In his foreword to Climbing Mountains in our Minds: Stories & Photographs from St. Senan's Hospital, Enniscorthy (edited by Sylvia Cullen), Pat Boran suggests that good writing can allow us to see a situation more clearly, from a position beyond our personal, limited vision. Climbing Mountains does just that – through diverse contributions of poetry and prose by both named and anonymous contributors – it illuminates a complex domain of power and pain, respite and healing through the recent and distant past inside this psychiatric hospital.

Climbing Mountains arose out of a project facilitated by Arts Ability and supported by Wexford County Council, the Health Service Executive and the Arts Council. The combination of text and photographs accomplishes a delicate balance between exposing injustice and illuminating compassion – credit goes to Sylvia Cullen for neither shrinking from the darkness named nor hiding the light. Her skills have allowed a nuanced, multifaceted picture to be displayed. However, the power of the book comes from the stark, honest and beautiful writing of its contributors.

There is much pain detailed in these writings. One author captures the range of distresses in a couple of sentences:

Of course, the personal pain of mental distress comes through: ‘I was so helpless – it was very frightening’ (‘Hope’, Lorraine Howard, p. 112). Yet, perhaps because the authors were writing in response to the theme of St. Senan's Hospital itself, much of the suffering described refers to the institutional regime that operated in the building, both the psychiatric-specific practices such as ECT and high-dose medication and the more universal practice of restricted freedom. Simple words, well-chosen, speak volumes: ‘Tired. Drowsy. Tortured’. This one line that ‘K.S.’ writes about his experience of depot medication marks the disparity between the clinician's benign view of sedation and the recipient's experience of the same treatment as ‘torture’ and a ‘nightmare’ (‘Out of the Darkness’, K.S., p. 97).

A sense of powerlessness pervades some of the poems. One anonymous contributor, presumably writing about being given ECT, describes well the lack of autonomy within the institution:

The authors of ‘I wasn't thinking right’ and ‘The Yellow Bush’ name their feeling of being restricted within the premises. The first author refers to how at the age of 14 he was not allowed outside during the summer (Simon Martin, p. 60). The second author recalls the small sense of freedom she felt when looking at a bush growing out of a chimney on top of one of St. Senan's buildings: ‘My recollection of the hospital is that for a long time I felt very restricted in there. And to me, seeing this beautiful plant growing up in such a strange place, gave me kind of an air of freedom’ (‘The Yellow Bush’, anonymous, p. 120). These personal perspectives are reinforced in the book by the inclusion of several descriptions of episodes where individuals escaped, adding strength to the idea that many felt trapped within the hospital's walls.

There are other losses named in Climbing Mountains – the loss of home mentioned most prominently in ‘Lonely for Home’ (anonymous, p. 30), the loss of family and friends who are far away (‘Thought I'd be straight out again’, Michael O'Neill, p. 55), missing important, symbolic occasions (‘Three Christmases not at Home’, Tom Lawlor, p. 36). Poignantly, the anonymous author of ‘Missing books’ (p. 34) describes being deprived of the opportunity to learn: ‘There was no library in St. Senan's at that time … What I missed really very much was Shakespeare’. Further on in the text ‘If things were different’ describes the loss of the life expected which is such a feature of mental health conditions (Tom Lawlor, p. 123).

Yet, punctuated throughout the pages of Climbing Mountains are also moments of light. The support given by one resident to another features in several contributions: ‘They said I was a great help to them, And they were a great help to me’ (‘Depression Days’, Moira Naessens, p. 100). The way that peer support provides reciprocal benefit is shown in ‘The Talker & the Listener’ by Michael Bolger (p. 23) when he describes how in listening to a fellow patient, ‘I felt it gave us both confidence carrying out these roles’. Friendships were made within the hospital – people met and chatted and became friends on the wards (‘Absence’, Moira Naessens, p. 32). The value of staff support is remembered, one contributor calling the staff ‘lifesavers’ (‘Lifesavers’, Cyril Fenlon, p. 115), whereas another simply says, ‘One of the nurses was very jolly and a good listener’ (‘Help & Support’, Colm Redmond, p. 119). These sentiments help us to recall the original intention of the ‘asylum’ as a place of rest and recuperation. In ‘Hope’ (p. 112), Lorraine Howard describes how St. Senan's and its staff could be a ground for healing in more recent times.

Although there are moments in the book that tell us that individuals found comfort and support within St. Senan's walls, the overriding sentiment is one of a glad farewell. These words ring true: ‘The day I left I was glad to be finished with the place’ (‘Lonely for Home’, anonymous, p. 31). As the era of the psychiatric hospital winds down to its end, it will be important to have testimonials such as Climbing Mountains to remind us of what happened inside psychiatric institutions in Ireland. The photographs of the premises included in the text also leave us with important artefacts of its history. The oft-quoted admonishment ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it’ by George Santayana comes to mind. Let us be grateful that some who went through the doors of St. Senan's have had the courage and generosity to leave us their stories. We will have no excuse, then, to forget.