“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction”- Virginia Woolf.
“I am a walking indictment of a system which turns angels into daemons.”- Louise M. Hart
January 2001. I am a inpatient at the local psychiatric unit. My psychiatrist has informed me that he is to section me under the Mental Health Act. Awaiting the arrival of my G.P. and a social worker, I sit outside the office in which the “professionals” gradually congregate…
They think they know me; the ones with the phoney smiles and the power to destroy. But, I know them. I see them, when the lights go out and they oil their slimey skins with the gratuitidousness of self-affirmation and thoughts of sin. I see them behind office doors making love to themselves, prior to withdrawal into the realm of records and notes. They think they know me, for they wear text books in their eyes. But, I know them, because I am self-defined.
The living essence, of the presence that was Virginia Woolf. In here, I cannot access my State benefits and have no room in which to write. Rather, I inhabit a dormitory for the terminally bored.
And never bored, my thoughts are my friends; they visit day and night, never departing, even, when I try to shut them out…I am alive and proud. See the pain in my face and hear me think aloud.
I am a writer and poet. For twenty years I have been affected by bipolar disorder, wasting my life, for the first ten of those years, as a revolving door patient in psychiatric institutions. I have always written. Then I was published and chose life.