By Lynsey Calderwood
On the age of 14, Lynsey Calderwood suffered a stressful mind harm that left her bodily unmarked yet destroyed her reminiscence. chase away into an it seems that nonsensical global of which she had no recollection. Lynsey spiralled downwards into melancholy and consuming issues as she turned socially ostracized. this is often the tale, in her personal phrases, of Lynsey's quest to find her id, and, ultimately, to come back to phrases together with her incapacity. She faces devastating setbacks and her feel of loss, grief and rage is recalled. braveness and perseverance, coupled together with her attractive feel of humour, see her via, and her story might be an notion to somebody who has confronted comparable stumbling blocks.
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Extra info for Cracked: Recovering After Traumatic Brain Injury
There were four burnt orange leather chairs, decorated with cigarette burns. Some of the yellow stuffing was spewing out of the chairs and I liked to pick it and roll the spongy stuff between my fingers. ’ ‘So fuck. What are they going to do, lock me up? ‘My mum lets me smoke. ’ ‘Probably. ’ She stretched out her arm, teasing me with the smouldering white stick. ’ I started, enthusiastically, towards the door. ’ I sucked, gently; the curls of grey smoke tickled my tongue. The Princess had already ‘sparked up’ another and was artistically blowing rings of smoke in the air.
She’s talking to HER on the night staff. I bet she’s allowed to stay up and watch Prisoner: Cell Block H. She always gets special treatment just because they can’t control her. She shouldn’t even be here. She ought to be in IPCU. How do they expect me to sleep when that psychopath is running around loose? She’s already attacked the Hypochondriac girl. I hated the way she crept around like the walking dead, in the early hours of the morning. I was too scared to even go to the toilet in case I met her.
She 56 The Mental Hospital, Rebellion + Bullying was a tiny reddish bundle of fluff with the same creamy stripe as her mum. A mini Blanche. A little pipsqueak. I called her ‘Pip’. I liked to put Pip in my shirt pocket and carry her around, but not for too long in case she got bored and took it upon herself to go for a sky dive. The parents got me a metal cage with an exercise wheel and a salt wheel for her teeth, a ball to run around in outside and a cube shaped tunnel with lots of holes she could weave in and out of.
Cracked: Recovering After Traumatic Brain Injury by Lynsey Calderwood