Description The story follows a humorous and occasionally harrowing account of one persons journey through depression from inside the world of a psychiatric social worker who is also becoming unwell. It places mental illness firmly in the realm of personal experience and should offer hope to both sufferers and carers. The book is informed by a belief that individuals and the services treating them can get better and that we can inhabit a world where it's all right to be not all right. About the Author Mike Pearson was ...
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Description The story follows a humorous and occasionally harrowing account of one persons journey through depression from inside the world of a psychiatric social worker who is also becoming unwell. It places mental illness firmly in the realm of personal experience and should offer hope to both sufferers and carers. The book is informed by a belief that individuals and the services treating them can get better and that we can inhabit a world where it's all right to be not all right. About the Author Mike Pearson was born in Darlington in 1956 and lives in Lincoln. He is employed as a social worker in a community mental health team in the east midlands. He is also a writer and photographer whose previous books include 'City Go Nap As Quakers Halt Slump' and 'Conversations In British Jazz'. 'Ask Me Now' is his first work of fiction. As an occasional sufferer from depression and a professional in the mental health field he has a particular interest in the issues and is well placed to give a personal as well as occupational view. Book Extract " Alan looked through the window as another cadaver passed by and reflected that the dead really did go on before you if your office overlooked the hospital mortuary. Further on, pale October sun surprised the last leaves of fed up trees stuck in the car park as an off grey Fiesta came to a stop and a storm tossed vision in purple work boots and ankle length coat came out backwards struggling to supervise a pile of unruly buff folders. At least one official looking piece of paper managed to discharge itself from the pile to drift gracefully down to a loose group of leaves. There could have been more but Alan thought they were more likely to be stray sheets of Kleenex from the random selection scattered on her dashboard. The woman's hennaed hair caught the same gust of strong wind which took the leaves and paper off to a distant corner of the car park, she pushed it away from her face with one hand, dumped the files back into the car then let the breeze buoy her in a north-easterly direction. With the hood lifting from the back of her coat she resembled somebody out of an advert for Scottish financial services. He watched with a kind of muted concern as the purple Doc Martens disappeared into the bushes where lovers tarried and dogs went for heroic bowel movements. When she hadn't re-emerged after about five minutes he felt he should go out and offer to help, however, a silent presence off to his left proffered a mug with a picture of Count Basie on it. As the grinning bandleader was full of warm tea and as Alan hadn't had any since he left home half an hour ago, he stayed where he was. The matter was settled by the two porters returning from the mortuary with their trolley. He could tell it was empty because the drab curtain material lay flat on the barrow where before there had been signs of former life in the lumps and valleys beneath the material. Everyone knew this went on but did they have to see it? He was beginning to accept that what you didn't know couldn't bother you, so why go on looking?
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