THE DIARY OF A FALLEN ANGEL - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

In Store Price: $20.00 
Online Price:   $19.00

ISBN: 978-1-921731-24-2     Format: Paperback
Number of pages: 115
Genre:  Non Fiction

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Author Biography 

Tammy Norris was born in Brisbane, Queensland in 1976. At the age of three, her family moved to Groote Eylandt in the Gulf of Carpentaria, Northern Territory, before returning to Queensland in 1988. Since then, Tammy has lived in various states of Australia and now lives with her husband Alex in the Northern Territory.

Tammy has a degree in Justice Studies (majoring in Intelligence and Security) plus numerous other certificates in psychology and freelance journalism. Her first book – Trapped Behind Bars – was published in 2003 by Poseidon Books. 

The events in this book are written in a ponderous and reflective manner – diary-like – as she struggles with overcoming post-traumatic stress disorder, depression and anxiety.

HERE IS A NEWS STORY FEATURING THE AUTHOR WITH AN INSIGHT INTO WHAT REALLY HAPPENS.

READ THIS REVIEW:

Tammy Norris, The Diary of a Fallen Angel: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (Poseidon, 2010) ISBN 978-1-921731-24-2 $20.00

 Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) has effects on more than just the sufferers. It has effects on their loved ones, their family and their friends, and on  those with whom the affected person has dealings with, all to lesser or greater degrees. And it helps to understand this through learning about the lives of those with PTSD. This is, in large part, why The Diary of a Fallen Angel was written.

 The author, Tammy Norris, developed PTSD as a result of her work in prisons and in immigration detention centres. Its effects have impacted directly on her life, adversely affecting her friendships, her family life, and her ability to work. These effects, and the period after the development of her PTSD are related candidly and honestly in  The Diary of a Fallen Angel, giving it a vividness and directness that strengthens the knowledge that we can draw from it. It does not embellish upon her life, and it does not sensationalise PTSD, and this is one major reason why  The Diary of a Fallen Angel should be read.

The Diary of a Fallen Angel  is one of those slim books that does not sensationalise the central situation, the effects of PTSD on a life, and how Norris has started her process of recovery. It also gives witness to the possibility of a rich and productive life, and it seems to indicate that the sensitivity to possible danger has some positive aspects to it, through Norris' alertness to the motives and behaviour of others, though this is some input from her training as a correctional officer.

The end result, in  The Diary of a Fallen Angel, is a hopeful and optimistic book that does not coat its messages with a sugar coating. The book is not, as may be feared, a bitter pill, but one that eschews false hope, and finds genuine promise for a better future. It is quite possible that Norris may follow  The Diary of a Fallen Angel with another work, and I would be welcome of reading further, since the person revealed here is one human, and fundamentally decent and honest and, simply, worthy of respect and admiration, and since I have ended up wishing for every measure of success for her.

The Diary of a Fallen Angel  is available from good book shops and directly from the publisher.

Prologue

A majority of people in their lifetime experience some type of traumatic event – whether this is a relationship break-up, the death of a loved one, or even a redundancy from a job – there are infinite numbers of stressors that most people recover from.

            Some people do not recover from disturbing or distressing events as easily.

            If you have gone through a traumatic experience and are having trouble adapting to normal life or trouble connecting to people; if you’re having overwhelming feelings of not coping; if you’re reliving and replaying the events in your mind; if you’re thinking that you will never recover from what occurred or be normal again – then you could be suffering from a much more debilitating condition known as post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

            PTSD can develop after an incident or situation that threatens your safety or makes you feel helpless, hopeless, powerless and vulnerable.  

Some examples are:

Major accidents

Violence

Sexual or physical abuse

War

Riots

When your sense of safety, wellbeing, protection, confidence, resilience and trust has been devastated and crushed, it’s understandable to feel crazy, disconnected or numb. This is because the mind and body are in psychological shock and these symptoms can take any length of time to develop and to overcome – from days, weeks, months or even years.  

Symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder can be:

Bad dreams/nightmares

Being scared or fearful

Numb

Reliving the event over and over

Flashbacks

Intense distress when reminded of the event

Physical reactions such as pounding heart, rapid breathing, nausea, sweating

Avoiding activities, places, thoughts or feelings that remind you of the event

Loss of interest in activities and life in general

Feeling detached from others

Emotionally numb

Sense of limited future

Difficulty sleeping

Irritability or outbursts of anger

Difficulty concentrating

Hyper vigilance

Feeling jumpy and easily startled

Anger

Guilt, shame or self blame

Substance abuse

Depression and hopelessness

Suicidal thoughts and feelings

Feeling alienated and alone

Feelings of mistrust and betrayal

Headaches, stomach problems, chest pain 

Much of the above information has been collected from http://helpguide.org/mental/post-traumatic_stress_disorder_symptoms_treatment. htm 

My trauma was published by Poseidon in 2003 – Trapped Behind Bars, and goes into the detail behind the triggers of my PTSD. It was written during the most miserable, bleak and dark days of my life. It is an extremely angry and volatile book where even my memory and view of my childhood was tainted by the state of mind I was in.            

At the age of twenty-one I finished university and commenced employment as a prison officer in a maximum security male prison. I worked there, and at one of Australia’s most notorious illegal immigration detention centres, for many years in the capacity of prison officer and intelligence/investigations officer. It was during this employment that I was exposed to many traumatic events that were to dictate my future.  

Below are just some examples of the things I witnessed:

Hangings

Major riots

Assaults

Death threats

Being trapped

Detainee escapes

Major violence

Life threatening events

Self harms

Suicide attempts through:

razors,

drinking bottles of shampoo,

jumping off roofs

hunger strikes

Diary of a Fallen Angel is not to revisit my traumas and triggers, but to detail how I as an individual have coped living with PTSD since being diagnosed in 2002 and the change in me as a person, and the effect it has had on those around me.

            My wish is to help and assist other people living with PTSD whilst they rebuild their broken and shattered lives, as well as giving hope and optimism to all, including the family and friends supporting, encouraging and giving strength to those damaged souls.  

I hope you enjoy the journey of my life and my recovery.  

The Diagnosis 

Emotionally battered and bruised it came as no surprise to me and those closest to me that I was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. At twenty-six years of age I had seen, and been involved in, more violent and brutal situations than even some of the most hardened and experienced prison officers.

            Further stress and strain was placed on me whilst going through the WorkCover process – I had to prove I was psychologically and emotionally scarred by all I had seen, witnessed and been involved with over the past few years.

            After a three month battle – with no income – I finally won my case with the overwhelming evidence provided by doctors, psychologists and psychiatrists. I was messed up and it was my employment that was to blame. Overcoming that major obstacle I could start my journey on rebuilding and reshaping my devastated, traumatised and shattered world.

            In total I was off work for twelve months or so and to some people having a year off work with full pay sounds like a pleasurable and enjoyable time. It was not and could not have been further from my reality. That first twelve months was an emotional rollercoaster to say the very least.

            The only way that I knew I was alive was the fact I was breathing and my heart was pumping blood around my body. Emotionally I could feel nothing positive or feel much of anything really as I was numbed – no love, no affection, and no care. In contrast, fear, anxiety and apprehension were ever present and relentless. I had become a hermit enclosed in the safety of the house that I shared with my partner.

            I went nowhere much and never, ever alone. I rarely saw other people – it wasn’t safe out there in the real world – too many illicit and non law-abiding citizens existed out there. No way did I want to step out of the front door only to be hurt or harmed in some way by another person. I already had been during the course my employment. I had been exposed to enough darkness to last me a lifetime and I doubted that light actually existed at the end of the tunnel.

            What I also detested were the mind games that inmates and some officers played or games in general that affected people’s emotions or insulted their intelligence. Human nature is cruel and twisted and people were out to hurt each other as much as possible. Why would I want to step out into that world? I didn’t, as I refused and I remained in my safe little cocoon.

            When on the odd occasion I did go out I was constantly on red alert. All my senses were electrified and on fire – I hated seeing groups of men together and my heart would beat at a million miles an hour and my palms became sweaty. My ‘fight or flight’ response was constantly switched on. I was relentlessly looking over my shoulder and jumping out of my skin at any shouts or raised voices – I’d become a trembling mess. I absolutely detested men covered in tattoos or any people that had that general rough and tough look about them, even though this is a very stereotypical view of criminals – it’s one that I reacted to most strongly.

            In addition to this trigger group, I hated seeing Muslims – especially the women with their faces covered. Most detainees in the detention centres were of Muslim faith and to me they represented and reminded me of the riots and all the horror and pain I’d experienced. My reaction was always physical if I did see them – quite often I wanted to be sick. When I saw these people on TV I would scream at it and wave my fists at the screen, “You mongrels! Piss off back to your own country!” I would holler.           Fear, panic, revulsion, horror and sheer terror always accompanied these outbursts.

            I stopped watching the news – it was all doom and gloom and it reinforced my warped, twisted and deformed view of the world. Illicit, immoral and impure – the world was full of bad and evil men and terrorists. I had an especially bad reaction when war was declared with Iraq in 2003. As much as I avoided the TV, there was no way to escape it entirely and on that particular day it was almost smashed, with the rage I unleashed. I scared myself with the intensity of my hatred, fear, resentment and panic towards humans in general.

            Is it any wonder that each night I’d have nightmares? Two or three times a night Alex would awaken to me ranting and raving, shouting and screaming at invisible and unseen enemies. Extremely violent and extremely vocal I would fight for my life, all whilst in a deep sleep. On numerous occasions Alex would stop me from physical punching and attacking him. Other times I would be shouting at inmates to, “Break it up!” not to jump, not to hang themselves, or cut themselves. My nights were always very eventful, although I could not always remember my dreams and most times Alex would let me know the next day.

            Contact with my friends was extremely limited during this turbulent and disturbing time as I had cut off from practically everyone. I’d tried to keep in touch with an amazing friend Stacey – who I had become friends with in 1989 at school – through email. For me, email was a safe way to communicate – I didn’t have to speak to anyone. Rarely would I answer the phone at home because I was petrified of it and never knew who could be calling. Distrust and fear were such an enormous part of my condition.

            Therefore emailing became my way of communicating with people in the big, bad world and this way the big, bad world could not engulf me with its negativity and nastiness. I especially liked receiving lovely messages about friendship and love and all those junk chain mail ones – the ones with beautiful messages of hope. I would forward these on to Stacey to show her that although I was not ringing or visiting, she meant a lot to me.

            After some time, Stacey sent back an email asking me to stop sending her junk messages. Had I not been suffering PTSD this would never have been an issue, but I was absolutely devastated, distraught and hurt. In effect she was taking away my only method of communicating with her – I couldn’t sit and write a letter because I had nothing to say, because nothing was happening in my life – I was cooped up at home safely, using email as a way to touch base. She ripped my heart out with that simple and innocent request and I exploded with rage, anger and resentment – and emailed her a volatile response.

            From that day long ago – I have not heard from Stacey. On numerous occasions over the past six or seven years I have tried desperately to make amends and contact my childhood friend – but have been snubbed each time. In 2008 I sent her a copy of my book, writing in the cover that I hoped one day she would understand and forgive me and I also left a phone message. Stacey did not return the call nor acknowledge receiving my book. PTSD had claimed my first friend.

            The next defectors were a couple – Bettina and Nigel. Our relationship became rocky when I commenced at the prison because they said it had changed me and I wasn’t the same person. Of course they were right as I was watching all sorts of nasty things day in and day out. It was turning me into another person.

            We had a falling out over my behaviour. A few months after starting in the prison Bettina turned twenty-one, and although I went to her party, I didn’t stay for a personal reason. Later I missed Nigel and Bettina’s wedding because of work. I flew to the other side of Australia for a six week stint in one of the illegal immigration detention centres. I really had no choice but to go, and flew out the day before the wedding. Bettina was not amused and was extremely hurt. Numerous times the word ‘selfish’ and ‘liar’ were used to describe me. Over time, we mended our relationship through communication and talking – but even that ultimately would not save our friendship from the death grip of PTSD.

            Meanwhile, Bettina and Stacey had become good friends and shared a great bond. Bettina informed me that she had seen my angry email and wasn’t impressed. Very soon all contact with me stopped. I was left absolutely devastated by the rejection, hurt and embarrassment. I sobbed and sobbed, crying uncontrollably with Alex trying to reassure me that she was not worth the emotion or the trouble. He couldn’t possibly know how I hated my angry, uncontrollable and vicious outbursts. Why I was so deeply affected and hurt by the people who were meant to be my friends? They thought I was nothing but a bitch, liar and selfish. They had absolutely no idea how broken and overwhelmed I was, with absolutely no capacity to think of others. The loss of their friendship compounded my perverted belief of the world.

            The denunciation by my two girlfriends and Nigel, whom I had known since high school, sent me further into depression and despair. Not only were inmates horrible and nasty creatures causing harm and mayhem to the world – so were friends. My trust in humankind was already shaky, volatile and fickle so this devastation drove me deeper into chaos. My trust of people became non-existent. If you couldn’t trust your friends, then who could you rely upon? If friends caused so much pain and agony then imagine what strangers would do. Work colleagues, the person in the service station or the local shopping centre, or the person walking along the footpath, what would they do to me? I was unaware of my thought processes at the time but now, looking back, I realised it furthered my decline.

            All this turmoil relating to friendship was brought on by an email requesting me to stop sending junk messages. Without a doubt post-traumatic stress disorder has certainly played havoc with my life. I often sit and reflect, wondering what sort of person I would be had I never set foot in the prison system and instead, I’d got a job in a nice environment. Would Stacey, Nigel and Bettina still be my friends? And would I have stayed the fastidious person I was? Would I have the ability to keep friends and make new ones?  In the life I was leading, this was impossible because of my mental outlook. It was near impossible with my lack of trust and ability to see the good in anyone or anything.

As you can imagine I wasn’t the only one living through the effects of working in the prison and detention centre environments. Other officers were experiencing and suffering the same thing and dealing with it as best they could. My dear friend Tori was also recovering. Together we had shared and survived the detention centre and the riots, fires and protestors – we had laughed and cried and now the two of us were emotionally lifeless. We were no longer good for each other. We couldn’t offer help or support, and sadly that friendship faltered, floundered and died.

            That breakdown affected me the most – as we had shared so very much during life threatening situations and events that caused our current state of mind. How I missed Tori and how I cried and cursed the world. I cursed myself for being a freak. I hated myself for being so unlikeable, unlovable and for causing pain to many of my friends and family without meaning to and without any real control. I closed off even more – I was horrible and didn’t deserve friends, friends were nasty at any rate, so that suited me fine. I trusted no one and unfortunately this ill-trust of the world and people has haunted me for the years following. It has been difficult and hard to overcome. It’s been a long, and sometimes very lonely, path.

            Good friends who did stand by my side throughout my entire ordeal were Dannita and Jim. God only knows why as I didn’t visit them very much. In the past I was a regular visitor to their house, but in that first year of my diagnosis I was a ghost, an echo of a memory. Dannita was fantastic and came to visit me a few times at home but I don’t think even she fully comprehended what my problem was. No one did.

            On rare occasions Alex and I had Dannita and Jim over for a BBQ or vice versa. In all honesty my enthusiasm for visiting friends and having friends over was zero. I had lost all passion and gusto for entertaining and being entertained. I was still very fearful of the world, and I remember Dannita innocently saying one day that she felt sorry for me because Alex wouldn’t let me visit alone. Alex and I went everywhere together, and I guess it may have looked as though he was stopping me from visiting my friends. It wasn’t the case. I explained to Dannita that he actually encouraged me to visit people, but I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t describe how even the thought of going solo made my stomach flip, palms sweat and heart race.

            On the topic of entertaining, my cousin Janet came to visit for lunch one day on her rostered day off. I knew she was coming and yet I didn’t have the foresight to have anything appropriate in the pantry and fridge for a meal. I hadn’t been eating properly myself for such a long time and it was highly embarrassing for me to say I had nothing. She was another person on the long list, who didn’t fully grasp my health and looked at me rather strangely. I think she even said, ‘You don’t invite someone over for lunch and have nothing to offer them.” We managed to scratch up Vegemite sandwiches or something like that. It was the story of my life that people thought me rude. Most times – I just wasn’t capable of thinking ahead.

            Another friend who remained in my life through the ordeal was Sandy. She was a childhood friend I stayed in touch with ever since leaving the Northern Territory at twelve years old. Although it was me that did most of the ringing and the writing to keep the communication alive, I adored her to bits. We’d been friends since the tender age of three.

            At one point, work in the prison became so overwhelming that I just had to get out. I rang Sandy and a few days later I flew from Brisbane to Perth for a much-needed holiday. It was great to be away from the daily grind and to be with Sandy and her hubby. I could forget everything whilst I drank wine and port and alcohol with them. When they were at work I did a lot of sleeping. Sandy would often ask why I didn’t go for a walk outside or catch public transport into the city. I couldn’t explain the dread those activities provoked in me. She thought I was a bit strange to fly all that way and not go and see the sights. I was content to sleep and catch up in the evening with the two of them.

            After my dramatic breakdown, Sandy and I kept in touch but very irregularly. She was a dear and close friend, but one at a great distance. She never fully understood my distress or my condition because she wasn’t close enough to witness it. I don’t think I ever went into details about my very real horror. I can’t honestly remember. But at least she was there in the background whilst I sank lower and lower into the gaping black-hole that was sucking the life from me.

            Another friend hovering in the background was Kerry and although we had never spoken on the phone more then two or three times since we were twelve, we had remained in touch through letter writing. She was still in the Territory and had kept my details up to date as I moved around Queensland, to South Australia and back to Queensland.

            At one point Kerry visited with me in South Australia and that brief stopover gave me an enormous boost. On another occasion I caught up with her in the Northern Territory whilst I was there collecting a boatload of illegal immigrants to take to South Australia. She could see, and was fully aware of, the damage the prison had done to me psychologically and emotionally and my subsequent breakdown. She was a wonderful, wonderful support – even from a distance. Our friendship is pure quality and very special to me, and I am blessed to say it still is.

In short, I had some good friends and others that I cut off entirely, some made that decision for me. I was still in touch with my family which was good. I saw Mum and Dad seldom because they lived an hour and a half away – but I did ring Mum constantly. I found I could ring Mum without fear of the phone because I knew it would only be her or Dad answering. There were no scary bogey men waiting on the other end of the phone line.

            I called often as I needed to feel secure and protected and Mum had always been my safety blanket and comforter. With this debilitating condition – Mum was my ever-present safety net. Strangely enough I didn’t feel love towards her although I knew I did love her. It was as though I felt nothing positive or good at all towards anyone or anything. Again, it was a numbness that engulfed me. It was an eerie feeling to have no positive emotion, especially for me who used to be so loving, cuddly and caring.

            In saying that however, I felt ample pessimistic, negative and black emotions and was angry and resentful towards everybody and everything, especially my father. It was all I seemed to feel and I blamed him for a lot of things. Anyone who has read my first book will know just how heated my words were. I probably hurt him deeply with my expression and actions and I embarrassed him enormously with how I portrayed him in the book. I wrote that book in the throes of despair, despondency and misery so unfortunately my father, who is not a bad man, copped a printed lashing. I was coming out swinging left, right and centre trying to make sense of my world and my muddled and disordered head, and anybody who hurt me copped the brunt of my wrath and fury. This trend, as you will read, has followed me in to 2009.

            My sister lived next door to Alex and I, and I saw her nearly every day. It was safe for me to run across the lawn, and be in relative safety in a matter of seconds. It was unlikely that I would be hurt by some nasty human in those short strides, but even so when I made the journey across my heart would pound and I would run as fast as I could. I’m sure I must have looked hilarious to anyone that happened to see me sprinting next door. It certainly wasn’t amusing or a laughing matter for me and those living with the person I had become.

            It was extremely lucky that my sister did live next door because had she not, then my severely limited contact with the outside world would have become almost nil. I came to rely on Kaitlin as my social contact away from spending day after day home alone, not watching TV and speaking only to Mum.

            My sister didn’t know it was my lifeline and my grasp on reality and a ‘normal’ life. Subconsciously I could have been trying to recreate the life that I used to have when we were children and living at home. It was a safe and comfortable feeling going over every day to visit, and initially both Kaitlin and James were happy with my visits. Good things, it seemed, can never last.

            It was inevitable that James my brother-in-law would become annoyed with my constant and unannounced visits. At the time I could see absolutely nothing wrong with visiting all the time and imposing on their lives. I was self-centred and focused and I gave no thought to their wants and needs because I was incapable of doing so. James’s annoyance and my condition were going to explode into an almighty volcanic eruption that would tear the family apart.

            That first twelve months of diagnosis and time off work was a very lonely and isolated period and I was extremely vulnerable and frightened. I certainly didn’t consider my counselling sessions every week as a social outing, or the cognitive behaviour therapy course I was participating in. The course was designed to help suffers overcome anxiety and depression. It was not intended specifically for PTSD sufferers, but still it was good for me to meet other people who felt abnormal due to life-changing experiences. I wasn’t the only one with a stilted view of the world. I think this course helped to kickstart my very slow recovery. I was beginning to see a very dim light at the end of a very long, desolate and barren tunnel.

Despite my world devoid of colour and emotion, Alex and I continued to have a wonderful relationship, due to the love and bond we shared. It was strong enough to survive and although I never said it often enough – I loved him very much and knew without a doubt he was a very special, unique and extraordinary human being for loving me in my current condition. The fact Alex was an introvert probably helped. He was quite content to stay at home and watch movies, DVDs and Foxtel, as opposed to going out and socialising with others. Our lifestyle truly suited us both. We were appropriately matched and spent hours in each other’s company without complaint or the need for others.

            With Alex’s unconditional love and support plus the effort he made to understand my PTSD, my world was becoming brighter although still very dark. Sunlight was breaking through the dense fog that had been hovering around me for such a long time. If I was honest with myself that hazy veil had descended on me after the first incidents inside the prison and had grown darker and darker with every episode. It was going to take a lot of effort and energy to shift it completely and a lot of effort to even recognise that I still had issues and problems associated with post-traumatic stress disorder years later, but at least there was now some light.

            For the first time in months and months I ventured out into the real world with Alex by my side, and we drove to Cairns for a holiday. We both needed the change of scenery, especially Alex who worked full-time on top of helping me emotionally. It must have been very taxing on him, but he never complained. I was very nervous about the trip but felt I needed to go as my first gigantic step back into reality. After all, there was an enormous world outside the safety of the house, and eventually I had to get back out there.

            It was a lovely time away although I still had the same reactions to shouts, yells and other triggers – I worked my way through each one as best as possible. The highlight of the holiday was Alex’s proposal. We were in Port Douglas staying at a beautiful resort and we were out swimming in one of the many pools. The pool was beautiful and large with an enormous cave in the centre. It had waterfalls flowing over both entrances. Swimmers could stroke their way to the middle of the pool, through the waterfall and be inside a private little area, curtained off by the both waterfalls. It was very romantic and solitary. Whilst in this convenient and dreamy place, Alex popped the question. My answer was naturally yes.  

Back in Brisbane life continued on as before, but there was no hurry to make wedding arrangements as we agreed to wait a number of years for practical reasons – like my recovery and saving up money to pay for a wedding and honeymoon. My psychiatrist thought the engagement was a wonderful step forward in my recuperation and so did my family. They loved Alex and thought he was the best thing since sliced bread. Compared to all the disastrous and inappropriate men I’d dated whilst seduced by the negativity surrounding me, (which Alex is fully aware) he was truly my knight in shining armour and I privately thought he was way too good for me. Was I deserving of his love and devotion? What did he find so special about me? 

The next small but significant step in my improvement was the ability to go to the shops alone and out in public. Slowly I was starting to do this. Not big adventures but small, gradual ones like going to the post office, or going to the service station. I was nervous and apprehensive but I was able to complete these journeys. I would not go to any big shopping centres and hated them with a passion. I hated hordes of people and crowds really upset me, but I was starting to live again.

            One day I ventured into a New Age-type shop situated five minutes from home, in the main street. Although I didn’t have a reading I got talking with Helga the owner and expressed my interest in all things psychic, supernatural and spiritual. This chance encounter almost felt guided by an unseen force, and led to a subsequent stride towards normality. Once or twice a week from that moment on, I would go in and help out in small ways. Basically I just pottered around as these occasions were more of a social gathering of like-minded people. One lady read the tea leaves and another read auras and my particular interest was in tarot cards.

            Slowly but surely I began to re-engage with the human race, albeit I was still very raw and vulnerable. It actually felt good to mix with others and I was beginning to feel some emotions again – dull, but they were there. Some days I couldn’t bring myself to attend, but that was to be expected. When I was there I never answered the phone as that still frightened me, but given time I would start to do this as well.

            I’d been in counselling for many months and he was happy with my progress, however it was crunch time and WorkCover made a decision about my case. It was determined that I could never return to a correctional centre environment and would be paid out a lump sum. I had time to think about the offer as there was the opportunity to sue the company for damages, pain and suffering. My goal was to get better and get on with life. I wanted to be normal again and that meant I had to start living. Suing would have done absolutely no good for me at all and could have, in fact pushed my progress back a long way. I couldn’t afford to have that happen. I took the WorkCover lump sum payment.  

What a long and difficult year it had been for me and everyone close to me, but at least now recovery seemed possible.