Music has, in so many ways, been a lifeline for me. As a teenager I wrote songs to survive. As an adult I have playlist upon playlist that I can cling to when life gets a bit much. So many musicians – myself included – have stories that weave in and around the songs we create. Mad Tunes is an opportunity to hear some of those stories – to talk about the stuff that sometimes gets glossed over in a catchy tune.
In each episode I invite a songwriter to share 2 or 3 of their tunes. We listen to them together and then see where the conversation takes us. Each interview is unique and unscripted. It’s a window into some of the things that go on inside a songwriter’s head, heart and life.
Please share this podcast with anyone you think may be interested.
Episode 1: What I Was Trying to Avoid by Writing the Other Songs
In this week’s episode I’m joined by Doll Normal as we listen to tunes from her album ‘Dreams’ and explore the different ways she has processed a difficult time in her life through songwriting. From the quirky and fun ‘Take My Picture’ to the intensity of ‘That Night’, we talk about how songwriting can capture a moment or slice in time … crystallising both the precious and the painful aspects of our memories. We talk about how choices around the style of the song can make it more or less easy to perform and how – with collaborators – it’s possible to hear one’s songs differently and fall in love with them all over again. In amongst all this we explore the role of perfectionism and how to tame it, making space to appreciate aspects of a song that bring us pure joy.
Episode 2: The Right Song Could Save Somebody’s Life One Night
In this week’s episode I’m joined by Kenton Hall as we listen to songs from his former band – ist – and his solo project Kenton Hall & The Necessary Measures. We talk about the highs and lows of being a touring musician, filmmaker and human being. We explore songwriting; processing grief; bipolar; hitting rock bottom and finding a way through. Oh, and how the right song can save someone’s life one night – so it’s worth putting the effort in. Art matters. Now living and working without the highs, Kenton challenges the myth of the necessarily tormented creative genius and talks about how he’s finding a sense of balance.
This online workshop runs over 2 x 0.5 days, from 1pm – 5pm on Monday 13 and Tuesday 14 September 2021.
Whilst there is a growing awareness of the prevalence of self-harm, it remains a challenging area for many who are trying to support those who use it as a survival strategy and/or means of expressing difficult feelings.
This workshop will provide a space for anyone who is involved in supporting people who self-harm to develop a greater understanding of the experience, their own reactions and ways of navigating challenging situations.
It is facilitated by someone with personal experience of self-harm, as well as the experience of working with young people and adults who self-harm in a variety of settings.
This one-day event explores:
The experience of self-harm and some of its many different possible functions.
Our reactions to self-harm (as individuals and members of a team/service).
Having respectful conversations around self-harm
Ways of working with people to explore their relationship with self-harm and its role in their life.
Developing alternative strategies to self-harm to reduce distress and facilitate choice.
Navigating challenging conversations around self-harm.
This workshop is for:
This workshop is aimed at anyone interested in understanding and supporting people who self-harm, inc: friends, family members, nurses, therapists, psychologists, social workers, youth workers, support workers, peer support workers, occupational therapists, healthcare assistants, volunteers, psychiatrists, students and more.
People with their own personal experience of self-harm are welcome on this training, with the proviso that the course content can be quite intense. Being around people talking about self-harm for a day isn’t always easy, and whilst I don’t include graphic images and unnecessary levels of detail – there is a chance that some of the content could be triggering. If you want to check out the content of the course to help you make an informed choice, please email me.
Fees*:
Full price: £120 (including NHS, statutory and/or commercial agencies)
Reduced price: £75 (includes those who are self-funding and voluntary sector/charity organisations)
Pay What You Can Afford: If you can’t afford a reduced place please name a price you feel is fair and affordable based on your own unique circumstances. I operate this on a trust basis to increase the accessibility of my courses. Just choose your payment amount when booking. If you are unable to afford anything at all, please let me know and we may be able to work something out (e.g. an ‘in kind’ arrangement where you help promote the course).
*Alternative currencies: If you would prefer to pay your fee in another currency (e.g. USD, Euros) you are welcome to get in touch. I use Wise for international transfers and may be able to give you details of my bank account in your own currency which can make the process easier. You are welcome to book a place, just choose ‘bank transfer‘ when asked how you plan to pay.
A few weeks ago, I spent an evening chatting with Beth and Tom from ‘Notes on the Mind’ – a new podcast that aims to demystify experiences that are often seen as ‘mad’ or hard to talk about. I went in to the interview really questioning whether I had anything of interest or use to say. Some days are like that – I get tired of my own voice and wish I could express myself in interpretive dance instead. If not for Beth and Tom’s enthusiasm and my wish of supporting them in their endeavour, I would probably have cancelled.
What happened in that hour surprised me more than anyone. It was probably one of the most wide ranging interviews I’ve done. We talked about my experiences, obviously … but we also touched on issues around hospitalisation, coercion, the ‘borderline personality disorder’ diagnosis and the need for more humane and responsive mental health services. I got to speak, a little, about my more emerging understandings of my voices/visions/beliefs … that I no longer seek who or what they represent, but simply accept them as part of my world (even if I don’t always agree with what they say or how they say it).
If you’d like to listen to other episodes, access it through your favourite podcast platform or subscribe – see: https://anchor.fm/notesonthemind
Today, Thea Mae – my little warrior child – is three years old. I can barely believe how much time has passed since I first held in her my arms. Yet, it also feels like she’s been with us forever. These past three years have been eventful, to say the least. In addition to the usual ups and downs of welcoming a little one into our lives, we’ve had madness, grief and a global pandemic to contend with. I’ve been meaning to write a little about what happened after Thea’s birth; how it has been to be a mum who hears voices and continues to live in multiple realities. Today, on Thea’s birthday, I’ve decided to give it a try.
A caveat:
As with all stories, this one does not exist in isolation. It lives and breathes alongside so many other experiences that I can feel within me, other stories that are keen to be told. In telling one in isolation, I am leaving wide gaps. I’m not doing justice to a life lived in connection with other lives lived. Perhaps you might think of my lived experience as a crystal with many facets. This story is the result of a light shining through at a particular angle. As the light refracts you can wonder at the patterns it creates – but these patterns are fluid and changing. I hope my stories never become static and are never used to define me or my truths.
Content warning: This contains reference to my miscarriage as well as the birth itself and some pretty intense beliefs. Read it if/when you feel able.
The shadow cast by miscarriage
In my first pregnancy I remember waking every morning, bright and early, excitedly checking what random seed or fruit my little one was being compared to in my pregnancy app. I lay there for hours, in the early hours, imagining our future as I waited for Joel to wake. It was blissful, but I was also impatient. I wanted to get to the next stage – I yearned to meet this little wonder growing inside me. Then, when I found out that they had died inside me whilst my body was still carrying on as usual, I felt betrayed. My body tricked me with its hormones. The ‘missed miscarriage’ taught me that, once again, my body is not to be trusted. In doing so it reignited a war that I had painstakingly settled with a truce years before – one I had thought was in my past.
So, six months later when I found out I was pregnant with Thea – I was in shock. I remember seeing her heartbeat at our first scan. I felt that familiar bubble of excitement rise in me, only for me to consciously smother it with a blanket woven with mistrust. We’d seen Space Baby’s heartbeat, after all, and that didn’t end well. That blanket accompanied me throughout my pregnancy. At ever scan I expected to hear that painful protracted silence indicating the sonographer’s struggle to find a sign of life. My experience of psychosis helped enormously – I was already well versed in the practice of living in two contradictory realities. So, as my pregnancy developed I found a way of both acknowledging the amazement of growing a life inside me whilst being completely certain that my own toxicity would make such a feat impossible. I existed in the moment. ‘I am pregnant now’, I thought. I survived by restricting my gaze to what was in front of me rather than getting tricked into imagining a future I believed was not possible.
Welcome, Thea Mae
On 9th March 2018 Thea finally came out to meet us, face to face. To be fair, she didn’t have much choice in the matter as we required an emergency caesarean to give her the final push (or, more accurately, pull). Despite knowing that she was strong and healthy, I still fully expected her birth to be met with that protracted silence I had not yet heard. The one where the doctor tries to find the words to tell you of your loss. I remember repeating a mantra in my head, preparing myself for the worst as I wrapped that blanket tightly around me. This was the moment of truth – the place where my two realities collide. There was nowhere to hide, Schrödinger’s Box was being opened and she would either live or die. I was prepared for the silence, but what I heard was a yell and the excited babble of the surgical team. I heard the surprised voice of my midwife as Thea kicked him during her initial check. Full of pride and wonder and amazement, I held her to my chest. There are no words. I have tears even now when I write about it.
Thea changed our world
The wonderful thing about being dissociative, in my experience, is my ability to shelve things when needed. I stunned the nurses with the speed of my recovery from anaesthesia. I was up and walking way ahead of schedule and applied a single-minded focus to being cleared for discharge. On occasion the sedation and pain meds broke through these super-powers and after days of labour it was clear I still needed some rest. Thankfully, in those moments, Joel was there to pick up the slack. He was, and still is, a very hands-on dad and amazing partner. I remember walking out of the hospital with Thea tucked up in a car seat, covered in a special blanket gifted by a family I’d supported previously. Even then, tiny and fragile, she had a strength to her too. A spark that we were beginning to become aware of.
The first few months were intense. However, mostly people were stunned at how calm I was and the way in which I was taking to this mothering lark. Given my history, there was an understandable concern that new motherhood may overwhelm me – but it didn’t. On our first night home I remember Thea screaming for what felt like hours. I couldn’t settle her with milk. Being rocked seemed to make it worse. Holding her close to me I had this strange and certain feeling – I didn’t know what she needed, I didn’t know what to do – but what I did know is that if I could just stay calm and be with her, we’d be OK. And we were. My mandate, from then on, was to be steady for her. I oriented myself around her needs and shelved the rest.
Hello madness my old friend
There is something all-consuming about motherhood in those first few weeks and months. My connection with Thea, as her mum, existed on a fundamental level – body and soul. Pregnancy blurs the boundary between self and other – we were literally made of the same stuff, and yet remain unique. Prior to her birth, Thea’s survival was all on me (a fact reinforced by the ‘count the kicks’ mantra that Thea seemed to enjoy messing with, waiting until we were plugged into a monitor to break her slumber). Whilst birth enabled others to share some of this responsibility, on a very deep level I remained her primary connection. This was a profound experience, but it came at a cost. No matter who was looking after Thea, I was always the first to hear and respond to her calls. Not because others were absent, but because I could feel them before they were apparent. There was no rest. No off switch. The sense of space which is so fundamental to my own sanity got subsumed by the requirements of motherhood. Yet, in true new mum style, I shelved that too.
Looking back the signs were there for a while. A growing sense of unease. The time I sat staring at my arm, one evening, wondering whether I’d find wires if I went looking for them. The urge to find out. A sense of being out of control of my own body. The sense that, maybe, the video of Thea’s birth was a fake – akin to the photos of a fictional childhood held onto by a Replicant in Blade Runner. A comfortable lie to help me accept my role whilst concealing a greater purpose. These thoughts began to occupy my waking hours. I began to look out of the window and wonder when they were going to come and steal Thea away.
I didn’t verbalise this, at first. I held on to the details. What I was able to say is that I was exhausted. That I wasn’t coping. That I wasn’t sure I could continue. I remember even telling Joel, on a walk, that I was worried I might kill myself. My family rallied round to offer support. Joel took Thea out of the house so I could get some breaks. We all did our best and yet, eventually, it wasn’t enough. My ability to live in multiple realities broke down and I got stuck in the one I feared most.
Sat in a hospital waiting room, surrounded by the ghosts of previous admissions, I began to panic. Out of kindness, my dad had taken Thea for a walk around the grounds so that I could talk honestly to the psychiatrist I was scheduled to see. As sensible as this was, it left open the gate for my worst fears to run riot. What if this is part of the plot? What if they chose this time to attack and I’m not there to protect her? What if I’ve put both her and my dad at risk? By the time the doctor called me in my fears tumbled out, unfiltered. She was shocked. She had planned to discharge me as I’d been doing so well. I felt like I’d failed.
When help isn’t helpful
Later that day the Crisis Team called round. There are many tales I can tell about our meetings, but perhaps it’s easiest just to say that they were mostly kind but ultimately ineffective. The more they challenged my beliefs, the more I clung to them. I tried to explain that I was an android and that my main concern was working out whether I was programmed to protect Thea or harm her. In response, they encouraged me to look at the evidence … photos, videos. The more they fought against my beliefs the more elaborate my rationalisations became. I meticulously fixed any holes in my arguments with gaffer tape and thread. Joel stood beside me as I stepped further from our shared reality and, thankfully, made it clear that their help wasn’t helpful and got them to back off. With little else to offer, they began to focus on the importance of me accepting medication as the first step to my recovery. Despite my hopes to remain meds-free (I’d withdrawn from antipsychotics a decade earlier), I realised that this was the only option on the table. Android or not, I needed to drown out the noise to be there for my child.
The meds were effective. They often are, for me. Yet, even at the low dose we had negotiated, they stole my ability to think. Like a paper chain that gets wet and no longer holds its shape, any train of thought would become an amorphous blob. It took the energy from my fears. It took the energy from everything. Parenting whilst freaking out was hard. Parenting whilst on antipsychotics was a different kind of hard. It was calmer, I slept more and it helped create some approximation of space. Yet, I was like a balloon. Disconnected. Unreal. I needed others to help ground me. At this time the support of friends, family and – of course Joel – was invaluable. I’m deeply grateful to all those who came and sat with me, or gave me some space to sleep.
Making sense of it all
There’s so much more I could say about this period and the slow and winding path that I took through it. There’s more to say about what was missing, what could have been offered and what it has taught me about the inadequacy of our response to people’s crises. Yet, today I think I’d like to share a little of the sense I’m making out of all of this.
In speaking with other parents, it seems as if I managed to bypass the ‘normal’ worries of new parenthood. I just didn’t have the same concerns I’ve heard described by others. Instead, I worried about being an android and spent my time figuring out whether or not I was programmed harm the little being I wanted to desperately to protect. My dissociative ability to shelve worries in a crisis was pretty much how I survived a pregnancy experienced in the shadow of a miscarriage. It was how the natural concerns of new mums stayed off my radar. Without meaning to, I simply moved them out of sight. Instead of filing them neatly I’d done the mental equivalent of shoving them under the sofa in the hope of finding the time and space necessary to do a proper job. By the time I broke down my mental sofa was teetering on piles of intense emotional and physical experiences. We didn’t stand a chance.
At this point it might be easy to blame myself – to suggest there was something wrong with the way in which I approached motherhood. I don’t buy that. There something about new motherhood, new parenthood even, that demands a shift in focus. Our child’s wellbeing becomes the star that we follow. Everything else fades into the background hum of daily life. It’s a natural and highly adaptive response – yet it cannot last. My dissociative ability allowed me to stretch this further than most, but it was not that in itself that caused me to crash. Becoming a mum did not wipe my slate clean. I’m a mum that hears voices, sees things and is well versed in living with multiple realities. The belief that I am an android is one that I have been living with for years, since I withdrew from medication, and one that sits alongside the belief that I’m a human as long as I don’t poke it. I’m a mum with a history of trauma. I’m a mum who is multiple (and has many parts that have many different feelings about motherhood). I was a new mum who had yet to fully process the impact of a missed miscarriage. Chuck in some sleep deprivation, hormones and the massive life shift that is having a baby and … well … hello psychosis!
For me, psychosis has a way of bringing what I need to attend to into sharp focus – once we adjust our eyes and get used to its language. However, the form my psychosis takes is so often wrapped in layer upon layer of shiny paper that mental health professionals can easily get caught up in. In the rush to be helpful, so often, people end up missing the point. In fairness, I am still trying to piece the events of the last few years together. But I’ve had to do this on my own. I’ve had some lovely CPNs over the last few years, but ultimately they were ill equipped to walk alongside me. They provided a contact point and a space to offload, but they weren’t yet ready to unwrap my experiences with me and feared what such exploration might bring.
And so, I’ve had to piece this together in conversations with loved ones and – often – in my own head. I am still living with its legacy. I’m still not feeling wholly solid and grounded in this world, and I still have some healing to do. But, then, don’t we all? I’m trying to be both strong and vulnerable, to let both truths walk alongside me – neither overshadowing the other’s right to be. It’s still a work in progress, but apparently I’m human so that’s part of the deal.
You might wonder what impact my experiences have had on Thea. At times I’ve worried about this too. Yet, to see her growing up into this amazing confident sensitive warrior child who lives in the moment and has a deep connecting with nature is a blessing. It eases my heart to see her thrive. We have challenges ahead, I know. Yet, our family was forged in fire. Together, we can survive anything.
So, today I celebrate Thea – this amazing little being that somehow came into our lives. I celebrate motherhood in all its complexity. Three years ago I helped to bring someone very special into this world. I’m looking forward to continually being surprised by her as she grows.
Time is limited, and these days I try to orient myself around the people and initiatives that I connect with. My family and friends remain top of my list. Music, the Hearing Voices Movement and creative approaches to being with people in distress are a close second. On this site I’ve spent plenty of time talking about my connection with the Hearing Voices Movement. Today I’d like to share a little about this thing called ‘Open Dialogue’; why it means to much to me and what I think it could offer us in the mental health / social care field.
Open Dialogue is the name given to an approach developed organically in 80s/90s in Western Lapland by a group of multi-disciplinary practitioners centred around Keropudas Hospital in Tornio (including Birgitta Alakare, Jaakko Seikkula and Marku Suttela). It has many origin stories, but the one that moves me the most is the image of these practitioners listening to their discomfort and using it to guide a series of changes that – in the end – created a radically different system of care to the one I have first-hand experience of. That discomfort is something everyone engaged in mental health services as a practitioner feels, I think, if we listen to our body. It’s in those moments when we know that the service we are offering is not enough … that we are not connecting with people in a way that they find useful … that, despite our best efforts, we are part of something that can cause harm (as well as help).
I love the idea of these practitioners listening to themselves, talking with each other and – importantly – talking with, and listening to, their clients. The changes they made were influenced by the different practices and philosophies they connected with, including:
The reflecting processes of Tom Anderson (where the family/network get to hear the practitioners talk to each other, tentatively and respectfully, about what they have heard).
Bakhtin’s writings on being ‘dialogical’ (a concept that its own rich theory for those who are interested in it) and polyvocality.
Reaching towards ‘withness’ rather than ‘aboutness’ thinking, suggested by John Shotter.
Social Constructionism (the idea that meaning is developed in collaboration with others) and postmodern ideas that there are many different ways of understanding things.
Having experience of that thing that gets called ‘psychosis’, I am particularly drawn to ways of working that acknowledge that there are multiple ways of understanding the world. Ones that are genuinely interested in, and work with, people’s systems of meaning rather than imposing external views in an attempt to help.
My experience of the mental health system is that there is a very narrow meaning given to my experiences (that I have ‘schizophrenia’ or psychosis) which leads to an equally narrow range of options available to ease them. I was given medication with the aim of reducing or eliminating my symptoms. I was offered some very limited therapy to change my ways of thinking and reduce the risk of what they called a relapse. At times, I worked with an Occupational Therapist and Social Worker to address more pragmatic concerns. In short, the message given to me was that the medication will do most of the job and everything else is a clean up crew to deal with what’s left.
What the Open Dialogue Approach offers is time and space to engage with someone’s own meanings and the many different meanings that already exist in a family / social network. This is the focus of the dialogue, rather than using it as a vehicle to impose a powerful external framework on those present.
The idea of withness thinking is important here too. It would be easy for practitioners to talk ‘about’ the person, to take an expert position and puzzle over what would be best for them. Withness thinking orientates us to a more ethical way of being with people … it demands that we do our best to be alongside someone, to figure things out together. It’s about nurturing a relationship. It calls us to recognise the autonomy, wisdom and personhood of those we are trying to support. Ofcourse, we – as practitioners – may have our own ideas and perspectives about what might be happening. Yet, within this approach, our mandate is to carry these ideas lightly and be careful to avoid running roughshod over those who are actually through this situation. It requires us to know our place; to be humble.
Often, in this work, there’s talk of ‘the other’. The idea being that we cannot know ‘the other’, just as they cannot know us. To some ears, this may sound profoundly lonely. Yet, for me, it contains a refreshing blast of honesty and respect. As a patient, I have had many people say that they know what is going on inside me. I’ve had people claim my insides with all kinds of theories and labels – psychoanalytic, medical and psychological. I have had to fight to reclaim my sense of self from other people’s ideas of me. This fight has been painful, long and is still – in some sense – ongoing. The idea of respecting someone’s otherness offers us a way of guarding against such arrogance. If we cannot know the other, and they cannot know us, what can we know? We have lots to work with – we have access to all of the things that we put in the space between us – those things we show and share. We can build a bridge of understanding. We can connect in a respectful way that honours the fact that what we see and experience of each other is only an aspect of what is there. Our view from the outside can add layers to someone’s understanding of their own situation, perhaps, but it should never deny or dominate their lived experience.
So, in Tornio they found a way of combining a world view (this commitment to dialogism, polyphony and respecting difference) with a set of therapeutic practices that nurture the conditions for dialogue to happen and for people to feel heard. Importantly, these were developed alongside a system whose structure supports these practices and provides a responsive and flexible responsive to crises. It’s not perfect (nothing is). Yet, whenever I talk or write about this I can’t help but contrast this with the system I have found myself in so many times. Beyond my own struggles, I remember advocating for a friend who was in extreme distress and feeling horror at how the system seems to be structured to create barriers. They were actively unresponded to … something that my local area seems to have down to a fine art.
Yet, despite my frustration with the response many of us receive to our distress, I am acutely aware that within these services the majority of staff really want to connect. That services are full of people to deeply want to be of use to those of us who struggle. As a trainer, I’ve always been humbled working with NHS teams (and teams of workers from across the world) as we share some of the stories about how we’ve got in to this work and what it means to us. For so many of us this is not a job … it’s a vocation; something we are passionate about. Yet, the structure of services and some of the practices that are prioritised can make it so difficult to keep that fire alive. Open Dialogue, and related approaches, have so much possibility to help people work in a way that feels much more human and ethical.
These approaches are now being implemented in many parts of the world – including the US, Ireland, UK, Japan, Denmark, Germany, Italy, Argentina, Israel, Australia and Poland. One of the main drivers for this is that Open Dialogue has some of the best outcomes in the world (whilst it’s reported on for ‘psychosis’ in research journals, it’s an approach that is used for all mental health / social crises in Western Lapland). As the original Finnish Team meet with other cultures something really cool is happening – the approach is evolving, responding to the local situation. Open Dialogue, or whatever it ends up being called, isn’t something you can impose wholesale on a context. It needs to be in dialogue with local people … what practices and systems will help create the conditions for dialogue here? What voices need to be heard? Certainly, my experience of co-running a one year Foundation training programme in Israel and in Wales is that going in humbly with an open mind is an essential part of being a trainer. Just as in the practice, it feels important to be ‘with’ trainees as they wrestle with these ideas and question how they might work in their particular context. We cannot know where this will go in advance (but, as trainers, we bring quite a tight structure to help people get an embodied sense of what it means to be in dialogue and the elements of practice that can be building blocks to creating dialogical spaces).
One of the most exciting developments, to me at least, is the meeting of Open Dialogue (a practitioner-led approach) with the survivor movement and those of us who have personal lived experience of distress/diagnosis/coercion. This has, in many ways, added a more socially conscious element to many Open Dialogue informed implementations (and has influenced the practice of Open Dialogue back at its roots in Tornio). With it has come a growing recognition that if we truly want to hear all the voices, there are some voices that are quieter than others (and some voices that are marginalised or cannot be heard even by well-meaning practitioners). As someone with ‘lived experience’, I am often able to hear extra layers in what is being said in a network meeting – in hearing them, I am able to respond to them. I have worked alongside someone whose lived experience is that of a mum/carer. In turn, she was able to hear different things to me. One set of ears is not superior to another … it simply increases the range of things said in a meeting that can be heard and responded to (and, I hope, attends to those voices that so often silenced in our society).
There is a lot work to do, still. I’m looking forward to seeing where this approach goes in the next few years. I still have, in my heart, a wish to combine some elements of the Hearing Voices Movement Approach with Open Dialogue in a services aimed at supporting young people and their families/networks in my local area …. but that is a long goal.
If you have any questions about Open Dialogue, or want to share some of your own thoughts/experiences/ideas – please do. It would be great to hear from you.
With warmth, Rai
In case you’re interested:
With Mia Kurtti, who works in Tornio within an Open Dialogue team, my training partnership (Dialogue (R)Evolution) are hosting some 2-day workshops on this approach (called Open(ing) Dialogues). We’re repeating them across different time zones, so hopefully we will be able to connect with people in different parts of the world.
TW: This article describes the loss of my friend to suicide. It’s an intense read – so please take care of yourself and only read it if you feel in the right place to do so.
Today marks the 18-year anniversary of the suicide of one of my closest friends – Susan. As I type these words my eyes sting and my heart feels heavy. I was walking my dog earlier and found my heart beating in two times. In the first I am walking in 2020, noticing the crunch of the autumn leaves beneath my feet. In the second it is 2002. The leaves are different – they crunch underneath my feet as I’m walking to her flat. There’s a chill in the air and I’m enjoying the feel of the sunshine on my skin. It feels more beautiful than summer. Clearer. That day is etched in my memory – I can return there with the crunch of a leaf or a ray of sunlight.
The clarity of the air was at odds with the worry clouding my head. Susan sometimes needed her space and I was OK with that. Yet I knew, deep inside, that something was profoundly ‘off’. It was in that gut feeling gnawing at my insides. It was in me continually worrying at the edges of the absence of an inconsequential memory. A few days before we’d spoken, briefly, when I dropped off some groceries. As I searched my memories for some reassurance, something to hold on to, I found nothing. I couldn’t remember what she’d said – I couldn’t even remember what I said. There was a gap. That gap weirded me out, but I didn’t know why. It felt significant. A sign. It was enough for me to alter my route and pay close enough attention that I saw her lights had been left on. Not much in itself, but it added fuel to my fears.
So, filled with worry and the hope that I was overreacting, I walked to her door. Knowing some of her history, the fact she’d entrusted her key with me was an honour I did not take lightly. I’d never been in her home – it was a private space. We always met in coffee shops or in town. It was only in the last 6 months that she’d began to be a regular in my own flat. She guarded her space intensely – and with good cause. The key was a symbol of trust and I didn’t want to violate that. Yet I didn’t know what else to do. I was stuck with a worry that I couldn’t hold any longer.
I remember standing at her door – calling her, texting her and even speaking through the letterbox (being as discrete as I could as I didn’t want her neighbours to pick up on my worry). I felt like my very presence there was breaking an unspoken agreement. I was trying to do everything I could not to open that door. Years before, after a psychologist was worried about her, the police had entered her home and sectioned her. She spoke of that as a betrayal, and yet here I was – invading her space.
I let her know (in as many ways as possible) that if she texted me or asked me to leave her alone I would back off. Still, no answer. I put the key in the lock and tried to turn it. It didn’t work. I tried again. Had she locked it from the inside? I tried to rationalise it – speaking to myself in firm and gentle tones underneath my breath. I gathered myself and, standing there in the sun and the cold, I knew I was going to do the unthinkable. I was going to call the police. I chose to betray her.
I steadied myself, finding a voice inside that could sound calm and ‘professional’. I didn’t want the police to feel worried enough to storm into her place, so I tried to shield her by seeming credible. I stretched the truth a little so they might defer to me. I said something about being a volunteer for a mental health charity, inferring that Susan was my client. I didn’t say those words, but I knew that they’d jump to that conclusion – placing me alongside them in this situation.
It worked. I explained my worries as calmly as I could. The sent some officers and I was able to take some form of charge. I explained that she had PTSD (that wasn’t her official diagnosis, but I didn’t want to use any of the other words) and that it was important that I went in to speak with her. I just needed them to help with the door. An officer put the key in the door and, to my confusion, it opened with ease. I steadied myself, checked that the police were staying outside and walked up her stairs.
As I reached the top I noticed a chair out of place on the landing. I kept speaking, trying to reach Susan with my words so she knew who I was and what was happening. As I saw her, sitting on her sofa, time fractured. My body responded to the smell and the sights – it knew instinctively that she wasn’t there. I stepped back. My mind raced and I found myself stepping forward to try and reach her. The different parts of me couldn’t reconcile what I’d found and I knew she was dead, and yet I didn’t. The rest of my time with her exists in fragments – sense memory, thoughts, feelings. It’s as incoherent now as it was then.
At some point the police came up and ushered me into her kitchen. I stood there, finding it hard to breathe. Even 18 years later I can feel it in my body – the shock, the pain, the disbelief, the scream building up in my soul that couldn’t find a space to be uttered. I remember feeling protective – wanting to get the police out of there as they checked the apartment. They spoke to me as you might speak to a peer – kindly, but with an acceptance of the situation that I was so not ready to accept. They asked questions, reasonable questions, but I was left there wanting to shout at them that they need to stop touching her stuff. He wouldn’t have wanted them to touch her stuff.
On the counter I saw a keyring I’d given her a few weeks before – a token of gratitude for the weekend she took care of my cat (Oz). It’s irrational, maybe, but I couldn’t let them have that. I took it, quickly, and put it in my pocket. I felt like it was the one thing I could do – something I could protect. Looking back I know it was nothing, really. But I’m glad I have that keyring – it’s all I have left aside from my memories (which, aside from the day I found her, are losing their clarity as the years pass by).
At some point I managed to explain that I was Susan’s friend. The police’s manner changed and, at some point, they drove me back to my parents. A journey of deafening silence and choked back tears. I was reeling.
In the weeks and months that followed, I was consumed by grief. It was as if her death had ripped my heart into shreds. Each one of those shreds tore my soul. I cried so hard that I exhausted the well of tears inside. It hurt to cry without tears and, instead of being a relief, it was simply an expression of the pain I was stuck in. The absence. A loss. As the months passed I began to fear the good memories of our friendship – our exploits. Each recollection was chased into insignificance beneath the crushing weight of her death and the sense-memories of finding her. At times I hated her. I’d tried to kill myself many times before, yet I felt as if she had stole that option from me. It felt like she lit a fire and blocked the exist. Even when I was surrounded by others, I felt alone in my grief. I remember wanting to scream at the world – to tell it to stop. It was as if I had lived through an apocalypse – one of my worlds had ended – and yet this other world was full of people who were just getting on with it. It felt wrong.
“This is grief” – painted almost 2 years after Susan died in an art group
For a time I lived in both worlds – a frozen post-apocalyptic nightmare and a world in which almost nothing had changed. It was crazymaking (and, for a time, I did go crazy). I carried with me an invisible wound, a gaping wound filled with grief, guilt and numbness. It was a wound that few people seemed able to acknowledge – and as time passed it began to be pathologized in and of itself. Malignant grief. Pathological grief. Rather than acknowledge that it was all fucked up and it was understandable that my grief had barely dissipated I remember my psychiatrist focusing his gaze on my vulnerabilities. My friends and family were supportive – but it is was a lonely kind of grief, much more than other experiences I’ve had. It was mine to walk with. I was grateful to find some sense of community in a Survivors of Bereavement by Suicide (SOBS) group.
Susan guarded herself well – it was rare for her to open parts of her life to others. As the years pass I find myself feeling a weight of responsibility to keep her memory alive in some way. I began to worry that the details of our time together were fading. I find myself tending to them, every now and then, as if my attention will give them sufficient sustenance to keep blooming. My heart warms when I think of the time we went to a Coffee Shop in Leicester before our Hearing Voices Group … it spoke volumes that we were both so shocked at the size of the mugs they served us coffee in. We joked that we could swim in them. I think I have a photo of it somewhere – we’d both missed so much time, keeping to ourselves in our madness and not hanging out in coffee shops. I smile when I remember when she came round ot my parent’s house and my dog jumped up on to her lap (he wasn’t a small dog, and left muddy paw prints on her white jeans).
Basil … the muddy pawed dog that liked jumping on Susan
I ruefully remember the time we sang Meatloaf together at our local Biker’s pub Karaoke. She had terrible taste in music. I even sang Celine Dion for her once (which is saying something as I was a metalhead back then). These are the kinds of things we do for mates, sometimes, when they’re struggling. I remember when she told me how Halloween terrorised her, bringing back memories that made it hard to keep living. We listened to Eva Cassidy as the fireworks tried to claim the night – riding out the panic and creating some sense of safety in my flat. I remember being glad that she found my home a sanctuary of sorts – that she could go there, even when I was out, to find comfort. I remember the plans we made, the things we were trying to change about the system that messed us both up. I remember she liked a pint of Mild. At the time I didn’t even know what Mild was.
These memories still break my heart, in a way, but I hang on to them as these are all I have left … aside from the keyring, ofcourse.
So, here I am 18 years later. My life is unrecognisable. I’m doing the things we talked about (and much more). Yet there is still a hole in my soul and all the love, connection and dialogue in the world will never fill it. And I’m OK with that. I can live with that. I don’t want to romanticise Susan in my memory. She was prickly, funny, private, caring, strong and stubborn. She was a survivor (even though she didn’t survive). It sucks beyond words that I cannot introduce you to her – that she isn’t here with me. It sucks beyond words that – like so many of my friends and allies – she was failed by a mental health system that lacked basic compassion and a social care system that didn’t seem to care.
Suicide feels like a form of violence … yet Susan was not the perpetrator. Yes, she killed herself – but she was managing stuff that was too big for one person to hold along with such minimal support. Sometimes people say suicide is a choice. For some, that rings true – the idea that we can choose our time of exit. It has an edge of human rights to it when I think of it in that way. Yet, in Susan’s case I think I know that she – ultimately – wanted to live. She had plans and hopes, for the first time in years. I hate that my friendship wasn’t an anchor enough to sustain her through the terror of Autumn – but I get it. She had good reason to feel like asking for help would not be helpful. She had learnt that she wouldn’t be heard, believed or responded to in a way that would ease her suffering or help her feel worthy of life. The perpetrator of the violence we live through is the cumulative effect of a system that is set up to not respond – a system that contains, sometimes, but is not so good at seeing people and validating them. It took the trauma Susan survived and wrapped it in a paper made of malignant neglect and – at times – active harm.
So, here I am. Fresh out of a ‘Town Hall’ on Open Dialogue and still carrying the heaviness in my heart. Part of me wants to hide away – to build a wall around my heart and stop trying to connect with others. Part wants to tear this all down – to build something new or dance in the (metaphorical) ashes, I’m not sure which. There a big part of me that feels an increasing sense of urgency to do something generative – something that creates the options that Susan, and so many of others, did not have. I need a sense of hope, of possibility. A sense that we can use these painful and overwhelming experiences for something. That it matters. That she matters. I want to do something to make sure services are responsive. That they hear those of us in distress and do not simply silence or ignore us.
But, for now, I’m going to spend the final hours of her anniversary with Joel (my husband). If I have the energy, I’ll share some memories with him so he can – vicariously – get to know one of the people who have helped me become myself. I’m sharing this – warts and all – to help me remember why I’m still here. I’m going to resist the urge to pretend that it’s all OK – it isn’t. I’ll resist the urge to turn this into a lesson or an infomercial – it’s not. This is just me processing where I’m at and putting it out there with the hope that it connects. There is so much we keep silent about. Taboo by taboo, I kind of find myself drawn to speaking mine.
My first walk in preparation for my fundraising challenge was a biggie – it was an emotional challenge as much as a physical one, and definitely left its mark.
As those of you who follow me on social media might already know, I’ve taken the mad/courageous decision to walk 874 miles (the equivalent of trekking the iconic route from Lands End to John O’Groats) in 80 days to raise funds for the National Hearing Voices Network. This might not sound much, but if you factor in that I’m officially classed as ‘morbidly obese’, have ‘multiple comorbidities’ and am still recuperating from the after-effects of miscarriage, pregnancy, withdrawing from psych meds and mothering a wonderful toddler-tornado-warrior-child (aka Thea) … it’s a big step.
I’m not quite sure what possessed me to come up with this idea. There are certainly easier ways for me to raise funds – and as HVN’s chair I already give plenty of my time and energy to the cause. On the face of it, my decision was impulsive. Since stopping medication about 1 month ago (a really painful process, with a bucketload of physical and emotional withdrawal effects and a seriously reduced need for sleep), I’ve rediscovered this strange spark … motivation, I think it’s called. Rather than having to drag myself around secretly waiting for the next time I can reasonably slip back into sleep I have been seeing issues (everywhere) and instinctively doing something to address them. No washing up liquid? Get some more. Feeling a bit at sea as a mad PhD student? Start a group. Part of an underfunded charity? Do something ridiculous and raise some money. Easy 😮
Yet, there’s something about this particular challenge that is turning out to be deeply meaningful and transformative.
My relationship with my body has always been somewhat challenging. I’ve denied its existence, spend a fair chunk of time concerned that its not human and it has been the site of multiple traumas. My body (usually known as ‘The Body’ as my body sounds far too familiar to describe my relationship with it) is a largely neglected battlefield – a wasteland that still bears the scars of former conflict. To go back to the site and actually pay attention to it risks having to fully acknowledge so much that I instinctively shy away from. It is not a pleasant space to hang out.
In creating this completely unnecessary challenge, I have managed to inadvertently engineer a situation where I need to spend 80 days in close proximity to this body of mine. Walking 874 miles when you weigh around 20 stone is a big deal. As one of my training walks showed me last week, my dissociative ability to mute physical discomfort is both a blessing and a curse. It is all too easy for me to injure myself because of ill-fitting shoes (I really struggle to know what it feels like for shoes to fit, even now) or ignore my body’s other signals that it needs some time to rest. I’ve got this far my ignoring my body’s needs … now the next phase of my journey requires me to prioritise them and develop some kind of mutually beneficial relationship. This is new ground for me in so many ways.
Today, after heading to the physio for a gait check and some advice on how to do this and not break myself, I will be walking back to Shepshed from Loughborough, via Hathern. Then, for the next 80 days I will be doing my best to walk an average of 11 miles a day in order to reach my goal and raise some much needed funds for the English National Hearing Voices Network.
In all honesty, I am not sure if this is physically possible for me to accomplish within 80 days. But the time is just something I pulled out of the air and not the most important part of this endeavour. The point is that I am not going to stop trying until I have walked 874 miles. I have no idea what this journey will bring – but I can pretty much guarantee that – mentally and physically – when I walk past the finish line I will be a different version of myself.
If you’d like to sponsor me and/or donate to the National Hearing Voices Network at any point during my journey – whether it’s pennies or pounds – please check out my Just Giving page: https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/874milesforhvn.
I’d you’d like to keep up to date with my progress (which is sure to include some random photos of me attempting to walk whilst studying / looking after my toddler / juggling), you can also follow me on twitter (@raiwaddingham #874miles4HVN).
I’m planning to be as open and transparent about the ups and downs of this journey – and any and all messages of support are welcome.
Last week I emerged from hibernation (life is a bit tough right now for lots of reasons) to attend a ‘Psychology at the Movies’ screening of 55 Steps – an important and hard-hitting film based on a true story of Eleanor Reise (a lady repeatedly drugged against her will, played by Helena Bonham Carter) and Collette Hughes (her lawyer, played by Hilary Swank) that has been effectively buried. What I write here is based on a series of tweets I made, trying to explain why we need to work together to resurrect it.
The opening scene was far more familiar than the 80s US asylum should be. Whilst our wards in the UK are often more modern and I’ve never seen someone tied to their bed, ‘physical restraint’ is very much alive & kicking. I have been bundled into seclusion, forced to the ground, had my pants pulled down & been injected with a drug that stole my will. I’ve felt humiliated, desperately needing a wee and being left for hours.
In response to Collette’s opening gambit of her being there to help, Eleanor said: ‘Everybody’s here to help me. That’s why I need help’. This cuts to the heart of it. Most people working in mental health want to ‘help’. Most family members agree to hospitalisation hoping it’ll ‘help’. Wider society is able to avert their eyes because good and kind people are trying to ‘help’. By framing restraint and forced drugging as an intervention to give treatment we have created a guided mask for what is essentially state-sanctioned GBH (Grievous Bodily Harm).
In almost any other situation, pinning people down and injecting them would be cause for investigations and criminal charges. The perpetrators would be seen as aggressors. Those who fought back would be seen as courageous. Those who accepted their fate would be understood. Against such odds, fighting back isn’t always the best option. Those who said they deserved such treatment, or that it was in their best interests, would be heard … but we would not send them back for more. We would draw a line.
We try not to draw comparisons with sexual assault, or allow ourselves to fully recognise or feel the profound degradation involved. We focus on the kindness and professionalism of the staff, the training provided, the illness of the person and that it is an intervention of last resort. We resort to the idea that lives are at risk if we do not act. That it is the only option available.
Yes – lives are at risk. Our lives. Systemising and reducing the risks of restraint only makes sense if we accept such coercion is necessary and ethical. It’s about making something less crap. It helps us feel better, but avoids the important dialogue – what do we need to do to stop this? How do we bring our mental health system back from the edge? How do we stop traumatising patients and staff in this way?
Investment, alternatives, attitude change, resourcing .. there’s much to be done. As long as we accept that holding people down to force them to take drugs is OK, will this change? It’s a plaster concealing a gaping wound that doesn’t cease to bleed just because we no longer have to look at it.
This might all sound dramatic – it is. It needs to be.
My experiences are mild comprised to many. I’m white, female and mostly related to coercion with compliance. I learned the game and the limits of my free will early into my journey. I was not Eleanor Reise. I did not call a lawyer and fight for the rights of me and my fellow patients. Together, her and Collette did something amazing. I want to celebrate that. It’s a tonic. I want to drink it in and feel that change is possible. That it’s possible to fight and win.
Eleanor died before this film was made. The impact of these drugs on her body was too much and, eventually, led to her early death. Despite the hard hitting realisation that the quality and length of people’s lives are at stake, this is not an anti-meds movie. It acknowledges that, even with informed choice, many would agree to take medication voluntarily. I think they would. But the concept of informed choice is key.
I re-started on Quetiapine last year after the birth of my baby. I know a lot about the drug. I knew it would probably help me (it does). I knew it’s possible adverse effects. I was not held down and forced to take it. I was not under a section. Yet, it was not a choice. Having been coerced in the past, I have always made a calculation about how far professions would let my decision to not take meds stand. The fact I could eventually be forced was a factor in my decision to agree. That is not true consent. It’s not choice. There was no other alternative. Now, a year later, I’m dealing with Tardive Dyskinesia – a topic featured in the film – and, yet again, withdrawing.
From the opening scene to its final thought, the film sets out the systematic dehumanisation of people diagnosed with ‘severe mental illness’ and the terrible cost borne by those who are deemed ‘mad’ and our society as a whole.
We need public will to fight again this and create the humane and ethical alternatives we need so badly. That takes money and rethinking our whole approach to supporting those in distress. Without a public outcry can you really imagine any government taking on such an initiative, especially as previous outcries have generally led to more coersion.
If you can, please check out 55 Steps. At the moment you can find it on Amazon Prime and Google Play.
55 Steps Official Trailer
Let yourself really feel what this treatment did to Eleanor and don’t avert your eyes. Value her strength, and the determination of her lawyer. Use that to stand up and say ‘NO’. Write to your MP. Write to your local mental health charities. Push for it to be screened in your local independent cinema. Tell any advocacy, patient experience, user-led, feminist, campaigning, legal, mental health, social justice, bird watching or social group you’re involved with about it. Group together and host a DIY screening, even.
Please do something. Don’t just watch it and go on with your lives. We are the ones who allow this to continue. We need to make our voices heard and let people know that this is not, in any way, mental health care.
Thank you to all those who arranged it, took part in the panel and allowed themselves to be affected by it. Including: Dr Sara Tai (Uni of Manchester), Prof. Peter Kinderman (Uni of Liverpool), Bryan Bonaparte (Uni of Westminster), Helena Bonham Carter CBE, Colette Hughes, Norman Lamb MP and Mark Bruce Rosin (the witer and producer of 55 Steps).
As the weather gets colder here in the UK, I’m gearing up to head to warmer climes. Next month I’m lucky enough to be spending a few weeks in Australia – Melbourne and Sydney, more specifically. Whilst it’s primarily a trip to introduce my daughter to some of my closest friends, it would be weird to visit and not link with the wider voice-hearing, survivor and Open Dialogue communities. So, as well as a bit of networking I’m also going to be providing a few workshops and taking part in some dialogues as I travel.
If you, or someone you know, is based in Australia – it might be interesting to know what I’m up to. Here’s a run down of the different parts of the trip. If you’re around, feel free to book in to one of them and say ‘hi’. It’s always good to connect.
Rethinking 'empowerment' & 'recovery'University of MelbourneLevel 7 room #704, 161 Barry Street
In modern mental health care concepts of ‘empowerment’ and ‘recovery’ have become buzzwords, littering the pages of policies, reports and service descriptions. Over time these once radical ideas have lost
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In modern mental health care concepts of ‘empowerment’ and ‘recovery’ have become buzzwords, littering the pages of policies, reports and service descriptions. Over time these once radical ideas have lost some of their zing and, at worst, become associated with experiences of individualisation, pressure and blame when recovery becomes yet another thing someone can ‘fail’ at. This workshop looks critically at the way empowerment, recovery and similar terms are used within mental health services.
Taking inspiration from civil rights movements, we will explore some of the ways in which services – and the language used – can be disempowering and oppressive for consumers, family members and practitioners who want to support people in their lives. Importantly, we will look at ways we can work together to reclaim our experiences, narrative and lives – creating opportunities for meaningful empowerment and connections.
One of the brightest and most engaging voices for change in the UK mental health system Rachel Waddingham is visiting Melbourne
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One of the brightest and most engaging voices for change in the UK mental health system Rachel Waddingham is visiting Melbourne early in February and will be speaking at the VMIAC’s Offices on Feb 14 from 10.00 am to 12.00
Rachel will be speaking about the challenge of staying real to your own lived experience of recovery when sharing your personal stories with others. (see flyer for more info)
This event is free and open to all mental health consumers but please RSVP a place for catering purposes by calling VMIAC reception on 9380 3900 or emailing reception [at] vmiac.org.au
PLEASE READ THIS SECTION CAREFULLY TO RECEIVE ALL THE INFORMATION. Please note: this is a READING GROUP (not a talk, lecture or support group)
Critical Perspectives on Madness Reading Group invites
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PLEASE READ THIS SECTION CAREFULLY TO RECEIVE ALL THE INFORMATION. Please note: this is a READING GROUP (not a talk, lecture or support group)
Critical Perspectives on Madness Reading Group invites you to:
INTO THE LIGHT: CREATING A SPACE TO EXPLORE, VALUE AND LEARN FROM OVERWHELMING EXPERIENCES – with UK-based guest author RACHEL (RAI) WADDINGHAM
Rai says:
“I have many sanitised narratives… Each time I tell a part of my story, describe the things I hear or talk about the beliefs that have guided me, I am aware of the people listening and mindful of not being ‘too much’. Even when I share my experiences of taboo and violent voices in workshops, I use carefully crafted excepts that dance on the edge of what I think people can hear. It’s only recently that I’ve begun to explore the impact of the different narratives that I’ve lived by – the medical one as the ‘schizophrenic’, the survivor, the voice-hearer – and be curious about the bits of my experience that resist definition. The bits that feel too powerful, painful or messy to word. The bits that don’t fit neat medical categories, or even step out of sync with the survivor narratives I often hear.
In this discussion, I’m interested in exploring how these experiences can get left behind, and what we might do to create spaces where they can be acknowledged and – perhaps – learnt from. How do we free ourselves from the language of distress that we’ve been indoctrinated into?”
RAI WADDINGHAM combines personal experience of trauma, psychosis and hospitalisation with experience gained through training and practice,including working in the first UK Open Dialogue team. A voice-hearer, Rai’s work is based in the principles of the Hearing Voices Movement. She has created and managed innovative projects supporting children, young people, families, adults and people in prison who hear voices or have unusual beliefs. Rai is an international trainer and spokesperson, promoting ethical and creative responses to people in severe distress. She is a trustee of the English Hearing Voices Network and Vice Chair of ISPS UK. www.behindthelabel.co.uk
Please come prepared by reading the following texts:
1) http://www.behindthelabel.co.uk/does-language-matter/ – Symptom or Experience: Does language matter?
2) Bad Me? Learning from, and living with, toxicity (accessible when booking with trybooking)
3) On The Edge? Working With Taboo & Violent Voices: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cUFin5AZzX0
Please RSVP by clicking the trybooking link above. RSVP VIA TRYBOOKING is compulsory to secure your spot and receive the texts for this month.
Tickets: $ 5-15 sliding scale. If you’re experiencing financial hardship, please email us on [email protected] , we will find a solution!
If you’re dealing or living with restrictions (e.g. physical, intellectual, sensory or psycho-social differences) or neurodivergencies, have concerns about aspects of the workshop and would like to come, please contact us to discuss ways in which we might assist.
+++This is a READING GROUP, not a talk or lecture. We read and discuss texts together. So please come prepared by reading the papers which will be sent to you upon booking.
+++It is also NOT a support group. While sharing of personal experiences is not discouraged, the focus remains on the text and on intellectual engagement.
++Please read the texts before the meeting if you can and bring copies with you for close reading. If you’d like us to provide extra printed copies for you, let us know via email in advance.
*If you’d like to volunteer to bring snacks, tea and soft drinks, let us know – it’ll make us very happy.
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Critical Perspectives Reading Group is offered monthly and facilitated by Natalia and Sarah from Off The Wall Inc. It is for anyone interested in the topic of politics and philosophy of mental distress and difference and the debates around madness. Service users, consumers, survivors of psy-care, people who assist others in professional or non-professional capacities, researchers and other enthusiasts are all welcome to attend.
Dialogical approaches to supporting people, families and networks in crisisSydney Nursing School, University of Sydney88 Mallett Street, Camperdown Campus
Open Dialogue combines a way of understanding mental distress, a therapeutic practice and way of organising mental health and social care services. Originating in Western Lapland, and supported by an
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Open Dialogue combines a way of understanding mental distress, a therapeutic practice and way of organising mental health and social care services. Originating in Western Lapland, and supported by an emerging evidence base that demonstrates exciting recovery outcomes, Open Dialogue is being implemented in a range of settings across the world (including the USA, Denmark, Italy, Australia and Japan).
The approach is systemic at heart, working with the person and those who are important in their lives (e.g. family and/or friends). Its commitment to dialogue, valuing different perspectives, transparency and continuity has inspired passionate support from consumers, carers, clinicians and managers alike – leading to its implementation in a number of NHS Trusts and gaining funding for a large RCT in England.
In this evening dialogue, supported by inside out and associations, I will be exploring my experiences of the implementation of Open Dialogue approaches in England alongside trainers-in-training on the current Sydney-based Open Dialogue course. We will explore some of the challenges in developing Open Dialogue approaches in practice, as well as some of the things that have worked. I’m hoping it’ll be an authentic and honest discussion that maintains a sense of optimism that we can work together to transform mental health and social care services. Rather than having those of us with lived experience as an ‘add on’, I’ll also be making a case for the importance of survivors being at the heart of any Open Dialogue development.
Join inside out & associates and Hearing Voices Network NSW for a one-day workshop and learn creative ways of of working with voices with Rai Waddingham!
Cost…
$185.00
Some subsidies are available (see registration
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Event Details
Join inside out & associates and Hearing Voices Network NSW for a one-day workshop and learn creative ways of of working with voices with Rai Waddingham!
Cost…
$185.00
Some subsidies are available (see registration form for application details)
About this workshop…
Research suggests that hearing voices is a fairly common human experience that isn’t, in itself, a sign of a mental health problem. If we know where to look, voice-hearers can be found in history books, spiritual traditions and popular culture. However, when someone feels overwhelmed by the power and intensity of the voices they hear, knowing that Gandhi and Lady Gaga heard voices doesn’t always help. Equally, a standard list of coping strategies can leave people feel isolated and hopeless rather than empowered.
Whether people feel unable to speak about the voices they hear, are afraid of sharing the details, feel stuck and talking just doesn’t seem to help or simply want to approach things from a different angle – working creatively together can provide some alternative ways to connect. Whether it’s finding a symbolic language that doesn’t trigger difficult voices, creating a playlist to communicate how it feels to hear the voices or drawing on mythology, film or literature to express experiences that are bigger than words – creativity goes beyond artist talent to thinking outside of the box. These strategies can be useful for those supporting adults, young people and children with their experiences.
This workshop explores: a relational approach to voice-hearing; ways of nurturing your own creativity as a supporter; strategies for exploring different aspects of the voice-hearing experience; strategies for coping with distressing voices, emotions and beliefs; ways of using creativity to improve people’s relationships with their experiences and feel more empowered.
About Hearing Voices Network NSW…
Hearing Voices Network NSW is part of the wider Hearing Voices Network a movement of voice hearers, professionals and carers that operates hundreds of self-help groups all around the world. Together, we are united in our mission to promote recovery and reduce the stigma associated with voice hearing voices. More information at www.voicesnsw.com.au
Aside from that, I’m hoping to introduce Thea to some Wombats and clear out the winter cobwebs – ready for the Spring and the challenges ahead.
This year I’ll be running course in the UK, Israel, Czech Republic and Croatia … so I’m hoping for some interesting chats, challenging ideas and learning a lot from the people I meet.
Hi. My name's Rachel (Rai). I hear voices, see visions and have a whole host of unusual experiences that have, at times, overwhelmed me. Once labelled as 'severely & enduringly mentally ill', I am now an independent trainer specialising in innovative ways of supporting people who struggle with extreme states (including ‘psychosis’, ‘dissociation’ and post traumatic reactions).
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