Mental Health & Me 2015 by Writing on the Wall

Mental Health and Me 2015

Writing on the Wall Kuumba Imani Millennium Centre 4, Princes Road, Liverpool L8 1TH Published by Writing on the Wall 2015 ÂŠ Remains with authors Design and layout by Rosa Murdoch ISBN: 978-1-910580-09-7 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers. 0151 703 0020 info@writingonthewall.org.uk www.writingonthewall.org.uk

MENTAL HEALTH AND ME Competition Winners Liverpool Mental Health Consortium Writing on the Wall

Contents Foreword

Spoken Word

Letters

Journalism

Poetry

Diary/Blog

Short Stories

Tweets

Afterword

Foreword Art, creativity and mental illness have been closely entwined throughout the ages. From Shakespeare to J.D Salinger, the pain and suffering of the human mind has been well documented through writing and the expression of the author, before science was able to provide some understanding of mental health. As society progresses and the stigma surrounding mental health begins to dissolve, we look for alternatives to medication to alleviate mental distress. The pieces that you will read in this book offer exactly that, from a universally shared experience of what it feels like to be depressed, to feel alone or to suffer from a specific condition which may not always be easy to explain or to share with others, to how it feels to come out on the other side and move towards recovery. We hope that this book will offer some solace to those who may feel lost or for those who want to better support a loved one who may be experiencing some mental distress. It has truly been a delight to have coordinated Mental Health and Me again for its second year and the response we have received really shows that people are ready to break down the walls that surround the subject of mental health once and for all and to start sharing their stories. Thank you to everyone who entered the competition and congratulations to those who have been shortlisted or won prizes! Chanel Scott â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Jeffers Project Coordinator of Mental Health and Me Writing on the Wall

SPOKEN WORD

The Edge Pat Fearnon 1st Place and Overall Winner Her sense of not quite fitting anywhere Stretches back to childhood, family, street And school, a never questioned difference, From over-fondling grandpa, to neglect Then harsh and sudden bouts of discipline. She cannot hack the normal. Robbing shops And truancy is great. Lazy parenting ensures She grows up, undetected into that Half-world where bent does best. But queen of rebel teens feels wrong for her. She opts For marriage, for a home, a child, a car, The props of ordinary life. Yet still, She does not fit, and cannot do the parent Thing, that other-peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s round of paddling pools And going to the park and birthday parties, Ground that she has never trodden, fun That she has never known and cannot handle. Far easier to hide in social life, Please her husband with booze-loosened wit, Drown out the doubts until the self-disgust Matches what she sees in his next morning gaze, Hears in his tones, She hovers on the brink of choice, Self-salvation, or that teetering edge.

My Bipolar Hell Susan Fagan 2nd Place I was high I was low I was low I was high I was happy Oh so happy I was down I would cry I would rage burn inside! I had nowhere to hide I would talk all the time I'd pretend I was fine I would smile I would laugh Then I would cry in the bath I would lay in my bed And wish I was dead As my high would come down It would start with a frown Then I'd dissolve into tears I'd be gripped by my fears I would hide in my shell In my own private hell Cos the devil he had won With his own kind of fun Then the very next day I'd have plenty to say As my mood would then lift Like a wonderful gift But my mask would soon fail 4

And inside I would wail Help me ... help me ... Please somebody help me ...

The Prison Luke Chandley 3rd Place My mind is like a prison, but there are no prison guards or appropriate safety measures. There’s a riot taking place. The alarms are going off and at the moment it feels like no-one will ever claw back control. I will never claw back control. The unruly penitentiary of my twisted thoughts has been destroyed. Burnt to the ground and the inmates are on the loose. Anxiety has found its voice, its strength and its confidence. Depression is looking on, waiting for the foundation to become too loose to hold up the walls. Too shoddy to hold it all. Panic attacks are creating the cracks, and as the roof begins to fall the thoughts start to escape. Slowly. Surely. All around, it’s a battleground. There’s a civil war going on inside my mind. My mental immune system is on the wane and right now it could go either way. On one side I’m ruled by rational thinking. A crack team based around the idea that some things are good, and some things are bad, but neither end of the spectrum gets too much of a voice. A democratic society where every part of the mind gets a say. There’s rules, but they’re sensible and allow the peace to flow like a calm and gentle river, reflecting the sunshine. A healthy environment to grow. To evolve. Yet, the other side is critical. It’s cynical and it’s disturbed. A totalitarian state, controlled by depression. Aided by anger and pain, it will not halt, will not refrain. This regime forces the mind to race, one way then another. Backwards and forwards, like a rocking horse. Whereas rational thinking is horses for courses, depression is exacerbation in relation to any given 6

situation. A day can feel like a year, a minute is a month. An argument can feel like world war 3, like a never ending battle for territory. Then for forgiveness. All the while you’re falling deeper and deeper into a rabbit hole. But forget Disney and forget Alice, this is like throwing stones into a glass palace. You will shatter when you’re shattered, jump before you’re pushed and avoid all levels of confrontation. The riverbank becomes overgrown and the river itself has overflown. A typhoon of mental proportions. A hurricane in once steady waters. In the early days the warzone rages. Rational thinking tells me everything is under control at breakfast, but by lunch ground has been made up by my depression. It’s on the offensive. Taking confidence and self-worth by tea, it can make anything I think become offensive. It’s a good tactic. Without a bright outlook, you feel like you can’t look out for long. There’s no way to explain the way it feels, to have what you’re all about taken from beneath your nose and from under your heels. The fundamental parts of your existence torn up, torn apart. Piece by piece and limp-from-limb. You’re feeling separated from her-from-her, from him-from-him. You can’t risk speaking in a crowd, what if they laugh? What if they mock? There’s a chance they’ll just ignore, which right now doesn’t seem to be the worst outcome in the world. So after taking over your days, anxiety has overcome your nights. For all it’s worth and for all it tried reasoning has taken flight. ‘See you later, Luke. It was nice knowing you. It’s been good for a while, but the problem with the past means the present can be in denial. But for all it’s worth and for all it might mean, one day we might return to feed the grass again and make it green’. Sanity has left, leaving me feeling as though I’m crazy. I feel like I’ve got more than 99 problems so right now I wish I was 7

Jay Z. Last week was poor and last time I was happy, well that’s hazy. Where do I go from here? What do I do right now? Why is there no instructions for this stuff or silver lining to this black cloud? I’m at the bottom of the barrel, no-where near the cream of the crop. From the bottom of this well of negativity I feel so far from the top. Yet, one thing can lead to another. A ‘hello’ from a long-lost friend or a text message from your mother, your brother. Next thing is, you discover that the sun is still about even if the sun doesn’t want to come out. One conversation can soften the blow. One drink or a phone-call from a loved one can brighten the glow. And from there, recovery. The war never ends but the walls can be built up. Instead of using wood, you learn how to carve stone better than you ever could. With experience the barriers stop to break. You learn to take the rough with the smooth. The bad with the good. Things are beginning to rebuild, because you learn to carve stone better than you ever could. And then one day, there will be a ceasefire in our mind. The river begins to tame. I look across to the prison block and all is contained. My mind is a prison. Now with prison guards and appropriate safety measures. My mind is a prison, but I will be on the look-out forever and ever.

LETTERS

A Letter to Mario Christina Ashworth 1st Place Dear Mario, The last words you wrote to me in your careful hand: ‘Christina, never surrender your self-worth. Love Mario. The summer of madness, 2001, we have yet to discover if it will end in triumph or despair’. It is strange to think you dead. That a life which burned so brightly sometimes it hurt extinguished. Hard to think of you swallowed by the sea and in such a brutal way. I imagine you in that last dismal flat. A place you could not confuse with the word home. You, who were so full of appetites, without the capacity to cook yourself a hot meal. You the bibliophile, the diarist, the poet without, according to the coroner’s inquest, a book, a pen, so no note of explanation not even a scribbled goodbye to those you left behind. I imagine that you made it so because to get to a place where you could extinguish that life force took time, deliberate effort and discipline. A dark courage to ensure that everything that was keeping you here had to be torn away. Everything that precious and meaningful that resonated with the light in you cut away. I imagine the pain you were in. I imagine because I have seen you there. Where your openness to the world became not a source of joy but of inescapable, unbearable pain. When I think of your capacity for anger the memories come easily but then hard on their heels are memories of you laughing with such joy it lit the room. Of you sharing something that had delighted you and 11

infecting others with your intense curiosity, your delight in living. But the light only succeeding in the memory of you to make the darkness more intense. I imagine the night you decided. I imagine the darkness outside through the window and the decision to go out. The rain on the pavement. I see the dark curl of hair on the back of your neck that I used to lie in bed and trace with my fingers. I imagine you getting up to leave, the rain on your dark head under a street light. The silvery clouds made by the warmth of your breath in the coldness of the night. And then my imagination runs out. I cannot think how you didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t turn back. I cannot think how you who were so loved did not think that there was one person who you could call out to in the dark. One person who could connect you back to life with love. I cannot imagine the courage, the grief, the grim determination that drove you to the railway line. Did you know where you were going? Did you plan it? Did you choose the date, the time, the place? Did it mean anything to you? Did you mean to tell us something with their apparent meaningless. To punish us? To make us think? Or did it mean nothing at all? Was it just that that is how long it took you to get there; you, the writer of letters, of stories of poems, a man who strived to live an examined life on the road less travelled, to leave it with no explanation. Was that the message you wanted to send; that there was nothing left to say? Did you regret your decision; was there a moment in the darkness of that night between the squeal of the brakes of the train as the driver saw you and tried to stop? Was there a moment between the hard metal of the train and the soft flesh of your beloved body, your beautiful mind, for regret to flit between?

And where does that leave us who are left behind? Anger at ourselves for not making a world fit enough for your thin skin? So that the only way you could bear to be here is to have your sensitivity drugged out of you in the name in treatment until that too became too painful. It was not you who were wrong, but you who could bear the world we have all made that the pain of it drove you mad. I do not know what else I could have done. In my mind I cannot leave you on the track in the rain. I want to draw you back into the warmth of our arms and the momentary certainty of love. I want to feel the breeze blowing off the Mediterranean and smell the dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sun on your skin. I want you who once burned so bright to continue to burn in some way in me. With love always, Christina

Little Sister Emily Monk 2nd Place Little sister, I miss you. I miss my baby sister from childhood. The one with the infectious laugh, in her pink ballet clothes. I miss playing together, joking and gossiping about boys at school. Movie marathons and running around the garden. We have grown up of course. I guess we should call ourselves adults. Things change and move along, but this change is too much. You’ve disappeared and I don’t know how to handle this new replacement. You’re now so distant. Never here, and not just physically. I could be talking to you for an hour on those rare days you’re home and I don’t think you will have taken a word in. Do you ever miss me? Or anyone else? We’ve been told it’s the social anxiety. That you physically can’t handle being around people some days. This does not act as a buffer to the hurt I feel when being rejected by my little sister. It really does hurt. Is that selfish? A psychology degree and many google searches. All this information and ‘understanding’ of the signs and symptoms. All so black and white. It’s so different seeing it happen in front of you. It’s absolutely horrendous seeing you want to harm yourself so much. How could you want to kill yourself? Is it something we did?

Is there anything better I can do for you? I once kicked in the bathroom door to stop you cutting your wrist. My baby sister. In that much pain. You screamed at me that you hated me and didn’t come home for a week. I am angry. I won’t tiptoe around that any longer. I’m angry that you’re doing this to yourself and you don’t see the effect it has on loved ones. I can no longer freely speak to you. Carefully, in case you take it the wrong way. It’s always about you. You don’t come home for weeks and then act as if that’s fine. Sometimes I think you don’t even try to get better. I’m angry at myself. Disgusted. What an incredibly selfish and uncaring sister I am. It’s not your fault you’re like this. You are not your mental illness and I know you’re trying your best. As the older sister I should be there for you, defending you and protecting you. I’m not doing my job. It’s frustration. For the thing in your mind making you feel so awful and sad. A borderline personality disorder diagnosis does not suddenly stop you from being the girl I’ve known since I was three. I just wish there was something I could do to help you. A flick of a switch. A big red off button. Take all the crap in your head, the chemical imbalance or whatever it could be. It’s not easy being the sister of someone with a mental illness. You can see the person you love change so drastically. I want to reach out to you so much. I mean it when I say I love you unconditionally. All the raging arguments, door kicking and trips to A&E will never change that. Please help me to understand how to help you.

Dear Michael, Love Michael Mike Churchill 3rd Place Dear Michael, I’m writing this to you on a good day. A day when I don’t feel helpless, when the darkness hasn’t engulfed me and I’ve actually managed to get up out of bed and get on with life. Tomorrow I may not be here, it could be you again. That scares me. You scare me. However, I know it’s not your fault. I’m scared that this could be my last day, that tomorrow I could be you and that you could prevent me from ever being me again. This letter is for you on the days when I’m not around. On those scary dark days when you physically don’t have the strength to get up out of bed, I want you to read this letter. You may not believe this, but you are not a failure. That’s what it wants you to believe, that you’ve let everyone down, that people hate you and that they would be better off with you. All of that is wrong. The battle inside our mind that we fight every day is ugly, it wants you to hate yourself, that’s how it feeds. You’re ill. How you feel isn’t your fault and I don’t understand it either, but being around people helps. Don’t lock yourself away. Go for a walk, see some friends, read a book. Life is beautiful, our illness isn’t. Before I knew about it, or about you, in those ancient days past, I was moody, irritable, and angry. Fighting with yourself will do that to you. Hiding how you feel letting it eat you inside takes its toll. Talk. Talking is good. Being angry isn’t bad, anger is good for fighting, but you need to use it in the right way. Fight the thoughts, fight yourself, don’t fight your friends, your 16

family, the people who love you. You may not always think it but they do care. They don’t always understand, but they care. I don’t expect them to understand, we don’t understand ourselves, and so how can they? I know what you’re thinking right now, about all the things that are pulling you down, making you drown in that sea of self-loathing and self-doubt. You have limitless potential. The only person who is holding you back is you. I know you’re scared, I know you’ve failed before and I know you can’t see the way forward. Remember your dreams, remember your hopes and use your fears to drive you forward. Things aren’t always as bed as you think. I know that. If it wasn’t true I wouldn’t be here today writing to you. The next time you’re telling yourself it’s useless, that people don’t care, remember they do. When you’re pushing yourself to do it, hurt yourself, end it all, make people’s lives easier, remember your wedding day and how happy you where, the look on your wife’s face. Imagine that same church, those same people, all those family and friends who love you dearly. Then imagine your wife, your best friend imagine how beautiful she looked that day all in white, and watch as it all turns black. The only way out is to stay and fight. Take care, Mike

JOURNALISM

Writing From The Heart Ellie Smith 1st Place When I first saw this competition I was stuck on what to write, my mum told me to just write from the heart so I guess that’s what I’m going to try and do. Well, unfortunately, mental health plays a big part in my life I say it’s unfortunate, but I’ve met the most amazing people through my journey. Especially when I was in hospital; friends, support workers, nurses, just all of my team. I’ve realised just how many people do care about me and I guess that’s a good thing that’s come out of everything. I believe everything happens for a reason and that we just need to make the most out of whatever life throws at us, no matter how hard it may be. My thoughts haunt me every single day. Poisonous lies intoxicating my brain, and, that’s the trouble, I know my thoughts aren’t true but I can’t help but act on them. That’s the thing with mental health, it’s like touching a hot stove, you know it’s wrong but you can’t help but keep going back to touch it, just to feel some sort of sensation I guess. Mental health is scary, hard to understand and impossible to explain. Only those going through it have an idea of what it’s like. Right now I am a mixture of very happy and very sad. And I’m trying to figure it all out, all these feelings and emotions and words and thoughts, and what they all mean. Everything I feel is a contradiction of itself, and I do not understand any of it. The stigma around mental health is awful. People don’t realise that mental illnesses are serious illnesses that take 21

lives. People think of it / talk of it lightly, as if it’s not a big deal. Well, it is. Depression isn’t a mysterious girl with running mascara staring into the sunset, its staring at the ceiling at 4am unable to function. Anxiety/panic attacks aren’t a cute girl getting nervous when talking to boys, or girls burying their heads into their lover’s chests, its wailing uncontrollably as if all oxygen has been taken away from you, not being able to breathe or think straight. It’s not being able to do the smallest of things like without feeling like you’re going to cry and be sick. Bulimia isn’t a long haired girl, gracefully bending over a toilet with a tragic yet beautiful face. It’s a red, puffy and distraught face with vomit all over it and a nose bleed. Anorexia isn’t a slim model, politely refusing their favourite food, it’s a life of misery, hospital appointments, and your poor little body and its organs slowly shutting down. Self-harm isn’t a boy, kissing your scars and telling you it’s going to be okay. Its nasty scars will be there forever to haunt you and showers that sting. Mental illnesses are not beautiful or anything to aspire to, they’re deadly and ruin lives. They don’t make you special and don’t make people like you more, in fact, quite the opposite. Stop glamourizing it. Right now, I’m glad to say I’m doing quite well with managing my mental health, I never thought I would be able to say it, but it’s true. I spent months and months in a psychiatric ward, in order to help me recover from anorexia nervosa and other mental illnesses. During those months I was convinced I was never going to ever get better. I saw no way out. It was as if I was stuck in this black hole, heading deeper and deeper. But now, I’ve decided enough is enough! I think I can finally see a way out of this hell. It’s taken away years of my life and I’ve finally realised it can’t take it anymore. I want to move on with 22

my life. There comes a time when you realise turning the page is the best feeling in the world, because there’s so much more to life than the page you were stuck on. What if you’re in your thirties, and your lying in bed with the love of your life. It’s a Saturday morning, but you don’t have to be up for a while. You can just lounge in bed. But then you hear the beautiful sound of a baby crying, and you remember, it’s yours. You beat your demons. You moved on with your life, you created your perfect world, surrounded by perfect people. We all have that to look forward to, knowing we made it. Embrace life. Grab it with both hands and never let go, charge into new experiences and don’t ever look back. Move on with your life and don’t you dare give your illness the satisfaction of beating you. You’re stronger than that. You can and you will have a life, don’t forget the times when you were 10, going over to your best friend’s house and drinking hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows was the best thing in the world. Don’t forget how happy it used to make you when you made your parents proud. Don’t forget how you used to love performing a song or dance in front of your family at Christmas. Don’t forget all of the memories. Don’t ever let your illness deceive you and tell you your life is better now. Just think how happy you can be. Close your eyes and imagine a life without your mental health. And, as Walt Disney said ‘If you can dream it, you can do it’.

Mental Illness as an Ally Sarah Jones 2nd Place The 22nd August 2007 is a day I thought would always haunt me. Now as I look back to that day I feel empathy and compassion for that version of myself It is no longer the dominant thought that defines me and I no longer feel pain or self-hatred. The memory exists as a reminder of my journey with mental illness and is a testament to how far I’ve come. The 22nd August 2007 was the date that Social Services gave temporary custody of my then 3 year old son to his Father due to my addiction to alcohol. I will never forget looking through the window into the adjacent room where my son sat drawing completely oblivious to his fate. Or the moment he was strapped into the car seat of my case worker’s car as I was told to say goodbye to him. I cry as I write this now because I remember the heartache and guilt I felt for putting my baby through that. I was then admitted to the mental health ward at hospital where I stayed for 2 weeks. I worked hard at my recovery and I saw and spoke to my Son every day, my life felt worthless without him. I had relapses and more hospital admissions along the way during which my relationships with family broke down. They had deteriorated to the point where I’d hurt them so much it pained them to see me. That was 8 years ago and quite a lot has happened since then. I quit drinking altogether and remain sober to this day. However now it is out of choice rather than necessity! I regained full custody of my son six months after that date in August, and he has just recently started secondary school and is thriving, particularly at maths. He is an incredibly intelligent 24

boy and I am blessed to have him in my life. I too went back into education. I enrolled on an Access course in college and in 2013 I graduated from university with a 2.1 with honours in Sociology. I am now awaiting a starting date for my graduate job supporting students in university. I worry sometimes that the stigma of mental health could still affect my future prospects, which is why I believe it is vitally important that I share my story with you now as well as the many others who have been brave enough to open up about their own illness. I am pleased that there is a safe and creative platform for people to express their journey with mental illness as a reminder that we are not alone and we should never be made to feel as though we are. By staying silent we do a great disservice to so many others who may benefit from hearing our stories. Staying silent makes it feel as though there is something to feel ashamed of, that we are different from everyone else. But the truth is that at certain times in our life we feel more at ease with ourselves than others and it is ok to feel powerless, vulnerable or out of control. It is common from time to time to worry about our own mental health. The history of mental illness would have us believe that it is a certain type of personality that is susceptible, which makes them distinct from everyone else. But of course this isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t true. An individualâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s experience of mental illness is as personal and varied as the personalities it affects. Mental illness doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t discriminate but society does, often inadvertently, which is why I think it is so important to have open discussions about mental health. By sharing our stories we acknowledge that it is symptomatic of our environment as much as it is physically. That it can be attributed to outside forces whose factors can be improved dramatically just by reducing the stigma attached to it. What I have learnt through my own illness is that it need not define 25

you. It may be a temporary, intermittent or a permanent part of your life, but it is not YOU! It is a part of you and that’s OK. I have learnt to adapt to my infrequent bouts of anxiety and panic attacks by recognising them for what they are. They are just as much a part of me as the good stuff and I wouldn’t be the person I have grown to love today without living through it. My anxiety and panic attacks exist to me as an indicator to take time out and work through what is troubling me. Sometimes it is obvious, sometimes not, but the point is that I now use the negative symptoms as a positive force for change. My mental illness has actually become an ally despite making me feel uncomfortable. That’s its purpose for me. That’s how I grow and that’s why I accept it and acknowledge its existence in my life.

Breaking Through Joann Roberts 3rd Place Barriers can protect us in a child’s world, prevent us from being harmed on fairground rides and guide us to take a place in a queue to create order and fairness. However, sometimes social barriers can prevent us from taking our rightful place in society. These barriers can segregate us and limit opportunities and aspirations. Our life chances may be greatly affected with the perception of status by others’ attitudes and beliefs that may impact upon our own self-belief and selfesteem. Many people’s lives have been interrupted by mental illness, resulting in a lack of progression with ambitions and interests thus increasing a sense of loss and frustration. Our mental health is integral and paramount to our total wellbeing including our physical self. To fully value those who find it difficult if not impossible to enter mainstream culture with all its demands, we need to consider the meaning of success. Those with mental health conditions often aspire to the same things that those in the mainstream may take for granted. I remember a poster in the hospital where I was hospitalized a couple of years ago. The quote on this poster read ‘Act like it matters- because it does’. This is very true and we should all value every action and every ‘small’ achievement even though these achievements may be massively impactful to both ourselves and others. When we can see what’s beyond, we can make our plans we can raise our voices and lift up our hands. We can lead the life we were meant to live and be proud! Memories make us who we are. Let’s try to ensure that there are more plusses and fewer minuses. 27

POETRY

Hourglass Rosie Mansfield 1st Place Like clamps with weights pulling down on your face, the complete impossibility of moving with grace. Confused curls of the lips playing tricks with the mood, please excuse the tight jaw and the burning short fuse. Horizontal feels better because the sand cannot move. Still. While the world rushes on to the next thing, the best thing, all these things to invest in, we test them and forever feel like weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve messed up. Wires connect but we are still unconnected, distanced by connections that cannot be tested. Big chested and over complimented, but thorns on the stem make one demented.

Motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Courage Paul Daw 2nd Place Ever watched that bastard Brecht in the pouring rain in Manchester? Well, hereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s another broken image. One of no connection to offer you, the reader, an indecent explanation. The boy is nearly three with latent OCD. His mother clears the breakfast things still grinding out postnatal, His father, suited and respected, off to work with people judged as mental. The boy picks up an aeroplane, the one his father made him from slotted plastic panels. Unglued, reds and blues, alternating. Takes it out the kitchen door, North East Scotland granite steps an unforgiving runway floor. I release. For a second or two, a montage spins of the future past before your eyes. Only child, boy on swing, sisters in waiting. Academically buried, gay boy bullied. Him on the battlements walking into the North Sea. The depression and anxiety. 32

Hidden by a jack the lad who envied everybody. Dirty old man. Even the Echo said the sentencing was dodgy. Tow rope from Halfords. It made him late for work putting it all back together. My sobs ripped out in rags. Il miglior fabbro. Liverpool Pathway. Hypocrite Teacher. Everything he built I have sought to destroy, and now I can do nothing without him.

Depression Does Not Come With Instructions Kelsea Greene 3rd Place Depression does not come with instructions. Depression consumes you. Depression is losing interest in anything, or anyone that once mattered to you. Depression is not being able to sleep, regardless of feeling a tiredness that you didn’t think existed. Or sleeping hours on end, because being awake is simply too much. Depression is an index of symptoms that very few people seem to grasp. Depression does not stop at the tears rolling down your face, at three o’clock in the morning. Depression is a black sky, with nothing to distract you from what feels like the emptiness, of your existence. Depression is a darkness that devours every aspect of your life. Depression does not come with instructions. Depression is isolation, because you’ve lost the incentive to be in anyone’s company but your own. Depression is not being able to comprehend that things could, or will get better. 34

Depression does not come with instructions. Some days, depression will hit harder than you thought possible and the hollowness will feel never-ending. But know, that every tick of that second-hand, signifies another push at survival. Some days, you will recognise your strength. Be proud. Celebrate yourself. Celebrate your valour. Celebrate that you have survived every single, bad day. With every battle, comes a struggle. You may have self-harmed. You may have cried yourself to sleep every night for the past three weeks, But struggling does not symbolise weakness, it symbolises your will to go on when it feels impossible. You are battling your own mind. You are fighting a fight that a lot of people don’t, and won’t ever, comprehend. Your demons are venomous and malevolent, and they prey on you, when you’re at your most vulnerable. Fight back. Do not let this illness define you. You are a warrior. You are resilient. You are unstoppable. Remember this, when you are at your highest. Remember this, when you are at your lowest. Depression does not come with instructions. For some depression is an inexplicable sadness; for others, it’s an emptiness that threatens your very existence. For us all though, it’s a fight. Recognise your worth, and know that you can win. Do not let depression define you. Do not let depression destroy you. 35

Depression does not come with instructions, but if it did, step one would be: Fight for your life.

DIARY/BLOG

Who Am I? Denis Carlyle 1st Place I couldn’t tell you when I arrived on this planet. I could tell you when I was ‘told’ I arrived. It was September 1972. But I don’t remember that, so it is as meaningless as my birthday each year, since then. I think the questioning of my origin started from being lonely. I wasn’t just lonely from lack of friends though. I was lonely in my head. But as a child, you don’t know why you feel different. You just are. As you get older, you begin to examine what you are. Try to figure out why you exist. And then try to figure out your purpose. As an adult I figured out that I didn’t fit in, I was better off not fitting in. That’s what an alien does. It sees itself as a target and hides. I wanted to be sure that nobody knew I couldn’t cope with this planet. Because for some reason it couldn’t help me. My alien powers allowed me to do incredible things to stay safe. Be funny, humorous, an artist, a writer. But deep down inside I knew this planet was killing me. Maybe it’s the humans? Maybe the atmosphere? Whatever it is, it has become worse. I can be driven by terrible feelings at night. Dragging me from my bed. Leaving me sat alone. Crying. I would seek help, finding a friend who, when meeting me for the first time, hugged me like I’d been there forever. That was an incredible moment for me. Someone didn’t care that I was an alien and just saw a lost soul.

So ‘who am I?’ I have no idea. But I know there are others like me, and they need care too. And we should all care about people we don’t understand. Because that’s what defines us. Take care. Whoever, or whatever you are.

Kamikaze Brain Eleanor Taylor 2nd Place Eighteen months ago I had a nervous breakdown (a term I use without exaggeration or an unnecessary sense of melodrama). I completely lost my mind, or as the Urban dictionary would describe it, I went ‘cray-cray’. Looking back now, I can’t help but find amusement in the kamikaze tactics that my brain employed to disarm me, and also in my absolute failure to put up any kind of fight against these self-destructive attacks. Essentially, a small, yet rebellious, part of my brain decided to stage a coup d’état (presumably the part that was fed-up of being overworked and undernourished) and the rest of my grey matter didn’t even register that there was a new boss running the joint. At first it felt like my brain had been filled with treacle; the rapid firing of ideas across synapses ceased and would not return for a long time. It became difficult to construct sentences, working out the order in which my words should fall was an exhausting ordeal. Soon after, the energy required to speak became far too much to bear and I spent the majority of my time mute or monosyllabic. Recognising this was not normal behaviour, I carefully avoided eye contact with those around me, pathetically trying to hide the fact that I was falling apart by not engaging in conversation. Despite being aware that I was not okay, I was not able to rustle up even a scrap of rationality; my brain seemed to accept that this new and impaired way of functioning was, and would forever be, the peak of its performance. Asking for help didn’t cross my mind.

Over time I became worse, I felt myself shrinking inside my body; my arms and legs began to feel hollow, then my torso. Eventually, I felt as though I no longer occupied any space inside my body and was simply floating above it. I simultaneously marvelled at how my physical body was able to move all by itself without me controlling it anymore, and reasoned that suicide would be the only way to stop this distressing feeling of being subhuman. There was no panic or concern from any part of my brain, it recognised that there was a problem (I had turned into an alien) and had come up with (in its opinion) a very logical solution. Fortunately for me my attention span had been dismantled by the breakdown, and I couldn’t decide what would be the best way to kill myself without losing my train of thought. It was a week-long break with my family that triggered a turnaround. I realised that it would be unbearably selfish to force my family to pick up the pieces of my suicide and I would instead have to find a way to live. Coming to terms with the fact that I couldn’t take the easy way out through death was devastating, summoning the energy to live seemed an impossible task, but I’m doing it, one day at a time.

Fireflies Faris Khalifa 3rd Place I used to feel like I was branded - like people could see my mental illness stamped on my face clear as day. So I used to hide - hide behind the jokes, behind the excuses and in the dark of long nights. Things were hard, and they kinda still are, but nowhere as bad as they used to be and that's down to one thing. I started to talk. You see, perspective changes everything. You talk to someone and ask them to look closer and soon they realise that it's not actually a brand on your face but rather a scar, you've seen battle. These battles come in many forms. No battle is too small and every fight is worth talking about. Sharing your story is adding another brother or sister in arms. You might think you can do it alone and maybe that's possible, who's to say? But the real question is why should you when you could make it so much easier by sharing it with someone else? So how about I put my money where my mouth is and share with you the story of one of my biggest battles, one many can relate to â&#x20AC;&#x201C; my experience of school. As 1 of 5 black kids in the entire school, I was from Sudan with an American accent, squeaky voice and wearing handme-down clothes from a middle aged support worker. I got picked on a lot. Even some teachers couldn't find it in their hearts to accept me. School seemed like a giant scary monster that only ever grew more fangs.

I felt so alone all the time. A lot of the time Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d walk around by myself at night, those walks home around Christmas time were worst. I would walk past row after row of happy family homes and force myself not to stare or look in. I would imagine what it would be like to live in one of those houses, to come home to a nice living room, maybe a dog. Above all, I would feel safe. Broken. Now that's a word that many of us who struggle with mental illness can relate to. This feeling first came to me from my lack of understanding of what was wrong with me. Why did I feel so sad all the time? Why couldn't I enjoy life like all the other kids? Why did the world feel so irrationally terrifying? I'm not saying that being diagnosed with anxiety and depression made it all go away. It didn't, but what it did do is make me realise this was something beyond my control. More importantly, it showed me that it's something that I can get over. That diagnosis allowed me to breath the sigh of relief that comes with taking the first step on a journey. A journey that I couldn't wait to see through, because I knew at the end of that road, I could pick up a mirror to see myself smiling. When youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re feeling like I did back then you might feel like youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re broken, like you can't put yourself back together. But another person can sit down on the floor next to you and help you pick up the pieces. They aren't there to judge but to try and make you feel whole again. You let someone in and they let you in, and slowly the world becomes a better place. Finding someone to talk to is not an easy task because you are trusting them with your inner most thoughts. Don't rush into it, you take your time and build up the courage to do something brave, open up and when you're ready you tell them of those battles. You tell them of the things that haunt you every day and night. At first this won't come easy, but you

take it in stride; soon the letters will become words, the words sentences and the sentences stories. Just think about it for a second; how would you feel if you could tell someone all those things make your heart so heavy? Can you feel how even the fantasy begins to loosen your chest? If you feel like you might want to take that next step, then itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s time to talk: it really could change your life. We talk and we listen. In the darkness, one by one, like fireflies, we'll glow bright until we end the stigma.

SHORT STORIES

Residue Joe Lavelle 1st Place When I come round, she’s standing over me. She’s darkhaired. She’s patting my face. She goes, ‘At last!’ The room’s small, bright, windowless. I feel like shite. I’m tired, hung-over, dazed. The strip-lights hurt my eyes. The room stinks of disinfectant, or something. There’s a digital clock on the wall. It’s 15:17. There’s another woman in the room too. She looks at the dark-haired one and goes, ‘Eileen, we’ll start now, eh?’ Her voice is high, soft, sweet. The darkhaired one nods. Then Sweet Voice looks down at me. She smiles. She goes, ‘We need you on your side lad.’ I try to obey. I raise myself up and turn to face her. The dark-haired one goes, ‘No, son. Not like that!’ They push me into position; head over the edge of the bed, arms behind my back. Sweet Voice goes, ‘You need to hold onto the rail.’ The dark-haired one guides my fingers to the chrome bar that surrounds the bed. It’s warm, greasy. Her hands are soft, but firm. They press down upon mine. I sigh, close my eyes, and when I open them I notice the things on the trolley. There’s a length of clear plastic tube, a sachet of petroleum jelly, a clear plastic funnel and a stainless steel jug. Seeing all that brings me outta the daze. I go, ‘What’re you gonna do?’ Sweet Voice says fuck all, she just stares back at me. I can’t hold her stare though and look to the floor where... Shite! There’s a bucket. I go, ‘What’s the bucket for?’

I look back up at her, but she looks away. It’s as if I’m not there. Yet I am there, and I watch her attach the funnel to the tube. I go, ‘Why’re you fuckin’ ignorin’ me?’ ‘Now, eh!’ the dark-haired one goes. ‘Less of the attitude!’ ‘Simmer down,’ Sweet Voice goes. ‘You’ll be alright.’ Then she puts the funnel and the tube back on to the trolley and picks up the sachet of petroleum jelly. She tears the sachet open. She smears the gel on the free end of the tube. ‘Oh, God,’ I go. Behind me, the dark-haired one goes, ‘It’s okay lad! Don’t panic!’ Then Sweet Voice goes, ‘Open wide.’ For some reason I obey. The petroleum jelly tastes of nothing at all, but as the end of the tube reaches the back of my mouth, I gag. I clench my teeth. I raise my hands. ‘Don't lad,’ the dark-haired one goes and she forces my fingers back to the rail. ‘C’mon on now love,’ Sweet Voice goes. ‘Don’t fight it. We gotta do this.’ She gives me a moment. I look up at her. The dark-haired one tightens her grip on my hands. I can’t win, can I? I unclench my teeth. The tube slides further within. I choke. The dark-haired one goes, ‘Breathe through your nose.’ The end of the tube passes down my gullet. I feel every millimetre. It doesn’t hurt, not really, but I vomit. The room fills with the stench of beer. I glance down at the pool next to the bucket. The dark-haired one mutters something. I vomit again, but just in time, a foot nudges the bucket forward and I notice white flecks in the spewed-up Foster’s. ‘What are they?’ I think and it comes back to me. I’d been drinking and looking at the photos again, hadn’t I? The painkillers were in 50

the kitchen drawer. I don’t remember necking them. I remember thinking about necking them, but I don’t remember doing it. I don’t remember dialling 999 either, but it must’ve been me. Who else is there? They must’ve sent an ambulance. I bet they broke the door down. Landlord’s gonna love that, ain’t he? And as I think all that, Sweet Voice goes, ‘Ready, lad?’ In one hand, she holds the funnel attached to the tube that’s down my throat. In the other, with an effort, she raises the jug from the trolley and some water sloshes out on to the floor. I’m not ready, not really, but she tips the jug anyway. Water gurgles into the funnel and down the tube. In my stomach, the water’s cold, colder than I expect. Goosebumps erupt upon my skin. Muscles tighten. I vomit. She waits for me to stop then tips the jug again. I bring up more lager. Another tip of the jug and I heave one last time, the stream is clear, water not beer. Sweet Voice places the jug back on the trolley. ‘Nearly there now,’ she goes. The dark-haired one lets go of my hands and Sweet Voice removes the funnel from the end of the tube, which she places next to the jug. She smiles then crosses the room to a cupboard. The tube’s still in me. I move my hand to it, but the darkhaired one clocks me. ‘Leave it,’ she goes. ‘We ain’t finished.’ I lower my hand to my side, and Sweet Voice returns from the cupboard. She holds a plastic bottle. The plastic’s see-thru, the content’s black. She reads my eyes. ‘It’s charcoal solution,’ she goes. ‘It’ll soak up the residue.’ And I must look soft or daft or something, ‘cause she goes, ‘The residue. You know, what’s left of the tablets in your stomach. Understand?’ I understand alright. I know what residue means. I’m not soft. I’m not stupid.

And then she shakes the bottle. She pulls the top off the bottle. She attaches the bottle to the tube. She raises the bottle up high. She squeezes the bottle and I watch the inkyblack liquid run along the tube and into me. ‘Almost done now, love,’ she goes as my belly fills with heavy warmth. And then, when the tube is empty, she pulls it outta me. She pulls it slowly, carefully. And then she places the tube and the empty bottle on the trolley. And then, after a moment, she hands me a tissue. I wipe my mouth and she takes the wet tissue from me. ‘All over now, love,’ she goes in that sweet, high tone. Yet, she’s wrong. It ain’t over. Not for me. Not really. I don’t say that though, do I? No, I just go, ‘Thanks.’ ‘We’ll clean up now,’ she goes. ‘Doctor’ll speak to you and you can sleep it off.’ And then, after they’ve collected stuff up and mopped the floor, they wheel the trolley outta the room. ‘Tara lad,’ they go. They sing-song it, in unison, in harmony. Then before the door closes behind them, I hear Sweet Voice. She says something. She says it to the dark-haired one. She says it matter-of-fact, relieved, truthful. She goes, ‘Thank God we don’t get many like him.’ And I cry. I cry alone. I cry softly. ‘Oh, God,’ I go, even though I don’t believe in God. And eventually I see a doctor who’s all frown and nodding head. I tell him what he wants to hear; that I’m alright. ‘Just a drunken mistake,’ I go. And then they put me in another room. They let me sleep, but not for long. At seven o’clock another one of them, a man, comes. ‘How are you?’ he goes. I go, ‘Oh, you know, alive.’ 52

‘How are you getting home?’ he goes. ‘A taxi,’ I go. ‘Is there someone at home?’ he goes. ‘Yeah,’ I go. ‘You shouldn’t be alone,’ he goes. ‘No,’ I go. ‘No one should be alone.’ He goes, ‘It’s just that... Well, you know, we need the bed.’ ‘Yeah,’ I go. ‘I understand.’ He drones on about it. ‘Yeah,’ I go. ‘I get it.’ And later I’m on Prescot Street. And I’m alone. And I have no money. And there’s no one to call. And I’m walking home and there are cars and buses and black taxicabs with yellow ‘For Hire’ signs. And it’s cold and windy and people are walking on the pavements and they’re wearing coats and jackets and hats and gloves and Liverpool FC or Everton FC scarves. And I still have a headache and a dry throat. And then there’s this evil, chemical taste in my mouth. And I retch. And my stomach’s tight. And I retch again. And then I vomit. And what I vomit is foul, black. The blackest black. And I’m down on the pavement, on my hands, on my knees, head over the kerb. And I vomit again. I chuck up the blackness, the charcoal. I heave it into the gutter. The blackness contains the residue of the painkillers, but something else too. It contains the residue of me. Who I used to be. What I used to be. Does that make sense? I don’t wanna do it again. I don’t wanna swallow another handful of pills. I don’t wanna die, not really, but I can’t say that I won’t do it again. I can’t. I just can’t.

Voices Susan Martin 2nd Place Nurse unlocking, Lizzie rocking, voices mocking, nothing shocking. Neither rhyme nor reason to be found here. Another day begins. Mrs Bright - ‘Bright by name and bright by nature,’ - singing as she polishes the brass plate on the large, imposing front entrance of the new day centre. ‘Danny boy the pipes, the pipes are caaalling. If there's one thing I know it's brass. I've always said, they'd go a long way to find a better polisher than Betty Bright. Worth me weight in gold -- or brass.’ She laughs at her own joke and despite never having seen a glen, nor likely to, finishes her rendition of Danny Boy. For everyday she has the same routine. Everyday has the same routine for Willie McBride, since 1982. That day on the Falklands the dam of his dreams finally broke and he was left an empty shell. An apt metaphor for a life destroyed by war. Of course in the early days they had high hopes. ‘Don't worry Mrs McBride. the army doctor told her. It's to be expected after what he's been through. Just give him time.’ So she gave him time. All her time in fact. But he had never come back from that sinking ship. So today he sits in the hall of the mental health centre. Over the years he's sat in psychotherapy centres, rehabilitation units, day hospitals.. They're all the same to him because always somewhere is Hilda, guiding him through life's unforgiving ways.

‘Hilda, is that you Hilda? Hilda ,is that you?’ Nurse Thomas, ‘Call me Joan. We like informality here,’ rustles reassuringly as she passes his chair. ‘Still out here Willie. Why not join the writers group. You must have lots of memories.’ If only he did not have so many. He ignores Joan because she is not Hilda. ‘Hilda, is that you Hilda?’ Eventually it will be and she will take him home but he will still call her name. Waiting in the corridor for the teashop to open, Eva and Peggy rehearse their routine. They practice every day. ‘Late again. Volunteers, you can't rely on them. Too mean to pay a proper worker. Health service! Wealth service more likely the money they save with these cutbacks. It's not right. ‘After all, we didn't ask to be ill. The sounds fume up the corridor, spluttering their annoyance. Choking others they meet on the way. Finally, almost but not quite lost for words, they pause as if waiting for some ghostly prompt. Instead, enter stage left Sylvia, who runs towards them, breathless, keys aloft. ‘Hang on girls. The buses again.’ They all tut at late buses, late volunteers, late starters in a world where some never ever get going. Meanwhile the urn is resuscitated and will live to boil another day. Now Eva was strong. Anxious, tense, nervous, highlystrung. All of these and more but with a will like iron. It had not always been the case. She had not been strong enough to stop them taking her baby all those years ago. They had to, of course.

‘There's no other way, Eva. Just you remember we're a respectable family. You must be mad to want to keep it. Now we'll hear no more of this nonsense, not if you want to come back to this house. But of course it must be your decision.’ ‘Hush little baby, don't you cry. Momma going to give you.......life, that's all I've got for you. At least I stopped them doing that. Hush little baby...’ All that effort, then the nuns with smiling habits spirited him away. To heaven for all she knew, all she was told. And no-one ever mentioned it again. That's forgiveness for you. ‘So now you can get on with your life. Don't forget. It's not been easy for us either. All those lies we had to tell. We're a respectable family. We're a respectable family. It seems long ago the record had got stuck and now no-one knew what the rest of the words were. So she did as she was told and put it all behind her. But only just behind her, so that at every turn she almost saw him, almost heard his childish laughter, saw his tears, his joy. But she was always just too late. ‘Thomas. Thomas’ She'd called him that after his father. But he never answered. She was the only one who could calm Willie when he took one of his turns, cursing and swearing at an enemy he knew was there but could never quite see. Perhaps it was because they were both haunted by ghosts that would not go away. Peggy never understood why she bothered with him and she never told her. ‘He doesn't even know you, poor sod. Why do you sit with him so long. I tell you you're wasting your time. Get more sense out of my budgie.’ Only Eva saw the thread that drew them together. He had finally lost his mind that bitter day and in a cold convent she

had lost her soul. Better a mad daughter than a bad daughter. But perhaps one day...... ‘Perhaps one day they'll learn to make a decent cup of tea. I sometimes wonder why we bother waiting.’ But deep down they hope that it is true that everything comes to those who wait. For everyone here is waiting for something - or someone. But do they have enough time left? Paul was hard work. If you didn't just catch him he could be lost to his madness, too far away to reach for hours. Shouting and restless it was all they could do to keep him in the building. Of course, everyone at the centre had theories about everyone else. ‘I blame those food additives. In my day we had decent grub, not the rubbish you get now.’ ‘Microwave ovens - wouldn't have one in the house. It's the rays, they leak out and attack your mind.’ ‘Conscription, that'd solve the problem. Too much time on their hands. Now in my day....’ ‘Video games. The violence, it unhinges the mind, particularly if it's weak.’ ‘They can' help it, poor souls. They're born like that you know.’ ‘The sins of the fathers. It was prophesied.’ Politics, religion, women’s lib. All run the gauntlet of blame. Somehow poverty, abuse, deprivation, biochemistry get forgotten, pushed aside for more modern or mythical theories. Paul paces on through the familiar rituals that keep him safe. The quiet room helps for in his head there is no silence. Only voices. Ellen knows from where her madness comes. Those times when she goes for days without eating and sleeping, exhausting all who come in contact with her. Then, without 57

warning, as if suddenly she reached a precipice she would plunge into deepest despair. ‘You have a manic-depressive illness, Ellen,’ the doctors had told her. It's a problem with your blood chemistry and we have drugs that can help.’ But she knew she had chosen madness over sanity as the less painful of the two options. She could still hear his voice, ‘It's our secret. You wouldn't tell anyone would you. We're special, you and me.’ She didn't tell anyone, not even when she became pregnant at thirteen. It was when the baby was stillborn the dam seemed to burst. She tried to tell people but her dad had been right. Who would believe a little slut like her. ‘You'd have to be mad to put up with that sort of treatment,’ she would hear people say and she knew madness was the only way she could survive. It was not a choice as such. More of a consequence. It had taken twenty years but now, slowly she was uncovering some of the pain and starting to take control of her life. It was not easy. In fact it was easier to be mad. But now finally she knew she deserved better. That what had happened was not her fault. And she has hidden strengths. Other patients liked to talk to her. ‘You can tell Ellen anything and she always listens.’ For Ellen is still paying the price of not being heard. ‘And she never says it must be your own fault. She's ok Ellen. Pity she's, well, you know, a bit wild. And I believe she came from a good family. Funny how some people go wrong for no particular reason.’ Ellen hears them talking and just smiles. For words can never hurt her. As the tea does it's rounds there is a lull in conversation. Nothing to be heard but the gentle lapping of liquid.

For we are not all mad, all the time in the madhouse any more than you are sane, all the time out there. It is fitting that Willie has the last word, for by and large he has only one. â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Hilda, is that you Hilda?â&#x20AC;&#x2122;

Erica’s Orange Brian Hutchinson 3rd Place The phone rings. I pick it up. A voice says, ‘Hello what are you doing.’ ‘Nothing,’ I say. I’m depressed; no, angry and a few sentences are over in moments that seem an eternity, then all goes quiet and I can’t remember if they said goodbye, or just hung up. I’m in a room, floating. I can leave my body and look down. I’m sitting in a corner. It’s dark. No windows or doors. The ceiling is solid. No escape, only into thoughts, which don’t shift, staying focused, in corners, wanting to move but they can’t, I’m trapped. I have no future. Or past. Only here, now. Outside, the garden is filled with sunshine. Children skipping circles of happiness. Birds flirting love songs - until the sky turns blue, then cold; until the stars tempt out the scents of life - and hearts yearn for another day - But not mine. Life doesn’t exist. I can’t get out. No point: My Mum and Dad died - then my dog - and my soul passed along with them. My stomach shakes. I’m restraining tears. Panic attacks, anxiety attacks; Roller-coaster emotions until fluid shoots from my nose. My insides swell, wanting to purge sins of eating food laced with guilt, clogging my arteries, but freeing my mind. Wild thoughts that jump out from my face and stare right back. But I can’t look away. I sweat profusely and my heart bounces with nowhere to go except a dark, wooden box, But I’m not ready - I’m scared and I cry for help - And when the cold cloth bathes me - and I drink the cold bitterness, I shun sweet placations, because, ‘I can’t - take - any more…’ Nothing… I’m trapped and her words may kill me. I can’t put 60

any more inside my mind. There isn’t room, because I’m dying; I know I am - and at that precise moment, I really am. The phone rings again. A voice purred the name ‘Erica’. She was eating fruit. I imagined her wiping the juice from her chin. She talked inbetween crisp bites; then grief hit me again - and my mind froze over. ‘The dog. He was a good dog?’ Her patience was healing. I dug deeply for words. ‘I could take him for a walk but he is gone now.’ All I could see was darkness. Darkness so overpowering. Lost in my own worthlessness. Staring into vast, empty plains of ‘nothingness’. Cold feelings ebbed into past, lonely dreams: A wet, grey curving beach. The waves, hushing her words. My arms becoming cliffs. Sheltering me from reality. In my bed. My safe haven. ‘I had a dream once, about a garden filled with butterflies sipping dew from the lawn. It was twilight and my Dad was mending a window, building this… house, probably his house?’ ‘The butterflies are still there and it is sunny outside.’ She said. ‘I saw them trying to get warm by the moonlight, of all things, spreading their wings, trying to get warm?’ ‘Soon they will fly away and search for happiness. So should you’ ‘But I can’t get out.’ ‘Then build a window. Ask your Dad to make a window for you. Put it inside ‘your room’. So I made a window. I made a window that I could look out of, and it was quite bright out there, but I couldn’t smell summer. I looked out and saw whiteness, with the odd hue - and I really understood why yellow was so big to Van Gogh; but if I 61

stared, I saw blue, then the blueness turned grey and the greyness weighed heavy, and the window disappeared - and I couldn’t get out…! I would tremble as I thought of my dog. Buster. How I groomed my champion. Teasing him. Putting fingers up his nose. Grabbing his legs to make him drop the log he wouldn’t share. Pulling his mouth until his teeth made me aware of whom he was. How I beat him when he attacked me for rebuking him in front of his friends. Exposing his teeth. Making his statement. Showing me how easily he could kill me. We both learned to forgive, as loyal friends do. Friends who would die for each other. He loved me unequivocally. So protective. He would stand in front of me with his head angled, stance imbuing supremacy. Tearing grass in great streaks with his paws. A warning to those who came too close. Her words melted inside my head and a door appeared, tall and thick and made from trees that outlived great eras. Locks so strong you could never break them. Dad was there. He probably made it. ‘Your father… was a great influence on you?’ Her words so tender. ‘His work had an innuendo of self-esteem. He played it down, his abilities, no matter what he made was good. So good it was guaranteed for a hundred years – but in a hundred years’ time, no one will know that I existed.’ Then the door closed, faded, and I felt guilt, before I felt low - and then I felt nothing. ‘The silence is strange.’ ‘I’m still here.’ She quelled. Her voice was sweet, but her words nothing, only a noise, but a nice noise, mellow. It peaked and troughed and I saw her sounds undulating in my room, my dark, grey depressing room. They rolled and pulsed at the moment of emphasis and 62

again, a window appeared. I had to stand to look out - and when I did there was a casket. The tears surged and my belly shook. And if anyone had looked I could have passed it off as a laugh. But it wasn’t. Snot and tears don’t come together. Not when you’re happy; and if anyone had said it was ‘only a dog’, I would have torn them apart with my pain… Then the window faded, before my tears had chance to dry. ‘One thing you can be sure of is death. It can come suddenly, slowly, painfully or peacefully, but it comes.’ She said. ‘So I will wait - then I can join my parents. Join my dog.’ ‘But… there is an orange out there.’ ‘Where?’ ‘Outside. Where You should be. An orange and it wants to be peeled.’ A silence ensued and overwhelmed me, then I saw it there in my room. An orange encased in my dreary walls and ceiling. Such a simple, yet beautiful thing. It was big, then little, and it pirouetted gracefully, creasing the walls, the fabric of my mind. Pressing hard, compressing, sinking, and I heard it physically ‘pop’ outside. I wanted to touch it. I reached out, but it moved away, as if knowing I wasn’t quite ready. The supple, pitted skin shone of youth and femininity. It turned flirtatiously. Teasing me. Showing me her top, then her bottom. Circling slowly, becoming - more orange. ‘You can taste it if you wish’ She soothed. I reached out and held it, then all my doubts began to pale. I stared into each segment, into her very essence. Each tiny cell swollen with the translucence of being. Her fragrance erupting into my eyes, not stinging, but smacking of life itself. Fresh, abundant, wanting to play. I drank deeply. Her zest bathing my soul. 63

‘There is a reason this orange is here.’ I held it, staring, thinking what it was, then I realised its purpose was to help, and I felt a twinge of guilt, for her seeds now can never become the orchard she so deserved. Every day from then on I held an orange in my hands and saw something other. I have grown stronger because I walked out of that door. The door that I made but will never see again. I closed it hard behind me, and then it turned into the sunshine I now feel on my face. Now each day I find my panic, my anxiety, and place them inside my room, in a tiny corner of my mind, with a window only partly opened so that I can push these feelings through, then close the blinds, and walk away. The phone rings and I tell Erica that I am happy and proud. Proud that I buried my dog. His ashes are now spread around a beautiful tree that flowers in a grand statement to life, in a park filled with laughter. Once a year I go there when it is quiet, and I hug this tree and I think: ‘this is what life is all about.’ The white petals drop from the tree and cover me as confetti. As if eternal love is bonding in the breeze. I now understand that: ‘Things have to go to seed to sow their meadows’… And I am standing in mine now. It’s called, ‘Here’. Watching the butterflies –spreading their wings to the sun.

TWEETS

Natalie Denny 1st Place @wowfest You wouldn't hide a broken leg so why hide a fractured mind? Remove the stigma around mental health. No solace in silence. #MHAM

Eleanor Taylor 2nd Place The black dog is my unrelenting mistress; some days she shows my mercy, other days she leaves me on my knees begging for sweet relief. #MHAM

Jennifer Bishop 3rd Place @wowfest To achieve mental health, focus only on what you want, not on what you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a game changer. Dream. Try it. Trust me. #MHAM

Afterword Writing on the Wall is a dynamic, Liverpool-based community organisation that celebrates writing in all its forms. We hold an annual festival and a series of year-round projects. We work with a broad and inclusive definition of writing that embraces literature, creative writing, journalism and nonfiction, poetry, song-writing, and storytelling. We work with local, national and international writers whose work provokes controversy and debate, and with all of Liverpoolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s communities to promote and celebrate individual and collective creativity. WoW creative writing projects support health, well-being and personal development. Special thanks to Liverpool Mental Health Consortium for choosing Writing on the Wall to help run this competition and to produce this book of wonderful writing, and congratulations to all those who entered, the winners and runners up for producing such quality writing and being generous enough to share their stories with us. If you have a story to tell, or would like to take part in, or work with WoW to develop a writing project, please get in touch â&#x20AC;&#x201C; weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d love to hear from you. Writing on the Wall info@writingonthewall.org.uk www.writingonthewall.org.uk 0151 703 0020