How to Knit a Human by Anna Jacobson
“When the ghost light sings, do not take memory and sanity for granted. Do not take anything for granted. Collect your stray stitches while unhooking cicada shells that are never the insect itself, only the memory of it. Co-exist with the Goddess of the Door Hinge. Look through the comfort of the frame, or the wrong end of the telescope – all that’s left of your face is an oval of white, no markings of self – obliterated memory like sun-washed film. Condense time.”
In her debut memoir, How to Knit a Human (2024), Anna Jacobson invites readers on a journey through the fractured landscape of her memory and selfhood. With a poetic and introspective voice, Jacobson unravels the threads of her experience following a psychotic episode and subsequent rounds of involuntary electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). The memoir is not just a recounting of events but a meticulous exploration of identity, creativity, and the profound impact of mental illness and the quality of care that follows.
Jacobson vividly describes waking in a sterile hospital room, her name unfamiliar on a hospital bracelet. We bear witness to the slow, disorienting process of piecing together her identity and discover that she has involuntarily been subjected to ECT. Jacobson is left trying to piece together the pre and post-treatment versions of herself:
“She glimpses a photograph of herself paper-clipped to the manila folder of her file the nurse holds and is shocked by her appearance. In the photo she is not looking at the camera or wearing her glasses. Her hair is witch-wild, and her eyes are heavy-lidded with dark circles beneath. The nurse catches her looking. This is you. Surprised?”
The narrative unfolds in fragments, mirroring her memory post-ECT, where even basic details of her life slip through her grasp:
“She knows what ECT is. Electroconvulsive therapy. She feels like these words are the only thing she knows. She tries to keep hold of her expression. It is vital the nurse doesn’t see she’s upset. If the nurse knows she is upset, bad things will happen. She doesn’t know how she knows this. All she wants to do is retreat to her bed, letting tears wet her face.”
Jacobson's prose is sometimes clinical and detached, reflecting her disconnect from her past self, underscoring the loss and disorientation she grapples with and her struggle to reclaim her autonomy.
Throughout, Jacobson connects back to her artistic and creative pursuits, remembering her love of photography, drawing, and video art. Central to Jacobson's journey to recovery is her exploration of knitting as both a metaphorical and literal practice of healing and integration. Through knitting, she finds solace in the repetitive motion, the weaving of threads echoing her efforts to reconcile her own memories:
“Slowly, I’ve managed to recapture the memories from the years before my unravelling, by looking at photographs and asking Mum for stories and clues. Sometimes, the weave holding back my memories is tight, but other times, just as I’ve lost memories through dropped stitches, some strands have travelled through the gaps. My memories are hard-won.”
Innovatively structured, How to Knit a Human unfolds in chapters named after knitting stitches – Slip Stitch, Stray Stitch, and Back Stitch – each section crafted to reflect Jacobson's recovery and self-discovery phases.
As we progress further into the memoir, her narrative voice evolves from a distant third person to a resolute first person, a subtle yet powerful way to demonstrate to her journey towards reclaiming her voice and narrative authority:
“I am not casting off. I haven’t researched the properties of thread; I’ve felt them in my hands as I’ve woven my tale, going by touch. My camera is still metaphorically stitched to my side and my knitting may take the human form, a scarf, a book, or something else entirely, depending on how I look at it each day.”
Jacobson also delves into her Jewish identity and queerness, intertwining these with her artistic endeavours. These explorations enrich the memoir, offering nuanced insights into the intersections of personal identity, cultural heritage, and mental health.
Another key theme that Jacobson grapples with is the systemic challenges of mental health care, offering critical reflections on the treatment she received and the broader societal attitudes towards mental illness. The ECT she received, as well as the concoction of drugs she was coerced to take following her hospitalisation, have left a long mark in her life. By reclaiming her artistic self, Jacobson shows that there are alternative, powerful ways to help those like her beyond forced pharmaceuticals and invasive treatments.
As someone about to embark on a career in psychological care, I find works like Jacobson’s a welcome and vital reminder that there is still so much to be done across mental health services to truly support individuals on these journeys.
By sharing her story with honesty and grace, Jacobson honours her own struggle and offers a compassionate hand to others navigating similar journeys. This is a rich read that adds a vital voice to the emerging literature around mental health experiences in Australia.
Read our interview with Anna here!
Elaine Chennatt is a writer, educator and psychology student currently residing in nipaluna. She has a special interest in bibliotherapy (how we use literature to make sense of our lives) and is endlessly curious about the creative philosophies of others. She lives with her husband and two bossy dachshunds on the not-so-sunny side of the river (IYKYK). Find her online at wordswithelaine.com.
