My name is Helge Ferstad, and I was born in 1963. I am a trained nurse and deacon.
Foralmost40yearsIhavelivedwithadiagnosisofbipolar1,previously referredtoasmanicdepressive.Thecontentofthisbookisdrawnfrom two demanding phases in my life. When the mania took over, it created a need for compulsory mental health care. During these phases, my behavior was strongly characterized by uncritical actions. As a young man, I experienced my encounter with psychiatry as brutal.
My hope is that the stories in the book can help to increase understanding between the person in need of help and those who provide care within psychiatry. The behavior of a manic can be very demanding to deal with. This is why, among other things, increased knowledge about the health impairment is important.
In recent years, I have shared my expertise by teaching health science students at several colleges around the country. My lectures are collected under the heading: My life as a "polar explorer". Thethemesofthelecturesrangefromageneralapproachtomania(south pole) and depression (north pole), to specific thematic approaches to the extremes of the mind. Other topics may include coercion and coercive measures, isolation, suicide and life mastery.
The project is produced on behalf of Helge Ferstad All rights/responsibility for the content of the project is attributed to Helge Ferstad Enquiries beyond ordering the product should be directed to Helge Ferstad The book is typeset with Sabon LT Std 10.4/14 pkt of eBokNorden AS Cover design: Sveen & Emerland
ISBN: 978-82-300-2546-8
Production: Kolofon Forlag AS, 2023
The book can be purchased in our online bookshop bokhandel.kolofon.no or in bookshops. The material is protected under the Copyright Act. Without express consent, copying, such as printing and other copying, is only permitted when authorised by law (copying for private use, quotation, etc.) or by agreement with Kopinor (www.kopinor.no). Utilisation in violation of the law or agreement may result in liability for damages and criminal liability. DAY
Part
Chapter 1 - Shadows from the past 1..................................11
Chapter 2 - On bare ground................................................18
Chapter 3 - Ham shifting.....................................................24
Chapter 4 - Shadows from the past 2..................................36
Prologue
As the needle tip hit the epithelial tissue and was pushed further into the young man's gluteal muscles, he said to the woman: "One day I will write a book about this." The title will be: The Day-blind People.
The medication that had now been pushed into the young man's body was on its way to his body's center of pleasure. The assessment of the man's condition was that it was important to block the nervous system. His mood had to be curbed. His aggression and destructive speech had to be controlled. The introduction of this compulsory treatment was characterized by a duel. The consultant's order for an injection had triggered a verbal protest, which eventually turned into physical resistance. When the woman gave up the negotiations, in which she assured the man that this measure would work best through co-operation, she called for help. Three men expressed the view that the advice the nurse had offered was preferable for all parties. With their backs against the wall, they stood around the man. He had little experience of this situation. He could remember situations from his childhood where he had to physically defend himself. But being pressurized by such a superior force was the first time he was to experience it. Many people would probably be persuaded. See the outcome in advance and avoid the offensive defeat. Bend over and realize that
The superior power is too great. But the man was prepared to fight. Being injected with an unknown and harmful substance was frightening and highly undesirable. The smallest of the three helpers had positioned himself close to the door. Based on his physical condition and age, he was considered the weakest point. In naive eagerness, the young man threw himself towards the door in an attempt to fight his way past the one guard. The fight that ensued between the three male carers and the patient ended as quickly as it started. The superior force acted with a sense of routine. With practice and uncompromising fists, they lifted the man off the floor. They placed him in bed and fixed his arms and legs to the mattress. With his trousers partially pulled down, he was now trapped in an iron grip. The carers held this grip while the nurse injected the medicine.
The injection was carried out in a responsible manner. The quantity and strength of the small glass ampoule complied with the doctor's instructions. The transfer from the ampoule to the syringe was carried out and prepared without air bubbles between the plunger in the syringe and the needle tip. Before the serous fluid could mix with the blood, the place where the syringe was to be inserted was cleaned with alcohol. Upper right quadrant. This was the part of the gluteal muscles that would absorb the medicine. By inserting the syringe there, she wanted to avoid damaging the fat sciatic nerve. This is the nerve that originates in the lower back and stretches all the way to the soles of the feet. If she hit it, it would cause great pain and
potentially long-term damage. But according to routine and regulation, she followed the instructions she had been given. By aspirating, she ascertained that the medication would be injected into the muscle tissue, and not into a blood vein.
After this incident, there were probably new patients waiting for her. Perhaps it was a new person who didn't want to. The words she responded with when the man introduced his literary work were both encouraging and supportive. In retrospect, he thought that her reaction could easily be misinterpreted. The positive support was probably given to calm the man in this critical situation. In this way, the drug was transported as easily as possible from the fine blood vessels in the gluteal muscles to the more central blood vessels in the body. The aim was to ensure that the pleasure center was blocked as quickly as possible. This would happen by avoiding an unnecessarily high production of stress hormones. He himself thought that the words should be perceived as a threat. A future authorship that would unsettle the female nurse and the people she was part of. Power is distributed. There is little point in fighting. Perhaps the words about a book were forgotten before she stepped over the doorstep on her way out. Words that have stuck with the man and represented an unfulfilled agreement. A promise he carried with him for over a lifetime.
The woman had knowledge of my illness. She knew that such promises of criticism through literature were more a symptom of illness than a healthy thought. The threat
would dry up into nothingness when the dark thoughts would soon emerge. A patient with mood disorder feels the same way. After a phase of exuberance and euphoria, the sad and unresponsive depression will always come. It's like an inevitable law of nature. After the happy and bright summer days of mania, the autumn darkness of depression awaits. Often followed by a long and persistently cold winter. From being invincible, a state of mind awaits that stifles all faith in one's own mastery. Then a promise to writing your own book about your experiences of abuse becomes a utopia. Self-assertion becomes self-loathing. The judgement is directed against one's own life. A mockery of the madness that has been carried out in the era of manic insanity.
It is the battle between David and Goliath. But a battle where David lacks stones for his sling. That's when retreat through fear and powerlessness is most obvious. The mocking laughter of my literary ambitions echoes the victorious roar of the Philistines. It is the people who shout. They are the ones with the power. I myself am driven on the run. In search of a foothold in a life characterized by doubt and fear.
Chapter 1 Shadows from the past 1
It was December and the winter in western Norway was cold and snow-covered right down to the rocks. I was on my way to a destination only I knew about. On my way to a story, I wanted to listen to from the one who knew. With a borrowed audio recorder from a local radio station and a newly purchased SLR camera, I was heading towards an elderly woman. I wanted to hear it from her own mouth. Record the words and save them on an audio tape. Capture her facial features through a lens I had just acquired. A reflex camera with a macro and micro function. I wanted to focus on what was close and study these things up close. Even though they were far away from me and only represented stories I had listened to.
The old woman I wanted to visit represented much of my history. As my mum's mother, she was an important source of my heritage. I had gained insight into certain stories from my mother's upbringing. Things she had vividly shared with me. Usually with an undertone of sadness. Not infrequently, the stories were angled towards values, where she had experienced painful losses. Defeats that she later mourned. Now there were things I wanted to hear from her as she approached the age of ninety. Look kindly into her eyes, where the surrounding skin was now thin and characterized by indentations.
Even though my mum's stories had been presented through an absence of light, she could also share memories that were full of optimism and joy. Not least the blue the hour of gathering in the kitchen. In the last daylight before the oil lamp was lit, she remembers my grandfather sitting with the fishing nets in his lap. He used this time of day to prepare the fishing trawler for new expeditions. If the nets weren't tied, the prospects for good fishing were poor. On the small farm, this was the focus. Things had to fit together. Maintenance and good care were a lifeline.
What my mum liked best was the spinning wheel that whirred and twisted fibers into yarn. The transformation from wool to thread was not what grabbed her the most. But it was the atmosphere in the room that she had absorbed. According to her mother, the atmosphere was so good that she remembers the neighbor's children lying flat like spies, peering into the window out of sheer envy. There was a driving force in the room. It was life, measured in its simplicity. Work combined with cosines. A measured moment. A mum with a job she could do while she quilted. A child listening to a determined and silent father, while the song lay like filling in a cake. It was mum's song at the stool. The strings of the harmony forming a major chord, creating a sensory vibration in the body of a young and unfinished person.
But beyond this, there were so many barriers. Much
of what she had shared with me was about things she, as a little girl, could not control. That there could be a veil of unresolved interaction among the adults, which she could only sense a quiet whisper of. Things that should be forgotten. Things that should not be talked about anymore. My mother could tell me about boundary changes that had not reflected basic principles for the distribution of my father's farm. An inheritance that gave unfair results. The version she had collected was a truth she had inherited from her roots. She herself felt that she had been passed over in a question about a land lease on the farm. At an early stage, she had perceived this as a promise. "This had long been a difficult issue for my mother. From her point of view, this was a breach of promise.
This undertone of injustice made me curious. She had talked about this many times without confronting her brother about it. In my mind, it must be possible to talk about this. If it was the case that my mum had a promise, it must be possible to clarify this. I wanted to find out more about it.
There were other things I would also like to talk about. On several occasions, my mum had talked about growing up with strict requirements. Barriers that prevented her from doing what she wanted to do. One episode in particular stuck with her as a young girl. That time it was her mother who put her foot down. The blazing joy had been extinguished by an iceberg characterized by fundamental prejudice. She was refused permission to play with a girl because
the family she came from belonged to a higher social class. You're not allowed. You have to realize that they're not like us. My grandmother had made this clear with solid pronunciation, like a decisive hammer blow. A statement that had struck a deep chord and had never left my mother's mind. Remember that you're not like the others. As an adult, she could tell me that this standardization would follow her for the rest of her life. There was shame. The feeling of being of lower value than others. A feeling that had been hard to shake off. She was not like the others.
She experienced this in other contexts as well. Life became challenging early on in her youth. This was especially true when she felt the need to own a Christian faith. Onlytwelve years old she was. While there was a wake-up call at the local congregation, she walked up to the preacher towards the end of one of the meetings to make it known that she wanted to be saved. She had recognized the eyes of some of the adults. Looks that radiated doubt. Whispers that this would not last long. A twelve-year-old girl lacked the sense to make life choices that could be binding. But my mum had chosen a side. The stories from the narrow road were many.
In addition, she experienced a strong urge to share her faith in Jesus with others. As a young woman, she shared stories with visions of realizing this. With painful memories, she could also recount how these dreams had been blocked by her parents. "My grandfather in particular had been like a wall for her.
He wanted to stop her going to Christian meetings as a young girl. He also put his foot down when she received a letter of invitation from a missionary organization. She told this particular story over and over again. As in a revue, she could repeat the experience from the day she presented her parents with the new job she had got. A job she had almost been headhunted for. She had been assessed by people of trust in the organization in question. They had confidence in her. Now they wanted her to travel to different villages as an evangelist. It was called an itinerary. A detailed plan, in which Christian meetings would be organized with my mother as a singing evangelist. She would travel together with an experienced preacher. He would give presentations from the Bible, while my mother would give testimonies through guitar playing, song and bold thoughts. In this way, she would travel from one village to the next. Stay with generous and hospitable people. Participate in missionary gatherings at small, whitewashed congregation, or arrange consolation gatherings in a private stove in the village. But the plan for the next semester was scrapped by the kitchen table at her parents' home. She wasn't going anywhere. There were more important things to do. Necessary tasks awaited her on the small farm.
I had bought the camera while I was on my way to this small farm. At the bottom of Eidsfjorden, I did what I considered to be a very good deal. I had stopped in what is the commercial center of
Nordfjord. At a crossroads, the device was calling out to me. That's how it is when my mind lifts me to an abnormally high level. Impulses become action after very short pregnancies. Before I arrived at the store, I didn't realize that I didn't have such a device. It was only when I saw the advert that I realized it had to be mine. It wasn't an impressive store to look at. The façade was of old vintage, and the interior of the store was characterized by the old idea of commerce. A merchant stood well entrenched behind a counter that looked like a stand. Behind locked glass doors, the goods were neatly arranged on glass shelves. Different products with optical properties. Different qualities and prices in accordance with the technology of the individual appliance.
In addition, he had a rich selection of various products in a shelf behind his back. The merchant ran a niche store specializing in photography and film. The small shop was characterized by order and control. "In many ways, the shop was the very antithesis of myself. I was ruled by impulses in my chaos of a universe. The low impulse control resulted in investment. According to the shopkeeper, Chinon was a brand that was greatly undervalued. The quality of the technology in this appliance could be compared with the more well-known brands. It was mostly the status that distinguished this brand from Nikon or Canon.
For someone with no knowledge of quality within
the industry, it was enough to realize that this was a lot of cameras for the money. I didn't get the impression that the merchant was trying to trick me intobuying.Theinvestment had one thing incommon with other small and large impulse-driven purchases I have made when my mind gives me free rein. The general idea is always the same. There's big money to be made here. Whether I have to shell out hundreds or thousands when I make my purchases, there is always a potential for income at the bottom. In my inner calculations, this device had bonuses in it that would extend far beyond the amount I had to pay. A camera could easily be amortized by combining the joy of writing with documentary photography. If I wanted to, I could operate as a freelancer. Through such an activity, the investment would quickly become a gold mine. The thousands I had to pay were only one per cent of the income potential.
Back in my Swedish-made estate car, I was ready for the next few miles and the ferry ride over to the island where my grandmother lived. Volvo 245 station wagon. At that point, I had made the Swedish-made car mine. It wasn't exactly the color I had dreamed of. The paint was a light blue color. If I had a choice, I would probably have opted for white or black. Personally, I felt that one of those colors would have given me a higher status. But the car was new and a dream to drive. Along the road, it gave me a sense of fluidity and stability. Early in the morning on this day, I had pointed out this particular donation,
at an AVIS office in Ålesund. In my mind, I was now a man with my own, newly established company. A hidden dream I had lived with for a long time. Through a self-developed business idea, journalistic work was just one of several supporting industries. I now saw myself as a travelling salesman.
The main focus was to develop my own agency within furniture. After that, I wanted to focus on a combination of several industries. I saw it as strategic to have several legs to stand on. It was largely a matter of looking at what was possible, and not getting lost in limitations.
Chapter 2
On bare ground
My new working day was something I had been brutally thrown into. A few weeks earlier, I was forced to leave my office desk in one of the insurance offices in Ålesund. There I got to experience what it means to be thrown out on the street. Out on the street in Ålesund’s traditional shopping street. Kongens gate. The application I had submitted to the company's management at the time was not a response to an ordinary job application. Somewhat coincidentally, I was made aware that a new employee was to be recruited to the company. If I was interested, I could formulate an application aimed at any vacant positions in the company. When I was called in for a job interview, it was a meeting with a manager who showed me spontaneous confidence. The interview was extended with a tour, where I was introduced to the employees in the department to which I was later assigned a function. The position was mine, and it was planned to start a few months later.
For me, the time from the interview to the agreed start in the new job was characterized by doubt. Never before had I taken a seat behind a computer. In front of the screen, there were forms to be filled in with the correct codes. It all had to do with insurance contracts where damage to the car and the driver's liability had to be given a valid policy number. Throughout the months from the job offer until I started working as a policy adjuster, I felt the shadows of those dark thoughts.
creep closer and closer to me. It was the dark forces within me that kept taking hold of my thought life. Forces that are anxiously awaiting an order for the total internment of all optimism and hope for the future. Shutting down all thoughts with the belief that something new can be learnt. It is this force that has been named depression. The training period in the new job turned into a nightmare. The question I asked myself was just how long this would last. Because the training was late, I had the feeling that I would soon be revealed. The office landscape with its partitions was like an unsafe war zone for me. Walls that were no higher than a colleague could stand on tiptoe and see into my territory. I didn't like the fact that the man on the opposite side of me had access to my work zone in that way. This was despite the fact that he always came across as positive and happy when he contacted me. I myself was keen to protect myself. For me, this partition wall was a familiar barrier. A place where I crashed into my trench. Instead of making myself visible and asking for help, I tried to surround myself with an expression of control and pretended insight. The reality was different. Depression's message was clear. It was almost shouting at me. "The next day will be the last," it sounded deep inside me. I don't know how my behaviour was interpreted by the others. My demeanour, with its outward calm, somehow camouflaged this inner chaos. The fact that I took up little space and was short on words could be perceived in several ways. In the end, I went to the company doctor. From there, the distance to sick leave was very short. Days of absence turned into several weeks, and the sickness absence stretched out over time. Of course, the employer had no right to know the reason for the absence. However, the fact that it was my mental life that was unsettled was recognized by management.
The person in charge of personnel had insight into my history. We had known each other for a long time before the appointment was finalized. He was aware that my daily life had previously been in the doldrums. When he encouraged me to apply for this job, it was to offer me safe steps into the future. We had envisioned a working relationship as colleagues for a long time to come. But the working relationship that had started with an interview characterized by a high degree of optimism would turn out to be a disaster because of my ill health. Paradoxically, it was he who had to inform me that the management had assessed me as unfit for the job. By virtue of his position as personnel manager, he had to inform me of the loss of my workplace. I received this harrowing message at a time when my thoughts were brighter than they had been for a long time. I felt ready to go to work after a long period out of work. My friend was a guest in my own living room when the information about the future of the company was clarified. The contrast between my thoughts about returning to work and the fact he shared could hardly have been greater. I experienced the decision not to employ me as a shock. The shock resulted in frustration and anger.
I found the consequences of the assessment to be highly provocative and unfair. I was well aware that the first six months of my appointment were regarded as a trial period. But I could not accept that illness should be the decisive factor in my rejection. In my mind, it made more sense to give me a second chance. First, I had to complete the trial period. Show that I could fulfil the management's expectations. In addition, I felt that the time withillness had to be deducted. That those weeks came as a supplement over and above the original date set as the end of the trial period. After all, falling ill and contracting a specific disease is not a choice that each of us makes. That's why I
saw my situation as something I was not to blame for myself. I found the situation I was in both offensive and unacceptable. I felt a desire to show that I could fulfil the work requirements that had been set for me.
On the basis of this perceived provocation, I got ready for battle. The next morning, I turned up for work. I was at my desk before anyone else in the department that day. My motivation was clear. I wanted to show that I was capable of doing the job, despite an extended absence. After all, all I had to do was punch in codes and numbers in the right places on a form. While depression was hanging over me, this was a job I couldn't handle. Lack of concentration and strongly self-condemning thoughts made it impossible to learn anything new. This morning, things had changed. I was ready to do what was expected of me. I was ready to take up the fight against those who no longer saw the potential in me. Without me realizing it, it was the situation that ruled me and not the other way around.
My perception of what I could accomplish had changed. In a short space of time, a depressed mind had developed in an escalating direction, where the sense of self was in free flow. The mind in me gave me access to inner energy. I was not willing to stop. In many ways, I experienced this morning as the very start of the job I had been employed in for the past few months. Only now was all doubt cleared away. I was going to master this job. All social barriers were gone. The energy supply was at a level I had rarely or never experienced before. The reaction of those around me was unmistakable. None of them had expected to see me at the office desk, where I was now hard at work on the keyboard and converting paper forms to digital autocopies. Forms and columns with the type of car make, model, year and mileage in the year. Headings that had to
be registered and finally activated as a valid document for any damage. I wondered how these tasks could be so familiar to me earlier in my employment.
While I was focusing on my work, the management had registered that I had returned to the office desk. This was despite the message I had received about the termination of my employment contract. The best way for them to resolve the situation was to meet me with a positive measure. My mate,who was supposed to be my colleague for many years to come, therefore let me out of the department. In a cafeteria opposite the building where we had worked together, he offered me breakfast at the employer's expense. I don't remember the words, but there was no joy in that conversation. Food and drink were just an insignificant supplement to an unreal story. It wasn't the way he had intended it to be. He already had many years and a lot of trust in the company. The fact that we would be working together was something we had both been looking forward to. It was a small consolation. He couldn't be blamed for anything that had happened. He had walked with me through this challenging time. Now he couldn't help me. He had no influence on my situation, as it was now. But I remember that at a later date he shared some words from one of the managers in the company. Words related to the impression the person made had received from me. Of course, the person had no obligation to share that pronunciation with my friend. I don't know why he had said that. But he had given a very positive review of me. What I remember most was the surprise at the positive words he said. The statement made me think of all those who secretly socialize with men who are not easily accepted into the group. There are many who, through their own life experiences, experience the complex
situation that is established around people with vulnerable minds. These people may be in positions of power, but on their own they are not strong enough to create change. I don't know whetherthe person in question was one ofthem. But this statement stood in stark contrast to my experience of the management team. From my point of view, I interpreted them as merciless. That I was useless and of no value as a human being, because of my vulnerable mind. I experienced this as a betrayal. I was not considered good enough. The fact that my health failure had been the cause of my disqualification was like a blow below the belt. I had a feeling of being met with incomprehension and sent out into the cold.
The breakfast meeting between two friends came to an end. Only crumbs remained on the plate after the rolls we had unknowingly eaten. My coffee cup was characterized by brown drip marks on the outside of the white porcelain. These are the kind of marks that usually follow me when I pour this drink. From the café we went our separate ways. He went back to his office, while I drifted aimlessly through the city's pedestrianized street. Kongens gate.
Chapter 3
Ham shift
After this, the anger took hold of me in earnest. Proud brick houses built after German engineering surrounded me on both sides of the cobbled street. The houses were decorated with ornaments of organic shapes from nature's plant life. Like smallicons, theartcharacterizedthedistinctivefacades of the street scene. I didn't register any fascination with the richness of detailinthe architecture that day. Nor did it affect me positively that this neighborhood is referred to as Skansen. I didn't notice anything about an established and solid defense around me. As things stood, I had no castle to hide behind. Instead, it was clear to me. If the life struggle, I was now thrown into was to be won, I had to fight it alone. Fearless and open, I had to stand up for my own rights. Then I couldn't laze around insafe hiding places. Waiting for someone to feel sorry for me and take me under their wing. On the contrary. The victory lay in attacking. I had to put on anew uniformand go out onto the battlefield, confident that I myself had enough power to win back my rights. I would launch the attack when those I now regarded as opponents least expected it. My walk ended in a shop that sold both women's and men's clothing. Adelsten was a chain of stores that at the time was newly established in Ålesund town center.
Some people claim that this is a retail chain with a somewhat dubious corporate history. I can't go into details
good for. But it is claimed that parts of the leadership laid a good foundation for expansion during the Second World War. The reason is said to be closely linked to alienation. Innocent people who experienced segregation and disempowerment because of their ethnic ties had to leave everything they owned. Through injustice and on command, a Jew who ran a business in this industry was taken prisoner and almost stripped naked. The suit he wore was replaced with a fan suit. The personal integrity and industry values he held dear were taken from him. He was then one of those sent to forced labor at Berg internment camp outside Tønsberg. Not long afterwards, he became a passenger on the cargo ship Donau in November 1942. He, along with 531 other Jews. A businessman in the town bought the Jew's stock at a bargain price. It is claimed that this gave the strategic merchant from Tønsberg a financial advantage that he turned into a success. He later merged with the founders of Adelsten. In this way, the merchant moved his main business from Oslo to Tønsberg. The company then established a network of stores around the country.
As a customer that day, I had no fantasies about what awaited me in the next few hours and days of my life. So far, hospitalization in a psychiatric ward and coercive measures were something I had only heard about. Mind you, these were things I had experienced in my close family. My eldest brother had shared with the rest of us how he had experienced
life in the asylum. Nevertheless, my brother had led a difficult life, with aspects of his life that were of a completely different nature to mine. His behavior could have deviations that were more open in the public sphere. That wasn't the case with me. No-one had so far seen me as a candidate for psychiatry's use of force. But unknowingly, I was now standing on the threshold of life experiences where this particular health service would characterize large parts of my futurelife. A storythatwould involve a policeescort, handcuffs, locked doors in an asylum and, in addition, an incident where a needle with a chemical substance would be injected into my body. All this would have been surrealistic information for me at the time. If someone had introduced me to such thoughts that day, I would have protested strongly. Nevertheless, it turned out that this was a fact. It was only a matter of a few days. Soon all this would be a reality in my life.
While I was looking for my new combat uniform from the store's many racks of textiles, I was unaware that psychiatry was on standby. They were waiting for me. It turned out that they had a mandate that extended far beyond what I saw as natural. That someone could just lock me up behind thick walls without my consent was unthinkable to me and a deep insult.
But I was still unaware of whatI was aboutto face. I hadn't realized that I was one of those who would be on the other side for the rest of my life. When the Jews wore a Star of David on their outer garment,
everyone knew who they were. Mental health failure is also a brand. I experience it most dramatically when I'm reminded that I'm a person society must protect itself from. That overnight I can be assessed as a candidate to harm myself or others. When other people take control and don't let my will have an impact on my own life, the world becomes an unsafe place to be. That's when thoughts of escape come to mind. Such a dramatic divide was about to occur. My life would soon be assessed around a new and foreign axis. A life awaited me in which I would be judged on the basis of my own race. I would be placed in the health service's catalogue of diagnoses that gave the people the right to internment. When I came out of the testing room, I was ready for battle. Dressed as a future CEO in a suit, shirt, silk tie and a smart coat. Outwardly, this was a change of scene. I thought that with an outfit like this, I could expect far more respect from the people around me. As a young, well-dressed and well-groomed man, I would be met with a greater degree of sympathy. I could take on a new role. From top to bottom, I approached the checkout dressed as a transformed and new man. When it turned out that the bank card, I had been suitable as a means of payment, it triggered a fury on my part. Slamming my fist against the counter, I made it clear that it wasn't my bank account that was empty, but that it was the system in the new cash register that was causing the error. I threw my bank card onto the counter with great force.
I then left the store without paying. No-one tried to
stop me as I walked straight out the door and across St Olav's Square. St Olav's Square. That was exactly how I felt. I felt more and more like an exalted king. As a prominent person, I walked Kon- gens gate once again. The last time, I was coming from my breakfast conversation with my friend. Now I was walking in the opposite direction. I realized that my thoughts were flowing like a river through my mind. A mixture of new and old. I had walked here with my mum, long before the street was converted for use by pedestrians only. Back then, there was a lot of activity in what was a vibrant shopping street. I remember it as a bustling life. Not just in the street, but also in all the shops. Far in the back of my mind, I could still find a picture of a horse in the streetcar. As a draught animal with a cart, it symbolized a time when speed and efficiency were not the decisive factors. This was before the age of the shopping center. Now this street was almost depopulated. The shops were empty of goods. The occasional catering outlet managed to keep the street alive. But for the most part, it was just a shadow of the time when trade was the center of the community. Despite a sad and awkward street, I was an optimist. Dressed for a challenge and ready to win back what I considered to be my clear right. With a steady course towards what had been my former workplace. Three floors up. Open a door labelled Police Department. In the office landscape that awaited me there, I was now ready to reclaim my office desk. This was how I would regain my lost honor.
The first person I came face-to-face with was the woman who was always just as cheerful when I met her gaze behind the counter. She was sitting just inside the main entrance. Always as welcoming and encouraging. In many ways, this was the woman's job. To be a first meeting that would create positivity. All calls were channeled through this woman. With responsibility for the call center, she distributed all incoming calls. In a polite and dignified manner, she met those who did not have the opportunity to speak to the right person. She was always equally friendly to people entering and leaving the building. In addition to this important function, there were all the practical tasks that only she knew the extent of. It's hard to imagine that this person could be removed from the desk. That the need for such a first meeting would not exist in such a workplace. Nevertheless, the desk was removed, and the telephone exchange was replaced by new and more efficient connections for telephone calls. It was the symbol of a time that was characterized by the sensual. That a smile helped create a bonus that was not so easy to measure in a business accounting system. She was like the horse in the streetcar. A symbol of warmth and durability. A source of joy and stability. But it was also a vulnerable link in the rationalization chain.
She probably knew little about the details of my situation that day. As I remember the meeting with the woman, it was characterized by a pleasant tone
between us. She showed me positive attention. She praised my good taste and style of dress. She particularly emphasized the navy-blue wool coat. She thought it was very flattering on me. But I hadn't come to get a flattering review from someone behind the counter at a reception. I wanted to get to the top. I wanted to present my case to those with legal insight and power. I wanted to get in touch with the man who, a few years later, was described as the most powerful businessman in this kingdom. The CEO of the company was appointed the same year as me. Langangen. Jan Erik Langangen. He had a degree in law and justice. He had to have the insight and clout to change this local decision. "I myself was never in any doubt that this was an open breach of the Working Environment Act. At the time, I was convinced that there was a lack of information. That the local office here in Ålesund had not committed to the legislation. Now the director in Oslo was going to look into the matter.
No-one in the department expected me back. The fact that I was dressed in style in tight lines was probably just as unexpected. The resolute and the direct behavior was not something I had experienced in the past either. From the morning onwards, they had registered something of the same. This was a behavior that created unease. During the time I had worked in the company, I had not been very visible. A young new employee who was out of action after a short time. Someone they never had time to get to know. Someone they experienced as taciturn and
quiet. A person who didn't take up much space. I was never in any doubt that the people who made up the police department only wanted the best for me. Especially the man who had his workplace behind a partition to my office desk was clear about that. Always accommodating. Always on the offer side when I asked for help. And also, inclusive and encouraging. He was the one who could reach over the ski wall just to ask if I was okay. Or invite me over to the simple coffee bar for a little break.
My intention was clear to me as I stepped over the threshold for what would turn out to be the last time. Once again, I wanted to show that I had the capacity to fulfil the demands and expectations of the management. I went straight to the phone on the desk where I had been working. I dialed the number of the company's head office in Oslo. The call asking to get in touch with the CEO triggered a spontaneous reaction around me. I loudly presented my case to a person at a front office in the capital. One of the women in my department heard parts of the phone call and took action. I can still hear the sound of light heels pounding on the parquet floor and onwards from the steps in the stairwell up to the offices where the managers were located. Before I had time to share my complaint and express the injustice I had suffered, I was surrounded by internal managers. This was people I had rarely spoken to before internally in the workplace. They were the ones who were used to having the last word. One of them took the phone from me and ended the conversation in a
polite and apologetic tone.
I was then taken upstairs and shown into the director's office. I don't remember whether he asked me to find a chair where I could sit down, or whether I made the choice myself. The way I remember the situation, I felt like I was in the driving seat. Perhaps I dressed the chair when I sat in it. The outfit was in keeping with the position. I chose the office chair and sat down behind the director's desk. To emphasize even more, I lifted my legs and planted them on the desk. There was a message I wanted to get across. Even though my contribution so far in the company had not met expectations, I wanted to make it clear what is a dignified way to meet people. Not least people who are in a phase of transient health failure. There is little to suggest that my experience of power corresponded with the management's interpretation of the situation. They saw right through me and understood that this was not an expression of healthy thoughts and wise behavior. Quite the opposite. This was a clear expression of a mind that was out of balance. I don't recall anyone meeting me with patronizing or reprimanding speech either. Einkvan perceived the situation adequately and contacted professional health care. An emergency appointment was made with a psychiatrist at Ålesund hospital.
Transport to the Medical Center was arranged by a colleague I didn't know. He offered a lift in his own car. Cars are one of the things that arouse particular
interest in me when my anger is on the rise. In particular, cars of a certain sta-here's something that appeals. A new edition of a Mazda 929 sedan was, in my eyes, a good choice for a car owner at the time. I gave my colleague a good review of the car choice, and at the same time expressed that I would very much like to test drive the car. My request to take over the wheel was rejected in a warm but firm manner. Another reason for the rejection was the protest that came from the back seat of the car.
At that point, there were a total of three of us in the car. Or in a way, there were four of us. My wife had picked me up and was travelling with me to the hospital. At this point, she had four to five weeks left of her first pregnancy. The chaos that was now spiraling out of control was a very bad fit for a time that was supposed to be characterized by joy and anticipation. Our overall situation was now difficult to keep track of. Loss of job and income. A man with no education. The fixed points in our lives were threatened. A new life would be welcomed and change our status. We were to become a small family. Something we had planned and looked forward to since the pregnancy was confirmed.
The corridor that awaited me was not entirely unfamiliar. Two years had passed since I was a guest on this award for the first time. There had been only a few appointments. After a depressive reaction, I had met a psychiatrist here. Then the darkness had lifted, and I was able to move on without fear of new episodes in the darkness of my thoughts. I
recognized the serious features of the woman sitting behind the glass door in the police clinic's registration office. There was little optimism in those eyes. A woman who was doing her job. Important for the system to work. Collecting money and reporting if someone didn't turn up for an appointment. I also recognized the chairs along the wall in the corridor. Waiting room lar. Brown-stained wood with a woolen fabric woven in a brown and green grid. Chairs produced for such public spaces. Chairs without a design that was primarily intended to give the body support and rest. They were made for waiting. And waiting is something Folket offers a lot of. In many ways, it's precisely this time lapse that characterizes them. Just wait a little. Come soon. They are the rulers of time. Waiting is the consequence of this skewed distribution of power.
The first time I sat in one of the waiting chairs on the ward, my thoughts were gagged by death's web. Sticky threads were intertwined and stretched out, like the web from a spider's gland. A situation in which the question of whether death would occur was not tied to a hope of being set free. What was unresolved was linked to the timing. I waited in vain for the poisonous claws of the killing force. A force no one else could see. I fought this death struggle in solitude. At that point, I had tried to leave time. But without success. Through a woman my mother knew , the appointment at the outpatient clinic was arranged shortly afterwards. On the same day and in the same hospital, but in a neonatal ward, happy
people were gathered around a newborn girl. The contrast was painful to feel. I had received the message. My brother had become a father for the first time. For me, life had been led into the labyrinth of psychiatry.
Now I was back in this corridor. Nothing gave me the feeling of being a prisoner of life. The sky above me was without a cloud. The loss of my workplace was not the worst thing. Nor did I reflect on the fact that from now on I had a dubious candidacy in the competition for a new employer. There was no room for such thoughts. Self-image was positive. Dressed in a suit and coat, I wandered around in a daze, waiting for my appointment. I was convinced that I was going to fix my life and achieve success on my own.
I used the waiting time in the corridor to contact others, among other things. People who were in the same position as me. Waiting women and waiting men. I've met many people like that, who were held down by the people through an offensive time crunch. A woman's gaze was fixed on the linoleum. Her body moved with small, sub-band steps. It seemed that her muscles were too weak to hold her body up. I probably tried to reach the woman with a smile. A portion of happy mimicry. The reason I remember this woman, I believe, is due to the unexpected and total change in her. I have forgotten what words I used. But my approach was met with a kind of happy disbelief. I saw the corridor of death
in her. I made it known that I myself had been there. For a few seconds she straightened up. Fixed her gaze on me, and produced facial expressions that could be interpreted as a hint of hope.
The consultation in the corridor sticks in my mind. I remember less of what happened in the psychiatrist's office. I remember him trying on my coat. I'm not sure whether I said it in a joking tone, or whether I was expressing my deepest feelings. What was claimed on my part was that this garment was of no value to me. That's why I wanted to throw it away. The counter-reaction was a variation of a joking approach. He tried the coat on and made a proposal to buy it. A suggestion I experienced as a deliberate joke. Otherwise, the content of the conversation with the psychiatrist is hidden from me. I didn't understand it at the time, but in retrospect there is one thing he failed to do. Without excusing myself my personal responsibility, I think it's reasonable to expect a psychiatrist to see the redlight flashing. That the consultation was about assessing a person who was highly unbalanced. With a mind on the verge of mania. Together with his very pregnant wife, there was only one thing that was important. Why did he not see the need for protection? Mental health care. That a vulnerable and exhausted person needs to be met with forced shielding to prevent extensive embarrassment. That a pregnant woman in her last trimester should not have round-the-clock supervision by a boundary-less and unstable person. For an unknown reason, he let my wife and me leave the outpatient clinic without
further follow-up. A young woman with just over a month left of her first pregnancy. A young man without a foothold in everyday life, but with pain and distorted fantasies. In a near-psychotic state.
Chapter 4
Shadows from the past 2
We made several stops on the way to the farm where my mum grew up. In such moods, the path from thought to action is not governed by reflection, but by impulses. Holiday times were set aside in order to make an offer within an agency I thought I had as a furniture seller. This position was very much self-defined, without anchoring with a partner. In the car, I had a stack of brochures from various furniture manufacturers. This was advertising material that I had politely acquired via a person I knew from the industry. In addition, I had brought a gift in the form of a beanbag. With such good intentions, I visited a center built as a gathering place for both young and old people. Without warning, I opened the door where a group of young people were staying. The room was filled with free play activities. The children who were there were supervised by adults with a pedagogical approach. A children's park with a clear intention to promote social learning.
One of the adults in the room recognized me from a previous meeting. Only a few weeks had passed since I first came to this place. Then I fell into a personal darkness. Totally characterized by a lack of life threats, I was able to come there and just be. I got my own room in a small cabin. One of several scattered around the yard near a main building. At the time, the autumn rain was driving against the window. It was
I wasn't expecting an agenda. I was hardly able to express my own needs. Nor were there any things that encouraged me to take action. The reason for my familiarity with this city also had to do with my mother. In a special way, she had the ability to get in touch with people who were willing to listen to the story she had to tell. The fact that I was part of the story was irrelevant to me. At the time, I saw myself as totally independent of my parents. I was now in a phase of my life where I should have created my own universe a long time ago. But with unconscious ties, I was stuck in hidden expectations from my childhood. In just over a month, I would become a father myself. I still felt that my life was delayed. In practical terms, everything in my life was now liberated and independent of my upbringing. Siblings and parents weren't important landmarks in my life either. Nevertheless, I felt unfree.
It took many years before I realized that those two or three days in the autumn at a campsite in Nordfjord would have a decisive impact on me. The woman who had listened to my mother had good insight. She was a wise person with a degree from the Norwegian School of Social Studies. Trained as a social worker, she had an eye for challenging contexts in the lives of both young and old. Part of her work was linked to this center. Here she met people in various challenging phases of life. Without knowing anything about the cause, it is not inconceivable that the involvement in other people's lives could take up too much space for the woman. Becoming too invasive, so that she felt the need for a break.
Whatever the reason, she had first bought shares in her mother's story at an institution for quiet reflection. They had both been in convalescence. They had both her doctor to consider the need for some extra rest. After their stay, their relationship was realized as a close friendship.
Not long after her stay was over, mum's new friend arrived as a guest in our house. This turned out to be a direct extension of the public convalescence center. The two women spent much of their time in the guest room. It was a bedroom on the second floor of our house, equipped with a washbasin and double bed. In those days, my mother refrained from sharing a bed with my father in the marriage bed. As I remember this time, I perceived my father more as a facilitator. He provided breakfast in bed for the two of them and was responsible for cooking dinner. He was apparently just happy that his spouse had found a new friend to talk to.
In the yard outside the house stood a dark green Mazda 626. It was the social worker's car. The two of them used it for car journeys with what for my mother was a new and life-encouraging value. They were trips with no traditional use. Experienced enjoyment of excursions where the only purpose was to uncover black spots on the map. Finding out where an unknown road ends. The car eventually became available to me and my needs. My mum's new friend had noticed a hint of hesitant reluctance in my father when I asked for a car. With this feeling out in the open, she had made it clear that I wouldn't have to live with unclear access to a car. The keys to the green Mazda were at my disposal.
The main visit to the camp town had this visit as a backdrop. The name Susanne had acquired its own status in our family. It left its footprints deep in my mother's field of trust. Everything indicated that it had been a full version of my mother's history the social worker had received in the dialogues with her. The evidence of my mother's close relationship with Susanne was revealed when she entered into her second marriage many years later. After a short period of widowhood, my mother opened a new chapter in her story. She remarried, and her fiancé was the social worker from her convalescence.
What created an interesting resonance from my mother's friendship with the woman was a situation from my autumn visit. The visit when I was characterized by gloom and without hope. In a stove in the main building, Susanne invited me to a conversation. What has since stuck with me from that situation is an A3 drawing pad. Blank paper and a strong black marker. Without me realizing it at the time, and to a lesser extent now, it was a snippet of my mother's story that she was going to share. Not via quotes and verbal turns of phrase. What she wanted to share was a narrative approach. She wanted to show me that my life was in relation to something and someone. Events from my upbringing and how my close people had probably met me in my development. And not least. If something had been neglected, it's logical that it would have consequences. If deficiencies are not repaired, they will develop into permanent damage. If something is lost in childhood, the investment will be lost later in life. Active attempts must be made to make up for deficiencies and link them to healthy and natural development.
She didn't use words like that. She drew it. Simple line drawings that made it easier to understand. One person with long hair and a dress. The other with a hat and thin lines as arms and legs. Two people. Adults. Husband and wife tied together with a net of arrows. For the first time, I was placed on the map by a professional. Someone who had knowledge of relationships and development. And not least. Someone who had listened to my mum's story. The drawing was completed with a person who was only a child. An unfinished human being who had to develop his own universe far too early. A galaxy that was never able to find its own independent orbit, but which had inappropriate connections.
There was something sharp in my mother's voice when I told her that the social worker had told me things related to my childhood. In an anxious voice, she wanted to know what had been said. She was unusually sharp. In retrospect, I thought she might have been insecure. Perhaps she feared that parts of the story she had shared with this woman would come out as an analysis that would make her feel guilty as a mother.
When I met up with the woman with the sketchbook again this weekend, she wasn't interested in a good offer to supply the furniture in the fireplace room in the city. I was able to assure her that I had good agreements and could deliver furniture without having to make a profit on the deal. As the situation turned out, she immediately realized that furniture was not the focus here. The insight she had about people revealed the state I was in. "Something's not right here," I remember her saying.
The whole woman expressed concern. Her reaction came to me as both a surprising and troublesome intervention. She focused on responsibility. Whether my wife knew where I was. If I didn't realize that this must make her afraid. I felt guilty in response. She made me turn round. I realized that my plans to visit my grandmother had to be postponed until further notice.
