Our stopover in Los Angeles should have been full of excitement and fun, as what could be more fulfilling than taking a two-year-old to Disney Land. For me this turned out to be another nightmare, for while travelling along the tranquil waters in the splendid scenery of 'It's a small small world' those familiar words "Get Out, Get Out," rang though my head. This was not a scary ride and was very well lit, including the service path alongside the waterway, but I was still petrified. Why? It became a favourite attraction for my daughter, and although she travelled the Small World several times like a seasoned traveller, I had to be content to watch from the dock like the poor relation left behind. What a waste of precious togetherness time. To make our stay in Los Angeles exciting we stayed in the old cruise ship the Queen Mary, which had been converted into a floating hotel. It had the opposite effect on me as most of the ceilings were low and peppered with sensors, and you know what I wanted to do. A new country and a clean fresh start was what I envisaged when we arrived in England, although during the journey I had been plagued by the sprinkler compulsion and a new one of claustrophobia. Everywhere we stayed those glass sensors were taunting me, knowing that I had no means of escape. Once again I learned that fears are like shadows and will always follow and haunt you. Running away will not achieve anything except more pain, so help must be sought no matter what those closest to you say.

When I was admitted to Ashburn Hall my mother's words still haunt me. "Snap out of it Bryan." It's not that easy mum, and surveys indicate that people like her view depression as a sign of personal weakness, but psychiatrists view it as a real illness. Even when I had so much fear of being alone with my daughter, those closest to me both being nurses, never really seemed to understand the way I felt. I had no bandages or limbs encased in plaster to bring attention to my torment. My mother in law, once a mental nurse from the years of Mental Asylums, would always say to me with an air of authority, "Your looks don't pity you my dear boy." They just did not realise how painful and frightening the simple task of babysitting my daughter in the park was to me. She was a swingaholic, and as the panic feeling of being alone with her would spread through my body, I would try every excuse to escape from that horror playground. I was fighting two people. A reluctant two-year-old and my screaming head. After eventually coaxing her away with ridiculous bribery I was panicking during the short walk home as to whether my partner had returned from shopping. I was at my wits end wondering that if she wasn't home, would I in this period let my thoughts of the evil rumours of Prozac take over my actions and make me one of the statistics of the side effects. My thoughts were so bizarre that even now I find it hard to believe that I could be so affected. For those that might think as though I am writing a novel, ask around and you will be surprised to find people with stories that will relate personally to my experiences.

We moved into an investment property owned by my partner and immediately my brain found a new self-destructing compulsion, which I am sure has happened to many. This time it was to park the car in our separate garage with the engine running, shut the roller door and wait in the darkness for the carbon monoxide to engulf me. It wasn't a conscious wish to commit suicide but just a compulsion to carry out a weird act. Compulsions from very minor to darn right ridiculous took over my life and I would burst into tears for no reason at all.

I had this problem in Queenstown and was ready for the "Here he goes again" from my partner as I would leave the dinner table in a downpour. Escaping to the bedroom I would even attempt to do my old relaxing exercises, but my body couldn't calm down enough to even begin. It was a very hard decision to decide when to return downstairs to rejoin my family. I knew that my eyes must be red and my feelings were like those of a child who had been sent to their room for being naughty, and now after serving the punishment time, coming out hoping for the words of forgiveness. But why should I be looking for forgiveness. It was only my partner that thought I had done something wrong. She still couldn't understand I had no control over my actions. The new doctor I consulted did not really understand my urgent desire for help until in a flood of tears I begged him to get me an earlier consultation at St Clements mental hospital. Studies indicate that general physicians fail to recognise depression in their patients at least half of the time, that possibly being the reason that this doctor didn't take more notice of my crisis in the beginning.

The nursery rhyme 'Oranges and Lemons' was going through my head on the drive to St. Clements as well as apprehension and hope, that was until I arrived at the enormous steel gates. Inside the high spiked steel fence, the large building had the cold grey look of an old English mental asylum. My mother-in-law had pointed out some of these bleak buildings to me in the past, and she would often say as we passed, "I have nursed there." I thought back to what I had read about the courageous work of Philippe Pinel and the screaming inmates of the catacombs in Paris and shivered. On entering the building I was waiting to hear bloodthirsty screams similar to those I had on occasion heard in Ashburn Hall, but fortunately all was quiet and I was directed to the office of the head psychiatrist. Unbeknownst to me, this meeting was going to put me on the slow road to recovery with his complete treatment package. Earlier in Ashburn Hall my medication had been changed to Prozac, so I felt a great relief when this psychiatrist changed it to Anafrinal. Although Prozac can take 2 to 12 weeks to become effective and no one really knew what it had done for me, I would no longer have to worry that it might have made me a killer or violent as I had read in the reports in Ashburn Hall. Who was to say that I wasn't one of the minority groups. Another report I read stated that doctors cannot predict which antidepressant drug will work best for any particular person, so patients may have to try several types, but are they all given this option? From newspaper articles one has to wonder what arrangements are made between drug companies and doctors. Money speaks all languages.
For years I had been telling the medical profession of one of my other symptoms of tingling lips but without receiving any suggestion on how to cure it. During my consultation with the psychiatrist he diagnosed my tingling and explained the importance of breathing correctly. Evidently mine was too shallow and he made arrangements for me to have tuition to correct it. At the end of the consultation I now had three positive steps for rehabilitation to the normal world. Medication, a weekly psychotherapy session and breathing and relaxing exercises. Here it was now 1992 and I was only about to start similar treatment recommended to Qantas in 1979 by psychiatrists Dr. Degotardi and Dr. White. Oh, if only Qantas had followed up on those recommendations instead of putting their head in the sand with the after thought diagnosis of Dr. Ellard.
Although I don't remember the conversations with the therapist, I do remember my feelings of relief and lightness after each visit. It was similar to going to the tip with a carload of rubbish. Everyone feels great as they drive out of the gate having at last disposed of something unwanted that has been hoarded for years. The sessions were held in a new building in the hospitals vast grounds and occasionally while driving out afterwards, my eyes would catch a glimpse of the old barred windows. What poor souls with their debilitating illness had been imprisoned behind them in a life of constant unawareness? What would they have given to be in my free shoes?
At high school a bully had regularly taken pleasure in feeling my panic as he squeezed me in a powerful headlock. My adrenalin would give me extra strength to try and extract myself but with no avail, so I would have to wriggle and writhe until he had enough of his power fix. Have you ever watched a domestic or wild animal when their freedom is taken away by having a lead put on them? Could you imagine being behind those bars and have the indignity of being encased in a straight jacket? How many patients must have had any mental illness compounded by such treatment. I don't know how I would ever recover from such an incident. Although I really enjoyed my sessions and got so much out of them, it was always nice to see the hospital in my car's rear view mirror.

On arriving home I always received a cold reception from my partner. I had to side step her questions on what had been said at the therapy as I didn't have the courage to tell her that a fair proportion of the time was spent on our marital problems and the way she made me feel like an under dog. As far as she was concerned I was the only one in the relationship with a problem. Initially our lounge furniture consisted of two poolside lounge chairs. I found them great to do my breathing exercises on but when anyone went past me I received a look of disgust as though I was beside a pool waiting for them to bring me a cold drink. They knew I was to do the exercises but it seemed as though they couldn't accept the sight of me loafing while doing them.

I always became embarrassed when asked what had I done for a living. "I was a Qantas 747 pilot," I would reply, full well knowing what the next question would be. "Why did you leave so young. I thought pilots could fly until they were 60?" Most people look at a 747 pilot in awe and seize upon the opportunity to talk to one that's standing still. As I knew that I would feel better after telling someone, anyone, of my story, I would give a brief description of what happened to me. In most cases, people's eyes would widen in disbelief of what could have happened in the nerve centre of such a massive aircraft and eagerly ask me to elaborate more. In their eyes pilots were infallible and whether it was said out loud or under their breath, they would all think, "I'm bloody well not flying Qantas."

They really had no fear as Qantas was a great airline and my illness could be likened to a mechanical fault missed by the maintenance crew. Week by week my whole attitude on life improved and I took the challenge to carve a large rocking horse similar to one my daughter had. From the day I bought it for her it had fascinated me, and maybe through her I was reliving a childhood desire. With my newly found enthusiasm, that haunting garage was transformed into a bright Santa's workshop, decked with shelves proudly displaying a collection of new shiny green power tools. I was so enthralled with my new enterprise I would often work late into the night, appearing at the back door tired, covered from head to toe with sawdust, but with wonderful feeling of crafting wood and the marvel of my new creation. I had never been a book reader and couldn't find relaxation in it the way most people do, although I did find pleasure in some textbooks. I very soon had a small library of information on new subjects such as tanning horse tail, metal work for the rocking irons, traditional gesso finishes and the craft of saddle making.

The feeling of pride in one's work would reach a crescendo when a total stranger would gladly exchange their hard-earned cash for one of my carved expressions in wood. I could now talk and joke with people eye to eye for the first time in years, and my eyes were now as dry as the proverbial Australian outback. It was though someone had flicked my switch from 'panic mode' to 'normal running.' Just having a therapist to talk to each week that could really understand my feelings and not abuse or scorn me for my thoughts, which may have viewed as stupid by others. At last, like any devoted father I could now appreciate the squeals of delight from my daughter, and although she was still a swing-aholic, I now had the patience to give her an extended swing.

Caravan holidays to Europe were a positive step for me as I now had the energy and well being to spend hours pulling her up the Austrian ski field nursery slopes and let her go. What a heart-warming sight it was to watch her bundled up in a pink snowsuit, compete with the pink scarf I had knitted in Ashburn Hall, inching her way unaided down the slope. What wonderful experiences had I been robbed of in my fearful times of being alone with her? For the next year my life remained pleasantly stable, aided by medication, breathing, and the chance to relax. After being away for seven years I now felt well enough to face all of my old friends and family without the stigma of a mental illness hovering in the background, and making the decision to return to Australia was very easy.