One in Four - Niace

One in FourOne in Four is the second publication in the NIACE Voices series. It has been part-funded bythe European Social Fund and created in partnership with Survivors’ Poetry. We have beeninundated with stunning writing and artwork, so what is collected here represents just afraction of what might have been. We want to thank everyone who sent us contributions, notleast those whose work we have included.The title One in Four refers to the fact that one in four of the population – people from allwalks of life – experiences some form of mental distress at any one time. The number of thosein Britain currently experiencing mental health difficulties has replaced unemployment asbeing of greatest concern to the country’s health and well-being. But although mental distresstouches all of us, there is still shame, taboo and stigma attached to the discussion of causes,treatments and implications. This publication, written and illustrated by those who know fromtheir own experience about many of these issues, is a tribute to the wisdom, talent, everydaycourage and humour of extraordinary people, in ways that also raise awareness about thebenefits of creativity and education in the process of recovery.An important dimension of recovery is the belief that individuals are more than the sumtotal of their illnesses. Everyone can discover ways of living both satisfying and meaningfullives, despite some of the limitations caused by illness. This often includes using personalexperiences to help others. Mental distress can create additional skills, insights and strengthsalong the way. Many people explain what has happened to them as a source of growth anddevelopment. And education can help in this process of discovery.Two qualities are crucial in making the journey: hope and opportunity. Without hope peopleare unable to see the possibility of a decent future. Without opportunity and access to theexperiences that give life meaning, the journey can seem futile. Recovery involves individualstaking greater control of their lives, taking risks and making choices. The writing and artworkcollected here reflect the contribution that support groups, user-led organisations andeducational projects can make to encouraging people to learn about their illness, gain insightand understanding, and to speak out, with the authority of experience, about what is needed.There is also much to be learned from what our contributors have to say – both by those insimilar circumstances and by those who work alongside them in a professional capacity.It is very unlikely that that you will remain unmoved by what follows. We hope you will be ableto share this publication with those who want to make a difference in ways that both createopportunities and re-kindle hope.Jane ThompsonPrincipal Research OfficerNIACE

Will SaxtonSelf Portrait

Martin ColemanAdmissionI have been suffering with mental health problems for a number of years. When it was firstdiagnosed I refused to believe it. Then one day I walked into the park looking for somewhereto rest. When I sat down on the bench it was light but when I got up to leave after whatseemed to me to be only a few minutes, it was turning dark. I looked at my watch – I hadbeen sitting there for two and a half hours. This finally made me admit to myself that I hada problem. I remember trying to explain this to the doctor and thinking he would not believeme. Thankfully he was very understanding and when he spoke he put me at my ease.It took two years before I told anyone what I was suffering from. I was scared of beinglabelled a freak. I was also embarrassed because I felt those closest to me would feel that I hadlet them down.It’s now been seven years since I was first diagnosed. In that time I have had good and badspells. Most of the bad spells were when I was fighting and refusing to accept certain aspectsof my illness and trying to carry on as normal. At my worst I suffered severe panic attacks. Ithas taken a long time to realise certain aspects of my life needed changing. Now I have startedto address these issues and my mental health has improved. I have not had a severe panicattack for about a year.Trying to find a new me is the hardest thing I have ever done but it’s been very rewarding.I have discovered a new hobby in reading and writing poetry. This has helped me expresssome of my hidden demons and has given me a new outlook on life.

Kiki WalkerSilent Scream

Sheena SchofieldDepressionEmpty, panicky, guilty, self-hatred, self disgust, alone, weird, sad, hopelessness…are some ofthe words that I would use to describe my experience of depression.I’ve suffered from it for at least 16 years (probably longer, though, dating back to when I wasa child). People who say, “Oh I’m so depressed” in a blasé way often have no concept of whatdepression really is. It’s all-consuming, can be life-threatening and it saps away your energy,spirit and zest for life.My depression bubbled away underneath the surface for many years. Even after beingdiagnosed and medicated it continued to smoulder. I was an expert at hiding what was goingon inside by creating a façade of strength and productivity by using education as a crutch togive me a reason for carrying on. I’d done such a good job at hiding how bad things were thatwhen I finally broke down many of my closest friends and family were shocked.Many couldn’t understand how things had reached such a crisis point so quickly anddramatically. The truth was they didn’t; it had been building up for a long time.I truly believe that for me having a breakdown was a positive and inevitable thing. It had tohappen in order for me and my life to change. It has given me the opportunity to rebuildmyself from scratch and learn lessons from the mistakes that I’d made.I no longer (in fact can’t) keep my worries to myself. I always talk about anything that isworrying me. I’ve learned from my previously self-destructive behaviour to respect myself.And I’ve learned, perhaps most importantly, that it’s ok, not to be perfect (no one is!) and stillbe a worthwhile person.

Emily MitchellThe Bounce Girl

John O’DonoghueFrom An Asylum DiaryThe staff arrive at about six-thirtyWake us at seven. I still feel dirty,Though the sheets are clean, though I bathed last night,Dregs of dreams still draining from my pop-eyedBrain, body sore as if from frantic fight.Another day starts, the ward stirs, we’re pliedWith candy-coloured drugs to stop us fromSeeing life as candy-coloured. We comeDown the stairs after breakfast hung-overFrom tedium, the strain of this mad life.The black girl wishes it was all over,Will try to slash her wrists with a sneaked knife.The ward is quiet. Undercurrents are rife.Occupational therapy starts atNine. I’m on the gardens, pass a black catOn my way to the hut. My wellies clumpAnd shudder as I stride along. The restAre already sat drinking tea, a slumpOf a paddy and a cockney possessedBy some manic devil. Gaunt as a pressedLeaf he cannot keep still. Not at his bestToday, off form, cagey, Pat’s growling(Side effects) and I’m an interloperListening to his tales, how he built, scowlingNow, half the fuckin’, country, a pauperHere, in for life, what they call a ‘no-hoper’.The green fields always bring release. We keepThem short as lawns, potter about half asleep,Filching litter into floppy black plasticBags, raking leaves, trimming the edges onThe long, stone-lipped swathe of grass (fantasticPanorama from up here) which sweeps sun-Lit up to the main entrance, purposeful,Pretending to control, to be useful.The boss, a Pole, has told us of his wife, whoDied last spring. Already grief has startedTo diminish and disfigure him, toRemind us all that the broken-heartedAre like us, live too close to be parted.10

John O’DonoghueSectioned – A MemoirThe smoke is coming out of the wall. Only I can see it, only I know what is going on.Everything is sinking in heaviness: I am heavy, this chair with its frame of black metal rods andfake black leather is heavy, the formica dining table I’m sitting at has a hard three-inch deeptable-top and is so heavy it could have fallen from a dwarf star. Gravity is collapsing, pressingdown on me with a force I can withstand only because my own heaviness acts as a balanceto the dark and majestic compression at work in the universe. This is why the smoke is comingout of the wall, this is why only I can see it.I’d been in Claybury for four months before I was given ECT. I was 16. The day I went for itI was wearing a striped hospital dressing gown and yellow pyjamas. I’d been given The LastRites, and had come round a day or two before I had my treatments.Lee persuaded me to sign the consent form and he took me down. It was a long walk throughthe corridors of Claybury, the smell of shag tobacco and soggy hospital food hanging thick inthe gloomy, dusty air.We came at last to the place and Lee left me there. I waited with a bunch of long-stay patientsin a little waiting area. Quite a few of the long-stays looked like they had ECT on a regularbasis. One man – white-haired, square-headed, a crimp in his forehead – couldn’t stop movinghis legs and twitching. His tongue slavered and his mouth twisted as we waited. He madeyearning noises and looked at me.My turn came. A pretty dark-haired nurse led me through a door and over to an operatingtable. I laid down on the table and a bright yellow light shone in my eyes. My psychiatrist, asoft-voiced Scottish blonde in her thirties, told me I could say anything before she injected mewith muscle relaxant and the electrodes were placed at my temples.“Is this like a sexual ceremony to you?” I asked. I think I was trying to shock her, to sound likeI was up on my Freud. Of course, I hadn’t read a word of Freud.“No,” she answered. She was taken aback, and I felt ashamed of myself. “Now I want you tocount down from ten as I give you this injection.”The needle went into a vein in my hand. I counted. 10...9...8. I was out.I am still missing three days in my life which the ECT has blotted out. Nurses asked me didI remember them feeding me. I couldn’t remember anything. I’m puzzled by these missingmemories. Into this black hole burnt into my brain a rolling mist of fantasy and speculation hasdrifted over the years. I need to know. I need to remember.12

Will SaxtonFast EnoughThis picture speaks of the struggle to exist on a manic depressive spectrum and my belief that diverting ourself-destructive energies into art is the best medication.

Beryl IzzardBlack and BlueIn my mind I was a little matchstick personWith skinny arms outstretched,Hands slipping on the sides of a sticky tin;Scrabbling for all I was worthTo stop myself from falling l said my blue was indigoAnd that was true.But this time it was deep black,So deep I thought that it would smother me.Wrapping round me like a thick cloakMaking me choke deep down with anxietyAnd struggle for breath in a panicInto the dark treacle below.Or I was hanging on by my fingernailsTo a fast-crumbling cliff.Rocks were falling on my headAs I struggled to stay in the same place,Let alone reach the safety of a treeLooking oh so solid and reassuring above my head.I wailed, but my endless tearsWould not wash the black away:There was no light at the tunnel’s end.14

Beryl IzzardTime is of the EssenceYou sit there all powerful, Mr. ConsultantBehind your threateningly large desk;Suited and booted as if for an eventAnd I creep in, flustered and out of breathSpreading confusion with my anxiety.You give me no greeting, don’t introduce yourself,And hardly looking, tersely ask what’s my problem thenIf I’d been well would have said,Have you got half an hour?But feeling very ill, I burst into tearsOf anguish and weeping misery.I cannot say what’s wrong.I feel so dreadful I need help, is what I want to say.All you ask is how I’m sleeping,And looking at your classy watch (It’s latish on a Friday afternoon)Write a prescription, just for sleeping pillsAnd glancing at your watch again and not at meYou stand as if to go.So I am left lamenting,Waiting in a strange place, for an expensive taxiTo take me home, to be alone with my unhappiness.15

Barry TebbOur SonQuarter to three: I wake again at the hour of his birth thirty years ago and now he pacescorridors of dark, in nightmares of self-condemnation, where random thoughts besiege hisfevered imagination – England’s imminent destruction, his own, the world’s…Sixty to eighty cigarettes a day, unavailing depot injections. Failed abscondings, failedeverything: Eton and Balliol hold no sway on ward one. Nor even being ‘a six language master,’here madness is the only qualification. There was the ‘shaving incident’ at school, which madehim ready to walk out at fifteen. The alcohol defences at Oxford which shut us out thenpetered out during the six years in India, studying Bengali at Shantiniketan. He tottered fromthe plane, penniless and unshaven, to hide away in the seediest bedsit Beeston could boast.Where night turned to day and vaguely he applied for jobs as clerk and court usher and drankin pubs with yobs.When the crisis came – ‘I feel my head coming off my body’ – I was ready and unready,making the necessary calls to get a bed, to keep him on the ward, to visit and reassure us boththat some way out could be found.The Care Home was the next disaster, trying to cure schizophrenia with sticking plaster:“We don’t want carers’ input, we call patients ‘residents’ and insist on chores not medication”.Then the letters of terrible abuse, the finding of a flat, the discharge into the community.His key worker was the key worker from hell: the more Isaiah’s care fell apart, the more sheencouraged him to blame us and “make his life his own”. Vital signs of decline ignored orconsigned to files. Confidentiality reigned supreme.Insidiously the way back to the ward unveiled, over painful months, the self-neglect, theinappropriate remarks. In pubs, the neglected perforated eardrum, keeping company with hisfeckless cousins between their bouts in prison. The pointless team meetings he was pattedthrough. My abrupt dismissal as carer at the key worker’s instigation. The admission we knewnothing of, the abscondings we were told of and had to sort out. Then the phone call fromthe social worker. “We are about to section your son for six months, have you any comment?”Then the final absconding to London from a fifteen minute escape, to face his brother’sdrunken abuse. The police were kindness itself as they drove him to the secure unit. Twonurses came by taxi from Leeds the next day to collect him. This place like a hotel – informalityand first class treatment. Behind the locked doors he freezes before and whispers “Daddy,I was damned in hell but now I am God’s friend.”16

John SheehySelf Portrait

Francine JacobUnderstandingThe pain, the anger and hurt just build until each space inside your head is filled.The pressure builds and builds, at some point something has to blow.There is no valve you can release and so you seek another way, my peace.The first cut is the deepest, people often say,but when you take up the glass its not always the way.It often starts with scratches which draw dots of red,but evolves into slashes, deep to make you dead.Though it has to be acknowledged, death is not always the aim.There is a physical release of anger and pain.An external expression of pain felt deep within.Pain you can no longer handle and so your harm begins.You sit listening to music, a pen grasped in your hand,you take a tiny slither of glass – a blade – the whole thing has been planned.Adrenaline takes over, pain is rarely felt.The buzz just keeps on growing with every blow that’s dealt.And as you watch red droplets drip down towards the floor,you feel a strange release, and find your peace once more.It does not matter what you say, they can never understandthe need you felt to cut yourself, serving some inner demand.As you make each cut, you find your release.The valve blows, the pressure flows and your mind empties.In the numb blank state into which you enter, you find your serenity.They say to you that it destroys your soul,but to you it seems to relieve, it brings you calm and peace.Something others find hard to believe.So you tend to your wounds, nurture them and watch them heal.Leaving you a scarlet scar to remind you of what you feel.You wear your heart and your hurt and your pain on your arm.So private, so public, such chaos, no calm.They look and what they see as a scarbut they have expressions of who they are.They are fat, they are thin, they may dress way-outbut it is all an external expression of what they are about.What you wear are your memories of what you’ve been through.Perhaps only scars to them, but essentially you.As you watch red droplets drip down to the floor,releasing the dirt and evil once more,they would see pain if they looked and knew you well –if all they see are scars, let them go to hell.18

Gail CampbellPeace OfferingWhen I painted this I was longing to visit South America, dreaming of llamas and ancient festivals.I did not prime the wood, so the smiles showed through on the surface; I used oil paint, then scored thesurface in parts.

Helen HudspithA Change of MedicationShe reads(upside down from the Doctor’s report),that the last time, she wasappropriately dressed.This,apparently,was good.In the realms of the insaneforgetcomplex psychological theories.No,asliding sartorial scaletells themeverythingthey need to know.This timeshe ispresentingas an emergency.It’sthe pillsthat need to change.After all, she’s done so wellin the communityall this time.(Must be her skills ofappropriate dressing).Andshe wondersto herself,(to the voicesin her head)What exactlyisthe dress codefor a breakdownthese days?Begging for safety, for solacefrom the hum in her head,from the great need to cut.But they decideshe does not need the comfortof locked doors.20

Helen HudspithThe 53rd ReasonThe Conversation – A TerzanelleHe was wearing green andI wasI waswearing blue, and we were closeclose as love or death, I don’t know whichAnd I wasHe was soft sometimes, a warm soil smell,but mostlymostly hard and strong. Like walls,or mountains maybe.And II gathered upmy weight and felt the sinews in my armslegs, taut but tremblingand particular like plucked stringsand pushpushpushed with my hands,my little hands, spread questioning on hischest,and all my fear.But I did notEvenBreak the surface of his will.And he did not everthink,even for a second, ever to stop.You cannot verify the claim was mine,my NI number isn’t in your file.I did not send the form back in on time.You’ll have to put my call on hold a while,this claim has only just passed on to you.My NI number isn’t on your file.I didn’t answer question 6, part two,my doctor’s note is signed in the wrong place.This claim has only just passed on to you,I’ll have to come and see you face-to-face.I have to say exactly why I’m sick,my doctor’s note is signed in the wrong place.I haven’t told you which box you should tick,There are limits to the money I can earn,I have to say exactly why I’m sick.Incomplete forms will have to be returned.You cannot verify the claim was mine,There are limits to the money I can earn,I didn’t send the form back in on time.Or listenBecause I wasnot strong andalone andafraid.AndI wasthere.21

Giuls DriverJust a littlePaintedIf I were half a stone lighterJust a little half stoneI would be betterI would be more successfulI’d have a better jobLive in a better flatWear nothing but PradaIf I were half a stone lighterJust a little half stoneHe’d love me.Painted SmilePainted ConversationLaughingJokingBeing NormalBig PersonalityIn a too short skirtGoes HomeAloneAnd paints her bathroom sinkWith her supper.22

Rachel StudleyVoicesThis is sometimes how it feels to be inside my head. There are voices that hate me, voices that think I’mstupid and voices that want me to die. It can feel like my head is an open invitation party – there’s so muchgoing on in there. It’s hard to explain what it feels like – hence the artwork. I didn’t have to speak in straightlines, I didn’t have to use just one layer.

Padrika TarrantMrs Thomas VanishesThreading her way through supermarket crowdsshe began to wonder if she was entirely visible,when her ankle was smacked by a trolley, pushedby a man too rude to apologise.She made herself a carapace from a stout camel coat,and wore a large and tasteless hat; even sothe next week, queuing timidly for cheese,she found that she could not get served at all.She discovered that she could shout at people,or sunbathe in the garden, wearing not a stitch;but when she went to town, the heavy feetof shoppers battered her half to death.Then her cat, ignoring coaxings and sardinesstalked off to live with the family next door,and quiver whiskered slight grey micedanced on her bedspread all night long.One day, she peered into her hallway mirrorand wondered who it was she came to look for.That was the week the men arrived to clear the house,whilst she flapped and screamed about them, outraged and unheard.24

Paula AlcantreSelf PortraitI was shattered going through mental health. Now thanks to the course I’m on, I am feeling more confidentand looking forward to a brighter future. I am now doing a City and Guilds qualification – Introduction toCare – as well as acting as a community volunteer with Lambeth College’s Return to Learn scheme.

Margaret Theresa CarneyThe One I looked ForHe seemed to me when I was youngYoung, and schizophrenia was all aroundDemons and Angels, a world I foundIn my loneliness and darknessIn the shadows, child with no motherHe seemed to me to be golden – Love and chanceHe appeared at a club, asked me for a dance.In his suit he was breaking freeFrom bad marriage, kids – just like me.He was sexual, he was fun, I felt alive.When mental illness took meI phoned from the unit and we laughedI haven’t seen him for four yearsBut I phone and speak – he grows boredBut he says the sex was good.My illness got better, I got older,The children left, I didn’t lean on his shoulder –So much or so oftenHe was the one I looked forJust a bloke in a suit a bit small,Just a working man –Other girls like his dark sad eyes,His hair is grey now, his parents diedBut he is part of meMellowed out, chilled outI grew up beside himBut on the day that he diesPart of me will go tooBecause he was the one actuallyLove, just passing through.26

David MartynWhen the Blues Bite IOn a good day I amBrightEfficientIntelligentCreativeI can beWarmTactileLovingSensitiveBut when the blues bite ILie in bedCurled upClutching myselfTo myselfWantingto die.27

SueUnder My SkinTaken from the award-winning exhibition Under My Skin. A partnership between Start in Manchester,Benchmark, Manchester Art Gallery and Manchester Learning Disability Partnership arranged for threeStart students to train in teaching through helping six learning-disabled artists to make an exhibition offashion accessories. This hat is an example of the beautiful and high quality artworks created by the artists.Students from Start’s textile group helped to make up the accessories from the artist’s designs. Two ofthe Start trainee teachers obtained nationally-recognised teaching qualifications as a result of this workexperience project.Below: Sue wearing her cloche hat; Opposite: Rosie Clarke (professional model) modelling Sue’s cloche hat. Photos Cathy Fortune

Sue BarrowSevenSeven is good, seven is bad,Seven should be lucky, at seven I was sad.At seven I was a little girl, that had to be so big,The things my Uncles did to me, shouldn’t happen to a kid.The day times they were not so good,but the night-times were horrific.I’d lie awake and watch the door,the dirty yellow paintwork.I’d watch the wood brown handle, I’d watch for it to turn.My heart would be pounding so loud I could not hear.My body it was shaking, shaking with the fear.30

John ExcellAnother CountryThere is another country, Not far away,In fact it is very near.Mental Health Professionals learn all they can about this other country,Talk to people, its observers and residents, But mostly its observers.Read books and papers about it,Attempt to learn its language,But its borders are closed to most of them,They cannot visit it.They meet us at the border.We tell them about our country,But they do not believe us.They say, “This is not true, it is all delusion.”But remember, they have never visited our country.We say there are wonders there,And horrors too.Heaven and Hell.But they do not believe us.They say, “This is all delusion.”We have very little industry or commerce in our country.Only art, fantastic art, insight and our own peculiar wisdom.They take pity on us.They give us food and shelter.But they expect us to obey the rules of their country,Like some benevolent conqueror.They want us to learn their industry and commerce,But this is the death of some of us.We are far happier producing our fantastic art,Or simply dreaming.They would like us to becomeLike the residents of their country,Like them,But many of us are not interested in playing their games.We often escape back to our own country,Where life is easier, less pressured, more inviting.Then they try to coax us back,Full of good intentions and well-meaning,But we are often far happier in our home.There is another country, Not far away,In fact it is very near.32

Bob HoulstonMIND in Dacorum (detail)

Maureen OliverThe Nutter on the BusI am that celebratedNutter on the bus,Clutching my pass IClimb aboard.Midst nervous coughs andShuffling feetI seat myself next toA grey-haired woman withA kindly face,And start to chat‘bout weather and stuff.But she shifts awkwardly andNervously submitsThe misty, rain-spattered, windowPane to an alarmedStare.I must be that famous nutter becauseNow I am mumbling under my breath.Just another trick ofThe senses –I merely thought someone wantedTo speak to me.Sometimes I forgetI am justThat celebrated, almost famous,Nutter on the bus.34

Jim ShepherdFigurative Panel (detail)

Joe BidderDrummer BoyThe drummer boy comes once more,Prances downstreet into my life.Captive to his magic rhythmI dismiss caution, grab some sticksTo beat in slavish syncopation.The drummer boy subvertsSycophantic fellow travellers,Slyly advances the downbeat,Increases tempo, demands obedience.And like a vassal, I follow.The drummer boy runs amok,Clashes cymbals and high-hats,Pounds tom-tom and timpaniUntil life is a screaming wall.And like a vassal, I follow.The drummer boy has left town,Torn down the symbols of time,Leaving chaos and creationIn bizarre symbiosis.Gone the delicious frenzyGone the ecstatic high.The road is strewn with ticker-tape and tinselEvidence that someone had a good time.Now I stare at drumsticks and snares,Trapped in lazy cross-rhythms.I remember the drummer boy,The excitement of dancing on the altar,Frightened of his returnWhen like a vassal, I will follow.36

Tom GilesMusiciansMy thoughts are trapped. I am the jailer of my self’s poetical imagination. I release it through my paintings.Due to mental illness, my artwork helps me to reflect on my moods.

Jacqui LewisMy World

Jacqui LewisMy WorldShadow ChildrenLiving in a dual worldBeing in two or more placesIn space and timeExact timeSeeing, hearing, feelingBothWith such pristine sharpnessDifferentiation becomes impossibleFear becomes a constant companionOf being noticedBut whereThere or hereWhich is which?Poor tangled brainCannot decide unaidedBlood would writeThe pain of not being wholeOf being so manySeparate piecesDesire is to leave the past behindIn its rightful placeThe mouth opens to engulfA multitude of screaming partsAll clamouring for attentionAcknowledging those voicesAttracts labels of madnessThe inevitableInseparable companionsDenial is obliterationTime will find a way!On the other side of colourOn the far side of the mirrorStand the shadow childrenHands and faces pressed against the glassthat no one sees.Their dark eyes see allTheir lips speak nothing.For this is the place of fear and darknessWhere no one would venture willingly.But to rescue the children you must be brave,Take a candle and light their way.Their stories may chill youTheir cries may haunt youBut once having seen themYou can’t turn back.39

Yvonne Mabbs FrancisThe Stages of HospitalisationIn 1969 Yvonne Mabs Francis experienced a nervous breakdown after the death of her father.She was 24 years old and admitted herself as a voluntary patient to the Warneford Hospital inOxford for a period of three months. There she experienced a wall of silence by all the medicalstaff about her condition. These paintings form part of a series begun in 1998 to breakthat silence.

Yvonne Mabbs FrancisThe Third MonthI thought I could see two lockers in which my body was kept. At first I was in a tall locker and had growntall and thin. The second figure of me is in a very low locker where I had tried to grow and formed whatresembled a toffee apple head. To my horror, the third me is not in a locker. In the third month of my stayin hospital I had become a severed head which swung from side to side in order to waddle down thepassageway. My long hair caught under the bleeding neck and pounded against the hard corridor floor,making a squeaking noise that I remember to this day.

Bev PaytonMad PoemCatch this coat tail and let it take you,Take you to madness. Let sanity be lockedUp so you can fly with the thistledown outFrom the dense underbelly of normality.Live this year with your feet off the ground;Think only incomplete thoughts in a crowdThat muddles the brain and fractions factFrom fiction, fractures fantasy infinitely.Let nothing be ordered, either in a numberedOr alphabetical sequence. Scatter methodOut of the window for the wind to take.Uncork variance undiluted; allow discordTo thrash untrammelled in the rivers. ScourDreams, strip from them cosiness and sleep.Let them stark and feral will magic fromA long near dead heart, chant anthems toDissonance from a coma’d threadbare brain.I would madness was here; the touching andUntouching of souls. For surely in madnessThe unthinkable is thought, the unsayableSaid; the undonable done, the unsingableSung, the unpayable paid, the undesignableDesigned, the unpoemable poemed.Described for posterity by an illegible hand –In man’s madness death can be lived to the full.42

Steven JewVickie NelsonI find that I enjoy painting because it gives me satisfaction – striving to achieve and aim, hopefully. I want tocapture a free flow of minds within the delights of imagination.

Mark OckwellBreakdownOne night in the crisis home I couldn’t sleep. I had really bad thoughts and flashbacks. I wanted to talk aboutit but I couldn’t, so I just painted the picture.

AcknowledgementsEditor: Jane Thompson, Principal Research Officer, NIACEDesign: Oliver NewberyDesign Associate: Newbery & EnglandAdvisory Group: Roy Birch, Survivors’ Poetry; Kathryn James, NIACE; Jay Mullard, Totton College.Contributors: Poetry and Prose, Sue Barrow, Joe Bidder, Margaret Theresa Carney, Martin Coleman, Giuls Driver, John Excell,Helen Hudspith, Beryl Izzard, Francine Jacob, Jacqui Lewis, David Martyn, Emily Mitchell, John O’Donoghue, Maureen Oliver,Bev Payton, Sheena Scofield, Padrika Tarrant, Barry Tebb; Artworks, Paula Alcantre ,Gail Campbell, Cathy Fortune,Yvonne Mabbs Francis, Tom Giles, Andrew Hood, Bob Houlston, Steven Jew, Jacqui Lewis, Anthony Milner, Emily Mitchell,Mark Ockwell, Amanda Riley, Will Saxton, John Sheehy, Rachel Studley, Jim Shepherd, Sue in Manchester, Kiki WalkerStart in Manchester helps people to improve, maintain and protect their mental well-being. Start students are all recovering froma period of serious and long- term mental ill-health. They use art and gardening to build confidence, self-esteem and practicallife skills. For more information go to www.startmc.org.ukNIACE wishes to thank Survivors’ Poetry for a terrific working relationship in the creation of this publication. For moreinformation go to www.survivorspoetry.comThis collection published by NIACE 2006National Institute of Adult Continuing Education (England and Wales)21 De Montfort StreetLeicesterLE1 7GEwww.niace.org.ukCompany Registration no. 2603322Charity Registration no. 1002755This collection © NIACE 2006Copyright in the writing and artwork resides in the authors and artists. No reproduction, copy or transmission of any part ofthis publication may be made without the written permission of the publishers, authors and artists, save in accordance with theprovisions of the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting copying issued by theCopyright Licensing Agency.The production of this publication has been part-funded by the European Social Fund (ESF). The ESF is a European initiative topromote educational and employment opportunities for all. The ESF helps people improve their skills and develop their potentialfor work. This publication will be used to promote educational provision aimed at mental health users during Adult Learners’Week and Sign Up Now. For more information about ESF go to www.esf.gov.uk. For more information about ALW and Sign UpNow go to www.alw.org.ukThe views expressed are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect those of the ESF.For more copies of this publication, contact:Sue ParkinsNIACE21 De Montfort StreetLeicester LE1 7GETelephone 0116 204 4247Email susan.parkins@niace.org.uk45

“This is a very brave, honest, and above all hopeful book – a book everyone should read.”Barbara Follett MP1 86201 310 1978 1 86201 3100Voices 2