I've been wanting to write something about this for several days, but not yet felt able to do it, so here goes. Let's see how far I get...
At the beginning of this week I was actually on quite a high, and wondering whether my mood had taken yet another turn, despite the recent introduction of antidepressant medication, which is unlikely to have started to work just yet. That happens sometimes - I'm never quite sure how successful I am at telling people (especially doctors) about it either. I even got around to making a start on the painting!!
Anyway, two really good things happened on Tuesday. I had an appointment with the Disability Employment Adviser at the Jobcentre, and amongst other things, she did what they call a better-off calculation and was able to tell me that if I worked part time - say 20 hours, even at national minimum wage - my Working Tax Credit would ensure I'd only be £3 a week worse off than I am on benefits, which is a huge relief! I always thought I couldn't afford to work part time and that it was the £20 permitted work earnings limit or full time work, with no options in between. I do wish they'd advertise that more explicitly - I probably could have been in part time work of some description, ages ago!
Then I went along - well actually, I chickened out and walked past it the first time, but then forced myself to go back - to a drop-in organised by the mental health chaplaincy service. It turns out I know one of the chaplains already - we used to go to the same church in Bath, years ago! I had encountered him twice before in Edinburgh and been invited to go to the local version of the same church, which he still attends - but so far I've declined, as it would mean going there instead of the Salvation Army. Maybe I'll make the odd special appearance attendance there once I'm a bit more established in the Army - but it's complicated, as I really feel I've moved on...
Anyway, the drop-in was really good - I immediately felt at home. It was so nice just to have people to talk to, for an hour or so - even if they were strangers, we at least knew we had something in common, and everyone was really friendly and said I should go there again. They're even taking a bus trip to Peebles next Wednesday and have asked me along, so I'm minded to go - it will be a good opportunity to get to know some of them better. After about an hour of informal chat, there was a quick round the table opportunity for everyone to say how they'd been over the past week - which I thought was absolutely wonderful as the one thing I really miss is not having anyone in particular to check-in with in this way; and then at the very end, a short worship opportunity, which four or five people stayed behind for...
I'm meeting my chaplain friend on Monday afternoon for a catch-up, which I'm actually quite looking forward to now. At last, it looks as if I may have some local friends!!
Afterwards, I took myself off to one of my favourite haunts - North Berwick; had ice-cream, paddled in the sea for some time, got chips and came home smiling for a change. My bouyant mood continued into Wednesday, until just after my meeting with Simon described in my former post - and then just totally vanished, really suddenly...
It was one of those moments where I just felt frozen to the spot, in the middle of the street. I literally can't move one foot or the other when that happens - I'm just stood there feeling really conspicuous, completely unable to decide even which way to walk next, let alone where to. After about 20 minutes, I noticed an art gallery over the road, and having decided against it several times, at length managed to get myself over there and forced myself to look at some paintings - which at length did help get me out of the heat of the moment. I thought of doing something else, but decided I'd best return straight home while I still could. Even then, I let about six buses go past before I was able to get on one...
And there I've remained, basically. I've slept a great deal, updated my WRAP a bit, done some more painting, watched a bit of TV and read a little - all of which was quite hard to achieve as my concentration has been rather poor - so I can only manage little bits at a time. Yesterday I managed to shower, get out and do some shopping - for the first time since Tuesday; and today I'm hoping to make it out into the countryside - which is a bit risky, but if I stop and contemplate that for too long I'll end up returning to bed and going nowhere - I have to just do things as and when I feel I can, during these periods.
Saturday, 28 July 2007
Wednesday, 25 July 2007
I knew I was unique, but...
I think the contemporary internet expression would be OMG, which as a practicing Christian I usually translate as 'Oh My Goodness' and hope it doesn't offend too many people; or more often, simply avoid using altogether. But, on this occasion, I'm afraid OMG seems to be the only thing that fits the bill...
I had a meeting with the director of the Scottish Recovery Network today, to discuss the Scottish context in relation to WRAP. I wasn't entirely sure what exactly the 'Scottish context' was going to consist of, but in a nutshell, it seems I'm one of only four individual service users known to them who both reside in Scotland and have done some form of WRAP training! Now that's scary!!
I had a meeting with the director of the Scottish Recovery Network today, to discuss the Scottish context in relation to WRAP. I wasn't entirely sure what exactly the 'Scottish context' was going to consist of, but in a nutshell, it seems I'm one of only four individual service users known to them who both reside in Scotland and have done some form of WRAP training! Now that's scary!!
Painting
I hate painting. In fact, I think I really hate painting. I mean - I'm a big, clumsy sort of guy - we're not cut out for that sort of thing. And I don't do heights either - mountains are fine, but ladders and me - no, not a good combination, I assure you!
Mind you, the living room is half-finished, and the kitchen does need it - desperately. So I suppose I'd better put up with it. I have already had one friend come and do the high bits of the living room for me after all, plus all the cornicing; for which I was really grateful as I don't know how I'd have managed otherwise. Well, I suspect I do actually - I'd have had to pay somebody else to do it for me...!
It's the mess. People say, "oh, the good thing about emulsion is, it just washes out." Not when it's all over your t-shirt it doesn't - and my hardly-worn, if slightly oversized trousers. So I just wear boxers now - but even then, it gets everywhere - elbows, underarms, thighs, belly, backside - I mean, I ask you - is it really worth all the effort?
And what really gets to me is how it just takes over! I mean, my home's not my own anymore - the entire kitchen is a mass of paintbrushes, bits of roller, tins of paint, newspaper, tissue and wonderful, chemical-laden decorators wipes (thank you whoever invented these - they're a lifesaver); and I can neither cook, nor wash-up. Meanwhile, the rest of my flat is increasingly filled with bits that should be in the kitchen! It's a nightmare - and I just want it to be over - NOW!!!
Needless to say, my mother's coming to stay - the week after next - and not only that, she's invited her sister round to visit! Why do I get the feeling my home isn't going to be my own for quite a bit longer than just while I'm painting?!! I mean - they grew up in a scruffy council property, invariably dressed in poor quality, second hand or home made clothes as kids and rarely had two halfpennies to their names - so while I understand their efforts to better themselves as adults, where's all the pretentiousness come from? Everything has to be just so - and if you know me at all, you'll know that I really don't do just-so - any more than I do heights, or painting...
But they're not snobs of course - my mother often reminds you of the fact. Deeply worrying that...
Mind you, the living room is half-finished, and the kitchen does need it - desperately. So I suppose I'd better put up with it. I have already had one friend come and do the high bits of the living room for me after all, plus all the cornicing; for which I was really grateful as I don't know how I'd have managed otherwise. Well, I suspect I do actually - I'd have had to pay somebody else to do it for me...!
It's the mess. People say, "oh, the good thing about emulsion is, it just washes out." Not when it's all over your t-shirt it doesn't - and my hardly-worn, if slightly oversized trousers. So I just wear boxers now - but even then, it gets everywhere - elbows, underarms, thighs, belly, backside - I mean, I ask you - is it really worth all the effort?
And what really gets to me is how it just takes over! I mean, my home's not my own anymore - the entire kitchen is a mass of paintbrushes, bits of roller, tins of paint, newspaper, tissue and wonderful, chemical-laden decorators wipes (thank you whoever invented these - they're a lifesaver); and I can neither cook, nor wash-up. Meanwhile, the rest of my flat is increasingly filled with bits that should be in the kitchen! It's a nightmare - and I just want it to be over - NOW!!!
Needless to say, my mother's coming to stay - the week after next - and not only that, she's invited her sister round to visit! Why do I get the feeling my home isn't going to be my own for quite a bit longer than just while I'm painting?!! I mean - they grew up in a scruffy council property, invariably dressed in poor quality, second hand or home made clothes as kids and rarely had two halfpennies to their names - so while I understand their efforts to better themselves as adults, where's all the pretentiousness come from? Everything has to be just so - and if you know me at all, you'll know that I really don't do just-so - any more than I do heights, or painting...
But they're not snobs of course - my mother often reminds you of the fact. Deeply worrying that...
Thursday, 19 July 2007
WRAP
WRAP stands for Wellness Recovery Action Plan, and having procrastinated about it for months, I thought I'd have a go a writing mine today - or at least making a start. Basically, a WRAP is a Recovery tool that anybody can choose to use or not, to describe their ups and downs of life to whomoever they wish - or just as a self-help aid, really. It's a relatively new idea that sprung from America a couple of years back, and although they're using it quite extensively now in the mental health services of Hampshire and some other bits of England, it is literally just hitting Scotland, as we speak!
Anyway, it occured to me that with so many new people in my life that really haven't seen me in much other than the one state - and who most probably wouldn't be aware of half the difficulties I have, which are not immediately obvious or visible anyway - it might be quite a good idea to take the WRAP I've kept in my head for the past 18 months and put it down on paper. Besides - it will educate them a bit, as the chances of any of the doctors at my GP practice for instance, having ever as much as set eyes upon one is virtually zero. And I doubt that most of the other people I'm likely to share mine with - Salvation Army officers, for instance - will have even heard of it!!
A WRAP consists of seven sections which in theory, can be laid out however you choose but which, in practice, need to have the information they contain in some reasonably legible, understandable and accessible format. The sections are (1) a Wellness toolbox - basically a general list of things that you've tried and tested before and know help to keep you well - as well as another list of the things you know you should best avoid; (2) a Daily Maintenance Plan - which consists of a description of what you're like when you're well and a list of things that you need to do at regular intervals to keep you well; (3) Triggers - a list of external events/circumstances that are likely to make you feel less well, and an action plan of what to do if/when they occur; (4) Early Warning Signs - those subtle indications that we all have that something specific is amiss - and yet another list and action plan in the same format; (5) When Things Are Breaking Down - a list of the more serious symtoms requiring urgent actions; (6) Crisis Plan - self-explanatory really, a bit like an advance directive or statement, of how you'd like to be treated/not treated in the event of serious incapacity, who you'd like to act on your behalf and so on - but really quite comprehensive; and finally (7), Post-crisis plan - an indication of how people can recognise your needs are subsiding, and yet another action plan.
Some of it - particularly the Crisis Plan - is quite similar to the Advance Statement provisions of the Mental Health (Care & Treatment) (Scotland) Act 2003, which came into force just under a year ago - and it remains to be seen how or whether WRAPs, or elements of WRAPs, will be accepted and/or interwork with these - but it will give them all something to think about - I'm all for that!
Anyway, it occured to me that with so many new people in my life that really haven't seen me in much other than the one state - and who most probably wouldn't be aware of half the difficulties I have, which are not immediately obvious or visible anyway - it might be quite a good idea to take the WRAP I've kept in my head for the past 18 months and put it down on paper. Besides - it will educate them a bit, as the chances of any of the doctors at my GP practice for instance, having ever as much as set eyes upon one is virtually zero. And I doubt that most of the other people I'm likely to share mine with - Salvation Army officers, for instance - will have even heard of it!!
A WRAP consists of seven sections which in theory, can be laid out however you choose but which, in practice, need to have the information they contain in some reasonably legible, understandable and accessible format. The sections are (1) a Wellness toolbox - basically a general list of things that you've tried and tested before and know help to keep you well - as well as another list of the things you know you should best avoid; (2) a Daily Maintenance Plan - which consists of a description of what you're like when you're well and a list of things that you need to do at regular intervals to keep you well; (3) Triggers - a list of external events/circumstances that are likely to make you feel less well, and an action plan of what to do if/when they occur; (4) Early Warning Signs - those subtle indications that we all have that something specific is amiss - and yet another list and action plan in the same format; (5) When Things Are Breaking Down - a list of the more serious symtoms requiring urgent actions; (6) Crisis Plan - self-explanatory really, a bit like an advance directive or statement, of how you'd like to be treated/not treated in the event of serious incapacity, who you'd like to act on your behalf and so on - but really quite comprehensive; and finally (7), Post-crisis plan - an indication of how people can recognise your needs are subsiding, and yet another action plan.
Some of it - particularly the Crisis Plan - is quite similar to the Advance Statement provisions of the Mental Health (Care & Treatment) (Scotland) Act 2003, which came into force just under a year ago - and it remains to be seen how or whether WRAPs, or elements of WRAPs, will be accepted and/or interwork with these - but it will give them all something to think about - I'm all for that!
Wednesday, 18 July 2007
antidepressants
I feel a bit wierd this morning. Yesterday, I joined the happy millions on fluoxetine, which is probably better known by its trade name, Prozac!
For the past five years I've exercised my right to choose which treatments I do and do not have and so, have chosen not to use any such drugs; but I'm afraid the point has come whereby I need to take this sensible precaution, as I've really not been feeling too good lately - and to be honest to a degree that I normally prefer not to be, it's getting worse.
I have to say, I do resent being in this position again - which has largely come about because of extreme social isolation! Apart from my mother (who is a decidely mixed blessing - more of which later) and the good folks down at the Salvation Army - many of whom are currently away on holiday; my ongoing lack of meaningful occupation (as the mental health system likes to call it these days - it gives them a cop-out clause, as regards offering you help to return to actual employment, you see) means that I've not really had much opportunity to get to know anybody or develop a personal friendship circle, since moving to Edinburgh over four months ago. And four months is an awful long time to spend on your own - even in one of the world's most interesting and beautiful cities, complete with a free, go anywhere anytime bus pass...
Maybe I bit off more than I could chew when I moved, I don't know. I just never envisaged it would take so long to find some kind of work! The trouble is, I'm neither experienced nor qualified in anything really; and while I was given to believe I might be able to get into some kind of social care as I've done a little bit of that in the distant past and much of my experience as a mental health service user relates to it; that's not proving so easy either - not least because the mental health system here is a full two years behind that of Hampshire in terms of modernisation & development - and rather more in terms of culture - or at least, the type of culture that would actively consider employing service users, at any rate!
Indeed, I found out yesterday from one of the Salvation Army's social services centre managers, that all social care staff are expected to have qualifications these days. Now that's probably no bad thing - but to make matters worse, you actually need to be employed in social care, in order to access the vocational qualifications they require! So I don't quite know where I'm meant to go from here. I have an appointment with a Disability Employment Adviser next week - perhaps she'll have some ideas...
Depression's a funny illness really - one of those conditions that you never really know how much you're over without risking a paddle in the waters occasionally - and likewise the therapeutic value of antidepressants! That's wht I stopped taking them back in 2002 - it was really the only way of finding out whether I still needed them...!
Okay, so maybe moving to what is effectively another country was more of a complicated dive than a discreet paddle - but you know, all I actually want is a life. Is that really too much to expect?
For the past five years I've exercised my right to choose which treatments I do and do not have and so, have chosen not to use any such drugs; but I'm afraid the point has come whereby I need to take this sensible precaution, as I've really not been feeling too good lately - and to be honest to a degree that I normally prefer not to be, it's getting worse.
I have to say, I do resent being in this position again - which has largely come about because of extreme social isolation! Apart from my mother (who is a decidely mixed blessing - more of which later) and the good folks down at the Salvation Army - many of whom are currently away on holiday; my ongoing lack of meaningful occupation (as the mental health system likes to call it these days - it gives them a cop-out clause, as regards offering you help to return to actual employment, you see) means that I've not really had much opportunity to get to know anybody or develop a personal friendship circle, since moving to Edinburgh over four months ago. And four months is an awful long time to spend on your own - even in one of the world's most interesting and beautiful cities, complete with a free, go anywhere anytime bus pass...
Maybe I bit off more than I could chew when I moved, I don't know. I just never envisaged it would take so long to find some kind of work! The trouble is, I'm neither experienced nor qualified in anything really; and while I was given to believe I might be able to get into some kind of social care as I've done a little bit of that in the distant past and much of my experience as a mental health service user relates to it; that's not proving so easy either - not least because the mental health system here is a full two years behind that of Hampshire in terms of modernisation & development - and rather more in terms of culture - or at least, the type of culture that would actively consider employing service users, at any rate!
Indeed, I found out yesterday from one of the Salvation Army's social services centre managers, that all social care staff are expected to have qualifications these days. Now that's probably no bad thing - but to make matters worse, you actually need to be employed in social care, in order to access the vocational qualifications they require! So I don't quite know where I'm meant to go from here. I have an appointment with a Disability Employment Adviser next week - perhaps she'll have some ideas...
Depression's a funny illness really - one of those conditions that you never really know how much you're over without risking a paddle in the waters occasionally - and likewise the therapeutic value of antidepressants! That's wht I stopped taking them back in 2002 - it was really the only way of finding out whether I still needed them...!
Okay, so maybe moving to what is effectively another country was more of a complicated dive than a discreet paddle - but you know, all I actually want is a life. Is that really too much to expect?
Friday, 13 July 2007
Britain's tallest teens - part 1
I've just been catching up on last night's TV. I don't normally watch much after the nine o'clock watershed - not so much because it's the nine o'clock watershed, as that's just my habit. I get bored and restless after a couple of hours you see - sometimes not even that long. To me, watching TV is best done in company so you can excahnge the odd view about progress - and of course, I never have any company - or at least if I have, I'm not usually watching TV...!
Anyway, having seen the trailer for this programme, I made a point of recording it and I've just been catching up - and what a nice programme it was, too. For all three of the characters it was focussed upon, there were nice endings - I like nice endings.
But you know, my heart goes out to them - especially to the girl who is 6'1" at the age of 12 and was being offered drugs to stop her hormonal activity - because 30 years ago, that was me...
If you looked at me now, you'd see a somewhat overweight but otherwise normal bloke and wonder what on earth I mean by that statement; but back in the first months of 1977 when I was still 12, I was approaching 6'1"...
Okay, so it's always been unusual to grow so tall so early in life, but in the 1970s it was virtually unheard of - especially in places such as Glenrothes, where I then lived. Just as those kids struggle to get clothes and shoes to fit them now, my mother and I were well-used to it then too - even though the sizes we sought for me are now well within what might be considered normal ranges and are easily obtainable. But it wasn't the case back then - size 11 shoes were difficult to come by in any style, let alone styles that allowed a 12-year old at least a modicum of street-cred in an increasingly fashion conscious world. And those were the days of narky bus conductors and conductresses too, who rarely suffered fools and frequently ejected unruly or argumentative passengers - even those of us who were legally entitled to pay half fare, but looked older...
Of course, the adolescent's world is also very competitive. Almost as soon as the first signs of puberty appear, boys are anxious to start shaving, and girls clamber for additional items of underwear. All the talk at school is focussed upon moving onwards and upwards and reaching the magic ages that allow you to leave school, watch films with 18 certficiates, drive cars, have sex, smoke and drink, legally. Much to the chagrin of parents and teachers, beards and make-up start to appear - and whether they want it or not, everyone is assigned at least a nominal boyfriend/girlfriend. I found the latter was useful if only to lessen the likelihood of playground bullying, for there was an unwritten, unspoken and yet well-known and recognised expectation of others - a way of being; and you had to have a very, very good reason for being outside of that, if you were to avoid bullying...
As the TV programme illustrated very well, having an unusual physique doesn't actually achieve this in itself. It's probably worse to be too fat than too tall - and there comes a time when its also worse to be too short, or undeveloped in terms of the appearance of body hair or suchlike; but outside of the school playground, the first two definitely attract the most attention. People point the finger - and if you're exceptionally beyond what might be considered the normal range of sizes for your age, you might as well be a bearded lady in the circus so far as they are concerned - you're feel like you're a part of the free freak show. The attention is fine to a degree, but there does come a point - much earlier than most people realise, I might add - when you really just want people to relate to you as you...
Medical verification that your physique is indeed unusual for your age does tend to be widely accepted as a very, very good reason for being outside of that unrecorded expectation of others, however. I'm not sure that people relate to you as you exactly - as the adults tend to take pity and the other kids a stance of somewhere between curiosity and fear - but the finger pointing tends to be a little more discreet and the bullying doesn't happen so much, which feels like an achievement of sorts!
Medical verification - or at least, sufficient medical attention as to suggest they think you have something very unusual indeed, achieves even more! It may not be the kind of street-cred you set out to achieve, but to the average teenager, any street-cred is better than none - especially if it's of a quality that your mates can't compete with!
Ans so it was with me - just like the lass on the TV programme. I had a side-effect, that proved sufficient 'evidence' for the medics to investigate! For as long as anyone could remember, I'd had shaky hands. In childhood, this wasn't really a problem, but now that I was expected to write and draw more legibly at school and perform such mundane tasks as carry food and drinks across rooms at home - and was finding myself in trouble for making a mess of something I really couldn't help, it was a problem. So off I went - in secret - to the doctors...
Rather unexpectedly, it went, "That's very interesting. How tall are you...? Let me just take a blood sample, and we'll have you in next week for more tests - don't worry about your parents - I'll contact them and explain that I think it was entirely appropriate that you approached me in this way..."
That was the second week of March, 1977. By the first week of May - when I was admitted to one of the adult medical wards in the old Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh - under the care of a rather grandly-titled, consultant endocrinologist - there had been two further batteries of blood and urine tests lasting several hours apiece, referral to the children's ward at the local hospital in Kirkcaldy - where I didn't even get across the threshhold, as they'd no beds that were even remotely big enough to accomodate me, referral and examination by neurologists at the same hospital; and frequent measurements of both height and weight everywhere I went...
Getting admitted to hospital was unusual enough, but being turned away from the local hospital and transferred through to Edinburgh in just over six weeks - well, that was quite something else. Only the most serious cases were ever transferred to Edinburgh - the Royal Infirmary there was considered quite a prestigious hospital and the message was clear - what I had was very, very, very unusual indeed...
At the time, I lapped up all the adult attention and really didn't see what all the fuss was about. I remember my mother crying when they left me in the ward -and I really couldn't understand why, as I considered myself to be in good hands and what's more, I was there to get better! Everyone was interested in me - everything about me, and that felt quite good! No longer did I have to suffer my mundane everyday life - and boy, was it mundane: I was quite a celebrity here - and I liked it!
Now, I'd always been brought up to cooperate with authority figures, so yes I'll admit to having been a little scared to begin with. Especially when they asked me to get undressed and get into bed - that was pretty unchartered territory at that point in my life - I'd never spent as much as single night away from my family before. Nowadays I'd even say it was invasive - but I'd no concept of what that really meant in those days and anyway, even if I'd had and said as much, that would have involved being uncooperative. So I just took a deep breath and did as they asked...
Later on the first day, I underwent a very lengthy and full medical examination by a youngish house-doctor. He was quite friendly and obviously going out of his way to be gentle, so I tried not to be afraid of him - but of course, I wasn't used to so much one-to-one time with an adult I didn't know. Even when I'd spent six hours having blood and urine tests in the surget a few weeks earlier, I'd been in the company of a practice nurse I'd seen on and off for years; so this was quite a new experience.
He wanted to know everything about me and my family - even things I didn't really know, such as what my grandfathers had died of; and eventually asked questions using words I didn't much understand - puberty being one of them! To his credit though, he was quick to explain just enough for me to understand the context - it wasn't a birds and bees lecture by any means, but at least I was able to answer his questions about hair growth, and suchlike.
Later still - and for the rest of the week, I spent an even longer one-to-one period being examined by a medical student. That was easier because he was younger - the same sort of age as the uncles I'd grown up with, and from an early stage we established some similarities, such as that he'd previously lived in Glenrothes - so to me, he was much more of a friend than an authority figure. Whether he'd been detailed to befriend me in this way I don't know - looking back, he was probably one of the more senior students and I was part of a fairly major piece of project he'd had the chance to work upon; but befriend me he did - and because he did, I was to suffer some very, very serious psychological scarring for years to come, as I mourned the sudden severance of this new and interesting friendship...
Some of their tests were more of the same - urine and blood samples - morning, noon and night. The latter was also what I'd now call invasive - especially as, on my second day, they failed to locate a vein on which they could fit a ventolin tap - resulting in a total of 14 individual needles having to pierce my skin at half-hourly intervals throughout the day. Of course I laughed at their jokes of being made a pin cushion, but both arms ended up bruised and sore in consequence.
The medical registrar hadn't quite perfected his bedside manner at that point in his career either. To be fair, he didn't really scare me, but he was a bit distant - and while the others examined and did most of the leg work, it was him who told me most about what they were looking for - which was chemical evidence of an overactive thyroid gland, which they thought was the cause of my abnormal growth. They weren't yet sure what they were going to do about it if they found this was the case, but they'd certainly do something, as without any treatment I'd most probably grow to over seven feet tall and most probably die before I reached the age of 30. I'm sure the latter phrase made a great deal of sense to him, but again, it was to haunt me for many years to come - and indeed, I didn't really even begin to settle down and accept my life until I'd surpassed my 30th birthday and satisified myself that I wasn't going to die...
One day I was sent - alone, in nightclothes, and by taxi - to the other end of the huge hospital site, to have eye tests done. I can remember feeling so glad when they started these tests, just to be in the company of people whom I felt I could trust; or who might at least be held to some account, even if only because of the uniforms they wore - and the same when I returned to the ward: it really was quite terrifying to be alone in the middle of Edinburgh's busy streets in a black cab, wearing only pyjamas and dressing gown...!
In the mornings, during the consultants' ward rounds, all the doctors and students wandered round the ward in a huge gang - twenty or more of them. Mostly they didn't all go to the same bed - but they all came to mine! I can still remember lying there - completely closed in by this sea of white coats and spotty faces with big eyes looking down towards me, as if I were some kind of undiscovered species of animal!
But most terrifying and humilating of all, was the day they sent me to the 'medical photography' department. I was picked up by a friendly young porter and given a somewhat thrilling, if unneccesary ride, in a wheelchair! The first part of this - along the huge, seemingly endless marble corridor that linked up all of the wards in the old infirmary building - at some speed, was great fun; but I have to say I began to feel distinctly uneasy when we turned off up a dark, winding corridor I'd not been up before. If I could have clung to that porter I think I would have done - we were passing the operating theatres I think - people dressed in surgical suits and masks, wheeling unconsciuous patients in trolleys by us. I felt sick, nauseous - and terrified! I think we had a ride in an old-fashioned lift - one of the draughty, rocky ones with the big iron shutters and steel, concertina outside doors - but we then had to abandon the chair and walk up a narrow, dark wooden staircase to the top of the building. It was deadly quiet here compared to the rest of the hospital, where there were lots of people rushing about - I felt trapped, and lost in a maze. My porter friend knocked on the door at the end of the corridor, marked 'Medical Photography', and ushering me inside, left me in the company of the two ageing male technicians. I'd never been so terrified in all my life - I wanted to run after the porter and scream at him to stay with me, but I feared I'd be apprehended and pinned to the floor by these two older men...
I don't know how long I was in there. Probably it was no more than ten minutes - for all they wanted me to do was strip completely naked and stand by this measuring rule, while they took photographs with an old-fashioned, flash camera; but all I can remember about it was my pounding heartbeat and profuse, cold sweat. I was absolutely terrified, embarrassed and totally humiliated.
Unbeknown to me, the porter was actually waiting for me just the other side of the door! I'd never been so glad to see anyone in all my life - I could have kissed him, quite happily!
It's a fair while since I've visited this part of my memory, and I'd really no idea that the fear I felt during the various incidents I've described is still so active, and raw - so I'm going to remane this blog as part 1. Maybe I'll write part 2 another day.
Anyway, having seen the trailer for this programme, I made a point of recording it and I've just been catching up - and what a nice programme it was, too. For all three of the characters it was focussed upon, there were nice endings - I like nice endings.
But you know, my heart goes out to them - especially to the girl who is 6'1" at the age of 12 and was being offered drugs to stop her hormonal activity - because 30 years ago, that was me...
If you looked at me now, you'd see a somewhat overweight but otherwise normal bloke and wonder what on earth I mean by that statement; but back in the first months of 1977 when I was still 12, I was approaching 6'1"...
Okay, so it's always been unusual to grow so tall so early in life, but in the 1970s it was virtually unheard of - especially in places such as Glenrothes, where I then lived. Just as those kids struggle to get clothes and shoes to fit them now, my mother and I were well-used to it then too - even though the sizes we sought for me are now well within what might be considered normal ranges and are easily obtainable. But it wasn't the case back then - size 11 shoes were difficult to come by in any style, let alone styles that allowed a 12-year old at least a modicum of street-cred in an increasingly fashion conscious world. And those were the days of narky bus conductors and conductresses too, who rarely suffered fools and frequently ejected unruly or argumentative passengers - even those of us who were legally entitled to pay half fare, but looked older...
Of course, the adolescent's world is also very competitive. Almost as soon as the first signs of puberty appear, boys are anxious to start shaving, and girls clamber for additional items of underwear. All the talk at school is focussed upon moving onwards and upwards and reaching the magic ages that allow you to leave school, watch films with 18 certficiates, drive cars, have sex, smoke and drink, legally. Much to the chagrin of parents and teachers, beards and make-up start to appear - and whether they want it or not, everyone is assigned at least a nominal boyfriend/girlfriend. I found the latter was useful if only to lessen the likelihood of playground bullying, for there was an unwritten, unspoken and yet well-known and recognised expectation of others - a way of being; and you had to have a very, very good reason for being outside of that, if you were to avoid bullying...
As the TV programme illustrated very well, having an unusual physique doesn't actually achieve this in itself. It's probably worse to be too fat than too tall - and there comes a time when its also worse to be too short, or undeveloped in terms of the appearance of body hair or suchlike; but outside of the school playground, the first two definitely attract the most attention. People point the finger - and if you're exceptionally beyond what might be considered the normal range of sizes for your age, you might as well be a bearded lady in the circus so far as they are concerned - you're feel like you're a part of the free freak show. The attention is fine to a degree, but there does come a point - much earlier than most people realise, I might add - when you really just want people to relate to you as you...
Medical verification that your physique is indeed unusual for your age does tend to be widely accepted as a very, very good reason for being outside of that unrecorded expectation of others, however. I'm not sure that people relate to you as you exactly - as the adults tend to take pity and the other kids a stance of somewhere between curiosity and fear - but the finger pointing tends to be a little more discreet and the bullying doesn't happen so much, which feels like an achievement of sorts!
Medical verification - or at least, sufficient medical attention as to suggest they think you have something very unusual indeed, achieves even more! It may not be the kind of street-cred you set out to achieve, but to the average teenager, any street-cred is better than none - especially if it's of a quality that your mates can't compete with!
Ans so it was with me - just like the lass on the TV programme. I had a side-effect, that proved sufficient 'evidence' for the medics to investigate! For as long as anyone could remember, I'd had shaky hands. In childhood, this wasn't really a problem, but now that I was expected to write and draw more legibly at school and perform such mundane tasks as carry food and drinks across rooms at home - and was finding myself in trouble for making a mess of something I really couldn't help, it was a problem. So off I went - in secret - to the doctors...
Rather unexpectedly, it went, "That's very interesting. How tall are you...? Let me just take a blood sample, and we'll have you in next week for more tests - don't worry about your parents - I'll contact them and explain that I think it was entirely appropriate that you approached me in this way..."
That was the second week of March, 1977. By the first week of May - when I was admitted to one of the adult medical wards in the old Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh - under the care of a rather grandly-titled, consultant endocrinologist - there had been two further batteries of blood and urine tests lasting several hours apiece, referral to the children's ward at the local hospital in Kirkcaldy - where I didn't even get across the threshhold, as they'd no beds that were even remotely big enough to accomodate me, referral and examination by neurologists at the same hospital; and frequent measurements of both height and weight everywhere I went...
Getting admitted to hospital was unusual enough, but being turned away from the local hospital and transferred through to Edinburgh in just over six weeks - well, that was quite something else. Only the most serious cases were ever transferred to Edinburgh - the Royal Infirmary there was considered quite a prestigious hospital and the message was clear - what I had was very, very, very unusual indeed...
At the time, I lapped up all the adult attention and really didn't see what all the fuss was about. I remember my mother crying when they left me in the ward -and I really couldn't understand why, as I considered myself to be in good hands and what's more, I was there to get better! Everyone was interested in me - everything about me, and that felt quite good! No longer did I have to suffer my mundane everyday life - and boy, was it mundane: I was quite a celebrity here - and I liked it!
Now, I'd always been brought up to cooperate with authority figures, so yes I'll admit to having been a little scared to begin with. Especially when they asked me to get undressed and get into bed - that was pretty unchartered territory at that point in my life - I'd never spent as much as single night away from my family before. Nowadays I'd even say it was invasive - but I'd no concept of what that really meant in those days and anyway, even if I'd had and said as much, that would have involved being uncooperative. So I just took a deep breath and did as they asked...
Later on the first day, I underwent a very lengthy and full medical examination by a youngish house-doctor. He was quite friendly and obviously going out of his way to be gentle, so I tried not to be afraid of him - but of course, I wasn't used to so much one-to-one time with an adult I didn't know. Even when I'd spent six hours having blood and urine tests in the surget a few weeks earlier, I'd been in the company of a practice nurse I'd seen on and off for years; so this was quite a new experience.
He wanted to know everything about me and my family - even things I didn't really know, such as what my grandfathers had died of; and eventually asked questions using words I didn't much understand - puberty being one of them! To his credit though, he was quick to explain just enough for me to understand the context - it wasn't a birds and bees lecture by any means, but at least I was able to answer his questions about hair growth, and suchlike.
Later still - and for the rest of the week, I spent an even longer one-to-one period being examined by a medical student. That was easier because he was younger - the same sort of age as the uncles I'd grown up with, and from an early stage we established some similarities, such as that he'd previously lived in Glenrothes - so to me, he was much more of a friend than an authority figure. Whether he'd been detailed to befriend me in this way I don't know - looking back, he was probably one of the more senior students and I was part of a fairly major piece of project he'd had the chance to work upon; but befriend me he did - and because he did, I was to suffer some very, very serious psychological scarring for years to come, as I mourned the sudden severance of this new and interesting friendship...
Some of their tests were more of the same - urine and blood samples - morning, noon and night. The latter was also what I'd now call invasive - especially as, on my second day, they failed to locate a vein on which they could fit a ventolin tap - resulting in a total of 14 individual needles having to pierce my skin at half-hourly intervals throughout the day. Of course I laughed at their jokes of being made a pin cushion, but both arms ended up bruised and sore in consequence.
The medical registrar hadn't quite perfected his bedside manner at that point in his career either. To be fair, he didn't really scare me, but he was a bit distant - and while the others examined and did most of the leg work, it was him who told me most about what they were looking for - which was chemical evidence of an overactive thyroid gland, which they thought was the cause of my abnormal growth. They weren't yet sure what they were going to do about it if they found this was the case, but they'd certainly do something, as without any treatment I'd most probably grow to over seven feet tall and most probably die before I reached the age of 30. I'm sure the latter phrase made a great deal of sense to him, but again, it was to haunt me for many years to come - and indeed, I didn't really even begin to settle down and accept my life until I'd surpassed my 30th birthday and satisified myself that I wasn't going to die...
One day I was sent - alone, in nightclothes, and by taxi - to the other end of the huge hospital site, to have eye tests done. I can remember feeling so glad when they started these tests, just to be in the company of people whom I felt I could trust; or who might at least be held to some account, even if only because of the uniforms they wore - and the same when I returned to the ward: it really was quite terrifying to be alone in the middle of Edinburgh's busy streets in a black cab, wearing only pyjamas and dressing gown...!
In the mornings, during the consultants' ward rounds, all the doctors and students wandered round the ward in a huge gang - twenty or more of them. Mostly they didn't all go to the same bed - but they all came to mine! I can still remember lying there - completely closed in by this sea of white coats and spotty faces with big eyes looking down towards me, as if I were some kind of undiscovered species of animal!
But most terrifying and humilating of all, was the day they sent me to the 'medical photography' department. I was picked up by a friendly young porter and given a somewhat thrilling, if unneccesary ride, in a wheelchair! The first part of this - along the huge, seemingly endless marble corridor that linked up all of the wards in the old infirmary building - at some speed, was great fun; but I have to say I began to feel distinctly uneasy when we turned off up a dark, winding corridor I'd not been up before. If I could have clung to that porter I think I would have done - we were passing the operating theatres I think - people dressed in surgical suits and masks, wheeling unconsciuous patients in trolleys by us. I felt sick, nauseous - and terrified! I think we had a ride in an old-fashioned lift - one of the draughty, rocky ones with the big iron shutters and steel, concertina outside doors - but we then had to abandon the chair and walk up a narrow, dark wooden staircase to the top of the building. It was deadly quiet here compared to the rest of the hospital, where there were lots of people rushing about - I felt trapped, and lost in a maze. My porter friend knocked on the door at the end of the corridor, marked 'Medical Photography', and ushering me inside, left me in the company of the two ageing male technicians. I'd never been so terrified in all my life - I wanted to run after the porter and scream at him to stay with me, but I feared I'd be apprehended and pinned to the floor by these two older men...
I don't know how long I was in there. Probably it was no more than ten minutes - for all they wanted me to do was strip completely naked and stand by this measuring rule, while they took photographs with an old-fashioned, flash camera; but all I can remember about it was my pounding heartbeat and profuse, cold sweat. I was absolutely terrified, embarrassed and totally humiliated.
Unbeknown to me, the porter was actually waiting for me just the other side of the door! I'd never been so glad to see anyone in all my life - I could have kissed him, quite happily!
It's a fair while since I've visited this part of my memory, and I'd really no idea that the fear I felt during the various incidents I've described is still so active, and raw - so I'm going to remane this blog as part 1. Maybe I'll write part 2 another day.
Thursday, 12 July 2007
Genealogy
My grandmother was quite a storyteller. Even though she'd married for a second time after the death of my grandfather - when I and most of my cousins were either too young to remember him or not yet born, she made sure we all knew something of his character, as well as some of the fun they'd had together. She spoke of pre-war Dundee, where they'd lived and from where she felt obliged to flee with her three young children during the blitz, and, rather mysteriously; of the very different lifestyle she'd led there before she and my grandfather had married. In contrast to their years together, she seemed to have been very well provided for before her marriage - even as the rest of the world struggled to make ends meet during the depression of the late 1920s and early 1930s. Yet it was never clear how that far off lifestyle was financed, for save for the death of her natural mother when she was just two weeks old and her subsequent adoption by an aunt, she rarely spoke of her own relations.
At the time it just seemed pure chance, that I should happen to visit her one Tuesday afternoon, during one of my trips north, in 1997. Her friend, Joan, was there too; and during the inevitable reminiscence after coffee, she produced from her hallway cupboard, that old document which she claimed proved her entitlement to 'real estate' - that is, the one remaining place in an old cemetery lair in Forfar! I'd almost forgotten this existed, it had been such a while since I'd seen it, but as ever it was accompanied by her suggestion that when her weary days were over, she might just take herself up there...
Sat as I was with two ageing ladies with failing sight, I was egged on by one or the other to try to decipher the old copperplate script, which was of course an account of the three existing occupants - David Christie Ballingall, his wife, Mary Ann Thomson Ballingall and daughter, Margaret Thomson Ballingall; and upon Joan's enquiry, Gran confirmed that these were her grandparents and aunt, on her mother's side. The script continued, to the effect that if no claim had been made upon the remaining lair within fifty years of the date of the last internment, Forfar Council or its successors could forfeit the right of access to it; and so the joke about Gran's trip up there became all the funnier, as we realised she had just five and half months left to stake her claim...!
For the first time ever - to any of my living relations' knowledge - my gran then spent the next hour recalling names of the relations of her youth - and provided me with pen and paper, to make note of them, for future research! This really was quite a momentous occasion as I arrived there really only knowing that the aunt who'd raised her was known colloquially as 'Granny Broon' and her grandfather had been Samuel Moss, a brassfounder - but I left with details of the names of that aunt, both sets of grandparents, several cousins - and perhaps most revealing of all, the names of both her parents, her father's second wife, and her half-brother and sister from that marriage - which up until that point, no member of the family had even any clue existed.
Joan left, and some time later, I bid my grandmother farewell too, and returned to my parents armed with all this information, and they too, were pretty amazed by this sudden revelation. Then the next morning, the phone rang just as my father was leaving for work - his mother had suffered a stroke during the night that had left her half-paralysed and unable to speak...
Just how uncanny is that? She lived for a few years more in a nursing home, barely able to move without help; and although she recovered some speech, it was hardly enough to make even the most everyday conversation possible, never mind recollection of past events and names of long-dead people. I've never really believed in premonitions - but it makes you wonder, doesn't it...?
Now, ten years later - and five years after her death, I have quite an insight into my ancestry, thanks to that old cemetery deed paper, and the subsequent conversation. I have traced the Ballingall family back ten generations, to their Fife roots, and made connections with Thomsons, Morrisons, Craigs, Strachans and Peacocks - all in the Forfar area - the latter as far back as the early 1600s. I have traced the Moss family - which was quite extensive for much of the nineteenth century but may no longer exists as such at all, back to the same period - they'd not arrived in Dundee until the 1830s, and had previously been in Edinburgh - and in Melrose, Roxburghshire, before that. I've connected them to the Goodales of Stenton and Whittinghame parishes of East Lothian; as well as the Kennedys of Minto and Wights and Waughs, of other Border parishes.
On my mother's side - and with the help of pre-existing, yet unknown to any of us, websites prepared by a distant cousin we never knew existed - I've connected us with Cormacks, Anguses, Andersons, Alexanders, Youngs, Bruces and others - all from the rural glens of Angus and north-east Perthshire. And at length, I've even tracked my own Harvey family back two more generations and connected them with Herons - which previously only appeared, somewhat strangely, as a middle name of one of my aunts. Alas, prior to the 1860s both of these lived in Ireland and as yet, I've no idea where - so that's a project for another rainy day!
A few skeletons continue to rattle in my Gran's cupboard! As well as the hitherto unexplained 'Heron', she gave her second daughter another middle name - McFarlane; and the only connection I can find with that is that it was a middle name of Jessie, the second wife of the father she claimed to hate so much and have nothing to do with. And what's more, her own marriage to my grandfather took place in St Paul's Cathedral in Dundee - and as his family were Roman Catholics and hers Church of Scotland - yes, you've guessed it, Jessie's were Scottish Episcopal - and members of St Paul's!
And somewhat sadly to my way of thinking, she never did join the grandparents whom I'm almost certain funded her illustrious youth, at Forfar - my father and his sisters simply had her cremated at Perth, where her ashes were presumably buried in the garden of remembrance.
At the time it just seemed pure chance, that I should happen to visit her one Tuesday afternoon, during one of my trips north, in 1997. Her friend, Joan, was there too; and during the inevitable reminiscence after coffee, she produced from her hallway cupboard, that old document which she claimed proved her entitlement to 'real estate' - that is, the one remaining place in an old cemetery lair in Forfar! I'd almost forgotten this existed, it had been such a while since I'd seen it, but as ever it was accompanied by her suggestion that when her weary days were over, she might just take herself up there...
Sat as I was with two ageing ladies with failing sight, I was egged on by one or the other to try to decipher the old copperplate script, which was of course an account of the three existing occupants - David Christie Ballingall, his wife, Mary Ann Thomson Ballingall and daughter, Margaret Thomson Ballingall; and upon Joan's enquiry, Gran confirmed that these were her grandparents and aunt, on her mother's side. The script continued, to the effect that if no claim had been made upon the remaining lair within fifty years of the date of the last internment, Forfar Council or its successors could forfeit the right of access to it; and so the joke about Gran's trip up there became all the funnier, as we realised she had just five and half months left to stake her claim...!
For the first time ever - to any of my living relations' knowledge - my gran then spent the next hour recalling names of the relations of her youth - and provided me with pen and paper, to make note of them, for future research! This really was quite a momentous occasion as I arrived there really only knowing that the aunt who'd raised her was known colloquially as 'Granny Broon' and her grandfather had been Samuel Moss, a brassfounder - but I left with details of the names of that aunt, both sets of grandparents, several cousins - and perhaps most revealing of all, the names of both her parents, her father's second wife, and her half-brother and sister from that marriage - which up until that point, no member of the family had even any clue existed.
Joan left, and some time later, I bid my grandmother farewell too, and returned to my parents armed with all this information, and they too, were pretty amazed by this sudden revelation. Then the next morning, the phone rang just as my father was leaving for work - his mother had suffered a stroke during the night that had left her half-paralysed and unable to speak...
Just how uncanny is that? She lived for a few years more in a nursing home, barely able to move without help; and although she recovered some speech, it was hardly enough to make even the most everyday conversation possible, never mind recollection of past events and names of long-dead people. I've never really believed in premonitions - but it makes you wonder, doesn't it...?
Now, ten years later - and five years after her death, I have quite an insight into my ancestry, thanks to that old cemetery deed paper, and the subsequent conversation. I have traced the Ballingall family back ten generations, to their Fife roots, and made connections with Thomsons, Morrisons, Craigs, Strachans and Peacocks - all in the Forfar area - the latter as far back as the early 1600s. I have traced the Moss family - which was quite extensive for much of the nineteenth century but may no longer exists as such at all, back to the same period - they'd not arrived in Dundee until the 1830s, and had previously been in Edinburgh - and in Melrose, Roxburghshire, before that. I've connected them to the Goodales of Stenton and Whittinghame parishes of East Lothian; as well as the Kennedys of Minto and Wights and Waughs, of other Border parishes.
On my mother's side - and with the help of pre-existing, yet unknown to any of us, websites prepared by a distant cousin we never knew existed - I've connected us with Cormacks, Anguses, Andersons, Alexanders, Youngs, Bruces and others - all from the rural glens of Angus and north-east Perthshire. And at length, I've even tracked my own Harvey family back two more generations and connected them with Herons - which previously only appeared, somewhat strangely, as a middle name of one of my aunts. Alas, prior to the 1860s both of these lived in Ireland and as yet, I've no idea where - so that's a project for another rainy day!
A few skeletons continue to rattle in my Gran's cupboard! As well as the hitherto unexplained 'Heron', she gave her second daughter another middle name - McFarlane; and the only connection I can find with that is that it was a middle name of Jessie, the second wife of the father she claimed to hate so much and have nothing to do with. And what's more, her own marriage to my grandfather took place in St Paul's Cathedral in Dundee - and as his family were Roman Catholics and hers Church of Scotland - yes, you've guessed it, Jessie's were Scottish Episcopal - and members of St Paul's!
And somewhat sadly to my way of thinking, she never did join the grandparents whom I'm almost certain funded her illustrious youth, at Forfar - my father and his sisters simply had her cremated at Perth, where her ashes were presumably buried in the garden of remembrance.
Friday, 6 July 2007
testimonies
Testimony is an old-fashioned word in some respects. I daresay there are those that think of it as a legal term, and have never considered its use elsewhere; but the action has never really gone out of fashion - as anyone who has ever tried to sell anything will know! There's really nothing more effective than somebody standing up and saying how greatly improved their life has been, since they acquired or began using this or that...
And so it is in a religious, faith context - and the best part of that is, most people who testify the effectiveness of their faith, or of God or one of the persons of God or their relationship with him, don't even realise they're doing it! Songs and hymns are perhaps the most obvious means of such unconscious testimony; but some churches also use more conscious, deliberate testimony to help 'sell' their goods. As far as I can gather, this also used to be more fashionable, and is now largely the preserve of some of, what in the UK might be thought of as the more obscure and probably American-inspired (because for some reason, lots of people think that anything wierd and religious must be American-inspired), denominations and traditions - and everywhere, the Salvation Army!
For years, I struggled to fit myself into other churches and occasionally eyed the Salvation Army from afar, secretly wishing I might be accepted there despite all that I am, should I ever find the courage to transfer my allegiance. There's just so much about Salvation Army worship styles that I feel I can readily identify with - it just presses the right buttons for me. Okay, so there's no sacraments - not even the quarterly communion tradition that I was raised with, in the Church of Scotland - but for me, the whole bread and wine ritual was always a bit of a mystery too far anyway: I mean, why do it like that? The bible quotes Jesus as having said, "do this each time you eat or drink," or words to that effect - not just when you happen to be celebrating something the church calls communion; so is it not better to remember Jesus and his sacrifice every time you put something into your mouth, as opposed to concentrating the memory into a weekly (or whatever frequency) ritual? Though I'd be the first to admit that, try as I might, I don't often achieve that...
'Army worship leaders also tend to make much more of the actual words of songs being sung, than any other Christian church I've come across. To me, this is important, because otherwise, you soon fall into doing things without thinking about them - especially if like me, you're not especially good at singing and thinking about what you're singing - at the same time! They'll often read words, or have others read words and therefore highlight them before they invite you to actually join in the singing of them - so that by the time you do so, you're fully conscious of the words passing through your lips, and what they mean - both to yourself, and potentially to others in earshot - and to me, that's really important as true worship is not passive!
Each to their own, but personally, I think a lot of churches in what the English might call the reformed traditions, fall into this trap of allowing worshippers to be too passive. Indeed, I'd also go as far as say that churches of the Anglican & Roman Catholic traditions are even worse in this respect - with their worship services often taking place in beautiful, historic, interesting buildings that are, nonetheless, not suited to their purpose and arguably, never were suited to it - because most of the people in attendance simply witness the worship taking place! How can they be doing otherwise if the priest/clergy/professional choir/minister is doing all the talking - especially if they also happen to be doing so in a room that's at least half-hidden from view, by a rood screen - or worse still, doing it in latin, or some other language that most of the lay congregation does not use or understand?
And the 'Army makes extensive use of conscious testimony - and I think that's just great, because however educated the worship leader may or may not be - however good or gifted they are at teaching, or putting their message across - there's nothing more encouraging than hearing the voices of ordinary folk in the crowd, confirming that it actually works for them! To hear somebody's account of how their prayers have been answered - never mind the theory, or how a particular passage from the bible moved them - well, to me, that's just awesome. Even to hear what it is they're struggling with or concerned with - that changes them from being just another faceless member of a congregation, into a real person - and that's important too, because it is real people with who I feel I can most readily identify. Of course, I know that clergy/priests/ministers/what have you are also real people - but they don't always behave like real people, or at least like ordinary people. I mean, we don't all get to wear brightly coloured vestments, stoles, surplices, dog collars or funny hats - so they can't be quite the same as the rest of us - can they?
And so it is in a religious, faith context - and the best part of that is, most people who testify the effectiveness of their faith, or of God or one of the persons of God or their relationship with him, don't even realise they're doing it! Songs and hymns are perhaps the most obvious means of such unconscious testimony; but some churches also use more conscious, deliberate testimony to help 'sell' their goods. As far as I can gather, this also used to be more fashionable, and is now largely the preserve of some of, what in the UK might be thought of as the more obscure and probably American-inspired (because for some reason, lots of people think that anything wierd and religious must be American-inspired), denominations and traditions - and everywhere, the Salvation Army!
For years, I struggled to fit myself into other churches and occasionally eyed the Salvation Army from afar, secretly wishing I might be accepted there despite all that I am, should I ever find the courage to transfer my allegiance. There's just so much about Salvation Army worship styles that I feel I can readily identify with - it just presses the right buttons for me. Okay, so there's no sacraments - not even the quarterly communion tradition that I was raised with, in the Church of Scotland - but for me, the whole bread and wine ritual was always a bit of a mystery too far anyway: I mean, why do it like that? The bible quotes Jesus as having said, "do this each time you eat or drink," or words to that effect - not just when you happen to be celebrating something the church calls communion; so is it not better to remember Jesus and his sacrifice every time you put something into your mouth, as opposed to concentrating the memory into a weekly (or whatever frequency) ritual? Though I'd be the first to admit that, try as I might, I don't often achieve that...
'Army worship leaders also tend to make much more of the actual words of songs being sung, than any other Christian church I've come across. To me, this is important, because otherwise, you soon fall into doing things without thinking about them - especially if like me, you're not especially good at singing and thinking about what you're singing - at the same time! They'll often read words, or have others read words and therefore highlight them before they invite you to actually join in the singing of them - so that by the time you do so, you're fully conscious of the words passing through your lips, and what they mean - both to yourself, and potentially to others in earshot - and to me, that's really important as true worship is not passive!
Each to their own, but personally, I think a lot of churches in what the English might call the reformed traditions, fall into this trap of allowing worshippers to be too passive. Indeed, I'd also go as far as say that churches of the Anglican & Roman Catholic traditions are even worse in this respect - with their worship services often taking place in beautiful, historic, interesting buildings that are, nonetheless, not suited to their purpose and arguably, never were suited to it - because most of the people in attendance simply witness the worship taking place! How can they be doing otherwise if the priest/clergy/professional choir/minister is doing all the talking - especially if they also happen to be doing so in a room that's at least half-hidden from view, by a rood screen - or worse still, doing it in latin, or some other language that most of the lay congregation does not use or understand?
And the 'Army makes extensive use of conscious testimony - and I think that's just great, because however educated the worship leader may or may not be - however good or gifted they are at teaching, or putting their message across - there's nothing more encouraging than hearing the voices of ordinary folk in the crowd, confirming that it actually works for them! To hear somebody's account of how their prayers have been answered - never mind the theory, or how a particular passage from the bible moved them - well, to me, that's just awesome. Even to hear what it is they're struggling with or concerned with - that changes them from being just another faceless member of a congregation, into a real person - and that's important too, because it is real people with who I feel I can most readily identify. Of course, I know that clergy/priests/ministers/what have you are also real people - but they don't always behave like real people, or at least like ordinary people. I mean, we don't all get to wear brightly coloured vestments, stoles, surplices, dog collars or funny hats - so they can't be quite the same as the rest of us - can they?
Back to Planet Normal!
I received an invitation to a book launch the other day. Unfortunately, I couldn't go because it was taking place in Gosport, where I used to live. "Service Users are very proud of this," the invitation said...
It's funny how quickly people erase your achievements from their memories. Now I'm nobody special, and don't expect to be treated as such, but you know, I'm actually one of those proud service users - even though I wasn't aware I'm meant to be proud - or that the publication I was working on with the rest of the crowd just three short months ago, is even now a book!
As far as I know, the book is still called, "The Good Information Guide to Psychosis;" and it still takes you on a visual journey to Planet Psychosis and back - noting various space-themed factors and influences along the way. The planet analogy started off as a joke about being back on planet normal at the start of one of the early, Monday morning meetings of what christened itself the Good Information Group - which had been establised within the Fareham & Gosport locality of Hampshire Partnership NHS Trust, to look at how service user-friendly psychoeducational material might be produced, in accordance with the National Institute for Clinical Excellene (NICE) Guidelines for Schizophrenia. From the joke came the suggestion that if there's a Planet Normal there must also be other 'planets' - and I was the first one to say it - Planet Psychosis - everyone else was too busy laughing...
I don't really mind the whole group taking the credit mind you - they all worked incredibly hard, with drawings, editing, wording, negotiating - and at the beginning of March, we even made the heady heights of what turned out to be an otherwise boring and stuffy Clinical Governance Conference in Winchester - at which we made a joint presentation, complete with PowerPoint illustrations. But I do wonder whose names the finished article includes in its credits page. Nobody has even thought to send or offer to send me a copy. Is it wrong to feel a little hurt by this, or to covet the potential results of flashing it under the eyes of those who may wish to give my CV more than the casual once-over?
It's funny how quickly people erase your achievements from their memories. Now I'm nobody special, and don't expect to be treated as such, but you know, I'm actually one of those proud service users - even though I wasn't aware I'm meant to be proud - or that the publication I was working on with the rest of the crowd just three short months ago, is even now a book!
As far as I know, the book is still called, "The Good Information Guide to Psychosis;" and it still takes you on a visual journey to Planet Psychosis and back - noting various space-themed factors and influences along the way. The planet analogy started off as a joke about being back on planet normal at the start of one of the early, Monday morning meetings of what christened itself the Good Information Group - which had been establised within the Fareham & Gosport locality of Hampshire Partnership NHS Trust, to look at how service user-friendly psychoeducational material might be produced, in accordance with the National Institute for Clinical Excellene (NICE) Guidelines for Schizophrenia. From the joke came the suggestion that if there's a Planet Normal there must also be other 'planets' - and I was the first one to say it - Planet Psychosis - everyone else was too busy laughing...
I don't really mind the whole group taking the credit mind you - they all worked incredibly hard, with drawings, editing, wording, negotiating - and at the beginning of March, we even made the heady heights of what turned out to be an otherwise boring and stuffy Clinical Governance Conference in Winchester - at which we made a joint presentation, complete with PowerPoint illustrations. But I do wonder whose names the finished article includes in its credits page. Nobody has even thought to send or offer to send me a copy. Is it wrong to feel a little hurt by this, or to covet the potential results of flashing it under the eyes of those who may wish to give my CV more than the casual once-over?
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