,

And vanilla perfumed candles.

She grabs at slabs of carbolic and coal tar;

Memories of bath-times in front of the fire

And at her wrist, dabs scent from glass jars.

Her forget-me-not eyes admire laden shelves,

Cure-alls of cloves, ointment and salves,

And she smiles as the years dissolve.

There’s too much choice, but she finally picks,

A moonlight-coloured box – an addict for kitsch

And tops-up her day-trip souvenirs.

But a mind once strong, now egg-shell brittle,

Has lost its reason, is telling fickle

And the box is put back; abandoned.

Instead, she heads towards the lavender water,

A gift idea for her middle-aged daughter?

And I check my watch: it’s time to go.

She leaves empty-handed, but after an hour

Retraces her steps – has been here before?

And it looks interesting, let’s see what’s inside.

I watch her as she inhales,

Fragrant eau de rose soaps, shaped like snails,

And vanilla-perfumed candles.

The Demon Within

Helen Theakston

Hazel Hammond

Here I sit alone with the thoughts in my head

So much to say, yet so much unsaid

Floating adrift in a sea of emotion

Lost and confused amid all the commotion.

Scared to discover what’s hidden within

Scared to find out, is that such a sin?

What’s hidden inside and buried so deep

Concealed for so long, what secret I keep?

The truth of which even I’m unaware

Yes, you can joke, and yes, you can stare

But the truth of what haunts me I cannot reveal

The things my mind has chosen to conceal.

The demons inside me, locked deep within

I want to release them, but how to begin?

For if I don’t know what, then who the hell will,

How can I win when I don’t know what to kill?

But you, you think that you know the best

And despite my pleading and desperate requests

You choose your weapon and dive straight in

Take a deep breath, and then you begin

To cut to the quick and punch a hole right through

With a red hot poker you delve down into

The innermost depths of my heart and my soul

But what do you care, now that you’ve made a hole?

Poking and prodding around in the wound

Until finally it breaks, and what’s been cocooned

Spurts forth with a flood of emotion and pain

Like a river of blood, but you never refrain,

From pushing it deeper, harder and stronger

No respite, no let up, no time left to wonder

Deeper you probe, further down you descend

An emotionless interrogation with no foreseeable end.

There must be a reason the memory has gone

Why it’s been shut away so tight and so strong

What truth was so bad, so awful, so wrong

That my mind had to banish it away for so long?

What did I do? What did I see?

What terrible thing happened to me?

To cause me to feel so unable to cope?

To make me want to give up all hope?

And punish myself in such a terrible way

And struggle and fight and battle each day,

Through a deluge of emotion I don’t understand

How did my life’s rollercoaster get so out of hand?

Why can’t I just let my feelings be seen?

What makes me pursue this destructive regime?

And continue to live my life in this way

An endless cycle of fear I cannot disobey.

Each day I awake and pray for the end,

When night-time will fall and I can descend,

To a world which only my dreams can sustain,

A place where I can no longer feel pain.

Once sleep washes over me I need not pretend

As the darkness surrounds me, my heart starts to mend

For my dreams can protect me and take me away

To a far distant place where fear cannot stay

A place I am safe from all harm and all pain

A place where my life is no longer a strain

For the world that I live in no longer exists

And battles in my head can finally desist

My pain and self-loathing will cease to be

And instead I am confident, happy, carefree

For in my dreams, I find all my head won’t allow

The safety, the freedom, and the love that somehow,

One day I may find in the world which you live

Once I, my hatred in me, can forgive.

I tried to run with the pack but you brought me down, black dog

Deep night fur, long teeth cutting my flesh and lapping my hearts blood

I felt you less when my eyes roamed the hills

Or watched the winter sheep

In the city I still feel you black dog

Sliding your flanks along new walls

Pissing in corners, marking my sexuality with your odour

Long baths cannot remove this

It’s deep, black dog, buried and raw

You dug at my bones, scraped my surfaces with your claws,

Maybe your lead was guilt, maybe laziness

You are not forgiven

So rise up black dog on your hind legs

Look ridiculous, go against you nature, oh yes you are sleek

But others notice your habits, sniffing and leaving

Panting with your new excitement

Black dog – no conscience devourer of the raw,

I want you on a choke chain, controlled, and known by others.

No more meals of my flesh, my lifetime

Whatever creativity, black dog gave me

Was not worth the leash.

Adam Smith

They stretch up to the sky and back down again

The windows are small

And I cannot quite see through them

With their painted glass, multicoloured mosaic

I stand at the bottom of a spiral stair

Bruised black like a peach and bleeding

I limp

I can hear a calling from the rafters from where I fell

But I do not know the sound

It rings like a bell

The noise vibrates my bones in all sorts of ways

I want to rise up to the ceiling

The stairs are slippery however, coated in wax

The banisters fractured and breaking

I want to rise my limbs to the height of the never-ending

staircase

In the castle made of stone

Yet each movement strips me bare

To a live wire, or burning flame

And I know there are trap doors below

The statues lie in wait watching me

Half dressed in burnished armour

Their eyes burning bright light into my back

And I can hear an eagle circling

Low beneath the ceiling

Once I used to fly high above this Garuda

But now I am yellow, as prey

Blisters on my once golden skin

Burns on my once caressing hands

I sing back up to the rafters

Up to my soaring feathered friend

My voice still strong and proud

I cry long and hard

Muscles pulling up from my abdomen

But loose about the throat

I wait and bathe myself in the echoing sound

However the hollow bell rings on, and outlasts

my holy cry

I shiver

The eagle, once companion leaves

Snakes upwards

I watch it go

And turn a little stiffer

The bellowing sound grows powerful

I cover my ears

I’m sure I do not scream

I see them stirring now

Breaking free of their stands

Matt and pure, the figurines move, quickly

Are they enraged by my sound

Their armour glints in the light coming in through the

red stained glass

Blue metal turning purple

Five on them now, their footsteps making no sound

behind the bellowing

They close in for me

I am motionless

They step

They border

Alive

They lift their arms

I look long into their eyes for a second

Is it love they want

I crouch

Their arms encircle me

Snap

I break their hands from their wrists

Though they hold me still

I rush past them

I turn on sore ankles

Towards the wooden path

Steps creak

My cloak and crown

Stuck on the wax

I climb

I rise

I cling to the steps now disintegrating

I watch in terror at the statuettes down below

Pelted with splinters and wax

Sticking to them like thistles

I move on

And count the bricks as I go

9,058

9,476

Dizzy as I go

Twisting and contorting

In circles

Towards the precious sound

A blast of air

The eagle’s attention returns

Evil in its eye

I react

I tear the still clutching marble from my skin

And launch these twitching fingers at the devilish bird

I connect

The bird plummets down with the

Stairway, down with

Varnished wood, turned black

Down with the light flooding from the roof

I am naked now, and glorious

I reach skyward

I can see the source of the sound and light now

I reach upward

I call her name

In our mother tongue

See scratches me

I shake her

Kiss her gently

She stops

And licks my swollen ears

Her glittering hands motion towards my bellybutton and

centre

She holds me

And tells me not to breath

She moves me to the floor

Curls me into a ball

The ground is soft and moist

Red like petals

The sound is growing fainter now

Fingers seal me eyes shut

A woman’s voice is in my head now

All about me

Natatory

Embraced

All I hear now is the sound of a drum

Da-da dum

Ba-da boom

I wrap my hands

Around the life line extending from my abdomen

And listen to the drum

Her voice is quiet now

She is singing.

Sad

Even when my child smiles at me

Sad

Even when friends laugh with me

Sad

Even when surrounded by love

Sad

Even when a new bud forms

Sad

Enclosed

Lifeless

Sad

I wanna go home, but they won’t let me out.

I know I’m not mad, but they say I’m psychotic

I was scared when I got here but now I’m neurotic.

I’m so bored in here, all I do all day is pace

But I need section 17 leave to get out of this place.

There’s a TV on in the lounge all day

People sit staring, wishing time away.

I sit there too and watch the screen

But nothing makes sense, what does it mean?

I’m so bored in here it’s got really bad

I feel lethargic and tired, apathetic and sad.

There’s an art room here – looks a bit like one at school

But I can’t draw or paint and don’t wanna look a fool.

A cookery group? That just isn’t me

Maybe I’ll just sit and watch that TV.

A member of staff is walking my way

Her badge reads OT, she asks about my day.

I tell her it’s empty like inside my head

That my brain was removed and I think I am dead.

She frowns and says how hard that must be

And suggests I accompany her down to OT.

“We use activity” she says, “to help heal the mind

To develop skills and confidence and help you to find

Meaningful occupation or things you like to do,

Activity is healthy, research says it’s true

So why not come to OT, it’s here if you choose

Instead of TV or pacing – what’s there to lose?”

Reluctant at first, but enticed with free tea

I follow her down to the department to see.

Some people are laughing and chatting away

While making some interesting things from clay.

“You don’t need any skills” she says, “just give it a go

Simply play with the clay and go with the flow”.

“I started with a thumb pot my first time doing pottery

It was easier than I expected”, says the man next to me

“I’ll show you how, just grab yourself some clay,

You’ll soon feel you’ve achieved something today”

I pick up the clay, it feels cool against my skin

I start to shape it into a ball and stick my thumb in

Rotating it round to hollow out a hole

And before very long I’ve made a small bowl.

Surprised at myself for doing do well

I feel a little bit proud and the OT can tell

“Come again tomorrow and you can glaze your pot

You can choose the colours, we’ve got quite a lot”

I think to myself I’d like to come again

That coming to OT had helped ease my pain

For an hour or two, it was better than TV

And who’d have thought I would enjoy pottery?

‘Think of nothing things. Think of wind.’

And at first I smiled because I couldn’t picture anything

But vastly twisting roads of busy air in sky so wide and high

That no human mind could catch or contain them.

And what relief.

Now in bed the day after Christmas, all I can hear is it racing

In the sky swirling around this quiet house

Suggesting to me how loud my life isn’t;

That so many moments are paused and killed by thought and ought;

That so much introspective ground has been walked.

It’s not as if I can leap like a fledgling from my window.

So instead must emerge from these quilts and play at

Doing day to day things.

Practice laughing in the cold.

Zainab Imam

Rosie Jackson

Ever so slowly

Painfully so

He walked

Strained steps

One

Wearily

After another

Sometimes forward

Then retraced

Unable to decide

She did

Ever so gently

As usual

Held his elbow

And led him

Into the room

He sat

Hunched

Old

Tired

Dark eyes

Teary

Gazing

At nothing

Gloom

Beyond description

Lost?

Hope?

How are you today?

Asked the leader

Of the team

Startled

Out of his dream

He mouthed

Softly

Ever so quietly

Quaveringly so

Can I?

We all turned

Eager

Listening

Nothing

Can you?

Yes?

A pause

Long

Ever so stretched

Lingeringly so

Almost inaudible

He asked

Can I

Go home today?

It’s not all Greek drama – blindings, killings,

Walking in and finding mother

Hanging from a beam.

No, for this is mental illness too,

This slow attrition of strength

Seeping out like water,

Driven underground by sorrows and old grief.

On days like this, I reach for small things:

Tea with honey, cashmere shawls,

Re-read a loving email from a friend,

And try to talk myself to solid earth

By mouthing that ‘This too will pass.’

But the hours feel eternal, implacable,

On days like this, and the half-open snowdrops

I picked yesterday too fragile,

Top-heavy, drooping from the side of the glass.

The radio broadcasts news of wars,

But there are no medals for this battle here.

And few think it heroic just to stay alive,

Besieged, enduring what is unendurable.

Yet it is still a triumph of the will,

When I take up a pen and, in a tentative way,

Start to sketch the snowdrops

As they nod their white nuns’ caps at me

- Those first frail signs of light returned –

Such quiet, coy tenacity,

Such provocation

Dancing on their thin green stems.

Stephanie Carey

Rosie Jackson

I remember twenty one penny sweets after swimming

lessons on a Monday,

I remember thirteen years of what now looks like a perfect life,

I remember drinking so much that I thought I was going to die:

I actually just had a hangover,

I remember the naughty kiss I had on New Year’s Eve,

I remember the feelings of desperation and despair,

I remember the pride I felt receiving my GCSE results: predicted

C’s and D’s and achieved A’s and A*’s,

I remember Harry picking us when he was just two weeks old,

I remember lying to my mum, promising her that I had nothing

‘stupid’ planned,

I remember being so scared of the spiders, even the ones that no one else could see,

I remember my mum and dad leaving me at ‘mad camp’,

I remember know that angels were there but really wishing I

could see them,

I remember seeing photos of myself, but not remembering

being there,

I remember the look on my mum’s face when she saw the smile

that had been hidden for so long,

I remember when I wasn’t scared to leave the house on my own,

I remember when I was more scared of life than I was of death,

I remember the many times I lay in hospital, being saved against

my will,

I remember every one of my admissions to ‘mad camp’,

I remember escaping out of a window, shortly followed by a

string of nurses,

I remember shouting that a nurse was trying to kill me, just to

increase my chances of getting away,

I remember the girl in the next bedroom, who screamed day

and night for what seemed like weeks,

I remember no one really taking any notice of her,

I remember being sedated at Christmas, just so I could safely

be at home,

I remember starting the very long journey to recovery,

I remember shopping in New York, shopping that before was only

in my dreams,

I remember the tears that I shed on my 21^st Birthday, not tears of

sadness but of joy, joy that I was still here,

I remember the honour I felt receiving my degree at my Graduation, as I always thought I’d never make it,

I remember how everything I have survived has made me, who I am,

But still,

I remember the things that I really don’t want to remember

I thought it had melted,

This sheer blackness under me,

But here it is again, sinister and shining like steel

From one side of the road to the other

On this sudden downhill lane

That was meant to be a short cut.

This time I’ve noticed it, at least,

But even so I’m ten feet in before I stop

And can’t reverse.

The spinning wheels sound like machines

For grinding keys,

Struggling to get some purchase.

And gingerly I squeeze out of the car,

Tread to the white rimed bank.

I’m not dressed for the cold,

My hands as well as gloves feel fingerless,

My face and neck artfully peeled.

I have to wait for shivering hours to be rescued,

But I’m resolved not to read things into it,

Not to let this treacherous black sheet mean more

Than simply frozen water crusting tarmac,

Nothing to do with mirroring a state of mind.

Even when the AA man tows me to safety,

And passes me his clipboard to sign

With its gloomy illiterate verdict:

‘Pull woman of ice’,

I don’t succumb.

No, I know by now the experts aren’t perfect,

And notice the mistake,

And simply laugh.

A month in my mind

Denise Andrews

Beverley Ferguson

I’ve felt so high; I felt I could fly!

Days full of laughter, no reasons to cry.

Above myself, about my doubts, above my fears and woes,

Feelings so strange, so new, so good-why I should feel this Who knows?

But alas I know deep down inside,

That this can only be a temporary ride,

For the bell of reality will toll final round,

And all that’s gone up must now fall to the ground.

Just how hard the fall this time will be,

I cannot predict, I cannot foresee.

For the emotions within that manage my thought,

Are themselves in confusion?  This lesson not taught.

My minds lost the rulebook that deciphers my way.

So choice is not mine, Do I go? Do I stay?

Past life has been run by a mind of shame,

A life of disappointment, a life full of blame.

My fall has been gradual, not sudden with pain,

Thoughts of my present, I’ve tried to retain,

The past I’m refusing to let lead the way.

Though not so elated, I can smile another day.

Thoughts past and present are divided in my mind,

So where am I now? – In limbo of kind.

It’s not a path I have trod in my past,

Just how long can these mental fights last?

Two weeks later and now feeling quite low,

Previous embers of happiness have now lost their glow.

The need to cry, the need to weep,

There are no reasons why yet again I can’t sleep.

I need a caring, friendly hand to hold,

Someone to cuddle, keep me warm through this cold.

But I only have me.  Will I live? Will I die?

Myself alone, do I laugh? Do I cry?

No one sees inside my head, there’s no one there to know,

No one to lead, or show where to go.

Just me. Myself with silent word,

Within my head, a head not heard.

So why am I falling back into dismay?

The laughter and happiness now far away.

Why am I teased with joy I can’t keep?

Wish I could swim in the shallows-stop diving so deep.

So I’ll fight, fight, fight.  Not let it win,

I’m not to blame; there has been no sin.

The bottom of my world is now in my face,

I’ll not give up. I’m still in life’s race.

I’ve come so far; I’ve fought so hard,

I do not deserve to be dealt the death card.

I want to be free, to laugh as before,

Is the devil involved or is this life’s law?

So is there a moral in the words that I write?

Yes – I must keep my future, not past in my sight.

Life is so cruel.  Depression is pain,

I must wait for the day when I’ll laugh once again.

So here I am.  Full circle passed,

I’ve lived the life.  I’ve played the farce,

But now is the time to start anew,

Please let it be a sunrise within my view.

I’m not an idiot, nor the fool that you see,

However I survive, that’s how I will be.

I don’t need pity from you or above,

I only ask understanding for not knowing love.

So you see that my moods go up then come down,

One-day laughter. Next wearing a frown.

It’s not anybody’s fault, nor am I to blame,

It’s only my mind that is fighting false shame

I was trapped

In ice – in shadows

Formed under trees,

Under branches moved

By winds that dropped

Me back, back to sounds

Of children playing

Behind the glass,

Glass that let in light

Lighting the walls

I lay behind

Iced over.

I was set free

Free to move back,

To open windows

Wider than a crack,

To see myself

In mirrors

Reflecting back –

More than ice

More than ice was broken

When they let me back,

When I came home

That summer.

.

Soma Raven Storer

Peter Sipthorp

I love the rush

The sting

The fling,

With my bedroom blade thin.

As my eyes start to fade over

As I get in a flush

I fell the stress taking over my brain,

As it fret tens to rain.

I feel the need for cold metal in my skin.

The glimmer of the silver as the moon reflect its light,

My body feels no need to fight.

The pain makes me forget

The real pain that’s killing me inside,

As the blood seeps free,

With my anger free to flee.

Then peace comes,

The silence of the night relaxing my body,

As I lie on the floor

The tears fall down,

Silently;

With no one to see.

I no longer find my room relaxing,

It reeks of secret

Of sad nights with no sleep

It doesn’t help if I count sheep.

So I sit there quietly,

Rocking back and forward.

Hugging my knees

To try and comfort myself,

As my comfy night gown

Soaks up the pain

That’s flowing from my eyes

Deep down from the insides of my soul,

Still only a foul.

But after all that,

I suffer most

When I have to hide

The scratches on my arms

And the burns on my wrists

But however much I try,

My friends still spy.

And they notice

The scratches and the burns

But I change the subject

Laugh it off.

I don’t want them to see

How weak I can be.

Most people think I’m ok

When I smile and play

Supposed to be the one that makes jokes

Smiles,

Laughs,

Energetic,

Loud.

But my act is beginning to fade

As it eats me up from the inside.

All that is me.

It is my real personality,

But sometimes

The happy face is just a fake

Baked into place every morning.

I’m not attention seeking,

That’s one reason I’m scared of speaking

I just won’t to be free...

Of my love affair,

Of my fling;

With my bedroom blade thing.

Twenty something years ago

I went to the Doctor feeling low.

He asked me questions

Do you drink?

I answered all things truthfully

He gave me pills and said ‘we’ll see’.

I told him what the problem was,

A matter of some dread,

But he didn’t seem to notice

The axe stuck in my head.

Being fairly independent

Still feeling pretty low,

I took a term off teaching

And to the streets did go.

I drove a taxi, saw new sights,

Met new people, all walks of life.

Chased a few bad payers,

Took prostitutes to work,

Saw dirty people, drunk, no bed,

But still the axe stuck in my head.

My mother knew the problem,

To her I had to turn,

The anguish placed upon her

By my unfortunate acts

Did nothing to extend her life,

I am afraid this is a fact.

Could she speak she’d say ‘don’t worry it’s clear the gods are in no hurry’

Again tonight I’ll lay in bed

With the axe stuck in my head.

I have a lovely wife,

I have a lovely daughter.

I have a lovely house

And a garden with running water.

There are many whose situation

Is more difficult than mine.

I have to take a look and say

‘Come on you’re done no harm’.

But in accepting things it must be said,

I may reach my end with an axe stuck in my head.