Things change

"Perhaps my most vivid memory of New York City was when I went to see the giant Christmas tree at the Rockefeller Centre. There it was, bejewelled with multi – coloured lights, with children inscribing bright, garrulous spirals of the Xmas spirit on the ice skating rink beneath, snowing lightly, everything dazzling white, and very cold, a ghostly cameo brooch in John D. Rockefeller’s cement overcoat. As I walked away from this vision I was greeted by another, a Salvation Army girl in a dark uniform ringing a bell, with Chip ‘n Dale’s high pitched chipmunk voices singing a Christmas carol on her ghetto blaster, the snow falling behind her, and horses pulling carriages clip clopping down the Avenue, snorting smoke, and people bustling past and cars honking their horns. My mind seemed to photograph the scene as the quintessential New York City, a summing up of the vibrancy and strangeness of the place.....”

The above is a quote from a travel article which I had published in a local newspaper in early 1990, a couple of months after I returned from overseas.

Sixteen years before this, in November, 1974, a psychiatrist told my mother I would be a chronic schizophrenic for the rest of my life, and there was little that could be done for me. One could hardly blame him for this diagnosis. I had had a very severe first psychosis, and the prognosis was not good after that. I was on massive amounts of medication at the time, (over 2,000mg of Largactil a day/I have since joked that I have tried to commit suicide on less) my entire being was utterly devastated, I could not function at all. I had to lie down all the time. I actually felt that I was dying.

My marriage broke up, I lost my wife and baby son, and this culminated in a very serious suicide attempt in late 1975, where I almost died from a massive overdose of anti depressants. A poem about this is included with this article.

And things got worse – I had another severe psychosis in late 1976, I ended up off medication for two years, a homeless street schizophrenic muttering to himself and wandering around the inner city of Sydney.

Then I had a stroke of luck. After a stint at the old Callan Park (hey, I’ve been in Callan Park!) I was referred to a Living Skills Centre in Crow’s Nest in 1978, and stabilized my accommodation.

There I settled down onto a minimal amount of medication, which I’m still on, and began to make friends with other recovering schizophrenics. Helping each other, we helped ourselves. I discovered Buckingham House, a club for ex psychiatric patients in Surry Hills, a great place, and rejoined the Catholic Church, which also helped a lot. I made lasting friendships in those places, friendships which have remained to this day.

Then I had a real stroke of luck. I moved to Byron Bay in mid 1986, and met my present wife. We have been together for almost fifteen years and she has been a real stabilizing influence on my life.

In Byron Bay I decided to pursue what I had always wanted to do – be a writer and a performer, and I have had considerable success in that regard. I began writing for and acting in local theatre, and over the next fourteen years had thirteen plays and one short movie produced, culminating in a professional production last year with the local regional theatre company NORPA. This now qualifies me to apply for a writer’s grant with the Australia Council this year.

Financially my wife and I have done very well too. We happened to own two houses in Byron Bay in prime positions, which we sold a couple of years ago for a large sum of money. We were able to help our (combined) five children on their way in life, as well as doing a lot of travelling around Australia. (What’s the definition of suspicion? A schizophrenic who owns a Landcruiser) We now live a very pleasant life in the idyllic village of Bangalow.

I have heard on the grapevine that a lot of schizophrenics I knew have committed suicide. This is very sad and all I can say is -–suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. As sure as night follows day, things change, often for the better.

The poem included is about my suicide attempt in 1975, which, as I’ve said, almost succeeded.

It’s a devastating and awful illness, and I always have to be vigilant today, but, twenty six years down the track all I can say is things do improve and get better, and that God looks after us, in whatever way he can.

Rod Gibson