The day I left home for the first time to go to university was a bright day brimming with hope and optimism. I'd done well at school. Expectations for me were high, and I gleefully entered the student life of lectures, parties and traffic cone theft. Now appearances, of course, can be deceptive, and to an extent, this feisty, energetic persona of lecture-going and traffic cone stealing was a veneer, albeit a very well-crafted and convincing one. Underneath, I was actually deeply unhappy, insecure and fundamentally frightened -- frightened of other people, of the future, of failure and of the emptiness that I felt was within me. But I was skilled at hiding it, and from the outside appeared to be someone with everything to hope for and aspire to. This fantasy of invulnerability was so complete that I even deceived myself, and as the first semester ended and the second began, there was no way that anyone could have predicted what was just about to happen. I was leaving a seminar when it started, humming to myself, fumbling with my bag just as I'd done a hundred times before, when suddenly I heard a voice calmly observe, "She is leaving the room." I looked around, and there was no one there, but the clarity and decisiveness of the comment was unmistakable. Shaken, I left my books on the stairs and hurried home, and there it was again. "She is opening the door." This was the beginning. The voice had arrived. And the voice persisted, days and then weeks of it, on and on, narrating everything I did in the third person. "She is going to the library." "She is going to a lecture." It was neutral, impassive and even, after a while, strangely companionate and reassuring, although I did notice that its calm exterior sometimes slipped and that it occasionally mirrored my own unexpressed emotion. So, for example, if I was angry and had to hide it, which I often did, being very adept at concealing how I really felt, then the voice would sound frustrated. Otherwise, it was neither sinister nor disturbing, although even at that point it was clear that it had something to communicate to me about my emotions, particularly emotions which were remote and inaccessible. Now it was then that I made a fatal mistake, in that I told a friend about the voice, and she was horrified. A subtle conditioning process had begun, the implication that normal people don't hear voices and the fact that I did meant that something was very seriously wrong. Such fear and mistrust was infectious. Suddenly the voice didn't seem quite so benign anymore, and when she insisted that I seek medical attention, I duly complied, and which proved to be mistake number two. I spent some time telling the college G.P. about what I perceived to be the real problem: anxiety, low self-worth, fears about the future, and was met with bored indifference until I mentioned the voice, upon which he dropped his pen, swung round and began to question me with a show of real interest. And to be fair, I was desperate for interest and help, and I began to tell him about my strange commentator. And I always wish, at this point, the voice had said, "She is digging her own grave." I was referred to a psychiatrist, who likewise took a grim view of the voice's presence, subsequently interpreting everything I said through a lens of latent insanity. For example, I was part of a student TV station that broadcast news bulletins around the campus, and during an appointment which was running very late, I said, "I'm sorry, doctor, I've got to go. I'm reading the news at six." Now it's down on my medical records that Eleanor has delusions that she's a television news broadcaster. It was at this point that events began to rapidly overtake me. A hospital admission followed, the first of many, a diagnosis of schizophrenia came next, and then, worst of all, a toxic, tormenting sense of hopelessness, humiliation and despair about myself and my prospects. But having been encouraged to see the voice not as an experience but as a symptom, my fear and resistance towards it intensified. Now essentially, this represented taking an aggressive stance towards my own mind, a kind of psychic civil war, and in turn this caused the number of voices to increase and grow progressively hostile and menacing. Helplessly and hopelessly, I began to retreat into this nightmarish inner world in which the voices were destined to become both my persecutors and my only perceived companions. They told me, for example, that if I proved myself worthy of their help, then they could change my life back to how it had been, and a series of increasingly bizarre tasks was set, a kind of labor of Hercules. It started off quite small, for example, pull out three strands of hair, but gradually it grew more extreme, culminating in commands to harm myself, and a particularly dramatic instruction: "You see that tutor over there? You see that glass of water? Well, you have to go over and pour it over him in front of the other students." Which I actually did, and which needless to say did not endear me to the faculty. In effect, a vicious cycle of fear, avoidance, mistrust and misunderstanding had been established, and this was a battle in which I felt powerless and incapable of establishing any kind of peace or reconciliation. Two years later, and the deterioration was dramatic. By now, I had the whole frenzied repertoire: terrifying voices, grotesque visions, bizarre, intractable delusions. My mental health status had been a catalyst for discrimination, verbal abuse, and physical and sexual assault, and I'd been told by my psychiatrist, "Eleanor, you'd be better off with cancer, because cancer is easier to cure than schizophrenia." I'd been diagnosed, drugged and discarded, and was by now so tormented by the voices that I attempted to drill a hole in my head in order to get them out. Now looking back on the wreckage and despair of those years, it seems to me now as if someone died in that place, and yet, someone else was saved. A broken and haunted person began that journey, but the person who emerged was a survivor and would ultimately grow into the person I was destined to be. Many people have harmed me in my life, and I remember them all, but the memories grow pale and faint in comparison with the people who've helped me. The fellow survivors, the fellow voice-hearers, the comrades and collaborators; the mother who never gave up on me, who knew that one day I would come back to her and was willing to wait for me for as long as it took; the doctor who only worked with me for a brief time but who reinforced his belief that recovery was not only possible but inevitable, and during a devastating period of relapse told my terrified family, "Don't give up hope. I believe that Eleanor can get through this. Sometimes, you know, it snows as late as May, but summer always comes eventually." Fourteen minutes is not enough time to fully credit those good and generous people who fought with me and for me and who waited to welcome me back from that agonized, lonely place. But together, they forged a blend of courage, creativity, integrity, and an unshakeable belief that my shattered self could become healed and whole. I used to say that these people saved me, but what I now know is they did something even more important in that they empowered me to save myself, and crucially, they helped me to understand something which I'd always suspected: that my voices were a meaningful response to traumatic life events, particularly childhood events, and as such were not my enemies but a source of insight into solvable emotional problems. Now, at first, this was very difficult to believe, not least because the voices appeared so hostile and menacing, so in this respect, a vital first step was learning to separate out a metaphorical meaning from what I'd previously interpreted to be a literal truth. So for example, voices which threatened to attack my home I learned to interpret as my own sense of fear and insecurity in the world, rather than an actual, objective danger. Now at first, I would have believed them. I remember, for example, sitting up one night on guard outside my parents' room to protect them from what I thought was a genuine threat from the voices. Because I'd had such a bad problem with self-injury that most of the cutlery in the house had been hidden, so I ended up arming myself with a plastic fork, kind of like picnic ware, and sort of sat outside the room clutching it and waiting to spring into action should anything happen. It was like, "Don't mess with me. I've got a plastic fork, don't you know?" Strategic. But a later response, and much more useful, would be to try and deconstruct the message behind the words, so when the voices warned me not to leave the house, then I would thank them for drawing my attention to how unsafe I felt -- because if I was aware of it, then I could do something positive about it -- but go on to reassure both them and myself that we were safe and didn't need to feel frightened anymore. I would set boundaries for the voices, and try to interact with them in a way that was assertive yet respectful, establishing a slow process of communication and collaboration in which we could learn to work together and support one another. Throughout all of this, what I would ultimately realize was that each voice was closely related to aspects of myself, and that each of them carried overwhelming emotions that I'd never had an opportunity to process or resolve, memories of sexual trauma and abuse, of anger, shame, guilt, low self-worth. The voices took the place of this pain and gave words to it, and possibly one of the greatest revelations was when I realized that the most hostile and aggressive voices actually represented the parts of me that had been hurt most profoundly, and as such, it was these voices that needed to be shown the greatest compassion and care. It was armed with this knowledge that ultimately I would gather together my shattered self, each fragment represented by a different voice, gradually withdraw from all my medication, and return to psychiatry, only this time from the other side. Ten years after the voice first came, I finally graduated, this time with the highest degree in psychology the university had ever given, and one year later, the highest masters, which shall we say isn't bad for a madwoman. In fact, one of the voices actually dictated the answers during the exam, which technically possibly counts as cheating. (Laughter) And to be honest, sometimes I quite enjoyed their attention as well. As Oscar Wilde has said, the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about. It also makes you very good at eavesdropping, because you can listen to two conversations simultaneously. So it's not all bad. I worked in mental health services, I spoke at conferences, I published book chapters and academic articles, and I argued, and continue to do so, the relevance of the following concept: that an important question in psychiatry shouldn't be what's wrong with you but rather what's happened to you. And all the while, I listened to my voices, with whom I'd finally learned to live with peace and respect and which in turn reflected a growing sense of compassion, acceptance and respect towards myself. And I remember the most moving and extraordinary moment when supporting another young woman who was terrorized by her voices, and becoming fully aware, for the very first time, that I no longer felt that way myself but was finally able to help someone else who was. I'm now very proud to be a part of Intervoice, the organizational body of the International Hearing Voices Movement, an initiative inspired by the work of Professor Marius Romme and Dr. Sandra Escher, which locates voice hearing as a survival strategy, a sane reaction to insane circumstances, not as an aberrant symptom of schizophrenia to be endured, but a complex, significant and meaningful experience to be explored. Together, we envisage and enact a society that understands and respects voice hearing, supports the needs of individuals who hear voices, and which values them as full citizens. This type of society is not only possible, it's already on its way. To paraphrase Chavez, once social change begins, it cannot be reversed. You cannot humiliate the person who feels pride. You cannot oppress the people who are not afraid anymore. For me, the achievements of the Hearing Voices Movement are a reminder that empathy, fellowship, justice and respect are more than words; they are convictions and beliefs, and that beliefs can change the world. In the last 20 years, the Hearing Voices Movement has established hearing voices networks in 26 countries across five continents, working together to promote dignity, solidarity and empowerment for individuals in mental distress, to create a new language and practice of hope, which, at its very center, lies an unshakable belief in the power of the individual. As Peter Levine has said, the human animal is a unique being endowed with an instinctual capacity to heal and the intellectual spirit to harness this innate capacity. In this respect, for members of society, there is no greater honor or privilege than facilitating that process of healing for someone, to bear witness, to reach out a hand, to share the burden of someone's suffering, and to hold the hope for their recovery. And likewise, for survivors of distress and adversity, that we remember we don't have to live our lives forever defined by the damaging things that have happened to us. We are unique. We are irreplaceable. What lies within us can never be truly colonized, contorted, or taken away. The light never goes out. As a very wonderful doctor once said to me, "Don't tell me what other people have told you about yourself. Tell me about you." Thank you. (Applause)
我第一次離家去唸大學的那一天 是個風光明媚的日子， 前途樂觀，充滿希望。 當時我在學校表現不錯， 大家對我的期望都很高。 於是我興高采烈地開始了我的校園生活， 上課、參加派對、偷交通錐。 當然事情不能只看表面， 某種程度上來說，上課和偷交通錐， 這樣好強活躍的形象是一種偽裝， 儘管技巧非常高超又有說服力。 其實我內心非常憂鬱不安， 骨子裡非常害怕， 對其他人、未來、 可能面臨的失敗， 及內心的空虛感，都感到害怕。 但我隱藏得很好，外表看起來 就像是對一切都充滿希望、 胸懷大志， 這種刀槍不入的幻想太真實， 我甚至信以為真。 在上學期結束，第二學期開始時， 沒人預料的到 將會發生什麼事。 當研討會開始，我就離開， 哼著歌，一邊收拾東西， 就像已經預演了一百遍， 突然間，我聽見有個聲音冷靜地說： 「她正要離開房間。」 我環顧四周，卻沒半個人影， 但那聲音清楚明確， 不可能聽錯。 我嚇到了，把書留在樓梯上就衝回家， 但那聲音又出現了： 「她正在開門。」 這就是事情的開端，聲音不斷在耳邊環繞， 聲音不斷地持續著， 一連好幾天，持續好幾周，揮之不去， 以旁觀者的口吻描述我做的每一件事： 「她正要去圖書館。」 「她正要去上課。」 一開始語氣平穩不帶感情，一陣子之後， 卻莫名溫暖又安撫人心。 雖然我確實發現，冷靜的外表有時悄悄溜走 偶爾反映我內在隱藏的情緒。 所以舉例來說，如果我很憤怒但必須藏著怒氣， 我常常這麼做，當我隱藏真正的感受， 那個聲音就會聽起來很挫折。 不然它聽起來沒有惡意，也不煩人， 雖然即使在那當下聲音很清晰， 它要告訴我某些關於我情緒的東西， 尤其是那些情緒 遙不可及。 就在那個當下，我犯了致命的錯誤， 我跟一個朋友提起這個聲音，她嚇壞了。 一種隱而不顯的氛圍開始形成， 暗示我正常人不會聽到各式各樣的聲音， 一定是哪裡出了大問題。 這種害怕和懷疑是會傳染的。 突然間，這個聲音聽起來不再那麼和善了， 當她堅持我應該尋求治療， 我百分之百的服從了，這也成了 我犯的第二個錯誤。 我花了一些時間向校醫說明 我認為真正的問題可能出在哪： 焦慮、自卑、對未來感到恐懼， 他看起來覺得無趣又冷淡， 直到我提到那個聲音， 他放下筆，突然轉身， 露出一臉興趣的質問我。 老實說，我也急著想要得到關心和協助， 所以告訴他那個詭異播報員。 我總是希望，那個聲音當時說： 「她在自掘墳墓。」 我被轉給精神科醫師，他同樣地 用異樣的眼光看待聲音出現這件事， 後來我說的每件事都被用 潛在精神異常的鏡片檢視著。 比如說，我是學生電台的一員， 負責播報校園裡的新聞和公告， 因此在某次聊得較晚的面談中， 我說：「醫生，不好意思，我得離開了。 我六點要播新聞。」 然後我的病歷上就記錄著 艾蓮娜妄想她是電視新聞主播。 從那時起，這件事 迅速地壓垮了我。 眾多事情中的第一件事就是接到入院通知， 接著是精神分裂症的診斷， 然後，最糟的是，我開始 有一種像是中毒的痛苦感受， 我對自己和前景 感到絕望、羞恥、喪失信心。 然而我一直被慫恿著把這個聲音看做 是一種症狀而非經驗， 讓我的恐懼和抗拒更為強烈。 基本上，這代表了 對我的內心採取一種挑釁的立場， 就像是一種內心戰， 結果反而讓聲音出現的次數愈來愈多， 而且變得更有敵意也更加憤恨。 在無助和絕望之下，我開始把自己退到 這個惡夢般的內心世界， 在那裡這個聲音必然就此成為 迫害者，同時也是我的心靈伴侶。 他們告訴我，舉例來說， 如果我證明自己值得 得到他們的幫助， 那麼他們可以改變我的生活， 讓它變回原來的樣子。 然後一連串愈來愈詭異的任務就出現了， 就像是一些極艱巨的工作。 從很小的事情開始，像是 拔掉三把頭髮， 但是任務逐漸變得偏激， 最後要求我傷害自己。 最戲劇化的指令是： 「你有看到那邊那個助教吧？ 你有看到那杯水吧？ 在其他學生面前把那杯水倒在他頭上。」 我真的做了，不用說 教職員並沒有因此喜歡我。 實際上，形成了一種由恐懼、逃避、 猜忌和誤解組合的惡性循環， 這種抗爭讓我感到無力， 無法建立任何形式的平靜與和諧。 兩年後，情況突然惡化了。 到現在，我有各式各樣的瘋狂劇本： 恐嚇的聲音、怪異的念頭、 古怪又難搞的妄想。 我的心理健康狀態變成了 被歧視、謾罵、 霸凌和性侵的導火線。 精神科醫生告訴我： 「艾蓮娜，你得了癌症還好一點， 因為癌症比精神分裂症還容易痊癒。」 我接受診斷、服藥、被遺棄， 當時我被那些聲音折磨到 想在頭上鑽一個洞， 把它們趕出我的腦袋。 如今回首過去那些年的碎裂和絕望， 現在對我來說就好像有人在那裡死了， 然而，另一人獲救了。 一個支離破碎、擔心受怕的人 展開了那趟旅程， 但那個從困境中擺脫的卻是個倖存者， 最終將變成我注定 要成為的那個人。 在我的生命中有許多人曾傷害我， 每一個我都記得， 但是這些記憶會逐漸淡去， 而幫助我的人們則一直存在我心裡。 倖存的人們、有幻聽的人們， 我的朋友和合作夥伴； 永不放棄我的母親， 她知道總有一天我會回到她身邊， 不管要花多久的時間她都願意等候我； 還有雖然只有短暫幫助我的醫生， 但是他強化他的信念，讓我知道復元 不只是可能，而是必然的。 在歷經復發的毀滅期， 他告訴我嚇壞了的家人： 「不要放棄希望， 我相信艾蓮娜可以撐過來。 有時候，你知道，雖然五月還在下雪， 但是夏天終究會來臨。」 十四分鐘不夠 我一一道出這些良善、寬容的人們， 他們與我併肩作戰，為我付出， 等待我、歡迎我從 那個痛苦又孤獨的深淵回到他們身邊。 而且他們一同化為勇氣、 創造力、正直，以及不可動搖的信念， 讓我心煩意亂的自我能夠得到療癒， 並且合而為一。 我過去常說，這些人救了我， 但是我現在才了解，比他們當時的幫助 更重要的其實是他們給了我力量， 讓我能拯救自己。 更關鍵的是，他們幫助我了解某件 我一直無法相信的事： 我的聲音是對生活的創傷經驗 做出有意義的回應， 尤其是兒時歲月， 因此它不是我的敵人， 而是一種能夠解決情緒問題的洞察力。 一開始這很難相信， 也難以持續，因為這些聲音如此不友善， 又會威脅我，因為這個緣故， 非常重要的第一步 就是學習去將隱涵的意義 和我先前會詮釋為事實的話語區分出來。 例如，這些聲音會威脅我去攻擊我的家庭， 我學著去將它詮釋為我對世界的恐懼 和不安，而非將它看為真實、客觀的危險。 首先，我得先相信它們。 比如說我記得有天晚上我熬夜 守在父母門前來保護他們 不會受到我從那個聲音中得知會受到的攻擊。 因為我有嚴重的自殘問題， 所以家裡大部分的刀具都被藏起來了， 結果是，我用塑膠叉子武裝自己， 有點像是野餐用的餐具， 然後我會坐在房門外 緊抓住它，然後等著準備隨時採取行動， 看會發生什麼事。 那就像是：「別煩我， 我有塑膠叉子，你不知道嗎？」 嚴陣以待。 但是後來我得到一個很有幫助的回應， 那就是去解讀這些文字後面的訊息， 因此當聲音警告我不要離開房間， 那麼我會感謝他們讓我注意到 我感覺有多不安 ──因為如果我意識到它， 我就能做比較正向的舉動── 然後要持續向它和自己保證 我們很安全，而且再也不需要害怕了。 我會對聲音做出界線， 試著和它們互動，用一種果斷的方式， 但是尊重的，建立一種緩慢的 溝通程序， 並且用我們可以學著一起互動、 彼此支持的方式合作。 在這整個過程中，我終於明白 每一個聲音都和我自己的每一面密不可分， 而它們每一個 都承載著極端的情緒，那是我從未 有機會去處理或解決的， 性創傷和性侵的記憶， 憤怒、羞恥、愧疚、自卑的記憶。 聲音代替了這些傷痛， 為它發言。 最出乎意料的事實之一是： 當我了解那個最不友善和挑釁的聲音 其實代表了那個部分的我 曾經被重重地傷害過， 也因此這些聲音 需要得到最深切的憐憫 和無微不至的關懷。 帶著這樣的認知，最後 我就能拼湊回破碎的自我， 每一塊碎片代表一個不同的聲音。 漸漸地，我停止服用藥物， 回到精神治療，只是這一次的療程是往回走。 在聲音首次出現的十年後，我終於畢業了， 這一次我在心理學拿到最高的成績， 是這所學校前所未有的，一年後， 得到最高的碩士成績，我們應該說 對一個瘋女人來說還不差。 事實上，其中一個聲音在考試中實際地 告訴我答案，技術上來說可能算作弊。 （笑聲） 老實說，有時候我還蠻享受他們的關注。 王爾德曾說：「唯一比被人談論還糟的事 就是根本沒人談論你。」 而且也會讓你變得很擅於偷聽， 因為你可以同時聽兩段對話。 所以還是有點好處的。 我的工作是精神健康服務， 我在會議中演講， 出版書籍和學術論文， 而且我抗議並且繼續這麼做， 和以下所述有關的觀念： 一個精神方面的重要問題 不應該是你出了什麼問題， 而應該是什麼事發生在你身上。 一直以來，我都傾聽著我的聲音， 我終於學會以和平與尊重和它共處， 它就會回報我，讓我更加 憐憫、認同和尊重我自己。 我記得最感動、特別的時刻是在 當我支持另一個因為幻聽 而受到驚嚇的年輕女性， 那是第一次我變得能夠完全意識到 我不再有同樣的感覺了， 相反的是，我終於能夠 幫助其他飽受其苦的人。 現在，我很榮幸能夠成為 內在聲音組織 (Intervoice) 的一員， 這個組織屬於國際幻聽者支持團體 (International Hearing Voices Movement)， 由馬里斯．羅蒙 (Marius Romme) 教授 以及珊卓．艾薛爾 (Sandra Escher) 博士 發起的倡議， 將幻聽視為一種倖存的策略， 在瘋狂的情境中做出合乎情理的反應， 並非將它視為精神分裂症 需要忍受的異常徵兆， 而是一種複雜、重要且有意義的經驗， 等待著被發掘。 同時，我們也期待建立一個 能理解與尊重幻聽的社會， 支持幻聽者的需求， 把他們視為健全的公民。 這種社會的出現不只是可能， 而是已經逐漸形成了。 套句查維斯 (Cesar Chavez) 說過的話： 「當社會開始改變， 就無法回頭。 你無法羞辱有自尊的人； 你無法壓迫 不再畏懼的人。」 對我而言，幻聽者支持團體的成就是 提醒我們同情、夥伴、 正義和尊重比言語更重要； 它們是各樣的信念， 而那些信念可以改變世界。 在過去的 20 年中，幻聽者支持團體 已建立了幻聽者支持網絡 (hearing voices networks)， 遍布五大洲，26 個國家， 共同努力提倡尊嚴、團結， 以及為受到精神疾病所苦的人們增權， 重新建立希望的語言和實踐， 其中的核心思想是 一種存在個體的力量中 不可動搖的信念。 彼得．列文 (Peter A. Levine) 曾說： 「人類是唯一 具有療癒本能的物種， 而且有智能來控制 這個與生俱來的能力。」 由此，我想告訴社會大眾， 這份榮耀和榮幸之大， 沒有比幫助他人痊癒、 支持、伸出援手、 分擔他人之苦， 對他們能康復的事永存希望 來得更棒了。 同樣地，我想告訴悲傷和逆境的倖存者， 記得我們不需要一輩子 永遠用那些曾經遭遇的苦痛來定義自己。 我們都是獨一無二、不可取代的。 在我們體內的東西 永遠不會真正的被佔據、 被扭曲或是被拿走。 那道光永遠不會熄滅。 曾有一位很棒的醫生對我說： 「不要告訴我別人怎麼說你， 跟我說說你自己。」 謝謝！ （掌聲）
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