When neurosurgeon Lutwig Guttmann launched the first Paralympics in 1948 he could hardly have imagined the event 64 years on. From the humble beginnings of a makeshift athletics field at Stoke Mandeville Hospital to a global reach of hundreds of millions of people, the Superhumans (as UK TV broadcaster Channel 4 has dubbed the competitors) will display their immense talent in front of sell-out crowds at every venue. A combination of huge sponsorship money, South African athlete Oscar Pistorius whose ‘blade runner’ prosthetics and talent have won over millions of fans from the able-bodied Olympics and the excitement of a summer the British people never want to end are making these Games an irresistible prospect. In London 2012, disability is at last cool. Even The Sun, never known for taking on social issues ran a front-page splash today on squaddie Derek Derenalagi who had been given up as dead while on duty in Afghanistan and who will be ‘going for gold’ at these Games.
At Careimages, we are proud of our involvement, albeit small, in highlighting disability (learning, physical and sensory) issues through our photographs and blogs. And to celebrate the Paralympics we have commissioned photo-journalist Julio Etchart (julioetchart.com) to provide images from the Games. His shots will not only reflect the athleticism of the Superhumans but also of able-bodied and disabled people watching them, as well as interesting background reportage that Julio specialises in.
We respect and admire the Superhumans but there is still much work to be done for the also-rans in the world of disability in relation to access, inclusivity and prejudice. I understand that Channel 4 need to raise the ante and a strapline with Superhumans will put bums in front of TV screens, but my wager is that disabled people round the world would rather be seen first as humans, equal to those with two legs and so-called intellectual ability and as a first resort being able to watch a film in a cinema and fly on a plane with them.
Guttmann’s legacy lives on and we are delighted to represent his vision through Julio’s lens. Watch out for the images, they reflect a very different world from 1948. Maybe, just maybe, after these Games, people will start using the word ability to describe disability.
Fast backtrack a year, with parts of the UK in flames, rioting and looting, the country seemingly in freefall. How had our green and pleasant land become so unpleasant, even repugnant? And with the Olympics only a year away and the world’s greatest athletes arriving and hundreds of millions of people watching our every move, there was an inevitable and justifiable aura of doom and gloom.
So how did we turn it round? The cynic in me suggests that it was money, the billions of corporate and government money that bought us love, medals and a logistics triumph (not to mention the 80,000+ volunteers – including myself), or ‘games makers’ as we were spun in corporate speak. But emerging from my cynical skin, there was something quite remarkable about these Games, remarkable inside and outside of the citadels of sport which produced so much drama. The fact was, that for two weeks London became a wonderful place to live. People out there who frequent public transport as I do will testify to the fact that the buses, trains, underground and DLR, whether near or far from a venue, were full of hope not despair. We interacted, helped, conversed and enjoyed. Daily issues which blight our society and which emerged with so much venom a year ago; race, class, hatred, envy, greed, selfishness and violence were wiped off our streets, our buses, our roads, our pubs and our estates by the awesome feats of not only our Olympians (and step forward Mo Farrah and Jessica Ennis for their gigantic efforts) but also by modern folk heroes led by the irresistible Usain Bolt and Michael Phelps.
When a human being’s run, swim or striking of a table tennis ball arouses senses hitherto the monopoly of great composers or artists, we know we have reached a Utopia where meritocracy trumps colour of skin, class and lifestyle. And that is what happened in London, we became a meritocracy. The best won medals, the rest were awesome too. The rest of us watch with admiration and respect, qualities that were conspicuous by their absence in last year’s inferno.
Surely it is only sport that can make such an impact on people’s lives. I’m sure the chattering classes – conspicuous by their complex analysis of art, literature and music – would argue that the pen is mightier than the fencing sword and it is ideas, literature and jazz music, not volleyball and boxing that shape the world. Not so. Sport’s simplicity and accessibility are perfect entry levels for the likes of Nicola Adams, the young woman from Leeds who took gold at boxing who has won the hearts and minds of the nation. And one year on from meltdown UK, for every youngster from a sink estate who wants to emulate Nicola, and walks into a local gym with a dream of earning gold rather than looting it, we have the raison d’etre for what has been the greatest show on earth.
Guest blogger Geoff Gunby writes a moving article about the nature of depression and his own battle with it.
I’ve never had any problem telling people that I have suffered from depression, because, in my experience people just don’t want to know.
Their eyes glaze over and their faces take on that ‘let’s talk about something else’ expression. You just know that you might as well have told them that you’ve just cut up a herd of cows with a chainsaw.
This almost magical effect, it just doesn’t apply to strangers or passing acquaintances, but also to health professionals, nearest and dearest and friends I’ve known for years. Something about it embarrasses them. Nevertheless I don’t want to launch a diatribe about how the world won’t listen or how uncaring people are because I don’t believe that things are that simple.
If people are annoyed when someone says that he or she is depressed we have to ask why. Time and time again I hear it said that we citizens of the western world are faced with an epidemic of depression. It’s life shortening and costs working hours. There seems to be no easy explanation of why this should be given the comparatively easy lives we have. There is something there, something huge and yet somehow imperceptible, like the elephant that has been in the living room for so long that it has ceased to be something worthy of even the most flippant comment.
But what could it be, this group secret of which mention must never be made? This dark mass in the corner, that takes up so much of our time with its constant demands without our being ever being really aware of its over-solemn occupancy? The mention of which brings out such a quiet rage in the people around us. As with anybody else all I can do is to look back at my own experience of what Andrew Solomon terms ‘The Noonday Demon’ and try an make a few connections.
In 1970, when I was nine years old, Unilever sacked my father. He had moved to the seaside town I grew up in to work for Birds Eye foods in their laboratory. As part of a general rationalisation of assets the lab was relocated and my Father suddenly found himself surplus to requirements. The effect on him was quite stunning. It was as if a miniature atom bomb had gone off in our middle class home, the fallout from which would never entirely leave us.
Dad had never been an easy person, irritable, violent, perfectionist beyond all reason, but he had always had a kind of energy which got things done, kept the garden tidy and kept him interested in life. Thus I had always forgiven him his excesses. Overnight, it seemed, things just came to a halt. The grass on the lawn that he had been so proud of grew two feet tall, the vegetable patch was abandoned and he spent long hours on the sofa with his head in his hands. The swing at the bottom of the garden hung rusty and useless as yesterday’s cliché, love and kindness were a thing of the past. Too proud to claim benefit he heaped humiliation on himself by borrowing from his own father to pay the mortgage. He argued with and struck my mother on several occasions. He subjected me to mental torture, making me stand in front of him while he told me how awful my life was going to be, how I would grow up friendless, and how I had no idea about anything. Of course at the time I didn’t understand what was going on only that I didn’t like it.
I had no idea that my father was depressed, had perhaps suffered what people used to term a nervous breakdown. In time, my mother went back to work as a teacher, my father got a job in the NHS and things were OK again. Except that they weren’t.
Between my parents things were never quite the same again and in my eyes, my father, who I had once worshipped no matter what his faults, was effectively dead. Someone to get money from if possible and to otherwise be avoided. In this period and the loss of direction that came with it were laid the foundations of my career as a delinquent, my failure at school and my inability to take pleasure in anything I later achieved. In other words the template for my own future depression.
I can’t say for sure when it started. All I know is that as my twenties progressed, I began to be aware that things weren’t right. A disastrous love affair, a pointless MA in Media Studies, moving to London with no clue as to what to do, the constant anxiety about the epilepsy which was slowly starting to control my life, the death of my beloved grandmother from cancer; all of these caused me pain, but wouldn’t it be the same for anyone? Nobody can go through life without some sorrow but people carry on and yet somehow I found myself less and less able to do so. There was something, something more, isolating me, colouring my thoughts. darkening the future, something I couldn’t get a hold on.
For years I carried on, writing novels that were never published, doing odd jobs, buying a house, getting married, travelling around, seeming to be having a good time. Yet all the time experiencing a growing emptiness, hearing an ever louder self accusatory voice pushing me towards taking my own life. Down and down I sank until there really seemed to be no hope. I had stopped working and gone on Disability Benefit because of my epilepsy and gradually I became paralysed to the point where doing anything was an almost unbearable effort.
On the surface yes, I was moving forward, was learning to paint, thinking of moving to Portugal but underneath it was hopeless. And still I just thought it was me. Finally my GP sent me for counselling after I had been to see her about something else but still it didn’t really register. I think the low point was when I told a friend’s wife not to take her kids to Disneyland because Walt Disney was a tool of the CIA. She just snapped and for about an hour berated me for being so miserable. Next day I went and sat by a pond in a park in Chester and cried for hours, watching the rain fall into the dead water.
And then it was over. My marriage broke up, I didn’t go and live in Portugal, met someone else and had children with her. And I was happy for the first time since I didn’t know when. Afraid that the darkness might just come back some day I’ve asked therapy on a couple of occasions but have given up after being made to do a kind of phone quiz and then been told that I may have been depressed but that it was now ‘in remission’.
So maybe that’s it, everybody’s happy nowadays, if a little anxious, just that I can’t help wondering what happened to me. So many books, so much research, so much pontificating, all pointing to the simple truth that everybody has their own depression. Mine wasn’t too bad, after all I’m still here, even if it did last a long time. And yet there has to be a common thread somewhere, surely?
For me the thread that leads back to the elephant comes not from looking at depression but from those who are not depressed. From the relative ease with which I cleaned out my life and started afresh. The whole process took on its own momentum – with my wife went her friends, her inlaws, a whole existence. Really I behaved so oddly that only my true friends stuck with me and it was all for the good. Change your life and change yourself. Use your choices.
Of course things are not quite that simple. But still it seems to me that the oh-so-polite anger that lies behind our friends’ refusal to acknowledge our pain is their own fear that it could happen to them. They too are simply running out of choices, and the choices they do have don’t amount to much. Surely you, sad as you are, can see that we are both the same? A tempting elephant but surely much too simplistic to cut it in the nervous world of pachyderms. Or then again…