On Friday, 8 April 2022, I boarded a plane to Johannesburg from Melbourne, Australia, where I’ve been living for almost five years. A reluctant immigrant, I did my best to live between the two cities because the essence of my life’s work was in South Africa, but my heart, also known as my two children, resides in Australia.
Jump forward to 8 April 2022. I am finally taking my two boys home to South Africa to see my family after over two years of Covid-19 lockdown. We’re all terribly excited. In fact, with the daily pressures of work and everyone’s pandemic-related anxiety, I find myself not sleeping at night – a big no-no for any bipolar sufferer.
Two days later, on Monday, I am in a crisis as family pressures around me mount. The police have been called to the holiday home where we are staying to de-escalate the “situation”. The situation sees me fighting hard to remove myself from a potentially dangerous situation and ultimately, a patriarchal and reductionist style of treatment that will push me into an involuntary psychiatric admission.
By mid-morning on Tuesday, the ambulance has to come to collect me again. I enter the vehicle and fall asleep instantly, waking up almost two hours later at the site of my first diagnosis a few years ago: a private hospital on Johannesburg’s West Rand.