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Trauma

From the beginning, it seemed that mental health challenges were written into the script of my life. My family history was riddled with mental illness and past events that could increase my vulnerability to mental health issues. Although I enjoyed a happy and innocent upbringing, my teenage years were marked by a series of traumatic events that left me feeling confused and unable to cope. Despite my best efforts, the grief of losing three of my most significant role models has left me searching for answers for the rest of my life. Over the years, I have learned to manage my traumas to some degree and find ways to move forward. However, the loss of my loved ones has profoundly impacted me, and the search for answers and healing continues.

Doomed

My family history of mental illness and past life events seemed to have set the stage for my struggles with mental health, even before I was born. The good thing about having family historians as parents is that I know the genetic and environmental factors that could increase my risk of mental illness.

At birth, I experienced a trauma that further predisposed me to mental health challenges. The umbilical cord was wrapped three times around my throat, and I was born blue and asphyxiated. For the first two to three minutes of my life, I had my mother’s umbilical cord wrapped around my throat. My birth trauma may have had lasting effects on my mental health.

Mental health issues have plagued both sides of my family tree. On my father's side, my grandmother witnessed her schizophrenic mother slit her father's throat before being institutionalized for the rest of her life. On my mother's side, my grandfather struggled with his Jewish identity after his father left his mother due to madness. He left for Western Australia and died at the age of 42 in an institution from a brain tumour. My other grandfather also had his struggles and died after being diagnosed with frontotemporal dementia. I thought his strange and inappropriate behaviours were due to bipolar disorder, but it turned out to be Wischelchutz. I spent a year fearing that I would suffer a similar fate. However, magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) revealed no frontal lobe damage, giving me hope for my mental health.

Sometimes, I wonder about the role of past lives in shaping our present experiences. I once dreamed that I was Jimi Hendrix in a previous life. His music has always resonated with me deeply, and I feel an inexplicable connection to him. However, I know that these thoughts may be a manifestation of a God-delusion that I am still working through in Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT).

School Camp

On my 15th birthday, we left to go to Warner Brothers for our year nine school camp. The Year Advisor called the roll and kindly asked if any of my mates would accompany me on the other bus because he wanted his peace during the three to four-hour bus trip, knowing I would be in full swing on the bus trip. Az kindly offered to go on the other bus even though all his other mates were on the Year Advisor's bus. I sat next to a quiet young Kirsty, who would become a big part of my life a few years later.

The trip was fun, and we settled into our rooms. We put a hole in the tent to sneak off to the girls’ tents through the night. It was a great night when the teachers were on full alert and were aware of our shenanigans. At one stage, I did sneak off to the girl's tent but did not get the pash I sought. When the boys were together, there was the worst smell from all our farts. I did not think I was well. Some boys were experimenting with drugs even though 'knowing would ever know.'

On a sleepless night, I acquainted myself with the young Black Priest. I did not know him until now, but I was amazed at how a 15-year-old could describe his Mormon faith in so much detail and passion. He knew exactly what his faith was and what he wanted to do with his life, even back then. I was in awe of the way he swam. He had broken some of Ian Thorpe's records even back then and looked effortless. He had a vast wake on either side of him as he glided down the lane. He had a ripped body. Mine was good at the time, but his…God damn! He could backflip. He could breakdance. He was something special!

The following day, I woke with great enthusiasm. It would be a sweltering day, so we packed lots of water. Then, we started walking a hike to the top of the mountain. On the way to the top, the Jealous Friend offered me his water bottle. I had known the Jealous Friend since primary school, and he was always jealous of me because I had such a natural charm with the ladies. Whenever I succeeded in any pursuit, he would yell out, 'Crickey Moses.'

I would never have drunk from it if I had known that he had spiked this drink. But it was over 40 degrees, and my bottle was empty. So, I drank the poisoned bottle, and before I knew it, I had so much energy that I sprinted to the top of the mountain. I had reached the top so quickly that I returned to my peers and then back up numerous times.

I then felt extraordinarily thirsty and downed three or four bottles of water. I had so much energy but was feeling a bit weary. We played a bit of cricket before going for a canoe ride. I had so much energy that I skipped the instructions as I could not concentrate on his words. I remember being in a boat with the Black Priest and his best mate, Bergan. I had only been introduced to Bergan because he was in the other group circle. I grabbed the oar and paddled so fast. It was only because the Black Priest and Bergan were so athletic that we managed to go in any straight direction. By the end of the canoe trip, I was exhausted. I jumped out of the boat, and the Year Advisor had a grin on his face. He was so entertained by watching me be so 'enthusiastic.'

Even though it was an extremely sweltering day, over forty degrees, I suddenly felt so cold. I retreated to my cabin and jumped into the sleeping bag. Soon, I started sweating profusely, and I felt highly woozy. Everyone screamed my name because they had planned a birthday cake for me. I remember hearing the Year Advisor yell, 'Where are you, you party pooper?' The Black Priest was asked to bring down a glass of water, but when they saw how dehydrated I was, they asked to sit down with me to drink some Powerade. He sat down with me until I resumed any colour on my face.

Then I was off. I suddenly had so much energy. At that point, I became an excellent middle-distance runner and ran everywhere. I ran all the way to the highway, about 300-400 meters from the camp. This was out of bounds, but I had a strange urge to go to the highway.

While I sat on the highway, I heard the only voice I have ever heard, a conscience, if you like, urging me to run in front of a car on the highway. The voice, conscience, whatever it was, was saying, 'Come on, run out in front of the car. This will be the easiest time to kill yourself. There will not be any other opportunity like this.'

By this time, the teachers were worried and were looking for me everywhere. Finally, the Wyeth and the Pretty Teacher, I honestly do not remember her name, found me walking back to the camp weary. They helped me walk to the medic's room, where I went from hot to cold. I did not even have the energy to go to the bathroom, so I wet myself. The Wyeth said, 'Great, the only degree of comfort he has left.'

They did their best to hydrate me. They used a drip. I only remembered the popular girls coming into the room and wondering what all these amazing jars of yellow fluid were. I had filled three large bottles of urine from all the fluids I had consumed. 'Yuck!' they shrieked as they realized what the bottles were and dashed out of the medic's room. I do not have much memory after that, but I remember hearing one of the doctors say how dehydrated I was and that 'We almost lost him there. I have never seen anyone that close. He is fortunate to be alive.'

The following day, I woke extremely groggy and feeling sorry for myself. I had been a few minutes away from dying. I remember one girl telling me, 'You liked the attention, didn't you?'

It was furthest from the truth. Before that, I was an innocent, happy-go-lucky child with the perfect childhood. This was the first psychotic episode that I experienced. And it was my first drug-induced psychosis. My first forced drug-induced psychosis. Not a drug that I chose to experiment with, but one that took away my opportunity to experiment. It was speed, but I can never be sure. The only thing to be certain was this camp, on my fifteenth birthday, changed my life forever.

Purple Haze

The next couple of months were a blur. I returned to school, but everything seemed to be a patchy haze, and I was not there. I tried to write my feelings down, but this only entrenched me further into being more lost. More confused. More unable to express what I was feeling and experiencing. All the poetry in the world could not express my feelings at the time. I wrote a song called Purple Haze that started with the following words:

Drifting in and out like a patchy haze,

Drifting in and out of a wishful daze,

Feelings are lost in a poetic phrase.

I was so lost then; I am unsure how the following chain of events happened. But within three months of being drugged on the school camp, three momentous events occurred that took me out of my balanced reality of a happy, innocent childhood and into the hands of psychiatry’s whim—I had meningitis, I was raped, and had my first experience of alcohol poisoning.

After the school camp, I was dehydrated and ended out in the hospital for over a week. Mother Dearest reminds me of my state of mind at the time as purely bizarre because I still have limited recollection of my hospital stay. She brought me into the hospital because my words purely were not making sense, as I was far detached from a balanced reality.

All I remember of the stay was bunking with a young boy who had broken his arm in a motorbike accident. Whilst carrying a drip, we terrorised the staff by collecting all the plastic gloves in all the hospital wards. We blew and tied them up, so they were giant balloons and played soccer with them in the halls. Because I was a nuisance, rather than having any real idea of what was causing all this bizarre and inappropriate behaviour, the doctors explained that I had viral meningitis. They could not find anything wrong, so they sent me home from the hospital, and I resumed school the next day.

There was something that made me scared of that German Exchange Student. He used to boast about having access to all types of injectable substances. Whether he had any or not, I do not know, but I had a dream that he came into my room, covered my mouth so I couldn’t scream, and injected me with some substance. Over the years, my mind had imagined that this led to him raping me.

However, processing the writing of my memoirs has allowed me to go back and process the past and work out what my imagination has created and what was reality. Looking back, I don’t think anything happened all those years ago. However, the reality is that regardless of what happened, I was afraid of that German Exchange Student. I was so worried something might happen that I was too scared to sleep. Over time, it became harder and harder for me to sleep until I eventually became an insomniac. While my mind made it all up, I have always struggled to sleep and later required medication to knock me out.

The Human Spirit

Thinking that nothing ever happened, innocent and trusting me, invited the German Exchange Student back into my life. I think he was jealous that I was so popular, especially with the young ladies, that I was an exceptional piano player, and that I could apply myself to anything I wanted to, which at the time was cricket and running. He was baffled by my parent's prioritising being a good person over academic success. He was paranoid, to the point he would sniff every delicious meal that Mother Dearest put in front of him.

A few weeks passed, and I had a night that I would not remember again. Although, in my innocence, I had no idea of any of the effects of alcohol, the German Exchange Student and Bergan encouraged me to creep upstairs and take whatever bottle of booze I could find. I stole a range of different liquors from the cabinet I am unfamiliar with. I still did not know how to pour a bourbon and coke even while working in a bar a year later at 16, let alone understand what bourbon was. I also went into Farter's Cellar to grab a bottle of red wine that did not have a label on it. I later discovered that it was an old, fermented bottle of wine produced over 20 years earlier by Farter and his friends.

After I came back with a smile and a giggle, I met the two boys down the stairs, where we resumed ourselves in the downstairs music room. This is the first time in my whole life that I remember to this point where I had actively done something behind my parent's back. So, I felt a little guilty despite the nervous giggles.

While I still had no idea what alcohol was and what it could do to the body and mind, the two boys said. 'Come on, mate, give it a go.'

Initially, I resisted with a nervous giggle, maybe three or four times, before sending the first gulp down the hatchet. I remember how horrible it tasted. But not knowing any better, soon downed the whole bottle of wine and at least half a bottle of the other alcohol we had stolen.

Before long, I laughed loudly and pretended to be talking to people on the walls. Next, I did a sneaky little vomit downstairs before we went for a walk. Then, my curiosity turned to anger. I yelled the names of all the girls I had crushes on, screaming, 'Fuck them!'

We walked up the big hill and made our way to the park. I puked all over the ground, and I had that horrible red wine taste in my mouth that continues to haunt me today. I soon lost consciousness, having no idea what happened in that park. Maybe nothing happened. The point is, I do not remember. That would make me even angrier and more confused in the coming weeks.

I Choose Not The Remember

This part of my memoir, I initially chose to omit. I did not want to tarnish my own or anyone else's reputation. However, as I have delved deeper into my own trauma, I have come to realize the profound impact it left on me. It is unlike any other moment or series of moments in my life; it has shaped who I am today.

Over the course of one or two weeks, I would wake up to find the German Exchange Student in my room, long after my parents had gone to bed. At first, not understanding why he was there, my immediate reaction was to scream. He would quickly cover my mouth with his hand, urging me not to scream. He was always swift enough that I never had a chance to make a sound.

On the first night this happened, I violently struggled as he covered my mouth, but I remember nothing beyond that point. It felt as though whatever he used to stifle my screams also stole my consciousness and my memory. Or perhaps I chose to block it out.

This ordeal repeated itself every night for a duration I am uncertain of. What I do know is that I never quite had enough time to scream, and then I would lose consciousness. I would wake up with a sore arm, always a different one. I would wake to a feeling down there. I still hate that feeling.

The time it took for me to lose consciousness seemed to decrease with each passing night. My window to scream dwindled, and my ability to fight back faded.

In truth, I cannot say for sure how long this continued. I estimate one or two weeks, but it could have been shorter or longer. I was also grappling with alcohol poisoning and meningitis during this time, which pushed me into a psychotic state. I have made a conscious choice not to dwell on the specifics.

What I do remember are the days. I recall spending time in the German Exchange Student's room, where he boasted about the medicines, he had access to. With a sly grin, he would discuss how he could obtain syringes. Back then, I had no interest in such conversations; I had no idea what he was talking about.

Sleep eluded me entirely. When I was not being awakened by the German Exchange Student, I would wake up screaming, convinced that he was there or about to return. I spent countless nights staying awake, paralyzed by fear.

Then, during a cricket trip to Lismore, the moment I had dreaded occurred. I walked into the room, and there he was, the German Exchange Student, unpacking his belongings. He looked at me with the same sly grin I had seen before he silenced me. Only this time, I was conscious, and I fought back. With a few uncoordinated blows, I attempted to retaliate but was swiftly pulled away from him by my father. He intervened before I could cause any harm.

Following that incident, the German Exchange Student was swiftly sent back on a bus to the Hawkesbury, where he resumed living with his chosen foster family. While this chapter had come to an end, the torment of sleepless nights and the lifelong repercussions of mental illness were just beginning to take hold. I buried anything malicious deep within my consciousness for nearly 25 years because I simply chose not to remember.

Running Away

I had already started running by this time, but what I enjoyed became something necessary. Necessary for me to have an outlet. An outlet for the stress of my life and the trauma I was enduring at this part of my life.

In primary school, I never really got into running. I was a chubby kid who was just natural at sports without trying. I often walked cross-country races because I did not have the stamina. I did not care.

Then, as my body developed, I tried for the first time in a warmup cross-country race in PE, and I came third. I thought, ‘Shit… I could be good at this.’

So, I started by running around the backyard. Then it became two, three times. Before, it was the whole block. Then it became two blocks and so on. I ran everywhere after that. I ran further. I ran longer. I ran harder. I loved it.

So, in year seven at district, I came 15th. In year eight, the third. Then, I won and led the pack in the regionals the following year. I could have made a state that year, but the guy in front of me got his shoes stuck in the mud and had to stop. I could not stop laughing, and he ended up putting his boots back on and running straight past me. I came seventh, and only the top six went through.

I then joined Little Athletics and ran behind the best runner I have ever run against. I did not have the heart to run with him, even though I did not care enough. I did not have that winning attitude I needed to win against those sorts of athletes. I won most races at school, especially middle distance. The following year, after all the shit happened at home, I did not even make the district. Although I had lapped third place and a state female triathlete in a 1,500-metre race at Little Athletics a year earlier, I did not make the top six in a school race. I had put on a lot of weight from the medication and could barely run around the block.

What stopped me from running was not the rape, the mental health, nor the medication. I had experienced a stress injury, tendinitis in the ankle, which meant that a large sac of fluid would come out and rub against the bone on top of my foot. It was excruciating. I ran through it at cricket. I ran through it at AFL. I ran through all the pain in races in school. But eventually, I was forced to stop. This left me angry and depressed. I lost the outlet I needed.

Losing My Shit

So, after the chaotic few months that were a Purple Haze to me, we travelled up to Lismore for the annual Lismore Tournament with my Davy's cricket team. On the first day, I lost my shit when I walked into the German Exchange Student's creepy smile and him laughing at me. He thought that everything that had happened was funny.

I lost it in a rage and started screaming, hitting him with an open hand. I wanted to hit him harder with a closed fist, but fighting was not in me. He laughed at me as I let loose on him, but my mother, or my father walked in on us and pulled me off him.

They could see my distress but did not ask any questions. They sent the German Exchange Student home on the first train to Sydney. He went to the house he always wanted to go to, living with a boy with whom he would be the best man at his wedding later in life. He would have a pleasant stay in Australia while I lived with the memories of the pain he caused, physical and mental.

I had not slept properly for weeks, staying up all night hoping it would not happen again. A few days passed at Lismore, and my mental health deteriorated. Farter took me to the hospital to try and work out what was going on in the mind of his troubled son. He stayed with me as doctors explained to the worried parents that their child was out of reality. I could not find any relief and went to the toilet screaming. When I returned, the only relief I could receive was to quietly chant something under my breath. Farter asked me what I was uttering, to which I replied, 'God is Good, God is Good, God is Good. The Devil is bad, the Devil is bad, the Devil is bad.'

I was having a psychotic break, so I am unsure if it was minutes or hours, but the doctor sent me home with some medication after knocking me out. I woke to my father waiting anxiously by my bed for 14-16 hours. This was the first proper sleep I had had in weeks.

As usual, I got back to life quickly. I cried for a bit one morning and went to play cricket on my own. Crossy's mum told a young Crossy to come to bowl me a few balls, and my mind was again occupied with cricket. We fried a few cane toads that night as we ran for miles when Crossy pretended he was an adult and told us to 'get off his property.'

A few days later, I was loudly cheering on a victorious Hawkesbury team who had a miraculous victory in the final against a previously undefeated Newcastle side. I led the cheer squad of potentially eight hundred young cricketers who came on to cheer on the underdogs as they came to watch the exciting final. 's team pulled off three great runouts to win this remarkable match of cricket, spurred on by an army that I led chanting, 'Hawkesbury, Hawkesbury, Hawkesbury, Oi, Oi, Oi.'

The Shrink

I settled back into home life and school for about five or six months. Cricket kept me occupied, and I was running heaps at that time. After watching his son lose his mind and waiting eagerly next to his bed for several hours, waiting for him to wake, Farter could see something haunting him. He reached out for help and sought answers for his sometimes-strange behaviour.

I had lost my marbles at the Family General Practitioners, who temporarily gave me some ancient tranquilising antipsychotics that I tried for a bit. These made me feel like a zombie. I had a few delusions whilst taking them, even though things stayed normal at school. At one point, I thought I was pregnant. I thought my then-developing pot belly was a baby bump.

About six months after the seemingly isolated incident, I got the first available spot with a psychiatrist. By then, I had stabilised. The secretary told me of some ‘friendly’ websites where I could meet other lonely teenagers. But they realised I had a stable group of friends. They told me there was nothing wrong with me and that my parents were overprotective. They were overprotective, but it is hard to diagnose someone when they had months to stabilise after needing help six months before a vacancy.

Farter took me to St. John of God, where I got acquainted with my first longer-term psychiatrist. He was a skinny man, and I did not trust him. He was a bit awkward and did not know how to make a conversation, especially not with a troubled 15-year-old. Because I was still a minor, my father was asked to stay in the room to support me. He made most of the conversation, and when I was left to my own devices, the psychiatrist always put words in my mouth rather than trying to let me speak. I kept quiet mostly. Most of Dad's conversation was about how well I was doing at cricket and how well my music studies were going.

On the way home, I would be queried by my father, who would ask why I was so quiet and that he had to make the whole conversation. I thought angrily inside. You expect me to talk about cricket and music to a quack I do not trust when I have been almost drugged to death, almost died, was possibly raped, and nearly drank myself to death. Although I could hit the ball anywhere, I wanted to and could have a growing repertoire on the piano, these things seemed so trivial to me.

Because of the words in my mouth and the fact that I had had a few delusions when being on Lygactil, the quack thought it would be a clever idea to put me on a new-generation antipsychotic. He sent me home with several documents that I could not understand and told a troubled teen that he was making a weighty decision because it was likely that I would be on this medication for the rest of my life. Although Farter took a significant effort to read all the paperwork, it felt like another language and did not make sense to me. I sort of blanked out when they were describing all this complex language and science to me, to be honest. I did not understand. I just went along with it.

The first medication I tried was Olanzapine, which was described to me as Zyprexa. It is hard to express the feeling, but it always made me hungry. When I would come home from school, I would raid the fridge and the cupboards, eating everything in sight. I returned to the shrink 10days later and jumped on the scales. I had put on 10kilograms! I had gone from a fit, athletic runner to an overweight, unhealthy slob in 10days.

So, they trialled me on another medication. The shrink, worried that my psychotic symptoms were worsening, put me on 600 milligrams of Quetiapine, a drug I called Seroquel. I would take this dose every morning, not at night to help me sleep like how I currently use it in a much smaller amount (i.e., 100mg), but to make sure that the psychotic symptoms did not affect my schooling.

Apart from mainly sleeping during class and spending much of the weekends sleeping at cricket due to my strong medication, I got through the rest of my schooling relatively well. Although a bit obsessive in year 12, I got into university despite being on this highly sedative drug. Many peers asked me why I was constantly nodding off in weird and wonderful places. My favourite teacher was excited when I made it through her English and History classes without nodding off for half of them.

Burning Through the Night

Although it appeared to my family, friends, and cricket mates that I was coping, I was finding it increasingly more difficult to sleep. To my teachers, the poetry I was writing strongly contrasts the happy-go-lucky student they were seeing in their classes and the person excelling in his musical endeavours and thriving on the weekend in his chosen sport. And here they were, reading poetry about suicide and wanting to die. The face I was putting on seemed to contrast the words being written. The songs written at this time more accurately reflect how I felt inside. I was Slowly Burning Through the Night.

Setting Off Someone I Admire

I started drinking at parties more and more. I became increasingly angry with cricket because my abilities on the field were becoming less and less profound. This made my way to parties where I would often be bowling to myself, yelling at people passing by. I would be trying to start fights with them and drinking so much that I would pass out here, there, and everywhere. I was making a fool of myself time and time again. I was losing friends quicker than I was gaining them. I was starting to get a reputation for being a hopeless drunk.

Sometimes I did not drink, and I was the life of the party, but they were in different circles. To some, I was the old me, the happy-go-lucky fun person who was everyone's friend. To others, I was the guy at the parties who scared them. The guy at the party was just fucked up! My friends who I saw at school and on the weekend playing cricket saw a different me from the ones who saw me drunk. So, there were two I's. Those who have remained true to me chose to see the good me, the leader, even though it was blurred. The one who ran cricket sessions for his team and made it fun for everyone. The one who could blow an audience away on the piano. The one who could do anything he put his mind to.

Bergan was the only one who seemed to be a part of all areas of my life. He became increasingly critical of my life despite encouraging me to drink myself into alcohol poisoning. Seeing his friend go off the rails before him, I cannot imagine how conflicting this must have been for him. He was seeing two people at once. A person some saw as good, and others saw as bad. And to him, he was seeing both. I do not know what seeing all this did to his long-term psyche. How conflicted he must have felt. How much he must have blamed himself.

Home-Life Imbalance

Life at home was getting increasingly difficult for me and my parents, especially my father. It must have been hard to see someone you conceived become increasingly angry and more difficult to be around with. At the same time, the reality that my parents were seeing contrasted with the reality that the teachers were seeing at school. I was increasingly becoming angry being at home. I hated being in my room and constantly being reminded of it.

As my sleep was getting worse, I woke up later. It was increasingly difficult for my dad to get me out of bed on time for school, so I often did not get time to practice the piano as much in the morning, which had been part of my routine since I was a young child. The time I did get to practice focused on theory and the aspects that I was not good at, such as oral and singing. My father, who was my piano teacher, was focusing increasingly on the things that I was not good at, causing tensions between us.

It meant that we were fighting every morning because he was growing increasingly focused on aspects of music. I was struggling to make sure I could keep up with the high grades that had been expected of me up to this point. I was still practising at school, and when I got home from school, I had built up quite a repertoire of songs, but the mornings and lessons were becoming increasingly tense, aggressive, and argumentative.

This strained our relationship, as it always appeared that we were yelling at each other. He always seemed angry at me. He always seemed to be yelling at me. And then everyone else around him, my mum, my brothers, his students. Everyone. At one point, he almost punched the light out of my older brother, Philby. It started to scare me. It appeared that I had set off someone that I admired. It felt like it was my fault.

I became angrier myself. And more depressed. And more anxious. And more paranoid. And it all seemed my fault. I could not sleep. I did not want to remember! I needed to escape!

And unlike my father, I did not have a chance to escape my anger, as he could escape into Mother’s Garden, my escape. My outlet was increasingly difficult to use. My ankles hurt. My feet hurt. My head hurt! Everything hurt physically and emotionally.

Getting Through

I am unsure if I would not have gotten through if I had not received the support of a Great Psychologist, Graham, who became a mentor. Dad had given up on me at this point, and I had not made much progress with the psychiatrist, so they tried to see if 'talk therapy' would be more beneficial for their troubled child. I remember the Great Psychologist telling me that the only time he ever heard me angry was the first time he heard me yell in the background, 'I'm not going to another bloody shrink!'

I persisted, and my first session changed my life. The Great Psychologist could see straight through my father's anger and could see incredibly early on that was a big part of my problem. He acknowledged that I needed an outlet and often reiterated that I was ‘yelling at my parents so constantly at the time because I could.'

Rather than focusing on my negatives through a typical Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) program, the best practise at the time, he saw that it was more important to get through to me. To get me out of my mind.

So, the first session focused more on him than me, about what he liked to do. First, he shared some of his favourite music and gave me five or six of his favourite CDs. Then, he asked me to listen and see what I thought. Finally, he asked me if I could assemble a CD of some of the music I liked to listen to. That would give him a better place to start knowing who I am as a person. He also gave me the lyrics to Billy Joel's ‘Angry Young Man’ and asked me what I thought.

I went away and put together a compilation album of all my favourite music. It was all the music I had been brought up on, my dad’s music. I also went through ‘Angry Young Man’ with a tooth and comb as if it were an English dissertation. I went through it line by line and tried to grasp what Billy Joel was saying. The Great Psychologist, Graham, was impressed by the beautiful songs I had chosen, mostly ballads above 'peace' and 'love,' and was overwhelmed by how much detail I had gone dissecting the song. In the next session, he asked me what I thought about ‘Angry Young Man.’ I replied, 'It's me.' He said, 'What part of it is you.' I said, 'Every word. It describes exactly how I feel,' and it did. I was an angry young man. Was Billy Joel writing about me? My grandiose mind thought.

I had a lot of excellent sessions with the Great Psychologist, and I got to know the person I was and the person I could become. So, I settled back into high school, giving year 12 a real crack. Even though I was on highly sedative medication, I got through the HSC. And I was proud of what I had achieved, only really focusing on the last two years. All the trauma I had been through and the fact that I missed the first two weeks of year 11and year 12because of the increased stress and the expectations I was placing on myself exponentially grew at these times in my life. I was becoming a happier person again.

I had planned not to go on schoolies with the rest of the boys and get wasted off my face for a week or two. Instead, I had planned to ride my bike around the South Island of New Zealand. Although I had put on a lot of weight and could not ride my bike around New Zealand, I did some research. And I booked a tour instead with some money I had left over from working in the Olympics, the money I had saved teaching piano, and my income as a part-time waiter on Friday and Saturday nights. In addition, I raised a little more by working a new position for the Blue Mountains Water Company during holidays. Finally, I had enough money and was ready for my first overseas adventure.

The day before I had prepared to go on the trip around New Zealand, I panicked and had a bit of an existential crisis. My parents called the Great Psychologist, who was concerned that I was not quite ready mentally to abandon the life that had kept me stable and would be better off doing something with more support. Something a little closer aligned to what other adventures my other peers were exploring, like schoolies. Even if I got drunk for a week, he thought, at least I would be with other people my age who were also experiencing their first time away from life with their parents. I ignored my existential crisis and the advice of my first Wise Counsel. Instead, I took a great leap of faith and caught the plane to New Zealand—a scared, traumatised young man.

Memories Do Not Lie

The great leap of faith was a fantastic decision. I had a wonderful time in New Zealand and learnt much about myself. I had learnt to look after myself, had had my first clubbing adventures, bungy jumped, and explored much of this beautiful country. I had, however, run out of money about 500 km from my start and finish destination and required my parents to bail me out. This put further strain on our relationship.

When I arrived home, I had also stayed so long in New Zealand that I had left my run short to get set up for my new university life in Canberra. I had hoped to get into a Bachelor of Arts at Sydney University; however, I had missed out on getting the grades I required by 0.20 marks in the HSC. So, the next best option was moving to Canberra to study at the Australian National University (ANU). This university had a reputation for being the best university in Australia at the time and was rated the 16th best university in the world. However, this left me with less than one week to find a place in Canberra and settle into university life. This change would have been a lot for anyone, especially a scared, traumatised young man.

On the first week in Canberra, I caught the train back to Sydney to play cricket. I was physically and emotionally overwhelmed by a huge week. I was commuting from Queanbeyan by bike because I had failed to secure any accommodations. I was getting acquainted with the new life in Canberra. The university was a buzz, as there seemed to be so much to learn. I was surrounding myself with the several types of clubs that were available. I had spent many hours practising on a new piano. I had also ridden my bike once or twice to get acquainted with the new choir, which I hoped would boost my singing skills. On top of this, I decided to catch the train home to play cricket because I did not want to stop playing with my friends. I was exhausted.

I was preparing to take the long trip back to Canberra, which would mean a bus out to Queanbeyan, to ride my bike the 10-12 kilometres to the university. I fought with my father. He was still angry at me that I had not planned well enough in New Zealand and that he had had to bail me out. He had yelled and screamed at me, so I had caught the train home not just physically exhausted, but now I was also emotionally unstable.

I felt unsafe, so instead of catching the train onto Strathfield to catch the bus down to Canberra, I got off at Parramatta because I thought I needed help. I began walking down Church Street in Parramatta when a man saw me. He walked behind me briefly and asked, ‘Are you ok?’ He put my arm around him and my hands on his shoulders. I was physically and emotionally exhausted. This embrace made me bawl my eyes out.

The police saw this embrace and called out, ‘You pooftas!’

This would have insulted any straight person, particularly someone who had thought he had been raped by another man and had never been allowed to experiment with his sexuality. I screamed and screamed. I was tired and screaming out of frustration. I was at my tipping point, both physically and mentally.

The police continued abusing the man and me, calling us ‘pooftas.’ By this point, he, too, was screaming. He was as scared as hell. He had put his hand on my shoulder to offer comfort, and now the police were abusing him. Finally, we were tasered and then handcuffed. As we arrived at the police station, we were both screaming, so they took us to the Hainsworth Unit at Cumberland Hospital, where they knocked us out with needles and put us in some sort of chamber. I was trying to seek help as I felt physically and emotionally drained.

Because of the scene, the police knocked us out and locked us up in the chamber for 15days. They starved us for the entire time we were in the chamber. Every time we woke screaming, they would knock us out again with some form of psychiatric medication and put us back in the tank. Eventually, the other man got out of the tank, screaming that he will kill himself if he is not let out, and crying before knocking him out of consciousness again.

The other man had come to Parramatta to visit his mother, who was in Cumberland Hospital and was on his way to visit her. This meant that his mother witnessed the event and could see the abuse that was taking place. Everyone at Cumberland could hear the screaming but was unaware that we were being placed in a chamber, a tank of some sort, and being knocked out without food nor water. These could be described as ‘torture tanks.’ As the other man’s mother was extremely distressed by what was happening, she was also threatened with being put into a tank, but only two tanks were available at the time.

The other man’s mother rang her lawyer, who was there within half an hour. She claims to have paid a hefty sum to get the three of us out. The three of us were let out, and I was allowed to call my parents, who came to get me from Cumberland Hospital. The other man’s mother watched me get in the car with my parents and drive in the other direction.

Although I was released, when I went to get records of what happened in Cumberland all those years ago, there was no record of what had happened. The thing about this type of oppressive psychiatry is that evidence of it is extremely easy to hide. According to the records, ‘If it isn’t on the record, it never happened.’ It is easy to diagnose someone with paranoia and say this is why they do not trust anyone. It is easy to give a diagnosis of schizophrenia and say they have a history of delusions. The reality is that the people who inflict the trauma probably are not impacted by it too much. To them, what they did is right, and they can justify it in their minds. They might not even be alive to ‘feel’ the consequences of their actions anymore. The reality is for the person who experiences or witnesses the abuse. The trauma stays with them for a lifetime. Memories do not lie. They are the only transparent record of the truth.

Bloomfield

Amongst many positive experiences, I had had a few difficult years at home. I had moved down to Canberra to start a new life. I had fallen in love with My First Love. However, about nine months into my new life, I became obsessed with various philosophies and paranoid. It had been recommended by My First Love’s mother to return home to get some help. Her brother had not gotten the support he needed at ‘the right time.’ He had lived a life struggling with schizophrenia. She could see similar behaviours in me and was concerned that I needed to get the help I required before it was too late.

I had formed quite a sexual relationship with my first love and became quite unbalanced in my life. I had moved down to Canberra to begin a Bachelor of Arts; however, I was hospitalised in the first week of moving to Canberra. After a failed first semester, I had only actually completed two subjects. Both of which I could have done better in. In the second semester, I dropped to no official subjects. I was going to as many, Sociology, Philosophy, Anthropology, Religion, and Psychology subjects as possible. In my mind, I aimed to develop a well-rounded philosophy based on what I was learning.

When I returned to Sydney, I was taken to Penrith Hospital, where the treating team assessed me. Because they did not have beds at Nepean Hospital, I was escorted in a car with two security guards to Bloomfield Hospital in Orange. I talked calmly and rationally to the small team of helpers, who seemed happy to discuss rationally with me. We spoke about Canberra and what I had learnt at the university that year. I explained that I was looking for alternative medication options and was thinking of studying Reiki and Chinese medicine.

I arrived at the psychiatric hospital in a calm state. Still, upon arriving at the hospital, the team of psychiatrists and nurses approached me. They yelled, ‘I hear you’re looking for an alternative.’ Six nurses grabbed me, pinned me to the ground, and injected me with a substance. Again, I had no idea what the substance was. I remember being doped up and remaining in a drugged-up state for the next two days. I drifted in and out of lucidness.

Despite the recommendations from the psychiatrist for Mother Dearest to stay away from the hospital, as ‘it is often the parents that are the reasons why ‘they’ become unwell,’ she came out to Orange to stay at Nyrang with her good friend Christine and her family. She visited me every day and eventually advocated for me to be released from the hospital to be in the care of my parents. After 10 days, I was released from the hospital, a bit angry and a bit more scared. This time from being jumped on by a bunch of nurses for no apparent reason other than to exert some authority.

Fifteen Different Medications In Two Days

When I returned to my home life in Kurrajong, I was balancing a relationship in Canberra and a lazy existence where I was trying to piece together what I had learnt in my first year of university. I did a Reiki course for a few weeks that kept me occupied, but my parents were becoming increasingly concerned that my life had no direction. I had dropped out of the university and did not have a plan B for what I would do.

In my mind, I was piecing together a masterpiece. I had in mind that I would summarise a biology textbook I had bought and do this at my favourite location, at the Cabbage Tree Lookout at Grose Vale. I would follow the creek bed up to where I would piece together my masterpiece and workday and night until it was complete. Looking back, this was a ‘delusional’ perspective, and this was the perspective that Mother Dearest took. She followed me down the street and called the police. They took me in the paddy wagon to Nepean Hospital, where I had my second traumatic psychiatric experience, this time at Pialla Psychiatric Ward.

Instead of being knocked out cold this time or jabbed for no reason, I would experience a new type of oppression by the psychiatric system. Yes, I came in with a bit of an arrogant perspective that I was close to having all the answers humanity needed to solve its problems. I potentially made an inappropriate comment to an Indian man thinking that he was a Hindu. Still, they treated me like a criminal after that.

To take control of the situation and to take control of me, they did not try one medication or even two medications to see what medicines worked best for me. When I got my records many years later, they experimented with 15DIFFERENT medications in the first two days of my stay in Pialla Hospital. I would go on to try 17 different medications during my visit there. Whether this was incompetence or was a targeted approach to ‘fuck me over,’ indeed, trying 15different medications is an appropriate method for finding a balanced medication regime.

I was paranoid when I went into the hospital. I do not deny that, but I felt like I was bullied by the psychiatry and nursing staff during my stay there. There was nothing to do in the hospital. One nurse told my parents the best approach is to ‘keep their minds blank.’ Two young nurses looked out for me, but I became increasingly paranoid and suicidal while in this hospital. It took them 37 days to realise that I required stimulation to stay well when they allowed me to bring in my piano. When they had an open day, they opened the recreation room that had been closed off to us patients.

I was placed in the high-dependency unit for about 10-12 days, where a problematic patient made it hell for everyone. He pissed over all the toilets so that no one could go to the bathroom and ejaculated over the kitchen floor to ensure everyone had to walk through his cum every time we had a meal. He stole everything I owned. And when I went to sit in the one tiny spot where there was sunlight, he spat on the ground.

Because he had then gone out into the central acute ward, when I was asked to go back into the acute ward because I had stabilised, the psychiatrist made an excuse because I was too scared to be with that asshole, ensuring that I stayed in an extra week than I needed. Every time I presented at the tribunal; this same psychiatrist made a range of lies that kept me in the hospital longer. I was only released when I requested the num, who I trusted to join me, and the truth of the situation was told.

Eventually, after 47 days, I was released to spend time in the Norwest Clinic in Wentworthville, where I received a hugely different type of care one devoid of intimidation and lies. After a week or so in this clinic, the other participants were amazed at how my eye contact went from staring straight at the ground to trusting again and looking at people with my honest and open eyes directly into theirs. Within three weeks, I was myself again. On the last day, I told my dad that I was looking to return to the university to resume my learning and writing. I was shot down. ‘No one will ever read what you write.’ My confidence returned to where it had begun before I entered the hospital.

Once I completed my three-week treatment at the Norwest Clinic, I was invited to join the Young Person’s Program at Brumby House. This intensive program for young men with schizophrenia was kind of a group home environment. I shared a house with four other young men. We had support workers come in who acted like case managers. They took us shopping and to various recreational activities, like walking along the river.

A fantastic case manager took me to see my psychiatrist, who was now Helen Mitchel, in Richmond. Driving like a maniac there, he was impressed that Helen was the first psychiatrist who listened to what he had to say and took his advice. I continue to have a fantastic relationship with her today, as she is different from most other psychiatrists I have been involved with. She generally cares and only wants to do what is right for you. She sits down with you and goes through all the options, supporting you in making the most informed decisions.

This was vastly different from the psychiatry I had experienced so far. Then, I was forced to talk when I was not ready and given a drug that put on 10kilograms in 10days. I had been knocked out cold every time I woke screaming for 15 days without food or water. I had been pinned to the ground and injected with drugs for no apparent reason. And then, I was bullied, intimidated, and given 15 different medications for15days. Now I had choices and could finally experience humane psychiatry, at least for now.

Brumby House was my first taste of a psychosocial program and was a godsend. As I had independent living skills, they progressed me to the second phase of the program, semi-independent living. I was helped to be put on a pension and moved into a home in North Parramatta, where I settled into a new life. It is here that I enrolled in and completed the first year of my Traditional Chinese Medicine Course. The following year, I moved to campus. And the rest is history.

His Spirit Touched Me

I had a wonderful relationship with Nanna's older brother, Uncle Ern. We spent many holidays on the Sunshine Coast with his daughters, Aunty Jeanie and Aunty Pam, and their families. I always enjoy spending time with Aunty Jeanie and Uncle Don and try to see them when possible. This is not easy, considering that they live so far away. I have a close affinity with Uncle Ern's youngest grandson, Cameron, who is so much like his grandfather—kind and with a gentle sense of humour. Uncle Don always impresses me with stories about rugby union, as he once coached the Australian Women's Rugby Union team to a World Cup in Canada. One day, he invited me along to their training on the Sunshine Coast, which was a buzz.

I had one of the funniest memories of my life when we visited a cuckoo clock shop when they came to meet us at Tambourine Mountain. The more humorous 'cousin,' Andrew, had entered the shop before us and set all the alarms precisely at the exact moment. You could see his excitement as you heard, 'Wait for it, wait for it.' It was one of the funniest things I had ever witnessed without expecting anything to happen when all the coo-coos were set off at precisely the exact moment. The old shopkeeper was horrified and hurried us quickly out of the shop as we were all in hysteria. I have never laughed so hard in my life.

This side of the family has an incredible sense of humour and fun, especially Aunty Jenie and Aunty Pam. They are both married to incredible men. They are short on stature but full of life and excess energy. I love it when they come down. They came down once a year for a long time, and we caught up in all sorts of beautiful places in between when we were up at Lismore and the Gold Coast. We had many memorable holidays in places like Buderim, Palm Woods, Bli Bli, and Malolaba, as they always seemed to live in a different house every time we visited.

Uncle Ern had a good life but also a hard life. He had lived a life barely knowing his parents, being brought up in a separate orphanage from his three sisters. He had witnessed his daughter, Jeanie, struggled with anorexia to the point where she almost lost her life before she found the love of her life and came back to the life of the living. Uncle Ern had watched his wife, the love of his life, fade away with dementia, caring for her for the last 20 years of her life until she died. And then, after she died, he had hoped to care for another elderly lady in a wheelchair, whom he married, only to have his heart broken again. Caring for people was all he had known most of his life.

Then, when he needed to be taken care of, as his Parkinson's slowly took his body away from him, his family did not have the time nor the inclination to take care of him. They were busy with their own families and their own lives. So, Uncle Ern went to Sydney to live with his sister, Pat. Unfortunately, this was not a good option, as her dementia had deteriorated to the point where she had lost her marbles. So, Uncle Ern moved to Kurrajong to live with his youngest sister and her beautiful husband, Poorpa.

It seemed like a good arrangement, as Poorpa always appreciated the extra company. I enjoyed spending time with Uncle Ern when I could, but I spent most of my time in Canberra studying then, so I was only up for the holidays. When I did spend time with him, I could sense a deep sense of emptiness and loneliness at times, even though he put on a brave face. He would have small outbursts if you did not give him 100% attention and run off to his room. When would you say, 'Is Uncle Ern ok?' He would come back out of his room with a big smile. He just wanted someone to show him that they loved him.

One day, Davy was on his way up to see Uncle Ern and see if he could help him with his new car when the police were there. Shocked, Davy burst into tears, thinking something had happened to Poorpa. It was not Poorpa. Nanna had found his younger brother in their garage with a noose around his neck. Uncle Ern had lost his battle of depression, anger, resentment, Parkinson's disease, disrespect, and neglect to suicide. He had taken his life.

Knowing that I had had a great relationship with this beautiful uncle, Mother Dearest and Farter took the three hours to drive down to Canberra to let me know. I was spending time at my girlfriend's house, My First Love, when I was told they had some sad news. They did not need to tell me what had happened. I knew Uncle Ern was near the end. I just felt helpless to be able to stop it. I had tried to spend as much time as possible, but I was not living up in Kurrajong then. I could not do anything to stop it. I let out a loud yell of anguish. I felt Uncle Ern's pain.

Then one of the most spiritual moments of my life came upon me. Whether it was a voice, a premonition, or whatever you want to call it. I heard a call from the ether saying, 'Would you like me to look over you?' Uncle Ern's spirit was with me as I felt a tingle from the top of my head to my toes. I felt a quiet sense of calm and comfort. I knew Uncle Ern was safe. His soul was now at peace. He was now reunited with the love of his life.

Saying Goodbye To My Hero

I was lucky to have many happy memories with my beautiful grandparents, who remained extremely important to me until their deaths. As Poorpa felt that 'Bastards were getting the better of him,' he retired from his alderman duties at Fairfield Council, and they moved full-time up to the Central Coast to retire.

Poorpa would have spent the rest of his life up there to be close to his lifelong mate, Stan Ward. Poorpa loved being up near the water. Since he was a boy, he had loved having the freedom to go for a dip, do some body surfing, or spend some time with his dog by his side enjoying rock fishing. He loved having the opportunity to winch his dingy up from the canals of St. Hubert’s Island to cut and prepare the fish he had caught. He loved being able to steam the blue swimmer crabs he caught. He also loved maintaining his garden, and with the help of Nanna, he left a love of gardening with both of their children. Poorpa loved the community of Woy Woy. He would have done anything to live the coastal life of the Central Coast, but his Parkinson's was getting increasingly difficult to manage. A life of staying up late, having many drinks, and working long hours had taken hold of his body.

Poorpa and Nanna moved to Kurrajong, hoping we would look after them as they aged. They could also be close enough to Faulcon bridge to be with his other grandchildren, whom he valued equally. This was great for us boys because it meant we could be within walking distance of our heroes. Although it had been such a significant part of our childhood to go to the Central Coast, having them around the corner was even better.

They looked at many houses around town, many of which had been unique homes for them to spend their later years in. But Poorpa was impressed by their chosen place because it had a cool bar. Apart from the fact that there was an extremely large incline from the post box to the garage, it was, in fact, three distinct levels if you included the back access and was extremely inconveniently based over two different stories. Looking back, it was a terrible choice of house, but it was close, and I would not miss the opportunity to be just a small stroll away from my heroes.

I often wandered by Sherwood Street on my way home from school to see how they were doing. I would often be invited to the bar for a ginger ale, a ginger beer, or a lemonade. I would often have a tinker on their turn-of-the-century piano passed down the generations from Great Nan. I would often play with Ses, who was a playful and excitable little mate. I would chase him around the lounge room and fall with him to the ground in a loving embrace. He was a dog, but he always seemed to have a smile on his face. He always seemed to have a spark in his beautiful eyes. He always seemed to be full of joy.

I began teaching my young piano students downstairs on the piano that was so full of life. I wrote some of my favourite songs on that piano, including my HSC composition ending. I had some great times downstairs in that house teaching the piano. It was as joyful an experience for me as it was for the students to whom I tried to teach my beautiful instrument in a fun and exciting way.

I often found Poorpa's music blasting from the lounge room whilst Nanna was in the kitchen preparing dinner. Poorpa would be somewhere, pottering around the garden. I owe much of Nanna's lack of hearing to the end of her life because she always had to listen to the jazz blasting out at all decibels. She was happy if Poorpa could hear his jazz in the background. Nanna never complained.

Nanna thought she could not cook, but I enjoyed her simplicity. It was fish with caper sauce, roast pork with vegetables, or meat and three vegetables. There were a few others, but they were the staples. The meal would always end with a rice custard, a meal I once detested as a child but learnt to love as it was always cooked with love. If lucky, we would be surprised by Poorpa's jelly and custard. This was always a thrill.

One day, Poorpa's Parkinson's was feeling good, so he decided we would walk into town, approximately five hundred metres down the road. There is a steep incline that he managed well. We got our ice cream. Poorpa loved buying his grandchildren's ice cream. He often finished a swim at Kilcare Beach with an ice cream, usually a Bubble O Bill or Paddlepop. We were feeling perfect this day, so Poorpa asked if we could go back home through the top access of the property. Although we owned it, the neighbour had encroached on it, and they were going through the legal system to gain access to it.

We got to the top access fine, but about five metres in, the Parkinson's stepped up a notch. Every step became a challenge, but we did not mind. We talked about everything. Football, jazz, whatever came to mind. The steps were challenging, but the conversation was great. It took us about 45 minutes to make it about 10metres. I grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him down the steep incline, dirt getting all over his baggy green track pants. Poorpa did not mind. He was having an adventure.

From reaching the start of the top access, it took us approximately three hours to navigate the 10-20-metre incline, but we had fun. Understandably, Nanna was worried and concerned about where we had been. She grabbed him by the hand and tried to hurriedly rush him down the final 14 or 15 steps of the stairs, but the stubborn Poorpa explained, 'My grandson will take me down.' It had been challenging work, but it will remain one of the best few hours of my life. I enjoyed spending every moment with my hero.

However, we did see his Parkinson-ridden body slowly deteriorate, and we were forced to put him in a nursing home. We checked out a few, but the care was terrible. Poorpa was the most grateful person I knew, but in the first place, he would often wait hours to be dealt with when he needed to turn his body over. Simple activities like this seemed to be such a chore.

Eventually, we got him settled in at Kurrajong Nursing Home. This was great because it was just around the corner, and we could visit him nearly daily. The staff gave him a lot of respect and treated him with dignity. The day before his death, he told Mother Dearest that he was 'ready to go home.' Mum replied, 'You cannot go home. Your home is here at the nursing home.' I knew what he meant.

Carrying my childhood hero's coffin down the driveway and saying goodbye was difficult. But he had lived good innings. He had lived a full life, and he had achieved everything that he had hoped to achieve. I had once asked him whether he thought a global government was possible. Poorpa believed it was too big because family and community were his two most important things. Family and community were good enough for him.

Poorpa taught me so much about tolerance and how you must be grateful for what you have. Even close to his last days at his home in Kurrajong, he could barely walk, but he continued to have one rose that he addressed daily. It blossomed. As did his bright, larger-than-life personality. He would sing and whistle the whole time whilst attending to his rose. It was the only thing he could do, but he did it well. I will always be grateful for learning that even unimportant things, like attending to a rose, can be magnificent. I summarised my relationship with Poorpa with a poem I read at his funeral called Poorpa.

A Final Goodbye

I spent more time with Nanna after Poorpa died. Nanna's dementia started to worsen while Poorpa was alive, but it gradually deteriorated Nanna over the years. First, there were minor behavioural issues and confusion, then she lost the ability to drive, and eventually, she lost all ability to function.

Nanna sold the house they had bought in Kurrajong and moved in downstairs so we could keep a closer eye on her. We adapted the garage to a self-contained flat with a bed and some of her other comforts. We began buying things to make it a little easier for her, such as specific dementia clocks, but her functioning declined.

I walked with her every day around the block. This walk is an excellent 2-3 kilometres round trip that scales some big uphills and downhills. It is a challenge for anyone to do. But as Nanna's memory declined further, she often forgot that she had walked the block and would do it two, three, and sometimes four times, often in extensive heat.

Things became increasingly difficult at home. Mother Dearest and Nanna began arguing about smaller things before they were butting heads at nearly everything. Eventually, we had to make the difficult decision for her to go into care.

We chose a beautiful nursing home in Windsor called Fitzgerald House. It was here that Nanna would spend the last ten years of her life. It was comfortable here, and the support was excellent. I would visit her 2-3 times a week every time I had an opportunity. I loved spending time with her, eating, going for walks, and singing the song I had written about her, and Pa's life called Faith and Don.

One day I was taking her for one of our walks around the nursing home when she suddenly tripped and hit her head hard on the concrete. She started bleeding from the head and went unconscious. I panicked and raced to the nursing staff. When I returned, she had returned from her unconsciousness and was back with the world. The nurses reached down to her to help her up, but she refused their help, screaming, 'No, my grandson will help me up.'

This hit me more than I thought. I called Mother Dearest, whom I had not seen in a long time, and she drove down to my home where I was living at HAC and called me over to her car. We sat in the car, and she asked, 'What’s up?' I somehow lost control of my emotions and started bawling my eyes out. It seemed beyond what I was able to cope with. I wept. 'I thought I had lost her. She is the last person that reminds me of Poorpa.'

I recovered and spent another three or four magic years with Nanna, visiting her whenever possible. Although her dementia had changed much of who she was, she never lost her sense of humour and had her own quirks. She always used to tell me that she ‘had a poor memory but had a good forget-tory.' She always used to say that she 'had been here before.' These are just some of the quirks we got used to as she often repeated many things she had previously told you. She was still a gem to be around, and you always had a bit of a laugh.

The last night she was with us, she Facetimed Davy and told her how much he loved him. She had a long-lost memory of Poorpa but continued to know who Davy was even though he was on the other side of the planet. She knew who Mother Dearest and Farter was, Aunty Suzie and her daughters, and even knew Philby's ex-wife, Uyen.

She could not utter words on her deathbed but spent some of her dying moments with Philby and me. She would point to herself, make a sign of a heart, and then point at us. We held her hand as she told us, 'I love you,' in her way, one more time. Seeing the last chapters of my two heroes was sad, but again, she had lived well. She had gone from living in a nursing home with no opportunities to ensuring that her children had every opportunity to be the best people they could be. She often told me that she was born without a heart, but throughout her life, she had given everyone else her heart.

Hypomanic

Apart from a small and brief psychotic break from reality when I thought I had witnessed Nanna passing, I remained stable for nearly 20 years. However, increased stress at work led me to leave Uniting and go through a period of losing three jobs in less than a year. This has had a detrimental effect on my confidence and made me more depressed and suicidal than I ever have been in my life.

During my time at Uniting, I became increasingly stressed. I would often work on Sundays to be prepared for the week ahead, and if I did not do this, I would not cope. I would usually prepare for up to three hours on a Sunday, only for many of the meetings I had been booked to do that week to be reassigned to another LAC, and I would be given a different participant for which I had yet to prepare. This would put me in a state of stress and anxiety that I was unprepared for attending a meeting. My new team leader, Olessia, did not know how to handle me when I was in that state as she would find it hard to manage me.

The final straw as an LAC came when the planner funding for one of my participants did not push through. This caused me a lot of frustration and anxiety, and I never really got over it. I had been in that job for three years, my most extended employment role so far. I was in a relationship with the Perfect Companion, who had left Uniting eight months before me, and took on a job that caused her great stress. She was working long days and late into the night and early hours of the morning to keep up. She was also tired and cranky and did not have much time to spend with me.

I went straight from Uniting to being a peer worker at Frangipani House, working for One Door Mental Health. My energy levels were high with extreme excitement on days when I could connect and assist my participants, and then I would crash and be depressed the next day because no one turned up for the groups or answered my phone calls. One was a company with no leadership; we all worked in a self-managed team. This did not suit me, as I needed structure, which increased my stress.

In 2020, the second round of infections of the Coronavirus (COVID 19) hit and was handled with strict lockdown rules. It did not do my mental health any good and affected me immensely. I was isolated in my unit seven days per week. My work was carried out online or via phone, which made it hard to connect and engage with my participants. I became depressed due to a combination of being isolated and not being able to continue my physical activities.

I was removed from my role at Frangipani House as there needed to be more participants engaging in the online activities for One Door to continue employing the number of staff on the team, so I was offered a different role in the connector program. This boosted my spirits as I could contact and connect with most people and provide support and assistance on the phone. As the COVID restrictions were lifted, my team met up. I brought the team together and introduced innovative ideas to support our clients. We started a group program and did social outings, which gave me a great buzz. I was high because I had brought my team together and developed a new team culture.

During this time, a female colleague commented about me, which triggered a downward spiral. I lost all confidence and went into a depressive, negative, self-doubting state. It was hard to reason with me during this period, and it was impossible to shift my mood. Eventually, however, I shifted out of this state, but I continued to be high one day and low the next depending on what happened at work.

During this time, the Perfect Companion's son, Enigma, became more difficult, selfish, less tolerant, and verbally abusive depending on his day and whether everything was going his way. His behaviour caused much conflict for all of us as I would stick up for her, and he would attack me. I realised that this affected my mental health, and my stress state elevated. I started going to her place less than two to three nights per week, so I was not always in constant fear. Things escalated more between him and me, and as my relationship with him declined, so did my relationship with his mother.

Over this time, there were several instances when I thought I was becoming unwell. There were signs, including numbness in my arms, getting more paranoid, and needing more medication to sleep. At one point, I thought people were breaking into my unit by getting through the window in my spare room and sleeping in the spare bed at night. I thought they had a key to my front door, and they would get in that way to sleep in the spare room but would be gone by morning when I got up. Another time I met the Perfect Companion in the city one day, I had a sensation that everything sped up around me. This was increasingly happening. I reached out to my psychiatrist from a private health clinic, but I felt better when called me.

I was made redundant at One Door, which had a devastating effect on my mental health. I was seeing my wise counsel Michelle at this time, and she believed I was hypomanic. My work at One Door ended a few weeks after I returned from a road trip to Adelaide and then a buzz flight to the Gold Coast, where I was offered a traineeship to be a Blockchain developer. I got COVID on the last day of my job at One Door and infected all the company's executives. I got vertigo a few days later, which caused great distress. The isolation caused me to sink into a depressive state, and I had suicidal thoughts. I did not want anyone to visit me, and I did not want to talk to anyone.

After a few weeks, I got a new job and appeared to have recovered from my depression. I thought this would be my dream job developing programs for a disability provider. I was anxious but very excited to be starting. Unfortunately, this job provided no managerial structure, direction, nor support from a co-worker or boss. I was unsure of what I was supposed to be doing, which caused me tremendous frustration and stress.

I sat for the first week and obsessively developed a workbook for recovery coach participants to work through. Then, I was told that I had to call all the participants on the books and get them to engage in programs that had yet to be developed. When no one answered calls, I would be on a downer. I was frustrated that my co-worker was supposed to be helping to develop the programs and make calls, but she did not and then would twist it around that I was not doing my work, undermining me.

I had a disciplinary meeting within the first few weeks, saying that I had been inappropriate, but I was unsure how or in what manner I was being inappropriate. I was up and down emotionally each day due to the stress of not knowing what I was supposed to be doing, not getting any assistance or support from my co-worker, and having my co-worker undermine me daily.

After six weeks, I knew I was getting the sack, and this was playing on my mind. I did not know what I had done, except this woman I was supposed to work with did not like me. I had a meeting that offered a reduction of my working days to two days, which I turned down. I left immediately feeling deflated and defeated that I had lost 'another' job. This left me believing I was unemployable. I was angry, depressed, and even suicidal. I tried to seek help by going to St. John of God, but they did not have a bed available. I went to Nepean Hospital, but they sent me home. I tried every support I had mapped, but nothing was open. I took this all personally, and this escalated my depression.

I sat at home on the lounge each day, depressed, thinking that I was unemployable. The Perfect Companion continually tried to tell me otherwise, but as far as I could see, I had been sacked from three jobs in a year. Finally, I was about to lose hope when Ramsey Clinic said they had a bed available.

Once in Ramsey, I was my happy self again, excited even. I was looking forward to changing my medication to Latuda and was pleased I had the same psychiatrist I had seen 19 years ago. I settled in my room and attended the first session, where I met The Goddess. This changed my life. We began going for walks in the morning and walking to the shops. We played up a little bit. We looked forward to leaving the clinic to start a new life together.

When we did start our new life together, it was a whirlwind. Until our first trip down to Sydney, everything had been perfect. We spent all our time going for walks on the beach, exploring Newcastle together, playing football in the park, and making love at every opportunity. And I was getting to know her two children. Things were going so great.

Then on our first trip to Sydney, the stress began to surface. As we reached Penrith, her pain levels became intolerable, and she told me all about it. I tried telling myself that we were only 15minutes from where we needed to be, but she yelled and screamed at me, making the car trip miserable. We ended up just pulling over to get some relief. Then as we reached close to Newcastle on the highway, her stress levels reached a new high because we were about to run into her former husband, Ben, for the first time since we had met. As we reached the football oval, I thought, 'What have I got myself into?'

I went into a 'dissociative' state, completely shutting down and going blank. Rather than seeing this as a 'trauma response,' from the state her stressed behaviour had caused, her response was for me to just snap out of it. Snap out of it before my son gets home. She stormed off because she was so scared that my face went blank. I went searching for her, scared that she was going to drink.

Up to my birthday at the end of November, everything else seemed to be going smoothly. But it was on my birthday that I noticed how controlling The Goddess was. Instead of letting anyone else engage in conversation, she spoke above them. Whenever her children went to add conversation to the table, she interrupted them and spoke for them. Again, I was thinking, 'What have I gotten myself into?' I left the dinner table and walked to clear my mind, which caused more stress as The Goddess did not know where I was going. I dissociated again and was suicidal. At that point, I did not want to live anymore.

As Christmas approached, we had our difficulties. We had had numerous arguments, and I continuously thought I was out of my depth, but the sex had been so good that it had kept me in the relationship. Until Christmas, I had been increasingly manic and needed increased medication to sleep. Then, we had a massive argument over a poem I wrote as a holiday address for Christmas Eve. This was the end of me. Every time I did something I was proud of; I was shut down as if I were worthless.

I enjoyed Christmas with the family, and The Goddess joined us on Christmas Eve. She stayed for an enjoyable day with two of my friends the next day but then went home. My friend, and former work colleague Glen, remained for a few days, and we spent time together. I was, however, increasingly manic, and lacking sleep in the days that followed. I had been in and out of a hypomanic state for over eight months. The year's stress had progressed to a point where my mind was at a tipping point. I was close to a crisis.

Scheduled

Hypomania is a state in which everything seems happy, euphoric, and exciting as if you cannot get your words out fast enough. I was sleeping extraordinarily little and was more active than normal. In addition, I had increased sexual energy that I did not seem to be able to control. One day, when I was travelling out to Mount Wilson with Glen and Zoe, every story seemed to take on increased significance to the point that I would cry with laughter and joy at stories that were not that exciting.

In my mind, I was going through my 'creation story.' From my study on the Evolutionary History of Creation, I believed that the evolutionary story would play out in my life over the next seven days with roughly the following structure:

Day 1: the creation of the physical world and the best of what the physical world brings – technology.
Day 2: the creation of the earth and the struggle humanity has between land, sea, and sky.
Day 3: life is brought to the story as simple cells evolve.
Day 4: Simple cells evolve into anxious, paranoid, obsessive, and compulsive reptiles.
Day 5: Mammals evolve emotions.
Day 6: Humans evolve thought, self-talk, and imagination.
Day 7: the REST of the story evolves.

This is how the story occurred in real life:

Day 1: I bought a hell of much technology and took my friend on a manic journey to Parramatta, where I told her a whole lot of stories thinking that I was embarking on a vast evolutionary journey.
Day 2: I picked up my friends Sigrid and Zoe and went on a big roundabout trip in Western Sydney. I then wrote an email to Elon Musk explaining the situation that humanity is adversely affected by the climate change crisis and that we are mining the planet to extinction.
Day 3: I spent the entire day trying to evolve the story and produce my definition of the higher power. That night I had a psychotic break and broke my phone. My mental health nurse had heard I was psychotic and was calling to offer some help.
Day 4: I woke up with a 'revelation' that I am the 'creator' of my story. I went to the streets preaching my 'revelation' and was followed home by the police. My mother offered to get some support, but I jumped out of the car in anger. I was then picked up by an ambulance and taken to the hospital to get checked out. I spent the night in the emergency department.
Day 5: I waited most of the day to see what was happening and was taken to the high-dependency unit.
Day 6: I fought for my rights because I was not seen nor heard in the high-dependency unit. I vented my concerns to the official visitors and the medical superintendent.
Day 7: The rest of the story will be told in the book An Insane Man in an Insane Place, Piecing Together Stories of Detainees of Various Degrees of Insanity.

The consequence of my manic high was that I found myself scheduled in a mental health hospital. In my heightened state, my parents responded by what I perceived as hostile towards me, ensuring that I had lost their trust and excluded them from my care.

I transferred from the High Dependency Ward to the Acute ward. There were a few familiar faces. And the first night seemed like a backpacker as the patients leaving the next day were all high on ice.

One day blurred into the next as the routine became familiar to me. First, we were woken up to go to breakfast, which was always tasty, before spending the day in the courtyard. We were entertained by each other and the company the participants gave each other. Next, there would be lunch, followed by more of the same before dinner. Before long, it was time to go to bed and do it all over again. There was lots of laughter and good banter amongst the people on the ward, but the staff did their best to hamper our spirits.

When one of the participants asked for their rights to be read to them, it was done in such an intimidating way that the patient said, 'I will be afraid of you now.' The staff member responded, 'Good, that's the way it should be.' At another point, I want to highlight the need for consumers and staff to be effective staff members in the Partnering with Consumer Standards recommended by the Australian Quality and Safeguards Commission. The staff did not want to be partners and were happy with the 'us vs them' culture, with the staff member saying, 'I am not your partner.'

We have advocated for better conditions in the public mental health system for years. But unfortunately, it continued to be in the archaic, authoritarian for 20 years, if not worse. It continues to be a traumatic experience rather than a healing one, in which the staff seems more focused on intimidating the already traumatised clients and overly exercising their authority. When I complained about the conditions and that I was not getting any treatment, therapy, nor meaningful activity, I was reminded, 'Do you know where you are?' I was appalled by this and reminded the nurse that I knew exactly where I was every time I saw her. I ended up getting disciplined over this.

On the last day I was on the ward, I asked to talk to a manager to discuss an issue after being told that I 'need to ask a nurse' about the process of how to even see a manager. I asked four nurses and was told every time, after breakfast, after lunch. A manager finally told me he would see me and signalled he would see me in 10 minutes. I waited for 10 minutes, then 20, then 30, then 40, and then just gave up. This was the same response you would get every time you 'asked a nurse.' Despite requiring their assistance for even the most minor things like a toothbrush or shampoo because the patients could not be trusted with these, it would often take 40 or 50 minutes, sometimes more, for even the most basic requests.

In the last two days of my stay, I saw many of my peers lose it as the conditions eventually got to them. Instead of supporting these traumatised individuals, the authoritarian approach was to intimidate them and circle them with security guards. Some of my friends lost it and lashed out, which was the response the security guards were after because that meant they could use force. Another of my friends just screamed and screamed until he was given the injection.

It was ironic that the person who provided so much intimidation on the ward was the one who was asked to walk me out. I walked out of the ward after three and a half weeks without a treatment plan, advocacy, therapy, nor virtually any form of activity when I was there. The gym was out of order, so the only exercise I had participated in was pacing up and down the lonely halls. I had not seen a tree in more than three weeks. I had not even seen a car.

Although 20 years ago was equally as traumatic, at least we had engaged in some group activities and had had the opportunity to go for daily walks. I walked out of the ward angry, still hypervigilant, and traumatised.

Resolving My Trauma

The Perfect Companion drove me to the Hills Clinic and sat until the nurse saw me. Then, almost at once, my anger seemed to dissipate. Within an hour of being in the clinic, I had undertaken a Collaborative Care Plan, seen my psychiatrist, and created a treatment plan. This was all I had asked in three and a half weeks at the public hospital, and within an hour, I had gotten what I had wanted at the private clinic. The nurses seemed eager to help and friendly, not intimidating.

I settled in quickly, and like the people at the public health clinic, all seemed great. I settled in for the night and wrote about my experience at the public hospital. I did not have access to my computer at the public hospital but had been eagerly writing out my experience and trying to resolve some of the traumas I had confronted. I was angry in the clinic but had written about some of the reasons I was angry such as being yelled at by my father and the pressure I felt growing up trying to be a 'perfect' pianist and living up to the expectations of a father who is a perfectionist. As I wrote things down, I felt less angry.

Then over the next week and a half, I slowly unfolded all the trauma I had confronted. Initially, I found it challenging to write about and would be angry, even crying, but after it had been written, it was as if it had been released. The tension I had held about being drugged, raped, and tortured seemed to put ted to be let go. It was as if everything that had happened seemed to lose its power. Over time, the memories seemed to lose their intensity, and the power was placed back in my hands, not the trauma.

I spent another three and a half weeks in the Hills Clinic. Still, instead of boredom and intimidation being the key themes of the day, I got fit from all the gym work and martial arts, became more mindful from the Taichi, and was educated with exceptional facilitation of groups such as cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT), dialectical behavioural therapy (DBT), and acceptance and commitment therapy (ACT). In addition, I went for daily walks where I could position my mind to put together my life story that moved beyond the trauma and into the significant aspects of my life that have made it so good. It was hard to believe that I spent the same amount of time in both facilities because one dulled the mind and made me angry, whereas the other fulfilled my mind and put my body and mind into a place where it could heal.