Extracts from ‘WEARING RED’
PROLOGUE
It’s official. Wearing bright colours is a symptom of mental illness. The “depression-guide.com” website declares in the ‘bipolar disorder symptoms’ section:
“The patient’s activities may have a bizarre quality such as dressing in colourful garments.”
Never thought it was a problem having a passion for wearing red, yellow or blue outfits. Who needs a psychiatrist to diagnose my mood swings when all that matters is which colour outfits I choose?
According to common vernacular, I am also entitled to be described as:
“Bananas. Barking mad. Bonkers. Batty.
Crazy as a box of frogs. Crackpot. Cuckoo. Crackers.
Delirious. Demented. Deranged. Doolally.
Few sandwiches short of a picnic.
Insane.
Lunatic. Loony.
Mad as a hatter.
Nutter. Not the full shilling.
Non-compos mentis.
Off my trolley. Off with the fairies.
Unstable. Unhinged. Paranoid.
A round peg in a square hole.”
The language we use around ‘madness’ exacerbates the stigma and shame of living with mental challenges, which in turn results in us feeling ‘different’ or ‘odd.’ To help improve awareness around mental health, we who belong to the ‘crazy tribe’ need to tell our stories.
Be heard.
Speak out.
There is power in the stories we tell. This is my story. My truth. Truth has many sides.
If I am the story, I can change that story, to find some order in my particular version of chaos.
THE COMPLETE PACKAGE (Extract from ‘Wearing Red’)
Taking the lift,
descend to lower ground floor.
Madness beckons me
as a welcome guest.
Enchanted by acceptance of my hosts,
becoming comfortable,
living with the unclean.
Building a version of sanity
that fits.
Am called to retrace my steps
above ground.
Proud scars pay tribute to
this journey of initiation,
cavorting in caverns.
Arriving back, I write my message
to the summer clan:
“I cannot be with you for long,
before my skin shrivels.
But when I’m able,
I want to show myself to you.
Not just the bits I suspect you’d like to see.
The complete package. The whole of me.
Bring the red passion and impish delight.
Friendship. Festivity. Fertilising fun.
The stuff you all admire.
But that’s not all.
There’s more in this Pandora’s box.
A deep well of sadness.
Tears to moisten all ingredients.
Please don’t ask of me to
be always in the pink.
This composition needs melancholic blues.
Poignant minor chords of Cohen
to constitute me as
the complete package.”
THE SWIMMING CERTIFICATE (Extract from ‘Wearing Red’)
To be ready for my first swimming exam, I’d practised week after week, until it became as natural as walking. The swimming instructor had told us to visualise the day in our minds. I could see myself proudly receiving the certificate. All I had to do was successfully complete one length of the pool, doing breaststroke. This required:
breathing to match each rotation of the arms
concentrating on correct shape of the legs
keeping my head down
flowing smoothly through the water
relaxing to prevent cramp
I’d prepared a pride-of-place spot on the wall in my room, next to my elocution certificates. My mother had not approved of the way I was learning to speak, growing up on the Bell Green council estate, so she sent me to elocution lessons, to articulate words properly.
Finally, the big day came. My swimming test. I had pains around my chest. Convinced myself that must have been my liberty bodice done up too tightly.
Most parents of the other kids were there to celebrate Peter’s or Cybil’s achievement. They viewed me with disinterest. My parents were not coming. I hadn’t invited them. They didn’t know this event was happening. I’d decided it would be better if I did this on my own. I didn’t need them there. I could surprise them with my certificate afterwards.
Standing trembling at the deep end, I listened carefully to all the instructions:
Stay in your own lane.
Swim directly to the other end without stopping.
Wait in the water until an official comes to collect you.
They will hand you a coloured disc.
Get out of the water and take the disc to the desk by the door to record your details for the certificate.
“Ready? One, two, three, Go.” The starter horn was louder than I expected. Then I was off. Started going too fast. Lost my rhythm. Breathing too hard. Legs were heavy. Hadn’t realised it would be so tough. Had they extended the length of the pool to catch me out?
Scared by all those faces watching. No one was cheering me on or wishing me well. Legs became wobbly. Wasn’t sure I could finish. Began to doubt myself. Couldn’t get the strokes right. Left arm went funny. Must keep going. I was doing OK. I knew how to do this. Chest pain returned. Restricted my breathing.
At last I touched the bar at the shallow end. Looked around. I was the last to finish. Still, that didn’t matter. Not about speed. All about style. I’d done it. Well done. Head up, eagerly waited for an official to come over and hand me a disc.
One by one, the other seven kids received their coloured counters and pulled themselves out of the water proudly, to the cheers of their families. And that left me, standing there on my own, shivering.
No official came for me. They’d all gone off to the desk by the door, to help with the certificates. I kicked my feet and made small splashes. Stared down into the water. Someone would come in a minute. They would notice they’d forgotten me. They wouldn’t just leave me here.
This wasn’t living up to my expectations. Realisation dawned. I hadn’t passed this test. I was not getting a certificate. I didn’t cut the mustard after all.
I could see the wall in my room. The space I’d made ready. Would have to fill that glaring gap with a black and white Cliff Richard poster, to annoy my sister. She preferred Elvis.
I sank into the water, scrunching myself into a ball to make myself small.
Small enough to disappear into oblivion.
WHEN THE PAIN STOPS (Extract from ‘Wearing Red’)
The pain stops.
Curtain lifts.
Blackness recedes to stage right.
Resting. Waiting. Watching.
No longer centre stage.
A space appears.
With room to move,
the bell jar lifts.
Air fresh, breathable,
brings unspeakable relief.
Beyond description.
Only those who’ve ventured into their darkness
can understand the trauma
of being lost in Persephone’s winter.
And the delight when the pain stops.
As Hope enters stage left
with lantern.
There is room in this welcome place
for possibilities to breed.
No need to rush.
There is time.
The moment is sweet.
I smile.
Inspired by Oriah House ‘Is there anything sweeter than the moment the pain stops?’