Rue (archaic)


1. Bitterly regret (something one has done or allowed to happen) and wish it undone.
“she might live to rue this impetuous decision”

Noun (mass archaic)

1. Repentance; regret.
‘with rue my heart is laden’

2. Compassion; pity.
‘This is music of longing, menace, and rue, often spiced with mordant or grisly humor.’

Sometimes fragments from conferences come back to me many years later. Some words or a conversation that have been trying to make themselves heard to me, or were waiting for some context or moment to slot into place. This little exchange is one that popped into my mind recently and I know that by some slow transmutation, the metamorphic pressure of sorrow, that the thought is now different than it was before.

I had gone to a meeting about compassion, which is an idea which interests me. Perhaps at that time I had not realised that this idea that is so central to so many religious and spiritual traditions had been colonised by people who think they are interested in mental health, when their expertise is actually in mental illness. I suppose that mental health professionals should be interested in the idea of compassion. At the core of my being I know that compassion helps, so it seems to me to be what mental health professionals should be offering. I guess I just think that every structure that the people working in mental health have created and continue to create work against the possibility of compassion. If all the structures are designed to increase distress and reduce compassion, that didn’t happen by accident. I had come to the conclusion that mental health professionals should be really called mental illness professionals. After all, recognising and creating mental illness seems to be what they are good at. So, I wasn’t expecting to see any people who worked in mental health there and it was to both my surprise and my horror that I found during the first getting to know you exercise that I was sat at a table with a nun, 5 Mental Health Nurses and a couple of Mental Health Social Workers.
I went and got myself some coffee.
Some days I am not on form, some days I don’t bring it, some days you can tell are going to be hard, too hard, too hard. Some days are hard because you just don’t want the gifts they have brought you.
I laid down my rules as part of those first introductions.
“Stop. I don’t understand your question. I am a learner, doer and teacher. Your categories- service user, professional, carer, they don’t really mean much of real use.”
They were not quick learners the lot at my table- this statement earns me a quick comforting touch on the shoulder and a patronising, “It’s OK, She doesn’t want to say”. I did want to say and furthermore to anyone capable of listening, I had already said, very clearly. I had said, without any ambiguity, that their way of seeing the world was not my way of seeing the world and I did not and would not accept their heirachies. I disapplied myself. Nevertheless, they self-assuredly asserted their right to impose their worldview as the only one possible.
I lay down my rules at the first hint of an assummed agreement on diagnosis.
“I don’t belive in diagnosis. It is your system, your thinking, your beliefs, your hate. A science with no evidence. A story that suffocates other aways of understanding things. Outside of your world, where you make immense pain small and limited so you can cope, there are many different ways of understanding.”
I lay down my rules at the first attempt of anyone on my table to talk about their work and ‘revolving door patients’. “Of course they come back. If you harm people- and I think you violate human rights as part of standard practice- and don’t help them, they will still be hurting when they leave and they will still need somewhere to heal. Mental Health is all that we have come up with as a society for great hurt, so, of course that failure of care returns to you.”
I lay down my rules at the first attempt one makes to lay a claim to caring.
“I don’t know what you mean by care. Forcing your worldview on people is a form of violence. Forcing your worldview on people kindly is just kindly violence. If you don’t feel you do that, you haven’t been paying attention to the ways coersion works in your system.”
I lay down my rules just because I have another rule to lay down. “People who have experienced sexual abused are unlikely to heal if they are anywhere near you. What you have is scientific name calling, and the main point of that is to deny experience even while having to recognise the reaction to that experience.”
At one point the presenter is talking about a lack of compassion not being anyone’s fault, because we all have glitchy brains. He is taking the approach that we should accept any feeling we have step back from it and especially for those in a caring role, take a compassionate approach to ourselves in order to understand it better. It’s only when we don’t do that that we go wrong, and it can be considered our responsibiity to take seriously our need to find ways to be compassionate to ourselves. This seems right to me. Only that whole idea rests on people noticing that they are lacking compassion. And just as I have never met anyone who wasn’t the hero of their own story, I have certainly never met a professional who didn’t think they weren’t, somehow, the nicest person when they compare themselves to a carer or a patient.
I want to learn more about what compassion is. At the same time, I find am not interested in the views of anyone in the room. I don’t want to learn what these people can teach me. I have heard their stories of brutality wrapped up in sweet ribbon and candy paper before. The tang of acrid iron turns in my throat. “I met someone who worked on a ward, as nurse. He seemed nice and sweet, kind. He said that the person he had worked with had tried to kill themselves with a ligature. All I said was ‘That is difficult.’ He couldn’t receive it -that impulse I had to connect with him also meant he had to connect with his feelings- and hers. His response was ‘She did it to get my attention, because she didn’t want to be discharged that day. That is not compassion, that is not even doing sounding nice. If you cannot receive compassion from others it is a catastropic isolation from what might be sustaining. When you have trust professionals with people you care about, but they are too cut off from themselves to care, it is an unforgiveable betrayal.’ The presenter thinks it is not professional’s fault, because we all have glitchy minds. I am not interested in fault. What use is blame? I am interested in why they are so good at not noticing their own inability to connect and in why they don’t change things.
We have to write a letter from our compassionate selves. While the whole group is attending to the task, I stare at the page thinking what to write. I cannot make sense of it.
“A letter?” The words meant for me are not a surprise. I can feel the presence long before I hear the words. I can feel the puzzlement she is eminating. These words are meant for me so no-one else can hear them. Well at least I am not the only one who is confused! When you can talk to someone why would you write to them?
That’s interesting.” Amusment now.
“We could see each other through each others’ eyes.” I beam back. Her emotional tone moves towards cautious interest, welcoming the idea. We agree tacitly, that we will come back to that idea later.
I decide if I am going to have a conversation with my compassionate self, that I had better not be anywhere near mental health professionals. I value her, Rue, but she is pain. With one eye on the outside world, I decide that my inner spiritual experiences are not something limited folk like nurses and social workers are likely to be able to cope with. I am safer far away.
In the toilet, Rue and I talk.
I hate them. She is in touch with the digust that is in each cell, how that feeling of emnity works through me in the same way iron filings respond to a magnet, orientating themselves against the social structures out there in the world, and the people who create and populate them, in a great tectonic force of repulsion.
There is mearest shift of her presence that let’s me know what she is thinking.
I know that stopping connecting like they have just makes me like them. I know that this same feeling, that pushes us all away from one another is the one they can’t process and what makes it possible for them to do the things they do. I know. Exhausted rage from me, because I know, but I knowing isn’t understanding or being able to live with that understanding with ease..
There are no short cuts… a whisper of sadness from Rue. She can’t make this easier to do and she grieves.
I don’t want to. I am stubborn now, but she remains connected to the desolation, the forces tearing me apart; the seismic shift toward connection caught in torsion with the force of repulsion. All I feel is abhorrence.
You know the way. I‘ll meet you there….the barest fleeting sense of sound as she is gone.
I come back in the room. The lecture continues. As we leave one of the psychiatric nurses talks to me about a situation at her work. She had remonstrated with other professionals she worked with about restraining an woman on the ward, explaining to them that this was likely to be harmful as the restraint would remind the woman of the sexual abuse she had experienced. I am stone. Her words slip off me. Another nurse holds out her hand. Now I can see the compassion, in the way the nurse moves, the way she supports her colleage, strengthening the established role. The ways she comforts her for the actions, encourages her to disconnect, takes the discomfort and distorts it making her the lonely hero of the story because she has the courage to do it, “Patients need it. It’s like personal care, people need it, but they can find it traumatising.”
“She probably didn’t need it.” I state, as stone speaks, unmovable, strongly veined with bitter iron. The way the world is, is the way the world is. The silence is uncomfortable. I can’t even be bothered to point them to the evidence for my assertion, that it is usually nurse’s actions that precipitate these incidents. Instead, I talk about the Retreat at York, where one of the nurses has worked and that she preferred because there was less restraint practiced there. I tell them that this is not an accident, as it was set up to counteract the brutality of psychiatric culture in the 16th Century after a wealthy Quaker merchant died in a madhouse. That settings where there is more restraint are also, therefore, not an accident.
Afterwards the regretful nurse speaks to me again. “I think I feel angry like you, when I see them kick out, scream out, and I can see it seems like sexual assault again to them, I am angry with the other nurses.’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I am sure you assaulted her again.’
Siltstone, mudstone, claystone, the particles are too fine to see, and are hard to analyse, so it is hard to know what makes them up. They are soft and crumble easily. The iron you can see, as if it is oxodised it is yellows and reds the more fully oxidised the redder. The black you can see, too, for carbon. Maybe some green stones from the plant matter that lay on top as the particles are pressed down. Perhaps all the particles have been sifted as they drifted down gentley, forming layers according to size at the bottom of an ocean, or lake, before the weight of the water crushes them together and the action of the Earth uplifts them to land. As I walk home I feel that pressure, deep inside. I can feel the bands of thoughts, being forced into layers, unable to move, only able to change. Do you carry on with personal care I think, as a nurse, in general, if someone says ‘No’?
I try to sleep. That night, or maybe for many nights, a heavy weight presses on my breastbone as Rue meets with me. There is nothing to see in the night, no dreams, no memories. There is calyston stopping the mouths of the dead. In the past pressing people with heavy stones was a way to torture them, adding one great stone at a time until the cavern made by the ribs of the chest gave way and the insides were crushed. My heart too would be smashed into my spine, but I fear my heart is gone as only an emptiness remains. Some terror and digust is too big, it is not possible to stand back and observe it, it is you.
Through that slow action of sorrow and compassion, the ache of seismic changes, Rue breathes in with me, breathes out with me, breathes even while I am not able to. She is the kernel of tight pain at my centre.
She was interesting, the one that came to you because she was in pain because she did not agree and didn’t know how to disagree, but did it anyway.
The presenter was interesting, he startled you by really receiving your polite offer of a drink, with his attention.
It was interesting how hard they had to work to comfort themselves about what they had done.
It was interesting how they respond to power.
It was interesting how it is possible to take power.
It was interesting the other one, the one you forgot, who offered you comfort, noticing your terseness was pain.
Rue’s thoughts are handprints on my heart, anchoring me to this world and holding me where my attention needs to be. The ancient need to make a mark in a hallowed space that says, ‘This is me’.
And from this comes small, folded gneiss of understanding.
In the culture of mental health nurses this is how they teach one another, hold one another to the job, hold one another through the job. They have to reinforce each others beliefs to keep on doing it. They do it that way because they find hurting other people hard, which means they were offering one another submission, not compassion, because they do not know what compassion is against the level of pain their patients experience. True, too, perhaps, that they do not know their Rue very well. I do not know how anyone could stand that. What if their Rue does not talk to them- how could they learn how to stay with pain until you learn you can bear it? If they do not stay with pain until they can bear it, how will they be able to watch it change as they bring their presence to it? They’d have no anchors to hold them to where their attention needs to be.
But some pains are

a lifelong ache.


(Sorrow. Compassion.)

Why aren’t *you* dead inside?

At one point there was a social worker. I am not sure why he was around, and I am not sure why he was talking to me. There weren’t any concerns about anything once psychiatric detention had been decided on, but there were lots of decisions about other things to be made I am sure. There certainly hadn’t been any concerns about me or my siblings. I noticed him though.

I noticed him because I thought he was, unlike most of the adults I could see around me, alive inside. I am not sure why I felt he was more alive than the other adults. He seemed more interested, more curious, more able to feel and to think. He noticed when I was home early from school, he noticed my bag was heavy, he noticed too many things for my absolute comfort. I was so intrigued that I decided it was important to ask him, as it was so curious and so suspicious. He must of been around for long enough for me to notice him noticing things.

Inquisitive and shy I asked him why he was alive when the other adults were so dead.

“What do you mean?”

“Most adults are dead inside, so they don’t think or feel about a lot of important things. You aren’t dead inside, you ask questions and notice stuff. I thought only kids noticed stuff. How do you do it?”

“What do you mean?”

I paused. “I cut my hand, and put a plaster on it, but there was mud under the flap of skin so it got puffed up and infected, and the skin turned black. The skin on top had died and there was pus and rubbish. Adults are like that, they are all full of rubbish because they got hurt. Then bits of them die and don’t work properly.”

“How’s your hand now?” Like I said, he was on to it.

“I put it in salt and cut the bit of skin off, it’s all healed up. Adults aren’t like that.” He looks unsure, so I hold my hands out, palms up so he can see I’m not hiding anything and the cut was just smooth skin again. “It got better.” He goes to hold my hand and look more closely. “No. I’m just showing you to look.” I step back and put my hands behind my back.

“When you told the adults, what did they say?”. Sneaky too, he’s hard work this one.

“So how did you do it?” I don’t answer. I am sneaky as well. Two can play at that game. “Stay alive inside.” My look is demanding. I really want an answer to this question and I will be acutely disappointed by any evasion.

“It’s like your hand. Adults feel hurt and then they need to look after the hurt so it gets better. Then they don’t die inside.”

HOW? How do they look after it?”

“Other adults look after it.” I think about the implications of that one. It means that I can’t help. I think about the other adults who are around, professionals and family and can’t think they would be able to do much. I decide the rules will have to change, I just need to work out the trick of it, like I did with my hand.

“Who looks after you? So you don’t get too sad and stop noticing things?” I give him a hard stare, right in the eyes, so he knows it is an important and urgent question.

“Well, I talk to people who do the same work I do and we work it out together.” This doesn’t cut it.

“You all talk all the time. It doesn’t seem to work for most of you. You talk but don’t feel. You talk and still ignore things.”

He seems to understand that this is a question I want a proper answer to. He tells me about supervision, and how sometimes it was just about what to do when you visted a house, but sometimes if you looked for it, you could find someone else who could see the feelings that were around because they were alive inside too. You had too keep looking though, because perhaps there were not too many people who had the knack of it as sometimes if your feelings weren’t dead they hurt a lot. In his case he couldn’t find anyone at work who could hear when he was worried and sad because of something he noticed, or anyone who could see how families and children felt when difficult stuff happened. He agreed that lots of adults were a bit too dead inside to connect with important things. He had paid someone especially to listen to him and other people he worked with so they could all keep their feelings alive, because dead feelings could be tricky to live with and he didn’t like it when he realised that he didn’t notice things or care anymore.

I thought most of the adults seemed nice enough but had already been eaten up inside by dead feeings and weren’t really alive any more. I thought they liked it when they were numb and out of touch with their feelings about what happened out in the world. They were nearly dead because they were pretty indifferent to things. It seemed interesting that even if you had dead feelings a person could be be alive with them though, if you found someone to talk to who was warm and accepted that things hurt and made you angry or frightened or sad. I wondered how long it took to find someone else who could keep your feelings alive so they didn’t wrap you up to the point that you stopped being in touch with the world, or poison you because they had caused an infection.

I’ve never liked Zombies, but there seem to be an awful lot of them around. It seemed to me that I was struggling not to die inside too. The world was killing me.

Trust is always a leap of faith

“When you say ‘he has seen the light’ you sound as if you mean ‘corrupted,’ ” he said. “Something like that, yes. Different worlds, Commander. Down here, it would be unwise to trust your metaphors. To see the light is to be blinded. Do you not know that in the darkness, the eyes open wider?”

Thud by Terry Pratchett

I remember that there had been a sudden meeting, which I was at because my Mum wanted support, but I wasn’t allowed to say anything. The ‘horrible place’ had suddenly decided that it couldn’t meet my Dad’s needs; it also seemed to have recategorised the severe mental illness to dementia, which was also severe, and not going to get better, but a different sort of severe, which meant an illness but not a mental illness, or at least not the same sort of mental illness: which meant a care home, not a hospital. It meant ‘find a care home and move out by next week, because you are blocking a bed, and by the way, now you have to use the collaterol on the house to pay for care, because he’s ill but not the specific type of ill we are looking for.’

The social worker, a mousey woman I instantly dislike, speaks to me afterwards. ‘I don’t think your Mum got it.’ She’s right, I don’t think she got it either. ‘He needs to be somewhere else as soon as possible. Can you talk to her? I have a list here of all the care homes that deal with dementia.’ I think about how my Mum is likely to react to this and decide it will definately be better not to be the messenger when it does click. The social worker is still talking, ‘….and remember the house can’t be sold while she is still living in it, and only up to half the collaterol, because she owns half the house…’.

I decide to try and get the social worker to realise that it’s really her job to have the hard conversations, but I don’t want her to think I’m difficult. There are consequences if you are difficult- probably they will write it down somewhere, judgementally. ‘You’re the social worker?’ I ask tentatively, as though I am confused about roles. She doesn’t really get it, going into what her role is, then holding out the list to me. I try again, ‘I’m fourteen.’ It’s not going to click with this adult either, she’s still trying to get me to, ‘… talk to my Mum who seems a bit upset just now’. Being helpful and polite is clearly obligatory, doing the adult’s job is clearly obligatory, ‘I’ll see what I can do to help…’ I say.

Later, much later, after having earnt the ire of the horrible place and the horrible people from the horrible place (who for some reason are now cooing over how lovely my Dad is, how gentle, how little problem – how he needs to be elsewhere), because my Mum has not been quick in deciding on a care home. It’s a big decision: the only time she will have a choice in who looks after him and what the place is like.

The lady in charge of the place my Mum chooses is kind, the care workers are smiling, there are people and families in the Day Room, there are activities and the door to the garden is open. Welcoming people say we can come any time, show us everything, say its my Dad’s home now and find out how he likes his tea. They leave me and my Mum to settle him into the room. We unpack everything and he sits in his own chair from home that they let us bring. I can feel the relief. This is not a horrible place. This is the real difference between Schitzophrenia and Parkinson’s with Lewis Bodies apparently.

Then my Dad falls when he gets up. My Mum tried to haul him up, badly, awkwardly, in a way that will likely get them both hurt. She is whispering but it feels like a yell, panicked and harsh, ‘Get up. Get up. They won’t let you stay if you fall, get UP.’ She has started to kick him. He makes no sound. The flats of her hands are slapping him, the fingers clawing ineffectually at his jumper. His hands come up over his face, cradling his head. It is the best thing to do in my experience, with that kind of slapping, the main risk is being knocked out.

My mind starts to turn away. I am not thinking- just watching. In my mind is what happened the night this all started, and my breathing is fast and shallow. This is serious and the risks are high. I become aware that I have stopped and bring my mind back, slowing my breathing, and, reaching my cold thumb and finger underneath the sleeve of my school uniform, I pinch myself with the fingernails. This trick always works. I am thinking again.

What are the risks? No knives in the room, no easily moveable objects. He wasn’t holding anything when he fell, as he liked to do for some reason. The physical violence is not directed to the head, or the soft parts of the trunk and kicks and slaps are alternating with attempts to pull him up.

What set this off? Fear. Fear that she will have to look after him, that he will come home because there will not be a care home that will look after him. Fear too that he will go back to the horrible place. She cares, in her own way.

What can I do? Help lift him up, but that might move into an attack directed at me, which will be more focussed, or a three way struggle. I remember what can happen and have to pinch myself again to make myself wake up and bring my mind back to the problem in hand. Also, in the longer term, if the care home cannot cope with falls, this scene will be repeated, but now I am thinking again so I decide that this is not a time for that conversation. Mum is too stressed.

I remember the kind Lady in charge, who I know is now in her office. I think about the good feeling she gave me. She might be worth a risk. I could ask her about falls, check whether they can cope with them, ask her to come in and talk to Mum. Mum won’t hit her, and it will stop her hitting Dad too. I slide out the door, quickly and without saying anything, avoiding the risk that Mum will block me from leaving and run down the corridor. The Lady is there, the door is open. I slow down, make myself look presentable. I knock on her door, turn on bright and charming to maximum. ‘Sorry to bother you, do you have minute? I know you are busy. My Dad’s fallen,’ I say, ‘Can someone help us lift him up? He’s a bit heavy for me. Also- my Mum’s worried that he’ll not be able to stay if he falls, so …’. The Lady in charge is firm and kind. ‘Oh love, don’t worry about that, residents fall all the time….Let’s go down and get him up, then I’ll put your Mum’s mind at rest.’ I can remember the relief, as I ran down the corridor to, ‘Just let my Mum know…’.

As I get back in, Mum is still slapping and slapping, ‘The Lady’s coming,’ I say, ‘to help, lots of the residents fall and its OK.’ Mum looks at me and the release of stress and fear is mixed with one of stern anger that I might have told family business. The look I am given, I know I’m in trouble later.

Later I am sitting with my back against a tree in the dark and it is cold. My head aches and when I try to stand, I fall because I am so dizzy. It’ll take me a while to walk home, and when I get there I will check to see if my nose is bleeding, or my ears, the size of my pupils, whether there are bruises on my upper arms. Being shaken, or slapped around the head doesn’t lead to bleeding where it shows. No-one will believe you if there isn’t clear proof. Bruises of course aren’t proof enough because they could come from anywhere and being knocked out doesn’t leave a mark. I always laugh when adults on Child Protection courses are so convinced that they will believe children. It’s the children who have the right of it: they have to be more in touch with what the adults will actually do, because the consequences of the adults’ actions fall on them.

I remember that Lady because she came and she helped. I remembered her because if I had got to know her better, maybe I would have told her. But then again I had learnt what ‘place of safety’ meant to adults, thinking about the ‘horrible place’ – and in the News or at school they were always saying that you should tell if bad things were happening, so everyone knew that they took kids away, so they would be ‘safe’. In seeing what happened at the psychiatric hospital, I learnt that adults definately did not seem to mean ‘safe’ in the way I meant ‘safe’. Based on the ‘place of safety’ they had chosen for my Dad, I thought they meant ‘silent’ or ‘under-control’ or ‘not resisting anymore’ or ‘violence’ or ‘abuse’. A place where, however still or silent or compliant you were, it was never compliant or silent enough. My Dad was a very compliant man, very respectful of authority, always gentle with me- and I knew how they treated him. So no, anything the adults had to offer was clearly not going to be much different from the situation I was already in, however much I wanted help. It was clear what place of ‘safety’ meant to the adults, and with the scandals about the children’s homes in the News it was clear to me that the authorities definately seemed to be using their alternative concept of safety in the way they treated children. Every child learns that telling has consequences. The only way to survive is to be clear which way forward has the least worst outcome. From the information that was available to me, I was sure I would not be in a better position than I was before if I told, and I couldn’t see how my siblings would be either. If the authorities didn’t believe me, there would be the initial backlash from my mother, then more of the same. Even if they did believe me, I certainly wouldn’t be able to protect any younger siblings from the ‘safety’ the authorities were likely to have in mind.

When I had had to tell before, because of the knife, no-one had listened to what had happened and had been happening before it got to that point. They hadn’t believed me or even asked. They saw the notes: a man who had been talking to the Dr. about memory loss and seeing things that weren’t there, who had been doing strange things like emptying out the kitchen cabinets and arranging everything on the stairs or standing in the corner holding a kettle. Or on the night things got beyond what I could help with, or cope with, the man who forgot what he was doing while slicing the bread and was standing on the landing with the bread knife. They saw it as someone with symptoms of a mental illness attacking someone. From my point of view, it was a very confused person who was holding the wrong things at the wrong time raising their hands to protect themselves. Perhaps, given that I had fallen down the stairs as I backed away from my Mum hitting me, he had been protecting me.

So there were many reasons I didn’t tell again. Mostly, I had learnt through seeing it with my own eyes that the people who were meant to help used the same techniques of violence as the person hurting me; that the people who were meant to help were on the side of the person causing the most consistent harm; that my story did not have the right injuries to be believable.

And there is the other wound to trust- even the gentlest person in my life could do something that was wrong, inexplicable and will forever be incomprehensible.


One of my friend’s kids is very quiet and shy. He likes to think things through, so he is quiet while he makes sure he has thought things through properly.

He finds school hard, he finds change hard, he finds break hard, he finds talking and assembly hard, he finds going to new places like the Zoo hard. He finds them all hard. He finds it hard when a friend doesn’t want to play with him or when a friend is sad and these things play on his mind a lot. His mind is very full of fears and worries. One of the reason I think he finds them hard is that he seems to feel that there is more to process out there in the world than other children. He can also think about what might happen and as he has a very good imagination, he can come up with lots of potential worries. This makes him constantly on edge and very anxious. People don’t always notice him, so they don’t think to encourage him to have a go and support him to be successful. The way the world is they tend to notice when he hasn’t done something he should have done, hasn’t followed an instruction or hasn’t paid attention. Then people get cross and he feels they shouted at him, which makes him freeze. Let’s be honest, it is likely that they did shout at him. The shouting makes him more anxious, of course, because he can’t do the thing they want him to do and now he knows he might get into trouble for it.

It’s very easy to see that the world is not set up for people who need a bit more time, a bit more explanation and who value human connection over being busy or doing things.

There has been an offer of support and therapy and Talk. It’s one thing to say he’s got a lot of worries and fears; everyone thinks he has a lot of fears and worries. It’s one thing to think that he might find it easier to be in the world if he didn’t such strong responses, ones which floor him. It’s another thing to call this an Anxiety Disorder.

What are we habituated into as a society when sensitivity to the world around you and other’s distress is a disorder?

We seem to create social spaces which discourage sensitivity, just try using the word as a compliment when someone has asked for a change or adaptation they can cope with better. It is not supported, it is policed. It is policed by disapproval; by not giving it space; by everything being too loud, too fast, too bright; by expecting everyone to need the same thing; by mainly providing opportunities for competition and conflict rather than co-operation. Finally, it is policed by calling the sadness, or worry, or other troubles caused by not valuing sensitivity, a disorder.

Once, when we were enjoying the view at the top of a mountain, a friend observed to me that usually air had no smell. The sharp ozone and the cold had startled him into noticing something he usually didn’t notice. I thought it was probable that air did have a smell, but that as we breathed it all the time we didn’t notice unless it changed. Perhaps sensitive people are always in touch with the different ways the air smells; in tune with the emotional reasonances this has, for them and for other people; and engaged in considering what the differences in smell might mean from different perspectives. Perhaps they notice very early on when the air is bad.

I think the bigger problem with the world is that we are systematically desensitised. We have constructed a world that does not allow us to experience the full range of emotions that are part of the endowment of being human. It seems to me that central to this exclusion from the fullness of our own souls is the inherited taboo that excludes us from wonder. If we are desensitised we cannot be open to wonder. Wonder helps us live with uncertainty and the terror of the unknowable.

Without wonder, how can we experience awe? Yet it seems to me that it is awe that gives us perspective on ourselves, that gives us both the grounding and the drive to comprehend impossible things and survive. Awe allows us for a moment to hold together the shadows and the light by welcoming the dark too, rather than holding ourself back from the overwhelming experience of the world.

Without wonder, how can we experience reverence? The sense that outside ourselves, as well as inside ourselves, are experiences that we should allow to have their creative space.

Without wonder, how can we experience the sacred? An impulse, such a vital one, to attend with our whole presence and gentle attention. This hard gift has at its heart the knowledge that we have the power to violate, that we may indeed transgress, yet we have still been entrusted and we are worthy of that trust.

Wonder beckons us, invites us towards new experiences, asks us to be curious, to explore. Without wonder, where would we get our questions from? And of course, without wonder, how could we come out of our daze to even notice these things?

Our enforcement of our taboo reduces those troubling, too big experiences. They reduce the experiences, which because they transform us, show us the risk of annihilation. Instead the world becomes small, manageable, predictable- prosaic. Yet when we have a habit, we often don’t think. Like a road we have travelled down many times before, we can start out on a track, suddenly get where we are going and not know how we got there. Then when we are caught in a trance, anything can become OK and we can’t even stop to think about how not OK our everyday prosaic world is, because we barely notice it. Our inner life becomes limited and we are left with an illusion of safety, one which doesn’t protect ourself or others from extensive harms.

There is no problem that does not bring its gifts in his hands. So I want to break the taboo, I want us to allow sensitivity in, I want us to embrace it as a gift. There is no gift whose power doesn’t cause us to need to take care, to take trouble over it. I want us to develop a commitment to learning how to listen to sensitivity, how to stay connected to it’s pain while honouring the strength it brings us.

Although I believe as a society we will only really get the benefits of sensitivity when we can all embrace this capacity, I need to continue to listen to that part of myself rather than the other messages out there, which invite me to distract myself and not pay attention, because the loss of any one part of who I am is too catastrophic. I have to continue to where I am going to. Maybe I will meet some of you there.

The Alibi

The Lost Thought

I felt a cleaving in my mind
As if my brain had split;
I tried to match it, seam by seam,
But could not make them fit.

The thought behind I strove to join
Unto the thought before,
But sequence ravelled out of reach
Like balls upon a floor.

Emily Dickinson

Twitter it seems is a place of many voices, most of them arguing. When I am feeling sad and angry and combatitive I join in. Recently, I read a repost of quite an old paper put up by a psychiatric ‘nurse’. This sentence caught my eye:

The standard professional response to voice hearing has been to label it as symptomatic of illness and to prescribe anti-psychotic medication (Leudar & Thomas 2000).

Followed by this one:

Mental health nurses, like other professionals (Leudar & Thomas, 2000) have traditionally been trained to reinforce reality with service users who hear voices and, more specifically, not to attend to these experiences (Martin 1987, Lyttle 1991).

It really got me thinking.

When I was between 8 years old and 12 years old, I was bullied pretty badly. Other people had people to play with at lunch and breaktime- no-one wanted to play with me or sit next to me. Some forms of bullying are really about denigration and the things which are said are so blatantly cruel, they are almost not believeable. I was lucky, because I had friends out of school, so I didn’t quite believe those bullies. One of these friends (let’s call her Milly) I was particularly close to, because my Mum had been friends with her Mum for a long time and they visited every weekend or so, sometimes staying over. I liked her Dad too, he made funny jokes that he made up himself (‘Why don’t nettles sting this month? Well you see months aren’t real so they can’t get stung.…’). We had other things in common like having younger siblings who were very ill and she was one person I could talk to about this. Even though she was a couple of years older than me, she was being bullied too and sometimes she showed me the pinch and bruise marks. It wasn’t all about that, we made creative things together like pressed flowers, a den in the garden and a bigger one in the field out back. I showed her my worm garden and where the blackbird’s nest was. Her house was amazing and she had a pet rat that she let me feed. Excitingly, when I visited we went swimming in a pool that had real waves in. When she stayed over we shared the big double bed in the spare room, shared a midnight feast and talked late into the night about books we liked. It was good to have someone to share things with.

One time I had something to tell her, because I had worked out that the mean girls at school chose to say the unkind things. One of them had said, ‘What shall we choose? Shall we play with her today- or leave her out?‘ I had had a moment of understanding that being rejected was not an inevitable reaction to me because I was so disgusting, but something the other person had control over and when they made that choice what they were getting out of it was power. On the way back from the shops, Milly and I lay in the field in the sun listening to the crickets. Today we could not be bothered to chase them so we talked about the bullies and choices and power. We were so late back home we got into trouble.

At some point Milly’s sibling died. Things were very quiet when she came over then. When we went to the shops there was a sad silence and when we were alone together things seemed foggy and slow, like swimming under water. On the way back, we lay on the grass and looked at the sun. At some point she said she heard her a voice calling her name, so we talked about that. I actually don’t remember it being a big deal. I remember asking who it was, what it said, what she felt about it.

I know that he called her name and wanted her to come and find him because he was lonely and missed her. I said I thought she missed him too. I had assumed it was her brother, so we talked about that possibility.

I know that he said that she didn’t have any friends and nobody wanted her, so she could come and be with him so he wasn’t so lonely. I said I would be lonely without her.

I wondered about how we could help him feel less lonely now he was dead. It was a puzzle.

I was a bit worried that Milly would find a way to join him, as she didn’t feel she had any friends most of the time and because she missed him. I didn’t know if you could just open the door to the place the voice was coming from and simply disappear through it. Or maybe her brother would be able to come and fetch her.

It never occurred to me either that her experience was strange or to tell an adult. I was a secretive child who read a lot of books.

This is another quote from the paper:

‘My training was definitely you don’t talk about the voices. But now I think it’s an idea that you should let clients talk about them. I don’t, some clients want to talk about it and I think it’s unfair if you say to them sorry no we don’t really talk about…things like that, for fear of it becoming worse’. Siobhan who had been a mental health nurse for 22 years said.

I look at that quote and think about courage. I am sure that nurse was frightened and lacked the clarity of thought to know how important it is to know who had taught her that fear and what power it gave them. If you don’t look at that you never even get to the point where you wonder whether what you are told is true. The nurse held on tightly to her worry, so it stayed hers. I don’t think I was courageous, I just think I saw the possibilities of the world differently. If powerful things like death could happen which were so painful and surprising, then why not hearing the voices of the dead?

We didn’t see Milly for a while and I couldn’t work out why. In spite of me pestering for her to come over my Mum was suddenly against it. Milly had been a friend in a world that was lonely and hostile. I missed her. A few weeks later there was a phone call from Milly’s Mum. I picked up the call as my Mum was in the bath. ‘They’ve taken her!’ (Who had taken her? Why? Where had they taken her?). I worked out it was Milly they had taken, decided the situation was serious and got my Mum, angry and complaining, out of the bath. After which I was decisively shut out of the room, the door closed with a firm, certain ‘click’.

Later, I was told that Milly was not very well and was in hospital. Then that was ‘it’. Further questioning went unanswered. Requests to visit went ignored, though I was allowed to write a letter. I kept writing but didn’t get a reply.

Even later, we met up again. I was very excited. Milly was very, very fat. She was very, very slow and lethargic. She was not how I remembered her. We played with her rat, which was definately a new rat. Later we babysat while the adults went out.

She talked about the hospital, which didn’t seem nice or likely to help someone get better and I said so. She didn’t seem better, but I didn’t say that. Milly stepped outside to have a cigarette. She seemed so much older than me and very different. She told me about annoying the adults, going into each others rooms when you were not meant to, smuggling in cigarrettes when you weren’t meant to, being searched for them under your clothes. Hiding behind the bins to get away from the nurses following or watching you (What they even went with you into the toilet?), of how angry the adults were when they caught you, of being rude or not following rules deliberately to get the adults to have to force you physically into your room, or out of the communal areas. Physical restraint, surveillance and control.

She talked about death a lot and how she wanted to be a forensic examainer. It seemed a bit gory to me. I asked her if they had helped her come up with a way to help her brother be less lonely now he was dead. She looked surprised and furtive. I wanted her to know that I remembered the conversation from before she went into hospital. I wanted to know if he still called her to join him, but she clearly did not want to talk about it this time. I felt sad about that- maybe we weren’t so close anymore- but what can you do? She changed the subject pretty firmly by offering me chewing gum. I took the chewing gum to show I could break the rules too.

Voice hearers universally responded that an increase in medication was the standard help offered. ‘Well I don’t get any, what she would do is that she would probably tell me to see Dr Q, to get an increase in medication or something perhaps go up to 40 mgs or whatever’.

I always wondered about that look. The quick look of concern, the curtain drawing down between us. At that age I wouldn’t have known about the effects of medication on weight or on energy levels. I wouldn’t have thought the adults would have been so unable to work out the problem either, or that their response would have been so intrusive, alienating and incomprehensible. I wouldn’t have known hearing voices wasn’t a safe thing for her to experience and that talking about it was pretty much banned. I wouldn’t have been able to allow myself to fully realise that trying to work out what was going on with the voices, perhaps finding ways for her to look after her brother even in death- if that was an accurate understanding- would have been beyond the adults problem-solving ability, or that even addressing bullying would be beyond them.

Voice hearers saw the care they received from CMHNs as limited in its range with a clear emphasis on a medical paradigm. They reported access to the doctor, adjustment of medication and sometimes talking and reassurance as responses offered by their CMHN.

Not so long after that Milly’s Mum wanted her to go back into hospital, but Milly killed herself first. My Mum went to the funeral and I had to write something nice about her. I can’t remember what I did write about her, but these were the parts I didn’t write. I didn’t write this story.

Some other parts of the paper have quotes about how many voice hearers value being able to talk about what going on for them, how it can take the confusion out of the experience and how it can bring clarity.

My take is that psychiatrists and mental health ‘nurses’, the adults who frightened her, and wouldn’t let her talk about what bothered her, who changed her into this foreigner that I barely remembered, were less help than a 12 year old. I also think they killed her. They took a problem that made sense: a child does not want to be in this world because they are being bullied out of feeling that they have a life worth living and they feel responsible for the death of their brother -a problem that seemed to have some possible solutions- and made it into one that had no meaning and was not resolvable. An illness called schizophrenia that could not be cured. One where the actual problem was irrelevant and could not be discussed.

So I think they killed her, but no-one sees it like that. They see it as a very mentally ill girl killing herself in spite of their best efforts. That’s what happens when society is prejudiced, it provides a watertight abili to a murder.

A cat in the wind

A psychiatrist, dealing with a man who fears he is being followed by a large and terrible monster, will endeavour to convince him that monsters don’t exist. Granny Weatherwax would simply give him a chair to stand on and a very heavy stick.

Maskerade by Terry Pratchett

Aunts are people you’ve known for ever, or your parents have, or are part of your community. Most Aunts aren’t related to you, but some are. Some Aunts you think are related to you aren’t related to you, they’ve just become attached to the family for so long that when you are a kid you think they are related to you. Of course, sometimes it is the other way round and children get attached to familes and then all sorts of complications and confusions can be covered over with the word Aunt.

Adults are just the people who are bigger than the children and get to tell them what to do. When I was a kid I did not think that they were necessarily better equiped to make sensible decisions. Certainly, I didn’t think they understood things very well and that my take on things made more sense. I think I felt that the adults were mostly a disappointment I could find a way to live alongside, but sometimes it was pretty frightening that when I felt I didn’t know what to do or what should happen, the adults seemed to be even more at a loss than I was. In their turn the adults were quite happy with me, though they found my questions amusing and strange.

The adult’s world seemed quite confusing. People seemed to say one thing and mean another, or behaved in ways that were at odds with themselves. I once saw our neighbours old cat in the garden, which was mostly a quiet purry kind of cat, a cat which preferred laying down in a quiet spot to watch the world go by, behaving in an uncharacteristic way, dancing around batting the air, pouncing on bushes. The wind was up that day, and it was like the cat was reacting to the invisible force as though it was a tangible yet elusive entity. The adults’ world made me feel like that cat looked, pushed around by forces that I could not make sense of and I didn’t want to be controlled by. No-body else seemed to have this sense of unseen things acting in ways that made people hard to make sense of. At the time other people certainly didn’t seem to have the questions I did. Like when we were at an Aunt’s house, and I wanted to know why all the doors in the house were always open and why there was at least one outside door open all the time, which seemed unusual; or how no-one in the house could sit in one place for long; or how although everyone spoke very quietly all the time, but when anyone came into the room, they always announced themselves very loudly. That part made more sense one day when the Aunt nearly jumped out of her skin when I came in quietly without calling ‘Hi there’. It seemed quite an overwhelming response, people didn’t usually do that when I popped my head around the door. Eventually, I would start to ask questions about these oddities, if they bothered me enough, though I had long since learnt that the incomplete answers I got were often quite as perplexing as the things that pushed me to mither the adults for answers in the first place. The Aunt had been under house arrest because she upset the government and she had upset the government by not agreeing with apartheid. What was apartheid? What had she done to upset the government? What was house arrest? Could you upset the government by mistake? Was the government a type of adult for adults that could tell them what to do? Even more importantly, how did the answer fit with the observations that troubled my mind? Adults didn’t seem to want to answer my questions because I was too young.

Sometimes explanations made more sense. Like the time we went around to another Aunt’s at christmas, one I didn’t know well. We were all in the living room but everyone was waiting, as though they were expecting someone else to arrive at any moment. It turned out one of the Aunt’s children had died a year or two before. I thought they were still waiting for him to come back.

Years later we visited a house and I was dragged along because I happened to be in the car when the adults needed to go there to meet together. I was listening to music on an ipod and reading- generally trying not to be noticed, so, because I was usually quiet they left me in the car to get on with what I wanted to do rather than going to the extra inconvenience of taking me home and then not being able to co-ordinate timings so everyone could meet up. After a bit I finished my book, got bored and went looking for them, hoping to hurry them up.

The house was a mess, the carpets pulled up, the walls stripped and the furniture pulled away from the wall. The adult’s were having anxious conversations with one another. There was a problem because the Aunt in Question had stopped leaving the house or going out at all. Things were even worse than that though and the adults were very confused. She had phoned the neighbours and told them off for spying on her, which had made them angry as she had repeatedly been rude and interrupted them in the early hours of the morning.  The Aunt in Question was in trouble because she had been phoning the police saying that the neighbours were putting bugs in the walls and spying on her.  Then it seemed all the aunts and uncles had to be involved because she had become sick, but the house wasn’t ok to live in any more. I also took it that she had upset the government with this behaviour, because when she had annoyed people by looking for the spying machines in the walls of the house, she had been arrested. Or at least the police had come and taken her away and she had been locked up, so I thought she must be in prison. I wondered why she had not been put under house arrest this time, perhaps it was because the South African government was racist and didn’t want to put white people in prisons with black people but our government was not as racist so put everyone in prison together. Probably it was cheaper because you wouldn’t need two sets of prisons. It made sense she would be in trouble for damaging the house, I couldn’t imagine how much trouble I would be in if I had made that much mess in my room.

The adult’s seemed very confused by the behaviour and very worried that she believed that people wanted to follow her, put her under surveillance and hurt her. It seemed to upset them that they had not been able to persuade her out of it, through strongly putting it to her that the belief was not rational. They were recriminating each other a great deal about their failure to talk her out of her terror, but of course, what could you do when people got ill? I remember interrupting to say that the belief seemed to make sense to me as she had always felt the house was a dangerous place where a bad government might get her, ever since she had been under house arrest in South Africa.

There was a moment’s silence, then I was told quite clearly that while that was certainly true, sometimes people had a vulnerability to stress and it would all be OK when she had had some time in hospital and some medication. I was banished back to the car, with the adults wondering why I couldn’t just stay put. I thought it would have made more sense if they had shown her how to keep herself safe from the government, so she didn’t upset it by mistake and therefore didn’t need to be so frightened of the bugs in the walls or being under surveillance. Taking into account the worried and shamed way the adults were behaving, the government did seem to have a rather nasty bullying attitude when it got involved in people’s affairs, so it could be quite useful to know how to protect yourself from it.

On reflection, I thought it was best if I kept my bedroom tidy, as a precaution, in case it was the mess in the house which had upset the government.

Fear is a strange soil. Mainly it grows obedience like corn, which grows in rows and makes weeding easy. But sometimes it grows the potatoes of defiance, which flourish underground.

Small Gods by Terry Pratchett

I still feel that I was onto the right of it with my comment. I still feel that my continuing disgreement took all my effort, but had no impact. I know that my rejection of the adults as having anything to offer as either elders or parents was terrifying- they clearly could not cope with themselves or with others and could enforce their view of the world simply by patronising me. Children need adults to be able to cope with the things they cannot, not to be more likley to enact childish rage or fear or hate than they are. When adults can’t cope, they need mental health services to help them make better sense of things, not to join them in their overwhelming fear and confusion. The choices that the adults were collectively making to discriminate and dominate each other rather than understand and support one another when one or other of them was struggling were bewildering.

Recently I came upon a book ‘Beyond Belief’ by Tamasin Knight, where the preface by Rufus May reads:

 It may actually not be normal to be normal, rather it may be normal to be different and to have different beliefs about the world. We need mental health services to reflect this reality. The results of the ideas and research outlined in this book suggests that what people need is support, community and self help strategies rather than externally introduced thought control techniques and interventions.

Beyond Belief by Tamasin Knight

Even after all these years, that child part of me feels safer, when I realise that there are people who can take a more human and practical approach, without reacting in fear to another person’s difference. I feel safer even when I know that this is currently a minority and counter-cultural view. Actually, knowing it is a particular view which is not really widely accepted yet, places the approach that seems right to me in a context and explains why the things I have said throughout my life gained little traction. I feel less like if only I had been louder, stronger, cleverer, more articulate, braver- then the adults would have been able to handle things better. It relieves some sense of background threat, for instance, if I believe and act on an understanding that is not widely agreed upon- perhaps my sense that voice hearing is something we should see as part of the range of human experience, that at least one way of responding to altered states is with a sense of wonder, that we could expand our tolerance of other people’s beliefs and help them live well with them, or that if I don’t keep my bedroom tidy there will be extreme consequences- that I too could be subject to invasion, control and abuse. It is true of course, that any belief which is different from the dominate world view has risks, whether it is not believing in apartheid, or not beliving that we approach people who have complex experiences of distress in the right way. However, knowing that thre are a range of people with a range of views, some of which are allied with mine, means that the child part of me can now learn how to relate to others in a way that feels right, not be forced into the dead end of putting all my energy into resisting the world views of people who were more powerful than me. Resisting all the adults I knew, all the social structures as I understood them and all the cultural messages that were out there with all my might was exhausting. It meant I knew who I was, and that the world around me couldn’t take my soul, but also undermined my confidence in my own thinking, feeling and responding – and therefore all my ability to relate to others- as well as destroying my sense that the adults could take care of me and one another. There is a lot of collatoral damage in our current restrictive views of the ways it is acceptable to be human.

It would be nice wouldn’t it, to live in a world in which our social response to someone being in a state where they are constantly reliving their terror, would not be, in our consternation and sense of being threatened, to immediately terrorise them?





The soul-shaped box

I heard a tale that in Ireland the tradition of keening at a death was one kept by women. I heard that at keening was a ritual for speaking truths and witnessing of the stuff of life. There were songs about sadness, loss, betrayals and abuse, so that everyone could witness them. It was a strong ritual to hold a space for hard things. The story goes that the Catholic Pope acted to halt the act of singing out injustices and in so doing was effective in establishing power by silencing the spirit of the community through removing the memories of women. In this telling of the tale, I understand that Irish culture is just coming out from the dominance of the Catholic Church and is just relearning the fact that the purpose of keening is for a truth and justice ceremony as well as for mourning, although this had been forgotten. I heard this on Radio 4, so it must indeed be a true story. A new true story. This time a bit more complex than the old true story. A bit less easy.

The true story of my parent being sectioned goes like this; me and my siblings were not there. We were out of the house, away on a trip, away at friends, we were older, we were not there. I have always accepted this true story. It is easy to grasp and it is easy to remember.

The easy story is accepted even when it casts a shadow. Underneath the easy story, however, that shadow provides quiet darkness, a cover where disenfranchised fragments of memory have vibrant and rich lives. My stories, the secret keeper’s stories, are kept outside, in the shadows, to thrive in the dark, by fine nets of belief, woven tightly together by structure of the true story. Assortments and remnants do not have a story to tell, as they cannot be weaved together to make a strong enough net to capture belief.

So I am clear, this is not the true story. This is a made-up children’s lie of a story, a miscellany full of figments, half-truths and misremembered things.

After the unnecessary violence of an unnecessary section, which happened after unnecessary neglect, which happened because institutional psychiatry is based on coercion and violence, which happened because institutional psychiatry has as its purpose the shutting down of emotion and the disavowal of adversity and abuse, after all that, this might be what the children remember about what happened to them.

A sensation: My sibling is taken away from me. They have to use force to do it as I am not letting go easily. I am certain that it is not safe to let a small person go with violent adults, or the people who called them, or the people that they then turn to for further assistance. As they take her, I know I have failed to protect her. As she goes, my insides are ripped out. I am clutching my knees to my chest, my arms crossed over them, crouched over myself in order to create my own body boundary. My stomach goes first, the separation wrenches my stomach out up through my lungs and through my throat. My lungs are drawn after it and my throat follows, dragged ragged. A red clot rises from inside me, like an ink stain, it rises up blotting out everything around me, rising increasingly hard and fast as if propelled outwards from me with the force of an explosion, pushing away and repelling the whole world- a bright, red wound.

An impression: I am somewhere where it is cold. The light is green, but it is a dark green. Higher up there are brighter green, gold lights. They are square, there are also longer, rectangular gold slivers of light. I am floating up through dark, heavy weight, but then I drown again. I float up but don’t make it. I am suffocating or falling, I might never stop being dragged down. I seem to rise again but the bright red blot rises with me. The red blot rises faster than me and breaks the surface before I do. The whole world is a red stain. Then blackness is forced over me. It seems this has happened over and over again.

A packing away: An awareness of a threat has been growing. It seems adults are saying ‘too long’, ‘has to stop’. The threat from their attention seems immense. It seems imperative that I stop doing whatever I am doing. I am still. I am still inside the red stain. As I rise I follow the trace of the blot, and pull on it like a thread, like a thick knotted rope, hauling it in. I wrap it up like a parcel, winding it in on itself, stuffing it together, rolling it back. I pack the great billowing force down, swallowing it, pressing it down like a great inky origami, infinitely folded, push it back so it fits somehow into a cavity under my heart and between my ribs. I shut it in a soul shaped box, so tight there is no air, so tight it suffocates. In the place of the bright red wound, there is an immense sensation of emptiness and heaviness. This is how you kill part of yourself in order to survive. The adults seem satisfied, the threat recedes.

For years when I feel that sensation I take myself away from others because I know I can survive the experience, but I don’t know if I can survive how other people will treat me when I am vulnerable. I remember that moment of defencelessness when I am shut in on myself and shutting the world out as one that invites attack. Years later, I learn that when I that sensation overtakes me, I seem to others immobile and unresponsive, but screaming, a raw whimper that fluctuates in volume, but does not stop. It lasts hours, days, until I am exhausted. The rest of the time I experience the sensation of emptiness and heaviness. I seem fine, but a bit distant. Even later, I also get the opportunity to learn that healing is being held, of being warmed for the hours, days and months of the scream, until the raw red clots and congeals, until the wound becomes a scab and the scab an angry scar.

Every word of this account is about what happened to me being a deliberately inflicted injury, one socially sanctioned and one committed by adults nominated by my society as caring.

We need to recognise that what we so often reward and praise for children is dependence, docility, compliance and obedience- qualities that get around the need for the adults to care or create communities that can recognise and meet their needs. We need to recognise how we act when we don’t get that tribute from them, when they stop being silent and use non-violent methods to express their resistance. Domination, coercion and silencing should not be our stand-by response, but it is.

Humans need to relearn the power of ritual. They need to learn how to keen and how to bear to witness. We do need our communities to learn the cost of trying to silence people speaking truths. The adults, the violent, helping adults try and silence it all the time, as they cannot bear these things to be spoken, so they put their easy stories in the empty hollowed out space left when a small part of the soul is packed away.