Breathing in, breathing out. Air into the lungs, breath of
life. Feet, legs, eyes, mind, spirit and heart all connected.
I notice the sights, smells, sounds and sensations of my
surroundings as I run with a group of companions down
the Worcester Canal to Diglis Canal Basin and its sign
displaying the number of locks to Tewkesbury and
Birmingham. We cross over the bridge, past the imposing
13th century cathedral of St Oswald and up towards the
Old Bridge, where a rowing eight is shooting through the
arches, scattering swans as it goes. We double back to pick
up the tail-enders, as the proud boast of Worcester Joggers
is that ‘We don’t leave anybody behind’.

I look into the faces of my companions: Lisa, Mike, Vicki,
Charlie and others. Some are wearing T-shirts displaying
the races they have run as badges of honour – Pat with his
bright ‘Sodbury Slog’ emblem and Teri with her ‘Race the
Horse’ (don’t ask!). I feel inspirited by the physical
sensation of running, the connection with nature and the
buildings of an ancient city, and the company – old friends
and new ones, the jokes, mutual support, the sharing of
news and problems, and the encouragement to push
oneself that bit further. But also there’s the non-talking, the
ability to run with people but to be within one’s own head
and thoughts and feelings – solitary but not lonely.

As we pause to cross the bridge I mention this article to
Gary, who tells me that he had depression when work
pressures, moving house and the birth of a new child
pushed him into an unfamiliar zone. A combination of asympathetic GP, antidepressants, good friends and running
kept him going and eventually lifted him again. I am
constantly stirred by the number of runners who say to me
that they have experienced an episode(s) of mental distress
at some stage of their lives and that running has helped
them to recover and thrive.

As we run over the bridge, down the Riverside Promenade
with its flower baskets and towards the park, a group of
youngsters remark that we must be ‘****ing mad!’ Of
course, a few years ago, that’s exactly what I was.

I had an idyllic childhood on the island of Jersey. But a
major turning point in my life came when I was sent away
to boarding school at the age of eight. I can’t think of much
good that came out of it, except that it gave me later as a
childcare social worker an empathy with kids who were
removed from home. One of the problems that remains
from those years is the little voice that comes into my head
when things get tough. It tells me what the teachers at that
boarding school used to say: ‘You’ll never achieve anything.’

Talking with people over the years, I realise just how
prevalent are the problems caused by these childhood
voices. One of the benefits of any strenuous exercise is that
it clears your head of pressures and negative thoughts and
tends to refresh you. As a social worker with 13 years’
direct practice, I found running a great release. Speaking
with a new runner this week, she remarked simply:
‘Running keeps me sane.’

But from preserving sanity back to my recovery from mental
illness. In 1997 I went from Staffordshire to Worcestershire
to become Director of Social Services of a new department
following local government reorganisation. I had been
warned that there would be difficulties with particular
people and that there had been a series of financial crises
over at least the previous 10 years. Having to take 7% in
the first year out of a budget that was already a busted
flush created inevitable problems.

What happened left me with an abiding sense of what
ethical, value-based leadership is and what it isn’t.1 I found
that trying to do the impossible meant I got into a pattern
of sleeping about two hours a night, losing 2lbs a day and
finally ending up in my GP’s surgery. Her response was
human, direct and very reassuring. ‘This is shit!’ she
proclaimed angrily. ‘They are using you as a scapegoat.’ I
spent six months off sick with depression and I feel myself
very fortunate to have survived – and even more fortunate
to be in a valued work role again.

What helped? I had a good GP who, while she recommended
antidepressants, gave me some control. With all the issues
around medication at the moment, I have to say that
antidepressants were extremely helpful, had minimal side
effects and enabled me to start my recovery. I was also
fortunate to have a place of spiritual asylum – Worth Abbey
(BBC2’s The Monastery, May 2005). I had a friend who was
able to absorb both my sadness and my anger (because I
was certainly mad in a different way); real leaders like
Professor Antony Sheehan, who welcomed me back into
the world of work; and my running club, Worcester Joggers.

Earlier this year, the Mental Health Foundation brought out
its report ‘Up and Running?’ The research found that 55%
of GPs commonly prescribed antidepressants as their first
treatment response to mild or moderate depression, while
only 35% believed that this was the most effective
strategy. The Foundation points out that there are many
advantages of exercise therapy, and that these can act in
four main ways:

• biological/chemical – through the increased release of
endorphins and encephalins2
• social – exercise enables people to build new social
networks
• esteem boosting – the learning of new skills and
achieving goals
• distraction/flow – moving away from the preoccupation
with negative thoughts and creating a more positive
state of mind.

Exercise is cost-effective. It has coincidental benefits and
fewer potential side effects than antidepressants. It is alsoan active, sustainable, recovery choice and a ‘normalising’
experience. And there are some inspiring stories around
about how exercise can help – like Laura Boswel’s. Training
for the London Marathon, she ran even though there were
days ‘when … I could hardly clean my teeth.’3 On
depression she said: ‘I’d liken it to a Victorian ghost story;
you know something bad is lurking, but you don’t know
what. You just have a creeping dread.’ This accords very
much with my experience, where I felt I was literally
running to save my life. Although the lofepramine helped
enormously, there were days in the ‘chasm’ when I couldn’t
do anything. But I would still get out and run.

Since we found in my own running group, Worcester
Joggers, that so many people had experienced some form
of mental distress, I conducted a small survey and people
were very open about what caused them distress.

Many had indeed experienced extreme unhappiness, as
well as ‘stress caused by life!’, as one person described it.
Bereavement, childhood experiences, relationship
breakdown, children leaving home and stress from work
were all cited in very moving ways: ‘It was a celebration of
life and good health. I was just so grateful my body worked
[having cared for their partner who died from cancer].’
‘I became depressed and got to the point where I didn’t
want any contact with the outside world … I continued to
run and became quite competitive, as this was my way of
dealing with my anger [after the break-up of a
relationship].’ ‘When I was extremely stressed at work and
under a lot of pressure, running helped to make me forget
work.’ As one person said, ‘It’s preventative medicine.’

Worcester Joggers has existed informally for many years,
but in the last seven it has grown from about 20 members
to more than 100. This seems to be due partly to people’s
desire to run as a social group. As one runner put it:
‘Running puts people at the same level, irrespective of their
professional status or standard of living. The club is like an
extended family, sharing experiences and ideas,
achievements and disappointments.’ Interestingly, at least
one person also spoke of the wider issue of social
responsibility: ‘It is also extremely fulfilling when running
to raise sponsorship money, as you feel you are putting
something back into the world.’ And for others, what
works is simply the sheer exhilaration of running: ‘Running
helps me connect with nature. I enjoy MUD and lots of it.
It’s a kind of adventure!’

Running can be a spiritual experience too, providing a
sense of wellbeing. It may bring one closer to nature,
stimulate a sense of beauty and foster community and
solidarity. A recognition of the spiritual dimension of each
individual is becoming increasingly prevalent in Westernsocieties. This is despite (or perhaps because of) our
increased secularisation and materialism, people often
feeling that they are just one more commodity and that
their value as human beings is based purely on their
financial ability to consume.4,5,6

Spirituality and religion are not identical. As Stephen
Wright puts it: ‘Everybody is spiritual, but not everybody is
religious. We all seek meaning, purpose, relationship and
connectedness in life, but not everybody chooses to
channel that quest through the more formal structure and
belief system of a religion.’7 There are a huge number of
definitions of spirituality, including the essence of our
humanness as unique individuals within a common
humanity; what is deepest in us, inspiring us and giving us
direction, especially at times of crisis; and the human quest
for meaning, purpose, identity, meaningful relationships,
and a sense of the holy.8,9

As part of the national Spirituality and Mental Health
Project, Mary Ellen Coyte is producing a book on spiritual
strategies for survival,10 in which exercise will play its part.
The Worcester Joggers echo this sense of the spiritual
accessed through exercise: ‘Running helps me connect
with myself when running on my own or silently.’ ‘As a
group, running helps me make and connect with new
friends and existing friends as it gives me a common
interest.’ ‘It is a good reminder of what we are doing –
living, rather than living to work.’ ‘As a Christian, running
seems to bring together the spiritual, mental and physical
aspects of life. It is a wonderful way to enjoy God’s creation.’

Is it stretching a point too far to say that being a member
of a running club is similar to religious practice? One
definition of religion is as follows:

‘Religion encompasses aspects of spirituality, usually in the
context of belief in a transcendent being or beings.
Religious faiths can provide a ‘world view’, which is acted
out in narrative, creeds, symbols, rites, rituals, sacraments
and gatherings; and the promotion of ties of mutual
obligation. It creates a framework within which people
seek to understand and interpret and make sense of
themselves, their lives and daily experiences.’9

In the same way, it could be said that runners have a set of
beliefs. While there are a number of ‘birth’ runners who
started running on the beach with their parents, there are
also ‘born again’ runners who only came to the activity
late in the day – a ‘Damascene experience’ brought on by
seeing themselves in the mirror or hitting a crisis of health
or meaning.

Club runners certainly have rituals. They get together on
club nights and the gathering can seem like a church
congregation, especially when the chair of the club
welcomes people to the gathering, gives out the notices
and praises ‘Sister Emma’ and ‘Brother Jim’, who ran a
muddy cross-country in some remote part of
Worcestershire! Worcester Joggers also head off for a
monthly club meal, usually at a Balti house. We also have a
strange, coded language. Sacramental institutions may
involve rites of passage, sharing a meal and awards and
prizes. Those who have dropped out through injury or
lethargy are welcomed back like those who repenteth!

My comments about the religious nature of running are
only partly serious, but there is no doubt that running has
benefits that are not only physical. As well as the
experience of being inspirited, of solidarity with others and
a sense of the sacred in nature and in people, there is, as
one person put it, ‘a sense of belonging’.

In 1998 I headed to the OB/GYN because I was unable to get pregnant. The doctor found a lot of problems with my uterus and prescribed hormones to deal with most of them. Within a few weeks I was a shell of my former self. I was deeply depressed and didn’t want to come get out of bed anymore. A long journey followed. I sank in deeper and deeper until I was in such darkness that I found myself in the kitchen, standing with a knife at my wrist. I saved myself there. I knew I couldn’t live like that anymore, but I also didn’t want to die. Something better was there.

I returned to my childhood love of writing and wrote myself out of the depression. I also rediscovered art and photography. The final link came when I reconnected with the child in me. I found my joy again and the deep love that connects me to mother Earth. I have now made this discovery a big part of my life and I teach others to do the same. It is a gift my depression gave me. I am grateful for that darkness, because in the darkness, I found my self.

Sylvia has a blog here featuring her poetry, short stories and art, as well as a website for people wishing to reconnect with their inner child (Playful Soul Work).

The road to recovery for me is about communication and being involved in the community. It means a lot to me to be of help to others as it gives me a sense of confidence and self-esteem. This has meant being around people who treat me with respect and as an equal. This makes me feel comfortable around others, because I want to be seen as a person and not a label. I like to be positive because it lets people know I’m on the road to recovery. Another part of my recovery has been the satisfaction of giving something back to others by listening to them and taking an interest in their well being.

I do various things to fill my time music, spending time outdoors and being with my wife, Joan. Joan plays a big part in my recovery because we can talk openly to each other about my health. This is a great help, along with my medication which helps to keep my mental health stable.

I enjoy independence and living my own life, which I can do with a little support during my recovery.

All the things I’ve spoke about keeps me well on the road to recovery, so let the things in life keep you well!

Hi, this is my story about me and my wee friend the shadow.

At 52 I find myself in an old rusty truck living a simple life here
in the Scottish mountains and along with my wife Mel oor 2 wee cats
Wilkie and Chloe, I can say I have never been happier, aye my wee
friend visits still, but I have learned to welcome him into my life.

For many many years I battled against my depression until in 1996/7
the fight for me seemed useless and I had had enough, the way out of
the darkness became harder and harder the doors one by one disappeared
and during that time i tried to commit suicide on several occasions.

The days leading up to my suicide attempt that I thought I had
succeeded are as vivid now as if it was yesterday. A number of
‘actions’, shall I call them, had meant the darkness had got darker. The
keys that had worked in the past to help me through no longer worked.

I felt as though I was running round in ever decreasing circles. No
matter which key on whatever door I tried it would not open, until the day that
even the doors disappeared – and looking down to where I
had placed the keys they too had vanished, all light had gone all hope
had floated away.

With pills and booze I headed up the road to the Fruin…

I started to come around in Hospital although I had been able to walk
there escorted by the police, I had GONE.

Through the mist, voices behind the material screen drifted to my ears.

Two nurses were speaking;

“WHY SHOULD WE TREAT THE LIKES OF HIM. I HAVE FAR MORE BETTER THINGS TO DO”

To this day those words pop into my wee heed, but noo they make me smile.

I have always believed that we have the ability to heal ourselves and
to this end have shied away from doctors and medication.

In the end though my now wife Mel convinced me to go and see the local
Doctor, he was kind and sat and listened. n=No feeling of time intruded
as i told him my story.

At the end of my visit he handed me a prescription and I left.

For a couple of weeks I took the drugs, but slowly I could feel
myself slipping further into my depression in fact it felt because of
the drugs that I had no control at all.

Then one day I tossed the drugs in the bin and headed to the mountains.

For months i screamed inside and out.

Then one morning i got up and the shadow had gone, simply vanished.
Happiness and hope had both returned ..

The mountains and the surrounding nature had seemed to take my spirit
and wash it clean.

With new drive and dreams, I headed doon the road. But the day that
rings oot for me was when Mel said I should get a laptop.

“NO, NO WAY”, but somehow she convinced me to go to the shop and buy one.

Now, because of that day, I know that my wee friend (and I truly
count him as a friend), my wee shadow live happily, and through my art
pictures, tales and films I am able to journey knowing I will never
return to the ABYSS..

I am a lot more careful who i let into my life now.

But looking out into the world from my wee tin can I am happy and when
I get comments emails etc. about how i have inspired someone across the
globe i now know why I survived my leap into the abyss ..

LOVE AND LIGHT

Guard the keys my friend

P.S. I now have many keys from the wee flowers to the mighty storms

THE DAFTHERMIT

………………………………………

A wee poem and some words from a special friend

A poem by Andy Daniels :

Bolted doors

Others may not realize

Madness they have caused

My soul stinging deep inside

Behind bolted doors

Vulnerable but much too young

And always insecure

No laughter here from anyone

Behind bolted doors

Hidden anguish so much shame

Guilt and so much more

Spirit burning like a flame

Behind bolted doors

Here I stay where life is hell

Haunted emotions roar

Trapped inside my lonely shell

Behind bolted doors

Forgotten memories

Forgotten memories don’t hide

They live within us

Deep inside

We may feel guilty and regret

Bad memories

We can’t forget

Forgotten memories belong

Back there in the past

That’s gone

From mistakes

They say we learn

Insane nightmares still return

Forgotten memories are seen

Remaining in our

Broken dreams

All so difficult

To ignore

Depression is a private war

Forgotten memories

They delve

Like burning ashes

In ourselves

Bringing tears to our eyes

We learn to block them our lives

(Wrote that one a few seconds ago)

Lille Diane

Crying is a release valve we all have whether it’s to show grief,
fear, sadness or pure joy. These water spouts, conveniently placed in
our eyes, need to flow freely. Cleansing our sight, purifying our
hearts and connecting us with one another to open our hearts with
compassion. I’ve always said, “I don’t trust a man, or person, who
doesn’t cry.” Sadly, many teach their children to block this natural
tool so they hold back in life thinking they are weak if they do shed
a tear. Ever notice when you do let the cleansing waters out, to do
their job of releasing whatever is bothering you, how much lighter,
and better you feel? How could something so tiny as a tear bring about
such relief from heaviness or heartfelt love? Because we were
instilled with this beautiful mechanism of crying from birth, to
lighten our loads, as well as celebrate our very existence into this
world. Love a man who freely cries! To me that is a true sign of
manhood.

Andy’s blog can be found here – http://theblackbuscompany.blogspot.com

The key to living successfully with bipolar disorder is realizing how your disorder benefits you. For me, bipolar disorder allows me to tap into my creativity. Sometimes in a mania I can produce six inspired paintings in one week. Although bipolar has many downfalls, we cannot ignore the benefits. I suggest you too look at your life and see where your disorder adds something special to your life.

Don’t get me wrong, living with bipolar disorder is not an easy feat. I know this because I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder in 1989. However, it wasn’t until 2000 that I began to understand my responsibilities as a bipolar woman. Before that, I viewed myself as a victim of an illness. It wasn’t until I claimed responsibility for my recovery that my life changed. It took ten years for me to find a way to manage my illness. For most of my life I fought most of the demons associated with mental illness: self-injury, self-medicating which led to addiction, and eating disorders. I initially found recovery at 17 through a 12-Step program.

Growing up, I never felt like I fit in anywhere. I did well in school and swam competitively throughout high school while silently suffering from severe depression and a preoccupation with death. This would have been a warning signal to the doctor treating me at the time if bipolar disorder and depression were better understood and openly discussed. For the next six years, I cycled between euphoric manias where I suffered from both auditory and visual hallucinations to the lowest depths of suicidal depressions. All of these behaviors went undiagnosed and untreated until I became preoccupied with calories, withdrew from eating and began over exercising.

At age sixteen they diagnosed me with anorexia. My first experience with a psychiatrist was so overwhelming and terrifying that I refused to go back for treatment for three years. At age nineteen they then diagnosed me with bipolar disorder, with major recurrent depression and borderline personality disorder.

Although I was already diagnosed, my twenties were more difficult than my teens. During that dark time, I fell into an abusive marriage with a recovering alcoholic, divorced him, remarried, gave birth to a beautiful daughter and then I experienced the worst psychotic episode I had ever experienced. Diagnosed as post-partum depression or more accurately was a bipolar post-partum psychosis. A year after my child was born I began self-medicating. My prescribed medicines simply weren’t working. This downward spiral led me to the point of being a regular in the local psychiatric ward. I had been a patient of every rehab within a 100-Miles radius at least once. Miserable with my marriage and my life, I left my second husband. My life was completely out of control and suicide seemed to be my only option. My life wasn’t a chore, it was a life sentence with no visible chance for parole. I wanted out.

It wasn’t until I required hospitalization that I was given the gift of art therapy. It was my second involuntary admission in this hospital’s psychiatric ward. I was in so trapped in the vicious trap of denial that I truly believed that I was the healthiest person in the ward. Each day they required all the patients in the ward to attend several therapy sessions. Individual and group therapy, meeting with a psychiatrist, and then we had art therapy. I had never taken an art class and wasn’t thrilled about trying my hand at drawing while I was feeling particularly vulnerable.

Despite my apprehension and the hostility I felt toward the assignment, art therapy began. The nurse instructed us to divide our page in half and on one side draw where we were and how we felt now. On the opposite page we were to draw where we wanted to be and how we wanted to feel.

Grudgingly, I picked my colored chalk: black, dark blue, red, blue, and brown. At first I began the project lethargically, slowly separating my page in half like a robot following commands. Then I thought of my life right at that moment, locked against my will in a hospital where nurses were assigned to monitor me while I showered. My lethargy turned into energy and I became 1 with my anger. With rage boiling over I quickly scribbled a woman with tears following down her cheek locked away behind thick bold black prison bars. When I was done with the left side, I felt a release. Some of my tension melted away.

Then I sat and thought of where what I wanted out of my life. I wasn’t entirely sure how I wanted to feel aside from better, yet I could envision what happiness might look like. I picked up some chalk and on the opposite side I drew the sun and a tree and a heart I believe. When I was done, I leaned back and looked at my drawing. One drawing with two completely conflicting images, yet both of them were me; my hell and my dreams. I immediately saw I would never move forward if I didn’t change something. Yet it would be a long time before I was ready to accept that realization.

People have asked me why I think art therapy works and I’m not entirely certain. Yet I do know that humans have been using pictures as a form of communication long before the written word. In fact, the earliest forms of language were in the forms of hieroglyphs. Artistic characters meant to symbolize greater things.

I think when we allow ourselves to tap into our creativity we are touching on our true instinctual selves. The first logographs date back circa 4000 BC and are pictures of objects and activities. We used pictures as a means of record keeping and storytelling. It wasn’t until 2000 years later that man invented the written word. My point being that expressing ourselves through pictures is nothing new to the human animal. As a species, it is something we did long before we wrote. As an individual, think back to when you were a child. Didn’t you draw or scribble long before you spoke?

Through the use of art therapy, we are just drawing upon a primitive skill set to express our lives, activities, and time. Painting and drawing, is in a way, a more primal form of communication then writing. This allows us to tap into our true feelings about ourselves and our lives.

Art therapy has been the one form of therapy that has really opened my eyes to who I am and what I feel. Since finding this form of expression, I have healed in ways I never thought would be possible for me. I used to be a cutter. One day, I decided that instead of slashing at myself with a razor, I would slash at the canvas in blood colored paint with a paint brush. The release I felt was incredible. I was still able to express my rage and anger with all the intensity I needed by slicing away at the canvas instead of my body. Since I found that tool, I have not harmed myself. It sounds simple and it really is.

There are no rules with using art therapy which is one of the many beauties of this form of therapy. In addition to being on call, immediate, instant gratification, it’s also intensely personal. There are no rules. You can use crayons, colored chalk, paint. Use brushes or even your fingers. Just follow your feelings. The point is to express yourself without rules. The art is the key that unlocks that unlocks the door. You don’t have to limit art to painting or drawing alone. There is music, poetry, writing, computer graphics. Find a way of expression that makes you appreciate who you are. The brilliance that I savor from art therapy is that it captures a moment in my life, a feeling, an event. Instead of suffering through life’s trials with nothing to show for it, I get to produce meaningful art.

When I first began using art therapy to express myself, most of my paintings were not only dark in color but in subject matter as well. I had just survived one of the most traumatic periods in my life and I clearly reflected it in my work. After my apartment burnt down, my grip on reality was failing me. I was overwhelmed with pain and guilt over the fire. I painted every day, one painting right after another, in a manic depressive state. I painted to keep from harming myself. I painted to keep from drinking. Now when I look at those pieces, the memories of that dark time wash over me like a tidal wave. Painting gave me a harmless way of expressing that anguish. In other words, it gave me a voice. Learning to own and claim responsibility for my fears and feelings without acting in a harmful way is one of the most empowering feelings I have experienced.

In 2000, in addition to suffering from bipolar disorder, I also suffered from severe agoraphobia triggered by the apartment fire. Although I suffered severe anxiety when leaving my home, I worked through my feelings of confusion about the outside world in my acrylics and watercolors. I couldn’t travel outside my home, but I did watercolors of sexless alien like beings in space, as I learned to accept myself as a woman, I painted watercolors of women in beautiful bright colors. For me, painting is the ultimate life journal. Feelings are often too hard to describe in words, but in painting, the expression of feeling is much more personal and subjective, yet in a very powerful way.

The beautiful and maddening thing about bipolar disorder can be the unstoppable racing thoughts and ideas that launch many big projects. I have found that directing that explosive energy into a painting or drawing allows me to focus my energy without limiting the powerful creativity flow I am experiencing.

After my life began to balance and I had a small collection of paintings, I decided to launch a website that featured my artwork from my bipolar perspective. It was the only way that I could think of to reach out to others with Bipolar Disorder and show them that not all of this illness is bad. I had no idea the blessing the website would be for me. Almost daily other bipolar individuals contact me who happened to stumble upon my site and find peace in my paintings and my approach to my illness. Who, most importantly I think, they related to what they saw and read, showing them that they were not alone. It’s true. One doesn’t have to cope with bipolar disorder alone. It’s true you never know what is possible for your life until you try.

It is has been my desire to share my bipolar life experiences and express my feelings through painting, poetry, and mental health consumer articles. We can help de-stigmatize the illness. Since being diagnosed, the time that I have been the healthiest and most productive has been since I began using art therapy.

Before using art therapy, I was a great art enthusiast, but whenever I attempted to paint or draw anything, instead of just accepting what came out of me, I judged it and myself. Frustrated, I wouldn’t attempt any art project for months. Now I know that any artistic creation that flows for me is a gift. Mere creation is healing.

I believe that for a bipolar person to live up to their potential, they have to accept that they are different from other people, without judging themselves for those differences. Instead, capitalize on the differences. Some of the most brilliant and creative minds of this world have had bipolar disorder, Salvador Dali, Buzz Aldrin. It’s also very important for the family to be knowledgeable about this brain disorder so they can give the diagnosed person appropriate support without lowering their boundaries.

Accepting you have this illness is the first step in living successfully with it. Followed by therapy, medication, and a sincere willingness to look and listen to all input your friends, families, doctors and therapists have to say about you and your behavior and even more importantly an ability to let yourself “go with your body’s flow.”

For me, one of the beauties of bipolar disorder, unlike that of depression, is that when I do get depressive, I KNOW, just because of the nature of the illness that I will inevitably cycle back into normalcy or hypo-mania. Either way, I’m no longer depressed. I think during the dark times of the illness, it is good to allow yourself to express the black and grayness you are feeling. Art therapy allows you to actually get it out of you and onto canvas. Perhaps it works for me because of the connection between the subconscious, ritual, and visualization, all I know is that by taking the colors I am feeling inside and expressing them outwardly is a joy for me.

Living with bipolar isn’t easy, but it can be managed. You can find peace and contentment if you work on yourself and believe in yourself. You are strong enough to take the necessary steps to take care of yourself, just do it one step at a time. There are so many forms of therapy, types of medications, and self-help tools available that giving up on yourself should never be an option. If it does at some point you feel you have run out of options, reach out for help. It’s sometimes surprising the people who are ready and willing to support us. Always ask for the help you need.

Living according to my doctor’s suggestions, taking my medications and using art therapy have enabled me turn my dreams into reality. I strongly believe that all individuals diagnosed with a mental illness should, for lack of a better term, come out of the closet. By hiding in the shadows, we only perpetuate the ignorance, fear and myths surrounding mental illness. As a mental health patient and advocate, I believe that it is through sharing our experiences with society that we can change the world’s perception of those diagnosed with a mental illness. By simply admitting and accepting one’s illness, public support for the mental health community will strengthen. By not living in fear or being ashamed of who we are, we can effect change on a massive scale. We can change the way the public views those with brain and mood disorders. We can increase government funding for mental healthcare that over 90 million Americans are suffering without. It may be a cliché, but it’s true: One person can make a difference.

It all begins by accepting your diagnosis followed by a willingness to find out what tools you will need to create a healthy and productive life. Ultimately, it is my goal to raise the awareness of bipolar disorder using art as my platform. I would like to make difference in how individuals with bipolar disorder are viewed. When words fail me, like they have in the past, I will let my art speak for itself.

Mara McWilliams resides peacefully in Northern California with her daughter and her wife, Renee. She has dedicated her life to raising her daughter; volunteering, preserving her mental health, and helping others improve themselves whenever she can. She expresses herself through painting, drawing, and writing.

Mara is the author of Outta My Head and In Your Face. The poetry and artwork of Mara McWilliams reflects a journey that led her through the darkest depths of mental illness, to a place where she more often experiences a peace that is the result of tremendous hard work and dedication to a better, balanced, life. This book of selected poems and paintings by Mara McWilliams chronicles that journey. She hopes to give the reader a view into the tortured mind of the undiagnosed mentally ill, as well as to give hope to those whose lives have been touched by mental illness, that a full and beautiful life is possible.

- No Facebook for 25 days
- No coffee for 25 days
- Meditate an hour a day for 25 days
- Run 2.5 miles per day for 25 days
- Auction 25 items on ebay & donate the money
- Cycle 25 miles 25 times

Remember we have a page on where you can make a fundraising page easily.

But it doesn’t have to be fundraising, it could also be awareness raising.

- Tell 25 people about Birchwood Highland
- Invite 25 facebook friends to like our page
- Write a 25 word update about us or the work we do on a social media site
- Wear a Birchwood Highland t-shirt for 25 days
- Write 25 letters to businesses, MP’s, and other organisations telling them about us!

1. Mental Spaghetti

A blog set up for artists to share and discuss their work, created by Marie-Louise Plum.

2. Breakthrough Art

Promotes the creative talents of those with mental health difficulties, among many other positive activities.

3. Art Therapy Alliance

Dedicated to the deliberate use of art-making to address psychological and emotional needs.

4. Bipolar Artists

The art of artists and writers with bipolar disorder or other mental health issues.

Know of any other blogs on the subject of creativity in mental health? Let us know!

I tell my story in the hope that it will show people that they can still have a life even though they have mental health problems.

Born in Inverness, I have a brother and sister. I went firstly to Crown School then to Raigmore as my parents bought a house in the Drakies area. I attended Millburn Academy, I did not achieve at school and didn’t enjoy it at all. On leaving school I was like anyone else, looking for work when there wasn’t much around. I remember not having any great ideas about my future and by the age of 18 I was drinking quite heavily.

My memory of what happened to me next is blurred, but a family member has helped me fill in some gaps.

It was 1979. I was 19 years old and seriously injured in a motorcycle accident. I was unconscious for a week and suffered a degree of brain damage. My life was to change forever.

In 1980 my mother died, leaving me devastated as I had always been a ‘mummy’s boy’ (my father passed away in 1971).

I started to drink heavily again, felt responsible for my mother’s dead and racked with feelings of guilt. I began to feel lost as if I was in a huge hole I could not escape from. I felt very anxious and afraid and didn’t know what was happening to me.

In the mid 1980’s I decided to move away from Inverness. I first went to Perth, stayed in digs, and was still drinking. I met a woman, moved to another area and had a 13 year relationship. During that time she helped me to cut down on my drinking, which was good.

The local church was very supportive of me.  I managed to find employment further south as a hospital porter, and kept that job for 5 years. My feelings of anxiety and low mood were always present, but I still managed to work. Our relationship ended ad I moved back to Inverness. It was the mid 1990’s and I was homeless in my hometown.

After following various paths to find accommodation, I ended up being offered a room in Huntly House, the Salvation Army Hostel. Now having been diagnosed as suffering from depression and on medication, I hoped my life would get better. I started to attend services and became an adherent of The Salvation Army. With their wonderful support I began to feel more confident and hopeful. Sadly Huntly House was forced to close.

That was a huge blow to me and caused me massive anxiety and fear for my future. Where would I go and what would happen to me after feeling secure and rebuilding my life for the last 9 years?

I was re-housed in Inverness, where I still live and I like my house very much. My CPN referred me to Birchwood Highland for support in the community, which I have to say is wonderful and helps me feel included. I continue to attend Salvation Army services and am a member of a local residents’ association. This is where I met the love of my life and in 2010 I got engaged. We attend services together and have so much in common. I also attend the Friendship Club at Merkinch Community Centre and am volunteering to help at their events as I want to work and help others. I never though I could feel happy.

I still have depression and anxiety, but I also have a life.

I hope reading this helps somebody. Thank you for wanting to hear my story.

James

We hope this blog will provide a fun and informative platform for our staff and the people we work with to share their experiences, opinions, and ideas – whether they be about recovery, good practice in care and support, or indeed stigma and discrimination.

Feel free to get in touch if you have any comments of feedback.