Infinite Sadness

Catherine Reddell

Published by Catherine Reddell, 2009 Catherine Reddell P O Box 25-327 Christchurch 8144 Catherine Reddell, 2009 All rights reserved. No part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior permission of the copyright owner except for the purposes of fair review.

Printed by Microfilm Digital Print a division of the Microfilm Ltd, 65 Victoria Street, Christchurch, New Zealand Proof reading by Marianne Todd ISBN: 978-0-473-15450-9 All names (except the authors) have been changed in order to protect identity and the right to privacy.

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To my brothers, who in their own ways, sought to understand and accept my darkness. It must have been hard to watch helplessly as your sister did everything she could to destroy herself in the desire to find wholeness through the pain of depression and chronic mental illness. . My words are insufficient to express my gratitude but thanks guys. I love you both!

Note: The picture on the cover represents the familiar feeling of being on a playground merry-go-round, going faster and faster, at the hands of someone other than myself, with no way off but to jump. I have to weigh up the cost. How much will I be hurt? Do I stay and hang on for dear life or do I jump?

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Index

Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21

A Letter to the Reader A Different Christmas How does a Nightmare Begin? A New Diagnosis A Rock to Hide Under No Stone Left Unturned A Fresh Start Ever Decreasing Circles To Love and Honour Forbidden Thoughts Sledge-hammer Therapy Grapes and Thorns Staying Alive Patient Life There is a Place Down in the Woods Beginning Again Psychedelic Moments With Difficulty Those Who Stand Helpless After Church Infinite Sadness5

6 9 16 28 31 39 53 63 70 80 92 103 118 129 140 147 156 160 167 172 182 188

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Prologue a Letter to the ReaderThere I was; life was looking pretty good. I couldnt really complain. I had a good job, good health, good friends and a close relationship with my family, who lived in other parts of the country. I had a deepening relationship with a man who seemed to want the same things in life as me. So much so that he was shifting cities to be closer to me. As I said, things were looking pretty good. That was 1993. But not much later things turned to custard. Relationships with friends, family and my employer turned sour when I could no longer cope. I couldnt live with myself let alone with anyone else. Years have gone by and I have scars both physical and mental to show for the war I have been through. Have you ever just wanted to cry, but your eyes have failed and there are no more tears? You just feel wretched and wish for an end. Have you ever wanted desperately to take the sharpest knife in the drawer and cut deep into your body? Just to see the blood flow and feel some physical pain. Perhaps youve seen the scars on another and wondered. Have you ever felt the overwhelming heaviness of sadness and depression? Not just a day or a week but months and months? Have you ever felt what seems to be infinite sadness? Have you battled to put the smallest mouthful of food in your mouth and swallow? Or not been able to stop eating, more and more food? Nothing satisfies. It doesnt matter if you feel sick, you just have to keep going. Its something tangible. Its not in your head. Or perhaps youve been the one who has had to watch seemingly helpless, as someone close to you has suffered unspeakable pain. Have you been unable to take their pain away? You cant make them eat. You cant prevent the scars. Or convince them to take the medication that has adverse side affects, and just makes them7

feel worse. Have you been seemingly unable to make a difference for your friend or family member? Well you are making a difference in just being there, being with him or her. Being there is enough; it doesnt take great words of wisdom. You probably wouldnt get the right words anyway. I have written this book with two thoughts in mind. Firstly I want to tell those who suffer that they are not alone. Through the years I have grasped at books that told me someone else was suffering out there too. Sometimes it took a long time to read as my concentration was hopeless, but it did help me to read. Maybe it will help you too. Secondly I want to give a glimpse to those who have to watch their loved ones suffer. Everybody experiences mental illness differently. My story will not tell you how your loved one feels or what they experience. I cant guarantee that you will feel better for having read my book. Its not that type of book. Actually it will be hard to read sometimes. Hopefully it gives some insight into the type of difficulty and pain that people with mental illness experience. If by telling my story I help one person to keep going, or to understand mental illness a bit better, then that is enough. The hard hours of facing my pain by putting it on paper will have been worth it. If my words go some way to bridging the gap between those who experience mental illness and those who have to stand and watch, it will have been worth taking the risk of telling my story. I dont expect that all of my words will be understood by everyone, let alone be accepted. But I believe that the more people talk (and read) about mental illness, the more it will be accepted in society and the easier it becomes to bear. In order to protect individuals I have changed all names except my own, and that of my parents. I hope that by changing names I have left the individuals referred to with their right to privacy. It is my story and not theirs so there is no need to identify those involved.8

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Chapter 1 A Different Christmas"It's always winter and never Christmas." Mr Tumnus in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, C. S. Lewis

Christmas. Usually a time of celebration, festivities and of new beginnings. This time though, Christmas was a time for tears, a time for pain, and for anguish. Celebration was so far from our minds that Christmas hardly registered at all. Two days before Christmas. Most people are finishing their preparations for Christmas. Last minute shopping. Perhaps finishing work for the holiday break. Travelling to celebrate the holiday season, usually with family or friends. That's what Christmas is all about. For some families, and certainly mine, a time for celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ, the son of God. For others the focus is on having fun with family and friends, usually drinking and eating too much, vowing to go on a diet as soon as it's over. This Christmas, of 1994 was different. Newly married only three months earlier, Dave and I were also travelling, but not with the view to celebrating the festive season. I was being admitted to Ashburn Clinic, a private psychiatric hospital in Dunedin. I didnt want to be going, and at every chance I considered making a run for it but where? I really wanted to run from life altogether. I'd had enough and so desperately wanted to put it to an end. I had now been sick for 15 months and my suicidal thoughts were the reason I was heading for a psychiatric hospital. That was why Dave was taking me there. That is why Christmas this year would be a time for tears, rather than peace, happiness or joy.10

I sat on the plane and cried silently. What was happening to me? What had gone so wrong that we were, heading for a psychiatric hospital two days before Christmas? Why me? How could this be happening? My crazed mind was flooded with questions. We had a stop in Christchurch to change planes but I had no desire to see my family. We just sat and waited. We finally arrived in Dunedin. The shuttle bus driver knew exactly where we were going he had obviously taken plenty of prospective patients to Ashburn Clinic before. It seemed we went all over Dunedin, dropping other people off before arriving at our destination. As we travelled I cried some more behind my sunglasses, wondering what was to become of me. Dave at least knew Dunedin, having lived there for a while as a child, but I had no idea where we were going, and when we would actually get there. The day had already seemed as if it would never end, but really it was only just beginning. Through my tears I hesitantly told the receptionist who I was. They had been expecting me. Again, I just wanted to turn and run. How could I stay here? Me? I had to get away, but where to? I knew no one in Dunedin and knew I wasn't in a state to get very far perhaps the end of the driveway. This was all a first for me. I had twice visited people in public psychiatric wards, but never thought I would be admitted myself. I looked around at the other people wandering through the reception area, wondering whether they were staff or patients. It was hard to tell them apart. There were no uniforms here. Surely I didn't look like the other patients, did I? Surely I was different. As I waited to go through the admission process with the on-duty psychiatrist, another patient came up and introduced herself as Shelly. Apparently she was to be my buddy, and so she told me11

that she would see me later. In the meantime, she patted me on the shoulder and said Hang in, it'll be all right, How could it be all right? My buddy? What was this place? Shelly looked about 18. I was only 29 but I felt so old, and so, so different. How on earth could I possibly stay here? Dave was also starting to wonder. Was he prepared to leave his wife here, with patients like Shelly to befriend me? What was happening? He kept his thoughts to himself. He knew how much I was struggling. Struggling to live, let alone allow myself to be admitted into such a place. Finally the psychiatrist (Tony) appeared, ready to make his assessment of me. I felt like I'd been through so many assessments already that I thought I could just about tell him what his questions would be. They turned out much the same as previous psychiatric assessments; although he stumped me with a few new ones like "Are your teeth your own? In three-quarters of an hour he ran through his assessment of me (and my relationship to Dave). He also explained to Dave and me that Ashburn Clinic was more of a healing group type environment, than a straight hospital. It was a therapeutic community where individual issues were worked through in a group environment. Tony gave a very brief run down on what I could expect from then on. It was about 5.00pm and he seemed keen to leave for the day. He handed us over to a nurse who would show me to my room. When our doctor back in Auckland had recommended that I go to Ashburn Clinic over the Christmas period, it was on the basis of information Ashburn Clinic had given to him. He was a doctor I trusted immensely. Apparently someone had given the impression to him that there would be more staff and fewer patients over the12

Christmas period, so there could be more concentrated attention given toward helping me. Somewhere along the line, someone had got the wrong story. There would not be more staff, but instead a skeleton staff for patients unable to go home for Christmas. Every time Dave or I mentioned the information we had been given, the staff just laughed, and told us that no patient got more attention than anyone else anyway. With a skeleton of patients and staff there would be very little happening over the next two weeks. Basically, it seemed that what was being offered was what I would call a baby-sitting service. Medication and meals at the appropriate times. There would be a psychiatrist on-call, and a few group activities to celebrate Christmas but that was all. Having been through administration admission, psychiatric admission, and the ward nursing admission, Dave and I were finally left alone in my room. Tears came quickly. We looked at each other totally speechless for a long time. Then we clung to each other, and felt we had been duped. Somewhere along the way some one had got it wrong. Now here I was admitted, but with nothing ahead of me. My room was very basic. It was right opposite the nurses station and looked as if it hadnt been decorated for 50 years. There was a bed, a wardrobe and a small set of drawers. It was dark and the only window looked out on clotheslines. It was far from what we had imagined when we had looked at the brochure which showed a huge stately building and lovely gardens. Inside was definitely not like the outside. The paint was old, the wallpaper ripped and carpet worn. Dave wondered what he had done, in bringing me there. What was the point? Sure there were nurses to keep me safe but that13

was all. Dave thought he could do that himself at home; and inwardly but silently, he ached. How could he admit to me what he was feeling? How could he admit to having brought me, even though I didn't want to be there? Now there was practically nothing here for me. I learnt later that to ache inwardly, and not let the other in, was just driving us apart. But in such a situation it was so hard. So hard for Dave to see the woman he loved, hurting so badly. He wished to be able to take it all away, but he couldn't. All he could do was watch helplessly, and try to stand by me. The skeleton programme planned for the next two weeks, led us to believe that there was little point in me being there. Dave felt fairly confident that he could keep me safe, and I promised him that if I felt suicidal I would admit it to him. With promises made, we rang our doctor in Auckland to explain what we wanted to do. He was satisfied, and so we decided to leave the hospital. We would remain in Dunedin until after Christmas, when we would re-consider. If things got worse I would return to Ashburn Clinic immediately, but in the meantime we would stay with a friend of Dave's family. When we were finally able to contact the psychiatrist again (he had left for the day), he reluctantly put me on leave from Ashburn Clinic, but requested that we return the next morning, to further discuss our intentions. It was such a relief to drive away. Away from there to the sanctuary of the home of an elderly friend of Dave's family. She welcomed us with open arms. There, we could rest from the nightmare of the day. There, I could try to pretend that none of this was happening, until the next morning. The morning came too soon. I felt almost paralysed with fear that perhaps the psychiatrist would change his mind, and want to keep14

me at Ashburn Clinic. Could he do that? Would he do that? Would Dave stand by me, and ensure that didn't happen or would the psychiatrist talk him around? Yet again the questions turned over and over in my mind. As we drove back there I just wanted to get out of the car and run. I couldn't face the thought of going on to the property again, let alone face the appointment. As I walked past the room that had been allocated to me in Pinel Ward, the horror of the day before flooded back with full force. My name on the bedroom door rammed it home. As the appointment began Dave was asked to leave the room. Just me, to face this unknown doctor! (I was later to discover that Dave had been asked to leave the room so that the psychiatrist could be sure that it was really me, and not Dave who was against me staying.) Eventually Dave was brought in, and agreement was reached. I was to return the following Wednesday. In the meantime I could remain on leave from the hospital, but was to return the moment there were any problems. And so, Christmas became a time for more tears, more questioning of us, a time to hide from the frightening reality... and a time to wonder what would happen in the next week. As one of the conditions of leave, Dave removed all medication from me. I apparently could not be trusted, so just as nurses would have given me medication at allocated times, so Dave was to do the same. We did nothing to celebrate Christmas Day. The woman we were staying with had gone away for the day, and we were thankful to have the time to ourselves. The last thing on our minds was celebration and festivity. We cringed when our families rang to wish us a merry Christmas. How could it be? How could we celebrate anything, while the weight of the week to follow hung like a thick, black curtain over us? In the afternoon, despite the15

bitter cold (it was meant to be summer), we walked the streets of Dunedin. The place seemed as dead as I felt. As the following Wednesday approached, the day I was meant to return to Ashburn Clinic, I became more and more convinced that I didn't want to go there. I didn't want to become part of their community, as it had been explained to us. Painting pictures, and talking with fellow patients in groups, etc was not going to solve anything. That wasn't me! Dave agreed. The Ashburn Clinic environment might be ideal for many people, but we were both sure that it wasn't what we were after. We returned to Auckland, hoping we could find an answer there. Hoping we could find an answer to the nightmare we faced. Strangely, I had begun to see a faint glimmer of hope while in Dunedin, and we hoped and prayed that it would continue, and grow eventually to full recovery. (Since then, there have been many questions asked about where that glimmer of light came from. It wasnt to last. Instead I was to plummet even further.) And so had passed Christmas of 1994 certainly not a time of celebration.

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Chapter 2 How Does a Nightmare Begin?"Now I am setting out into the unknown. It will take a long while to work through the grief. There are no shortcuts; it has to be gone through." Madeleine L'Engle

Christmas comes once a year. We expect it, we plan for it, and we look forward to it. But when a serious illness strikes, it comes straight out of the blue. Blue skies suddenly turn grey. Dark clouds are all around, and people run for cover. I had always been healthy. Until now there was no one in my family who had suffered a serious illness, nor had anyone died in tragic circumstances. The only early death in the family had been my grandfather who had died in his early sixties of injuries left by the war. The closest I had come to the agony of prolonged illness had been a woman I had worked with for a number of years. I did what I could to support Tracy, but never thought anything like that could happen to me. Each time Tracy was admitted to hospital for further treatment and surgery, I was there by her side. Each time she had to take more time off work, I battled on her behalf for her to be able to keep her job. And when she had no money and had to approach Social Welfare for help, I was there. Feeling her pain, thinking I understood but still blindly thinking that it would never happen to me, or to my family. Each weekend, we read of the fatal road accidents recorded in the newspaper, but we never stop to think for long that it could be us next weekend or perhaps someone close to us. The nightmare of my own illness began with the diagnosis of glandular fever in August 1993. Looking back, it wasn't too surprising. I was 27 and I had definitely been burning the candle at both ends. I was working hard in a relatively new job having only come back to Auckland eight months earlier. I was a17

management training consultant for a small company, and was paid on commission for each training package I sold. The job entailed a lot of travel for the actual training that I facilitated myself. At the same time I was developing a relationship with Dave, the man I would marry. He was living in Wellington. We were often talking by telephone well into the night (this was in the days before texting, and toll calls were significantly cheaper after 10.00pm), and travelling at weekends to be together. In addition to all this I was very involved in my church and always at the gym after work. I had little time for catching up on sleep. I shifted to Auckland not just for the job but also because I was on the run. I was running from two different men, James and Richard who both stalked me for nearly 14 years. No matter where I went, or how often I changed my address, they would eventually find me. Id had enough. Every time I parked my car somewhere I knew that I was likely to come back to find a note on the windscreen from one of them. My flatmates, especially guys, would answer the phone and be interrogated by them about their relationship with me. Flowers would arrive on my doorstep, or in one instance on my brothers doorstep because I couldnt be found. I would receive letters threatening me. I had had enough. Nothing seemed to deter them. I couldnt bear to live like that any longer and nothing seemed to deter them. Even though I felt like they were winning if I left town to get away, I had got to the stage where I just wanted peace. Richard was someone introduced to me through Dad, who was the minister of the local Baptist Church. This man was in his 30s, and was in and out of hospital with schizophrenia. He came to church occasionally and was friends with some people there. The first realisation I had of Richards attention to me was a letter he wrote to me when I was 14. The letter said that God had told him that I should marry him. If I didnt I would be going against Gods will and God would punish me. Richard threatened that bad things18

would happen to me if I did not obey. But that was only the start. He would ring me and turn up on the doorstep often well at least when he was out of hospital. I used to love the times he was in hospital, as I knew he wouldnt turn up. But still he would write proclaiming Gods will for us and his love for me. Apart from talking to my friend Jacinta when that first letter arrived, I didnt really talk to anyone about it all until well after I had left home. While still at home I was partly protected by my family being there. Once I left home, and the stalking became more overt, my strategy for avoiding Richards stalking habits was to eventually change churches, shift flats regularly and never have a phone in my name (so I could be traced through phone listings). I also never allowed my details to be in any other sort of phone list. Anyone who didnt know me well enough to have my phone number and address, had to go through my brother Craig. Looking back I should have gone to the police, and taken out a restraining order against him. But I thought that because hed never been actually physically violent toward me that I would not have a case. And no one who might have known better told me what my rights were. I believe strongly that he had the potential for violence toward me; he was so out of control I never felt safe with him. At one point I rang his social worker at Mental Health Services to get some help with the situation. She was not interested in helping me, only in protecting the privacy of her client. Somehow though, Richard always ended up finding me. Whether it was my car, my flat or my phone number, he would eventually get it; and I would have to start looking for somewhere to shift to. Flowers came, letters and phone calls. When he encountered a flatmate who would not get me to the phone or the door, he would verbally abuse them. He would question them, to establish the19

type of relationship they had with me. I am thankful to those flatmates who stood by me. Taking the move to Auckland was a way of getting away. I feared he would track me down anyway, but he never did. I still worry about bumping into him when I am in Wellington visiting. But I know in my head that when I was no longer around he would have had to find someone else to obsess over. Thats just the way that type of people work. Still it doesnt stop the fear. Its always there when I am in that city. Even years later and hundreds of hours of therapy later. Moving to Auckland was not simply an escape; my job was a problem too. In Wellington I had been working as a training consultant in a bank. I was in the impossible situation of having two bosses, and one I didnt get on with. It was time to get out. I found a new job in Auckland but when I got to Auckland the job did not work out. I was working for a well known retail clothing chain that had decided they needed to employ someone to run their staff training. That was fine and seemed just right for me. But training costs money and they didnt want to spend any money. After six weeks I told them it wasnt working and that I was giving them the required three weeks notice. They told me to get out of the building within 10 minutes. I never received my final pay. Luckily I had cleaned out my company car before going to work that morning. I suspected that they would throw me out, and had even cleaned out my desk. It didnt take me long to find another job, but damage had already been done. It had been the second job in a row that hadnt worked out and I was starting to believe it was my fault. Friends encouraged me to take my case to the Employment Tribunal, to get the money I was owed, but I was scared. Scared that they would win, even though logically I knew they didnt have a leg to stand on. My self-confidence had taken a beating.20

When the Doctor made his diagnosis of glandular fever, and told me that I would have to take two or three weeks off work, my secure little world began to crumble inwardly some more. I had never been sick for more than a couple of days off work, and the thought of being unwell for weeks was beyond me. My head was pounding, my limbs aching and I was weak and tired. I couldnt comprehend myself as sick. Still, my aching body took me home to bed. Several weeks later I could feel a change going on within me, a change that no one else could see. I put it down to the glandular fever, but inwardly felt as if I was about to crack. Dave had no idea of what was really going on inside me, but began to see that all was not right. Mindless television that was watched but not taken in. The house a mess, but I didnt care. Such seemingly trivial things, such as changing the sheets on the bed or cleaning the bathroom, went undone. None of it was noticed and certainly didnt seem important. I was blind to everything around me I had lost the desire to return to work. To walk out to the letterbox each day was getting harder and harder. It wasn't a physical thing. I was slowly regaining a little of the physical energy I had lost over the previous weeks, but instead it was a fear growing inside me. I was scared to face people - both those I knew and complete strangers. I couldn't understand it, nor could I explain it. What was happening to me? Me? Not wanting to go back to work? Afraid to walk to the gate to collect the day's mail? More and more I found myself wanting to retreat from the people around me. Retreat under the duvet, where it was safe. These were all new thoughts to me.21

I was a professional, and had loved the challenge of winning a sale, and then arranging, and or conducting the training of staff from a variety of different backgrounds and organizations. I had fed myself on the challenge. Now suddenly the thought of it petrified me. What was happening to me? In a phone conversation with my mother (in Christchurch), I ventured to explain some of what I was starting to experience. Her reply to what I had attempted to explain was that I would be all right once I got back into my work, back into the regular activities of my life. Deep inside me, I wasn't so sure. I wasn't convinced that she had really grasped what I had tried to explain. It was more than that, but how could I make anyone understand? I didn't understand it myself. I returned to work (on a part-time basis at the recommendation of the GP). There were to be no long hours, no late night phone calls, no gym, and generally no racing around living life at the pace I had previously. As I attempted to throw myself back into my work, I quickly discovered that something was definitely wrong. I no longer had the confidence to make the cold calls required by the sales aspect of my job. I was expected to make so many calls a day but I was petrified that I would be turned down, and found myself crying over the least little matter. I kept telling myself, I'd get over it but it wasn't happening. Instead I was getting more and more tearful, less and less confident. Even discussing the day's events with my work mates, or my flatmate, took more courage than I could endure. I was lucky. I worked in a small office with two guys, Roger and Paul, who were great. They supported me in everything and in the time I worked with them, I learnt so much. In some ways Roger was like a mentor to me. I wanted to be able to do the job the way he did. I wanted to be able to sell like he did, and to train people22

like he did. They stood by me as I tried to get back into work, but it wasnt enough. Suspecting that life after glandular fever wasn't supposed to be like this, I returned to my GP for answers. Dr Wong was an Asian man, probably in his fifties. Having no doctor in a new city, I had just gone to the closest Medical Centre, and was referred to him. Looking back, I would describe him as an old school doctor one who had the knowledge and would impart what was necessary, but lacked much empathy for his patients. I attempted to explain my symptoms to Dr Wong, and as I did I burst into uncontrollable tears. What was happening to me? That was the question I so desperately wanted an answer to. Dr Wong's answer was to hand me a tissue for my tears, and advise me to give it more time. Apparently nothing was wrong, and I was just attempting to break back into life too quickly. Walking away from his surgery, I began to think I must have been going crazy, losing my mind. Inside, I knew it was more than what Dr Wong had said, more than my mother had said. The two people to whom I had tried to explain myself, and they couldnt really see what was happening. Inside I suspected there was something very wrong, yet no one seemed to be able to understand what I was trying to explain. I knew that there must be more answers than Dr Wong had given me but my self-confidence was rapidly disappearing. Perhaps he's right, I thought; and so I attempted to bury what was hurting inside more and more. I carried on trying to get back into work. I tried to get back into my music. I was booked to sing at a womens conference, but I pulled out at the last minute. In the state I was in there was no way I could go and sing in front of all those women.23

Some time earlier, I had won a Mystery Escape Weekend, through a work function. It was one of those that you turned up at the airport and the airline would tell you where you were going for the weekend. Dave and I had been looking forward to it for a long time, hoping that we would go somewhere exciting, perhaps Queenstown. We had postponed taking the trip because of various things, including the glandular fever; but finally we were able to plan to go on the last weekend of September 1993. Our wish came true, and early Saturday morning we were on our way to Queenstown. Two weeks previously we had got engaged, and this was the perfect opportunity to celebrate it far from the cares of every day life. This was to be two wonderful spring days staying in an expensive hotel, driving a rental car, maybe checking out a few wineries and enjoying our selves. Instead, the pressure that had been building up inside of me continued. Our dream weekend became our nightmare. It was as if something that had been building up had snapped, and suddenly I could no longer bury the fears that Dr Wong had promised would go away with time. Not only had it not gone as promised, but it was now hitting me with full force. What was happening to me, I wondered. My self-confidence totally disappeared, and I wanted to pull away from everything around me. There was no enjoyment to be found in any of the adventures we had so looked forward to. I just didn't care. To Dave, it seemed that every time I said anything, it was negative. To me, everything that Dave, or anyone else (including total strangers), said to me was a personal attack. I remember walking through Arrowtown, knowing I should be happy and enjoying myself. Instead I could feel my life falling apart, and as it did I could feel a sense of shutting down. I kept it24

to myself as much as possible. To say nothing, would avoid being judged as negative, and wrong. Back at the hotel, when Dave asked what was wrong, I finally cracked. I cried and cried. It was beyond me to explain to Dave what was happening to me. I didn't know myself, let alone putting it into words. I cried for what seemed an eternity, and when there were no tears I was silent. How could I adequately explain what was going on inside of me? I felt that I had failed in everything. I hadn't handled glandular fever, I hadn't coped with returning to work, and I was no longer achieving the results expected. I was still only working part-time. I had ruined our perfect weekend. To top it off I didn't seem to be handling our engagement, and now it seemed I couldn't cope with everyday life. I could see no reason to like myself, and it was totally beyond me as to why Dave would want to marry a failure like me. To Dave, he was suddenly seeing a very broken Catherine, emerging from what he could only assume had been a mask. He wondered whether a good night sleep would fix it. I too, wondered the same. Perhaps having had a good cry, I would wake the next morning and find everything was better. I cried myself to sleep that night. Scared of what I had unleashed, guilty about ruining a nice day. When I woke the next day, things weren't all right. I was still tearful and subdued, but quietly we both hoped and believed that I would snap out of it. Neither of us had seen anything like it, so all we could assume, was that a few days would fix it. Looking back on my engagement to Dave, it had come about in a round about manner. He had shifted to Auckland to be with me and had temporary work. He was looking for permanent work and25

had found a job that was advertised for a couple and included accommodation. Both of us were Christians and there was no way that we would consider living together before marriage. We had talked of marriage often, and when he decided to apply for the job he said he had better propose. So he had gone down on his knee and popped the question. Dave didnt get the job in the end, but we were engaged and happy to be planning a life together. The thought of going to Queenstown seemed wonderful. It had been some years since I had last been there with an ex-boyfriend, Anthony. Tony and I had a wonderful time there, walking, seeing the sights and enjoying being with each other. We had split up about three years ago, but in hindsight I still held feelings for him. Somewhere unconsciously perhaps I wished it was Tony I was there with again. After the weekend in Queenstown with Dave, I continued to attempt to hold my life together, although I took more and more time off work, and in the privacy of my own space I knew I was falling apart. I had never felt anything before like this. In anguish I waited for it to go away in time, as promised by Dr Wong. In the meantime, it was getting harder and harder to function. I would cry for hours over what seemed like nothing. Dave and I were soon realising that a few days were not going to fix this. Whatever I was facing was not that simple. All I wanted to do was crawl under a rock, hide under the covers, and hope the world would go away. I could no longer face it. I no longer felt part of the world. The following weekend (after our Queenstown trip) was a visit to Wellington for our engagement party, being put on by one of our closest friends, Amy. I had no idea how I would face the evening. We briefly explained to Amy where we were at, and between her and Dave they got me through the evening. (Actually at that stage26

I could still use the very convenient excuse of glandular fever to explain my lack of energy.) More social occasions followed the next weekend when Dave's sister got married in Palmerston North. To a lot of the family it was also an opportunity to meet Dave's new fiance, and I again wondered how I would summon up the energy to cope with it. I have little memory of the occasion now. During the time that followed, Dave continually encouraged me to seek out medical advice, but for me it was too late. My last visit to Dr Wong had put me off doctors. After all, his advice had been to give it more time, but I was starting to feel that I was running out of time. Days dragged on, and nights seemed endless and I went through box after box of tissues, yet my stubbornness stopped me from setting foot in Dr Wong's surgery again. I would not enter a Doctor's surgery until one would listen to me. One who would take time to care and comprehend who I was, and what I was feeling. One who would tell me what was happening to me. But how? A city full of doctors, but there was nothing that could tell me who could answer my questions. Eventually friends who had recently shifted away were able to recommend the GP under whose care they had been, while in Auckland. A recommendation from a friend who was also a doctor had to be a good thing. I became a patient of Pauls. Paul was to become more than a doctor. To me, he was a confidante, one who seemed never too busy to talk. One who would visit me late at night or on weekends, if necessary. Paul appeared to care about who I was, and believe in me. In the depth of the nightmare, he would carry on believing that an end would come, long after I had given up. It seemed that he was never shocked by my words, and never wanting to rush me out the door.27

Paul was always there for me. With him, I felt like a person with real needs, not just another faceless patient, but a person with unique and individual needs. He was to fight my enemy on the front-line, long after I had retreated to the seeming safety of under the bed covers. I finally agreed to see Paul for the first time, a few days before Labour Weekend, 1993. That weekend was the wedding of my good friend Rebecca. When I had first come to know Rebecca, she had been coming out of a two-year period of depression. My heart had reached out to her, although looking back, I didn't really understand what had happened to her. I never imagined that Rebeccas experience would ever be one that I would come to know as life. The day of the wedding arrived, and I felt tattered and destroyed by life. I couldnt understand happiness. Still, I couldn't bear to miss Rebecca's wedding. In the church everyone was happy and smiling. As Rebecca walked up the aisle, on her fathers arm she beamed with happiness. I couldn't cope. I cried throughout the entire service, but yet again couldnt understand the reason for the tears. Dave and I decided we couldn't go to the reception. How could I cope with all that happiness when my own world felt so awful? Missing the reception, and not being able to feel the joy of the occasion, was something that would be with me for a long time. How could I be so selfish, I wondered. A nightmare had begun. A nightmare of wondering what was happening to me. Of new, strange thoughts and fears. Nightmares of trying to have people hear what I was attempting to explain, and accept where I was at. A nightmare of wondering where this would end.

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Chapter 3 A New Diagnosis"If there is a hell on earth, it is to be found in a melancholy man's heart." Robert Burton, The Anatomy of Melancholy.

I sat in Paul's surgery for the first time, two days before Rebecca's wedding. I talked, and cried for an hour, as I tried to explain the events of the previous months. By this time I was convinced that I must have been going crazy. I had never felt this way before. Never. It was beyond me to even imagine what was wrong with me, and so the words clinical depression came as a bolt out of the blue. How could this be, I wondered. Me? I couldnt comprehend what this would mean to my life, or to the lives of those around me. I was shocked beyond hearing, as Paul tried to explain what might be ahead for me. I didnt hear anything he said. My world, my life, my innermost being was falling apart. The person I knew to be me was gone. It was a different person sitting in the doctors surgery. The only thought I could hold in my mind was that perhaps finally someone had heard me, acknowledged my pain, and assured me that this was real. I wasn't imagining things. It wasn't something that was to be just left alone and given time, as the previous medical advice had told me. Finally someone had heard me! From that moment on, life changed. I had no idea of what clinical depression really was, or of what had caused it. I was told that it often developed following a viral illness such as glandular fever, yet there could be many other contributing factors also. Anti-depressants were prescribed. I was horrified at the thought of needing to take anti-depressant medication. Surely this can't be me? This sort of thing is for other people. Not me. Thoughts raced through my crazed mind, as I struggled to come to terms29

with the fact that this was me. I did need medication. Clinical depression was no longer something that was safely out of my world. It was no longer just other people who suffered. I knew that my suffering was real. I took it all as a giant blow to my ego. Whats more I had a new understanding that clinical depression was not just about having a bad day. It was much more than that. It was deeper, darker, longer and more terrible than a bad day. I was in Pauls office for over an hour. I have no idea of what happened to the other patients waiting to see him. He never once tried to hurry me, never gave me the impression he had other people waiting to see him. He must have, as he was always busy, but by not rushing me he gained my trust. Had this not happened so fast, I dont know what would have happened. I certainly wouldnt have stepped inside his office twice. I was suspicious of all doctors, and one step wrong and I would have been out of there fast. A doctor had treated me somewhat inappropriately some years earlier and that left me wary of all doctors. The experience left its scars, and with the indifference I had struck from Dr Wong, I knew that Paul had an up-hill battle in front of him, if I was to learn to trust him. After my first trip to see Paul, came a referral to a specialist. Paul told me that the man he was referring me to was someone he had used before and was highly though of in his field. I hadn't stopped to think just what this specialist's field was, and it came as an enormous shock at the end of my initial appointment. Dr Tait asked many questions. He confirmed Paul's diagnosis, and again attempted to explain what could follow in the days to come. The shock came when he handed me his business card. This man was a psychiatrist! I had just been through what I was later to become very familiar with a psychiatric assessment.30

I left his office in shock. I sat in the car for what seemed like forever. Just sitting, trying to take it in. How I managed to eventually drive home is beyond me. It felt as if a ten tonne truck had hit me at full speed. Biochemistry levels in the brain, psychological issues, and treatments had all been explained. But I hadnt taken all of it in. I had no idea of how this would envelop my life. I was still reeling from the fact that this man was a psychiatrist. The doctors told me that clinical depression (or major depressive disorder) was triggered by the earlier illness, and with the correction of the bio-chemical levels everything should be back to normal. Somehow I knew that depression often followed glandular fever. It seemed okay. This wasnt about me going crazy, as I had suspected. This would be fixed and soon. A couple of weeks on medication and everything would be okay. Perhaps this is what I needed to hear. If they had told me at that time that depression could take over my life for so many years, I dont know how I would have reacted.

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Chapter 4 A Rock to Hide Under"When my heart is faint and overwhelmed, lead me to the mighty, towering Rock of safety. For you are my refuge, a high tower where my enemies can never reach me; ...oh, to be safe beneath the shelter of your wings!" Psalm 61: 2-4 The Living Bible

The diagnosis written, the medication prescribed. I was put on Moclobemide, a relatively new anti-depressant drug. Explanations had been attempted, but I was in no state to contemplate what was ahead. I was still convinced that soon I would be fine. Life and work would be back to normal. This was a bio-chemical matter and that would be fixed easily. I had been told that anti-depressants would take several weeks to start working, and that they worked differently for different people. We may have to make changes until we get the right one I was told. Still I was busy thinking of how I could take yet more time off work, and wondering what was happening to my mind. Even more so, wondering how I could admit to anyone that I was depressed, on anti-depressant medication or, even worse, seeing a psychiatrist. I had no problem with anyone else suffering from depression, but now it was me. That was different. It stung! My world had crumbled at my feet, while I wasn't looking. Days were a blur. I ate little. Sleep was fitful. Both days and nights were filled with constant tears. People were too difficult to face what could I say? Even the telephone became too much of a struggle. All I wanted was to retreat.

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I desperately wanted to find a rock that I could climb under, to hide until the storm subsided. A strong, immovable rock. A rock that could protect me from the battering that I was taking. Most people to whom I dared to admit my longing found my thinking strange. You would usually climb onto a rock, not under it, was what I was told. But to me, I needed a rock I could climb under to hide from the world. I retreated to bed, under the duvet and there, under what became my rock, I would stay for hours at a time. Crying. Sometimes, just quiet and totally motionless. Desperately wondering what had happened, and when would it end. As I hid under my rock, I thought I would be protected until the medication could do its job. I would just stay there until it felt safe, only coming out when absolutely necessary. But I had misjudged the illness. I thought I had reached rock bottom. It's funny how you can think that you're right at the bottom of a cliff, sure that there is no chance of falling any further. You almost heave a sigh of relief that the out of control falling is over. All you need to do now is to climb back up, or somehow get rescued but suddenly find yourself tumbling even further down. Further and further down. What you thought was the rock solid bottom was only a narrow ledge, which eventually gave way. As long as I stayed safe under my rock each day, I was sure that I would get better and better. Instead, I got worse. It seemed that each day the world turned darker. Trapped by my own expectations and what I believed were those of others, I found myself thinking the only way out was to die. To kill myself had to be the only means of escape. In spite of my horror and my fear of admitting it to anyone, the thoughts came more and more frequently.

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I was horrified to be thinking like that. It had never occurred to me that I could become suicidal. Other people could reach that point, but for me, life would never be that bad. Even if life got really bad, I had mostly considered suicide to be a coward's way. Anyway suicide was wrong, I was told in church. About five years earlier, I had been working in a high rise building in downtown Wellington. One morning a young teenage girl jumped off the building across the road, and killed herself. The building I worked in had floor to ceiling glass all around, and many of my workmates had witnessed the entire fall. I was running late for a meeting that morning, and otherwise would also have witnessed her fall. Later I was to learn that she had been a student of a friend of mine. She was someone who had appeared happy, and successful. No one thought she would ever do that. No one realised what was really happening inside. It was my first inkling that suicide wasn't a coward's way out of life, but was rather an indication of just how desperate, lonely, and black life could become. My only other personal encounter with the suicide at that stage had been the talk and actions of my first boyfriend, James (the other man who stalked me). After I had broken off our short relationship he had purposely ridden his motorbike into power poles or concrete walls on several occasions; and then at one point he got to the stage of loading a gun to use it on himself. I was only fifteen (a fairly nave fifteen) and it was the start of a long battle to get him to leave me alone. One night several months after we had split up, he got me to his house saying he needed to talk to me. I shouldnt have been so nave. I should have refused to see him but I thought I was being a good caring Christian, ready to listen. James hadnt taken our break up very well and he wanted to talk about it. He handed me a gun he had just loaded and asked me to pull the trigger. I was really shocked34

and frightened. He wanted me to kill him! I had no idea what to do and we were alone in the house. I reacted by running out of the house and running home, as James followed me on his motorbike trying to get me to stop. I never told anyone what had happened. I couldnt. Having seen only a tiny glimpse of suicidal thoughts in others, I had continued to believe that I was different. I was a Christian. I would never reach that low. Except now I was! Now I was becoming more and more certain that it could be my only way of dealing with what had become a terrible nightmare. An awful nightmare that seemed to have no end. My only answer was to dig deeper under the duvet and not admit my new thoughts to anyone. How could I feel the way I did? How could a Christian, outwardly seeming to have everything to live for, want to die? How could I promise to marry Dave, when the thoughts of death were nearer to the forefront of my mind? What would my parents say? What would my family and friends think of me, if they knew? What was happening? Why was it happening? Why me? When would it be over? The questions and the judgments plagued my mind. I was sure that I was rapidly losing my mind. As a committed Christian I read and studied my Bible a lot. There were verses that I really believed God had put in front of me for a purpose. One was Jeremiah 29:11, For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future.(NIV). How on earth did this type of promise from God fit in with how I was feeling now? It seemed that everything I was reading was opposite to what I was experiencing.

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A week after initially seeing the psychiatrist, I had another appointment with Paul. This time Dave wanted to come too, but I was afraid. Afraid of admitting my feelings to an impartial doctor, let alone of fearing for Dave having to hear what was really happening inside of me. I had never had thoughts like this before and wondered, with great fear, how a doctor would respond. Would I be locked away? Would admitting my darkest thoughts be a one-way ticket to a psych ward? Paul (and Dave) heard it all. Dave came away shocked, scared and hurt. What was happening to the woman he loved, the woman he intended to marry in a few months time? Where had she gone? But it felt good to be able to tell Paul what I was thinking. I was so scared of what he might do because of what I said, but he just listened. He didn't assume to know how I felt, but showed me that he cared. He seemed to accept my thoughts for what they were, without judging them right or wrong. After that, I had to ring Paul every day. Each day at 12.30pm I would phone and he would briefly monitor my condition, my state of mind. He always listened, never judged. It was the only reason that I felt able to continue to phone him, and to continue to talk. I desperately needed him to accept what I was saying, and where I was at. I know now that 12.30pm was Pauls lunch break, but he used that time for me. Things got worse. And as they did more issues arose. Insomnia, lack of appetite, agoraphobia, anxiety, and tearfulness the list went on. Things I had always taken for granted were now beyond me. Making a cup of tea, driving the car, walking to the letterbox, was all too much. To contemplate going to the supermarket, or a place filled with people was my worst nightmare. It was beyond my comprehension, but I couldn't handle people or space. Facing those places was like living a nightmare. It seemed like there were people coming at me from all angles. I couldnt make36

decisions. Apricot or berry yoghurt? Beef or lamb? It was way beyond me. Many times I abandoned a half filled trolley of groceries, because I could no longer handle the situation. I desperately needed to be on my own, under my own safe rock. I went out only to see Paul; otherwise I was at home. When anti-depressant medication was prescribed, I was under the impression that I just had to wait until the dosage was right, and that it started to work. I had been told that anti-depressant drugs work differently for different people, but I had no idea of the cocktail of drugs that would be prescribed over the coming months and years. The other impression I had was that the drugs would fix the problem. It was just a matter of using drugs to correct the biochemical levels in my brain, and then things would be back to normal. Im not sure whether that was actually what I was told, or whether it was the only part of what I was told that I dared to hear. I could cope with chemical reasons for the illness but not the suggestion of psychological reasons. As I continued to hide under the safety of my duvet, battles started to rage. There were two battles that I hadnt really counted on. They both had me digging further under the rock for shelter, for safety. The first battle was that of the side effects from the anti-depressant medication. Over the coming months, different types of medication were prescribed, in an effort to find one that would work. When a period had elapsed, allowing for the drug to start taking affect, a judgement was made of whether it would be ultimately effective. Usually what happened was that either the medication was changed completely, or another drug was added to my daily intake, in order to make the first work. It became very confusing, to say the least but more so was incredibly37

frustrating. I tried everything the older tricyclics, MAOI medications and the newer SSRIs (selective seratonin reuptake inhibitors). There were tranquillisers, mood stabilizers, benzodiazepines and anti-psychotic medications as well as the anti-depressants. Each change brought new side effects. Some, I was warned of but others came totally out of the blue. I remember thinking that hand tremors, and a slightly dry mouth would be easy to handle. No problem, if it meant easing the depression. After weeks though, it would become a problem. And after years my teeth are wrecked because of the dry mouth. Signing my name was made difficult because of the tremors. There were also dizzy spells, headaches, nausea, loss of balance, constipation, diarrhoea, weight gain, weight loss, sleep disturbance, loss of memory and more. All of these affected me in different ways, and were in addition to the original symptoms of depression. There were times when, even if I could have summoned the confidence to face getting in a car and driving, I knew that the disturbed sense of balance would make me unsafe on the road. My appetite had gone with the onset of depression, yet at times there was unexplained weight gain, which just made me feel worse. Despite hardly eating anything, I was heavier than I had ever been. Only a few months earlier, and on different medication I was lighter than ever. Of all the side effects the loss of memory affected me the most. It took me a while to realise that I wasnt remembering things that I should have. Even when I realised there was something wrong, it took a long time to feel like doctors and friends were taking me seriously. The attitude of doctors tended to be that memory disturbance was just a symptom of depression, and a side effect of some forms of treatment. I knew that too, but this seemed to me like more than that. As for friends, they tended to trivialise my memory loss by attributing it to age (I was only 29 at the time) and38

the like. I felt totally misheard. I knew there was something wrong, yet no one seemed to want to know. There were two battles forcing me further under the duvet though. The second was that of fighting off other peoples opinions. Suddenly it seemed as if I was expected to be an open book and everyone had what they regarded to be an expert opinion on what I should be doing, how I should be feeling, and what (if any) drugs I should be taking. It seemed that everyone had someone they knew who had been through the same thing as I was going through. Well if that was true, then they didnt show they had learnt much. Close friendships became threatened as opinions and judgments were sometimes carelessly made. Everyone seemed to think they had a right to say what they thought I should do, and at the same time I was particularly sensitive to anything people had to say. Dave did a good job in trying to protect me from these attitudes. At times he would keep them from me. He would make excuses for me. I still needed my rock to hide under but Dave did what he could. Try as he might, he couldnt keep every opinion from me. At one point some close friends sent me a book about why Christians shouldnt use psychology. They had wrapped the book in plain paper to cover the title and enclosed a 12-page letter to be read first, telling me why I should take notice of what was being said in the book. I have never read the book, and today, years later it remains unread. Without psychology I doubt I would be alive. Repeatedly I was told that opinions were being given out of love and care for me, as if that made it all right. But it didnt make it all right. It made me feel even more alone, condemned and afraid. My confidence already torn to shreds, I had no idea what to think, and so I did all I could manage dig deeper under the rock.

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Chapter 5 No Stone Left UnturnedWe can no more prevent a thought returning to the mind than we can prevent the sea rising on the foreshore Victor Hugo, Les Miserables

Moving to my parents home in Christchurch seemed the obvious answer to easing the financial pressure I was feeling. It was a hard decision to make. Moving there would ease the finances, but there were many other factors. Dave had only just moved to Auckland, and I needed to have him near me. I had never had a particularly close relationship with my mother, and much as I loved her, I wasnt sure how living together again would go. Going to Christchurch (even if it were only for a couple of weeks as I still thought it would be until I was better) also meant finding another doctor. How could I bear to explain things all over again? On top of the financial pressure of not being able to work, there were problems in my flat. My flatmate, who owned the house we were living in, didnt like Dave being around. Her rules were strict. Dave wasnt allowed in my bedroom, and wasnt even allowed to stay in our spare room. It wasnt even as if we were having sex, as we were sticking to our Christian beliefs of no sex before marriage. Part of it, I am sure, was envy. Dee did everything to make Dave feel uncomfortable and unwanted. Also Dee couldnt handle my illness. We were both professional career women and she didnt want a flatmate who was anything else. Eventually I had to move out. I gave her a weeks notice but left the next day. I couldnt bear to stay any longer. I went to stay with family friends on the North Shore. My brother Steve came up from Palmerston North to help. He was wonderful. I have no idea how it happened but somehow he and Dave packed up my belongings and shifted me. I arrived at my next home with just a suitcase.40

I doubt Gerald and Anna, with whom I was staying, had much idea of how bad I was feeling. I felt safe with them, but also overwhelmingly embarrassed. How could I be so pathetic? How could I feel so bad? With Steve staying there as well I tended to hide behind him. He would do all the talking I had nothing to say. During that time I was phoning Paul every day. I would phone him at 12.30pm and would cry. I didnt know what else to say. At one stage Steve took me to see Paul, just waiting outside until I had finished. On several occasions when I have tried to thank Steve for such support, he has simply replied that it is what brothers do. Im not sure about that. I think both my brothers went way beyond what many others would do. A week later I left for Christchurch. Once in Christchurch, I was referred to Barry, who I discovered to be another psychiatrist, not a GP. In spite of my fear, he was incredibly supportive and understanding. After much talking, Barry decided to alter the medication I had been prescribed. Actually I had only been on the initial drug for two weeks, hardly long enough for it to start working, but he decided anyway that it wasnt going to work. He explained that there were different types of anti-depressants, and that another type would suit me better. As I was to discover over time, all doctors tend to have their preferred drugs and this was the first of several examples of this. Sent away with a new prescription, along with a list of what I could expect as side effects, Barry also referred me to a local GP, and to a psychotherapist. My first question was, what is a psychotherapist? Unspoken questions included, where is the couch that the movies all portray in the office of the shrink. In spite of what is suggested by the media, and to my relief, it was years before I discovered that41

couch. And when I struck one, there was no pressure to use it. I always opted for the chair. Psychotherapy, I was told, would tackle the psychological side of the illness. Establishing a relationship with a psychotherapist, someone I could trust totally, would over time, apparently enable me to explore and tackle the psychological aspects affecting me. Initially the talk of psychological issues meant little to me. I had no idea what those issues could be, and until now had believed my illness to be purely biological caused by the glandular fever. From memory, none of the doctors I had seen to date had made any mention of psychological issues. Perhaps it had been said, but I certainly never heard it. It seemed that there was nothing particularly traumatic that had happened in my life, from my perspective (or that of my family). Anything that had happened had been firmly hidden away. It didnt occur to me that the prolonged stalking, by James and Richard, could be an issue. I thought that now I had left the city where the stalking happened that it would be the end of its effect on me. I couldnt imagine anything psychologically amiss, but suddenly I was being told that there were matters to resolve. I wondered how I would discover just what those matters were. I could see nothing wrong. I just had to trust Barry in what he was recommending. I found that incredibly hard to do ... but then what choice was there? I knew I needed help. Author Sue Atkinson (1993)1., a woman who wrote about her depression wrote of needing masses of hugs and words of comfort, even more than the medication. I knew I needed those million hugs, and the million words of reassurance. With time, I would learn that I also needed those million hours to talk, to cry, to understand, and to begin to believe those words of reassurance.

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Whats more I needed someone who could listen impartially, someone who wasnt personally affected by my illness or the changes that were happening. I needed someone trained to guide me on a path of discovering, and managing those psychological issues. I needed someone who would be there for me no matter what. That was the role that, over time, the psychotherapist adopted in my life. Over the following years several different people took on this role. Changes were necessary for a variety of reasons, but each change was incredibly hard. The psychotherapist was someone with whom I bared my darkest thoughts, fears and secrets. That which I could never contemplate sharing with anyone else was safely shared. Not that it was easy. Far from it. It took me a long time to trust anyone, and even once I trusted them it was painfully hard to talk about my feelings. The person would not be shocked by what I said, would not judge, and was not personally affected by what I said. It was someone who would eventually lead me to take the steps necessary to correct those psychological matters that I had believed did not exist. I was so much in denial about there being any psychological issues to deal with. Its hard to imagine now how I could think nothing had happened in my life, but I was so closed off to my feelings. That had started at a young age and had been reinforced right through my life. My parents were not ones to share their own feelings and I quickly learnt to follow suit. It was a vicious cycle. Right from the start they did not want to push me into sharing and so waited for me to share. I remember Mum telling me that she could never ask me how my day was when I came home from school, as I would just say nothing. So she gave up asking and would just wait for me to tell her. I had somehow shut myself off from any inquiry. I dont know why. I do know that my parents reaction to that, taught me43

the wrong lesson. I didnt think they were interested so thats why I didnt say anything. My father had come from a family environment where he was constantly questioned about everything. Both he and my mother reacted to that and so didnt want to push my brothers and me into talking if we didnt want to. But I have to question why I didnt want to talk. What had I already learnt? My mothers family was different, but I think her mother was quite unemotional and so little was talked of when it came to feelings. We are, to a large part, a product of previous generations before us. But my conclusion to my parents silence was that they were not interested in me. Psychotherapy for me was about learning to undo what I had learnt both as a child and an adult, and face life as an adult. When I started psychotherapy, my therapist Matthew encouraged me to start keeping a journal. This turned out to be an excellent idea. Somewhere I could write down everything, all my thoughts and fears. In time I learnt to write about my feelings too. This wasnt something that came easily. I had never really looked at my feelings. Matthew suggested that I start keeping a journal. Today has been quiet. Dave is still in Nelson and I have to say that Im okay about that. It scares me that Im okay about it. He is missing me ... but Im not missing him. He keeps telling me how he is really looking forward to marrying me and is more and more confident of it being right. I only wish I felt like that. I love him yet I feel relief when he leaves. I do love him. Its like weve always been together. Its hard to imagine life without Dave, except Im scared of life with him. I think I should break off the engagement.44

What I wrote in my journal about my feelings toward Dave and engagement and marriage should have been a loud warning bell for me. Something was definitely wrong here. I cant help thinking that Dad has missed the point. Hes so wrapped up in how great his daughter is, and how proud of her he is. But hes missed seeing a daughter who sees suicide as her only escape from this crazy life! Its a classic situation of how everyone has their own opinions on what I should do, and I find myself thinking that they must be right but what they think isnt what I want. The real issue for me is that I dont believe in myself. The significant people in my life all have their ideas of what is right for me. Because I dont believe that my ideas are valid, I assume that they must be right. Only problem is that Im scared of what their ideas for me may be. Its a trap! Very confusing trap, but very real! I think I can sum up what the real issue is for me: I dont believe in myself! The more I wrote the more I felt lost. Totally alone. There was no one who really understood. Between twice-weekly visits to Matthew, my journal was my only friend. Living with my parents was not easy. Not easy for them either. It seemed that they couldnt do anything right. Everything they said was wrong for me. I felt totally misunderstood. My writing and my thoughts show how alone and crazed I was feeling at the time. Our wedding was to be in Christchurch on 12 February 1994. I had managed to find a dress, which didnt really suit me. But as far as I was concerned, it was a dress and that was all that mattered. I was also rapidly losing weight as I was hardly eating anything, so it probably no longer fitted. But I didnt care.

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Six weeks before the wedding day Barry talked me into delaying the occasion. I had been having doubts about my ability to go through with it, but I just put my head down and pretended that the show must go on. One afternoon on the way to see Barry I stopped to post out the wedding invitations. I knew that he might convince me to delay, but posting the invitations was my way of making sure I couldnt back out now. Once I arrived for my appointment, Barry talked about the wedding and how I was. He said that if I went ahead with the wedding, he would end up putting me in a psych hospital. To me that was the straw that broke my back. I couldnt do that. He couldnt put me in there. There was no way I could face being admitted to a psych hospital. We postponed the wedding. It was hard for Dave, our families and our friends to understand. I agreed to postpone for several reasons. Firstly I was not able to cope with the stress of wedding preparations and doubted that I would be in a position to enjoy the day. I felt like I had been living my life to the beat of other peoples drums and I knew I had to learn to walk to the sound of my own. That meant I had to work out whether I wanted to marry Dave, or whether I was marrying because other people wanted me to. I knew enough by then to know that by the time Id gone through this depression, I would be different. How would I change? And lastly I was incredibly afraid of failing and letting Dave see all my ugliness. Writing to everyone who had been sent an invitation was hard. There was no new date for the wedding, and I had no idea when, and if it would happen. I felt very foolish, although most people were very understanding. I know I wouldnt be the first to break off an engagement but I cant see a way out except to end it all. A funeral instead of a wedding!

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I wonder whether my thoughts re marriage are just symptomatic of other issues or are they real? If they are real, and I do break off the engagement, what will happen to me? Will I ever marry? Will I have the will to live beyond it? Will Mums threat of being a lonely, old spinster come true? I need someone to say Its okay to feel what youre feeling. Its okay to be you. Everyone is running around saying Happy New Year, but I cant take it! Whats so happy about it? I was saved from Mums usual phrase but Dave got it: Well Im sure 1994 will be much better than this past year has been for you two. Oh sure! Im scared of losing the little that I have left. It amazes me how badly I cope with the simplest of things. Im really struggling! Its well covered up no one suspects, Im sure. But its there. Im so confused and with thoughts racing, Im scared and I need so much to be able to stop and sort it out. Understand how to live. In some ways I feel like a rebel without a cause. A rebel because Im not acting the way Im meant to. A rebel because Im upsetting their smooth sailing world! Without a cause because there are so many thoughts that I struggle to keep track of. In reality there is a cause, but there are many causes and theyre twisted and confused. I so much want to yell and scream what is bothering me, but I dont trust Mum and Dad (or Dave) to actually listen and hear what Im saying. I feel like I must have it all wrong. I must have over-reacted, misunderstood, its not that bad but it is. Cant someone hear and acknowledge my feelings as real? While partly I worry that they may not like who I am, its more that I afraid to tell them who I am, because if I tell them who I am, they may tell me Im wrong or tell me that Ive got it all out of47

perspective Why cant we talk about how I feel, how Dave feels, how they feel? Feeling very strange still! Like Im locked into my own world, a million miles from anyone. It seems to me that I have nothing. No where to go back to, no job, and I wonder what will become of Dave and me. I find it easier to be alone than to be with him. He keeps telling me how much he loves me, but Im scared of that. Im scared of him loving me too much. In January I went back to Auckland for a week. I stayed in the spare room at Daves new flat. I felt strange. I no longer knew how to be around people. The normal, everyday things were too hard. Bumped into Julie today just as I was hoping that I wouldnt see anyone I knew. I escaped as soon as I could from the whens the wedding? and what sort of medication are you on? type questions. Nosey bitch! Why do people think they have the right to ask such things? Read a magazine article tonight that said that Stephanie committed suicide. I never knew the cause of her death. The newspaper just said after a long illness. I wish I knew before. Part of me says well if Steph can do it then why cant I? Why do I have to continue to battle! This wasnt the first suicide that had affected my life, but for some reason it really stuck out. Perhaps because at school she seemed like the ultimate popular girl. It was also the first suicide of someone I knew that had happened while I was suicidal myself. Later I found out that she had spent time at Ashburn Clinic. But at the start all I knew was that she suffered from depression like me.48

Was her way of solving the depression the only way that it would work? I didnt know, but I suspected so. He kisses me and I feel trapped need to struggle and pull away. Its like hes physically suffocating me. I dont understand it but the feeling comes often. I couldnt decide what to wear today or what CD to put on. Again it seemed like the smallest decision required too much from me. Rebecca talked today about Satan's attack and I wondered whether my feelings are caused by Satan. She told me she had prayer for healing and it cured her depression. Is it really that easy? Yesterday was the pits. Essentially a night of no sleep feeling sicker than I thought possible. Firstly stomach cramps and then feverish shivering. I knew that if I tried to get out of bed, Id fall over. Having earlier thought Id rather be dead than continuing to live this life, I wondered whether God was answering my cry. The pain of that night was self-inflicted. I had earlier swallowed handfuls of laxatives. My eating had gone down hill rapidly when I got glandular fever. Id lost weight and I liked it. Now whatever food I ate, no matter how little, it was followed by a handful of laxatives. That way I could get rid of the food. The empty feeling left after they had done their work was so intoxicating. I loved it. The pain didnt matter. Getting rid of the food was getting rid of my feelings too. It was a relief. Back in Christchurch after my week in Auckland, nothing had changed. Life was still just as much of a struggle as ever. Mum commented that she liked the way I had my hair done today better than how I usually have it done. I think that perhaps it was49

an attempt at a compliment but I just read that she doesnt like how I usually have it. Its like everything anyone, but particularly my parents, said to me was a criticism. I was just waiting to be put down. And it didnt matter how much they tried to tell me that they loved me. I couldnt hear it. Damn it, Im pissed off! Probably with myself more than anyone. I saw Matthew today and we talked about my fears re the wedding and my plan to marry Dave. I keep thinking I need time out to re-build my life without the pressure to set another date. Matthew suggested that perhaps I need to take a year out and at the end of that time to determine whether I would still marry Dave. But the more I think about that and the consequences of such action, the angrier I am at being in this position. I wont do it! Its frustrating! I so much want to die, get out of this terrible situation and leave everyone to get on with their lives. Sometimes I wonder what it will be like when Im gone. How will Dave cope and how will my family deal with it. I wonder if my family will talk to each other about it, or will they just pretend it never happened. Their lives will never be the same but then maybe after the hurting, theyll be better off without me. The problem with mental illness is that you dont get steadily better from the day you start taking medication. There isnt a gradual improvement that you can use to say today is better than yesterday. It just doesnt happen that way. Instead one day is okay, nearly bearable, but the next is totally intolerable. It only took the slightest little thing for my day to be turned upside down. I had no faith in my ability to get well, but hung on every word of other people.

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Dave says hes scared that well never get married and that I might never recover!! I get scared of that too but if he cant believe in me getting better then who can? I feel betrayed! I thought he believed in me. What on earth is the point in looking to him for support when he doesnt think Ill make it? I so much need him to believe in me. There is no one else. I just feel like everything has gone. I think I should break off the engagement. How can I marry him when he doesnt think Ill make it? I dont think he has any idea. He thinks that one day Ill wake up and be back to my old self, but what I say is of no consequence. Like I dont know what Im talking about. So I am crazy, and Dave wont listen to anything unless the doctor says it. Mum tells me that theyre concerned that I dont have any fight in me. I sit and do nothing. I wonder if she means that I dont go to church. They have noticed that I havent had a good weekend and wonder why. I thought about telling them that I think Dave and I will split up soon, but think better of it. I dont want to be told things cant be that bad (one of Mums favourites) or just give it time or other clichs. I feel so alone. Sure, I have Amy and I have Craig, Steve and Clare but theyre not here, are they? I feel so cut off from what is real. This afternoon I tried to tell them that I feel like they analyse everything I do or say. They were quick to deny it, but I dont think they heard me when I said thats how it feels. I felt very wrong. They were telling me off for how I feel. I feel like Mum and Dad want to strip off all my defences but they dont know how to deal with the pieces left behind. And I am so desperately trying to hold the pieces together because I couldnt bear the blinding light of nakedness. Mum said that they feel Ive given up fighting, given up taking on a challenge. Well, I think shes right. I really dont care now whether I live or die.51

I feel tormented and harassed! I just want to stop the world and get off. Im tired! Im tired of fighting this! I just want to stop. I feel like Im shutting down. Its beaten me, but it still wont let me go. Matthew pointed out to me that I havent given up the fight. Im still alive!! I do still take on challenges, but my challenge is different my challenge is to make it through each day. I nearly didnt make it today. I think that if you havent suffered with something like depression then it is impossible to understand this. Most people have bad days. Bad things happen at some stage. But for most, the day turns into a new, better day and they can go on. Its not like that though, with depression. At one stage Mum made a comment about all the other people they help. I said that Im not one of their parishioners to which Mum said that the parishioners were easier to handle. They would at least talk. But thats the difference. Im their daughter, not just another person in need of help! John Powell wrote: If there is no one who understands me, and who accepts me for what I am, I will feel estranged. My talents and possessions will not comfort me at all I will experience a kind of solitary confinement2. I felt so misunderstood. Nothing I could say made any sense to anyone. I felt like I was truly losing my mind. It seemed that whatever I said or felt was explained away. Of no significance. It meant nothing. Time after time this thinking was the result of interactions with those around me. Eventually I decided to go back to Auckland. I couldnt hide out at my parents place forever. It had been two months and it had52

been hard. I wasnt used to living with my parents, and the distance from Dave was making it hard to be close. In some ways the distance suited me but I knew that if I was going to marry this man, we needed to sort things out. In spite of heading back to Auckland I had this image in my mind that I would leave Christchurch but never arrive in Auckland. I didnt dare tell anyone, although Matthew eventually got it out of me. I told Matthew about the picture I had of leaving Christchurch and never arriving in Auckland, and I think I wanted him to take it away but he didnt. He just listened. He just listened to all the crazy things I said today Im going home tomorrow but its not home any more. I dont feel like I have a home. Anywhere is uncomfortable, stressed and strange. I dont want to stay but I dont want to go to Auckland either. Its a really weird feeling! Its like my world is going to end tomorrow. Notes

1.

Atkinson, Sue, 1993, Climbing Out Of Depression, Lion Publishing. 2. Powell, John, 1969, Why Am I Afraid to Tell You Who I Am? Argus Communications. p.95-97

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Chapter 6 A Fresh StartWhat we call the beginning is often the end, And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. T S Eliot.

Well, I made it, and while there were a few anxious moments, it went okay. It really feels like I have cut off from Mum and Dad, and while that might not be altogether healthy, I feel better for it. Still I do struggle at times and it is like I click in and out of my environment as necessary. This clicking in and out of my environment happened regularly. Apparently its something everyone does to some extent. When youre driving down the road and suddenly realise you cant remember whether the light was green or red, youre doing the same thing. Its called dissociation, so I was often told. Its quite normal apparently. That is, until youre doing it all the time to avoid feeling. Thats what I was doing constantly. In a room full of people I would look like I was just staring into the distance. What I was doing though was switching off, clicking out. I learnt to do it so easily. It was my way of coping. My first memory of doing this was Sunday lunch times at the dinner table after church. The family conversation was always about church, the service, and the people there. I hated these conversations and so would click out of them. Im not sure what I hated, but I did and I still do. Now I feel so out of it, as Im not a part of church so Im not a part of the conversations. Then, why did I have it? I dont know. What made me learn that way of coping? Im scared of the expectation to find a job. I feel guilty - like Im ripping off Work and Income, like I dont deserve my benefit. Im54

forever feeling like a fraud, like theres nothing wrong with me and Im taking everyone for a ride. Taking myself away from Christchurch may have lessened the extreme desperation I felt, but it hasnt totally removed it. Today I found myself thinking about death and of killing myself. I was straight up when I talked to Paul about how I was feeling. That surprises me. He heard everything. Yet I still struggle to hear myself voicing my thoughts. Arriving back in Auckland meant lots of changes. My job was well and truly gone they couldnt wait for me any longer. I had nowhere to live and my wedding was on hold. I thought that coming back would mean starting over, getting better, having a fresh start. It felt good to be away from my parents but it didnt feel so good being where I was. I had organised to board with a family. Should I say, Dave had organised it for me. I just wasnt up to flatting but I wasnt sure how this boarding thing would go. I had never boarded and I felt like an intruder in their family life. The family I boarded with were lovely. They had two adult children still at home and I got on with them well. They all accepted me into their home. I found out much later that they had little idea of what was going on in my mind at the time, nor why I wasnt working. Dave had told them nothing except that I need somewhere to stay. Had they known, would they have opened their home to me? I dont know but they deserved to know more than they did. They deserved to know how close to suicide I was, and how physically unwell I had become because of my low body weight. I am embarrassed about it now. I just assumed they knew, so I never raised it with them. Dave had moved into a flat about 20 minutes drive away. That became my second home. There were times when I would go55

there to hide from the world. Thankfully his flatmate was very easy going and had no problems about me being there. I know that I spent a lot of time putting on a brave face. I felt very broken inside but few people, if any, saw just how bad I felt. I felt like such a fraud and so I couldnt let anyone see it. Even with Paul, I managed to talk abstractly about my feelings. I could detach from them and talk about them as if they were someone elses feelings. My ability to do this made it hard for other people to see how I really was. During this time I was searching for a sign from God that to kill myself would be okay. I knew that Christians regarded suicide as a major sin, but I searched and searched for something that would tell me it would be okay. I didnt ask anyone else for their views, as I feared the consequences. What would happen if they knew? I searched Christian bookshops for answers and found nothing. There were lots of books about people coping with the aftermath of suicide. But I could find nothing for the one who was contemplating it. I could have done with Susan Blauners (2002)1. book on suicide prevention. The only thing I learnt from searching the books available was that an overdose of the right anti-depressants would kill me. The only problem was that I knew Paul was limiting how many he let me have at a time I as picking up my medication once a week. I hated the limitation. I hated it because it restricted what I could do. I hated going into the pharmacy to collect my meds each week. I felt like they were looking at me knowing I couldnt be trusted. I would line up with the rest of the untrustworthy people to collect my small packets. I guess they knew exactly why I had to do this I couldnt be trusted. Shortly after arriving back in Auckland I began the search for a new psychiatrist and psychotherapist. This became one big56

headache, and unfortunately I repeated the process many times, telling my story over and over again. Paul would refer me to someone. Then I would tell my story so that they could make their own diagnosis. Sometimes this took hours over a matter of weeks, and I seemed to get nothing from it. Id get upset but there was nothing in it for me. At the end of each assessment I would just have to go home and try to pick up the pieces. When I began to see Dr Randall my medication was changed yet again. This time I was to try the new wonder drug Prozac. Surely this would work. I had tried the older tricyclics, with three different ones tried within four months. Now I was to try the new SSRIs. Yet again I was told that I could expect it to take about two weeks to hit in and in the meantime I may get worse. Great! Having found Dr Randall to be my psychiatrist, the next task was to find a therapist. Not so easy. I told my story to several before Paul finally put me onto the right one. Paul encouraged me to keep searching for the right person. I so much needed to hear that, because I was sick of it all. I just couldnt see the point. To me, as long as he was there, what was the problem? He was my GP but I think I unrealistically wanted him to do the job of psychiatrist and therapist as well. I trusted him and didnt want