Gloriously Ordinary Sundays - 24th March 2024
I’ve had such a lovely and hugely emotional week. I’ve been in Newcastle for the 40th birthday party of Skills for People, an organisation that I worked at for ten years and which probably saved my life. It’s prompted this blog about a time I don’t think about much or usually share, so thank you for your indulgence in reading it. Please note a trigger warning for self-harm.
As I approached Christmas 1989, I was newly and blissfully married, a teacher, owned my own flat (ok had a large mortgage) and was living life to the full in the wonderful city of Newcastle. At Christmas 1990, I was about to be sectioned and start collecting mental health diagnoses. At Christmas 1991, I had just left psychiatric hospital after being there for a year, had lost my job and my marriage, was living in what would now be called a house of multiple occupancy and was leaving the house very little – apart from for trips to A&E to be stitched up after cutting myself. Life looked pretty bleak.
At that time, my university lecturer and friend John Swain (Professor John Swain to you) was on the board of Trustees at Skills for People. John had been a huge support to me throughout my degree and then in hospital, bringing me Leonard Cohen tapes (although not everyone agreed with his theory that because I was sad, I needed to listen to sad music).
One day in May 1992, John told me that he was picking me up at 10 am the next day and taking me to meet someone at Skills for People. He said that they were a great organisation where I would feel welcome, that they needed volunteers and that I had lots of skills and knowledge that I could share. I reminded him that I ‘had a severe and enduring mental health problem’ and that I couldn’t possibly be a volunteer anywhere. He said he’d pick me up anyway and that if nothing else I could meet good people for a coffee. Memories of the visit are a tad hazy, but I do remember the warmth of the welcome and being intrigued about what Skills for People stood for – the right of all disabled people to live the lives they choose. Somehow, I ended up going back the next week, joined a team of volunteers who were planning a course on speaking up and (very slowly) started feeling like I had a reason to get up in the morning.
After six months, a part-time job came up and, after huge soul-searching about giving up benefits and seeing myself as someone who could hold down paid work, I applied and got it. Two and a half days a week became three, then four then five. A few years later, Liz Wright, the Chief Executive went on maternity leave, and I covered her role, then stayed in that role as she decided to come back to work after her maternity leave with a bit less responsibility. I continued to have stays in psychiatric hospital, I regularly struggled to remember my purpose but my role at Skills for People and the connections that gave me kept me going.
So that’s the link to Test Five for Gloriously Ordinary Lives. John Swain loved and believed in me enough that, when I could see no purpose, he held it for me and gently, firmly and unwaveringly guided me towards it. My friends and colleagues at Skills kept reminding me of my purpose when I lost sight of it. Even when it was really hard, I kept getting up in the morning and going to work because I knew people depended on me and I really believed in what we were doing.
My story was about progression, but that’s really not the point of Test Five. A reason to get up is a reason to get up, and in another life, I might have stayed as a volunteer. I met up with so many of the amazing longstanding volunteers at Skills for People who have been part of the organisation for 5, 10, 20 and 40 years. Who shared stories last week of the huge impact Skills has had on their lives and their purpose.
The second part of this story is just a beautiful serendipity. The following is from Liz Wright’s speech at the birthday party. She told the story of how Skills for People started, most of which I knew, but I didn’t know (or remember) this particular detail.
“A residential conference was organised for October 1983 in Yorkshire in order to establish the organisation and its aims. Here I will read from the record created by Roy Dredge, who is with us today, typed up on a manual typewriter of course:
Saturday was a bright morning, after a good night’s sleep we were all ready to start the group discussions. First, we tried to establish what each of us defined as ‘An Ordinary Life’ and how the group could help people attain this. We divided into small groups so that people would have a better chance to air their views, and then analysed the responses together.
The yellowing photographs show a group of people with a wonderful range of 1980s hairstyles, practising public speaking and creating posters with words and pictures cut from a magazine – about the things which they considered important – pictures of families, babies, a pint of beer. The words:
Holding Hands and Hoping.
Be daring, Be yourself.
The Choice is Yours.”
I confess to having a bit of a moment as I listened to Liz speak – that back in 1983, Roy and the others were talking about ordinary lives. I’m pleased to say, they approve of the addition of ‘gloriously’.
I’ll leave you with a question and a challenge. Who do you know that needs someone to love and believe in them enough to help them find or remember their purpose? Might the person they need be you?
PS. Did you see? The Gloriously Ordinary Sundays Podcast episode two is here! I catch up with John Nicoll and we share our memories of what life looked like when The Boy and The Girl first came to live with us, and how that experienced pushed us to start defining Gloriously Ordinary Lives.