PND pioneer

In the mid 70s, post-natal depression was not on the public radar. I'd never heard of it until I'd had it, and even then not straight away.

When my new baby was about three weeks old, I cracked up. I'd spent 72 hours awake, many of them hallucinating. It was like the "Easy Rider" cemetery scene without the acid, music and cool clothes. I went to my local GP and asked to be hospitalised. I wanted a huge horse dose of tranquilliser. I wanted to sleep. I was sure I could manage if I could just stop my head going for a while. But when I got to the local hospital, they decided I was a psycho case and they didn't have the facilities to cope. So they sent me to Royal Brisbane Hospital, aka "the biggest hospital in the southern hemisphere". Pretty soon I was signing a voluntary admission form to the Big Loony Bin (one of Queensland's ugliest over-sized icons). In retrospect, it was strangely hilarious, but I was in no mood for joking at the time. I was wheeled into a dark ward and woke up to find myself in a very unfunny farm.

I knew my head wasn't right but it certainly wasn't as bad as all of these women around me -- some ancient and demented, others young and nymphoid, others again just broken down by disadvantage. What a place. There was no peace, privacy or dignity. Shower cubicles had no doors. Dining tables and chairs were miniaturised. Patients screamed and sobbed all night. But I couldn't get out. I'd signed myself in and I had to wait until the next scheduled medical review to be cleared for release. Eventually I had my turn before the panel and some bearded bloke who looked like a caricature of Sigmund Freud asked me if I thought I was sane (or something to that effect -- I can't vouch for my objectivity at the time). He was flanked by women in tweed skirts and twin sets, and as I solemnly swore I was perfectly fine and fully cured, their faces kept morphing into baby pouts. Whether they could tell this or not, I don't know, but I was forced to stay another day in the locked ward, where I had more surreal conversations with doctors. They clearly thought I was suffering from long-term issues, not messed-up hormones.

For the next 12 months, I was treated by psychiatrists using only talk-talk tactics. One told me I was manic depressive. Another said I was a spoiled brat pretending to be sick to get attention. Not a day went past without my wanting to die. I was a serious danger to myself and my little boy, but somehow I managed to survive. And one day I told my shrink that I'd decided I needed to get out of the house and get a job. "Who'll look after the baby?" he asked. "My husband will," I told him. The doctor accused me of being selfish and unnatural. I was so furious with him, that I stormed out determined to sort myself out on my own.

I've read somewhere that depression is anger at oneself, so redirecting the anger externally is actually therapeutic. That bastard shrink did me a favour, ultimately. To this day, though, I remain appalled at his stupid, sexist, high-risk approach. I got better and raised two children with whom I have great relationships. No thanks to the system.