ISSUE 32 SUMMER 2019
The Eildon Tree
New writing from the Scottish Borders and beyond on the theme of Connected Special issue for Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival 3 – 26 May 2019
www.liveborders.org.uk
Registration No SC243577 | Registered Charity No SC034227
Contents The Eildon Tree Introduction 3 ET #33 Submissions Welcome 4 Writer Biographies 4 Eildon Tree Readings 33 Addaction Creative Writing Workshops 34 Poetry Submissions
1 Connected
by Ellen Roper 7
2 Hello
by Olivia Roper 8
3 Thin Veil of Addiction by Karen Barrett 10
4 Reflections
by Isabel Miles 11
5 Still Connected
by Edith Harper 12
6 This February’s Grey by Isabel Miles 13
7 The Bone-Crusher
10 Friday 11 o’clock: Communion by Lucy Crispin 18
11 Miscellany
12 The Art of Self-compassion or Why CBT is Not The Answer to Everything by Lucy Crispin 21
13 And I Carry On
by Daniel Duggan 22
14 My Deportment
Was Scarred by Daniel Duggan 22
15 Moonchurch
by Rick Lee 25
by Bruce Scott 28
18 This. Then. Now
by Ellie Zeegan 31
19 The Day Has Arrived
by Eddie (Addaction) 32
20 Being Me by Helen Clopin (Addaction) 36
21 Writing on the Wall
by Cate L. Ryan 38
1 Waiting for Snow
by Jan Finlayson 8
2 Asbestos and Stars
by Thomas Ashman 11
3 Charlie
by Claire Davis 29
12 Outlines
by Chris Kent 30
13 Albert Carnegie
by David Adamson 31
14 The Swan Rider Rescue
by Marka Rifat 33
15 Keep Calm and Bin It . . . by Karin Jones 35
16 Alfie by Eck May (Addaction) 37
17 Connecting
by Eileen Johnson 38
18 Letter to my Sixteen
Year Old Self by JulieAmanda Jeffreys 39
by Barbara Pollock 13
4 The Sweetie Factory
Artist Submissions
by Dorothy Whittaker 15
5 Connected
6 Weigh Day
by Andy Marr 20
7 Disconnected in Kyoto
by Rebecca Dewing 16
by Stephen Barker 23
8 “The Next Stop’s
Kirkcaddy” by Archie Hunter 23
on a Connected World by Owen Roberts 28
11 Grey Mare
by Rohan Basaboina 16
by Lucy Crispin 20
17 The Word
Short Stories
9 Poem by Gilly Callen 17
by Rick Lee 28
10 Atoms in Boxes: Reflections
by Peter Clive 14
8 Here
16 Ritual Walk
9 Unwilling
by Jeni Penfold 27
1 The Good Hope
by David Windram 9
2 The Orange Line, Station by Wullae Wright 15
3 Pussy Willow
by Karin Jones 19
4 Snowfall
by Hazel Dunbar 27
5 Connected to Nature by Hazel Dunbar 30
The Eildon Tree ‘Young or old, loneliness doesn’t discriminate... it is something that many of us could easily help with.’ Jo Cox MP (1974 – 2016) Being connected matters. Evidence shows that good relationships – with family, friends and our wider communities – are important for our mental health and wellbeing. Feeling isolated, lonely or excluded are major public health issues. Without those protective social connections we are more likely to suffer from illness and infection, disrupted sleep or feel low. Loneliness and isolation can make us more susceptible to depression and experience a greater likelihood of developing clinical dementia for older people. Loneliness is not just a problem for older people however – it can affect people of all ages and stages in life. That’s why the theme of ‘Connected’ has been chosen for the Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival this year and why we have chosen to focus on it for this edition of the Eildon Tree. We are delighted that so many of you sent in entries to express what being connected means to you in terms of your mental health and wellbeing. Research has shown the beneficial impact that reading and creative writing can have on mental health and wellbeing and we know it can help in many ways – expressing thoughts and feelings, self-exploration, releasing anxiety and stress, enhancing your mood – right through to the feel good factor of becoming a published writer in this wonderful magazine! The good news is that many of us can do something about being connected. Sharing our writing is a fantastic way of making a connection but it can be more difficult for some people than others. A smile or a kind word can often make a big difference to people and our libraries, village halls and churches in the Borders are all full of notices for opportunities and groups in local areas. If you’re looking for more ideas or need some support to help you make those connections from one of our NHS Borders Wellbeing Advisors then for more information please visit www.nhsborders.scot.nhs.uk/wellbeingpoint Finally, I would like to thank the editors of The Eildon Tree for agreeing to host this special edition and for reaching out to highlight how important being connected is for our mental health and wellbeing. I would also like to personally thank Susan Garnsworthy from Live Borders who has worked so hard to make this edition happen and who has been instrumental in creating a meaningful collaboration between Public Health and Live Borders. Steph MacKenzie Health Improvement Specialist (Mental Health) Joint Health Improvement Team, Public Health NHS Borders and Scottish Borders Council
#issue 32 / Summer 2019
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Special issue for Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival 3 – 26 May 2019
FEATURED Julian Colton
Sara Clark
WRITER BIOGRAPHIES We are so lucky to have such a wealth of ‘creative writers’
Iona McGregor
Carol Norris
ET #33 SUBMISSIONS WELCOME This special issue of The Eildon Tree has been a particularly challenging one for the editors because of the high standard of submissions received. It is also pleasing to note that the theme of ‘Connected’ was adhered to by all contributors. Unfortunately, decisions had to be made and not every submission received was successful but the editors would like to urge writers to continue to write and to submit work.
The Eildon Tree is a respected and treasured part of the literary scene in the Scottish Borders. It is a source of great pride to all those involved that the magazine, first published in the Spring of 1999, continues to be a showcase for both new and experienced writers. Following on from the success of the competition entries we received for ET31 and the enthusiasm that resulted from this, we have decided to invite writers to submit their work to another competition for the next issue, ET33. It is through the continued support of writers that the magazine has flourished. The editors would like to encourage as many writers as possible to put pen to paper and enter the competition. Deadline for submissions for Eildon Tree #33 will be Monday 16 September 2019.
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David Adamson
When approaching retirement I thought What Next? I went along to the Borders Book Festival in 2016 and heard a story about the PENICUIK mining disaster. I liked the presentation and thought I wonder if I could write anything. After a few months contemplation and some nervous practise I went along to the Peebles Writing Group. The Group turned out just what I was looking for and I have had the satisfaction of writing a story a month.
Chris Kent
Chris Kent is an artist, illustrator and woodworker who uses text within their work. Chris has also written and illustrated three graphic novels Medusa, The Golem and Flood and is currently working on a graphic novel about bereavement, featuring Orson Welles as an important character.
The Eildon Tree The text of ‘Outlines’ will feature within an exhibition, also dealing with mental health, titled Queer Connections at Cornucopia in Hawick from 18-22 May.
Stephen Barker
Stephen Barker is a recently retired NHS nurse, teacher and researcher in neurological health care. After thirty five years of dry academic writing he is enjoying the freedom of poetry and prose to continue his interest in illness and well-being.
Isabel Miles
Born and raised in Scotland, Isabel Miles now lives and writes on the North Yorkshire Moors. She has published poetry with Shooter, Grey Sparrow Journal, StepAway and Emma Press and fiction in various journals including Northwords Now.
JulieAmanda Jeffreys
Ellen lives in Traquair with her family (mum, dad and teenage brother.) She enjoys writing poems and short stories.
I am a 62 year-old Transgender Woman with Asperger Syndrome working through Mental Health Issues using Mindfulness to help in my day to day life. I am in fulltime employment with an Energy Company in Selkirk as their Industry Data specialist.
Olivia Roper
Jan Finlayson
Ellen Roper (AGE 12YRS)
Olivia Roper lives near Peebles and between her teaching job, house renovation project with husband and being mum of two teenagers she finds time for hobbies of theatre, dance, gardening, drawing and writing.
Karen Barrett
Karen Barrett lives near Coldstream and works part time as a holiday cottage housekeeper. Having always been drawn toward creative pursuits as an outlet for expression and reflection, she understands the important role this has played in her own life, and how creativity can benefit health and wellbeing. Karen particularly enjoys painting, song writing, creative writing; she also has a degree in Psychology/Sociology from QMU Edinburgh.
I’m not long retired from Standard Life and enjoying the company of my grandsons, in between writing short stories and playscripts, helped along by Pentland Writer’s group. I still find time to blow my own trumpet with Penicuik Silver Band.
Rohan Basaboina
Rebecca Dewing
Dorothy Whittaker
Andy Marr
I am Rohan Basaboina, an international student from India studying Business Management at Heriot-Watt University. I have been attempting my hand at poetry for the past two years and was initially seduced after reading the poetic compilations of Frank O'Hara. I draw strong inspirations from writers such as Federico García Lorca, Charles Bukowski, Henry Miller, Pablo Neruda, W.H. Auden and many more.
Fascinated by all things legal. Happiest walking among the hills. Love learning about local history, folk tales and legends, and then, turning them into creative nonfiction.
Retired Senior Nurse. Three Nursing qualifications. Worked with Patients with Learning Disabilities, then General Nursing, a Theatre Sister. Latterly twenty-three years plus working in Forensic psychiatry. Specialising for some years working with serious offenders. Following retirement, I have worked in victim support; also worked with and chaired the Committee for Survivors of stalking, when I lived in Berkshire.
Andy Marr is an Edinburgh author. He recently completed work on his debut novel, Hunger for Life, which Pulitzer Prizenominated novelist, Marya Hornbacher has called ‘a life-affirming and powerful read’. He hopes to publish his book later this year.
Thomas Ashman
I am a writer and musician from Orkney, I've been writing all my life but only recently have I decided to try and put some of my work out into the world.
Peter Clive
Peter Clive lives on the Southside of Glasgow with his wife and three children. He is a scientist working in the renewable energy sector. As well as poetry, he enjoys composing music for piano and spending time in the Isle of Lewis. #issue 32 / Summer 2019
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Special issue for Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival 3 – 26 May 2019
writer biographies
CONTINUED...
Archie Hunter
I am a retired veterinarian living in West Linton. With extensive experience of technical writing on veterinary topics, I have now turned to creative writing and am an active member and treasurer of our local writers’ group, Pentland Writers.
Jeni Penfold
My name is Jeni Penfold and I am 70. I have been married for 45 years and have two sons and three granddaughters. I started writing short stories in October last year when I joined a writers' group in Eyemouth.
Claire Davis
I am 40 years old, I have an MA in English Lit from the University of Edinburgh. I have lived in the Scottish Borders for 10 years now and have always loved the countryside, wildlife and the natural world. I have spent my life surrounded by cats and dogs and beautiful views wherever possible. I am married to a wonderful, creative genius and we live a simple life of conversation and good food. I live with both mental health and physical health conditions and find reading and writing to be the ultimate therapy. 6
#issue 32 | Summer 2019
Lucy Crispin
Lucy Crispin is a former Poet Laureate of South Cumbria. Her work has appeared in Envoi, The Salopian, Literary Oxygen, Poetry Cornwall, The Quiet Feather, Allegro and Poetic Licence as well as in other anthologies. She works freelance for the Wordsworth Trust and as a person-centred counsellor.
Daniel Duggan
Born and razed in the kiln of the West Midlands, he now lives in Peebles. He finds adventure in writing, getting lost in world of words. On a rainy day, he always has somewhere to play.
Bruce Scott
Bruce Scott, PhD, near Jedburgh. Trained as a psychoanalyst at the Philadelphia Association (founded by RD Laing) in London. I work as psychoanalyst in private practice in Edinburgh. I am author of Testimony of Experience, PCCS Books Ltd, 2014.
Marka Rifat
I write stories, poems and drama. I’ve been awarded prizes in poetry and fiction, had short plays performed in Aberdeen and poems on Dover Arts
Development website and in a Norfolk church. I performed at Granite Noir 2019 and will be published in an Arachne Press anthology “Noon”.
Helen Clopin ( ADDACTION )
I am a retired child and adolescent psychiatrist, originally from the Scottish Borders, writing my way to emotional well-being after developing a lifethreatening cardiac illness in 2014.
Helen lives in the Scottish Borders and is now in recovery from alcohol addiction. She is loving her new life and is involved in recovery groups and causes that support people with mental health issues. Helen’s priority was to get well and keep well for herself and it has been so worth it.
Ellie Zeegan
Eck May ( ADDACTION )
Karin Jones
Ellie is co founder of The Actors’ Temple, the alternative to drama school in London and Firebrand Theatre Company in Scotland. She believes passionately that the arts provide a vital space and platform for voices to be heard and acknowledged.
Eddie ( ADDACTION )
Eddie is a middle aged guy who has been through a few ups and downs in life. But he is on the way up now thanks to a lot of help from a great bunch of people at Addaction.
Eck stays in Galashiels and has been running all his life from demons. The demons are slowly disappearing, especially the one that came in the form of alcohol at the age of fourteen. Eck feels he is fortunate to still be here aged fifty. Eck and the Addaction charity are best of pals.
Cate L Ryan
A painter and musician, I began a journal while travelling in Crete with my late husband and soul-mate, Rin. (And Basil the dog.) Returning, an
The Eildon Tree incident on a 19A bus led to stories, short and longer; poems, songs. Addicted, now...
Eileen Johnson
Eileen is grateful for encouragement from Borders Writers Forum and Kelso Writers. Experience in journalism in her younger years has led her to attempt an autobiography. She recommends Writing for Wellbeing, having completed a course in Duns.
Rick Lee
Retired drama teacher recently returned from living in France for past 12 years, now renting cottage on the slopes of the Eildons. I’m a thriller writer but writing short stories & poems all my life.
Owen Roberts
I find writing is similar to a conversation as you can remove the thoughts in your head and put them down on paper which can be very helpful. I try to write at least twice a week, whether simply personal reflections or more structured narratives. It is key to my recovery and maybe there’s a book in there somewhere!
Barbara Pollock
Barbara is a keen gardener and writer, both of which she finds therapeutic. She is inspired by the Borders landscape as well as her own and other people’s gardens.
at the back of the Old Kent Rd, my inspirational English teacher encouraged my writing. At age 18 I was the first girl in my school ever to be offered a place at university….on the strength of my poetry. I have travelled a long way in time and geography since then, but poetry is still my companion, my voice and my solace.
Edith Harper
Edith Harper is an Aberdonian by birth and now lives in the Scottish Borders. She is a poet and short story writer and has been published in the magazines Northwords Now, Pushing Out the Boat and the Eildon Tree. She is a member of Kelso Writers and a contributor to the short story anthologies produced by that group.
Follow our poetry submissions throughout this issue
Connected by Ellen Roper
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The mind in itself is a mental hospital in which the brain retreats to heal The mind is a manuscript where scribbles of hopes once dreamed remain The mind is a labyrinth of hallways where insanity peeks its ugly face round the corners Our minds are a museum of judgment with crude words displayed like showcased beasts Our minds are a canvas for ideas but the paper gets creased by tears A seizure inducing light flickers in our minds in attempt for validation A voice “Are you alright?” Silence “I’m fine,” the words escape me as I hide the conflict within myself They say the road to recovery is simple but it is a blackened hallway with rocks upon which I stumble The echo of their voice, like a thread – a connection…
Gilly Callen
I have been writing poetry for as long as I can remember; from age 10, at a Comprehensive School #issue 32 / Summer 2019
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Special issue for Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival 3 – 26 May 2019
Hello by Olivia Roper
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Falling lower, sinking, stagnant A pool in which to drown The mind depths pull and snare all thoughts Corrosive sliding down A dread that builds with passing time With all consuming need The fears that haunt so fiercely Along corridors are freed Where loneliness is welcomed as a friend inside your head To a banquet served of misery so ensures despair is fed It seems that no connection can ever reach inside The mind walls high, shut out the world - a private place to hide But nothing in the darkness gives comfort, warmth or care Chained and weighed down by a burden unable now to share Where light is just a flicker A meagre taste it seems of Forgotten friends and contact in the“ifs” and “might have beens” When contact through a simple word A tentative “Hello” Repeated as the days march on Gave somewhere more to go A hope that lightly trembled around corners of that smile A voice that whispered in a tone, “Come sit and stay a while” And so it came and settled Calming friendship - like a ship Granting me safe passage I no longer felt adrift Breathing, Rising, Moving A lake in which to swim The mind depths closed, I take my thoughts Connected now to him
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SHORT STORIES
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Waiting for Snow by Jan Finlayson
Darkness played on the radio, livid guitars and highpitched tones vibrating through the room, beating against Gerry’s tympanic nerve, taking over his body until his lean legs loosened and his body angled into a strange puppet dance. “Ahhhheeeargh!” He lifted his arms in an open embrace, hugging fresh air as he screamed along with the music, enjoying the freedom this gave him. He whirled around the room, trying to catch happiness. The band didn't usually have this effect but he felt rebellious, remembering how Gail had hated this song. His eyes caught a movement in the mirror as he spun, laughing like a Bond villain, seeing not his reflection but that of the postman, through the bare branches of the cherry tree. He was leaning into the wind, and coming towards his door, nodding, a smile splitting his face. Gerry nodded back to him, gravity returning as he heard the doorbell. What could he have for him, he wondered as he performed a perfect pa de bas through the hall to the door? “Hi Gerry, I just thought I’d see how you are while I’m passing,” the postman said before handing Gerry the mail. “There’s a job going down at the Post Office if you’re interested,” he continued before Gerry could speak. “Ah, Brian thanks. I appreciate you telling me.” “It would tide you over mate.” “I’m ok.” “Doesn’t look like it to me. It’s never a good sign when you start dancing alone.” The friendly postie spoke over his shoulder, his laughter trailing along by the hedge. Gerry didn’t laugh even though he’d once been a great joker, laughter his favourite tool, the apprentices picking up the habit. He watched as Brian walked down the neighbour’s path, humming One Way Ticket to Hell and Back.
The Eildon Tree “Do you like your job, Brian?” he shouted over the fence. “Not really, but it pays the mortgage,” he said as he pulled his hand quickly from the letter box, a yapping dog behind it. Gerry wished him a good day before shutting the door, glancing at his mail, seeing nothing important. He made to throw it into the bin when a name caught his eye; Robert and George Nicholson, Landscape Gardeners. He’d had an old chum with the name Robert Nicholson, who had a brother George. He’d been a bricklayer and they’d often worked for the same firm. Gerry hadn’t seen him for years. The leaflet displayed a photo, showing toned bodies, balding but with a glint in their eyes, pride in their stance. Gerry stood tall, looked in the hall mirror, turned left and right, patted his stomach, smoothed down his flyaway hair, rubbed his bristled chin and wondered if he should shave. He made his way to the kitchen and threw the leaflet, along with a flyer from the labour party, a Lidl booklet, and a hand-written envelope onto the table, before making coffee, the steam from the kettle soothing his smarting nasal passages and green eyes. He’d always stayed busy and cheerful but against a backdrop of recession, a knotted weave had spun, tangling his positivity. Being made redundant had been a severe blow to him, leaving him with no work, no alarms to set, no structure to his day, his equilibrium tumbling. It pleased but also saddened him to see his friend remaining successful through these hard times. Gerry sat down to drink, then turned his attention again to the letter, the writing familiar. He gently undid the seal and slipped the letter from its sheath, looking first for the signature, but had guessed it was from Gail before he saw her name. The letter fluttered to the ground, one page of neat lines and curly squiggles landing on the floor. He shivered and sipped some more coffee, swallowing the bitter liquid, beads of sweat glistening on his brow. He hadn’t seen Gail since September. It was now early spring, the cold air of winter lingering, spreading out from the sky, settling its icy grip on the land. The light was dim, the sky grey, and his mood slowly sinking. Gerry had been an upbeat kind of guy but had turned into a gloomy loner, a deep thinker, a coiled spring. He stretched and breathed in deeply to shake this present discomfort, taking in the faint aroma of the toasted bread he’d had for breakfast. He looked out the window to catch sight of the hills, the daisy dells, brooks, the felled trees, where he walked every day, nature caressing him, but the landscape looked unwieldy under the heavy skies, not the sort of weather to inspire a light heart. He saw a woman struggling with a recalcitrant child, the youngster wanting to be somewhere else, it would seem. He watched little feet stomp, arms flay, and then Brian appeared again, said something to the child, laughed and tempers were diffused. Gerry smiled, but not from his eyes. He moved away from the window and set his mind to a task,
The Good Hope
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Eyemouth Beach by David Windram, Eyemouth Art Trail Felt that this one would link well with the theme of connection and belonging to a ‘place’. I am very proud of coming from Eyemouth. The jewel of the Borders Riviera.
a creaky door to oil, a broken fence to mend, a dripping tap to take apart but he didn’t get far before his body slumped over the sink. It was no use. No matter how hard he tried to stop from thinking of the letter from his wife, it remained there, waiting to be read. He’d been struck by her looks from the start, shiny brown hair and huge eyes. They’d got together in a whirlwind fashion, warmth and enthusiasm keeping them linked, minds fusing, marriage following. Life was good. In their early moments they had spoken of having children, and had tried, but the patter of tiny feet never came, driving a wedge between them. Gail became a career girl, gradually moving up in the realms of the retail industry. She became a manager and eventually stopped talking about children, stopped talking about much else. They were each too busy with their own lives. One night while walking home from the local pub, Gerry thought about having it out with her, they needed to talk of their future, but his words were pushed inwards as the car hit him. A drunken driver had mounted the kerb and pinned him to a garden fence. He was rushed to hospital with a few injuries, the worst being his shattered femur. The recovery period was lengthy, and he was stuck at home, no pay but an attentive wife. She took time off her work in the first two weeks and nursed #issue 32 / Summer 2019
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Special issue for Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival 3 – 26 May 2019
Thin Veil of Addiction by Karen Barrett
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There is beauty in a scratched veneer, In a broken glaze, or shell; In what lies behind, the troubled soul Of one I know so well. Yet if I peer too deeply, probe too far, He shines a mirror to me, For he must remain a troubled soul, Why I cannot tell. We embrace; between us a sheer thin veil, So close, yet not quite touching. My love and I, we walk through life Parallel; hands clutching. Our footsteps press upon the shoreline, Side by side, they never stray, Until he drifts toward a raging sea, And I must turn away.
him. He wasn’t sure if she saw this as a salving of her dampened maternal instincts, soothing him, feeding him, fetching and carrying for him, but Gerry’s surprise at this level of attention didn’t stop him relaxing into it. The heart to heart was laid aside, married life continued, until times became laboured, building works slowed. He remembered the day she’d announced her plans to leave, a few weeks before he lost his job, telling him she was fed up with his deep silences. There had been no argument from him. He knew he’d become hard to live with and felt the distance himself. She took his reserve for lack of love and left with no more to be said. He sauntered over to the window again to see if the weather had improved, seeing freezing fog hanging like a gossamer sheet, hiding all else. He stood, he sat, he crossed his legs, uncrossed them, finally rising. He stumbled towards the door, his mouth as gritty as an Arabian desert, grabbed his coat and the letter, stuffing it in his pocket before walking from the house. The cold air tore into him, slices of freezing mist stinging his skin. He walked towards the trees, enjoying the pain of the iciness around him, not noticing the friendly looks or the appeals to chat. He simply marched on, branches attacking him, big black crows laughing at him. His ears tingled, and his heavy growth was damp with moisture as he puffed along, head down. He was racing away from himself, needing to cover the distance. His heart hammered behind his ribs, missing some beats, but on he walked, images of Gail following him, failure beating 10 #issue 32 | Summer 2019
down on him, screwing up his mind, torturing him. He ran, stumbling across large clods of grass, through tall trees, across a broken dry walled dyke, aware of nothing but his torment. He ran until he could run no further. He had appeared at a lake, the beauty of the scene making him gasp. It was frozen around the edges, swans in the middle. Trees stood tall around it, a hidden haven of nature. Gerry breathed in the pine scent, frozen in the air, and felt tears sting his eyes. “Lovely isn’t it?” he heard someone say and looked upon a man who had appeared suddenly. He was older than Gerry, leaned heavily on a stick but had a sparkle in his eyes that denied old age. “What?” “The lake.” The man nodded in the direction of the water. “It's lovely.” “It is,” Gerry replied succinctly. “How are you coping lad?” asked the man. Gerry peered at his new friend, the glare from the frozen water dazzling him. “What?” he asked the man. “I heard your wife left.” “Ah, yes.” Gerry relaxed, recognising the man at last as a friend of his father’s. “She left me six months ago.” “Without a job too, can’t be easy for you.” “I'm ok,” Gerry said, his eyes dull, staring across the lake, his shoulders slumped. The man followed his gaze to a hill beyond. “I love it here, used to come regularly with my dad,” the man said, changing the subject. “I remember a day like today, it was Christmas, frosty, cold,” the man began. “I’d got a sledge and couldn’t wait to slide like the wind down that hill, wanting the thrill. I kept pestering my dad, asking him when I could go on my sledge. We must wait for the snow he’d said while shuffling a pack of cards. But Dad, when will it snow, I’d asked? It will snow tomorrow, but for now let’s play cards, he’d said, and I got so engrossed in our game, laughing and joking, that my desperation for sledging was forgotten.” “Your dad taught patience?” “No, we played snap,” said the man. He winked, then walked away towards the trees. Alone again, Gerry’s fingers slipped into his pocket and rustled the letter within. He slowly pulled the page out, took a deep breath then began to read, skipping the beginning pleasantries, searching for the main agenda. ...... taken on a lot of extra work, and that allowed me to save, she wrote but my social life suffered. So, I decided I needed someone else in my life. Money isn’t everything. Gerry stiffened, and lifted his eyes from the words, readying himself to read on about her new love. He watched as a duck nosedived into the pond, small rippling waves travelling out from his feathered body, breaking up when they touched the water lilies at the edge. The duck righted himself and then began paddling away from view, with invisible force. He looked again at the paper. I now have a new friend. He has rough brown hair and liquid brown eyes. He’s loyal and loves to sit at
The Eildon Tree
my feet. I’ve called him Dino. He’s three months old and very mischievous. He eats my socks. I’ve hardly got a whole pair left. I think you would like him. A gust of wind blew through his fleece, making the hair on his head stand up along with every hair on his body. He hugged himself, jumped up and down on the spot for the count of twenty. He felt warmth surging his body, a quickening of his heart, then a faint freezing snowflake touching his nose.
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Asbestos and Stars by Thomas Ashman
I remember every bed I’ve slept in. When I close my eyes under this damp duvet, my eyelids block out sharp stars shining through the holes in the asbestos shed roof. I conjure up the ceiling in my last real home. The plaster decorations around the edges of the white painted secure lid of my room. The patches of damp left yellowing tide lines after they dried. I try to believe that I’m still in that house, still in that bed. Maybe everything has just been a nightmare and when I open my eyes that old familiar view will be waiting above me. Schrodinger’s ceiling. If I never open my eyes again I’ll never feel that grinding weight of pain when I know, really know and can’t escape that this is not a dream. This has happened. I open my eyes suddenly, that same fucking asbestos roof. I loathe every corrugation and fibrous breakage that frames the stars, or the clouds, or once a day the sun. I’ve had nothing to do since that day. I’ve been living here, it’s near food, but most of the time I just stay under the duvet, try to conserve energy. A lot of time to think. Sometimes I’ll get up and walk across the bare yard outside to that van parked up and deserted on the road. The food left in there is rotting, I know I’ll have to move on soon. My little stone shed is about as far from anywhere as I can imagine. I wasn’t paying attention on the day when I set off running. I just kept running, until I found the van on the road and this little shed. The damp duvet was already in here, but no one was around. I tentatively started living in here and after the third day when no one came back I mentally claimed the shed and duvet as my own. I’ve been here for nearing two months, living off Double-Deckers and Caramacs abandoned in the back of the van. Several cases of 2 litre bottled water that were once on their way to somewhere have kept me alive thus far. Sometimes the wind blows so hard, and dust settles all around my little scene. One day a fog rolled in and enclosed me in this place. A terrifying white fog looming up at the holes in the roof, somehow much more fearsome even than the enormity of the night sky. Alone except for the van parked on the road, and the stone of four walls. I know every one of them, the stones in the wall.
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Reflections by Isabel Miles Oiled by the puttanesca sauce, the vodka and Red Bull, but mostly by the image of a might-be future self his eyes throw back, she totters after his long lope in too-high heels. His bed is cold with shiny sheets. No candles, and no music’s played. Still, he seems keen.
Coiled in a corner, her essential self observes her body not connect. A moon, constructed from some half-remembered songs and loneliness, looks in. For just as long as werelust shimmers in its rays something unfurls. Next day she searches her own gaze hoping that something has been born. But she’s unchanged. Embroiled in hopes and fears, and good advice, and half-way decent sex, they’re caught in photos looking like they’re having fun. He still seems keen. They marry and she wonders what he thinks. She smells his skin. He asks her how she feels. Foiled by her distant courtesy, he leaves: rejected, longed for, by her ovaries, her logic and her bones. The glass is full of emptinesses where his daily image was. She smells her own skin but she’s lost the scent. Soiled by too many failed attempts, she carries cruel cold and cowardice, twin ferrets struggling in a sack that she once thought a womb, down to the mirror of the lake
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Special issue for Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival 3 – 26 May 2019
I know that the fourth one along from the door, seven rows up has a small chiselled arrow or cross thing. A mason’s mark, from when this was built, and my only contact with a human. I think of that hand holding the chisel and a mallet pounding down, those unknown hands that touched every stone, carefully arranged them to block out that howling wind, an oblivious kindness to keep me safe. That force of kinetic energy from the food they ate that nourished their flesh and mind. Using their most human arms and backs manoeuvring quarried stone on some summer day 50 or 60 years ago, I wish they were here now. I wish anyone were here now, I was scared at first that someone might come back for the duvet or the van, but now I long for that. I have of course tried to start the van, but there is no fuel and no keys. I’ve climbed into the cab and sat on the ragged seat. Filthy floor, where the plastic moulding has been worn flat by years of boots. The interior trim damp and rotting and thick dust built up on the dashboard. The driver side window is smashed and the big long gear lever that comes up from the floor is jammed into position. I imagine the person who sat in this seat, what did they think? I perform my usual night time ritual of imagining I’m in one of my old beds. Tonight I’m remembering my first flat. I close my eyes and see that magnolia, bobbly ceiling, the dusty lampshade crooked on
Still Connected by Edith Harper No point in calling out, you are not there. No point in phoning, you cannot answer. No point in listening for your voice, you are silent now. But …. Watch the birds at the feeders and you are with me, laughing at their antics. Cook recipes from your notebook and you are at my shoulder. Listen to your favourite music and I share the pleasure you felt. Read the poems you loved, (those that I read to you near the end)
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the blinding bulb hanging on an equally dusty wire. I run through the scenario in my head every time. ‘Tomorrow I’m going to get up and dust that’, I say to myself, but then I get the imagery of the big clumps of dust falling on my bed, I have second thoughts. I nearly manage to forget where I really am, but it comes sinking back into my mind, a dread, as slow as the sinking of a ship or the Hindenburg collapsing into flames. I open my eyes a crack to remind myself that it is actually that same old stars and asbestos. Today it’s sunny as I sit outside, but there is still that eerie lack of noise, just the rustling wind in the drying grass that seems to expand around me. There’s hills in the distance, but I can’t see any sign of life anywhere. I want to leave. The sun shines on me and I feel the warmth through my clothes. I take the duvet out and throw it so it dangles from the roof and dries in the sunlight. Over two months and no contact with anyone. Except that one time a car went whizzing by, must have been doing over 90, I caught a glimpse of the driver but only as a shadow figure, it was getting towards dusk and they didn’t see me, although I waved and screamed at them until long after the faintest glow of the lights had been extinguished behind the horizon. I wonder if I’ve ever driven past this place before. Back when things were normal, I might have been driven past by mum, on the way somewhere or on the way home from somewhere. I don’t recognise anything about this place but I know it’s somewhere near my home. After all I ran here. I don’t ever want to go home though, I know it’s somewhere in the direction that I ran here from but I don’t want to see that perversion of my safe life. My old life that wouldn’t have me back now even if I wanted it. I shiver to think about the place and what it’s like now, and what it was like when I started running. There is something so much more sickening about having to reconcile the happy memories with that shadow place, the way people were screaming, and fighting, the smell of blood, old blood in the sun. It didn’t feel like my home. The bombs fell miles away to the south, but they sparked something in the people even in my town. The thirst for survival, ancient brutality. Alone, I am free from all that. I am a child of the sun and the wind. But I’m resolved that I will leave soon. I’m going to keep going, no way will I turn back now. The duvet is drying nicely. If I pretend that this is all my choice it helps. Like a camping holiday. I went camping once in the Cairngorms, I can remember the sunlight through the blue tent material in the morning when I woke up and the smell of the plastic and the moisture, the blades of grass somehow stuck everywhere inside the tent. I’ll remember that tonight when I try to sleep, that will be tonight’s dream. I sit for a long time outside the shed in the sunlight. At times like these it is truly idyllic. But I know fickle nature will soon transform this place to a hell of fog and rain and I don’t know if I’ll survive that. At this point I’m not so much worried about dying, more I’m worried about dying here, in this stone box, imprinted
The Eildon Tree
on the walls all my anguish, like a child being ripped from her mother. This is not a good place, this is a limbo. Hell is behind me, and there’s gold in the hills. I roll up the dried duvet tight and wrap it around myself to carry it. I fill all my pockets with the remaining unrotten food from the van and step out onto the tarmac road, a little sun warmth still left in it even though the sky is almost completely dark and the hills appear black in the distance. Even if I’m not going to be ok, it will be ok. The wind blows lightly from the north and clears the sky of the clouds that had been lingering like slouching giants in the sun filled day. This time an unexpected, quiet thrill rises inside of me to see the stars. An intricate ceiling like celestial spider webs, immaculate fibres in an infinite night. I thrill to think of the enormity, my tiny shoes tapping down a dark road, alone except for a stadium of pinpricked lights smiling down at me. I hear a bird cry in the distance, I stop and stare upward with unwavering eyes at the last ceiling I will know. I’m wide awake.
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Charlie by Barbara Pollock Every spring it was the same, a whisper would run round Landwood Allotments faster than a frog could jump out of a bucket and leap across all the plots. “Charlie’s at it again.” The allotment holders all wondered what new seed or plants he’d attempt to grow, they’d watch in awe as he grew the latest hybrids and newest cultivars. Although the roots of his edible dahlias were an acquired taste, his greens- well- they were green with envy. They commiserated with him if the seeds failed to germinate, and rejoiced when his runner beans, planted by the side his wooden shed, turned the walls crimson red with cascades of flowers. But this year was different. For the first time that anyone could remember, he seemed indifferent to the delights of the latest seed catalogues which gathered dust on the window sill of his rickety allotment shed. It was Marion who first noticed a change in him. “Something’s not right with Charlie. He’s lost all interest in his allotment. I wonder if he’s depressed. It can happen to anyone.” “He’ll soon perk up,” mumbled Ted, who tended the allotment next to Charlie’s. They had a friendly rivalry and were always trying to outdo each other. “He’ll soon come round when he hears about the latest batch of Kelsea onion seeds I’ve ordered. They’ll be here any day now.” But when Ted knocked on Charlie’s shed door to show him the packets of seeds, Charlie just shrugged his shoulders. The word of Charlie’s lack of interest ran round the allotment; rumours grew like weeds blowing across the allotments germinating with alarming speed. “Maybe he has he heard something we don’t know about? Are the council going to shut us down and build one of them exclusive housing estates? You know the
This February’s Grey by Isabel Miles
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the air, the sky, the rain, the grass are grey. Thoughts stumble, clogged with endless residue of winter with no sun, too little snow. As dusty as an ancient drovers’ road. Inside and out, the light is February grey. I walk grey woods, return to watch a film in technicolour grey. The night, at least, is black. Dim morning breaks to nothing that I want to do. They are all one to me, these shades of grey. So I lie still under a duvet that I chose as green, but know as grey, its pattern charcoal leaves on battleship. I need not think or feel, but cannot help but hear. The dun light trickling past the curtain edge is warmed and lifted by the song of birds. I bet those bloody bullfinches are back and feasting on the cherry buds. Grumbling greyly - they’ll destroy the blossom I get up. The mirror in the morning light is cold and there I am: grey face, grey form. I steel myself to face another February day. Opening curtains to the ashen dawn, I see splashes of brightness on the naked tree. Like scraps of sunrise, like unseasonal exotic flowers, vermilion, apricot. Thoughts vanish as I stop and watch, and feel my heart lift with the beauty and the wonder of these living things. And slowly colour seeps back to the world. Because of bullfinches, rose-breasted cherry thieves, with spring sap rising in their song
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The Bone-Crusher by Peter Clive
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I live in a world of impenetrable cliques. Anyone who claims to like me is lying. They must be: there is no other explanation, although I don’t know why they do it. Maybe it makes them feel good about themselves. No-one hears what I say. Their brains literally erase all record of my words, and insert what they think I said instead. Whatever confirms their assumptions about me becomes the official version of our history. I live in a box of one-way mirrors: I can see them, but they can’t see me, just whatever they want me to be. Lately that’s usually been something nice, but it wasn’t always like that, and they’ve no way of knowing which anyway. I look healthy, but ever since I can remember solitude has wrapped itself around my bones hidden beneath my flesh, unseen, twisting constricting, like a python, rigid, tight like a vice. It’s a miracle I’m still standing. Unless, of course, the bone-crusher has yet to loosen its grip and unwind, whereupon I will unravel and collapse in a heap on the floor, my skeleton finally pulverised by loneliness.
ones, with four and five bed roomed houses no one round here can afford,” suggested Ted looking worried. “Charlie has had the allotment for nearly forty years. He’s been spending most of the day here since his wife died. He’d be lost without it. He calls it his ‘lifeline.’ Something must be done. It can’t carry on like this,” said Marion. ‘It’s affecting everyone.” “I’ll speak to him if you like,” offers Laura, the newest and youngest allotment holder, as she wipes her hands on her denim dungarees, having just cleared a section of her plot ready to start planting her very first batch of early potatoes. Laura was grateful to Charlie, and would do anything to help him. She knew it was melodramatic, but she felt she owed him her life. She had been in a dark place when she had heard Charlie speaking on Radio Borders last summer, giving an interview about the Landwood Allotment Open Day and Community Seed Swap. The interview was at the allotment and she could hear 14 #issue 32 | Summer 2019
blackbirds singing in the background. It lifted her spirits. Charlie had plugged the beneficial value of gardening for emotional wellbeing. She had been reading up on the importance of gardening in relation to mental health and his words struck a chord. She made a promise to herself that no matter how bad she was feeling, she would visit the open day. When Charlie gave her a tour of the allotments she was enchanted. It didn’t take much encouragement for her to put her name down for a half plot, which to her surprise became vacant at the end of October. The plot was next to Marion’s and the two women became firm friends. Laura confided in Marion that she’d had a breakdown, and had to give up her job as a nurse and she hoped gardening would be therapeutic. “I’m a bit apprehensive about taking on the plot because it’s just such a long time since I did any gardening. I use to help my granddad but that was ages ago and I’m not sure where to start.” “I volunteer at the local primary school helping the children to plant up a plot in the school garden with vegetables and flowers,” Marion told her enthusiastically. “Perhaps you could give me hand. You’ll soon remember what to do. The children are well behaved, but they tend to get excited so you would be doing me a big favour. Don’t look so worried. I’ll be with you all of the time.” Laura never regretted taking up Marion’s challenge. The children were a delight to work with and she looked forward to her weekly sessions at the school which had boosted her confidence. She was now back nursing part time. She put it down to a mixture of the fresh air, the feeling of wellbeing she gained from watching her plants grow, as well as being part of the community. Charlie, in particular, had been a great source of encouragement. She knew he had a soft spot for her because he had told her she reminded him of his granddaughter in Australia. “Charlie’s been so helpful to me, I’d like the chance to repay his kindness,” Laura insisted. The others nodded knowing that Laura looked up to Charlie as some sort of allotment guru, so agreed with her suggestion. “Good luck,” said Marion. “I’ll pop the kettle on and we can break open a packet of digestives when you get back.” Twenty minutes later, Charlie and Laura join the others for a brew. “Tell them your news,” says Laura grinning. “My granddaughter is expecting a baby in May and she wants me to go to Australia for four months,” explains Charlie. “She’s even sent me the ticket. I didn’t want to refuse, but I didn’t want to leave my allotment either, it would run to seed, but Laura here promises you’ll all pitch in and look after it.” “Of course we will,” said Marion delighted. “You should have just asked us, and not brooded on it,” agreed Ted. “We’re all family here.” “Thanks, but be warned I’ll be bringing some Aussie seeds back with me to knock the socks
The Eildon Tree
off anything you can grow,” Charlie laughs, playfully cuffing Ted on the shoulder. “We’ll soon see about that,” Ted relies rubbing his shoulder. Marion and Laura exchange amused glances. “Charlie, it will be a pleasure to look after your plot for you. We can share it between us and maybe some of the children from the school can help out,” suggests Marion “That’s a brilliant idea. It’ll be like sowing a whole new generation of gardeners. We’d better get planning how to divvy up the tasks on my allotment; you’re all going to be busy,” Charlie says helping himself to a biscuit. They all laugh. A slight breeze blows across the allotment, as if it is a collective sigh of relief, as order is restored once more to Landwood allotments.
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The Orange Line, Station, 2 2013, Digital Collage Art, Digital Collage Art by Wullae Wright The artwork below represents a journey I made in New York, which became a memory that brings back recurring feels of contentment, hope and moving forward in life. It was a beautiful journey, contrasted with the poverty around me, something I experienced growing up. I am a Scottish artist and this experience continues to be a positive influence in my life and on ]my mental wellbeing.
The Sweetie Factory by Dorothy Whittaker
I’ve been here quite a while now. Part of the team, you could say. You can see from my badge that my name is Walter Merrithew. I came to the Sweetie Factory with a jar of molasses for their North American display and never left. The Sweetie Factory isn’t a factory anymore, just a museum telling the story of sugar and sweet-making across the centuries. We get lots of schoolchildren and families visiting here. They like to try our samples of old-fashioned sweets; sherbet dabs, barley twists and dolly mixtures. All our visitors love the smell of vanilla and sugar that wafts through the museum. It reminds me of the day it happened: my last day in Boston, Massachusetts. It was just after the Great War. Back then, I was a clerk, working in the railroad’s offices on the harbour. The railway ran on an elevated line right up to the end of the dock, so trains could easily be loaded with goods. Below were the shipping offices, storage yards, blacksmiths, stables, and the homes of the many migrants that worked on the waterfront. That January day was a day like any other. I was leaning against one of the freight sheds eating my lunch. Even now, I can still hear the thrum of the quayside. Trains, cranes and dockers trundling about their business. And the air rocking with metal on metal, railway rattle, and smithies’ hammers beating out the minutes of the working day. And all the voices: English, Irish, Italian; laughing, cursing and yelling commands. And the smell – definitely, an acquired taste - a cocktail of salty sea, coal dust and sticky molasses. The molasses was stored in the 50ft high tank thatdominated the wharf. It had been shipped in regularly during the war for use in munitions factories
to manufacture explosives. With that market gone, the company were hoping to cash in on the preProhibition demand for alcohol. Sporadically, the tank would groan and shift, molasses would seep from its seams; bounty that children would be sent out to collect for their breakfast pancakes. I bit deep into my sandwich and heard a new sound. A deep-throated rumble. I looked up to see an impossible sight. A tsunami of molasses was coming towards me at 35 mph. The tank had burst. All 2.3 million gallons of its contents had found their freedom and were making good their escape across the waterfront. No time to think. The tidal wave swept me off my feet and pinned me to the shed wall. Sticky sugar exploded into my nose, mouth, ears and eyes. Bored with me, the flood surged on. It reduced buildings to kindling. Sleeping babies in their prams were swallowed whole. It snapped the railway’s steel girders. The train line now dangled forlornly, like a broken toy. It felled electricity poles. Shattered cables sparked #issue 32 / Summer 2019 15
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Here by Rohan Basaboina
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we are here, only in the diminished supernatural nothingness bared by the floating city tops hearing only the silent dissipation of our opulent dreams and in that moment of declined vulgarity our forgotten poetry sows in the feelings and weaves out these words. we are here, mechanically leading to the ageing truths moving amongst the enslaved spirits not to thwart the systematic controls, therefore, steel ourselves from spoken beauty, finer knowledge and talent for disobedience. I am here, loitering the cracked corners of shamelessly noble sorrows; the resting passions of my undisciplined future beats out the wounded and long-exiled absolution; the hoarding brains have recovered the means of suffering and seduce me with its poetic emptiness. I let loneliness and bored unhappiness pass through me like smoke through a keyhole, painfully with exquisite darkness. I am here, lavishing in the smokes of the unredeemable time and only in that memory lies the rustic and ephemeral infinities of the tenacious end.
and sizzled. Rivets, popping from the tank, strafed the quayside like high velocity champagne corks. Sailors from the USS Nantucket rushed to help, followed by police, army and Red Cross workers. The search for survivors began. The entire harbour was swathed in molasses, so dark and viscous, it was impossible to see what, or who, lay beneath. It made their grim task, gruelling. It wasn’t long before the rescue team and their makeshift hospital wore a treacle glaze too; a ghoulish mixture of molasses and blood. As the treacle hardened to granite, volunteers resorted to hammers and chisels to break it up. Nevertheless, it was almost four months later that the final victim, Cesare Nicolo, was located and released from his candied shroud. 16 #issue 32 | Summer 2019
The tide of molasses seemed never-ending. The harbour water, used to flush the streets clean, still ran brown with sugar well into the summer. The syrup was carried on people’s shoes and clothing to other parts of the city, leaving every surface blackened and sticky. Its cloying smell seeped into the city’s pores, until it felt as if Boston was one giant treacle-coated sweetie. Of course, there was an inquiry. After all, the molasses had killed 21 people, injured 150 more, and caused millions of dollars of damage. Apparently, the storage tank was structurally deficient. Its metal plating was too thin and not enough rivets had been used. Noone had thought to check that it was watertight. Still, it took six years for the company to be found liable and compensation awarded to the victims’ families. As for me, I walk through the museum each day, warning visitors of the dangers of too much sugar. Most folk look right through me. But last week, I bumped into a man, who got such a fright, he threw his dolly mixtures up in the air and dashed off, screaming that the place was haunted. What a fanciful imagination some people have. It’s funny what we become attached to; people, places, even objects. I became attached to the molasses. Trapped in the treacle. And I’ve been stuck fast in it ever since. So, when they sent a souvenir of the disaster to the museum, I came along too. Didn’t have much choice really. So, here we are in the Sweetie Factory. Me and the molasses. Still connected.
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Connected by Rebecca Dewing We are all connected, coming from the same molecules, or as the Bible says, ‘From dust thou art and to dust thou shall return’. Then why are we so disconnected or appear so? Those of us who function within the normal limits whatever they are, are so diverse in our lives, our thinking, feeling and behaviour and often intolerant, judgemental of those who are ‘different’ or who are just authentic individuals. How then do we even try to connect with our fellow man who is struggling with a mental illness, who not only feels a disconnect with the rest of us, but in some cases is happy with that or who are totally unaware of our reality because they are living in their own, thus thinking they are in reality and we are not! In an acute psychotic episode Schizophrenic patients can become extremely upset at what they see is an intrusion by someone outside distracting them from the conversation they are having with the person inside their head, this conversation/relationship is much more important and demanding of their attention than anything we may have to say, Such as “Come to breakfast”, “ You need to keep your clothes on outside”,
The Eildon Tree
“It isn’t a good idea to be abusive to people, even if the voices are telling you to”!! They will become increasingly agitated and defensive… so no connection there. Then what about the friend or acquaintance who greets you with a smile, more reminiscent of a rictus than the usual warmth. This is the smile that that says, “Hi I’m fine” when in fact they may be trying to deal with a depression that says, ‘At least I managed to get out of bed, but I just want to die’. They are not going to share their despair with you in a hurry, because they’ve heard the usual answers so many times. “You need to pull yourself together, there are people worse off then you,” “You are very lucky really”. They know all this telling them again just intensifies the feeling of not being deserving of all this good luck, and blessings! They will however agree and deny their own feelings to make you feel comfortable, while sinking lower into the pit of not being worthy of such gifts, and the fact there is no point in talking because people can’t or don’t want to understand. No connection there either. How uncomfortable are we in the presence of mental illness, in fact the very mention of it can frighten people. It is the perception of people regarding mental illness, they see it in a negative light. Many or most people become very uncomfortable when confronted by mental illness, even afraid. They have been programmed by TV series and the media to think all people with a mental illness are serial killers at worst, and they will be unpredictable and possibly violent, or suicidal, and what can I do!! They feel they must be able to help, or they run away just in case there is something to be dealt with, and they can’t deal with it, or simply just feel embarrassed. Of course, this perception isn’t helped by the occasional patient, who in the care of the community, does violently offend. Often this will be the result of them not taking prescribed medication or none attendance at supervision meetings, in any event it is rare. So, what do we do to connect with a person with mental health issues, or get them to connect with us? What about doing nothing? Why not just interact as if nothing is wrong, unless it is. For example, if you are aware someone is not taking prescribed medication and encouragement isn’t working then seek appropriate help/advice, the person’s support worker or GP. If someone is having an acute psychotic breakdown in the street then call the police and or an ambulance, if they are singing/ dancing join in until help arrives. If they are balancing on a ledge 50 ft up have a chat, and just LISTEN, we don’t want a cry for help to become a fatality, respond positively until help arrives, don’t support their option that death is the answer, it isn’t, they are precious…and in fact if I was 50 feet up on a ledge trying to ‘talk someone down’, it would be me that needed the support to be there in the first place, I would have to enlist their help to get me to move!! If the person is a relative or friend then let them know you are there if and when they need to talk, good support like therapy listens and lets the person do the talking when /if they are ready.
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Poem by Gilly Callen I am dancing, I have come out into the world and my she – wolf is baying at the moon In an ecstasy of liberation! Not raging with injustice and frustration at your judgement, nor quaking at your word of command.
You made me afraid of my own thinking And so, doubting my sense of direction I have stood frozen for so long I was not sure I could still move but Mother Nature, in her infinite wisdom, brought my fractured attention to the vibration of the Earth beneath my feet. Standing still became a reason to regain my reasoning. And now, King Canute, you cannot hold back the tide, It has turned; there has been a revolution in my being, and I will have the truth of it tattooed across my shoulders from where the weight of you has been lifted. This is a poem for all women moulded in the shape of shame, and self doubt It is not forever… It is simply a blockage in the flow of your life-river Learn to swim, for Tigers cannot swim well. Learn to fly, The wild geese are calling to you from the family of the world. Join them, for Bears cannot fly. But you can……. In spite of him and everything gone before. In flights of fancy I have flown home… To me.
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We are connected by just being, letting others know they are not alone and they are loved, much of this can actually happen in silence. Therefore, it does not mean telling someone they are loved or you love them all day long, a smile, a coffee, a walk, companionship…. You want to be with them says a lot. Education of the general public has been emphasised for years now, it amuses me that we don’t even educate some of our mental health workers effectively, yes they all pay lip service to ‘ Mental illness can happen to anyone’, but when they need help try and suggest therapy to them, or medication and hear the response. I am not for one minute saying they don’t care or have no knowledge, they do and they have, but a number of them are wounded if you suggest they would benefit from couples counselling, or a session with staff support counsellor. “I am a nurse, I don’t need counselling, that’s for patients.” A classic is “I have dealt with my issues.” Oh really. The lack of insight is breathtaking, but also sad, because it is a denial that Mental illness can affect anyone, it is not a them and us situation anymore than cancer, or rheumatism. I recall when the hospital I was working in employed a staff support advisor, she was redundant for some months by the majority of staff, but she plugged away , always there after an incident for the de brief turning up to the wards with homemade peanut crunch or cakes, listening to staff over a cup of tea. Suddenly she had more clients than time and is still missed having retired five years ago. I was part of a group that introduced Clinical Supervision for staff, and as a clinical supervisor I met with individuals on a regular basis so they could ‘talk about’ any problems and ways of dealing with
Friday 11 o’clock: Communion
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by Lucy Crispin Lift high the cups! Let crockery proclaim the sacred moment: here, where nephew treats the aunt he seldom sees, and grandpa meets the grandchild and, for joy, weeps without shame. Lift high the scone, the crumpet and the toast: where staff smile at the solitary bloke, the crumpled one—greet him by name; and cake (one slice, two forks) becomes a kind of Host. Lift high the tea, the coffee! Precious drink: here, where friends’ talk with love irradiates the dregs in emptied mugs, the crumbs on plates; such blessedness, this sharing what we think and feel. Alleluia! Praise god indeed for lattes, love, and getting what we need.
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them, professional development etc. It was much valued. I certainly loved meeting with my supervisor. I have deliberately avoided statistics in this piece, I feel they are not relevant to my comments, however at one time the highest rates of suicide were among Psychiatrists and I know of one general medical practice, not local to me now, where five out of six GP’s were on anti- depressants. No harm in that but needs looking at, I think… stress in the workplace, we need to try and stop ‘breakdowns before they begin. My point is we are not immune, no one is, there is no vaccine for mental illness. So how do we connect, or how do we stay connected? We can only give individual ideas of what we see as tried and tested, what works for one will not work for another. Firstly, you can not connect with or get a person to connect with you if their reality is skewed or if they are in the depths of clinical depression, the answer may be to introduce strategies to lift the spirit, before it gets so low. Go back to the ‘You are really lucky’ , well, write it, start a journal, write down how you feel, really feel, what is happening for you, then list things you are grateful for and how much you deserve them, because you do. Get out of the house, before you can’t get out of the chair, connect, now there’s a word we’ve heard before, with nature. Many people pooh, pooh this idea, but it is a fail safe action for me, and increasingly I read about people in depressive episodes, for whom the garden is better than anti depressants, a half hour weeding, dead heading the roses, a chat to the bugs …how amazing are they? The Victorians were great enthusiasts for fresh air and walks for the mentally ill. Their hospitals all had gardens, some even small farms, where patients could work on the land. I recall, in summer we took the patients into the garden after breakfast going back indoors for lunch, out again and even tea served outside. A game of bat and ball, lying around on the lawns, we rarely had any disturbed patients, they loved being outside, ready for bed once we were back on the ward. In fact, some new Mental health facilities incorporate nature reserves, where patients and staff can experience the peace and sounds of nature. A walk in the countryside listening to the birds, how cheerful they are, no countryside, there is always a park or if one is really lucky the sea, look at the magnificent waves! Then treat yourself to a coffee and cake at a favourite café, someone will talk to you, superficial small talk, great. Look at Churchill and his depression his ‘Black Dog’ he talked to animals had a menagerie at Chartwell, loved his dogs and cats, Pigs a special favourite as he felt they were the best at understanding us humans, he would go and talk to them when the black cloud began to appear. He also built a wall on his lawn, goodness knows why, but it diverted his mind. It got him outside and focused on something else other than any prevailing negative thoughts. There is some suspicion as to whether Churchill did get depressed, it is thought maybe bi polar, because and I quote ‘of his grandiosity’, he declared himself to be “A great Man” and stated he was always
The Eildon Tree
destined to be so… the product of a philandering absent father and a cold and distant mother, he cried out for love [read his letters to his mother when at Harrow School], he, I am certain did get depressed. However another positive, I feel he practised self belief, based on the premise ‘You become what you think you are’… look how he inspired a tiny nation to prevail in a world war [with a bit of assistance], he made the people feel unstoppable.. a huge connection with millions of others. Also of course he was a prolific writer, listen to those speeches. Not only Churchill other great writers Samuel Johnson, bi polar and William Blake, depressive and hypomanic in equal measure, well almost. Blake a great poet and artist, and mystic, don’t forget most depressive patients have great insights, and can be often prophetic. The mentally ill can and are often extremely creative and could be more encouraged, we don’t need always to connect with humans, animals are great too, but to connect with one’s self and creative talents is or can be the best medicine of all. This has focused mainly on depressive illness, but the most florid psychotic patients can benefit from everything mentioned herein, they produce the most amazing artwork and their writing can get you wondering if you are missing something, so bizarre it has to be true!! We have short memories when we discuss the more severe mental illnesses like Schizophrenia, yet in the 60’s people were downing LSD25, Mescaline or Ritalin and other hallucinatory drugs to induce schizophrenic like hallucinations,’ tripping’ they called it. Some trip, some killed themselves thinking they could do anything, because they were invincible, others never regained ‘normality’, becoming permanently psychotic. It appeared to okay to do that. Yet we view those who are out of touch with reality because of genuine mental illness suspiciously. People are of value just because they are here, how we get them to feel valued is by love, caring about their predicament, chocolate doesn’t heal mental illness, although it is worth a try coupled with caring and listening. The emphasis of this piece has been on depression, I have not ignored the Psychoses or the anxiety states, sometimes people will present with more than one problem, each need addressing separately. However, the first step in staying or getting connected is for everyone to truly understand that Mental illness can affect everyone and anyone. That not everyone with a Mental illness is violent quite the reverse. Treat them as you would treat anyone else, don’t patronise them. Help them if and when they need it, by being there for them or seeking appropriate help. Encourage activity, especially creative pursuits but don’t force anything, just be supportive and positive. Remember we are all connected with each other, but we must connect first with ourselves.
Pussy Willow
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by Karin Jones This photograph was taken by the River Tweed, near Lowood, on a family visit to Melrose in February 2019.
It would be remiss when talking about being connected and Mental Health not to give mention of the Personality Disorders, specifically Psychopathic personality disorder and Sociopathic disorder. The psychopath is unable to connect or form attachments to anyone, or to feel real empathy for others, they view others as objects for their own amusement. They are often good at mimicry and can mimic emotions in spite of the fact they can not feel them. They are often well educated and have good jobs. Sociopaths are emotional and prone to emotional outbursts and fits of rage. They can sometimes form attachments to an individual or group, but they will struggle with relationships. They are generally less well educated than psychopaths and live on the fringes of society. Both these disorders share many of the same characteristics, they don’t feel remorse or guilt, disregard the law and the rights of others and what is socially acceptable. They tend to become violent or aggressive in their behaviour. Diagnostically Psychopathy is thought to be genetic [nature], while Sociopathy environmental, [nurture]. Sociopathy may be the result of a disfunctional, abusive childhood, or other childhood trauma. #issue 32 / Summer 2019 19
Special issue for Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival 3 – 26 May 2019
Miscellany by Lucy Crispin
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These things have sorted themselves, somehow, into the same place in my mind, a place not so much lit, exactly, as not utterly black— as when, in no matter how large a space, a single candle alters the absoluteness of dark. That lobelia lives there, self-sprung from last year’s window-box, pushing its white-hearted sapphire-startling single bloom up through the crack in the grey pavement on the same street where a solemn child stands steadily regarding me, staunch in his Spiderman pyjamas, a local colossus, red wellies planted, arms folded across his chest. He is unencumbered by himself, like the girl who skips from the shopping centre on white-socked legs, out of the fluorescent blare into a clear-falling, indigo April dusk, her mother bustling but the little girl skipping and singing out her greeting, hello Mr Moon! And then there is the way the sun, rolling down a winter sky of cautious blue, suddenly backlights the moss which pads the top stones of the lane wall, so that the slim stalks which rise from the soft plump green are red-gilded, alchemised by light; or the way the blackbird is making a pulpit out of the telegraph pole, threading all time along his song and into this moment: now, falling into forever; a beatitude of song. And of course there is you, and the way, as you sit cross-legged on the carpet, intent on programming my new telly—the one I’ve neither will nor patience to understand—the way I see back through telescoped years to where a small boy, ungrazed by time, is rapt in story. And when delight or tenderness flower, thus, in my throat, the tears are a libation for small things, and how they reach us. Changing no worlds, they change them entirely: a miscellany of handholds, a school for thankfulness—a way, in fact, to keep breathing.
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Because of their inability to learn by punishment for offences, or experience they are difficult if not impossible to treat. Some, following assessment, do well in a structured environment where they are given boundaries and their behaviour monitored. Institutions such as medium secure units if they need to be removed from society for whatever reason, or instead of a prison sentence. Prison is not a good environment for these individuals. Any other psychiatric overlay, such as depression can be treated as diagnosed. Also, if they are amenable psychotherapy may be an option in some cases. They are, however for the most part considered to be untreatable, and very difficult to deal with, connecting in any meaningful way is a challenge all round. It is necessary to make a connection with each other for meaningful relationships, personal or therapeutic, but unless we connect with ourselves first, how can we hope to help and support others and remove the stigma associated with Mental Illness? To end …. Please don’t judge people, you don’t know what it took someone to get out of bed, look and feel presentable as possible and face the day. You never truly know the daily struggle of others. [Healthy Peace.com] References:- Bonn Scott A. Phd. The Differences Between Psychopaths and Sociopaths. [verified by Psychology Today].
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Weigh Day by Andy Marr
For a girl without a job, or hobbies, or any kind of social life, Emma’s schedule was remarkably crowded. Dieting, walking, worrying, writing, exercising, surviving – all of these things ate into a day that might have offered endless possibilities had Emma not felt obliged to fill her great unfenced acres of spare time with the kind of trivial concerns and ridiculous compulsions that her doctors had been trying for years to clear from her head. This habit shone most brightly every Tuesday, when she took her place by the living-room window to await the arrival of her care team from Edinburgh. No matter what was going on around her or within her head, she arrived by the window on the stroke of noon every single week. The team never arrived before half past one. Whenever I could, I grabbed the chance to join Emma by the window. Her vigils offered little in the form of entertainment, but with Emma increasingly holed up in her room, they were among the few opportunities I still had to spend time with her. Each week, our schedule followed the same pattern. I’d begin with a few attempts at conversation, which Emma would ignore completely.
The Eildon Tree
Then I’d grab some snacks from the kitchen and throw myself down on the chair by the window. For the next hour, I’d divide my time between watching garbage on TV and offering Emma the reassurances she needed to get through her latest stretch of guard duty. On the first Tuesday of April, I was sitting in my usual place, but instead of pretending to give a crap about the programmes that were showing on telly, I was trying desperately not to go batshit crazy with Emma, who, for the past hour, had been drumming her fingers frantically against the back of my chair. ‘Okay,’ I said, when I could stand it no longer. ‘You really need to calm down.’ Drum-drum-drum. ‘That’s not an option.’ ‘Maybe I could take over for a bit.’ ‘No.’ Drum-drum-drum. ‘You might miss them.’ ‘The Simpsons is coming on,’ I said, resisting the impulse to stand up and force her onto the chair. ‘I’m fine where I am,’ Emma said. Drum-drum-drum. Drum. I breathed heavily through my nose, snatched up my sandwich. ‘Whatever,’ I said. Emma ignored my tone, fixated on my food. ‘Watch out for crumbs,’ she said. ‘And get rid of that plate before they arrive.’ ‘It’s not like they’re going to think you suddenly fancied an actual meal,’ I said. But a car door had slammed in the street and Emma was already turning back to the window to peer out from between the curtains. It wasn’t them. ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Emma yelled, banging a fist against the windowsill. ‘They were supposed to be here at two.’ ‘It’s not even five past yet.’ ‘I must have missed them,’ she said. ‘What if I missed them?’ ‘That didn’t happen, Emma.’ Emma hardly seemed to hear me. ‘Maybe I didn’t hear the doorbell ring,’ she said. ‘Maybe the television… Oh god, Jamie, you’ve had the television turned up too loud!’ To watch Emma then, you’d have thought she was truly looking forward to the arrival of her guests. But the truth was that she dreaded these visits with every part of her being. For nearly three months, her health had continued to deteriorate, and the ever-decreasing numbers on the scales had brought the threat of hospitalisation and recovery closer and closer with each passing visit. Then there was the opposite, and possibly even more serious, worry that she’d piled on a stone or two in the previous seven days. Of course, anybody who’d watched Emma starving herself since her last weigh-in knew this was impossible, but in Emma-land the most implausible fears were often the ones that seemed most likely to become real. Two more endless minutes passed before the dietician’s red Volvo turned into our street. ‘Oh!’ Emma said. ‘Here they come! Quick, Jamie, wipe up those crumbs. Get rid of that plate.’ I did as I was told but did it slowly; slowly enough to ensure that I exited the kitchen in the same moment
Emma and her company appeared by its door. Today, this company comprised Rosa, Emma’s dietician, and her therapist, Elaine. Both smiled when they saw me. Emma, standing by their side, glared furiously. ‘Hello James,’ Rosa said. ‘How are you?’ Handing dietary advice to anorexics must surely have been one of the world’s most thankless tasks, but in all the times I’d met Rosa I’d never seen her lose an ounce of cheer. I considered answering Rosa truthfully, but Emma was already shattered, and I wasn’t sure that she would survive the betrayal. I said, ‘I’m fine’. Elaine, too, was smiling. Like Rosa, nothing ever seemed to penetrate her solid wall of cheerfulness. ‘Looking forward to the summer?’ she asked. ‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘I love the Scottish summer. It’s probably my favourite day of the year.’ We all had a good chuckle at that, except for Emma, whose eyes were fixed on the bag Rosa was carrying. Inside the bag were the sacred weighday scales that would either make or break Emma’s week. I decided it was time to put her out of her misery. ‘Well, I better leave you guys to it.’ Emma breathed a sigh of relief so deep it seemed to come all the way from her feet, then ushered her guests into the living room and closed the door. It was a gentle close, not a slam, but I knew if I so much as sneezed again before the meeting was over, there’d be hell to pay. And yet, I couldn’t quite bring myself to walk away, to go to my room and stay there until I was given permission to come out again. For the past two months
The Art of Self-compassion or Why CBT is Not The Answer to Everything by Lucy Crispin
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She attends weekly, sits in the warm, quiet space, unfolding herself to someone who started off a stranger. Matter-of-fact, she’s long since parted company with those bits of herself which hurt —can’t face them, can’t even see them, so long have they gone unrecognised. She explains, minimises, justifies; she chastises herself; she hardly ever cries and, when she does, apologises, shamed by what she’s done. She doubts herself, tries to dodge her pain, torn between quashing it and letting herself feel; but, though shaken by the returning rush of the real, she’s opening the sluice-gates. Over and again she brings herself here. It’s long, hard work, healing a heart so horror-torn. She has begun to grieve. It is a start.
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Special issue for Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival 3 – 26 May 2019
And I Carry On by Daniel Duggan
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Until I have nothing left to give, when the tank reads empty, I straw suck the sediment of my reserves. I lick the lamented sorrow that lies thin on my skin. And I carry on, I carry on. I bite my own lower lip until it bursts, a bloody red orange segment, in need of a salve, rind ravaged and picked at. The anxious fidgeting of taut chords. And I carry on, I carry on. I drink my tears and that snot that only comes with sobbing the arteries of yourself dry. I wring out my ear wax and run a hair’s breadth of wick through its centre. A morsel of light, a match flicker of resilience, stood, leaning against life. And I carry on, I carry on.
My Deportment Was Scarred
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by Daniel Duggan My deportment was scarred long ago, when my body was fixed and the sticks and stones found a new home, a hypersensitivity welcome mat remained. On it reigns, it drains, driving down staves, my anxiety cairns rise from the ashes of battered lashes. I float along, merrily merry on small ripples and calm the breakers. That’s the waterline below my head, I can talk myself down from the ledge which slips feet and pulls my balance. I can find a place to crook an arm and make a nook. I carry the heart holes and cleanse my worrywart soul. Yet it can turn like a spoon. It’s the squeeze of a brewed tea bag and I’m there, back bobbing along, oars burning the compass. I hold steady as the eddying stops it’s spin. But when my head hurts, the beauty deserts, all hell breaks in, I’m a voodoo doll, pain as the pin. I feel it all, it’s death on a roll, the trolls under bridges verifying the toll. I can’t wade out into the deep and pull the plug and empty the sink. I never learnt to tread water or swim the shoreline down inside me. I am buoyant intermittently, but drop below. Where are the calm waters, where did they go?
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I’d been a good little boy, done exactly what I was asked to do precisely when I was asked to do it. Today, though, I found I’d had enough of uncertainty, of being kept in the dark. I understood that Emma was entitled to her secrecy, but I resented it too because, after all, I was living in the same house as her, watching her basically trying to self-destruct, and I felt I deserved at the very least to know whether she was likely to be rescued before her efforts proved successful. Before I could think better of it, I turned back towards the living room and pressed an ear to the wall. ‘So, how have things been this week?’ I heard Elaine ask. ‘Yep,’ Emma said. ‘Good. Much better.’ There was a pause. Then Elaine said, ‘Well, that’s great. Really great. So, you’ve been spending a bit more time with James and your parents?’ ‘Mmm hmmm,’ Emma said. ‘Yep.’ ‘Fantastic,’ Elaine said. ‘And the rest of the time? Have you been finding things any easier?’ ‘Yes,’ Emma said. ‘It’s been much better.’ Okay, well that wasn’t true. In the past week alone, I’d caught Emma counting calories on the internet three times, and on every occasion, she’d shouted at me to get the fuck out of the room, which seemed unfair, because it was my room she was in, my computer she was using. Her daily route marches around Cranston had also begun to stretch far beyond the one-mile distance that Emma and the team had agreed upon. I was trying to picture how much more of this bullshit Rosa and Elaine were going to take when a floorboard behind me creaked and I almost screamed. When I threw my head around to face the offender, they took a respectful step backward, raising their open hands. ‘Jesus, Mum!’ I hissed, clutching a hand to my chest. ‘Sorry,’ Mum whispered. ‘My leg was falling asleep.’ She gave her foot a little wiggle, fending off the pins and needles. ‘How long have you been here?’ ‘A couple of minutes,’ Mum said, before adding, ‘We really shouldn’t be doing this.’ ‘I know,’ I said. ‘Emma would be furious.’ ‘I know,’ I said. We looked at one another, conversing with our eyes. It went on for some time – ten seconds, maybe. Then, finally, our decision made, we leaned guiltily back against the wall and resumed our eavesdropping. ‘So, have you been following your meal plan this week?’ Rosa was asking. There was a long pause. Then Emma said, ‘Some of it’. Strictly speaking, I suppose this was true; after all, the apple she ate each day probably did feature on the plan somewhere. However, as apples were the only thing she’d eaten for the past seven days, it would have been more accurate just to say ‘no’. Rosa was clearly aware of this. ‘Emma, if you’re not able to follow the plan, then –’ ‘I am following the plan!’ Emma said.
The Eildon Tree
‘But not all of it,’ Rosa said. Emma was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘I’m not like you, I don’t need to eat like other people.’ ‘Emma, you do.’ ‘No, I don’t. I have a small frame and a fast metabolism.’ ‘Emma,’ Rosa said, gently. ‘If you’re not coping, if your weight continues to drop…’ ‘Then, what?’ Emma said. ‘You’ll throw me back into hospital?’ ‘It might be something we have to look at, yes.’ I sensed Emma’s heart sink then. ‘I’ll do better,’ she said. ‘I promise.’ The awkwardness of the silence that followed was palpable even from the hallway. Hours seemed to pass before Rosa cleared her throat. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Let’s get you weighed for now and see where we are with that.’ When we heard Rosa rifling around in her bag for the scales, Mum and I looked at one another. There was a hint of panic in both of our eyes; to learn Emma’s weight would have been the ultimate betrayal. After another, much briefer, unspoken conversation, I turned to leave. A second later, Mum did too. Back in my room, I wondered whether it really had been the fear of betraying my little sister that had forced me from the dining room. It was easy enough to believe this was the case. After all, my parents and I had understood for years that proof of our loyalty to Emma lay in keeping our distance, in accepting what was told us, in turning and walking away when a door was shut in our face instead of swinging it open again. But there was another possibility; that I’d simply been too frightened to listen to the number that was read out from the scales. It was painful to consider this, but it often seemed that much of my relationship with Emma was not allowing myself to ask the questions I knew I ought to, because I was too afraid of the answers. At the end of the day, I supposed it didn’t really matter. The important, awful, terrifying fact was that Emma’s situation was even worse than I’d imagined, that we were even further from being the happy, stable family I wanted so badly. Mum had been right all those years ago when she warned me never to eavesdrop. I only wished she’d taken the trouble to remind me of that as we’d stood with our ears to the living room door.
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Disconnected in Kyoto by Stephen Barker
A moment in time four months after losing my sight in my left eye and becoming deaf in my left ear. Panic is quickly setting in. Surrounded by flashing, dazzling and distorted images, dominated by a coloured column of light, the noise around me is incessant, oppressive, frightening and makes no sense at all. This
world is chaotic and beyond me. I am in Japan, standing alone outside Kyoto railway station, in the dark, facing the Tower. It is raining and the warm moisture is at least familiar. I realise that this is all I know for certain, in this very foreign land. I am lost to this place, to my family, to myself. But most frightening, in those few moments, I realise I have lost any sense of who I can be at all. I was rescued from this strange world and re-joined my family in theirs, to continue our long planned trip of a life time. Here to meet the family of my new daughter in law Kumiko. I had been given two travel rules, don’t get lost, and if you do, stand still. I did get lost, simply because my family overestimated how little of this fast moving new world I could know. I was found, because without the tools of discovery I did the only thing I could, wait for others to guide me and, if they remembered, to describe and explain. For me the everyday had now become alien and I knew if my own world was ever to include it I needed to find new ways to describe and explain it, and to accept that on my own, my horizons had to be much closer to home than they once were.
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“The Next Stop’s Kirkcaddy” by Archie Hunter
Forty years in Australia’s Gold Coast had dulled my memory and the loch was smaller than I remembered. Tucked into the Borders’ hills, it snaked round a wooded knoll to a small hidden cove. The summer day was overcast and by late afternoon, my old school friend, Mike Hayes, had caught four brown trout to my two. But the wind dropped, the water stilled, the trout stopped biting and our conversation dried up. “What happened to Daft Mary?” I asked for something to say. Mike sat up in the boat– looking wary. “Why do you ask?” Good question. Why ask about poor Mary who’d been the butt of school jokes forty years ago. **** I reflected on events since our arrival the previous day. Although the village had grown, it’s centre was unchanged. Traditional stone houses with slate roofs cheek-by-jowl either side of the main street stood hard up against the narrow pavement. And Brown’s Newsagents looked like it hadn’t been painted since my family left for our new life down-under. Over the years Jane had listened to me rabbiting on about the village – and now she was seeing it for herself. We went into Brown’s where, instead of old Mr. Brown behind the counter, stood a charming young lady. Her accent suggested Penicuik, but her olive skin, dark eyes and black lustrous hair hinted something more exotic. A tired looking lady laden down with shopping bags came in and before I knew #issue 32 / Summer 2019 23
Special issue for Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival 3 – 26 May 2019
it, a lively conversation was underway. “I used to live in the village and am hoping to find some of my school friends,” I revealed. “Any names?” asked the lady with the shopping bags. Names? I could reel off my whole class. “Mike Hayes. Mike was my best pal,” I replied. “Well well! Mike’s still here. He’ll be out on his rounds, but he’ll be home this evening. He and his wife are neighbours. Do you remember the Terrace?” “Yes – I remember it – the council houses. Mike used to live at No. 43” Annoyance fluttered across her eyes. “Well they’re not council houses anymore.” And then she relaxed. “Mike still lives at No. 43.” Seeing the surprise on my face, she continued. “His Dad bought it when Maggie Thatcher sold them off. His folks are dead, and Mike inherited it.” “You could contact him on his mobile phone,” joined in the lady behind the counter as she handed me a business card. Along the top it said: MIKE HAYES – HOUSEHOLD HANDYMAN Below this was a screwdriver and hammer, crossed like heraldic weapons, and below that: MIKE’LL FIX IT “Thanks ladies,” I chuckled as I looked at the card. “Mike could always fix things, so it’s good to see he’s still at it.” The village jungle drums must have gone into overdrive, because when I phoned later in the afternoon, Mike was expecting my call. In the evening, we met up in the bar of our hotel. The years hadn’t been kind to Mike. Flush faced and jowly, by the way he knocked back his drink, I suspected booze and Mike were old acquaintances. But he was as jovial as I remembered, and his wife Sheila was a sweetheart. I remembered her, a pretty quiet girl in the class below us, she was now an attractive confident lady who managed the village supermarket. She and Jane hit it off as we caught up and got to know each other. But an embarrassing lull engulfed us as we ran out of things to say. “D’ye still fish?” asked Mike. “I do,” I replied. “I’ve a boat at the loch. What about a day on the water?” I looked appealingly at Jane, but it was Sheila who answered. “Jane. I’m off tomorrow. Why don’t we have a bit of retail therapy in Edinburgh and the boys can go fishing.” **** My question about Daft Mary had clearly touched a raw nerve. “I think I know what was wrong with her,” I said reeling in my line. “My daughter Linda is very like her – only we’ve been lucky.” Mike looked out over the loch, and then back to me. His face softened. “You remember how we used to make a wee fire, 24 #issue 32 | Summer 2019
cook the catch and eat them wi’ our fingers?” “I do. Never tasted anything better than those fat trout fresh from the loch.” “Let’s call it a day and cook what we’ve got – but a bit more civilised.” With a grin, Mike hauled a little red camping stove from his rucksack. Fifteen minutes later we were ashore, and three of our trout sizzling in his small frying pan. “Do you do this often?” I asked as I lay back in the heather, relishing my first cigarette in years. He flashed me a grin, and behind the baggy eyes I got a glimpse of the old boyhood Mike. “Aye. I often come up here. What more could ye ask for? Fresh trout in the frying pan, a smoke while you wait, a dram afterwards and all of this,” he said with a sweep of his arm to the wooded hills around the loch. “A dram afterwards!” “Of course – and nothing but the best.” At that he hauled out a bottle of Laphroaig and two glasses. “What else is there in that bag?” I laughed. “Nothing. That’s it. Well apart from a bit of bread to eat with the trout.” We lay back in the heather, listening to the gentle lapping of the loch a few yards away and the distant cry of a curlew. “Another fag?” Mike asked holding out his pack. I looked at it for a second before taking one. “I’m going to regret this. It took me years to give up and I’m going to have to start all over again.” “Well you can start after this one.” We didn’t talk much as we smoked and then ate the trout. Mike then poured out a couple of drams and handed me one. “So, tell me about your daughter.” “Linda. Well you remember how Daft Mary used to make a fuss about going to school, and would wail for hours.” Mike flashed me an angry glance. “Mary had her problems – but she wasnae daft,” he snapped. “OK. Well when Linda was about six, she started behaving like Da…. the same way as Mary. At the last minute she’d have a melt-down and refuse to go to school. But luckily for us, the headmaster understood the problem and invited Jane and me to his office. He told us Linda could be on the Asperger’s spectrum. He’d had other pupils with similar problems and realised that the education system was poorly equipped for such children. Anyway – he did his own research and found there were coping strategies to help kids like Linda …… and Mary.” “Coping strategies?” queried Mike sitting up. He lit up another cigarette and handed me the pack. “No thanks. I’ve just given up.” “Suit yourself,” he chuckled. “Anyway – ye were talking about coping strategies.” To my surprise, Mike’s interest seemed genuine. “That’s right. Just simple things. Unannounced sudden changes in routine really distressed Linda,
The Eildon Tree
so he instructed the teachers to avoid them. For example, with any school outing, Linda would be told about it well in advance so that she looked forward to it. And very important – the quiet room.” “The quiet room?” “Yes. Kids like Linda need a quiet space whenever they feel things getting on top of them. Our headmaster understood this, and he converted an old disused storeroom. Tarted it up with some fresh paint, a new carpet and some comfy furniture. So Linda, and another girl in her class with similar problems, could chill out if they wanted. None of the other kids were allowed in it. The other girl became Linda’s special friend, and they supported each other a lot.” “And did this work?” “It helped. At times it was hard, but she got through school and did well in her exams. When she was old enough, we explained to her that her mind worked differently from most children, but that just meant she was special.” “And how’s she doing now?” “Doing well. She’s an avid reader. She read all the “Harry Potter” novels, and kept them in her bookshelves along with her other books – all neatly lined up in alphabetical order. After school, she studied English at uni. Graduated last year and now she’s a junior librarian at the university.” “So, she really is doing well.” “It was a no-brainer. With her love of reading and books, she’s a natural librarian. Every book she’s read or intends to read, she can tell you about – the plot, the author, the publisher - and so-on.” “And what about – ye ken – boyfriends?” “She’s got a boyfriend. Tom. A nice lad. They met at uni and I think its serious.” I paused for a moment as I thought about Tom. “I had a word with him and he understands all about Linda. I think they’ll be OK. But enough about Linda. What happened to Mary?” Looking out over the loch, Mike took a long drag on his cigarette and then turned to me. “Mary’s dead.” His stark reply stunned me. “Dead! What happened?” Again he gathered his thoughts. “It’s a long story. Dye remember Scott Edwards – a big lad in the class above us?” “The psycho! He grabbed me by throat one day in the playground. I thought he was going to strangle me.” “That’s him. Total bastard. Well you remember how Mary got teased – although in fairness to you and me, we didn’t join in.” “I remember. I was sorry for her, but I felt helpless.” “Me too. Scott Edwards took the teasing to a new level. He picked on her day-after-day and set Mary off into floods of tears. And one day, I snapped. After you left for Australia, I grew quickly and caught up with that thug in height. So I stepped in and told him to stop.” “You stood up to Scott Edwards!” “I dinnae mind admitting I was bricking it at the time. But when I confronted the bastard and looked him in
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Moonchurch by Rick Lee And we six shadows walked through the sepulchral splendour of the night bathed in the phosphorescent glow of the moonchurch
ascending the ancient steps on stones greasy with the fallen breath of a host of ancestors condensed lives reduced to vapour below the whiteadder hisses and rustles in his gutters wreathing silently in his pools we reach the brocken altar we stand in the crowded stillness six in a congregation of thousands warming our bodies with their sibilant presence we offer our faces to the muffled moon gleaming through its whispering cloak the magus of the forgotten fog of our memories (Edin’s hall broch)
the eye, he was scared. He backed off. Threatened me with all sorts – warned me he’d do me in one day. But he never did. That day when school finished, Mary asked me to walk her home as she was still frightened. So I did. And we got into a routine. Her house was on my way, so she would wait for me and walk with me to school, and then again on the way back. It caused a bit of sniggering, but the teasing stopped.” Mike turned to me and gave me a long look. He was on the point of tears, but made a palaver over topping up our glasses. “You’ll be over the limit if we drink anymore,” I protested half-heartedly as I held out my glass. “Och. I’ve been having a dram after fishing for years. And there’s no bobby in the village now, so I’ll be fine. You mentioned Linda had a special friend. Well I must have been Mary’s special friend. And although walking her to and from school was a bit embarrassing, I liked it. She was pretty, and could prattle on for hours which suited me fine. We started going for walks and…….” “And what?” “Mary was very affectionate. And she got pregnant.” #issue 32 / Summer 2019 25
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Mike gave me a quizzical look, and then laughed. “You should see the look on your face. Dinnae worry. No need to ask. It was me.” “I……but…. are you sure?” I spluttered. “Oh I’m sure. I was her special friend remember.” “And when was this? How old were you?” “We were both fifteen, about two years after you left. I was gobsmacked when Mary told me that her periods had stopped and I was going to be a Dad. But she made light of it, and said that it was to be our secret. Made me promise not to tell anyone that I was the father, and she would do the same.” “Mary covered up for you?” “I don’t think she saw it that way. I think she decided that the baby would be hers and hers alone.” “And did you? Keep it a secret?” “I did. When she told her parents, they came round and confronted me in front of mine that I’d got her pregnant. But …. Well I’d promised Mary. So I denied it. What else could I do?” “What happened next?” “Poor Mary – she had the baby – a little girl – but the authorities took her away not long after she was born.” “Bloody Hell! What about her family. Couldn’t they have helped?” Mike stared out over the loch, lost in his memories for a few moments. “It was very complicated – although I didnae realise it at the time. D’ye remember Mary’s sister, Elizabeth?” “Vaguely. But she was older.” “She was. Sixteen years older actually. But she wasnae Mary’s sister. She was her mother. And the couple we thought were Mary’s parents were her grandparents. Elizabeth wanted to help Mary look after the baby, but the authorities saw it differently, and took the baby away.” “My God! So how did you find out all this about Mary’s family?” “I’ll come to that. Another dram? You look like you could do with one.” Thoughts of Mike being over the limit were pushed to one side as I held out my glass.
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“After the baby was taken away and Mary came home from the hospital, it was terrible. She went into a massive depression and wept for days. I could hear her crying and moaning when I went past her house. And then it stopped. When Elizabeth went into Mary’s bedroom the next morning, it was empty. They found her body in the loch two days later. She must have got up early and walked up here. Imagine that, two miles walk from the village, and then she drowned herself.” “Jesus Christ!” I gasped. My mind was in turmoil as I tried to take it all in. “You’re probably wondering how I can come up here and fish, knowing this is where she took her life. Well, for a long time I didn’t. Everyone suspected I was the father, and life was very difficult. It was Elizabeth, Mary’s mother, who sought me out one day. She said she understood what I was going through, but I mustn’t blame myself, and get on with my life. So that’s what I did. Village life went back to normal, and after a few years I came back up here to fish. And have been doing that ever since. I sometimes come with the angling club, but mostly I come by myself. I feel like I’m with Mary again.” “You mentioned you would come back to Mary’s real mother,” I reminded Mike. “You probably don’t remember, but Mary and her family moved to the village when we were in Primary Two. I think they wanted a fresh start, and everyone thought they were just an ordinary family –albeit there was an age gap between the two girls. But of course, Mary knew, and before she took her life, she left a letter for her baby daughter - with a note to Elizabeth to deliver it when she was old enough. Elizabeth kept the letter and did nothing with it until about two years ago when she was dying with breast cancer. And before she died, she took it to the adoption services asking them to deliver it to Mary’s daughter wherever she was.” Mike had been talking for nearly an hour now, onand-off, and he poured himself another dram and held the bottle out to me. I really didn’t want anymore, but I poured myself another to keep him company. “And did they? Deliver the letter.” “They did. Mary’s daughter knew she’d been adopted, and had thought of finding out about her parents, so Mary’s letter settled it. The letter revealed everything, including that I was the father, and she wrote me about a year ago. Said she wanted to meet me.” “What did you do?” “As you can imagine – it was a huge shock. Up to that point I’d never spoken a word to anyone, not even to Sheila. But I’d had enough of secrets, so I showed Sheila the letter.” Again, there was a long pause from Mike. A chill had crept into the early-evening air, but neither of us noticed. I sensed that Mike wasn’t used to talking at length like this, so I stayed silent as he gathered his thoughts. “Sheila’s an amazing woman. As you know we’ve no children – not for the lack of trying I can tell you – but she didnae think twice about it. She said I should see
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my daughter. And it’s been wonderful. Her name’s Angela and she’s married with two children. We’ve met the whole family and now we keep in touch.” “So you’re a grand-dad. Congratulations and here’s to our families,” I said raising my glass. Mike just smiled and laid back in the heather – a man at peace with himself. “I forgot to mention. Linda loves poetry and can reel off screeds by memory, just like Mary. What was that poem that Mary used to recite about a boy in the train to Kirkcaldy?” Mike sat up and gave me a big grin. “The Boy In The Train. It was written by another Mary. Mary Campbell Smith.” “Do you remember it?” “Not all of it. But I remember the last four lines.” “Go on then.” Mike went all coy, but he cleared his throat and started. I’ll sune be ringing ma Gran’ma’s bell, She’ll cry, “Come ben my laddie.” Suddenly it all came flooding back. I could see Mary standing proudly in the classroom, word perfect, and I joined Mike for the last two lines. For I ken mysel’ by the queer-like smell. That the next stop’s Kirkcaddy!
Snowfall by Hazel Dunbar
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Being out in the cold and snow I captured this image of my monkey puzzle tree covered in snow. I thought the snow looked magical and soothing in between the sharp spikes and hardness of the tree. I felt uplifted by this image.
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Unwilling by Jeni Penfold Sara parked her car in the bay provided and let her head drop to rest on her hands, still clasped tightly around the steering wheel. She didn't want to be here and she didn't want to do this. But it was one possible way to deal with her increasing bouts of depression. The other was to stop taking the drug that was causing it, but she didn't want the cancer to come back, thank you very much. So, since she was going to be stuck with this for at least the next 5 years, she needed to do something about it. Her GP had been full of enthusiasm for this therapy and was sure it was the answer to the problem. She wished she shared his optimism. How could talking to a bunch of people about how she felt, even supposing this bunch of people were even remotely interested, help her? And why would they, strangers as they were, want to help her anyway? The doctor had muttered something about reciprocal benefits – whatever that meant – and urged her to try it. So here she was, and if she was going to do it, she had better get on with it or she'd be late. She entered the building and went to the room indicated by the arrow on the wall. And stopped in the doorway. Well, this couldn't be right, surely. She checked over her shoulder at the sign: 'CBT'. Yep, this was definitely where it should be, but here was no stark area with a ring of hard chairs set in its centre. Here was a room with overstuffed, comfortable-looking chairs set
haphazardly, most of them occupied, and – was that a coffee machine she could see there? Wow, maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. Push comes to shove, she could sit here drinking coffee for the allotted time and then go home with a clear conscience, job done. A sandy-haired woman of around fifty looked up with a smile from the document she was perusing. 'Hello,' she said. 'I'm Carol and you must be Sara? Please, come on in and grab a coffee and a seat. I think we're all here now, so once you're comfortable we can begin.' 'All of you are here today because you suffer from some degree of depression. Some of you are new to this therapy whilst most of you have been to a couple of sessions already. The idea is that we share our experiences, our feelings and most importantly, what works for us. At the end of the session you go away and practice any of the solutions that you think might make a difference. So, this isn't about me helping you, this is about all of us helping each other, directly or indirectly, just by chatting. Nobody has to say anything; you can still find stuff that might help just by listening. But it's going to be a pretty dull couple of hours if we all sit here and say nothing. So, enough from me. It's your meeting, go ahead and chat.' She looked across at Sara and said, 'Don't feel you have to dive in straight away. Take your time, #issue 32 / Summer 2019 27
Special issue for Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival 3 – 26 May 2019
Ritual Walk by Rick Lee
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Mauve dawn We walk cackled at by a cawcasus of crows collaborating in some cabalistic intrigue feinting and fading lunging dodging and swooping in a chuckle of feathers shadow puppetting in the still blue haze with rascal joy We reach the broch dead stones gathered by dead hands dead on the kind shoulder of the hill on whose slopes gorse corses stand frozen in a final assault stiff ice fibrilled figures their whitened bones in a slow-motion stumble never reaching the ancient chief’s vista in the sweep of a scarred hand Beyond toot corner an ermine sinuously twinkles along the frosted walls an albescent dinosaur dancing the macadam daintily flouncing his outmoded white suit a snowy disguise unmasked a killer’s cover blown a murderous ghost prancing in the pine needles I see the heavy silhouette of the harbinger buzzard effortlessly launching into a soundless flight through the skeletal wood.
drink your coffee and listen. It may be that you have something valuable to share but nobody expects you to get stuck in immediately.' Well that was a relief anyway. Sara wriggled down deeper into her chair, wrapped her hands around her coffee mug and listened as a young woman began to speak. 'Some of you will remember me from last week when we were talking about early signs and I said that I could burst into tears at the drop of a hat. That is generally my first indication that it's going to be a bad day. Somebody says something abruptly, or I can't get a seat on the train; I physically can't do something 28 #issue 32 | Summer 2019
that I'm trying to – anything like that can set me off. So, during the past week I have been trying to recognise the signs, to manage my reactions and it's worked really well.' 'Manage them how?' asked Sara, interested in spite of herself – this woman was describing her own experiences. 'OK, let's take the first example to start with. I try not to react to the abruptness; I take a deep breath and listen to the exchange again in my head and usually realise that it wasn't meant to hurt, so I can deal with it. The seat on the train thing – well that's a pretty daft reason for bursting into tears, but nobody said depression was rational. I find myself somewhere to wedge my bum and get my book out. I can lose myself in the story until either a seat becomes available or it's time to get off the train. The ‘not being able to do something’ is hardest because I get overwhelmed by feelings of inadequacy and it's so hard to rise above that. I look at what I'm trying to do again, perhaps from a different perspective and sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't, but the important thing is that I have overcome my initial reaction.' Somebody else spoke. He wouldn't have looked out of place in a boardroom. 'Anger is my reaction' he said, surprising Sara, who didn't think he was capable of any kind of strong emotion. 'All of the triggers Doreen mentioned can bring on a fit of ungovernable rage in me. Well, it was ungovernable, but I've been practising those techniques too and it does seem to be working. Of course, I still have the rest of the day to get through, but each little success encourages me and sets me up for the next time.' All at once, Sara realised what her GP meant: this was indeed a self-help group and for the first time since her bouts of depression had started, she began to feel hopeful that she could deal with it.
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Atoms in Boxes: Reflections on a Connected World by Owen Roberts
Are we all a collection of atoms in boxes? Do we sit in our boxes, watching rectangular boxes, while handheld rectangular boxes emit light into our brains? Do we shudder at the thought of the next phone call, the next appointment or even the next requirement of leaving the house? Are we cocooned in a world of social media and online activity that we’ve forgotten that there is also a real world out there? This is the new connectedness of our contemporary society. We can communicate with people from the four corners of the earth at the touch of a button, and without having to spend as much as a penny for the privilege. We can share our lives with everyone we know, and also, quite often, with those we don’t know as well. We can paint our lives as an
The Eildon Tree
online masterpiece, with beauty worthy of the most sophisticated of galleries. Yet despite this world of communication at the touch of a button, I still find myself feeling more alone than ever. Sometimes I wonder if there are other collections of atoms, sitting in their boxes, who feel the same. In my case, this disconnected feeling is echoed by the haunting spectre of poor mental health. Depression reduces the motivation to get out of bed. Anxiety can leave me terrified to even leave the house. Alcohol can also play its own part in my isolation through its own negative means. The final element of the structure is my annoying tendency to compare myself against others. They all seem to have such wonderful lives, depicted beautifully on Facebook, Instagram & Twitter. If the lives of others are all so unattainable then why bother getting out of bed? These are the four horsemen of my own personal apocalypse. Although you could throw regret in there from time to time as well. A bleak picture, right? Not necessarily! Thankfully I’m not alone in the slightest. I may find it hard to see in times of strife, but take one step outside or pick up the phone and you’ll find a whole community of people who’d like to engage with you. I can talk to family and friends who care for me, even if sometimes I don’t see it. I can get involved in local community activities and meet those who live around me. I can volunteer locally, helping to reconnect and support others who need it. I can go walking with other people who fancy a chat. I can go to coffee mornings, film screenings, writing groups..... the list goes on. These things make me realise that I too have something valuable to give and that I might be able to help another lost soul connect. They might even convince me not to constantly compare myself to others although let’s keep walking before learning to run! Connected isn’t just a technical term for plugging in your router or joining a wifi network, it’s also a vital way for people to come together and share their stories of the human experience. It’s not about sitting with friends in a cafe, all staring down at mobiles instead of striking up a real conversation in the here and now. It’s something much, much more important than that. Being connected is a good old fashioned natter over a cup of tea. It’s reaching out to others and letting them reach out to you. Being connected may seem daunting but it’s a really very simple task indeed. Meet up with a friend or family member, Engage with your community. Reach out for help or hold out your hand to help others. Talk to people. Share with them the good and the bad of your life. You may find that they also have problems in their lives, the same lives you saw online as blissful and happy. You may be able to help those people with their issues. You may not get as many “likes” but you may find you gain contentment, happiness and mutual respect. You’ll probably make some good friends along the way. If you’re going to be a collection of atoms in a box, you’ll find it’s an endlessly happier place to be sat together with another collection of atoms!
Put the kettle on. Talk about whatever atoms in boxes talk about! Or even better, go out into the world and meet lots of other collections of atoms! Connect! Not in an electrical, technical way, but in real life, with real people. Let’s start a connection revolution! Little acts make big changes so let’s join the dots together, have a chat, and get connected!
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Grey Mare by Claire Davis
Alcoholism is born a secret, before it is even yours to bear, it is there. Lurking within the lush and sheltered branches of your family tree; the cuckoo in the nest, the winged spectre, the hidden gene just waiting and biding its time until the leaves fall and it can swoop and envelop you with a cry of ‘Remember, forget me not’. A beautiful but deadly spell passed from one to the next, a secret kept within the rings of your tree, cut it down and reveal all. The turn of a key, the warm glow of bottles behind the bar, the roar of the pub fire warming the poison in your blood until the poison is all and the roar is quelled, the fire is tamped and your empty shell is left, frozen to the branch. Memories in pieces...suspended in liquid, murky and opaque, broken and yet immortalised in aspic, crawling with spiders.
The Word
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by Bruce Scott Take the Word for real? Are you not dicing with danger? The “no-thing” is not generating much analysis these days With the use of such blunt tools, like words And despite such reliance on these fashionable philosophical new ways The collapsing scaffolds of linguistic wit They do reveal a full “no-thing-ness”; long lost and forgotten The Greeks knew this I believe People say the good old days were the best But shallow repetition is no good for getting back for what is lost For that I am sure Because we’ll use it like a text and tool And smother the present and eternity, again and again, like a fool.
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Connected to Nature
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by Hazel Dunbar Through my new found venture in photography, I feel my photograph represents the joy of connecting with nature again. Through my eyes the raindrop is a symbolism of the tears that are shed through depression. The sunlight and reflection brings hope of better days ahead.
caught her mane before she fell dead on the road, her great lashed eye taking in the stars as it drifted shut and her last breath sent her soul to the wild. Jo knelt on the road her oldest mare’s head on her lap, solid and warm, and her tears began to fall. Lit by the moon and coming to rest on the gray. As she cradled the beast she felt some of her self return, wild eyed but strong, chemicals swirling within her body and fighting for dominance, a searing animal anguish. Adrenaline began coursing and drowning the manmade, a swell of natural force, leaving nothing in its wake. Today would be the beginning, the end, the unknown, for the first time in years there would be no need to replay the patterns of yesterday. Jo would start to scale the wall and slip through the window into an internal world dusted with beauty, romance and wonder, the road less travelled. A life previously unknown to Jo had been bequeathed by the beast at rest in her lap.
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Outlines by Chris Kent
Jo’s breath came short and ragged that night, gasping just enough oxygen to hold her brain teetering on the shimmering edge of hallucination. She had woken with a fall; her spirit had left her body and travelled far as she slept. The pull of the physical world had brought her back from the astral plain with a start. She could feel her body changed by the addiction, her helix ragged and altered, the living spiral damaged by her own ill-considered and compulsive twists and turns, loss and consumption bound at the wrist, a cruel marriage of inevitability. She could feel the souls of those that she had known and lost within her swollen and distended belly, altering her being one cell at a time. ‘Cut me open and the stories would tumble out; letter by letter, touch by touch, love by love,’ The night rested heavy with untethered magic; a solitary grey mare broke free from her field, leapt her final gate and bolted, head down, the ease and grace of youth remembered as the wind hit her flank and her nostrils flared. Her hooves cushioned by the soft ground, she cleared the dry stane wall at the road with ease, her hooves hitting tarmac, scuffing and skidding. She bucked once and reared as the moonlight 30 #issue 32 | Summer 2019
The sea itself was lashing against the window. It was a terrible night, an awful night. Like a storm that you had never seen before. The window shook in its frame. We could see the darkness of the night, in all its blue-blackness, leaking into the room. There was my reflection in the glass, though I hardly recognised the face staring back at me. A face looking lost, trapped within a layer of glass, like a water spirit. In the distance was the light from a ship beyond the harbour, far out at sea. Then, like ink, the darkness covered the glass. The darkness had wiped everything out. The world we knew had gone. We sat by the window, remembering where we used to live on the island. That small piece of land around us. Where we used to walk for hours exploring thelanes, paths and coastline. I picked up a map off the shelf. Unfolding it, I noticed that what it showed were unmarked, empty squares. It showed no rivers, no roads, no villages nor settlements. It had been wiped clean. The world of ten thousand years ago. Who would undraw a map? This map will need remaking, to remind us of the places that have disappeared. We must redraw our maps by imagining and remembering what was out there. A kind of exploration, without travelling. Our old maps were drawn with boundaries. Edges. Drawn lines created certainty, for a while. Those lines were ideas which had both comforted and imprisoned us. They held us in, and kept us out. People fought and died for those lines. Have we now finally escaped from those imaginary edges?
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But what if those ideas were turned inwards. Might we carry these divisions internally? Maybe our hearts have lines scribed through them? We got used to delineation. Yet how we long for connections. We send messages out there, sharing our inner world with others. Our privacy is handed over, and our personality becomes porous. Do we absorb each other? Where are we, now the dream is over? How can we find ourselves? Despite the darkness our inner self remains, not in a body, nor in any physical space. There we are. The face we see when we seek ourselves is that watery spirit we half-see within the glass. Our face moves through the glass. It is free to roam.
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Albert Carnegie by David Adamson
Albert Carnegie was regarded by his neighbours as something of an enigma. His good morning smile more resembled a grimace, more sparky that sparkle. Few words were exchanged, he was a walking exclamation mark and left others pondering. Little was known of him, he lived semi-detached, which was a fair reflection of his personality. He was a man of routine -first things first and consequentials in regimental sequence. Each morning he would tap the barometer and note any change discernible and microscopic. This set off a signal to his intelligent parakeet-he recognised it as a prelude to food, chirped and was contentedly fed. Albert Carnegie was something of an authority on animal behaviour, mainly avian and this led to
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This. Then. Now by Ellie Zeegan That. Then. This Was a loss A betrayal by others, to myself A hiding, a burying that was always going to rise again Inevitably as A monster of grief; all consuming Sating itself on sensation Replaying the horror of shock Hooking claws to build a nest of Anger, all surrounding suffocating blankets of anxiety feeding on enveloping the Sensation of a desperation to stay alive despite the whispers demanding me to ‘Turn the wheel’ ‘Crash the car’ ‘End it all’. This: is no longer a tsunami Smashing into, against, through me Blasting, choking, nearly drowning, leaving nothing but splinters and remnants of nature, driftwood of a life lived Debris of what I was A stripping away a shedding of self. Then: More like a steady drip Creeping into the bloodstream
While you sleep A soporific yearning for ennui Seeping A stillness Retreating into oneself into A sadness a loss of what was Of what could be A reillusionment that builds back up To an armour a shell a Disconnection of arteries A clog that can only shift with thought. Now: a re connection Blood flowing when once it ceased A gentle pulling back into youth, stepping forward into the world out of winter Out of darkness and into a Mind full filled instead with Gratitude for what is Not for what lacks, not what isn’t Instead - Now: Compassion towards self and Others To once again enable oneself to Feel Love And be Loved To love oneself. This. Life. Now.
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The Day Has Arrived by Eddie (Addaction)
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I woke up today at a quarter to six Said to myself, ‘Here we go to find a fix’ I knew he’d not answer until after twelve And thought, as usual, till then will be hell. Once you’re sorted you think about kin You know what you’re doing to them is a sin Will the day ever come that’s not lived in regret So the hearts that you’ve broken you can try to forget? All the times my girls have said, ‘Dad; Why?’ And my only response was to sit down and cry I’ve hurt those precious girls time after time Even after they’ve said, ‘Please don’t cross the line.’ When they ask, ‘For my birthday, Dad, what will I get?’ The trust you’d forgotten and you blurt, ‘I don’t know yet’ With the best of intentions you say with a smile ‘I’m just popping out, I’ll be back in a while.’ Well, one day I do promise to make them both proud So I can stand up straight and shout it out loud. The day has arrived, girls, I hope you agree If I can finally prove I love you, do you think y ou can love me? With support from those close, I’m sure hope an be found And the people I love will still want me around So to anyone going through the same things as me Dig in your heels, raise your chin and show how great you can be.
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the construction of bird boxes of various hues, including a swinging hollowed out cocoanut shell. The display was immaculate as was his personal appearance, neatly ironed shirt, highly polished shoes and trouser creases as sharp as a railway track. He also had a fondness for the canine and feline species and a walk without an interaction with them resulted in his expression consolidating into melancholy. Deep in thought he would mourn the demise of the Dodo, Lincolnshire Curly Coat and Yantse Turtle. He would sometimes retreat to his little wooden hut and hammer out yet another bird box or just look out into the walled array of boxes, whatever the weather or lack of bird activity. One day, however, a few things changed. Just as he was about to undertake the barometer duty the letter box rattled and in flew a leaflet from the P D S A. He read it so copiously that he forgot to tap the barometer but fed the parakeet who refused to eat until the usual tap the following day. Albert Carnegie was disconcerted about this development but uncharacteristically was absorbed with the prospect of being a P D S A volunteer. It would suit his dedication to animals but the great ponderance would be how to cope with the human presence. It would be a great leap from the solitude of his garden. He pondered and pondered; could inspiration become motivation or was it solitude and security. He studied the leaflet more. The Dalmatians central figure needed a home-street collectors needed-tabards supplied. He was determined but so many deterrents. It was a lifestyle change -he thought in total silence in his garden retreat and then eventually indoors for a late evening cocoa. Deep in thought he ascended the stairs to bed. One step at a time -fifteen in all-he always counted them. THIS TIME IT WAS DIFFERENT. Step one "I" Step two "WILL" step three "DO" step four "IT" step five "TOMORROW"repeated twice. Top of the stairs, DECISION MADE. The next morning he felt enabled, confident and a new man but would he freeze outside the shop? He bit his tongue and entered .Gloria could not have been more helpful. He was remarkably relaxed. The shop was quiet and they soon engaged in parakeet talk. Outside shop collections are Tuesday and Saturday and our Tuesday lady has rung in unwell, how about we give it a go right now? invited Gloria. Albert Carnegie picked up his can and pulled on his tabard and strode out. After ten minutes Gloria had to leave to sell a cat basket and some scented candles. On her return she found her new volunteer vigorously shaking his can and reeling in the money over two hours. He was beginning to enjoy it and had to be induced indoors by a coffee and animal shaped chocolate biscuits. Job well done! exclaimed Gloria as £10 -43 was spilled out. "Just a little bit of advice though, you are not allowed to shake the can, it’s against local bye laws". that’s a shame
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he responded as he looked into his coffee and watched the clockwise movement of a few surface grains. He was beginning to formulate a plan and produced two pounds to buy a black wooden cat with erect tail and outstretched paw. "That will be £1-80 as ten per cent staff discount". He scrutinised the shop for further bargains and eventually settled on a wooden saucer and Dictaphone; at a total discounted price of £3-60. He walked home contentedly and affixed two P D S A stickers on his braces-a smile of pride was especially rich as he had been invited to do the Saturday shift from 10am to 2pm. Straight to his workshop carefully carrying the wooden cat-he soon began to saw and hammer. Saturday could not come soon enough as he arrived half an hour early. Gloria commented on his promptness and he merely said he had a little assembling to do. Out to the pavement and handling a few coins he thought I WILL BEAT THOSE BYELAWS. He inserted a ten pence coin into the cats collar, a balancing mechanism tilted its head, tongue came out as it licked the wooden milky bowl. At the same time Albert Carnegie, hand in pocket, switched on his dictaphone and a grateful MIOUW was heard. Our intrepid inventor soon began to attract a significant public gathering to watch this unique fund raising idea as ten pence coins were repeatedly placed into the cat’s collar. It was 4pm before he eventually finished. He was met by an ecstatic Gloria as a remarkable £26 40 was counted....His walk home which was normally a ten minute journey was considerably longer as he come across many admirers. He began to be referred to as THE CAT MAN. Dog walkers, mobile scooters and family groups animated his erstwhile dormant emotions. He started to forget the horrible event some two years earlier when the accidental collapse of his ironing board had tragically caused the demise of his beloved feline PUSKA.
Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival Programme EILDON TREE READINGS A series of readings from this edition of The Eildon Tree on the Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival theme of Connected will take place at the following locations:
All sessions are free and start at 17:30, lasting for approximately 1 hour Tue 7 May Duns Library Contact Centre 49 Newtown Street, Duns, TD11 3AU BOOKING ESSENTIAL:
libduns@scotborders.gov.uk Tue 21 May Galashiels Library, Lawyers Brae, Galashiels, TD1 3JQ BOOKING ESSENTIAL:
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The Swan Rider Rescue by Marka Rifat
Children are pack animals, ruthless and active. A snowball made with grit and ice is clearly designed to be thrown with force at the head of an outsider, it will display your skill and loyalty to the pack. If a lesser pack member misses the target, there’s always the chance the outsider will duck, or run, which still counts. Children with, in their teachers’ opinion, no imagination will show award-winning inventiveness in the pursuit of inflicting pain and humiliation. Tyro anatomists, they knew just where to press the corner of a ruler, under the cover of a hymn book, to send a flash of pain along your spine. They were masters of the drawing compass and pin.
libgalashiels@liveborders1.org.uk Thu 23 May Hawick Library, North Bridge Street, Hawick, TD9 9QT BOOKING ESSENTIAL:
libhawick@liveborders1.org.uk
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Special issue for Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival 3 – 26 May 2019
Addaction Creative Writing Workshops Like any area of the UK, the Scottish Borders is home to many who live with the challenge of addiction. Be it alcoholism, drug abuse or any of the more recently recognised forms of addiction such as gambling or gaming, addiction can have a profoundly damaging impact not only on the lives of those directly affected but also on the lives of families and friends. The social implications of addiction are far-reaching and many projects and initiatives exist to help those in active addiction to find a route towards recovery. Addaction is a national charity whose Galashiels branch offers support to those affected by drug or alcohol addiction in the Scottish Borders. A recent addition to their services is the provision of Creative Writing workshops which invite service users to engage with the reflective process of writing poetry and fiction.
The Addaction Creative Writing workshops were set-up in 2017 to provide participants with a forum for developing their writing skills and to ally these skills to the process of addiction recovery. The two-hour workshops run on a five-weekly cycle attracting an average of six participants. Sessions focus on different technical aspects of creative writing and participants are asked to engage in writing exercises both during and between workshops. Workshops begin with an open reading session where participants are invited to read aloud any work in progress. This enables the writer to present to an audience and to reflect upon their work through constructive peer review. An ongoing aim of the workshops is to encourage participants to work towards submitting completed short stories or poetry for local
publication under the guidance of the workshop leader. Addaction are also sponsoring the publication of an anthology of the group’s work for publication later this year. The workshops are led by Tim Seymour-Smith who works professionally as an Addictions Therapist. Tim is also a writer and a trainer who has worked in the Arts for over thirty years. Tim has written in both short fiction and script formats and is known to readers of the Eildon Tree by his pen name, Tim Nevil. ‘It is a pleasure working with an engaged and gifted group of people who are finding new ways of expressing their feelings,’ explains Tim. ‘Many of the workshop members are new to the creative writing process but their work demonstrates a confidence and a willingness to share previously unspoken feelings with the wider community.’
For further information about Addaction and the services they provide, please go to www.addaction.org.uk or call Addaction Borders on 01896 757843.
When you aren’t in the pack, money or cheek may save you. Sometimes. I had been a pack leader, a benign despot in a small primary school far away, but this high school’s tribes had been established over generations and incomers were prey, regardless of how much cash, force or wit was deployed. I tried building a pack from other outcasts, but they had no faith in the strength of numbers, kept their heads down and endured, focusing on schoolwork and revelling in the safety of home. Morning assembly alone required the gifts of a chess player, mathematician and psychologist. To emerge unscathed, you had to count the numbers in each file of pupils and the available chairs in each row, anticipate where teachers would break the line, guess which thug would surreptitiously move along the line to form a pernicious nucleus and you would assess how big the group would then be, and try to predict if they would be able to sit behind you. When your calculations failed, you either suffered immediately or blocked out the persecution by concentrating on anything but the pain. Either way, you missed all the announcements and later faced the surprise or annoyance of teachers who found that you had not followed the simple information which everyone else had heard. Away from school, I courted the outcasts and a loose alliance began. We bonded over saying nothing about the daily assaults, not to each 34 #issue 32 | Summer 2019
other nor anyone else. We escaped together into music, books, fashion and long discourses on eking out our tiny reserves of pocket money. It was a cold morning when a pack leader grabbed my sleeve as we crossed paths in a corridor. “Is it you?” she demanded. Her familiars gathered around, all onion breath and eagerness. I kept silent, hoping a teacher would come. “Is it you in The Jackie?” she rasped, shaking and ripping the worn grey wool of my jumper. The question made no sense − I couldn’t afford the weekly magazine. “It’s nae her,” she spat and strode off, without hitting me. A bonus. The event was too strange not to share with my fellow outsiders, Beth, Sarah and Rachel. As we sat around a single bar fire, sucked ruminatively on collective rhubarb chews, and I darned the elbow of my jumper, Sarah suddenly clapped her hands and said she would have the answer the next day. No amount of pleading would entice the answer from her. The following morning, I drew suspicious stares, but still no injuries. I finally saw Sarah. She pulled the latest copy of Jackie from her satchel and pointed a triumphant finger at a small paragraph − my name as the prize winner in the Marc Bolan quiz. Months before, she had asked me questions about the tiny heart-throb and after my fourth quick answer admitted
The Eildon Tree
it was for a competition in her sister’s magazine. We were scrupulously fair to each other and since I’d answered nine questions to her one, she had posted the entry form under my name, then forgot about it. I waited for official confirmation. The days felt like weeks until the headed letter arrived from D.C Thomson’s Dundee headquarters. The typed words about the prize danced in my eyes before forming “Unique Marc Bolan Jacket”. But no jacket arrived. At the end of the week, as I was finishing my scotch pie and beans, there was a knock at the door. The neighbour from below was holding a parcel: “For you.” I took the soft package reverently in my arms and rushed back to the warm. I pushed aside the smeary plate and laid the precious arrival on the table, then carefully cut the brown paper to reveal the most glorious sight. A retina searing confection of vivid turquoise and golden sunshine. The satin Marc Bolan jacket slid into my hands and I glowed. I took the letter to school and strode up to the jumper-wrecking pack leader. With a pounding heart, I announced I was indeed the UK winner and had already worn my Unique Marc Bolan Jacket and it was totally gorgeous and here was the letter to prove it. The facts, the utterly amazing, jewel-bright, Ride a White Swan facts, were indisputable. The bullying stopped. Not just for me, but all four of us, protected together in perpetuity by this bizarre and wonderful glory.
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Keep Calm and Bin It . . . by Karin Jones
I have no idea that taking the tablets will start a chain of events leading to my near death. All I know is that my heart is racing. The citalopram is supposed to be helping my stress. I am sitting up in bed, inwardly digesting the telephone calls I have just had with two colleagues. I am resting after all, looking after myself, slowing down - calming my over-stretched mind, body and soul. And yet, my pulse is racing - at 90, 100, 110? I don’t know the rate. But I do know it’s too fast. It shouldn’t be that fast, especially after two weeks away from work. ‘My anxiety levels are too high,’ I reason to myself. ‘Stopping my antidepressant in the spring was a mistake’. I resolve to restart it. That night I take my first mianserin tablet in five months. I awake in the small hours, my guts doing somersaults. I make a dash for the bathroom and get there just in time. Diarrhoea - dramatic and gut-wrenching. My stomach is churning. I start walking back to bed but a wave of nausea submerges me. I sink to my knees, retching violently. My daughter finds me on the floor outside her bedroom door. I’ve vomited. I come to groaning. ‘Mummy….?!’ I hear her cry. She’s eight years old. ‘I’m alright darling. Get your waste bin, to catch
the sick’. I gratefully grab the bin, and crouch, waiting for the somersaults to begin again. ‘Keep Calm And Bin It’ is printed boldly on the bin’s exterior. The words are lost on me. The sick doesn’t arrive. Katie helps me to stand up. Gingerly I make my way back to the bedroom. I don’t remember much more. I fall asleep. The next day I am OK. I reason it must have been food poisoning from the curry I’d eaten the night before. Katie’s dad offers to have her for the night. ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll be fine. Best to keep to her usual routine. She’ll see you tomorrow after school as usual?’. That night I go to bed gratefully. I take my second mianserin. I fall asleep. I awake in the small hours, my stomach somersaulting again. I try to reach the loo but fail. I collapse to my knees, retching. I wee myself with the force of it. My stomach feels as if it’s turning itself inside out. I lose consciousness. I wake to Katie’s frightened voice. ‘Mummy?! You’ve wet yourself!’. Somehow, I make my way back to the bedroom. I don’t remember beyond that. I see my GP the next day. My food poisoning theory just doesn’t fit. I feel wretched. I have put Katie through the same terrifying experience twice. Mummy collapsed, in vomit and wee, on the floor, outside her bedroom door, in the middle of the night, on consecutive nights. Horrendous. My GP checks me over. ‘Your pulse is rapid and irregular, did you know? We’ll get an ECG. Everything else is fine. I’ll make an urgent referral to the cardiologists’. I don’t feel great for the rest of the day. I am breathless. Have been for a while. My childhood asthma seems to have returned, most recently after a cold the other weekend. My asthma was always worse after a cold. I ring the surgery and speak to the doctor. I am worried. She reassures me that my ECG is normal. She advises that if I get more worried, or more breathless, I should go to the Emergency Department. The next day I drive into town. I have an appointment with an advisor at the Halifax. I park in the multistorey carpark nearby. Not even 200 yards from the carpark my breathing is laboured. Walking should not be this difficult, I say to myself. It really shouldn’t. I turn around and go straight back to the car. I drive myself to Casualty and park at the front of the hospital. I make my way to the main entrance and turn left
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Being Me by Helen Clopin (Addaction)
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It’s hard being me Not seeing what others see Not feeling what others feel It’s all a bit unreal. The darkness and the grey When will it go away And let me see the light? Another day to fight But wait, I see a hand Does someone understand To help me through the pain And make me rise again? So slowly we begin, I feel that we may win I don’t have to be alone I’m finally coming home.
into A+E. It’s familiar territory as I have taught there and seen emergency referrals myself as the on call psychiatrist. I speak to reception and take a seat in the waiting room. Within a short space of time my name is called. A nurse directs me through double doors, to a curtained cubicle with a trolley. I lie down, relieved but bemused to be on the other side of the fence. She wires me up to a cardiac monitor and takes several blood samples. A young doctor comes in. I recount events. My cardiac enzymes come back raised. My ECG has possible signs of ischaemia – a possible heart attack. Surely not? I’ve had no chest pain. After some wait a familiar face looks around the curtain. A consultant colleague whom I know and like and am grateful to see. She is calm, and curious. She thinks a pulmonary embolus is a possibility. They will repeat my cardiac enzymes in four hours. I am wheeled to coronary care, a small six bedded unit with a few empty beds. Two male patients are already there. A nurse sits at a long desk with a monitor screen beside her. My enzymes come back significantly raised. A cardiac event is likely. * I wake up distressed. My breathlessness has worsened. I call out to the nurse through drawn curtains. An unfamiliar voice replies and a nurse peers in. ‘Vanessa’s on her break. She’ll be back in about an hour’. That floors me. I don’t want this nurse. She feels alien to me, removed from me and my situation. I am frightened. I don’t feel a connection with her. I need the nurse who admitted me, who made me feel at ease, and safe. My 36 #issue 32 | Summer 2019
breathing is getting harder and faster. A doctor arrives, possibly from her bed, and examines me. She stands at the foot of my bed and reports that there are no signs of heart failure, but she’ll give me some frusemide. I respond angrily. ‘I don’t want frusemide! I want the nurse who was here before!’. My voice is loud and desperate. I feel she is placating me with a tablet. The young doctor, Chinese perhaps, says robotically, ‘You are not well enough to be in the community’. I explode. ‘Stop talking to me as if you are reading a text book! I don’t want you here. You are not helping me. Go away!’. She goes away. I can hear stirring in another bed. I am sobbing. I sink back into my bed. They leave me alone. Later the curtains open and my nurse appears. She holds my hand, meeting mine as I reach out. She speaks calmly and kindly. I cry. I tell her I hadn’t known she was going for a break. That it had been a shock. That I needed her because I was frightened. Speaking to the doctor had made things worse. Much worse. Her being here now is helping. I feel calmer. She continues to hold my hand. Her hand is warm. It feels reassuring and familiar. ‘Holding a hand is golden!’ I say. She smiles. She suggests I try to get some sleep. I try. * Someone is fumbling in my breasts. I open my eyes. I see a shadowy figure on my right who I vaguely recognise. Several other silhouetted figures stand around my bed. There are hushed tones. It is dark. The fumbling continues. ‘Who are you?’ I snap, alarmed, cross at the physical intrusion. My voice is louder than I intend. ‘This is Doctor Shaw,’ a female voice replies sternly, as if to defend him, ‘a consultant cardiologist. He is doing an echocardiogram’. ‘Oh,’ I reply. I clam up, silenced, like a chastised child. I say nothing more. I let them get on with what they are doing. A tall man, in pale blue hospital clothing, says quietly, almost in a whisper, ‘We may need to ventilate you’. I reply, equally quietly, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to be told, ‘It would be good not to have to breathe for a while’. The effort of inflating my lungs, repeatedly and rapidly, is exhausting. I feel I am drowning. Out of the blue a wave of nausea comes over me. ‘Oh no, I’m going to be sick!’ I cry. ‘I don’t want to be sick!’. It’s as if pleading with my innards will somehow stop it happening. It happens. A sick bowl is thrust towards me but it’s too late. I sit up and retch violently, the vomit goes everywhere. My legs are akimbo, I have no knickers on. Someone hurriedly covers me. My sodden nightgown and sheets are swiftly removed, and dry ones replaced. The monitor above me is beeping. They are not happy. I am given some medicine in my arm. I don’t remember much more. I am being transferred onto a trolley and bundled out of the ward. I glance at the man in the bed opposite as I am manoeuvred past him. I mumble an apology for disturbing him. I think he says goodbye. He seems kind. I am looking up at corridor ceilings and white walls as we speed along, turning corners repeatedly. The doctors and nurses hurry alongside me. I have no idea where we are going. I am pushed through double doors into a
The Eildon Tree
scanning suite. I am not given much explanation. Just a ‘We will be in there, sitting behind the screen’. I am fed into the bowels of the machine on my back. My breathing is laboured. I catch a glimpse of faces behind the tinted glass before I disappear into the tunnel. I am alone. Surrounded by whiteness. I close my eyes. Lying flat is making it even harder to breathe. The machine hums. I can’t see or hear anyone. I shout out, ‘I can’t breathe! I’m having a panic attack!’. I feel as though I am sinking into a black hole, and I’m not coming out. After what feels like a very long time someone returns to glide me out of the machine. With speedy manoeuvring of sheets, I am rolled back onto a trolley. We exit the scanning suite and stop in the corridor outside. Doctor Shaw bursts through the double doors. He announces triumphantly, ‘It’s triple therapy!’. I have no idea what that means but he seems pleased. I wait. Surrounded by people. Why are we not moving? I can feel my diaphragm labouring faster and harder. ‘I want to go back to the ward!’ I say repeatedly, more and more desperately. ‘Why are we waiting?! I can’t breathe!’. My throat and chest are tightening. A surge of anxiety floods my body. ‘I’m panicking!’ I cry out. The triple therapy doctor says, ‘It’s OK to panic’. I am flabbergasted. I shout out, furiously, ‘It’s not OK to panic. It is NOT OK!’. There is a brief discussion about the porter being slow. ‘We’ll push her back to the ward ourselves,’ they say. A young woman appears on my left. She’s of small stature and speaks softly. A medical student she tells me. I don’t remember if she reaches out herself, or if I ask her, but she holds my hand in hers. I inwardly heave a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘thank you!’. She smiles. We are wheeling back along the corridor. She makes to release my hand. ‘Don’t let go!’ I say firmly, looking up at her. She holds on, back around corners, through doors, around a nursing station, onto the High Dependency Unit. More clever rolling of sheets and me, onto a bed. Wires and drip lines are transferred, and an oxygen mask is fitted. I am surrounded by whiteness. I feel like I am in the clouds.
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Alfie by Eck May (Addaction) (Short story excerpt)
On the first day of August, nineteen-sixty-seven, Alfie was brought into this world. He was a lovely and lively little lad, full of fun, laughs and energy. He had a loving family made up of his mother Lorna, father George and his two older brothers, Sam and Sean. Alfie just loved having big brothers to look up to. He was nicely settled in life, living in a lovely cottage in the country with lots of things to do. When Alfie was three years old his life suddenly saddened. He could remember very vaguely that day: He was playing in the garden with his brothers, thinking of attempting to strip and re-assemble his bicycle, when a tall man appeared. The first things he noticed
were the tattoos all over the man’s hands and neck. He spoke to him and asked, ‘Are you Alfie?’ Alfie looked up and said, ‘My mother said never talk to strangers.’ Alfie’s mother replied. ‘It’s okay, Alfie. Don’t be afraid. This is your father, Tom.’ Tom had just been released from prison. Alfie suddenly felt very scared and lost. He was taken away soon after this, leaving his mother, father and his beloved brothers behind. This family to which Alfie thought he belonged turned out be his Aunt Lorna, Uncle George and his two cousins, Sean and Sam. When Tom had been sent to gaol, Alfie was placed in the care of his Aunt who had become his legal guardian. He was only a few months old at the time and was brought up to believe that this loving family was his own. Alfie felt very confused and alone for a very long time. He missed his family so much and cried himself to sleep at nights. He very rarely saw his father, Tom, meeting only Tom’s current girlfriends when they arrived at the house. No bond was ever made with Tom or any other partner, the only bond he had was with his guardian family. Slowly, Alfie moved on in life moving from house to house, school to school, meeting new friends and leaving old friends. This was unsettling for Alfie in a big way and the resentment, hate and anger started to kick in. By the time Alfie was ten years old, his whole life had changed. He was traumatised by abuse which he had suffered from an early age and which continued on a regular basis into adulthood. This treatment only stopped when Alfie got the help and support he needed. Throughout these years, Alfie travelled along a very dark path. By the time he was twelve, he was sniffing glue, inhaling gas, taking pills and drinking alcohol. His wee life was an absolute mess. At fourteen, Alfie was starting to become dependent upon alcohol. His coping strategy - if you could call it that - took away all the pain but filled his mind with hate, anger, loneliness and rejection. Things started to go from bad to worse. Eventually, Tom had met someone and they had had a baby together. Alfie didn’t know of any reason to be happy now he knew what rejection really felt like. He was living a terrible life and didn’t know where his strength to continue was coming from. He was in and out of trouble all the time. He did see his Aunt, Uncle and brothers from time to time. These were happy times but also very sad especially when he left them. So he decided not to visit them anymore as it was too painful an experience. Alfie struggled through his teenage years, managing to get a job when he was seventeen - his first job. He felt so proud and happy, a feeling he had never known before. He began to grow up and feel good about himself. Feeling he was doing well, Alfie began to climb the ladder of success. By the time he was twenty he got a promotion which offered more experience, confidence and financial stability. He and his friends decided to #issue 32 / Summer 2019 37
Special issue for Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival 3 – 26 May 2019
celebrate this promotion. Like most young men, Alfie was a bit of a lad with the girls. One night, whilst having a great time uptown, he was standing at the bar getting in the rounds. He felt someone staring at him. As he turned sideways he saw a big beautiful smile fixed upon him. To be continued.
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Connecting by Eileen Johnson Margaret sat thinking while the TV spoke to itself loudly. She disliked wearing her hearing aid. Old age was creeping up and she felt lonely, abandoned by her son and his family who had upped and offed to New Zealand. It didn’t help her much that this was the trend these days. She had been left before, and it seemed like the last straw, to be left alone at her age, after giving her all as a mum. It seemed so unfair. Why couldn’t they have let her enjoy her grandchildren..? She disliked technology and saw how it had changed things for the worse. She worried about its effect on her grandchildren. “Isn’t skype wonderful?” people would often say. “Well. I suppose it’s better than nothing” Margaret thought. “But technology can’t really connect you with the people you love. You need to be with them, hold the children’s’ hands, let them climb on your knee, give you a cuddle. The soft feel of a child’s hand or cheek is so soothing. Now, that’s family! She identified with an ad she had seen on telly at Christmas. An old lady (around her age maybe) sat alone at home, watching TV, saying to herself “I wish they hadn’t moved to Australia”. The ad was for Age Concern. “Mm” she thought, “I must be one of many. Otherwise they wouldn’t spend thousands on an ad…” Margaret, ever young at heart, active and resourceful, found that since she last saw her family 2 years ago she had slowed down, lost her appetite, and suffered from insomnia. She had gradually become withdrawn and depressed. Fortunately she had caring friends. When she eventually lost her love of life, and even her will to live, they were there. They encouraged her to contact the GP. Reluctantly she gave in and accepted medication. “Not for long, I hope!” she told the doctor. He knew her circumstances and assured her that the pills would help her over the bad patch she was going through. The process was slow but gradually she emerged from what felt like a long, grey tunnel. The first time Margaret heard 2 year old Jimmy say “Hi Granny” on Skype, her hope revived. She decided to make a great effort, physical and financial, to cross the world and hold him and his 5 year old sister, Julia, in her arms. To play with them, talk to them, sing to them. So she did. She thought she couldn’t afford it but she went to Christchurch, New Zealand. She hated the long haul flights involved but the thought of seeing her grandkids kept her going. 38 #issue 32 | Summer 2019
Her son Angus, with Kiwi daughter in law Jordan, met her at the airport with Jimmy and Julia in tow. “Granny” they both shouted when they saw her walk into Arrivals. They recognised her from their chats on Skype. That cheered Margaret up straight away as she stepped into this new world of connection with her family. As Jimmy and Julia each grabbed Granny’s hands, their parents took care of her luggage. Julia was skipping while Jimmy tried to jump and squealed “My Granny!” Margaret smiled happily, a small tear trickling down her face. She had waited so long for this! Worth every penny (well, pound) she thought, pushing her worries about finances to the back of her mind. For the next month every day held a new joy or surprise for Margaret, with plenty of laughs. “Come on Granny = get on the trampoline!” shouted Jimmy one day. “What” she replied. The swings and slide at the park were one thing; jumping on a trampoline quite another? However, to her great surprise, she got better at it from day to day. “Thought my jumping days were over!” she laughed. “I’ll have to look into getting one of these when I get home...” The days went by too quickly and soon it was time to leave. Margaret had not done much sightseeing, apart from local parks and shops. But she didn’t care. She hadn’t come to tour around. Just being with her grandchildren and their parents was more than enough, and she met various friends and relatives of theirs. She relaxed into their outdoor lifestyle, enjoying a lot of sunshine and fresh air and delighting in the colourful birds in the garden and the park. She wondered how to find the funds to come again. The long haul flight back to Glasgow gave her plenty of time to mull things over and fellow passengers gave her ideas. “You should do this again, travel while you still can” said a fellow grandmother, from Croatia. “The grandchildren make you feel young, and the travel, and meeting all sorts of new people, is very stimulating”. That really made Margaret think. “Skype might mean more now” she thought. She had really connected with Jimmy and Julia, and that meant so much. And, she thought, when she got
Writing On The Wall by Cate L. Ryan I don’t know what I’m doing here: consuming emptiness, I fear I put on stones filling these hollow holes of bones. Into the salt-well I fall and rise, a rolling, kernel soul, and hit the wall. Your words - still written there in stone like prayers, echo my own.
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home she might link with other grandparents with the same heartache she had had. She knew people who felt lonely even though their families were not that far away. People need people. They could meet and help one another. Share photos and stories, connect.
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Letter to my Sixteen Year Old Self by JulieAmanda Jeffreys
Hi Julie Yes, that is your name!! A few thoughts for you as you begin your adult life at 16 from an older (not much wiser) but certainly happier self. Hold firm to your core beliefs. You will ultimately reach your dream to become who I am today and of returning Home to Scotland. Your strength of character will stand you in good stead. You will not always make good choices. However, never regret a choice once made because as you journey through life, you will meet many wonderful people, have many different experiences, some good, others not so good but they will all have an effect on you to make you the person you are today. Continue with your love of learning and be passionate in all that you do and any subject you choose to study. Remember that it is said that in life, you will meet all types of people and certainly, I have. Therefore: 1. T here will be people that love you and to those…. say thank you. 2. There will be those that dislike you and to those…. say that you are sorry they feel like that. 3. There will be those that couldn’t care less about you and to those…. say go in peace. 4. There will be those that who do not yet know who you are and to those…. say you are JulieAmanda, that you have had an interesting and full life so far and look forwards to the future when we might meet (or not) so that you might get to know the person you are and have become. Everyone you meet will fall in to one of the above groups and remember this: that although you will develop a hard exterior, try not to let this overshadow the inner caring person that you are. Try to let this inner caring person shine through all that you do an in your dealings with others. Finally, make the most of everyday, of every experience and try always to see the positive (no matter how hard), in all that happens; remembering that everything happens for a reason and that these experiences will make you become a stronger and happier person. Live and be happy always JulieAmanda PS. Keep a diary, it will make writing you book much easier…. J PPS. Try not to dress like Granny and get your own style…. J
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#issue 32 / Summer 2019 39
Make a visit to your local library. So much more than just books.
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