By Lynsey Calderwood
On the age of 14, Lynsey Calderwood suffered a demanding mind harm that left her bodily unmarked yet destroyed her reminiscence. chase away into an it seems that nonsensical international of which she had no recollection. Lynsey spiralled downwards into melancholy and consuming problems as she grew to become socially ostracized. this can be the tale, in her personal phrases, of Lynsey's quest to find her id, and, ultimately, to return to phrases along with her incapacity. She faces devastating setbacks and her experience of loss, grief and rage is recalled. braveness and perseverance, coupled along with her attractive feel of humour, see her via, and her story may be an proposal to somebody who has confronted related stumbling blocks.
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Extra resources for Cracked: Recovering After Traumatic Brain Injury
I am alone. Hopelessly alone in this cold, miserable shoebox of a room. I’m frightened and I can’t sleep. I can hear the Vampire shambling up and down the corridor like a zombie. Shuffle, shuffle, scuffle, muffle She’s stopped. I can hear her ghoulish voice reverberating round my skull like a boomerang. Shivering, I slip out of bed and press my nose 52 The Mental Hospital, Rebellion + Bullying hard against the glass (they like to keep to the curtain open so they can watch you). She’s talking to HER on the night staff.
Not content with decorating the walls with movie and pop posters, I insisted that the parents bring over my hi-fi and my own duvet. ’ There were eight inpatients in total: the Princess, the Vampire, the Anorexic girl, the Posh girl, the Hypochondriac, Hamster-boy, the Giggler and me. Then there were the day patients: the Vegetarian girl (she was the main reason for the gourmet meals), the Com44 The Mental Hospital, Rebellion + Bullying puter-geek (who didn’t speak apart from shouting obscenities every time he lost his Super Mario powers) and the Wolf-boy who was growing a beard and used to be an inpatient before I came to stay at the unit and got his old room.
Duh. I know what a kitchen is. Down and along another skinny anaemic corridor, he points out the nurse’s station. A troll-like-goatee-bearded-man pops his head out from round the door. I am told that he is to be my key worker. I can see it all now: he’s just going to be a hairier version of the Specimen. Further down, there is a pay phone loosely attached to a wall and the bubble of soundproof glass surrounding it is cracked and graffitied. ‘Patients are allowed to use the phone…’ Blah-blah blah-blah-blah… I wasn’t listening anymore.