The SANE Blog

A personal reflection by Lisa Cook

I was abandoned with two suitcases. I didn’t even realise I was a survivor of domestic abuse. There were no bruises, no police reports — just a quiet kind of destruction that worked from the inside out.

It was psychological, emotional, financial — and, in the end, physical abuse. I wasn’t broken overnight; I was dismantled piece by piece, until I disappeared into fear and guilt.

For six months after the relationship ended, I still couldn’t name what had happened. I blamed myself. My life wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. How could I have got it so wrong? The person I fell in love with had disappeared years ago, and I mourned him like a widow.

I was racked with shame, guilt, and self-hatred so intense that it caused physical pain deep in my core. I just wanted it to end.

That’s where SANE came in. I still remember the first time I spoke with Sarah, a Peer Support Worker. She wasn’t reading from a script or talking from theory — she had lived it. Sarah was a survivor of domestic violence, and she understood every layer of confusion, shame, and grief that came with it.

For the first time, I wasn’t alone. She helped me recognise that what I had endured wasn’t “a bad relationship” — it was abuse. That single moment of recognition was the beginning of my recovery.

Sarah’s courage in sharing her own story gave me permission to speak my truth. Her empathy made it safe to face the guilt, the fear, and the pieces of myself I thought were gone forever.

If it wasn’t for SANE, I wouldn’t be here today. SANE’s layered support gave me a haven — through their Peer Group Support counselling, Recovery Program, Peer Group Chat, and Forum Community. I found validation, consistency, and a sense of belonging that no other service had given me.

Transitioning from the Australian Defence Force (ADF) to civilian life can be difficult for a range of different reasons. Many veterans experience a loss of identity, purpose and meaning, along with support, on transition. This experience can be more difficult again when the transition is involuntary because of medical or other reasons.

Whilst in Service in the ADF, we get many things that we take for granted. These include being relatively well paid, having secure employment, access to further education, free healthcare, subsidised housing, automatic social connections through our Service work, along with a clear sense of community and individual and collective purpose, meaning and a future. When you leave however, these things now become your own personal responsibility, and may very well be difficult to find. There are also general challenges because it may be the first time you apply for a Medicare card, fill out a rental application (and where are you going to get references from?), or write a résumé that explains how what you did in the ADF relates to the job you’re applying for. You may also be dealing with physical and or mental health challenges from your time in service, so the combination of added responsibility can make transition seem particularly overwhelming.   

I experienced my own mental health struggles after my deployment to Afghanistan so I am a firm believer in providing military-aware mental health support to veterans, current ADF personnel, and their immediate families. My passion for improving the mental health of military, veteran and emergency services personnel comes from my lived experience, as well as the burden of responsibility I feel for everyone who has served. I don’t want others to experience the same struggles that I did.

I see my job as empowering people to be the best they can. Mental Health is about more than going to see a doctor or another clinician – it’s about living well and being well, and is the responsibility of all of us to manage individually as well as to promote to those we’re close too. Some fundamentals of mental health include how we manage key things such as nutrition, physical activity, sleep and stress management.

Nutrition and mental health

With October on our doorstep, it’s time to ready your social media feed for a chorus of well-intentioned but milquetoast posts raising awareness for mental health month.

Depression and anxiety will undoubtedly take their place at the top of the mental illness pantheon.

But chances are, you won’t be seeing any posts about psychosis.

Schizophrenia isn’t sexy. It isn’t having an ‘A-list club’ moment like ADHD, with celebrities in their droves coming out to share their diagnoses. Testament to the shifting attitudes towards ADHD and other neurodivergent conditions is the proliferation of videos featuring the term ‘neurospicy’ – a portmanteau of neurodivergent and spicy – which has amassed more than three billion views on TikTok alone. It’s refreshing to see this groundswell of support and acceptance for these once-misunderstood conditions.

Yet the sad reality remains – even after decades of awareness-raising efforts by passionate individuals, families and researchers alike, schizophrenia has never been able to fully step out of the shadows.

Ruth Clare is an award-winning author and child of a veteran, who lives with C-PTSD and ADHD. In her latest book Turn Fear into Courage, Ruth shares how she developed a new relationship with her fear and learned to re-direct its energy toward action. Ruth was also the first guest presenter in the new Shoulder to Shoulder webinar series, in a talk titled ‘The Hidden Impact of Military Service on Families of Veterans.’ Catch up on the webinar. 

My childhood

I grew up in a home where I never felt safe. My dad was a Vietnam veteran whose untreated PTSD played out in our family as violence and a need to control. When he left when I was eleven, Mum sank into a deep depression and became an alcoholic.

We went from a house of strict rules, dinner on the table on the stoke of 6 o’clock, to a house where there was no structure at all. The mum who used to pack our lunches and cook us meals disappeared, turning into someone who now spent all her time crying and drinking. My siblings and I were mostly left to fend for ourselves.

Just before I was about to enter Year 12, Mum said she was going to move to a city 700 kilometres away to live with her parents while she went into rehab for her drinking. I decided to stay behind and finish my final year of school.

I spent Year 12 living without any parents, working to pay bills, washing (badly), cooking (mostly toast), getting myself to extra-curricular activities, at the same time as studying. Scared my teachers would report me and I would be put into foster care, I hid my situation from my school, forging my mum’s signature on forms that came home, pretending everything was normal.

High school was a struggle… the noisy classrooms, the social expectations, the endless demands. When I first started skipping school and flunking out of class it was put down to my early diagnosis of bipolar at 14 and the trauma I had experienced from a young age.

My undergraduate degree was similar, and I found it really difficult to be in class; the noise, the social expectations, the endless demands. 

It wasn’t until I started learning about the lived experience of autism that I started to explore whether that’s what was going on for me too. I related a lot to most aspects, but particularly sensory difficulties, the need for routine and having difficulty knowing what to do in social situations. 

After years of unsuccessful therapy, I took myself to a new psychologist. This time to do a comprehensive assessment. I learnt that while I do have bipolar and complex post-traumatic stress disorder, I also have autism and ADHD. 

I learnt about how I was overstimulated in the classroom, I learnt about how high-masking I had been and how much social interaction took out of me, and I learnt about executive functioning and how trying to manage the endless demands were impacted by my neurodivergence. 

Mindy, a Veteran with PTSD doing Jiujitsu.

Mindy Mackay had a successful career as an Electronic Warfare Operator with the Australian Army when traumatic work experiences left her struggling to function. Whilst doing rehab, Mindy discovered a love for jiujitsu that helped her rebuild her life.

I spent six and a half years in the Australian Defence Force and was not in a good place when I medically discharged. I’m so happy to say that today, I’ve almost completed my healing process and I’m living a great life in Queensland with my teenage son.

Like many people who join the military, I didn’t have a great family life growing up so I was looking for a career with structure, where I could defend my country and community.

I joined the Australian Army in 2003 as an Electronic Warfare Operator in Signals Corps. I really enjoyed the work and the opportunities it gave me. In 2008, I was selected to travel to the Middle East to undertake specialist training to enhance my Arabic linguist skills.

I have to be honest and say that trip was a huge culture shock for me. Women were treated very differently in the area where I was based and without going into too much detail, I found out the hard way that I needed to be hypervigilant to what was going on around me for my own safety.

My daughter was born on a golden Brisbane winter morning. The pregnancy with this first baby had been uneventful. I was well informed and idealistic.

She arrived squalling and sizeable on her due date, after 33 hours of labour by caesarean after my cervix had swelled shut. My relief over her safe arrival was soon swamped by exhaustion and I fell asleep as I was being sutured up.

For the next 4 days in hospital, I slept only an hour or two a day. By day five, when I was due to be discharged, I couldn’t stop crying and had begun to stutter.

I got lucky. My midwife was switched on. She said: ‘You have more going on than the baby blues.’  Relief that what I was experiencing was not normal was replaced by terror when the obstetrician recommended I be admitted to the mother baby unit (mbu) of a private psychiatric hospital half an hour away.

I had no history of mental illness, and this was not how I had envisaged our going home day.

A bouquet of encouragement for mental health carers this Mother’s Day

This Mother's Day, we’d like to recognise all the women who play a caring role in our lives. Caring for someone with complex mental health needs can be overwhelming and sometimes quite lonely, but there are some simple actions you can take to keep yourself and your loved ones positive, connected and confident that you’re heading in the right direction.

In this blog, SANE community member Sonya shares a list of the things that helped her when her daughter was first diagnosed with schizophrenia at 20 years of age.

You’re still in shock and disorientated, so it’s understandable everything feels impossibly hard for you right now. And the fear and helplessness you feel are understandable too. What loving mother wouldn’t feel this way? But you must remind yourself that you are free to choose what you hold in your mind. That you can choose to believe that it won’t always be this way. And that there are steps you can take to help yourself feel less helpless. You love lists.

Let’s list the steps you can take.

1. You can talk to your GP about everything that’s happened and the feelings that you’re struggling with.
2. You can use the internet to learn about E’s mental health condition and the services and supports available to you and her. Start with SANE (where you found the 1800 helpline) and take a closer look at the fact sheets and recovery stories.
3. You can set up daily routines and limits for keeping yourself ready, able, and strong. Like exercise and not drinking coffee after 2pm.
4. You can remember what you read about stress and calm both being contagious. And you can aim to always be the calmest person in the room.
5. You can use reflective listening and empathising to head off conflict with E and stay connected to her.
6. When challenging times come around, you can tell yourself you’ve got through challenging times before and you’ll get through challenging times again.
7. When negative thoughts take hold, you can shift you attention to an activity that requires deep focus or engages your senses. Dancing to your favourite pop songs always works. So does going for a long brisk walk in the cool night air.
8. You can join a support group. If you can’t find one that suits your needs, you can team up with another carer and create one that does.
9. You can acknowledge what you’re grateful for. (Make a list and keep it handy. Put E at the top of the list).
10. When stigma and discrimination show up in your interactions with others, you can call it out. You can explain why its hurtful, harmful, and atrocious. (Don’t be afraid to use the word “atrocious.” It’s exactly the right word).
11. You can report misleading news coverage of people with complex mental health conditions to SANE’s Stigma Watch Program.
12. You can choose not to be hurt by family members and close friends who find it hard to know how to support you. It doesn’t mean they don’t care.
13. You can seize the opportunity to share a laugh with E. To see the funny side, together.
14. You can value small steps. Yours and E’s. Just like you value small green shoots in the garden.
15. You can believe with all your heart that you can still live fully. That purpose and meaning and even strength and fulfillment can be found in your new circumstances. Choose to believe this and maybe E will one day choose to believe it too.

Connect with other carers who get what you’re going through in our dedicated family, friends and carers space on the SANE Forums. It’s a safe, anonymous community where you can seek advice, share experiences and insights and learn what’s helped others. Click here to join the community – it’s free and open 24/7.

You’ll also find practical tips, guides and tools for family, friends and carers on our website here.

Meg, a proud Aboriginal woman from Exmouth, Western Australia, is a 53-year-old mother of three adult children and has been married for 31 years. Diagnosed with bipolar disorder at 19 while serving in the Australian Army, Meg’s plans for a 20-year career were cut short by her diagnosis, which led to a medical discharge. Though the setback was “a real blow,” her “fighting spirit” kept her going. Over the years, she has struggled to maintain consistent employment, finding that work often triggered stress. Recently, she decided to focus on volunteering to stay active while managing her mental health. 

In May 2021, as part of her commitment to furthering her recovery, Meg discovered SANE during a search for mental health support services on Google. Intrigued by the potential of a digital peer community, she signed up to explore the SANE forums, an experience that would become a key part of her life and mental health journey. 

Discovering SANE: A new path to connection and support 

Meg initially found SANE’s forums and digital support a bit confusing to navigate, taking a few days to make her first post. However, she quickly adapted and was struck by the warmth and understanding within the SANE community. “It’s such a well-kept secret, and I was so excited to find it,” she recalls, describing her initial excitement. Through SANE’s peer support services, Meg began to feel a renewed sense of belonging. She now regularly participates in the forums, Recovery Club sessions, and webinars, including Indigenous and veterans’ hubs. “My experiences with SANE have been 99% positive, and overall, I have been extremely happy with the service,” she says. 

Impact on mental health and resilience 

Reflecting on her progress since joining SANE, Meg describes a profound shift in her mental health. “Over the past three years, my mental health has significantly improved. I am stronger, more resilient, more confident, and more willing to put myself out there.” The peer-led discussions and support groups have provided Meg with essential coping tools, including improved conflict management skills and an enhanced capacity for empathy. “I have more tools in my recovery toolbox,” she notes, especially around self-care and self-compassion. 

The digital platform’s structured discussions have also given Meg a new perspective on managing her bipolar disorder, helping her “handle conflict better in general” and making her more compassionate toward others’ struggles. She now approaches others with empathy, saying, “You just never know what is going on for another person in their life.” 

“Having a bipolar episode, is different, in every decade of your life.”  

This is what the psychiatrist told me, when I confessed I was having an affair, had changed my career to being a Landscape Gardener, was organising my divorce, plus a move out of the home my kids and I had lived in with my ex-husband. “Really?” I said. “I thought I was just having a mid-life crisis while being medicated successfully for bipolar disorder?”  

“No”, he said, “you are having an episode in your 40s and you have a lot more resources and a much more complex presentation than you had during the onset episode in your 20s when you were manically working in a nightclub, squatting in a commercial building and flunking courses in your university degree.” “Oh”, I said. Then just to add a little bit of witty repartee to the conversation, he added, “You are taking ‘bush’ regeneration to a whole new level.” I breathed, a sigh, at this point, because of all the bipolar episodes suddenly flashing through my memory, this one was going to be the most life changing.  

When now in my 50s, I look back, seeing there are intergenerational mental health symptoms in my family. My maternal grandfather was hospitalised in the 1930s with depression. This is the first documented mental health episode in my family. Then the line runs to me, then from me to my sons. A predisposition for bipolar disorder definitely runs in my family. Unlike earlier generations, though, my sons and I talk about our mental health with each other. They know the signs; they know the ‘pack drill’ and they have all visited me in a psychiatric ward. My children have grown up with the understanding that a psychiatrist is as essential as a good GP.  

Yet, for all of our joint knowledge and lived experience, this has not prevented us from having mental health episodes – it just helps us navigate therapy when we need a psychologist, or which medications work in our family, and the way we make sure that we are there for each other with maybe a little less stigma. ‘Untreated’ mental health episodes are rare in our family. We are more likely to think that maybe it’s ‘mental’ rather than ‘physical’.