Under Siege

by Belinda Neil

  After I left this interview I was distressed that I hadn’t been able to be more forthcoming, that I still had so much trouble articulating my experiences. Part of the problem stemmed from my belief that my first psychiatrist had become ill because I had opened up to him. At the time I had had a severe panic attack. I felt I needed to shield others from my experiences, particularly family and friends.

  My inability to give the independent psychiatrist the right information only served to worsen the way I was feeling. He said I would only need another six to twelve months of treatment – yet here I am, many years later. He also suggested I should discontinue massages as they were not an approved method of treatment. I am not an expert but I completely disagree, as I found massage to be one of the best ways to help me relax.

  In January 2004 Jake started kindergarten in a primary school catering for more than 800 students. His preschool had been a small place with security fencing; anyone who walked in was easily seen by the staff. The first thing I noticed about the new school was the dilapidated fencing, which was barely a metre high, and the lack of gates at the entrance. It was such a big school that it would take some time for anybody who walked in off the street to be officially identified.

  I started imagining the possibility of a domestic violence siege occurring there – an enraged father upset over custody issues and holding Jake’s class hostage. It was a possibility I had already considered at Jake’s preschool, but it was worse now as he would be going to school five days a week. Another example of risk assessment gone haywire.

  Vera, my clinical psychologist, had advised me to keep a diary of all events, thoughts and feelings while I was on sick leave. I feel weird, I wrote, getting that really detached feeling again – is this the onset of the video flashbacks again? Feel like crying but no tears, very tired and sad. Scared of more flashbacks – feel like they are hovering above me.

  I tried visualisation and relaxation tapes, but found I couldn’t concentrate on them. I was also still finding my task of sitting quietly for ten minutes extremely difficult.

  On 30 January 2004 I looked in the local newspaper for kitchen advertisements as we were going to renovate our house. It was another way to keep busy. I saw the name Ivan Christov at the top of an article relating to the murder of a woman almost three weeks before. Christov had been the hostage taker during an eight-hour siege back in September 1996 at Crows Nest (Chapter 9). His hostage and ex-girlfriend Grace had beem stabbed by Christov and was lucky to be alive. Christov had murdered Lynette Phillips, a former girlfriend who had broken up with him. I read that he had tied her hands together, and also tied a shoelace and a leather dog lead around her neck. She died from asphyxiation. This was Crows Nest all over again, but this time his victim hadn’t been so lucky. Just prior to the murder he had tried to run Lynette off the road. She had reported this to St George Local Area Command, where I had been working before taking sick leave.

  I felt goosebumps all over my body as I read the article and I couldn’t breathe. I knew Christov’s background. In my confused way of thinking I believed I might have been able to prevent the murder. A panic attack set in and I began to cry uncontrollably. I felt so much guilt. If I hadn’t been on sick leave, there was a one-in-five chance I could have been working on the shift when this woman came in seeking help. I knew how dangerous Christov was; I would have told her about the kidnapping in 1996, even though I was legally bound not to because of privacy laws. I started to feel responsible for her death; if I hadn’t been on sick leave, I thought, she might still be alive.

  I was also in shock that Christov had not been in gaol; the hostage episode had taken place only eight years before. I later discovered he had received a mere twelve months for each charge of malicious wounding (two counts), which he served concurrently. He had also received a minimum seven months, with an additional term of two years for unlawful imprisonment.

  After reading this article the Christov flashbacks intensified, particularly the look of fear and distress on Grace’s tear-stained face and the sight of her shirt covered in blood from the stab wounds. I remembered the feeling of total helplessness I had experienced, of knowing she was scared and in pain, but only being able to watch what was happening from the doorway to the bedroom. These feelings coursed through me day after day and compounded what I was already suffering. During February 2004, when I was walking around my house or driving in my car, I would start crying for no reason. I felt empty and sad and could not snap out of it.

  Becoming more irritable and angry with kids, I wrote in my diary. Breathing levels going up, feel teary as am not handling myself well.

  By 6 February Vera suggested that I needed time out, even a trip to hospital. No way! That was not an option for me. That would mean I was really ill and I still didn’t want to believe that. Greg, my psychiatrist, had tried on a number of occasions to get me to take antidepressants, but I refused, believing I would become one of the people I used to negotiate with.

  Towards the end of February 2004 I knew I needed time to myself. Nothing is going right, I wrote in my diary, goal posts keep getting moved – getting harder to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Hospital not an option … Suicide not an option – look at what is left behind, damage to family, kids, police who come etc. SELFISH … Feel sad and empty. I was even forgetting to eat and could go a day without realising I hadn’t had any food.

  Jake was getting into trouble at school. He’d been throwing sticks and stones at a fence and continued throwing stones on a school neighbour’s roof after being told to stop. He was also being rude to the teachers. I blamed myself for his behaviour. My beautiful son had two parents who were irritable and angry most of the time, no wonder he was bouncing off the walls at school. I felt so guilty that he was subject to our home situation and I felt powerless to stop anything. I wanted to try and think about what was happening to me and it was getting too difficult to cope with my needs and the needs of my family with two young children and a mentally ill husband. I still didn’t believe I was suffering a mental illness.

  I decided to book into a health retreat and found a lovely spot in the Southern Highlands at Bundanoon called Solar Springs. It advertised ‘relaxation and rejuvenation’ – exactly what I needed. I booked two nights.

  On Sunday 24 February 2004 I packed my bag in peace. I could hear the children playing at the front of the house and Rob talking to the neighbour in the front yard. My thoughts were filled with my need to escape. I walked out to my little green Mazda 121 parked in the driveway and put my bag in the boot, walking right past Rob and the neighbour without even acknowledging either of them. I wasn’t meaning to be rude. I got in the car, started the engine and reversed out of the driveway.

  ‘Hey!’ shouted Rob, giving me a strange look.

  I stopped the car. I couldn’t believe it but I had forgotten to say goodbye. I had been oblivious to everything going on around me except the trip to the health retreat. I drove back in and said my goodbyes to Rob and the children.

  Bundanoon was an easy hour and a half drive south west of Sydney. My room had a double bed and view over the valley. I jumped on the bed and felt … absolutely nothing, just sheer emptiness.

  The next morning there were a number of activities available but I only felt inclined to do a short bushwalk. I thought that would be perfect and relaxing. Breathing in the clean brisk air and basking in the splendour of the views of surrounding hills and forests. This was a lovely start to the day.

  Our guide took us to a clifftop overlooking the Morton National Park. The view was indeed very beautiful and serene; the trees, the mountains, and the birds, so unspoilt, so peaceful. It was such a stark contrast to the jumbled chaotic mess of my mind. I was struck by the thought of the Gap, a place of beauty, tranquillity and amazing views. A place I had been called out so often to negotiate with people who wanted to commit suicide by throwing themselves from its clifftop.

  I returned to my room after the bushwalk and spent th
e next few hours wondering why my thoughts kept wandering back to the clifftop and why I wanted to go back there. Being off work and supposedly relaxing seemed to open the floodgates of even more horrific images from crime scenes. It wasn’t only the images I needed to comprehend but my associated feelings and thoughts of fear, shock, sadness, and distress that came with the pictures. These intermingled with thoughts about my inability to mother my children, my deteriorating marriage, my worsening communication skills, my forgetfulness, my lack of concentration, my irritability. I only saw my situation worsening. I did not have the distractions offered at home and I began to yearn for the calmness and serenity offered by the view from the clifftop.

  Having no one I could confide in and no coverage for my mobile telephone, I took to writing in my diary whilst I was in my room. It seemed to help in processing what I was thinking as I was so confused.

  Went for a walk to Grand Canyon lookout – beautiful view very calming but then drawn to clifftop, think Gap. Could be easy way to do it – can’t believe thoughts that come into your mind, it’s like a constant struggle as I am not going to do anything but thoughts keep coming (eg jumping off cliff easier than fixing up exhaust).

  Why do the thoughts keep coming? It is becoming automatic? Now the worry is not just about kids’ safety, it is like I am also concentrating on mine but I have no intention of doing anything, it is scary, need to ask more questions and things about future – need positive things, feel at rock bottom. WHAT DO I WANT TO DO? I DON’T KNOW ANYMORE. Feelings of sadness, nothing.

  Pedicure – Fabulous – then paraffin wax and skin looks eerie; beautician says she was asked if it was like a dead person’s. I CANNOT GET AWAY FROM IT.

  I continue to have thoughts about the Grand Canyon. I want to go back down but have yoga at 4.30 – Why do I want to go down. I don’t know, it was very breathtaking, so is it the scenery or other. IS THIS ALL JUST A BAD DREAM & I WILL WAKE UP. If I am at home I am busy with kids I don’t have time for these thoughts but then am getting too busy. (Yoga 4.30 teary during same & relaxation at end).

  Looking back on this, it was as if I was using my negotiating skills to save my own life. I was negotiating with myself. My thoughts drifted from the calmness and the serenity I viewed from the clifftop to my muddled, confused mind. I wanted to be part of that calmness so badly that it was frightening. I wanted so much to be free from the emotions and symptoms I had been experiencing; the sadness; the feeling of detachment from my children and people in general; the irritability; the hypervigilance; the forgetfulness; the lack of concentration; the lack of sleep. My diary was my only way of getting the thoughts out of my head to seek relief and make sense of the mess in my mind.

  It was as if I was living two lives. On one hand I would leave my room and attend every meal, sitting with the same four people and taking part in conversations. Then I would return to my room and think and write the way I was feeling in my diary. I was trying to maintain normality whilst struggling with a solution that I would never, in normal circumstances, have contemplated. A yoga class or having a pedicure was like an anchor in a brewing storm. In a sense I was still looking after myself but when in my room, the thoughts would come flooding in. When I was busy I seemed to cope but as soon as I was alone my mind wandered into darker realms. I felt so alone.

  That night my thoughts continued to drift to the clifftop. The pressure to return was immense. I was fighting with myself. I continued to ask myself the question: Why do you want to go there?

  I knew the answer, but couldn’t bring myself to say it or write it. My thoughts drifted to Rob and the children, but not as a reason not to go back to the clifftop. Instead, I found myself composing a suicide note. In my distressed state of mind, I believed that a piece of paper with the word ‘Sorry’ and three ‘Xs’ placed on the dashboard of my car, parked near the clifftop, would answer their questions. It became a struggle to think of anything beyond whether I should go back there or not. I knew in my heart that if I did I would never return.

  Again I began negotiating with myself and conducting a risk assessment. What if I jumped off the cliff and didn’t die? What if I got caught in the tops of the trees, injured, dangling from the branches? What if I had to be rescued? Everyone would know I had tried to commit suicide. How would I explain that? And if I died, what about the police who would need to come to the scene? They didn’t need to go through that. These thoughts did stop me going to the clifftop.

  I found a public telephone box near reception and rang home. Rob asked if I was okay and of course I said I was fine, just as I would smile when I went into work every day. A smile hides everything. It felt calming, though, to hear his voice. I was able to go back to my room and the thoughts calmed down somewhat.

  On my last morning at Solar Springs I woke up with the same thoughts in my head. I had to drive home today, or would I drive to the clifftop? I felt nervous and undecided. I was almost scared to get into my car. I need to do something and keep busy. I went to a shiatsu massage demonstration then it was time to go home to my family.

  On the drive home along the Hume Highway all I could think about was how close I had come to wanting to end it all, how little I had thought of my children as my mind was in such a mess. This was the first time in my life that I had ever considered suicide. I had never thought I would feel like this. I felt embarrassed and confused. I didn’t know myself any more.

  I had once considered suicide to be a selfish act, but when it came down to it I had spent the previous evening struggling with myself. I truly believe that a person just gets beyond the point of logical thinking. To have someone intervene at that point and to have someone to talk to is so important to help sort through the confusion. Being a negotiator I had never fully perceived suicide from the mind of someone wanting to commit it. Now I felt I understood the mental state of someone in this position.

  All I needed was someone to talk to, someone I could rely on, but they all seemed so few and far between. Two of my dearest girlfriends were also struggling with PTSD and I didn’t want to burden them with my problems. My other dear friend was a schoolteacher and beautiful person, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her how bad it was. If I had told these friends what was happening, I know full well they would have dropped everything to help me. All I wanted was to get back to Sydney and throw myself at the mercy of my mental-health professionals.

  CHAPTER

  21

  Acceptance

  At the end of February 2004, after I returned from Solar Springs, I walked into my psychiatrist Greg’s office with my hands outstretched in front of me, as if I was waiting to be handcuffed, and said, ‘Okay. I guess a hospital visit is in order.’

  I knew I had overstepped an emotional boundary in coming so close to committing suicide. Meeting with Greg that day I did not feel that I was giving in, just relieved at having decided to put my life in someone else’s hands. To let someone else take total control. I had finally accepted that I needed help, even if that meant admission to a psychiatric hospital, the use of antidepressants and anything else Greg recommended.

  I confessed everything to him, including my fears of how close I believed I had come to killing myself. At that moment I no longer had any faith in myself or my decisionmaking.

  To my total surprise Greg advised me that even though I was severely ‘impacted with’ PTSD, I was at the point where I had finally accepted this condition and so there was no need for me to be admitted to hospital. I had demonstrated to him that I was capable of getting better and I needed a degree of autonomy. He and I would work together to an established plan, which involved appropriate medication and psychotherapy. This also included an emergency plan should I relapse.

  In a nutshell, I was on a short leash. I experienced overwhelming relief after discussing what had happened and why, including the plan I was now to follow. This plan gave confidence back in my own ability to help myself, albeit I would be taking the antidepressant Zoloft. There was no more a
rguing from me on that point. I also made the decision not to go near any cliffs as I didn’t trust myself any more and decided it wasn’t worth the risk.

  The antidepressant medication, which I had initially fought so hard not to take, was prescribed because I was overwhelmed by so many raw emotions and it assisted in deadening emotional reactivity. It numbed my reactions to unpleasant things, and I wasn’t as upset. I still felt sad but I couldn’t cry. However, it also served to numb me from experiencing enjoyable emotions such as a hug from my children: this was the trade-off. I didn’t feel as angry or disturbed but I didn’t feel joy or happiness either.

  At one stage my Zoloft was increased to 75mg a day. I felt as though I was in a dream-like state. I found that in conversations with friends I would be at least thirty seconds behind the conversation. My brain was obviously working at a slower rate due to the medication. It was a bizarre sensation, continuing a conversation that my friends had already finished.

  Greg reduced the medication to 50mg daily, but I continued being confronted with images and flashbacks of various crime scenes. The question I could not answer was ‘How can one human being do this to another?’ I was also still suffering from lack of concentration and forgetfulness, leaving the oven on and the top of the gas stove alight.

  Occasionally I had intrusive thoughts. Once I thought about getting my firearm from work and committing suicide. It would have been so easy. I knew the system and the police station process and procedures, and the location of the key to the firearm safe. I knew that if the supervisor and duty officer were occupied I would have a very good chance of obtaining these keys because of my rank as inspector. It was highly unlikely that a junior police officer would confront me about my actions.