The Wonderful Wizard of Oz - Self-Redemption and Art

The Wonderful Wizard Of Oz

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Contents

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The Flying Monkeys Of Oz

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The Magic Art of The Great Humbug

A few days ago I attended an art and writing workshop at Broadacre House in Newcastle run by Launchpad.  The subject of the workshop was stigma.  The day was very good.  Lovely people.  Lovely conversation.  And we all enjoyed ourselves.  After some exercises to get our creative brains working we were told to write something about stigma with a view to creating a piece of art related to the subject by the end of the four hour session.



We were given a whole twenty minutes to write.  Later in the day our writings were taken and typed up.  I wish I'd proof read the typing on the day.  There are mistakes in it.  That's a shame because all of our writing and art from the day is going on public display in two locations through mental health week.  I may have to go along on the first day with Tippex and a pen!

Twenty minutes.  I spent the first five of these minutes boiling a kettle and making a much needed mug of spiced tea.  So fifteen minutes.  Here's the result.  I finished before the fifteen minutes were up too!

Self Redeeemed

Don't speak to me and I won't speak to you.

Won't mention it, imply it, talk it out.

It's a private thing you say, too much for you.

“Why don't I just stop?” you say.

“Stop being autistic, difficult, so bloody selfish.

Snap out of depression you ungrateful bastard.

And if you mention a personality disorder again?”

But I didn't mention it. You did.

And yet, the biggest stigma was in my own head.

Autism? No way. Can't be true. I'm not one of them.

Not shut in. Not melting in the street.

Not much anyway.

Not some mono-focussing idiot savant,

The local Rain Main equivalent,

Or as socially inept as a Sheldon.

BPD? No way. Can't be true. I'm not one of them.

It's just wrong, like all the other diagnoses were wrong.

I'm not like that.

And they only ever said I was because of the cuts.

It's bull. Stupid psychiatrists.

BPD? Nonsense. Just like the rest.

I'm not bipolar, schizoid, schizotypal, schizophrenic. Or any of them.

Yeah, I received stigma. Internalised it. Just another reason for self hate, calling myself a monster.

Couldn't accept the truths because I was raised proud, raised pure, raise to not be disordered.

No ASD or BPD. No Ds at all. Or they'll see me for what I am and hate me just like I deserve.

Freedom is worth fighting for.

Coming back to what I thought false myths and accepting the facts. Facing down the myths I believed and rejecting them.

And now?

ASD, BPD – and my queerness, my irreligion. So what? Inside I will broach no stigma.

I will stand. Out and proud. Out. Public. Self-accepting. Self-believing. Under no illusions.

No. Less illusions. There are still stories I tell.

Lies I kid myself with. Lies of the old monster kind.

Lies. Stories.

Can't write. Can't sing again. Can't hope.

Lies. Stories.

And they will fall too.

Now is the time to live. Free. Self-redeemed.

No matter what they say.

And they do say.

But less than I ever believed they would.

I believed they would damn me.

Because I stigmatised myself more than the so-called society ever could.

I am out and proud.

Free and self-redeemed.

Then it was time to do some art.  I can panic at art.  Panic at paint.  To be given paper or canvas and some paint and be told to create something is a thing of dread for me.  And yet.  I made something.  We all did.  Each piece arising from the honesty of our own situations and experiences.

The words in the red sections represent words that have spoken to me.  The words in that strange looking face are questions I've asked and stories I've told myself.  The words round that face are positivity.  In the midst of all the rest I am determined that those words are part of my truth.

It's not an artistic masterpiece.  But it's mine.  And I'm proud to have done something without guidance, without help, and without having a meltdown.  That's a joy for me.  Seeing the work and hearing the words of the other people in the workshop was also a joy.

As for that exercise to get our brains loosened up.  We were given a sentence to free write from.  As it turned out we were given just enough time for me to fill a page.  What we came up with was great, each person happening to go in a completely different direction.  Here's my direction.

Reluctantly, he handed over the key.

She looked at him in horror.
"C sharp major? You've got to be kidding me.  I can't play that."
"Well that's going to be a problem, isn't it missy?  I've paid for you to play and you're going to play.  Don't think I won't report you if you play it wrong."

Life as a music slave was not the worst way to survive in the new world.  At least there was food.  At least there was the transfixing joy of playing from your own soul when you weren't working.  Kate wondered.  Was this difficult, angry customer really a music expert from the old world?  Or was he just being harsh out of cruelty?

She decided to risk finding out, risk playing in a way she knew her rendition of the piece would be perfect.  Kate liked playing Bach, even with difficult intervals.  But even the master himself would never have chosen a key with seven sharps.  Kate wondered what he would think if he knew his music was being played by slaves on another world, what kind of sonata or cantata that knowledge would inspire.

She decided.  The risk was worth it.  Even if discovered the punishment wouldn't be much worse than that for playing badly.  The thought of being separated from her precious piano for a day, a week, longer, was almost unbearable.

Kate looked at the man.  He was sweating in anticipation of hearing.  He looked more a fool than a musician.

C sharp major.  No thanks.  Kate knew she would be playing the Goldberg Variations in C.  Just a semitone out.  And no sharps.  He wouldn't notice would he?

She placed her fingers on the keys, took a deep breath and began her performance.

The Saint Of Oz - Thomas, Apostle of Doubt

The Surprise Doubting Saint Of Oz

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Contents

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The Tin Man Of Oz

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The Field Of Poppies Of Oz

Saint Thomas, Apostle of Doubt

John 20:29

Jesus said to him, Thomas, because you have seen me, you have believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.

Matthew 13:16

Blessed are your eyes because they see, and your ears because they hear.

I did not expect to meet an apostle on the road to the Emerald City. Yet he was there. We walked and talked. A secret passage behind the gods of a shrine in India had led him to Oz.

From grey half-born light

Thomas approached. His face worn

of anxious wrinkles.

Seeing me, he smiled.

Held out his hands in welcome. Said

“Come, Wander with me.”

He showed stark wisdom.

Taught the virtue inherent

In my doubt wrecked life.

Thomas, the despised.

Through a thousand stern sermons

Stoned for his thinking.

But Jesus blessed him

Just as much as men of faith

Who fail to question.

Pronounced salvation

On evidence and emptiness.

Valued the contrasts.

I learned to lose guilt.

Let go the religious critic.

Accept my well-lived way.

Then he turned to leave,

His weight held by trusted staff.

He did not look back.

Consider this: What if the sermons are wrong? What if Jesus was congratulating Thomas for wanting evidence? What if he was pronouncing that faith has to be intelligent and can't be based on nothing – not even a well loved book or its social acceptability.

What if Jesus said, “Well done. You've tested to see whether something is true rather than turning your brain off and being a dumb slave to a Gospel message.”

What if the blessing he gave to those with that unseeing faith arose from his toleration and acceptance of all?

What if he said, “Your faith is a bit silly but I walk the way of love so bless you anyway?”

What if Jesus doesn't want anyone to take statements, especially religious ones at face value?

What if he wants us to test everything in the book about him? Through science. Through history. Through the evidence of our own lives. Through plain common sense.

What if he wants us to let go of everything in our lives, religious or otherwise, that doesn't make sense?

What if Jesus wasn't bearing with the weakness of Thomas but the weakness of his other followers?

I too taught that Thomas was a doubter. I preached it.

But he is not a doubter. He's a questioner. And questioning faith, assumptions, the media, politics, motives, our own souls, and the whole of life is a good thing.

Plato said that the unexamined life is not worth living.

What if Jesus pointed to Thomas and said, “Look, here is an example of the examined life. Follow this example.”

What if the churches got it all wrong? What if the New Testament writers got it all backwards too in the very worship of Jesus rather than the greater light he pointed to?

These are just questions. Do with them what you will.

Embrace me. Condemn my heresy.

I don't mind.

But will you walk with me on the yellow brick road of the examined life and on a road where evidence leads to the risk of rejecting many things we would love to believe in?

I took the risks. Life is now harder. Far less certain. But it is more worthwhile.

Following The Yellow Brick Road - An Art Project

Welcome, welcome.

I am the wizard.  I am the witch.  I am Dorothy too.  Welcome to my world, to my crazy meandering yellow brick road through a land not unlike the land of Oz.

I should explain.

Some of you will have found this page by chance.  Some through links I'll have placed on social media.  And some of you, all being well, will have taken a piece of paper from a box in an exhibition and typed in a web address.  Hey presto, through the hokum of magic you are all here.

This page and those that follow arose from an art project undertaken at the Recovery College Collective in Newcastle, an amazing place for people attempting to recover from all kinds of different mental health problem.  I am one of those in recovery.

The idea was simple.  Take a box.  Take a fairy tale.  Transform the box into that tale, or at least into a version of the tale that reflects the teller's life and journey and message.

A simple idea.  But I'm not great at practical arts.  I can't draw and I'm not ever going to be the world's foremost expert at making things or at producing visual wonderments.  I'm neither going to create the reality or the sham of an Emerald City.  I'm also not great at fairy tales.  I spent weeks trying to decide which one fitted my life the best.  Difficult when I didn't grow up among such tales.  I grew up with Asimov, Bradbury, and lots of other sci-fi and fantasy writers.  I didn't spend my time with Grimm or Anderson or the other workers of fairy stories.  Eventually I decided in a moment of jest that I could focus on The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and all the ways I looked outside for answers that could only be found inside.

The box is made.  The box is, or will be, presented at an exhibition alongside boxes made by other participants in the course.  There may be dancing too.

I realised early on that I am far better at building with words than with crafting materials.  So I began to write.  The pages that follow are the result of my writing about different parts of my journey along the yellow brick road towards some kind of freedom in myself.

I hope you find some enjoyment in it all.  Or some challenge.

Come, walk with me on the Yellow Brick Road.  Let's go and see the Wizard together and see what he can do for us.  Let the journey begin.  We'll be following the movie closer than the book.

Before you start the journey I'd like to invite you to take a look, or another look, at the decorated box.  You can find descriptions and photos of box underneath this link.




Each chapter can be found by clicking on the title.  Each chapter will contain a link back to this page, to the previous chapter and the following chapter.

Contents

Kansas.  Before The Cyclone

The Cyclone

The Wicked Witch

The Scarecrow

The Cowardly Lion

The Tin Man

Saint Thomas, Apostle of Doubt

The Field Of Poppies

The Emerald City

The Flying Monkeys

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

The Magic Art of The Great Humbug

The Wizard of Oz Art Box - A Recovery College Course

Recently I participated in my first course at the Recovery College in Newcastle Upon Tyne.  It's a brilliant place, offering a wide range of creative and therapeutic courses and groups to people in the local area who are experiencing mental health difficulties.

I think I'll be back there soon, taking part in more courses.  I'm looking forward to them.

During my one course we were asked to choose a fairy story and then decorate a shoe box or a suitcase in a way that would show the relationship between that story and our lives.  I'm not particularly good at fairy stories so ended up choosing The Wizard of Oz.  I love the movie and have a cheap paperback set of all the Oz books by L. Frank Baum.  It seemed a good choice and I'd made a half serious comment about fighting through all kinds of hell in search of something that we already had in the first place.

I panic about practical art projects.  I've been known to have meltdowns over very simple artistic endeavours.  But, without any guidance at all, I decorated a box.  And then, because I was self-conscious about the box and thought it a bit rubbish, I decided I'd write about how the Wizard of Oz relates to my life.  This has grown into a set of fourteen blog posts, including this one.

You can find the contents page for the main series here.

Some of it is quite light but I'll warn you that it gets quite dark in places and there's a lot of sadness mixed in with the joy.

Yes, I made a box.  While it won't be exhibited at the Tate Gallery I'm quite proud to have done something practical and creative without meltdowns.  Although there was that week I just stared at the box before wandering off and writing a poem about something else.  And there were sessions I found I couldn't get to at all.  At the time of writing the sessions aren't over but I'm having to miss all that remain due to other commitments - we're putting on a play!

Here are a few pictures of the box.  All of our boxes will be exhibited.  Somewhere.  At some point.  I don't know where.  There will be dancing too.

The lid of the box: "The autistic, transgender, God obsessed, wizard of Oz.  Come, follow the yellow brick road with me."

This mouse was in a tree together with a colourful teething ring.  For some reason my brain fixated on these things and I had to get them.  The branches were sharp and there were thorns and my arms got pretty cut by the experience.  But I retrieved those items.  Since then I've thrown the ring away and now I've left the mouse in a box.  Although what a mouse has to do with the story is anyone's guess.

Yes.  God obsessed even though I no longer believe.  This is the image of divine mercy.  I used to have copies of this image.  Everywhere.  Some of what Jesus said I can still go along with.

The Refugees welcome badge is a replacement.  I had one before a big march for refugees here in the pouring rain before spending days sorting donations until the point at which my head couldn't do more.  I lost that badge in London and replaced it last year at the Greenbelt festival.  I asked people if they had a spare badge and they handed me a pack of ten.

This box is inside the main box.  "Open Me.  We welcome you to autistic Munchkin Land."

"The journey is held inside, knowing its safety."

Inside that box are lots of pieces of card, each containing the web address of the blog posts.  A sheet inside the box lid explains what the cards are.  Perhaps nobody will take a card.  Perhaps nobody will read the posts.

The rosary.  In front of the lion.

Did I hide myself, fearfully, under the mask of my religion?

The box.  It's not spectacular.  But it's mine!

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The Tin Man Of Oz - How Too Much Heart Brings Disorder

The Tin Man Of Oz

This page is part of a project arising from a course at ReCoCo.

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The Cowardly Lion Of Oz

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The Saint Of Oz

Well here's something I'm having to deal with.  At this point it's not a medically re-diagnosed certainty.  At this point it's only a high probability.  It's not something I want.  On the contrary, I don't want it in the slightest.  I wish it not to be true.  The Wizard can wave his wand and it can be taken away from me.

But life doesn't work like that.  Dealing with this isn't about magic wands.  It's not about some miracle tablet provided by a psychiatrist.  It's not even about a dietary change or making a simple lifestyle change.  Dealing with this is going to be a lot of hard work.

So here it is.  Here's a truth about me.  The shrinks told me about this many years ago but I didn't listen.  On balance, not listening was a fair tactic because the shrinks often got it wrong.  They got this one right though.  Unfortunately.

And now, only now, am I looking at it honestly, accepting it, and asking the question, "What can I do about it?"

I wrote these words a week ago in a spare few minutes during a day with the autistic theatre company.  They began in haiku syllable form but by the end my fives and sevens were more sixes and eights.

It's not that I don't have a heart.  It's that I have what feels like too much of one.  And I've never learned to deal with that.  Innate emotional sensitivity combined with my childhood.

This is the result.  This is my confession.

Between love and hate,
Despair and terror chain me
On the borderline.

Each moment.  Tick.  Tock.
Tick.  Hold me close.  This second.
Tock.  Just walk away.

They told me the truth.
And I, misunderstanding,
Refused to listen.

Couldn't be bound by
Words. Just diagnostic labels
And accusations.

Forced to look again:
Six tests, expert testimonies.
I have BPD.

Crying on the edge.
Stuck between black neurosis and
Darker psychoses.

In voices, visions,
Infernal cyanide thoughts.
Abandonment screams.

In hard word and deed
I believe you'll stay, you'll go.
Cling.  Push you away.

There's hope.  Not CBT,
But DBT for BPD,
Tackling my anguish.

A slow, bright mountain;
A difficult salvation,
Healing to strive for.

I'll do this.  No choices.
Can't go on the way I am.
Not quite knowing me.

I have BPD.
No, that's not a death sentence.
It's a new beginning.

The Scarecrow of Oz - Or The Validation And Acceptance Of The Child

The Scarecrow Of Oz

This page is part of a course taken at The Recovery College
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The Wicked Witch Of Oz

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The Cowardly Lion Of Oz

I always knew I had a brain. Sometimes this led to arrogance. A feeling of smug superiority that my intellect was amazing.

Sometimes. But I knew it was wasted too.

They taught me at school to waste my brain. They taught me that my academic abilities were a burden to others. Over and over they told me not to shine. To be only quite clever.

They held me back. I was forced to push myself beyond the boundaries they set me. They didn't appreciate that. And if I happened to make an error in that wide wonder space beyond they slapped me back with full force.

They slapped me so much that I accepted their ways. I did only what was necessary to pass the exams they set. Nothing more. Because I knew they didn't want more. Most of them anyway.

As an adult I've been frustrated by this. Once you've intentionally switched much of your brain off and done your best to kill it it's very difficult to switch it on again. I still haven't succeeded and it's painful that my brain cannot do the things that it can do.

I think this was one of the factors in developing mental health problems as a child. It was a part of my crushing, my annihilation at the hands of the world. Just one part of having to be someone else and reject me.  How's that for an over-dramatic paragraph?!

You're right of course.  It is.  Yet it looks more and more like I have a disorder that comes about often through a combination of having a biologically based emotional sensitivity with growing up in an invalidating environment.  It wasn't that I had bad parents.  There was just invalidation based around that innate sensitivity, around my academic ability, around gender and probably around much more.  My parents did their best of course.  They weren't abusing me or anything like that.  Nevertheless the invalidation was there and it contributed to problems I now have and certain problems that I'm only just accepting I have.  More of that in a later post.

My functional brain – that just so happened to function well in the particular direction that can pass exams and sail through IQ tests – became dysfunctional.

The message here is not just to let clever children be clever to their full potential.  IQ and academia aren't the points here.  They don't make you into a superior person except in the world of IQ and academia, which we all know isn't the be all and end all of life.  Recently I've been working on a project with some learning disabled adults.  Great people.  Who just happen to have learning disabilities of various kinds.  The message here relates to them just as much as it might relate to me.

It's to let children be their own wondrous selves to their full potential. To encourage them in selfness.

The Bible says to “raise up a child in the way they should go.” Christians and Bible translations have so often got this wrong. They try to force a way upon the child – that the child should be a Christian too. That's the opposite of what the proverb says. The Hebrew is more concerned with “raise up a child in accordance with the pattern of their own character and attributes.”

That is, whoever the child is, encourage them – as long as love governs the encouragement and the child's actions.

It's not forcing our own hopes and aspirations on our children.

It's not imposing a religion or a dogma or a way of being and saying that they are doomed outside that imposition.

It's not telling a very, very clever child to be only a little above average.

It's not telling a child who may not have such academic ability or who can't ace IQ tests that they are anything less than wonderful for not passing every exam.

It's embracing the child when they dream, when they develop interests, when they turn out to be autistic or neurodivergent in other ways.

It's not pushing the child into dreams, failed or otherwise, that belong only to their parents or guardians.

It's loving the child for the child. Not for who you want the child to be.

It's asking a child who they are.  And being excited when they tell you and show you, for their sake.

That's a path to a healthier brain, to happier children and adults.

That's a path I could never grant myself – let alone anyone else for I too was a hell believer and thought that outside of my own path there was only damnation.

And then, turning from the sky wizard of lightning flashes and spectacular show, I met the Oz wizard within. The ordinary person. Just me.

I said, “I have a brain. It's damaged in too many ways. Each week I want to hurt myself. Each month I fall apart. Each year I plan my suicide. Each day I want to give up. O wizard, grant me a new brain.”

The wizard spoke.

“You have the power to grant yourself a new brain. Though you may take a dozen helpful medications and see a thousand tremendous therapists, in the end only you can do it.”

The wizard spoke.

“Heal yourself. At your core you are already healed. Let that knowledge permeate your consciousness.”

Four years have passed.

I am still healing. Still finding out what my brain could be. Still learning each day and falling often. Still taking those medications.  I have a long way to go and yes, if a therapist can help I'll happily accept their intervention.

Looking to the sky god or the earth god for healing and succour is easier. But it's passing the buck and doesn't really wash away the brokenness.

Accepting the responsibility to heal yourself is far more difficult. It's a treacherous mountain route with loose rocks on every corner and more monsters and faeries than we could have possibly imagined.

It's the hard road. But it's the better road.

I choose to walk it.

Will you walk the yellow brick road of self healing with me?

The Wicked Witch Of Oz - The Words And Weak Power Of Anxiety

The Wicked Witch Of Oz

This page is part of a project undertaken at ReCoCo, Newcastle Upon Tyne

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Contents

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The Cyclone

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The Scarecrow Of Oz

The Wicked Witch of the Anxiety says:

I'm strong and powerful.

I can make the trees trap you, smother you.

I can make even the fields of flowers into death traps. So there's no point thinking of beauty.

I have whole armies at my command. There's no place you can hide. Not in the past. Not in the future. And especially not in the here and now.

I laugh and whole nations quake. Munchkins cover their heads. Talking monkeys bow and obey. Even the Wizard of Oz is powerless.

I'll get you my pretty, and your little dog too. I'll get everything that's important to you.

Watch the sand fall. Each grain one more terrified thought I tell you to think. The last grain leading to your death. And you'll want it so much by then that you'll embrace death as a friend.

The reality:

She's weak. She's flawed. She does have powers.

She arrives in an instant out of nothingness and overpowers in green, pungent, toxic smoke.

But most of her power is just a show, a sham, a flimsy facade hiding the truth:

She's weak. She's flawed.

She can be killed. And I can become free without the loss of my little soft toy dog.

I can become free and when I do the whole land of Oz will rejoice with me.

I won't be like Dorothy though. I won't apologise for killing the Wicked Witch.

Oh no. I'll celebrate and then I will sleep in peace.

Because she's weak. She's flawed.

All it takes is one small bucket of water.

All it takes is the courage to throw that water. Over and over again no matter how many times new witches appear.

Outside the story.

Of course, it's not a real bucket. It's not real water. It's not even a real witch.

In real life a bit of water won't cause anxiety to die, screaming that it's melting.

But I believe there are metaphorical buckets of water.

Bucket number one is the bucket of recognition. Seeing the anxiety witch for what it is.

Bucket number two is giving the witch a label. Looking at the unbidden thought processes to check whether they're real or not.

Bucket number three is learning to step back from the labelled anxious thoughts and choosing a more rational path.

Bucket number four is learning to be kind to yourself, intentionally rejecting the unfair criticisms and embracing what is good in all gentleness.

These are powerful buckets of water. Of course they're not as simple to use as a real bucket. They are skills to be learned, and ideally to be learned before we need to use them.  They're also hard work.  Nobody should pretend that overcoming an anxiety disorder or a personality disorder that includes a lot of anxiety is easy.  Anxiety may be a fraud but it's closer and more dangerous than any green-painted witch.

I learned to use them. Lately I've forgotten about them. They've lain neglected in my mental armoury.  The result of neglect is clear.

I need to repair them, pick them up, and start using them again. I learned of these buckets seven years ago. They changed my life.  They can change my life again.  And this time I'm going to get bigger buckets!

I think it's time to use them to change my life again and this time I shouldn't ever put them down again. As I type this I'm seeking assessment again with mental health services. I think I've recognised a specific condition I have. I was diagnosed with it once and totally rejected that diagnosis and the therapist who gave it. I can't even remember who that was but today I believe they were right. It's time to look that condition squarely in the face and tell it that I'm in charge. I'm full of hope. Properly treated and with a lot of work this condition can be beaten. I hope the health service sees that too and refers me in the right direction. If not, there are alternatives. This Wizard of Oz project is part of a course run by the Recovery College Collective in Newcastle Upon Tyne. Next month (at the time of writing) they will be running some courses that teach the skills that are part of the treatment I'm hoping for. I plan to sign up for those courses. I plan to recover. I'll put a post about that condition in this Oz project - last week I wrote a quick poem about realising that I suffer with it.  Full disclosure, total honesty.  No shame.  The time for shame is over.

I just hope they're not at a time I can't be there. Because currently on Thursday I'm currently part of a theatre group. On Friday morning I'm part of a small cast preparing a play for performance in October. And on Friday afternoon I'll soon be taking a small writing course connected with those theatre groups. Somehow or other during the last year to eighteen months I've developed some kind of life that's more full than it's been since I was at college. And anxiety can't take that away from me. Yeah, I've got some difficult mental health challenges. But whatever those voices in my head say, I should be proud of how I've managed to develop this life despite them.

The witch says I'll die. The witch says she'll kill me. But does she? No.

I'm going to pick up my buckets of water again.

I'm going to throw them her.

She's going to scream. She's going to melt away.

Oh what a world!  Oh what a world!

I will rejoice.

And Oz will rejoice with me singing, “Ding Dong, the witch is dead.”

The Cyclone - The Thoughts And Voices I Hear, The Hell of Mental Illness

The Cyclone

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Contents

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Life in Kansas - Before the Cyclone

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The Wicked Witch Of Oz

Trigger Warning: Mental health problems. Self harm. Suicide.

The Cyclone - The Wizard of Oz

You've had a good day you say? Met with friends? Climbed a tower? You're happy with your life are you? No you're not. Idiot. You can't do it. You can't keep going like this. It's all going to go wrong you know. Come crashing down around you. Tonight. Now. It's all gone wrong already. You just haven't found out yet.

It's true. I had climbed a tower. Grey's Monument.

Get that feeling in your stomach? You know it so well. Let's start to ramp up your heartbeat too shall we? Just try to tell yourself it's not real. Try to say it's anxiety and that it's not rational. Yeah, go on. Be rational. You can do it. … Of course you can't. So have a few more beats per minute just for attempting.

You're useless. Never going to amount to anything. You can't do people. Can't do skills. Can't keep up appearances. Can't keep up pretending to yourself that you'll be able to keep those friends or develop those relationships into something meaningful. You can't. Because you're a useless piece of shit aren't you?

She's going to leave you too. Look. She didn't say that in just the right way. She's not said enough. It's obvious. It's over. Christ, you might as well call it off yourself because she's going to do it for you eventually. You're going to be abandoned. By her. By them. By everyone. As soon as they see through you. See just how evil and twisted you are. You're going to be alone so what's even the point of keeping on trying? Remember those friendships that didn't work. The people you don't see. What's that? You don't see them because you moved town or changed your interests and left their club? What does that matter? It's you. It's your failure. It's your own stupid fault and it's going to happen again. She said today she wanted to meet for a drink. She didn't mean it. Who'd really want to meet with you if they knew you? And those people who want you to come for lunch next time? It's only because they don't know you. If only they knew. Stop kidding yourself. You deserve to be alone and you will be alone. Yeah, abandoned. Left. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about.

Oh no, don't try to fight this. Don't get rational on me. I'm not going to let you think your way out of this. Here. Some more stomach pain and just for a laugh let's spread it out across your whole chest. Few more beats per minute too. Palpitations! Yes, have some of those. Then you can worry yourself that you're heading for a proper heart attack. Might kill you too. But that's okay. That would be better, yes?

She doesn't love you. She's just waiting for the right time. Don't try to deny it. Don't look at the evidence. I don't care about evidence. I care about panic. Panic. PANIC. Just get on with it and panic.

Here. I'm happy to assist. We're happy to assist. Hey, I've been joined by my friends. I've got friends you know. United in a cause. You've got nothing. Don't look at them. Stop it. Don't look at her, or her, or her, or him or anyone else you might try to think of. Don't think of how much you feel at home with those writers or actors or those other nice people. Don't try to remember how she made a point of inviting you out with a few friends to celebrate her birthday and how good it was to be there. You bitch. I told you not to go. We said to stay away but you went anyway. Bitch.

We're going to talk louder. In unison. In chorus. In a total disharmony. Abandon. Pain. Sorrow. Anguish. Happy. Sad. Happy. Sad. Sadder. Sadder. Sadder still. Until all is sadness. Apart from the anguish, anxious, and what the hell is the point of it all? Don't you go hoping that the drugs are going to take you to sleep. Just imagine what we can shout at you and scream at you and even sing to you before then. And maybe we'll give you nightmares.

A few more beats per minute and would you look at this? Look at that person in your room. She hates you too. Naturally. And look at this crowd. Wandering up and down in front of your eyes as the walls close in upon you. You're going to be squashed, squeezed, all life removed. And you don't even know who you are do you? All that work you've done to work it out. You're kidding yourself. It's all pretend. Even she said that. Oh? She didn't? Really? She said that. That's how you should interpret those words. Even she doesn't think you're real and you're not. Sham. Fake. Façade hiding nothing. You're just an ignorant cipher, a null set, an emptiness wider than the sea. What are you going to fill it with tomorrow? It's all a distraction you know. Because as soon as you stop you'll be back to square one and we'll laugh at you so much tomorrow night. As you deserve.

She's going to leave. They're all going to leave. Apart from those people walking in your bedroom. Looking at you. Reaching out their hands to you. Calling to you.

It's fortunate for you perhaps that you're not even in your body and you can tell yourself that the whole thing isn't even real. Get back in your body this instant. It's not over yet bitch.

Had enough yet? We've got more. Lots more. The tales we will tell.

There's a way out of course. You know it. Remember. See here. These images. Your arms. Bloody. That's right. Cut. Cut. Cut. It's easy. How about it? We'll even go away for a while. Fetch a blade. Play with it. Stroke yourself with it. Press it in. Testing metal against flesh. And slice. Find peace.

Hey, it's better than the alternatives. Here's one. Why not go out for a walk now? What? No, we don't care at all that you're drugged and want sleep. Get up. Go walking. It's not far to that bridge over the motorway. That's nice. Or even better, that bridge over the river. Why not go there? It's pretty there and I know you love pretty things. Make up for your own ugliness. Ah, shit woman. Don't try to tell us that you know you're not ugly. Don't tell us to go away. Don't tell us that you know better. Hear us laugh as you tell us you're a good person and that people like you and that you have skills and life's worth living. Just don't. We're not going to believe you. Not when you should believe us.

How about it? One jump and it'll all be over and you won't have to hear from us ever again. No more anxiety. No more abandonment fears. No empty places. No more battles as your emotions rise and fall with everything turned up to twelve on every fall. Kill yourself girl, and we will never speak again. That'll make your life much easier.

You refuse? Idiot. Stupid bitch. Okay. If you insist. But the blade. Or just scratch yourself. Then you don't even have to get out of bed. Or hit your head or your wrist. Just do something.

Do it. Do it. And then you'll have peace.

View from the tower.  My life is very good.

The drugs kick in. Sleep wins. Peace comes without harm. Tomorrow I will fight again. Tomorrow I will take one more step to being free from the voices, free from the hell that it can be inside my head.

I will win. Rational evidence will win. I am a good person. People like me. I'm not going to be abandoned. I have skills. I have joys. I have purpose, meaning and am finding more. And I do know much of who I am – having had a long battle to find out. I'll fight my over-reactions again tomorrow. Stave off anger and try not to over-react.

I won't self-harm. I refuse. And I'm not going to kill myself no matter how loudly the voices scream or the images they show me.

Don't worry. I'm staying in one piece. I may not climb a tower tomorrow. But I will climb. And I will triumph in some little way.

One more day. One more step along the road to healing.

Tomorrow night the voices, the anxiety, the fear may strike again. But I will win. They're not real. They're just thoughts. Neurons firing and old neural pathways that haven't yet collapsed to be replaced by the life I'm choosing to live.

I know that the healing may be difficult. As I type a voice tells me it will be impossible. They lie you know, the voices. They lie. Find a small part of truth and twist it so far out of context, out of shape that even that truth is a lie. There's not one thing they say that I should believe. Not one. It doesn't matter how clever they are about it. It doesn't matter whether they're coaxing me or screaming it so loudly that I'd block my ears if it did any good. It doesn't matter what they show me. It doesn't even matter when they tell me to do things.

It's all lies. Beyond the lies, I know better.

So sleep takes me. For a while I can live in Oz. But whether I'm in Oz or Kansas or even in Newcastle Upon Tyne I know my life is good. I can kill the witch. And I can kill the cyclone in my mind.

I can. And I will.

No you can't. You ridiculous charlatan.

Yeah, I can. It's all going to be okay.

[1636 words]

The Magic Art of The Great Humbug

The Magic Art of The Great Humbug

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The Wonderful Wizard Of Oz

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Final Words

Text

The Field of Poppies Of Oz

The Field Of Poppies Of Oz

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The Saint Of Oz

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The Emerald City Of Oz

The Field of Poppies

I want to sleep. Forever.

I want to lie down. Never wake again.

I want to take a blade to my skin, swallow the packets of pills by my bed.

I want to stand on a ledge, a cliff top, or look down at the river from Redheugh Bridge.

I want to jump. Fall. End.

I want to find a blessed, welcome relief from the fight.

I want to find freedom from the way my brain, my mind rebels against all that could be called happiness or contentment.

I want to scream as the old panic rises up again.

I want to give in to the darkness.

I want to let go, succumb to the poppy field and smile beatifically as the witch of mental illness laughs at her victory.

Today. Now.

I want to die.

I don't want to be told it will all be okay.

I don't want to be given a hand to rescue me. Not this time.

I want to die. Please. Oh God, please. Why not?

I want to step off that edge. Enough is enough. Surely it's enough. Haven't I struggled for long enough? I'm forty-six now. So many years of fighting, fighting. Each day. Often each hour.

Isn't it time for me to die? That's what I want.

Death, take me.

But death refuses.

I claim my heart again, my brain, my courage. I claim the possibilities of smiles. Of love. Of change.

I claim my future and proclaim that it will be better than my past.

I want to die. I choose life.

I want fresh rain. And I believe it will come.

This world has not finished with me. And I have not finished with this world.

There will be no suicide today, no fresh wound from the blade's invitation.

Somehow I will survive.

Somehow I will triumph.

The Cowardly Lion of Oz - Learning The Courage To Be Yourself

The Cowardly Lion Of Oz

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The Tin Man Of Oz

The Cowardly Lion

Bravado living:

Put 'em up. Put 'em up. You

Stay away from me.

I couldn't let people get too close.

They might have discovered me. Ripped of the masks I wore and found a creature I believed deformed, despicable. I couldn't bear that they might learn that my exterior manner of the mild mannered preacher, the smiles and a way with words that led some to wish I was ordained, hid a soul whose pain could not be alleviated through the platitudes and fine words of the Jesus he preached.

I couldn't let them get too close.

They might have forced me to discover myself.

They might have forced me to face all that I feared about myself. All that I had been taught to loathe.

So, apart from a rare few, I kept them away. I preached peace, a sound mind. And self harmed three times to get myself through the service. I spoke of God's love. And spent my days hiding the hate I thrust upon myself.

As a preacher I looked to the wizard in the sky to transform me. From sinful creature to child of light. From a man of unclean thoughts to one whose whole life was wrapped up in God.

It was only when I began to look away from the sky wizard that the transformation began.

Jesus said the kingdom of God is within, Christ is within, the very core of life and being is within.

I looked within.

The wizard waited there.

Hidden. Buried. Cast into the deepest oubliette. A forgotten prisoner.

I looked harder. Heard her screams and released her.

She said to me, “I do not grant you courage. You have it already. It took courage to look within for strength and answers. You, child of god-light, you are courage.”

I accepted her word.

I accepted the woman I already was.

I accepted what I'd been told for years, that I am autistic.

I accepted that I am a creative.

I accepted spiritual possibilities and in so doing walked away from the faith path that had been my meaning.

Every day is astonishingly difficult. Autism and my mental health conditions combine. Every day they present me with an almost impenetrable barrier. Every single day.

I am tempted to faint. Tempted to give up the yellow brick road to my own promised land, the emerald city where all dreams are possible and where life, love, and fullness of being are celebrated and experienced.

Sometimes I succumb to temptation. In despair I weep.

Healing and anointed wisdom are not grasped in a day. Perhaps that would be too easy. Perhaps we need to learn through failure and struggle just how beautiful we are.

And I forget. Often I forget. Though the goddess within spoke “You are courage,” I forget.

Often I still live in fear. And sometimes I give in to it.

Often I live in anxiety and panic too. That's part of the nature of mental health conditions that I still bear.

One day I will be the restored lion. I will cease to say “Put 'em up.” Instead I will say to all, “You are welcome in this place. Come, let's celebrate our inner god kingdoms together. Come, I am willing to give you space to discover your own inner god and the passion that will lead you to your fullest life.”

One day this cowardly lion will roar so loud that the world will see her, rejoice, and learn to roar too. One day this cowardly lion will show others that there is a water of life that will slay all the wicked witches we needlessly carry.

Is this bravery? Or is this revelry in ecstasy?

It doesn't matter.

Come, walk the yellow brick road of inner courage with me.

Look inside to the darkness and the light. Accept it all. Especially that which you call shadow.

Look inside and in the core of your being I promise you this:

You too are courage.