Mental Health & Me

Mental Health and Me

Writing on the Wall Kuumba Imani Millennium Centre 4, Princes Road, Liverpool L8 1TH Published by Writing on the Wall 2014 Š Remains with authors Design and layout by Rosa Murdoch ISBN: 978-1-910580-01-1 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

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Letters

1

Short Stories

11

Journalism

27

Poetry

37

Blog / Diary

43

Tweets

51

Afterword

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Foreword Liverpool Mental Health Consortium has worked for almost 20 years to make sure that the voices of people with direct experience of mental distress are heard. Whether these people are current or former mental health service users, carers for loved ones who are going through difficult times, or individuals trying to take care of their mental wellbeing without accessing support services – we know they have stories to tell and experiences to share.

We aim to help people to tell their stories, sometimes directly to the people who commission or provide mental health support services, sometimes to the wider public. We do this because we believe that the best way to raise awareness and tackle stigma is to talk openly and honestly about the issues that matter and because we know that the people who experience emotional distress are experts about their own lives and a fantastic resource for all of us.

I’m delighted to introduce the inspirational writing included in these pages - in all its wonderful variety of form, style and content. The writers who entered our competition demonstrate how central mental health is in all our lives and how talented and creative people with personal experience of mental distress are and can be.

Thanks to everyone who entered the competition and congratulations to everyone who was shortlisted or won prizes!

Claire Stevens Development Manager Liverpool Mental Health Consortium

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LETTERS

Letters To Myself Gemma Rogers 1st place and overall winner To my 11 year old self This is the year when you pick up a razor blade for the first time and cut yourself with it.

I’m not going to sugar coat things for you. You’re young, but you’re going to have to grow up fast so sit down and listen to what I have to tell you.

Pretty soon you’re going to get ill. Not a cold or a stomach bug, but something much worse and harder to recover from.

I can’t stop it from happening; this sickness isn’t like that. It can’t be prevented by happy thoughts and a positive attitude. Our brain is messed up. Learn to deal with it.

Your illness is ugly. It steals all the happiness out of your life and makes every single day a struggle. Just getting out of bed will at times seem impossible. Prepare to be lonely because it tricks you into thinking being alone is the best way to survive, and you’ll push friends away until they stop coming back. We make it a long time without anybody.

I bet you have a great relationship with mum right now. I envy you for that. I miss her. You can’t tell her you’re sick. It’s a secret. You won’t be able to speak a word until it’s almost too late. The pills don’t work and talking about it doesn’t help either. Self-medication is even less effective, so don’t be fooled by the high of a different kind of pill, because it won’t last forever.

Get ready to hate yourself. I mean to really hate yourself.

You’ll cut and burn your skin to match the mess you feel 2

inside to the outside. You won’t eat for days to look like the girls in the magazines. You’ll stare at your reflection and cry big, ugly tears of a person who knows they’re broken. We break a lot and have been taped together so much it’s hard to tell what’s a real part of us anymore.

I can’t stop you from hurting yourself. I can’t take all the pain away. I can’t make the next ten years any more bearable. But I can tell you this; we get through it. So when you feel at your very lowest, when you go to step out in front of that train and when you take all those pills remember that we do make it. Life clings to us against all odds. I promise.

To my 31 year old self In ten years I hope to be a grown up. A real adult with a career and a car and a house of my very own. To have graduated university and finally have passed my driving test and visit all those places in the world I haven’t yet.

I bet to you being 21 seems like a very long time ago.

University and your first crappy red car and all those problems that seemed so big to us at the time are just memories to you now. They are things that have moulded you into the person you are. I wish that your memories of illness are exactly that; memories. It’s a lot to hope for, but it gets me through my days. To think of a version of myself that is happy and healthy.

I’m a bit stuck right now. I have the potential to do anything I want but I hold myself back. Do you remember this? Do you remember feeling like all the bad things could come rushing back at any moment? I’ve been keeping busy but the darkness lurks in the corners of my mind, threatening to emerge.

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We say we’re in remission. It took so long to get to this point but it’s bittersweet. It could all come crashing down at any moment.

I envy you, future me. You have all the knowledge of what I need to do now to pick the right choices in my life, but you can’t tell me. I have to figure it all out myself, and I’m scared I’ll make the wrong decisions. Please tell me that if I keep my head above water I won’t drown. Please tell me that if I work hard enough I can have everything I ever wanted. Please tell me that if I keep putting one foot in front of the other I will eventually climb a mountain.

To my 21 year old self Just. Keep. Going.

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This is our Rain Ness Hay 2nd Place Dear Bipolar and Alcoholism I cannot continue with my happiness filled with so much hate for you so I will try and forgive you as best I can. There are multiple explanations for the relationship between you both yet some still fail to accept it. Your relationship remains badly understood so sadly others will suffer.

Bipolar you have the ability to rob people of so much single handed so why do you need the support of alcohol to make the pain worse?

You are a bit sly the way you lay waiting for a time line opening and then you show yourself in that person’s life. You do not even knock; you slide in like Toomes from The X Files or as a shape shifter so it confuses the clever people called doctors. You always take advantage of the fact that some people only ever see their GP who have a lack of understanding of you; they are not experts on mental health and put all people in the same box labelled ‘Depression’.

They treat everyone the same and issue the same medication to suit all. Even put everyone on the same dose ‘to see how they go’. No wonder you go untreated for so long. No wonder so many abuse and allow a mockery of your name. Seems like lately the world wants to wear the ‘I am Bipolar’ Badge, yet very few actually have Bipolar as they are never correctly diagnosed as so many never get referred to the experts or are told of pathways of care or correct support in place.

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You are constant and never let them rest. Stop doing that to people it is unfair, let them just have a break from tearing their souls in two. When they ignore you just be still and do not poke away like a needy child. People need rest, a rested mind, and a happy mind. We all should be able to rest at night.

Is this a plan so Alcohol has a job? Create sadness so that alcohol can pretend to be a friend? Little bit pathetic that is.

Together you are both like unruly teenagers with A.S.B.O’s. I could sort out one of you and show you a beautiful new life without turmoil, uncertainty and sadness.

Put you together and you are more chaotic. You should not be together but like all the greatest love stories and tragedies you will always remain until people accept you as a whole and become so powerful against you that you have to behave.

Bipolar you do not need to hide away; you have a beauty rarely spoke of. I learnt so much from you. You showed me how not care about time and reality, how to love crazy stuff like stripping naked in rain and dancing. I will always love the rain because of your ability to show me how to feel it and smell it. You were the wings that let me fly and see a different take on life, become a free spirit. I have had some crazy conversations with you, cloud watching in fields. You see life differently. Falling in love with someone who has you in their world was beautiful. We were doing fine and I loved you deeply as you were funny, snuggly and we had great sex.

So do not hide away and be ashamed of who you are. You are easy to live with, easy to love. Your only fault is you have traits that attract the wrong company.

Alcohol, you are fine in controlled doses but you are a sly fox and you know that bi polar is easily led. Behave! You take 6

away the ability to remember to take medication and can make the down dark days even darker. Stop doing that, it is mean. We had some laughs in my youth but I now watch you gripping the souls of the needy like a shit bag bully.

So I will try and be your friend, if only to watch you to understand you. I keep my enemies close. I need to infiltrate the infrastructure of your relationship as you will not be getting near my boys together. So my job now is to learn as much as I can about you and I need you on my side, if this pain is genetic then I need as much ammunition and education as I can.

You see the man I once loved was you bipolar but he never accepted you in his life. He was scared of you. Scared his family and friends would think you made him a failure and weak. Scared his employers would sack him because he had a mental illness. Scared of the big taboo that surrounds mental illness. He found comfort in you alcohol and you were there by his side as he died.

Bipolar you need people to not fear you as you have so many beautiful qualities. It makes me sad when people think I removed myself and the children from a toxic relationship due to you. I could have lived with you forever as you were easy to love. It is when you associate with alcohol that made us no longer happy.

My boys are my world, you already took their Daddy, and my boys are none negotiable. We need to change how people view you and we need people to understand the beauty of bipolar not just show them the darkness.

Till we meet again A Mother xx

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Dear People Who Work at the A&E Clare Mawdsley 3rd Place Dear People Who Work at the A&E So I’ve got my sleep t-shirt on (and no bra). My hair is wild, I’ve got dopey eyes, odd socks, battered trainers and my breath stinks. But I got the call when I was in bed and I was told to come straight away.

Yes, he’s raving and staring and talking nonsense and running round and not following your rules. But do you know what? We don’t know what the rules are. Just because you work here and you do - that doesn’t help us. You might have seen it all before. But us? We’re new to this. Don’t judge him cos the police brought him down in handcuffs and you’re looking at us now like we’re no better. I feel sorry for the people that don’t have a family to come down and fight for a bit of respect.

You want my advice? Look at your system. How do distressed people cope with the bright lights, the endless waits, the shuffling from one waiting room to the next in the middle of the night? And don’t say the name of the meds you gave him when he got here in that tone of voice when you hand him on to the next person.

I’m sorry if I’m being demanding. I’m sorry if I expect the specialists to be here when I need them. I’m sorry someone else has more urgent needs. I’m sorry if we’re not being eloquent, and that we’ve not learnt the right phrases for you to translate into immediate actions.

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Why can’t you see we don’t know what is happening to him? Why do you all look at us like you’re thinking ‘well we’ve seen his sort before’? Well no. You’ve not seen him like this before. You don’t know how kind and funny and stupid he can be. You don’t have to explain to him next week why we let you lot treat him like this.

Why can’t you put us in a room that won’t agitate him?

Why do you stick us in a room with another family who are trying to hold it together because someone they love is losing it too? Our fear and their fear is boiling up in this room. Can’t you see that? I’m not surprised I’ve got my sarky voice on and that man is ready to punch you.

What you don’t realise is that we’ve done everything we can to keep him away from A&E. We’ve had him in the house for weeks not knowing how to help. Now that he’s been dragged in kicking and screaming, please don’t tell me after a two, then a three, then a four hour wait that if we take him home now (even though this place is making him worse) that he’ll lose his right to see the specialist and it’ll be treated as him walking out. Don’t tell me it’ll only be another hour.

You’ve told me that every time I’ve asked for the last three hours. Don’t talk to us in that I’m-just-trying-to-explain-thesystem-to-you kind of voice. It’s not us that’s wrong it’s the way things work. A&E sucks when you don’t know what to say, what questions to ask, and don’t have the magic numbers to call to get through to the ones that can actually help.

I know you’re not doing it on purpose but you are making it feel even worse. Do we have to come through A&E to get help? Do we have to be here with the heart attacks, the strokes and the drunks? I’m sure you don’t want to be rude and cold and robotic. At the moment, even with the reception and triage process, your caring and professionalism 9

and your don’t-blame-me-I’m-doing-my-best-even-thoughthere’s-budget-cuts voice. At the moment, you don’t even make it feel less worse.

I’ve never written this letter before because I don’t know who to write it to. Me and my family have moaned about this loads but I don’t know who can or will change it. I don’t believe you have the ideas or the resources to make it better for family members who have to deal with it. And as I said, God help the ones who don’t have family.

I don’t want to join a committee or an advisory group or attend training for family members. I just want you to fix it.

Surely I can’t be the only one to say that?

I wait in hope.

Kind regards



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SHORT STORIES

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Bombs Joe Lavelle 1st Place After last bell, I ran from class to the gate and waited like I did at the end of each school day. Stephen was always late.

Always. After a few minutes, he appeared with the other boys. ‘C’mon, Stephen,’ I called and then waited some more while he said tara to Jonesy and Yoz and Walla.

‘C’ya, Velly,’ they shouted as Stephen walked toward me.

Batman was on telly that day. ‘C’mon,’ I said again and then, when we got past the other kids and their mums, we were off. If we ran the journey home didn’t take long. On the way, we passed Tony Slavin’s and then the chandlers, the newsagent and Hanratty’s bakery. Further along, we passed terraced houses and Rathbone Park where young workmen sometimes played football with their tops off. Beyond the park, toward the city centre were the factories - Crawford’s, the Meccano, Paton Calvert, and biggest of all, Plessey with its huge, big buildings where mum worked on the line wrapping copper wire around spindles. By the park gates, we got a wiff of the eggy smell that came from the Borax factory on the other side of the road.

‘Phew!’ Stephen laughed. ‘You’ve pooed your pants.’ I laughed too, and chased him to the corner of Edge Lane. We stopped at the crossing and I grabbed at Stephen’s hand, but he pulled it away from me. ‘Yer ain’t the boss of me,’ he said.

‘Mum said I gotta hold yer hand to cross the road. Yer know that.’

‘Don’t care,’ he said and so I left him alone. I didn’t let him push the button that changed the lights like normal though. I 12

pushed it and after a mo, the lights went to red and the cars and lorries stopped. We ran across the lanes into Elmshouse Road, where we raced along the grass. Halfway way down on the right, we ran into the garden of number sixteen.

Our front garden was neat and tidy; trimmed privets, wide borders filled with orange, purple and yellow flowers. Out of sight, behind the privets, a giant fern sat in a shady corner.

Dad liked plants. I always imagined that he had brought that fern back from somewhere foreign. The tea set in the cabinet in the living room came from Hong Kong, one of the places where Dad was stationed in the army before he met Mum. Dad never talked about the army. Mum said it upset him and not to ask. Dunno where the fern came from. Maybe it had always been there like the lawn that was Dad’s pride had always been there. He watered that lawn and mowed it and sometimes cut it with hair scissors the way that Tony Slavin used to cut our short back and sides in his barbershop.

As the oldest, I had a key, which I wore around my neck on a long shoelace. Dad hadn’t worked for ages though and most times he was at home so I hardly ever had to use it. Dad often used to sit in the living room with the curtains drawn.

He didn’t like the sunlight. He needed peace and quiet when he wasn’t well. We’d let ourselves in and then watch TV or something in the back room until Mum came home from work and did our tea. If Dad was feeling okay, he’d join us or else we had to be quiet. That day the curtains were shut. I pushed at the door, but it was locked. ‘Hurry up,’ Stephen said. ‘Batman’s on in a mo.’

‘Okay,’ I said and I pulled the key from under my shirt and reached up to the lock, but the door wouldn’t open. ‘It’s bolted,’ I said and then Stephen was gonna moan some more, but Dad appeared in the window from behind the curtains. Dad was tall and broad-shouldered. He was a 13

labourer. A hard worker, Mum reckoned and a good timekeeper. Dad liked to be clean-shaven. He said that if nothing else, the army had taught him two things; presentation and punctuality. He never said anything else about the army. His curly, fair hair was always Brylcreem’d and combed. Always.

At the window though, Dad’s face was sweaty. He hadn’t shaved. His eyes were red-rimmed and his hair was untidy.

‘Fuck off,’ Dad shouted. ‘There’s bombs!’

His voice wasn’t Dad’s voice though. Dad’s voice was soft and deep, but that voice was high, screechy. Stephen and me looked at each other. Dad left the window. ‘Dad swore,’ Stephen said and then the flap of the letterbox in the front door opened. I could see Dad’s face behind it.

‘Joe, take this,’ Dad said. A green package came through the letterbox. I caught it. It was Dad’s Christmas present to Mum; a gift set of wee-coloured scent, Tweed by Lentheric.

‘Go on then!’ Dad shouted. ‘There’s bombs!’ The letterbox snapped shut. Holding the Tweed under my arm, I took hold of Stephen’s hand. He didn’t stop me. I lead him down the path. ‘Are there really bombs?’ he asked.

‘Dunno,’ I said. ‘We gotta get Mum.’ As we began the walk to Plessey, Mrs Pearce, who had wrinkly skin and dyed black hair, came out from her house.

Mum often chatted to her, but warned us never to tell her anything.

‘Is yer Dad alright?’ Mrs Pearce asked.

‘Yeah, he’s alright,’ I said.

‘Yer sure?’ Mrs Pearce said looking into my face for the truth.

‘Yeah, I’m sure,’ I said.

At the factory gate, the man said we’d have to wait for Mum. ‘They knock off in a mo though,’ he said and we leaned against the fence. A horn sounded and then a crowd of men 14

and women came out from the buildings. We stood up straight and, after millions of people passed, we saw Mum. ‘Oh my God, what’s happened?’ she said ‘There’s bombs,’ Stephen said.

On the walk home, Mum threw the Tweed into a bin. She said very little. Then, when we got home, she told us to wait in the garden. She knocked at the front door then turned to look across the street. Net curtains in some of the windows moved. ‘The soddin’ shame,’ she said and then Dad came to the door. They talked through the letterbox. ‘Joe, just let me in for Christ’s sake,’ Mum said. ‘The neighbours are watching.’

Dad and me shared the same name. It meant that I was like him. More like him than Stephen even though Stephen had Dad’s fair hair and I had Mum’s dark hair. I didn’t wanna be like Dad, not really. It was hard to explain. I didn’t hate Dad. I loved Dad, but still, I didn’t wanna be like him. The thought of being like Dad scared me.

Across the street, Mrs Pearce came to the front door then stood, gawping at us.

‘What’s she looking at?’ Stephen said. ‘Cow!’ Then Dad let Mum into the house and then we heard shouting. ‘Are they fighting?’ Stephen asked.

‘Dunno,’ I said, but they weren’t fighting ‘cause Mum then opened the front door and called us in.

In the hallway, the coats that always hung on the coat hooks were on the floor and there was a smell like something had burnt. Mum shut the living room door, but we could hear Dad behind it. ‘Bombs,’ he said. He said it over and over again. ‘Bombs, bombs, bombs.’

‘Is Dad okay?’ Stephen asked.

‘He’ll be fine,’ Mum said. ‘I need you to go up to your room for me though.’ We did as we were told, but then we 15

listened to her on the phone in the hallway, but we couldn’t hear much or make any sense of it. Then Mum went into the living room. We heard her talking with Dad, but couldn’t hear much of that either, just Mum saying that Dad needed to take his pills. And then we heard Dad cry and then Mum cried and then Stephen cried and although I didn’t want to cry, I cried too.

When the Policemen came, there were two of them, an old, short, fat one and a young, tall, skinny one. We saw the Police car arrive from our bedroom window. A bit later, an old, bald man in a suit arrived and then an ambulance with a driver and a nurse. Mum and the Policemen and the bald man walked Dad to the ambulance. Mum kissed Dad goodbye. Dad and the bald man climbed into the ambulance with the nurse and then the ambulance drove off.

Later, we helped Mum tidy up the big mess in the living room.

‘Where’s Dad gone?’ I asked.

‘The hospital again,’ Mum said.

‘I hope he never comes back this time,’ Stephen said.

‘We’ll have none of that!’ Mum said.

Stephen started to cry. ‘But Mum,’ he said.

Mum held us both. ‘I understand son,’ Mum said.

‘But he’s your Dad. He’s your Dad.’

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Patchwork Quilt Sam Kenny 2nd Place The house is silent in a way that it never has been before.

The air hangs, suspended. There is a sense of expectation.

Everything awaits my mother’s return, but she will never return. I don’t know how I will cope. (‘Nobody, nothing to do to. Nobody to call to help, nobody.’)

This house is filled with the story of our life. There is a tale behind each delicately embroidered cushion made by my mother when her sight was still good. Each wall hanging and tapestry has it’s own history. And the patchwork quilt she made for me when I first became ill. Every patch is a memory. (‘Ruined her life. Old and ill and died. Wish it was you.

Wish it was.’)

The voice is called Suzie. My earliest memory of her was on the day of the accident when Mum lost her left eye. I was five. Back then, Suzie spoke like a child. She was like a playmate, a friend that I could hear but couldn’t see. But as I grew older she changed, becoming wild and angry. She wanted to destroy me. She drove me to the darkest corners of my mind. All through my adolescence and my early twenties she tormented me. She would howl through the night so that I couldn’t sleep. She would roar and vomit through my exams so that I couldn’t concentrate. She alternated between petulant child and evil witch. She wailed like a banshee, and the more I tried to shut her out, the more

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she demanded to be heard. In the end, I pummelled my head against the wall in a desperate attempt to get rid of her.

I watched my mother grow thin with worry. Her hair turned silver and her face became a web of lines. There was no madness in her family, but as for my father’s side, she could not say. With looks of grave resignation, the doctors whispered schizophrenia, as if they were talking about cancer. She listened to their advice, allowing me to be hospitalised and medicated until I begged her not to save me if she found that I’d harmed myself again. Fortunately, she didn’t listen. Instead, when the doctors had nothing more to offer, we tried a different strategy. Bringing me home, she stopped my medication and taught me to listen. Gradually Suzie calmed down.

When I was at my worst, Mum would wrap me up in my patchwork quilt and talk about the memories evoked by each patch. The red fabric with the white daisies from a summer dress she’d made when I was nine; the pink fabric from my first doll’s dress; the rich purple velvet from my favourite coat when I was four; the yellow baby blanket that she’d wrapped me in when I was born. There was a single piece of pink towelling which was the only part of the quilt that seemed to hold no special memory. ‘But I like it,’ Mum would say, rubbing it against her cheek. (‘Me-me, me-me, me-me,’) ‘What does Suzie say today?’ Mum would ask.

‘She wants me-me,’ I’d say.

‘Well you must tell her, very kindly, that she cannot have me-me unless you are painting.’

Me-me is when I let Suzie take charge. I sit quietly, let my mind go blank, and allow Suzie to have some time at the controls. She loves it, but she can’t be trusted. Two suicide attempts and various nasty self-harming incidents have 18

happened under Suzie’s watch. Also, she loves to drink and fuck. I have woken up with no end of strange men in my bed thanks to her. These days I keep her constrained to painting.

She’s really good at that. She brings a wild, unrestrained darkness to our work. We’ve become famous locally and the pictures sell well. Art seems to me to be the single positive thing that has come from my spells in the psychiatric ward.

Art therapy led to A’ level art and then to Art School. I guess it’s in my blood. Mum always was creative; her greatest sadness was when the sight in her good eye faded towards the end of her life, forcing her to give up her sewing.

Suzie is weeping now. I hear her softly keening. I try to keep her calm and not alert her to my fear. I have never had to manage her without my mother’s help. I wrap myself in my quilt and listen to Suzie’s intermittent sobs as I drift off to sleep.

I have a vivid dream about Mum’s accident. I am holding a small doll, its sleek, plastic arms outstretched, hard and pointed. Mum is leaning over the table where I am sitting.

Then, she is screaming, clutching her left eye and curled in agony. There is blood dripping from the doll’s hand.

When I wake up Suzie is quiet and I take the opportunity to go to my mother’s room. I want to comprehend the enormity of my loss. I want to make it real. If I can make it hurt as much as possible now, I think I will have some grasp of what lies ahead. I need to fathom the depth of my grief.

The room smells of her. When I was a child, she smelled of lipstick and French perfume, but as she grew older her smell aged too. Even after I opened the windows it hung in the air. I cleaned her room, but it clung to the carpet and the curtains and the bed.

I trail my fingers across her hairbrush, and the perfume that she hadn’t worn for years, and her crucifix and beads. I 19

touch all of the things that she touched most recently, as though a trace of her warmth might yet remain. I stroke the handle of her bedside drawer and then tug it towards me.

The inside is neat and tidy and contains all the documents that I will need to get me through the transition of her death.

She has left a will, insurance forms, a funeral plan and a list of people that I am to call. She has thought of everything.

There is a large manila envelope addressed to me in my mother’s spidery hand. Unlike everything else in the drawer, it is sealed.

I tear across the top as carefully as I can. I do not want to damage anything that belonged to her, even an envelope.

There are documents inside. I see my birth certificate carefully paper-clipped to two other documents and a Polaroid photograph of a baby in a pink towelling babygro. I have never seen my birth certificate before and I take a moment to read the details: my mother’s full name, and my father’s name, which holds no significance for me. The second document is also a birth certificate. The date is the same, but the name is different. At first I find this difficult to understand. Did my mother change my name? I hold them side-by-side. There’s me: Carol Marie, and there’s her: Suzie Anne, and behind that is a death certificate for Suzie Anne, recorded on the same day.

‘You were real,’ I whisper. And for the first time in my life, there is profound silence.

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Borderline to What?

Susanna Adlem 3rd Place ‘Well you’re clearly Borderline. I’ve known that from almost the first moment I met you’ I had no idea how to respond. Obviously I was supposed to understand this statement.

‘Borderline to what?’ I asked, not really expecting an answer and true to form none was offered.

‘I just thought I should tell you. It might help you if you read up about it.’

I nodded vaguely, aware of that odd sense of unease I so often felt when around Rachel. At that present moment it was because she was rushing about, clearing the table and darting between the kitchen and the dining room. It seemed to me she wasn’t actually achieving much, just moving things from one surface to another, but pointing this out would probably not have been helpful. There also didn’t seem to be any particular need for this frenzy of activity. It gave me the impression I was in the way, despite the fact that it was Rachel who had invited me over.

‘So this girl,’ Rachel continued, ‘what level of addiction are we talking about here? A couple of beers? Marijuana? …or something more dangerous like Heroin?’

‘You mean Jo? Oh, I dunno.’

I didn't really want to be dragged back into this weird mix of pseudo counselling and housework. Unconvinced Rachel would give me the attention needed for this line of questioning, I was afraid she would open a can of worms and leave me to clear up the mess alone. However, the allure of 21

connecting on a deeper level with this older woman proved too hard to resist.

‘Well I don't think it would take much for me to get addicted and yeah, she's way up there with the class A head fucks.’

I hadn't meant to swear but in the moment I couldn't think of a better description for Jo. Rachel frowned slightly but let it pass.

‘Go on’ she encouraged.

‘Well she’s married and has two kids.’ I paused, feeling the weight of that statement alone and reluctant to add ‘…and she’s sleeping with two guys on the side.’

‘And she kissed you.’

‘And she kissed me.’ I rolled my eyes, despairing at the lunacy of a situation I too often found myself in.

I didn’t even think Jo was that attractive, but for some reason I was hooked. I knew the signs only too well. In a few weeks I’d be completely wrapped around her little finger and I had the feeling Jo was the kind of person to thrive off that power.

‘I know I’m the one who will get shockingly hurt here, but I can’t seem to help myself.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Rachel asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

I didn't know what to do. I was sickened by my own weakness and lack of self-respect. Jo was not the first. She was simply the newest member to the exclusive club of unavailable woman I'd fallen for. In fact, all my relationships seemed to be chaotic or inappropriate in one way or another. It was excruciatingly frustrating to once more be in this situation and as usual, there was no possible way it could end well. Morality aside, any happiness I might gain from being with Jo would inevitably be swamped by the rejection 22

I'd experience every time she chose her husband, other lovers or even her children over me. Even so, the thought of losing her was already unbearable. I was going to get hurt whatever I did. I knew, like pulling off a plaster, it would be better to do so quickly. I'd never been very good at doing what was best for me though.

As I thought about it, the familiar physical sensations of anxiety, with a hint of self-disgust and anger thrown in, began to manifested in my body. My heart raced, muscles tensed and jaw clenched as my breathing grew rapid and shallow. I recognised the early warning signs of a panic attack and I had an overwhelming desire to flee. Fighting back the urge to run, I ended the conversation the best way I knew how: I told Rachel what I thought she wanted to hear.

‘I guess I'm going to have to end it with her.’ * I walked into my bedroom, kicked off my shoes and threw myself onto the bed, burying my head in the pillow. I lay there a few moments, my conversation with Rachel running through my mind.

‘Fuck’ I said out loud to release a little of my frustration.

I often felt an emptiness when alone and company only distracted from it temporarily. The sudden jolt of loneliness was all the more acute having just been with someone like Rachel. That is to say, someone else who I idolised and obsessed over. I had described Jo as an addictive drug, while 'using' Rachel in the very same way. The irony would have made me laugh if it wasn't so depressing. Rachel seemed less likely to hurt me than Jo though, but like any drug, she left me wanting more.

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Automatically I reached for my laptop and immediately checked to see if Jo was online. My disappointment that she wasn’t only served to heighten my current feeling of selfloathing.

I browsed my newsfeed to see what the rest of my friends were up to, but couldn't find anything suitably distracting.

Recalling what Rachel had said earlier about me being Borderline, I typed it into the search engine. A band’s website appeared and one selling concert tickets, but the third result down was: Borderline personality disorder - the online encyclopaedia en.pedia.org/Borderline_personality_disorder Borderline personality disorder (BPD) is a personality disorder characterized by depth and variability of moods.

The disorder typically involves unusual levels of instability…

I was about to click on it when my laptop chimed and a tab at the bottom of the screen started to flash. Jo was online and starting a conversation with me.

Jo: Hey! Me: hi!

Jo: Just wanted to check you’re alright after the other night?

Me: oh yeah, I’m fine.

Me: u?

Jo: Yeah totally. I had fun.

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I thought about that metaphorical plaster I should probably be pulling off as quickly as I could.

Me: Ummm? I think maybe we shouldn’t see each other for a while There was an agonisingly long pause while I waited for a reply. I didn't think she was the type to simply agree and let me be on my merry way. In truth I desperately wanted her to object. I wanted her to put up a fight. I wanted her to chase me. Finally there was a response.

Jo: I knew you were going to get like this! It was just a kiss. That’s all. It doesn’t mean anything. I’m not even gay! It’s not like it’s going to happen again.

That wasn’t exactly the point. Our kiss, in and of itself, wasn't the problem. There had been a moment afterwards that haunted me more. When Jo was leaving, we didn’t say anything, we just stood there, arms around each other, foreheads touching. That intimacy was what I craved. The connection I felt in that moment was the carrot dangling enticingly before me, but I had to remember the stick that came with it. Was Jo oblivious to the emotional undercurrent I could feel? Could she sense my dependence and the power she had, but was choosing to ignore it?

Me: No, I know…it’s just. I can’t do this.

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Jo: Do what? We’re not doing anything. We’re just friends.

I began to question my resolve and wondered if I was overreacting. Was this all in my crazy head? Were we actually just friends? Then again, did I just want to believe that so I could convince myself it was alright to keep seeing her?

‘Shit!’ I yelled. ‘Shit, shit shit!’

I felt like I was lost in a fog and didn't know what to do for the best. Perplexed, I couldn't trust my own interpretation of events but I wasn't sure Jo was being honest either. I longed for her to make this confusion go away. To hold me and tell me everything would be alright. Despite that, I couldn't stop the internal alarm bells from ringing. They warned me of danger if I didn’t take deliberate action. The chime from my laptop interrupted the whirlwind of questioning thoughts.

Jo: I’ve gotta go. Chat soon xx I exhaled something akin to a laugh in angry incredulity.

She had left me to endure this emotional turmoil alone and for how long? With no other target, my anger was directed inwardly. Filled with self-loathing I grabbed the knife I kept for one purpose. I watched with satisfaction as the blood flowed down my arm and dripped into an expanding crimson pool. The pain was momentary in comparison to the calm that flooded over me. It wasn't a solution, but it was the only resolution I would have that night.

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JOURNALISM

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My Dad, the Schizophrenic Lewis Jennings 1st Place You’re in a room with two people; one you’ve known and adored all your life, the other you’ve just met. The person you know tells you that the other person in the room is beating them and wants them dead. The other person tells you that this is all lies and your loved one is mentally ill. Who do you believe?

Choosing to believe the nurse over my dad was a difficult choice for me, aged ten. I was young and still naive to the effects of schizophrenia. I’d been told countless times before visiting dad in hospital that, because he’d had a really bad schizophrenic episode, what he was saying could be part of an illusion in his head. However part of me couldn’t help but believe him, it was hard not to as I’d spent all my life looking up to him.

As time went on dad faced a tough battle with his illness.

It went from being the odd voices in his head, every now and then, to completely consuming his life. His schizophrenia spiralled out of control due to him becoming an alcoholic.

Within a year of that first visit he was sent to live in a home where he’d be supervised 24/7. This would mark the beginning of the end for dad, and in his final years he’d find himself moving in and out of this new home and hospital wards.

When he was placed in his new home things actually got better. For once he was smiling and dancing round like he used to. But once the bottle was opened things would take a darker turn. He’d tell me that I didn’t love him and that no 28

one wanted him. It was devastating seeing him so down so suddenly when usually he was the happiest person in the room. I thought it was just drunk talk but this loneliness and often radical change in behaviour were symptoms of schizophrenia.

Dad always tried his best not to show any signs of his illness in front of me; however the voices in his head were becoming more and more over powering. At first he was afraid of the voices. He’d say they’d tell him to do drugs and drink, or they’d kill him. But then as his illness worsened it’s almost as though he befriended the voices. He’d now got to the point where he believed what they told him. He’d tell me he was a football player for Everton, or that Katy Perry was his girlfriend. One time he even told me he was planning on asking my mum to marry him, despite the fact she had passed away.

Part of me was angry at him for the things he was saying, but I couldn’t be because I knew it was his illness talking not him. Visiting him became emotionally draining and eventually I became the only family member to regularly visit him. I’ll never forget visiting him in hospital one time and finding him in his room with the lights off. He’s cloaked in complete darkness, staring at a wall, having conversations with himself.

Watching dad lose his mind was heart breaking. He’d always been the person I relied on and went to when I was scared. Now it was the other way round and it was terrifying.

Seeing him break down and cry unnerved me in a way no horror film ever could. I felt his pain but I felt I couldn’t do anything about it. Though he was supervised 24/7, it hardly felt like that. His supervisors were quick to downplay any worrying signs, and never seemed to be around. I asked them to call the hospital when he began complaining about a 29

horrible pain in his chest, and saying he was going to die.

They told me he was exaggerating and probably had a cold.

The next day he was rushed into hospital and told by doctors that he only had a few days to live.

In his final days dad had completely lost his mind. He still remembered me, but he often forgot who I was or mistook me for someone else. In his head he was perfectly fine and was a big famous football star that was going to throw everyone the best party ever. But in reality he lay dying on a hospital bed, barely recognizable to the man he once was.

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Disordered Lowri Llewelyn 2nd Place Your knowledge of BPD, or Borderline Personality Disorder probably consists of Fatal Attraction’s infamous portrayal of Alex Forrest, the original 'Bunny Boiler'. Although bunnies make me sneeze (if you can’t pat ‘em, you may as well cook ‘em), watching the film was a slap in the face. I wanted to tell Alex, 'I understand'.

I knew there was something wrong as I huddled beneath the desk, hysterical because my boyfriend next door hadn't messaged back. I clearly remember thinking 'I’m emotionally unstable'.

BPD is 'a mood disorder characterised by a dysregulation of emotions,' says psychologist Marsha Linehan. ‘People with BPD are like people with third degree burns over 90% of their bodies. Lacking emotional skin, they feel agony at the slightest touch or movement.’ It makes day to day life terrifying. First visit to a boyfriend’s house? Nervous wreck.

Poster of a bangable woman? Dumping offense. How dare he think with his knob and not care how she feels about Marmite or what book she read on the bog that morning?

Every time I’m reminded of Bangable Woman, the wound reopens.

I’ll think, I AM enough. But the passing comment, ‘Did you see how fit she was?’ can make me fall to pieces again and I'll realise I was definitely given up for adoption by a bell-nosed monkey. It doesn’t matter that I have pretty eyes because everybody is too busy noticing my monkey nose and hippo hips and teeny tiny tits.

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Mild irritation equates irrational fury. Sadness makes me want to practice flying off a cliff. Happy times are mistaken for euphoria. Imagine standing at the edge of said cliff; you jump, falling into the black abyss. About to reach rock bottom, you hit a trampoline, soaring high. And then you fall again. And bounce again.

Sometimes I wonder if BPD even exists, but the Valentine’s Day my boyfriend found me on the bathroom floor, hysterical and bleeding, was real. A symptom is disassociation, which sounds like a convenient excuse to act like a lunatic and deny all knowledge, but I can’t remember much from those intervening hours. Only my tears, the blood, his tears and the rose petals scattered around the bedroom.

BPD sufferers also have a crippling fear of abandonment, which naturally affects relationships with those we’re closest to. It makes us both clingy ('are you okay? You’re angry, aren’t you? I know you’re angry about something. Are you breaking up with me? Fine, I’ll do it!') and stand-offish as we're scared of letting people close. Pushing everybody away hurts, but at least we're feeling something. It's reassurance that we haven’t just made it up, the way if you stare at a word long enough it becomes a collection of letters.

Another symptom is impulsivity, often coming in an inappropriate tirade of abuse towards a loved one, self-harm or overspending. After the breakdown of a relationship I booked a trip to Thailand at a week’s notice, not even knowing where it was on a map. Also - a skydive, convinced: if I jump, he’ll love me again.

Nobody in the public eye has confessed to having BPD despite it supposedly affecting 1-2% of the population. The internet’s rife with comments like ‘Don’t stick your dick in crazy’, and characters such as Alex only reinforce this 32

opinion. So can you blame us for being irritated (OK, FUMING)? Even the label Borderline Personality Disorder is disheartening, my personality the thing which makes me me.

While friends sympathise about a broken leg and queue up to draw cartoon shlongs, mental disorders evoke fear and scepticism. One insisted, ‘If you want to change, you can.’ Try telling someone with a broken leg to think about breakdancing.

BPD isn’t an excuse to act out, but neither is it an excuse for anyone to call me 'crazy'. Views on mental illness are outdated and we as a society should be ashamed of the way we treat those who are, simply put, ill. What use is an able body if the mind is broken?

I used to think I was just a short-tempered crank. I can’t claim an Eat, Pray, Love transformation, but I’m learning to see the merits of being kooky. You may not know what mood I’ll be in from one hour to the next, but you can ask me to do something at a moment’s notice and I’ll try anything once. I can view symptoms like impulsivity as a flaw or value my personality traits because y’know, I’m kinda badass!

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Lucky Dip Cailen Kinney 3rd Place I'm lucky. Sort of. No one chooses to be born. No one chooses their parents, their physical appearance or the time in history and circumstances that we get to live on this planet. I've been a lot more lucky than others: My parents are both incredibly loving and kind people; my poor eye sight, unsymmetrical face and inability to grow a proper beard is perfectly suited to the student, glasses, dirty stubble, 'he looks a bit quirky but I like it' Christmas jumper look (Mum still buys my jumpers so I didn't technically choose them either); I'm living in a time period where I'm probably not going to be eaten by a rival tribe or enslaved by our future machine overlords and was born in a country and family of relative wealth. Think about it, in the big confusing lucky dip of genes, circumstance, and infinite time that our consciousness develops and solidifies around (you can tell I do a social science degree), the chance of me being me is the same probability as me being Jeremy Kyle. How incredibly lucky is it that I'm not? Can you imagine? You’d spend all of your time picking shards of broken mirror from your knuckles from when you were punching your smug reflection in the face; how would you have the time to shamelessly exploit all the poor people for your own financial benefit?

Despite all my luck with such things, like many others, I still find myself struggling from day to day within myself. I suffer from Depression and Anxiety Disorder with a bit of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder thrown into the mix (I've read and re-read my writing up to this point about 200 times 34

already). Considering I have such exceptionally lucky circumstances in comparison to others living in this country, never mind in relation to the entirety of the human race’s bitter struggle for survival over millions of years of starvation and pain, why do I find myself so unwell? Is it genetics? Am I just very unlucky that my genes are more predisposed to these “deficiencies”? One in four people will suffer from a mental health problem at some point in their life with nearly one in five people in the UK suffering from anxiety or depression. Are they all just unlucky to?

Studies are beginning to show that the number of people developing mental health illnesses is increasing as our minds struggle to evolve to the complexities of modern societies. In an increasingly individualistic world with incredible pressures to be successful academically, economically, socially and sexually, is it surprising that we find ourselves so unhappy and anxious when we fail to live up to these unreasonable expectations?

Suffering from a mental health illness is an incredibly tough experience; however, I'm grateful that I have. I've been able to recognise how badly I treat myself, see that I'm placing blame at my feet for things which I have had little power over, and by recognising all of these things I am now more able to make the changes I need, actively taking control of my life. I’ve begun to exercise more, have started meditating and try and stay away from that tempting mistress of denial and self-criticism. I am kinder and more lenient to myself for my mistakes and faults, knowing that I didn't choose to be born or be me and that I'm trying my best. Now it's time society started to think about the changes it needs. ...But yet still I find myself with this whole article highlighted, a touch a way from deleting this masterpiece of 35

self-indulgence. “What if everyone reads this and realises how insane I really am?” I say to myself as my finger lingers stalking the backspace key like Jeremy Kyle eyeing up his latest mentally unwell victim. “What if people feel sorry for me and treat me differently or judge me?” *Over-thinking Jeremy Kyle voice kicks in* “You're pathetic! You're scum!

Just get out of bed!” And it goes on, and on. But it shouldn't.

Mental Health issues are illnesses just like any other. It is not a damnation. And it is not an embarrassment. It is part of our society now and until we accept this and educate, people will continue suffering alone and in shame. I'm lucky. I have incredibly caring and loving friends and family, who support me even when I'm at my worse. Not everyone is as lucky.

And luck should no longer be such a factor.

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POETRY

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If I Didn’t Know Better Mark Curtis 1st Place They played their parts well today all the extras in my life, each planned swerve and stop executed with precision. from mum with toddler – what have I told you about getting out of your pram? - no answer received nor expected, to bakery girl's crisp dialogue – small or large? anything else? – with her chequered costume and her practised smile she craved an oscar for her craft. the near-collision with mobility scooter and sincere white-haired apology, the wheelchair-bound surprising sneeze and her puffing, fat-bottomed pusher. another shop assistant's - two pounds please. bye now. - perhaps a little under-rehearsed. and the climax, the moment unexpected, of an elderly pavement casualty, paramedic at his side - you don't need to apologise – she said with perfect timing, but in my head I heard – this is how it ends - from the mind of the patient (they play the subtext 38

in a psychic loop) all beautifully and tragically done, even the two close-to-bumping encounters with different postmen being orange and busy and chipper with their sacks full of fakery. yes, all very realistic, if I didn't know better.

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You Might Not Know This…

Kate Evans 2nd Place You might not know this but I’m a hollow person With my hopes and dreams scooped out by my brain All see me as normal if there is such a thing You might not know this but I don’t feel anything You might not know this but I am a hollow person My persona is created like an impressionist painting So that I can’t hurt others with my emptiness You might not know this but I can’t stand a thing You might not know this but I’m a hollow person When I’m around others I feel like a failure With every reminder disintegrating more of myself You might not know this but everything hurts You might not know this but I’m a hollow person I float through life with no future nor past Worrying about how you perceive me and not letting the painting crack You might not know this but it tires me out You might not know this but I’m a hollow person Many try to fill me in with warmth and affection But it seeps out in every direction You might not know this but I’m getting help You might not know this but I’m a hollow person 40

I feel guilty being alive wasting your time energy even air Wanting to hurt myself warping perceptions You might not know this but I’m getting worse You might not know this but I’m a hollow person The media makes it seem like I’m a danger to you But this hurts me more than I let others see You might not know this but you stigmatise me You might not know this but I’m a hollow person As hard as I try I cannot lift these feelings I want to be me again and I don’t know when But when my mentality lets me I wish to fill in the gaps You might not know this but this is not out of selfishness just currently who I am, a hollow hollow person.

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If I Could Send You Liz Stokes 3rd Place If I could send a letter full of my woes, Would I feel lighter for sharing them Or guilt for burdening another?

Perhaps in their listing, I might realise The redundancy of those thoughts which Travel most frequently round my head.

How many minutes a day could be filled with More creative, clear contemplation Of more positive destination?

Therefore a steadfast resolution made to Write, seal and deliver to no one My worries, anxieties, distress.

Countered with a full inventory of things For which I am most glad and grateful, Today’s achievements, however small.

That I might feel less weighed down by negatives, More free to ponder on brighter thoughts, Opportunities for my taking.

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BLOG / DIARY

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Excerpts From Mum’s Diary Lorraine J Wood 1st Place Monday 6th January 2011 In the ladies toilet Mum’s hip clicks and clicks as she stands in front of the chrome hand dryer. It growls and wails, blasts hot air onto her hands she turns over to dry, as she imitates the sound.

‘Just like the air raid siren so let’s go home.’ Mum announces.

Mum has a hiding place, I wish I knew where it was, where she’s hidden her fluorescent erasers and pencils, you’d think they’d glow in the dark, instead of hiding between the bundles of socks and out of date bubble bath sets.

Monday 17th June 2011 Approaching eighty mum’s memory fading I took her to an art class. I never knew mum could draw, her artistic talents hidden beneath her apron, at home or at work, her fingers gracefully sifting the flour. The pencil began its new life, a creation born on a winter’s day. Her hand steady, her head bobbed as her tongue peeped a fraction between her lips, a sign of concentration. Nothing distracted her flow, curving the stem so gracefully. It blossomed strong and bold; petals appeared forming the head still bent in anticipation.

Today Mum’s sunflower has grown into a garden full of sketches.

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Monday 24th March 2012 Mum’s drawing birds, their eyes keen and observant, I wish mum was as alert as the birds she drew. I keep buying new art books for inspiration for Mum, and me, wish I could draw Mum a new memory and get her to paint it, in bright colours.

At night Mum draws objects in her flat, she makes them come alive, these synthetic fabrics, wide eyed teddy bears and dogs. She talks to them and tells them she’s lonely, so draws them for company. She folds the perfect paper creatures and stores them in her summer bag with the blue anchor; it’s the bag she took on our last cruise, our last trip.

Monday 16th June 2014 Mum keeps on singing, her favourite song at the moment is ‘Moon River’ she writes down some of the words, and says she heard it in a dream in 2010, then sings ‘Blue Moon I saw you dancing alone,’ she stops, dunks a biscuit in her tea and laughs, her infectious laugh.

Today August 20th 2014 I heard mum sing, in my dream, ‘without a care in the world.’

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Talk to the Guitar Tom George 2nd Place I’m recording tomorrow with the same acoustic guitar I always use. It's the instrument I'm most familiar with but I’m wondering if it’s good enough for the session, 'cos despite the fact that I want to make magic, this instrument sounds like what it is: a thing of wood and metal. Cheap wood and base metal.

If you play a guitar for long enough it becomes part of your voice. It becomes the sound your fingers make. It's a bit like Prof Stephen Hawking's electronic voice - he may not have wanted to sound like that but it’s become part of his identity.

I play a cheap instrument 'cos I've always had cheap instruments - that's always been my sound. I make films on a £50 Flip camera. I make the most out of the least. This has become my visual and sonic aesthetic but that doesn't mean I wanted it that way...

The fact is I've fallen into DIY culture. All of this making photocopied zines and busking on the street is just the culture of necessity for me. People have said to me ‘I like the way you don’t care about money...you’re so DIY...you just do stuff for the art of it’ and I've let them say it, as if it’s true. It fits the convenient myth: the struggling artist, skint but happy. The street troubadour, living on his wits.

I lived that way not because of some devotion to underground culture but for other reasons. Reasons that are on my medical notes. For years I haven’t had the focus, the employability, the social skills that enable other people to 46

have nice instruments, coherent plans and eager cheerleaders.

I clung to the street ‘cos it was a murky netherworld where no-one else wanted to go. I busked at night through endless winters, while other people ordered rounds of drinks in cosey hostelries. Out there I didn’t have to go through the ordeal of wondering what people thought of me in fraught, tense attempts to socialise.

Eventually the ordeal seemed to burn away my social inhibitions. After all, nothing could be more uncomfortable than shivering in bus shelters playing horrible Britpop covers to stag-night monsters, vomiting and pissing within inches of your pizza box till.

Now I’m out of that shit. I’m playing inside and I'm learning to smile. I dream luxurious music. In my head, stadium-sized melodies dance in the sun. It's not the music of artistic compromise.

Some people have instruments that sound like they're made of mahogany and silver - warm and rich and wise. My guitar sounds cheap and honest, but my fingers are saying more than that. My challenge is to make the ugliness sound beautiful.

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Today Amanda Lee 3rd Place 9.30am I wake up and it’s yesterday once again…

10am and I’ve poisoned the breakfast. What the poison of choice is I have no idea. The aching pain of losing my family eats at my gut as I take a bite of each food item on the table.

If they’re going to die then so will I. 11.30am and through my window I see my neighbours collecting their empty bins then disappearing back into their homes. Out of sight out of mind? The lovely old couple are now dead and buried within their own garden and my heart pounds with fear of what I have done. I stand and wait until they reappear past their window, just to be sure they’re alive.

12.30am and I sit behind the taxi driver as he mows down one pedestrian after another. First the man on the bike, then the couple crossing the road, the people at the bus stop have no chance; there’s mayhem and panic left in our wake.

I arrive at my destination and all I want to do is scream myself hoarse until someone can convince me everything’s okay. How do you go about asking a stranger if they’ve just killed someone?

12.45pm and there’s a fire burning through the doctor’s waiting room. I keep staring at the other patients. Nobody’s rushing to leave.

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1.30pm and I listen intently to the local radio station, no reports of any deaths. The anxiety and fear lessons a tiny amount but not enough to stop the pain in my head.

2.13pm I sleep.

5.15pm and 30secs and for the first ten seconds of wakefulness everything is just perfect. The world is filled with colour, my body feels calm and peaceful and my mind is my own once more.

5.15pm and 40secs and everything is wrong. The world is grey and dull, my body feels tight and coiled with anxiety and my mind belongs to it once more.

5.45pm and there’s food, there’s more poison, more panic, more pain and fear and searching for reassurance.

6.30pm the television reports a murder. My mind rolls out its interrogator. Where was I today? What did I do? How did I kill them? How must their poor family be feeling? When will the police come for me? How could I hurt someone? How can I live with their deaths? How can I survive in prison?

What will my friends and family think?

7.00pm I have no answers.

7.02pm I cry.

8.00pm but I don’t want to sleep. If I fall asleep I can escape into the darkness but I will also be closer to tomorrow and tomorrow means more fear and pain.

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I wonder what will give out first. My will to fight OCD or OCD’s will to live?

For now I’m trapped so I give up and sleep.

9.30am I wake up and it’s yesterday once again.

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TWEETS

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Betty Vandy 1st Place Robin Williams was a reality check. Now I give her tighter hugs, longer phone chats & more lunch dates. I don't tell her why. #MHAM @wowfest

Jacob Colquhoun 2nd Place Mental Health Stigma = Discrimination Discrimination = Fear Fear = Mental Distress Mental Distress = ...Oh crap, we're all the same! #MHAM

Kate Evans 3rd Place Wish I could ctrl + alt + del my negative thoughts and feelings but your help is like an amazing task manager #mham Natalie Denny 4th Place @wowfest Darkness clips my wings I struggle with myself to learn to fly again #MHAM

Tom George 5th Place When you're feeling good, that's the time to put the work in; so you stay there. #mham

Emma Carder 6th Place Do not feel alone, Go online to find support, it will be helpful #mham

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Sharon Marshall 7th Place @wowfest Inside the dark walls Voices jostle for spaces Denied light of day #MHAM

Peter Ryan 8th Place ‘At first I was afraid I was petrified,’ but now I’m getting help, I have people by my side. Get support! @wowfest #wmhdlpoo #mham

Alison Down 9th Place @wowfest Mental Health & Me Haiku #MHAM Trying to be strong? Sometimes you just need to be Being is enough

Liz Stokes 10th Place Much talk of ‘parity of esteem’, this World Mental Health Day ministers please open your eyes to the reality #mentalhealthservicecuts #mham

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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 Liverpool’s communities to promote and celebrate individual and collective creativity.

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 – we’d love to hear from you.

Writing on the Wall info@writingonthewall.org.uk www.writingonthewall.org.uk 0151 703 0020

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