By Fatma Durmush
Key Themes: schizophrenia, recovery, female experience, diary, mental health
This book started in a classroom, a friend suggested Fatma wrote a diary. The class enjoyed the two pages which she wrote, encouraging her to write more. Nothing Sacred is a now a book which, in two volumes, chronicles the life of Fatma and the many facets of her schizophrenic personality. With this book Fatma poses the question; what is mental health? If a doctor were to read this book he/she would think it a case study. It is a classic study of a paranoid schizophrenic. It deals with the illness on a daily basis, and the wider aspect is the world of healthy people contrasted with the illness, and how the shadowy world is almost taking over from the real world. This is the story of a mind in constant flux and the curing of the ailments and grievances of schizophrenia.
About the Author
Fatma Durmush was born in 1959; after years spent suffering from schizophrenia she has finally achieved her ambition to be a renowned artist and now has an art degree. She will be going on to study an MA in art this year. As well as an artist and successful author, Fatma is also a play-right. She found a modest niche in America where two of her plays have been performed, one of which will soon be published in an anthology. In the UK She has been published by the Big Issue as well as books and pamphlets. Her artwork has featured in over sixty exhibitions at, amongst others, the Tate Modern and The National Gallery.
Today there was a funny programme on Turkish television about men having two wives each, and the women being thankful that he doesnít divorce them. That is what the husbands say. There was some woman with a heart complaint and she did not want a divorce, her husband had another woman on the go and had gotten two children by her. The former wife had to be content with visits of two months apart. She now has a job and doesnít receive a penny, but what if I could work? I would give up the voice and his stinking ways, and be alone for the rest of my days. I am fed up to the teeth with the voice and his unfaithfulness. Donít ask me how a voice can be unfaithful, but he is, and he goes to massive detail as to his unfaithfulness. I must take my medication, because otherwise Iíll go mad again.
I keep on wondering what to do, there is too much to read, I didnít read the newspaper today, and still I did not stop reading. Iíve read Louise MacNiece, he is a very difficult poet to get along with, the reason I find him difficult is, he uses imagery which is not immediately recognised, and one has to go over what he has written, my favourite poem is The Reflection. I found it in an anthology. I did not think much about his collection. I like Auden better, he is modern, but MacNiece has style and vim, which, if he had jazzed himself up and became less sober, and more autobiographical, would have helped him. I had no idea that Auden had been gay until I read his poems, but MacNiece, I donít know anything about him, and it is confusing me that I can read a whole book, and not be revealed anything, is that what, as poets we should do?
Iíll be reading on the March 13th. I hope it will goes well and I have less to worry about, but then, what do I do all day but go to classes and try to write, sometimes my health gives out, and sometimes a terrible dislocation grips me. I have nearly written the essay and I am going to hand it in on Tuesday.
Tomorrow is Valentineís Day and I probably wonít get a card. I have grown used to not being loved, and being a stinking idiot when it comes to men. The voice is there and while I type it types too, it wonít put ideas into my head but suicide is not far off. I am tired of it all and wonder what to do.
My hair is white and I feel a burden on my soul, a terrible loneliness grips me, and I want to be someone more jolly, calm, and serene. I guess if it was not for my illness I could have done much with my life, but I did sell a painting. The school fees are nearly due and I had a row with mother the other day about it. She says I spend money like water, yet she was on the phone for one hour, and has sent a hundred pounds to my aunt who has just been widowed. It was my idea but I am not the only one who spends money.My cousin works and apparently they donít pay him. What a jerk, he has joined the club of fools and beggars. I am not even worried heíll survive, it is auntie who wonít. I hope she gets the money. I now do some voluntary work teaching the homeless how to write.
Already it is after February, and the months are speeding along in a busy enclave of work and food. Ziynet and Belgin came, Ziynet with her family. Little Ted wanted to stay and sleep in our bed, but they have now gone to their own house, and our house now is so quiet, I want to cry. Dadís bleeding has set me thinking about the nature of life and death. I wonder what death is like, it is an end, and a start of being dead, but that is all that is healthy to know.
Sadiye phoned, a cousin who lived with us, until I had had enough of her. She used to come every year and stay several months, then I had the bright idea of refusing her, and she went elsewhere and slept on floors. Now her sister is marrying a chemist researcher and they are coming to gloat. What petty things females are with their small minds!
Today passed in inactivity and plenty of washing up. I have come upstairs and typed my essay, and now I can breathe a sigh of relief. I best put my odds and ends in my bag and see what else I can do for tomorrow, it might snow, and if it does, mum canít go out. Her leg and her blood wonít stand for it. She has artery thrombosis and has to take care. Belgin stayed today until about 5.30 P.M. She is such a lovable girl, she does listen, and looked all my sketch books. I have six. I love my family and donít want to see them suffer; I hope they feel the same way too. I have to go.
OTHER WORKS BY THIS AUTHOR
This product was added to our catalog on Thursday 02 November, 2006.