Hark, a Deafening Silence

I am waiting for a voice from the north. Yet all I hear is a deafening silence. Sadly that is as I had expected-a world obsessed with pieces of paper clearly doesn't want to hear my voice. I have heard nothing from Cambridge. It seems ever the way with the honourable exception of my present employer, no one else seems able to look beyond what I lack and take in what I do. I expect the silence to continue.

I remain unwell with this mystery ailment. It appeared to be a kidney problem but now seems to have morphed into pain on the left side when I eat. I suppose I ought to go back to the Doctor but who knows if that will be more conclusive.

That brings me to main point of this post, voices and Doctors. I am as I have openly acknowledged a voice hearer. That now is exceedingly rare, such is the power of my risperidone. But when I was at the surgery on Monday there was no acknowledgement of my psychosis on her screen. There were 3 diagnoses, from 1991, 1994, and 2001-all were wrong. Whatever happened to the incontrovertible truth that I have a mood disorder with psychosis? Am I a liar? Is my book a complete fraud? Or do Doctors just lie?

Were I a liar I seriously doubt that my book would be on the essential reading list for our mental health nurses. If I was lying, why would so many different groups ask me to come and lecture to their students? Why do people who come to my training courses feel so uplifted? Why do so many who have heard my story or read my book describe it as "inspirational"? Is that the work of a liar? I guess others should judge that.

I have been around Doctors for years on both side of the mental health divide. Whether they are liars I do not know but what I do know is that what they tell you and what they tell each other are not always the same thing.

11 years on I am still ruing the day that the brilliant psychiatrist Heather McAlister suddenly left the employment of the Kent Mental Health Trust. Not that I do not wish her well-I certainly do. But she left before we could formally diagnose my illness. One might say who cares so many years on? Well I care, I have never lied about my illness.

I Heard a Voice.

The Inglorious Summer.

Well, it has been raining again. We have had the odd glimpse of sun but it is yet another poor day. There is one bonus with this awful weather, there is a distinct lack of flies and wasps compared to last year. I guess though we English are used to such troubles-that is part of being English.

I remain off work with my apparent kidney problem. Yesterday morning I felt considerably better but it all returned later in the day. Today I don't feel too bad although for good measure I seem to have also developed a problem with my wrist which is rather painful-no idea how that happened. I seem to be falling apart.

Mentally I continue to be flat. Not really depressed but more resigned and flat. It seems so long since my flying mood of the winter before it all went wrong. I long for those days but they don't seem to want to come back. I am buoyed though by the upswing in readers on here in the last couple of days-long may it continue.

I am currently boiling some eggs to do what my book tells me is a medieval Egyptian dish for lunch-Baid Mutajjan. Hard boiled eggs are lightly fried in olive oil then dipped into a mix of cumin, cinnamon, coriander, and salt. Sounded nice-I will report back some time later.

And then a quiet afternoon of Ernest Hemingway. I find it so boring being off work. I have not stepped foot in the pub for 3 days nor indeed drunk. The most I have managed is Chinese tea which so far doesn't appear to be doing any harm. But God I want to get well.

I Heard a Voice.

Glorious Coffee.

I have always loved coffee. Even as a very small child a drank it although it was usually cold by the time I could drink it. There are few things better than coffee to wake one up in the morning. As my illness took hold in 1990 my consumption increased dramatically. By the time I got to my last term in the summer of 1991 I was consuming 20-25 cups a day. And I like it strong. Of course I couldn't sleep under those circumstances although that was as much about the turmoil in my mind and the hitherto undiscovered voices as it did to caffeine.

In recent years I have really cut down on the coffee. Rarely do I have more than a cup and half a day now. I've done very well on that-perhaps all I need to do is tackle the beer and fags now and I will be a walking picture of health.

So why coffee today? Well it the first day I have not drunk any in many years. Of course this is not what I had planned. It is a response to what appears to be a really painful kidney infection. Well that is what it seems to be. What started as a feeling of eating too much roast pork on Sunday morphed into something far worse. I saw a Doctor which was inconclusive but as last night progressed all the the signs and pain suggested the kidneys.

I'm in less pain today but utterly wiped out. It is a diet of water and medication for me for a while. For good measure I also have an eye infection so I am resembling a walking pharmacy at the moment. Let's hope it goes soon.

I Heard a Voice.

An Air of Resignation.

It has been a strange few days and my mind is in a weird place. It has been a sense of utter resignation. My appeal has been postponed until 12th-I feel I have no chance. I also took the plunge and applied for a job in Cambridge. Yet I have the same feeling of resignation with that. I know I can do the job but why is it that these places think the only people who know anything about mental health are nurses, social workers and counsellors? It is bullshit and I have proven track record as an unqualified practitioner-the comments of my students speak for themselves.

Talking of my students I witnessed the ultimate outcome of my efforts yesterday. I am working with a truly lovely woman who is training to be a teacher. For 20 years or more she has battled depression. I had her from the moment I met her and her progress despite a few blips has been astonishing. But it was what she said yesterday that almost brought tears to my eyes. "I am proud of my children and proud of who I am". That is little short of a miracle for a woman whose self esteem was so low when I met her after all these years ravaged by a devastating depression. That put me in a good mood.

I had lunch with my former head of department yesterday which was also good. So I thought I would be heading into a weekend of good mood. But it didn't last. At 4.30 pm I spoke to a close colleague and discovered that a key plank of my pay appeal is being taken away from me. It would seem I will no longer be involved with supervising our mentors. Maybe that has sealed my fate, who knows?

After that today has not gone to plan. I had hoped to get the bus to St Albans, eat Moroccan food and meet a friend for some real ale. But I was too tired. So to plan B.

Several hours on I have a wonderful smelling beef rendang bubbling slowly away on the hub, I have listened to the whole of the Messiah and discovered the delights of Ernest Hemingway. "Death in the Afternoon" is of course a controversial book. I went to a bullfight in Granada in 1990. I don't recall any concern for the safety of the horses as Hemingway describes in detail in chapter 1 but I recall being mesmerised by the skill and courage of both bull and matador. I don't think I will ever go again.

Granada 1990, a life time away; a life changing experience and the happiest I have ever been. It was 2 months before my illness. For it was there that I met Kathryn. Or should I call her Rachel as I do in the book? So long ago.

I Heard a Voice.

Summer's Here-Break Out the Linen Attire.

I was 10 years old when I first went to Australia to sing. On the way we stopped to refuel at Bombay. Nothing could prepare me for the furnace that awaited me as we stepped out the plane. I walked into a wall of heat and humidity at precisely midnight local time; it was 88 degrees and close on 100% humidity.

Of course we don't get that here. But finally I think today summer has arrived. We are lucky enough to have missed the showers here and had a glorious day. So much so I have broken out my summer attire of linen-another of my English traits. Not of course my famous suits but cool loose linen trousers and an equally loose shirt. I fear it could be a long night.

I have achieved more than I thought I would today. I struggle to get motivated when I don't have a queue of students running to my door. Paperwork bores me. But today I got some done.

I also had nice surprise when a lovely card arrived from an outgoing student union sabbatical officer thanking me for my help over the last 2 years. I'm not sure I helped much but it is nice to be appreciated. Tomorrow I am meeting my former head of department for lunch-nice to step away for a while.

And tonight? I will griddle a chop marinaded in spices a la Ken Hom-I've mentioned that before on here. Then I will settle down with Pimm's and catch up on some TV. See you soon.

I Heard a Voice.

And Our Little World is Rounded with a Sleep.

So spoke the words of Shakespeare. I think the quote comes from the Tempest although since reading it for A Level 24 years ago my mind is a little hazy on that one. But that song that was set to music by Vaughan Williams was known to me long before then. I sang them as a child. "We are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our little world is rounded with a sleep".

Maybe Shakespeare understood dreams better than me. But whatever they are about I finally slept well last night. There were of course dreams but I was only woken twice rather than the 4 times a night of the previous 4 nights. It has made me feel somewhat better though.

It has been a quiet day of Beethoven and newspaper reading. Maybe I will watch the football later. For now I am par boiling potatoes to go with roasted chicken thighs later.

I promised last night to report back on my Thai curry. The answer, simply stunning. Powerful heat and wonderful cornucopia of flavours-perhaps the best one I have ever done. Beka-whom I taught to cook Thai curry and who now cooks it better than me-would be somewhat proud.

Tomorrow it is back to reality. I have one final chance to resolve my pay dispute-I will have to write the letter of my life just to get a chance. All will be known on 10th July at the latest. If it fails I will be looking to move on in my life. Who knows where that will take me. For now though I just enjoy a quiet Sunday and contemplate that great passion of mine, food.

I Heard a Voice.

Fire From the East!

It has been a strange weekend. I have not been at my best and I had a dramatic mood swing downward out of the blue last night. I had my fourth bad night of nightmares in a row-if this continues life does not look quite so good. Maybe there is a relapse on the cards.

But it hasn't all been wasted. I finished proofing Izzi's PhD and she seemed to think it had helped quite a lot. Not quite what I had planned for the last 2 days of my holiday but it kept me out of the pub for a while.

And so to today. I feel very little but tiredness. I went shopping and did a whole heap of domestic stuff-you know the boring nitty gritty stuff that we are all lumbered with. But for the last hour I have had more fun.

There are few things as therapeutic as making Thai curry pastes from scratch. Today I made two. I am planning a jungle curry from the renowned Australia chef David Thompson who has spent most of his life researching the history of Thai food. He is in many ways revered for his expertise.

I've not done this one before and I'm not sure I have ever used so many chillies in a dish and I reduced the specified number. Joey would be proud of me if I can get through this. I couldn't get any fresh pepper corns but I will improvise.

Assuming I survive the chilli onslaught I will try to report back tomorrow. In the meantime, here is to an undisturbed sleep free from the perils of my night time demons.

I Heard a Voice.