How I Rescued My Brain (5 page)

For most of the year, the giant prism of the cape at the southernmost point of the bay headed off the southerly ocean swells. But in winter, the massive swells rumbled around the corner, growling into the bay with big-muscled bravado.

The surfers loved them.

The mighty tubes, spray spitting from their glassy peaks, became impregnated with black, stick-like figures on surfboards, and then collapsed like thunder. Tailfins shot into the air while bodies flayed and star-jumped into the water.

Somehow, the shifting moods of the bay always soothed or elevated my own. I never understood quite how this worked, but it seemed that in the bay's enormity, with the crescent of green that clung to its foreshore, I was always accommodated.

MY GRADUAL WITHDRAWAL
from work was a relief. By that August, I was only coming into my practice once a month, to see a handful of long-term clients. But the nights were penetrated by bad dreams, and it took me up to an hour to get to sleep. The more I let go of work, the more I unravelled.

I brought my old cricket bat into the bedroom, resting it by the bed, within arm's reach. Although I'd never heard of anything bad happening in our neighbourhood, I feared that we might experience a home invasion. I especially feared for the safety of the girls and Anna. Anna said that I was overreacting.

The kids' noise and demands had become irritating. It was okay when they didn't squabble, but they were ten, seven, and five — squabbles were inevitable. Sometimes I wished they'd go away. Anna prodded me to do things, and I wasn't sure if she was being bossy or I was being slack. My energy for gardening disappeared — the weeds and wilting plants taunted me. I felt uncomfortable in crowds and didn't like confined spaces. Other than my swimming, most things required too much effort. On weekends I sat for long periods on the verandah, reading the newspaper. I was drawn to articles about murders, disasters, and neglect of children, even as I was repulsed by the stories.

Our family attended Nippers, a surf-lifesaving program for children, on Sunday mornings. But I was frustrated when the girls held back, fearful of going in the waves. I didn't remember being afraid of the waves when I was young.

What was happening to me? I was prickly, yet as fragile as porcelain. What I perceived as aggressive words from others frightened me. Watching the news, I had begun to cry at pictures showing human or animal distress, and even at sentimental, good-news stories. I had an idea I'd seen too much human suffering, especially trauma. But I wasn't sure if that was the whole story. Images of Dad's near-death and what might happen next sloshed around in my mind.

I knew that I needed help, but from whom? I was the helper — the one others always relied upon to know what to do. I'd talked to my colleagues, but how much could I burden them? I needed someone else; I couldn't do this by myself anymore.

I thought of the psychologists in our area. There were not many with more experience than me. I called Wayne, a clinical psychologist. I knew he had done his PhD on psychological trauma in Vietnam War veterans, and we'd spoken a couple of times, over the phone, about trauma cases. He was the best I could find. I made an appointment for September.

3

WAYNE'S OFFICE WAS
on the first floor of an old building in a nearby town. As I walked up the staircase, each step felt like a deepening admission of my crushed sense of invincibility. At the top, there was no receptionist. I waited in a poky room, alone, sitting on one of the worn chairs. A radio bleated from the corner.

Out of a door came a tall, broad-shouldered man in his late fifties, dressed like a farmer in town clothes. He had florid hair — a style that was a throwback to the seventies — a fleshy face, and a generous mouth. ‘David?' he said, looking at me.

‘Yes.'

‘G'day. Wayne.'

He invited me in. Like mine, his consulting room was unadorned; there were no personal items, except for framed degrees and certificates. But it was light-filled, with a big open window. The noises of cars, conversation, and a busker's banjo floated up from the street below.

‘Have a seat over there.' He pointed to a two-seater sofa. Then he sat down on a swivel chair by the desk, below the window. He turned to face me, brought his chair closer, and crossed his legs, resting a clipboard on his lap. ‘What can I do to help — what brings you here?' he said. There was warmth in his voice, although his face was impassive.

I leant forward, resting my elbows on my knees. I noticed the chunky soles of his shoes. ‘I … I don't think I can cope anymore,' I told the carpet. I could hear a quaver in my voice. ‘It's hard to describe. I'm — I don't want to go into the office anymore. I went on a yoga retreat and I felt freed from everything. Umm, I realised how sick I've been. I've had this bad back, and … I've been getting pains in my stomach; the pains come and go.'

Then I told him about Rachel and the response I'd had.

‘Do you still think of her?'

‘I think of — I think of how bad her life was as a child, how cruel her uncle was, how a society can let that happen. I think of my girls. I couldn't handle it if they went through something like that.'

‘Are you thinking about this in words or are you imagining it in scenes?'

‘I see the girls in horrible situations, maybe … being abducted or raped or …'

‘That's terrible!'

I lifted my gaze. Wayne was leaning back, eyes wide in alarm. ‘I'm a father myself,' he said. His reaction surprised me: what I was saying must be bad. His eyebrows knitted together. ‘How have you managed with this? Have you had anyone you can speak to about it?'

‘Yes, that's it. I don't have anyone I can really talk to. Anna's sympathetic, but she can't understand. She wants me to tell her about the bad things I've heard, but I don't want to traumatise her with it, and it's confidential, anyway. Ian, my mate from work, we talk. But he's caught up in family and work. I have a peer supervision group; they know I've been having a hard time. But we only meet once a month. I've really come out of desperation … I can't do it on my own.' I was talking to the carpet again.

‘Are you thinking you will continue with your practice?'

‘I think I can get back; I've given myself six months off. We have some savings, so it's not desperate.'

Wayne asked me to tell him about my sleep. I told him that I was going to bed early; I got very tired but it took a long time to fall asleep. When I did, I was troubled by nightmares, mostly of things happening to the family. ‘There's a crime show we watch on Fridays. There was a scene where the owner of a Chinese restaurant is stood over by these heavies who want money. When he says he doesn't have it, they put his hand into a deep-fryer of boiling oil and hold it there. I know these are shows, but they seem real to me. The scenes are stuck in my brain; I can't get them out. It's getting worse. I break down in tears watching the news; I can't stand bad things happening to people. I feel like a broken-down machine. I've failed.'

Wayne leant forward. ‘How have you failed, who have you failed, what have you failed at?'

‘It feels like I've let my mother down. She was a psychiatrist and went through her whole career without this happening to her. I've got other friends who are psychologists who seem to be doing okay. So why can't I do it anymore? I've got all this training and experience. I'm at the height of my career and I can't help anyone.'

Wayne asked if my mother was proud of my work as a psychologist.

‘Anna told me that Mum used to listen to me on the radio when I was a regular guest. I don't think she minded what I did, as long as I was happy doing it. I know that she loved me, but she wasn't an outwardly affectionate sort of person. One day, in my early twenties, I came home for a visit and gave her a hug; she liked it, and after that we always hugged. But Dad was the more affectionate one.'

I told him about Dad. I also said that on Sundays I swam in a group, the Stingrays, and we caught up for coffee afterwards. This had helped.

‘Do you ever think of doing away with yourself?' Wayne asked.

‘Yeah, I've had thoughts about that. It scares me.'

‘How serious?'

He's checking my level of suicidal intention: do I have a thought-through plan, have I made any attempts.

Suicidal urges had sneaked up on me, like unwanted acquaintances tapping me on the shoulder, wresting my attention. I hadn't told anyone before. I had pictured myself jumping off the cape, a huge headland near home, onto the boulders below, and imagined my lifeless body being raised by the sea's swell and carried away. I had imagined slipping quietly into the water at the edge of the beach — just another swimmer in the early evening — and propelling myself further and further out into the growing darkness, breathing through the fear that would surely come, until I tired, or something took me under.

But, like reining in a bolting horse, I'd managed to pull these thoughts up short. I'd considered those left behind. I couldn't let the girls grow up without a father — who would protect them? I knew from my work that suicide and the death of a child were the most heart-rending of deaths for those left behind, creating a gut-twisting cocktail of incomprehension, sadness, guilt, and anger.

‘Do you agree to tell me if you really think you would?'

‘Yes,' I said, looking at him squarely. I knew how necessary it was for a clinician to hear this. I didn't mind reassuring him: I hadn't believed that I would really go through with it.

‘You can ring me at any time.'

He wanted to know when I got the uninvited, disturbing thoughts or images that changed my mood.

‘If I read about something in the newspaper — a murder, or something bad happening to a child — that sets me off.'

‘What about just out of the blue?'

‘Yes, yes … I can't recognise any pattern to it often.'

‘When some people have a panic attack, they get a sense of dread that something bad is about to happen, and it can be very physical.' He swept his arm through the air as if including all possibilities.

‘Yes, I get that. It feels like I'm under attack: my body tightens, shakes. But I don't know what the threat is, or where it is. The world's an unfair place; the weak are trodden on. Our society is dislocated, falling apart.'

He asked how I was getting on with Anna and the children, about other physical symptoms, about my medical and family history, and then about drinking. I said that I'd been having two to three glasses of wine a night — more than I used to. I tried to have two alcohol-free days a week. But it was getting harder to take my mind off drinking.

Towards the end of the session, Wayne said, ‘I think you've got a post-traumatic stress reaction and the depression that goes with it. Really, your battery is very flat. You've not had healthy sleep now for so long. Psychologists are witness to an enormous amount of suffering. We do our work in a closed room and we can't share our work experiences like those in most other occupations can.'

So I hadn't been imagining it. A diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder was heavy stuff; I really was sick.

‘Stop watching the news,' he said. ‘Nowadays, you're going to see genuine grief, multiple incidents of violence, in one half-hour. It's necessary to start protecting your imagination. Exercise. Simplify your life.'

He wanted me to write down my dreams. I was to ask myself a deliberately open-ended question before I went to sleep:
Would it be okay to remember a dream about the problem I am facing or about its solution?

WAYNE AND I
caught up again in a fortnight. I described one of my recent dreams while he listened attentively. ‘I'm driving a van. The three children are in the back seat and Anna's in the front. We're going down a winding road towards a bridge over a river. It's late in the day and the light is failing. The van crashes through the railings and plunges into the water. The girls scream. I look across at Anna's ashen face. We are sinking. Do I wind down the windows so we can swim out, or is it best to keep everything shut so we still have a pocket of air? Movie images of people trapped in ships, boats, cars flash through my mind: what did
they
do?

‘The water is squirting through the gaps in the van; it's murky and getting dark. We can still breathe, but it's hard to see the children. “Anna, grab the one nearest to you!” I shout. “Push yourself out the door!” There's two girls left — I can only help one. I grab Amelia and yell to Ashley to follow me. I push against the door … The water pressure is immense. I'm not going to make it … Then I wake up hot and shaking; I think I've just died.'

I told Wayne that I remembered the nightmare protocol, a series of questions to help orientate the individual that I used to give to clients:
Where am I? What's in the room? What time is it? Am I safe?

Wayne wanted to analyse the dream. ‘What is the dictionary definition of a van?'

‘It's a form of transport.'

‘What emotional association does a van have for you? What could it represent?'