The Best of Times, the Worst of Times Read online

  Mum has a number of close friends who would also help out. The four of us went to stay with them for long periods of time while our flat was unsafe to live in. Apparently the retaining wall at the back was going to collapse on our unit at any moment. I wonder now if that was part of Mum’s overreaction and delusions during an episode. Sure, the retaining wall needed replacing, but I don’t know if we were risking our lives by staying in the flat. Anyway, we went to stay with these gorgeous, generous friends of Mum’s who welcomed us into their lives and their families with big, open arms.

  Despite the external support, as the eldest I felt enormous pressure to take care of my two younger sisters. Early on, despite being a naturally shy, timid person, I felt I had to develop a brave, strong exterior. It was a role that scared me, as all I really wanted was for someone to step in and look after me. I just wanted someone to ask me: ‘Do you need help?’ I felt I was always checking up on everyone else around me.

  I feel an incredibly protective and fierce love for my sisters. A love that grew stronger, and wound us tighter together as Mum sank further into her depression. I would do anything for my sisters and being the eldest I wanted to shield them from any pain and hurt. But as we got older, I found their support and love was essential to also help me when it all got too much. What a blessing to have two such special sisters.

  I’m a very positive, chirpy person. But I developed the bright, optimistic veneer because of Mum’s illness. Somehow I felt that, if I stopped being up-beat, everything and everyone around me would collapse. But on the inside I could feel a strong core developing. We would get through this.

  It’s strange, but in a funny way Mum’s illness was good for us. It made me strong and resilient. It gave me the determination to make something of my life. I wanted to have a career. I wanted to be known as a ‘someone’. It made me dream about a life filled with the sparkle and sunshine I felt I missed out on when I was younger. I wanted to live happily ever after. I was going to will it to be so.

  Chapter 9

  I have felt the wind of the wing of madness

  —Baudelaire

  Penelope: I had a number of breakdowns while I was working at SBS TV, but the supportive and accepting attitude of management and colleagues there never changed. Efforts were made to find me work that would not be too taxing, and I only worked three days a week. I am very grateful to the network for this attitude. There was always laughter, gossip, intrigue and a fair amount of subversion—as happens in most workplaces—but I felt comfortable and accepted. I also worked alongside men and women who were struggling with their own demons. One talented and tortured man drank himself to death before our eyes. I helped one expert linguist to find a hospital bed when her mental health was extremely precarious. I’ve realised it’s so important to watch out for others. Many of us are able to keep up appearances for too long, and sometimes when the mask drops it is too late. A gentle man once said to me: ‘I try to say G’day to people I think look lonely. I may be the last person they speak to before they take their lives. My G’day may just be the small gesture they need.’

  There were quite a few mothers there at SBS—single mothers, divorced mothers, married mothers—and at about three o’clock every afternoon, someone was bound to say ‘What are you cooking for dinner tonight?’ in a desperate voice. We all knew the feeling. We all had the same thoughts. Someone always came to the rescue. The good thing about SBS was that the recipes were so different: Brazilian, Italian, Spanish, Swedish, Egyptian—a truly multicultural mix.

  However, working only three days meant money was tight. Once again my daughters showed their resilience and determination. They had all, since they turned fourteen, held down Thursday night and Saturday and holiday jobs. They bought their own clothes and shoes and make-up, never pestering me for things. I looked after their school needs and the food. I used to be staggered at the amount of food they could get through! We were a very devoted, tight-knit little band of women, the four of us, until Jessica left home for Charles Sturt University in Bathurst to start her Communications degree.

  Despite my luck in finding such an accepting workplace, the stigma attached to mental illness in large firms, companies and organisations is still profound. Many people today still would not dream of mentioning mental illness at interviews or on insurance forms. They know many prospective employers would rule them out of the selection process immediately, on some subtle pretext or another, and that there would be nothing they could do about it.

  I personally know a number of people who suffer from severe depression and are being treated successfully for it, but they simply cannot afford to tell their employers about their illness. They are well-known people, some in ‘high places’, and they believe their careers would be ruined. Even if they sued for wrongful dismissal, no one else would employ them in their former capacity, even though they may have demonstrated that they are performing well because of their ongoing treatment. I often wonder about places like the state and federal parliaments. Imagine a show of hands as to who has suffered from depression. I believe, if they were honest, there would be a large number of hands going up—but they probably believe that their constituents would then regard them as flaky and not re-elect them. What about the police service? The law? So we have the spectacle of attempted or successful suicides, alcoholic outbursts and marriage breakups because the secret becomes too hard to bear.

  It’s strange but true that the general public doesn’t seem to stigmatise the arts community in the same way. Let’s name a few ‘famous’ members of the arts with depressive illness: Michelangelo, Arthur Koestler, van Gogh, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Hemingway, Jean Rhys, Dostoevsky, Robert Lowell, Sylvia Plath,Anne Sexton. The list would probably run into the thousands. But I believe there is an erroneous attitude that poets, actors, writers and painters are meant to be moody, eccentric, wild or abandoned. It’s something to do with the creative muse. Rubbish! For all the creative souls who suffer bipolar disorder, there are countless others who don’t. So let’s not romanticise the illness. There is nothing romantic, glamorous or even remotely colourful about this illness. Books and films tend to sensationalise the illness, yet as Janet Frame— who wrote about her own illness in her book An Angel at My Table—said:‘Few who roamed the dayroom would have qualified as acceptable heroines or charmingly urban eccentrics.’

  Despite what I have just said, there is no doubt my writing has been informed by my illness. Baudelaire said: ‘I have felt the wind of the wing of madness.’ Once felt it is impossible to forget. The joy, pain, discouragement, despair, madness, sadness and the funny, cruel, ridiculous, uplifting, brave world we all inhabit have become the raw material for my creative work. However, I don’t think it is possible to write creatively when in the throes of the illness. The chaos of the mind has to be replaced before detachment and perspective can be achieved.

  In February 2004, Jessica and I were interviewed for the 60 Minutes programme. The idea behind the interview was another attempt to destigmatise the illness, and she was the ideal person to be approached. The interviewer was to be my new son-in-law, Peter Overton. At first we all had serious reservations.Although Jessica has for many years tried to raise and publicise the issues surrounding mental illness through speaking engagements and her work with mental health organisations, and I have always encouraged her to feel absolutely free to draw on her own experiences of growing up with a mother suffering a mental illness, we were still concerned. Where would the emphasis lie? Was this to be a ratings coup that exploited two television personalities, Jessica and Peter? Peter also had to contend with the rather difficult role of interviewing his new wife and new mother-in-law.

  Finally, through the persuasive sensitivity of the 60 Minutes producer, we decided to go ahead. The whole emphasis was to be on the way mental illness could occur in any individual, in anyone’s family, and the impact it could have. We wanted to demonstrate to the viewers that ‘coming out’ could be positive and helpful, and we wanted to
get across the idea to families of sufferers that there was no shame or stigma in admitting that they too had been visited by the devastation of mental illness. Finally, we wanted to proclaim our joy, as a family, that we had come through—that we would continue to come through, loving and supporting each other every step of the way.

  It was an intensely emotional filming period. Peter kept his professional distance so, although we knew the direction he would take, we did not know what he would ask us. Jessica looked her beautiful and composed self but when Peter asked her,‘What was it like growing up?’ I suddenly heard her voice break and saw tears fill her eyes.

  ‘It was really hard,’ she said, having to stop.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Because I did know and I do know. Time has moved on. My three daughters are now grown women with fulfilling lives of their own who are still, nevertheless, distressed and helpless when I am ill, but it is nothing like it was when they were small children, struggling to understand or cope with my inability to mother them.

  Because of their love and loyalty and bravery, I want to thank them all and say once again,‘I’m so sorry’ and they will understand that the ‘sorry’ does not mean I am apologising for something I did wrong, but acknowledging that we have all had to confront sorrow and are all sorry.

  Jessica: Yes, it is sorrowful. I never felt embarrassed by Mum’s illness. I was never ashamed when Mum was sick. But I did feel angry. I still feel the same sense of powerlessness and despair when Mum starts to slide downhill. It’s unfair. Why does it have to happen to my mum, to my family, to me? But it’s not just happening to my family. It is happening to many, many families across the country. So my story is not unique, but perhaps what is different is that, as a family, we are prepared to talk openly about it.

  I understand the fear and the stigma surrounding mental illness. I talk about my family’s experience at many mental health functions. Each time, people will come up to me and thank me. They will tell me it’s also their story. Or it’s a story of their mother, brother, sister, friend or loved one.

  But they are afraid to talk openly about it because of the fear they will be judged and thought less of by their family, friends and employers. Rarely will people say they need time off because they’re suffering from depression. It’s easier to say you’re suffering from the flu, or some sort of virus. A friend of mine, who was battling depression, desperately needed some time off work. She got a few weeks’ sick leave, but felt it was much simpler and easier to tell her boss that she had a stomach bug rather than a mental illness.

  Young people are also particularly vulnerable to mental illness. Ybblue, which is the youth arm of beyondblue, has found that around 60 per cent of young people won’t get medical help when they have depression. Many young people are more comfortable talking with a friend or family member, but it is important to take that next step and get medical help. Mum wasn’t diagnosed with her illness until she was in her early-thirties, but she’s suffered her whole life with bipolar disorder. Imagine how much easier things could have been if she had been diagnosed as a teenager.

  I don’t have a problem speaking openly about the impact mental illness has had on our family. I feel that if I can stand up and say, ‘It’s okay, it’s touched our lives, but we’re getting on with things’, it might make a difference to another young person out there who feels desperately alone. But I didn’t just wake up one day and decide to start talking publicly about it.

  Mum actually broached the subject of revealing our family’s story to a wider audience when she was writing Bloodsongs, a novel about a woman with bipolar disorder. Part of the publicity for the book involved doing a magazine interview, as well as taking part in a story put together for Good Medicine, a programme on Channel 9. The response we got from those stories was overwhelming. I was inundated with letters from families, as well as requests to speak at mental health organisations. I felt it was something I had to keep speaking out about. My career had given me incredible opportunities, but I believed that also came with a responsibility. Hopefully I could do something meaningful and worthwhile with the profile that my job gave me. I wanted, in a small way, to make a difference.

  This desire to continue making an impact, a difference, was the reason Mum and I decided to do a story with 60 Minutes. We agonised over agreeing to do the story. Would we be accused of navel-gazing and being self-indulgent? Mum and I talked a lot about the risks. Mum was comfortable sharing her experiences, but she had reservations sharing them with her son-in-law as the interviewer. Peter spoke with Mum about her concerns and also admitted he was anxious about doing the story. Peter and I spent a couple of evenings talking through the consequences and our concerns about how the story would be perceived. The producer, Richard Mortlock, was passionate about the issue of mental health, and I felt that our story would be safe and treated properly in his hands. Managing Penelope & Jessica Rowe Editor, Mark Llewellyn, was equally reassuring that our experiences would be handled appropriately. In the end, we all decided the issue was bigger than us, and too important to ignore. It was the same reason why, all those years ago, we had decided to talk about our family’s experience.

  On the morning of the interview, I was terrified. Peter and I just kept nervously talking at each other. Not listening, but chattering nonsense to fill in the time before the crew arrived. Mum walked in, calm and confident as we quivered around her. The cameraman, Paul Boocock, and sound recordist, Ben Crane, made us feel at ease as they rearranged our living room and set up the equipment. Then the interview began. Peter began by asking: ‘We’ve all thought long and hard about doing this. Why have you decided to talk today?’ It was the perfect question to start such an extraordinary process.

  When Peter asked me during the interview what it was like when Mum was sick, I burst into tears. It’s funny, no matter how many times I talk about it, I still get emotional. It surprises me that there is still so much rawness and pain just below the surface. Even though I’ve told my story countless times, I still feel fragile and exposed when I share it. I felt especially vulnerable when I saw the promotion being played on Channel 9 for the story. I kept seeing the shot of myself bursting into tears. My carefully controlled image was falling to pieces in front of my eyes. I was fearful about how I would come across. Despite being a grown woman, I still sometimes worry too much about what people think of me. And suddenly I felt like I was being revealed as an emotional mess.

  The experience also took a lot out of Mum. As part of the story, we went up to Noosa to film some sequences with Harriet. Claudia was in New York when we did the story, so unfortunately she wasn’t a part of the programme. She was a little anxious about how the story would come across and I think was relieved not to be involved with it. Harriet and I both knew that Mum was teetering on the edge while we filmed in Noosa. She drank far too much at dinner. She wasn’t sleeping at night, and was blaming her restlessness on the heat. But we could see that her over-excitement had a tinge of hysteria. We had a wonderful dinner with Peter, Paul, Ben, Richard, Harriet and her husband Tim, and DD. Mum was entertaining the table with tales of the gruesome cases she was studying for her criminology degree. She was keen to stay out late with the crew. Her bubbling energy was close to bursting into that ugly, black hole of depression. DD, Harriet and I managed to convince her it was time to go to bed. All the signs were there. Mum was off on her rollercoaster ride again.

  Peter was away when the story went to air the following week. I had decided to watch the story on my own, but as it got closer to 7.30 p.m. I became filled with anxiety. I suddenly felt terribly alone. My feelings of fear were allayed when minutes later my friend, Georgie Gardner, rang to see how I was going. Her words of encouragement were enough to get me to turn on the television. When I saw the story, I felt incredibly proud of my Mum, my family and Peter. I was also touched by the story of Craig Hamilton, an ABC radio broadcaster who bravely shared his experience of bipolar disorder. I hadn’t
met Craig at this stage, but his ability to honestly lay bare his depression and encourage other men to seek help was inspiring.

  As I was driving to work on the Monday, a day after the story had gone to air, I was nervous about the response I’d get from my colleagues. I was stopped at traffic lights when a woman pulled up next to me in her car, wound down her window and said she was crying watching the story and congratulated our family. Her generous praise was a sign to me that it was going to be okay. Days later, people were still coming up to me in the street, while countless others sent cards, letters and emails. It was humbling to receive letters from people explaining how the story enabled them to talk to their family about their illness. Each of those letters gave me the courage and strength to continue speaking out about mental illness. Mum and I had decided if the story made a difference to one person, it was worth telling. I believe it touched many, many more.

  Chapter 10

  Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.

  —Benjamin Franklin

  Penelope: Some people who suffer from depression tell me that they self-medicate or have taken themselves off medication entirely.This can be for lots of reasons. Maybe the side-effects of lithium, for example, are too burdensome; maybe the dose they are meant to take is too high for them. But self-medicating or stopping medication makes me uneasy. I think it is essential that any sufferers consult with their doctor about their drug regime. Maybe the drugs will slowly be reduced under the cautious eye of the doctor or the medication will be changed to something more easily tolerated. Self-medicating means that you have no real idea of how well the medication is working for you. One person told me that he takes a few tablets every couple of days. But the medication was not developed to work this way! For myself, I have become resigned to the fact that I will be on medication all my life.Attempts to reduce doses have generally been catastrophic, and the dosage has to be rapidly increased to try to overcome my relapse. Usually it has been too late. The lower dosage has been the window of opportunity for the wretched depression to creep stealthily through.