My name is Katherine and I'm Nicholas's mum and Roanne’s wife. Let me tell you a story.

I admitted myself into a psychiatric hospital because I needed help. Because it is impossible to live in a mind that is convinced it has no place with the living. And now I’m reaching out for help again but to the community.

Over the past year—what a year!—my mental health had declined so significantly that I skipped too many times along that imaginary line between existence and well…not. My writing evaporated. My ability to work as a casual relief teacher diminished to one, very sporadic, day a fortnight. My attendance at events ceased. (I really wanted to go to the Melbourne book fair). My functionality at human-ing reached the point where I asked ‘Is it real? Is it true? Will it happen?’ every time my anxiety and psychoses flared up. Why were there ants crawling up the wall? Should the fridge be humming the Hallelujah Chorus? Can I smell smoke? Is the house on fire? Will the car explode when I start it? What if there's a flood at the end of the street?

To live with bipolar disorder, schizoaffective disorder, depression, anxiety, and autism is a special bag of swag, let me tell you. It comes with all types of Venn diagrams where the diagnoses merge and separate like sour milk. The reason for my hospitalisation was such extreme anxiety that I found myself paralysed and unable to engage in forward movement: mentally, physically, emotionally. My “what ifs” and “will its” were debilitating. It was inextricably linked to my depression which was at an all time low. I had anxiety about being depressed and depression about my anxiety. I was in the throes of dissociation. I found that memories —optimistic and not—and moments of life—both good and bad—had disappeared. Did I turn the jug on? How old was I when I graduated high school? Did I put the knife away? Who emptied the dishwasher? What is our son’s Chinese name?

There is a scale which goes from zero to ten with ten being your best self. And with zero being…well, not being. I was at a two which is close to not being, but I was still being, because I needed to keep being for my family, so I reached out for help. People should do that, you know. The reaching out thing. It’s one of the hardest decisions to make. We all think we can cope with whatever life, our brain, can throw at us, and generally we do. Mostly. But sometimes we can’t which is when we need to reach out for help.

It wasn’t an easy choice to go hospital. A psychiatric hospital is hard work. It’s an institution so there are strict rules and routines. I had to participate in meetings with psychiatrists who asked pointy, sharp questions—the only pointy, sharp things allowed. I participated in a group discussing psycho-education strategies. There were sessions of dialectic behavioural therapy. I underwent repetitive trans-cranial magnetic stimulation which is new and sounded like a massage but really, really wasn’t. It hurts. I’m due my second round in four weeks. Anything to get my number from a two (you know, maybe it was a one. It was a one) to at least a five. Something further away from zero.

It is impossible to live in a mind that is convinced it has no place with the living. And I was convinced. 

So, I’m on the other side of four weeks in hospital and weeks of therapy to continue. I’m somewhere away from zero for the moment. But the effects also include ongoing tremors, fatigue, brain fog, and nausea.

But all of that comes at a cost. Now, that my brain decided to de-brain itself, our ability to fund our son’s opportunities, for example, has diminished. And it destroys my tenuous little brain link that I’m causing this. Such as his vocal academy which costs $2000. And we’re going to struggle to pay for it.

It’s like his Chinese lessons. These cost $100 per month and currently Nicholas pays for these lessons by mowing people’s lawns. His parallel lines are gorgeous. Any lawn that dares to grow grass is immediately dealt with. He’s earned $600 doing this so far.

We pay for guitar lessons at a cost of $400 per month.

Like the trip to Tasmania for the Australian Musical Theatre Conference in May next year. That’s another $1000.

To say I am wracked with guilt that my brain is costing our son opportunities is an understatement. But hospitalisation was necessary and Nicholas knows that. “It’s okay, Mum. As long as you’re better,”: ah, tears.

My wife having to take on overtime to make ends meet. Just because my brain is mental.

So, just like I reached out for help to the psychiatric hospital and all the strategies and plans and services attached, I reaching out again. But to you. For my and my family’s mental health. Because when my head is not at zero, my family are settled and happy and when they’re settled and happy, it helps me stay away from zero. And I’ve visited the edge of zero too many times this year.