Racism: Adelaide writer Caitlyn Davies-Plummer’s battle with depression

I remember coming home and asking Mum why the other kids thought I was dirty. I wanted to have a bath, to just wash my skin colour away. I needed to scrub until I couldn’t scrub anymore.

Caitlyn Davies-Plummer with son Dusty. Picture: Tom Huntley

Maybe the darkness began when I was five years old?

The recess bell rang abruptly and echoed throughout the classrooms across the school. Within minutes the schoolyard resembled that of headless chickens running in every direction. Chasey was a favourite, but on this day the kids weren’t playing chasey. On this day they were playing “run away from Caitlyn”.

After what felt like an eternity, they finally stopped. They circled around me like hyenas about to attack their prey. Little Johnny proudly took a big step out of the circle towards me. Johnny was a blue-eyed, blond-haired kid who probably had a touch of ADHD. He began shouting and laughing: “No one wants to play with you. We all know you’re dirty and don’t have baths!”

Immediately, a chorus of giggles echoed around me. I looked around at the circle, really confused. My young brain couldn’t comprehend why this snotty kid was accusing me of not having baths – my parents made me have a bath every night! After a long pause, I finally worked up the courage to reply. “I have a bath every day! I’m not dirty!”

Johnny pointed at my arm. “Look at your skin. It’s so brown and dirty. You don’t look like any of us.” He then lined his arm up against mine. “See, you’re definitely dirty. It’s much darker than mine.”

I immediately turned and ran away, not wanting them to see me cry.

I remember coming home and asking Mum why the other kids thought I was dirty. I wanted to have a bath, to just wash my skin colour away. I needed to scrub until I couldn’t scrub anymore, but I couldn’t wash my colour away and I evidently couldn’t keep the darkness away either. Did the darkness start then?

Depression is a really strange illness. No one can see it, but it feels like you’re slowly drowning on the inside. It’s a darkness that envelops you, rendering you unable to ever see light. Unable to ever think things could get better, or that you deserve them getting better. I don’t think there is a word for depression in any Aboriginal language.

Yet our mob has some of the highest suicide and depression rates in the world. I never understood depression until I lived it. I don’t think anyone truly can. But at this point I’ve had it for so long, it feels like a really mean friend who won’t take the hint and leave. I’m fearful of what will happen if it leaves me one day. I don’t think I’d know myself without it anymore.

Caitlyn Davies-Plummer. Picture: Tom Huntley

Maybe the darkness began when I was 10 years old?

Physical education was never a lesson that I looked forward to. Not being blessed with a high level of co-ordination, I played goal shooter in netball so I didn’t have to run. On this particular day we were learning the art of sprinting.

The hundred-metre sprint was the first race, and as I stood at the starting line I could feel my heart beating through my chest. Every thump was pounding in my ears and I could have sworn everyone else could hear it too. I knew I would come last. I was just hoping that no one would notice.

The PE teacher strutted around like he was an Olympic coach. He tried to ignite a competitive spirit in kids that were just never going to have it. The man had a starting gun, for goodness sake. We were just a bunch of 10-year-old kids.

Bang! The gun went off to start the race, scaring the shit out of a bunch of girls, and their combined screams were louder than the shot itself. Obviously, and not surprisingly, I lost the race.

After we had all crossed the finish line, I heard a voice shout out: “I thought she was Aboriginal, isn’t she meant to be fast?” Again, a chorus of laughter immediately followed. I wanted the earth to swallow me and to become invisible. I had to make a quick decision on what my reaction would be and I chose the only safe option. I decided to laugh along with everyone else, quickly wiping my eye, trying to hide the single tear that was running down my cheek. Did the darkness start then?

Depression stays with you wherever you go. It isn’t something you can just switch off. It feels like you’re carrying a hundred kilos of weight around on your shoulders, without ever being able to put it down. Every face that looks at you is judgmental.

Maybe the darkness started when I was 12?

Canberra was the family holiday destination that year. As you can imagine, my 12-year-old self was not overly ecstatic about the idea of a holiday in the nation’s capital. After a few riveting days of city tours and museums, my parents decided to take us to Parliament House. At this time, the Aboriginal Tent Embassy was loud and proud out the front of Parliament House. There were two women walking in front of us as we approached the entrance. We overheard them discussing their views on Aboriginal people very loudly.

“What a bunch of ungrateful, dirty dole bludgers,” one of them said to the other, pointing at the tents. The other woman nodded her head and replied: “Yeah, what are they complaining about? They get everything handed to them, and then spend it all on alcohol and drugs. How are they allowed to sit there like that? It’s so unappealing to all the visitors to Parliament House. They should be arrested.”

We followed them to the lift, standing quietly behind them. The tirade continued for a few more seconds and then one of them caught sight of me, my dad and my sister out of the corner of her eye. Both of the women turned around.

“Oh my god! I am SO sorry. We didn’t realise you were behind us,” the first woman gushed, visibly going red and looking decidedly embarrassed. The second joined in. “We definitely weren’t talking about you. You’re the good ones. We just mean the drunks and drug addicts,” she nodded to herself, as if satisfied with her intellect and ability to backtrack.

They both clearly thought they had covered their tracks really well. We all just stood there in shock with awkward, uncomfortable smiles on our faces. What were we supposed to do? Make an even bigger scene? That would only prove their point about troublemaking Aboriginal people. So we did what I’ve done my whole life – we nodded and forced a laugh out. We sat with our own pain and pushed it to the side to make them feel comfortable about the racist words they had said. Did the darkness start then?

Caitlyn Davies-Plummer with son Dusty, 2. Picture: Tom Huntley

I don’t have enough words to explain every act of racism I have been subjected to in my life. But through all of that, I was able to coexist with my darkness. We tolerated each other. I knew it was there, but I could still push it to the side and function. Until one day I just couldn’t anymore.

After my son was born, I suffered a traumatic post-partum injury. Those magical first five months of my son’s life are a blur. I don’t remember him being a newborn. I don’t remember cuddling him for hours on the couch. I don’t remember his first smile.

All I remember is being in pain.

All I remember is kneeling on all fours next to his bassinet, trying my best to rock it back and forth because I couldn’t physically stand up. Trying to stop myself from crying too loudly by placing my hand over my mouth in a failed attempt to muffle the sounds coming out.

I remember having to stop in the middle of a breastfeed to go to the toilet, leaving my newborn baby in his bassinet crying his little lungs out for more milk. I remember sitting on the toilet for 30 minutes in complete agony, while listening to my baby scream for me, feeling completely helpless and screaming myself. I felt like a complete failure as a mother.

During those five months, I was let down by the medical system, the doctors, the surgeons. The physical pain only came to an end after we drove five hours from Adelaide so I could get the operation I needed done by a surgeon in country Victoria. Within two days of the operation, I could finally sit down. I could go to the toilet with little to no pain. I felt like I could breathe again. The light that I couldn’t see for so long was back.

For two months after my surgery I lived my life in bliss. I was so thankful to not be in pain anymore, to be able to look after my child. I was experiencing life within a happy bubble. Everything tasted better, everything smelt better, life was finally full of colour. The bubble was so beautiful, my baby was so beautiful, and I never thought that the bubble would burst. Until one day it hit me. The darkness hit me in a way I’d never been hit before. The bubble burst and the darkness set in.

I pushed through for a few weeks after the darkness returned. But I could only hide it for so long, until one day I couldn’t. I was checked into a mental health unit for mothers with babies – somewhere I never imagined myself ending up in. They diagnosed me with PTSD as a result of my post-partum injury. But the health unit was not as scary as it sounds and it’s definitely not like in the movies. After six weeks of intense therapy for two hours every day and a nurse to look after me 24/7, I was discharged and left to fend for myself. Alone.

I functioned for a few weeks, but a month after my discharge I was ready to kill myself.

I wanted to stop the constant feeling of failure. I wanted my son to have a better mum, my husband to have a better wife, my family to have a better daughter. I didn’t want this darkness anymore. As soon as I woke up that day, I knew the darkness had become too heavy to carry. I was tired. I didn’t feel like I had anything left in me to give. I couldn’t keep fighting. The darkness had won.

My husband took my son for the day and I stayed with my parents. As the day wore on, I slipped further and further into my depression. I made a plan. I devised an escape. Relief immediately washed over me. I packed the car.

I didn’t even bother putting clothes on but stayed in my pyjamas. I went to walk out the front door and my mother stopped me. Her eyes filled with tears as she grabbed my arm. “Are you OK to drive?” she asked, terrified of my answer.

In that moment I had a choice. I could have lied. I could have said I was fine and continued on with my plan. But I used the one ounce of energy I had left, dropped to the floor and began hysterically sobbing.

The decision I made that day determined the direction the rest of my life would take, including whether it would have any direction at all. The depression and the darkness is still with me. Every day it’s a battle I fight. But I know my ancestors are warriors and I believe their strength still lies deep within me.

Maybe I’ll never truly know when the darkness started. And maybe that doesn’t matter. But I do know the moment I decided to fight back. Letting other people carry the weight allowed it to not feel so heavy. I may be coexisting with depression but I know that, with my family, my mob and my ancestors behind me, I will never allow it to win.

This memoir, The Darkness, by Adelaide writer Caitlyn Davies-Plummer, is published in Roots: Home is Who We Are, an anthology of Voices from the SBS Emerging Writers’ Competition published by Hardie Grant Books [$34.99]

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