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Mistaken Identity: Surviving Tragedy and Misdiagnosis

by Francine Keane

164 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #04-1931; ISBN 1-4120-4124-4; US$18.95, C$24.00, EUR15.60, £10.81

Unresolved grief sabotages a young woman's life and a young psychotherapist uses it to his advantage. A story of survival, in which life imitates art and love is triumphant.

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about the book      about the author      excerpts      catalogue info

About the Book In Mistaken Identity, Francine Keane has told of her challenging journey through almost two decades of depression and anxiety which started with the tragic death of her brother when she was 18. With an incorrect diagnosis she was encouraged to persist with analytical psychotherapy while further losses accumulated - the death of her mother from Alzheimer's Disease, her second brother from Motor Neurone Disease and, finally, her father who died in 2003 at the age of 90. In caring for her terminally ill brother she explores the importance of being present for those you love during such a precious time, in spite of your own suffering. Finally, after 20 long years, a correct diagnosis and treatment has lead to the rediscovery of her own creativity and this book was borne of the desire to show how the lives of decent people can be re-written by psychiatry. In baring her soul she has attempted to de-mystify abstract therapeutic concepts and questioned the validity of psychotherapy. Through the use of letters, poetry and dreams she has presented an experience in which life really does imitate art.

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About the Author Francine Keane lives in Sydney, Australia and has spent two decades working as a PA and office manager in a wide range of sectors, the most recent for a small business magazine. She completed her Diploma in Freelance Journalism in 2001 and is currently studying for her Diploma in Professional Editing and Proof-reading. This is her first book and she is now planning her first novel.

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Excerpts

That my own propensity for caring could be so misunderstood by psychiatry has caused me a great deal of pain. That psychiatry could also fail to diagnose and teat the symptoms of a major depressive illness caused by unresolved grief over the tragic death of my brother John when I was 18 caused enormous and unnecessary suffering.

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For me there has always been a strong sense of life before John's death, and life after. In pathologising my family and defining normal sibling relations as abusive, psychotherapy has sought to look for answers where they were never going to be found. It is for this reason that I have included photographs and dedicated a chapter to family history in order to show how the lives of decent people can be re-written by analytical psychotherapy.

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John died nine days later, on the 17th December, 1977, along with his eight passengers, at Bundi. It was a Saturday morning, like the ones we so often spent flying over Sydney together. The telegram sat in a post office in Madang until Monday morning. Newspaper reports of my brother's death caused alarmed phone calls from relatives. Without any official notification, we assured them it must be another John Keane the articles were referring to.

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Back at work, I struggled to comprehend anything new and felt de-skilled. I didn't complete my scriptwriting course, the dissymmetry in my life making it all seem so pointless. Although I was in a role with unlimited potential, I felt lost and starting sticking to safe paths, avoiding having to learn anything new. In the late 1970's no one talked about post-traumatic stress, let alone unresolved grief. People kept telling me to 'keep my chin up' and that 'time heals all wounds' but in my experience time became the enemy and I was trapped in it. I would come home from work and go to bed early, often just lying there unable to sleep or else I would wake in the middle of the night in a state of panic, unable to get back to sleep until just before it was time to get up. I hated answering the phone because I couldn't handle small talk. I was physically and mentally exhausted.

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Intuition suggested that it would be a long time before I was in this part of the world again so I decided to do one more thing before I returned home - I registered with Project 67 to work on an Israeli kibbutz. Israel had always fascinated me and I wanted to experience life without possessions. Perhaps I was trying to get in touch with my grief and needed this type of environment. I just didn't want what London had to offer any more and gave away most of my possessions.

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During lunch breaks I would sit on the grass beside a high wall, feeling the isolation of that out-of-the way suburb. I felt disconnected and knew I couldn't stay. If only I had been able to speak to someone who recognised what was really happening to me. Today I look back with incredible sadness as I know this was the best opportunity I could have ever been given to further a career in film making.

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Without my consent, an appointment was made with a psychiatrist who arrived at my bedside and ushered me to what appeared to be a storage room. I am only 5ft 3'' and he appeared to tower over me in his dark suit. As I hadn't had time to arrange for a dressing gown or slippers to be brought from home, I was wearing a hospital gown that gaped at the back and was trying to make myself as presentable as possible before following him. I felt small and inadequate as I followed him in my bare feet. This delay caused him to scrutinise me and the stage was set for an uneven display of power and intent.

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The same therapist had often suggested that my family were responsible for my many ills, as though they had some magic power over the tragic events we all shared together. They were perceived as selfish people who didn't care for my needs. Along with previous suggestions of abuse by my family, this made me increasingly unwilling to approach them for help.

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It was a surreal experience and response to the documentary was a little overwhelming, in particular the letters from viewers who wrote in response to Barry's courage. People of all ages who had felt their lives were of little value, whether as a result of depression, forced retirement or simply self-pity, had now changed their minds and were making positive decisions regarding their future. I tried to read some of the letters to Barry but he was too tired to take it all in now so, for the most part, I sat alone formulating written responses to them all.

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I was prescribed an anti-depressant and within two weeks felt as though I had finally emerged from a coma after 20 years. Even food started to taste different. It wasn't until the medication took effect that my doctor told me that the day she first met me I was 'psychically dead'. Memories of my many experiences with depression over the years crossed my mind, many of them actually worse than this one, and I knew then that my survival had to be due to something more than good genes.

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I strongly believe that first year psychiatric registrars should be supervised more closely and not allowed to make a diagnosis or suggest a prolonged and expensive course of therapy without their patient being given the benefit of a second, or even third, opinion. I also believe that as analytical psychotherapy is so fraught with complications, that patients should be given written information on the nature of the therapy and asked to sign a release form thereby accepting any potential dangers.

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Catalogue Information

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