Grayburn Tim - Fake It Til You Make It

FAKE IT TIL YOU MAKE IT

Bryony Kimmings and Tim Grayburn

FAKE IT TIL YOU MAKE IT

OBERON BOOKS
LONDON

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First published in 2015 by Oberon Books Ltd
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Copyright Bryony Kimmings and Tim Grayburn, 2015

Foreword James Leadbitter, 2015; Foreword Georgie Harman, 2015; Bird Hunter, Matador, Shaman, Bride Andy Field, 2015

Reprinted with revisions in 2015

Bryony Kimmings and Tim Grayburn are hereby identified as authors of this play in accordance with section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. The authors have asserted their moral rights.

All rights whatsoever in this play are strictly reserved and application for performance etc. should be made before commencement of rehearsal to Avalon, 4a Exmoor Street, London, UK, W10 6BD. No performance may be given unless a licence has been obtained, and no alterations may be made in the title or the text of the play without the authors prior written consent.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or binding or by any means (print, electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

PB ISBN: 978-1-78319-951-8
EPUB ISBN: 978-1-78319-952-5

Cover and image photography by Richard Davenport

Printed, bound and converted
by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY.

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Contents

Foreword

I m halfway through watching Fake It Til You Make It and one question is bothering me. Where is Tims voice? Then, as if Bryony and Tim know what I am thinking, Tim takes off his mask, comes to the microphone and speaks. I realize this wait was intentional and that my need for him to speak has to be balanced with his need to feel confident with what he is about to do. Tim speaks from the heart, he holds his hands to hide his nerves, he takes a hammer to his own and societys taboos. Its a beautiful moment. I feel connected to him, like I know what hes going through and why hes doing it.

There was a moment in 2010 that has stuck with me, that I have to remind myself of now and again. Id been told by my social worker that my application for homeless status had been rejected by Hackney Council, that I would be kicked out of the homeless hostel, leaving me with nowhere to live a feat of such stupid logic it would make Monty Python proud. Later that week I see my therapist, and she asks me about my lack of anger. It was a nightmare last time, so Im kind of used to it.

Youve been homeless before? she asks. As so many times before, I retell my story of coming out of a year long admission in 2000 and how long it took to get the Bed and Breakfast accommodation from Barnet Council, in a distant and matter of fact way.

Yknow most people havent been homeless James, they havent spent long periods in mental health hospitals, they havent made serious suicide attempts. Im wondering what it would be like for you if you didnt see these things as normal. What if you saw them in a different way? Could we explore that? It was such a therapist thing to say, and annoyingly, she was bloody right.

It hits me in the gut on my way home. Luckily, Ive got my sun glasses with me, so my crying on public transport can be undertaken more subtly.

A week later I go for my Employment and Support Allowance (Disability Benefits) assessment by ATOS to find out if the government thinks Im fit for work. The Doctor asks me if I can bend over, walk down the street and use a telephone. I explain I dont have a physical condition, I have multiple mental health diagnoses. He doesnt seem interested, empathetic or even to have heard of my main diagnosis. I cycle home feeling dirty, like Ive done something wrong, like its my fault. I hate myself for being in this situation. I am weak, flawed, a piece of shit.

With her arms around me, the snot and tears flowing off my chin, my partner says Im sorry, you shouldnt be treated like this, its horrific. I can see the anger in her eyes, the red mist descending. I wonder why I dont feel angry; am I internalizing the failings of an intentionally broken welfare system in ways I hadnt realized? The answer is obviously yes, but being able to change that is going to take time and dedication.

Its September 2013, Im in Riga, Latvia at a festival called Homo Novus, its the first time Ive been able work outside of the UK in four years. Getting here was an achievement and involved 16 mg of Valium for a three hour flight. Im here to present the finished version of a autobiographical performance called Mental, in which I weave a narrative of medical records and police files against my version of the battles with mental distress and police repression Ive lived through. Its taken about two years to make, and that hasnt been that pleasant. OK, thats an understatement. Normally I like making art, but this process has involved reliving trauma, a hospital admission, disagreements, and a large amount of medication. Ive done the set up, I know what Im going to say and the order in which to show things but Im wondering what Im doing. Why am I doing this? What are the positives? What will people think of me?

Ive agreed to do four performances, which after the first two seems like a bad idea, my body is aching, I want to punch myself and I feel ultra paranoid. Ive just shown fifty complete strangers my intimate medical records, which include details of acute mental distress, suicide attempts and the thoughts of a Freudian therapist which can be described at best as culturally and socially backward, and at worst as progressive as Mumford and Sons best work and yes Mumford and Sons and best work is an oxymoron.

Now, Im used to taking risks in making art, Ive broken laws, bled, been beaten by the police, spied on by E.ON, censored by Starbucks and walked a fine line between life and death. Im not saying this to sound hard or manly; I think most art is not really prepared to break taboos so its important I practise what I preach. Yet there is something about performing the Mental piece that feels harder than anything Ive done. Its odd because all Im really doing is sitting in a bed, telling a story, showing the reports the state holds about me and playing some records. I am, though, nailing my flag to the mast. Im outing myself as mad and the reality of that isnt always pretty. The stigma people with mental illnesses face is still massive and it would be perfectly sensible to want to avoid this discrimination by hiding my illness.

Its post second performance in Riga and I want to go home. I think the show is going down like a lead balloon. I think people are giving me funny looks, no one has spoken to me about the show, either to bitch or complement. Then like that moment during my therapy session three years early something happens that sticks with me, that I always remind myself of when Im doubtful about the quality of