Age when entered care: 19 years old
Year of birth: 1952
Hometown: Ōtautahi Christchurch
Time in care: 1970–1982
Type of care facility: Psychiatric hospital – Princess Margaret Hospital
Ethnicity: NZ European
Whānau background: Joan comes from a close-knit family with a history in healthcare – both her mother and grandmother were nurses, and Joan also entered nursing training. Joan’s sister was also a nurse.

Many things that are socially acceptable now were not in the 1970s. Sexuality wasn’t often talked about publicly. I myself have always been pretty open about my sexuality. I’ve been gay for as long as I can remember. I never saw it as something I needed to hide away.

While I was training to become a nurse at a hospital in Christchurch, word got around that I was gay, and I was constantly picked on. The matron in particular took offence to my sexuality and constantly made snide comments about it. One day she stared straight at me and told me that homosexuality was wrong, that I wasn’t normal. She said I was depressed and messed up in the head. That was the first time I’d experienced prejudice so openly and directly. And she made it clear I wouldn’t succeed – even marking on my grade papers: “If you thought that you are going to be a nurse, you are wrong.” It made me feel so ashamed.

Things got more difficult as I went on, as I was seen as someone who didn’t conform. Things escalated when the matron accused me of stealing drugs off a trolley. Next thing I knew, I was being driven to a psychiatric ward. They said I needed treatment and I was taken off that same day – I had no choice in the matter. I didn’t even have spare clothes with me.

I was terrified and told them it was a mistake, but they just gave me drugs to quieten me down. They said I had ‘neurotic personality disorder’ – a completely false diagnosis. The doctors didn’t listen and I had no say in what happened to me. I didn’t realise it at the time but I would spend the next 12 or so years there and I’d never get to complete my nursing training.

The amount of medication they gave me was astounding, and I wasn’t told what it was or what it was for, or what the side effects might be – I just had to take it. I had no choice. At one point they gave me trial drugs for deep sleep therapy, which lasted about a week. My notes show I was given up to 40 different medications – everything from anti-psychosis drugs to laxatives, muscle relaxants and sedatives.

They gave me electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) more than 200 times, sometimes even daily. The muscle relaxant before the ECT felt like razor blades going through my body. It went from the top of my head, down my neck and all the way down my back. They would give me a muscle relaxant to paralyse me, but I was fully awake while it was happening. I remember the silver machine and the assistants holding the electrodes, which they would place around my head. Then I’d go unconscious. After the shock therapy I would feel faint and dizzy, and usually I would vomit. I’d cry and beg them not to do it again, but they wouldn’t listen. Time blurred. Sometimes I would go completely blind from ECT.

I believe that they did not use disposable electrodes during my ECT and that I contracted hepatitis C this way. I also ended up with burn scars on my scalp, which hairdressers comment on.

Once I was put into a room without a toilet and punished for peeing on the floor in desperation, and I was often given enemas of soap and water as a punishment.

I was in and out of Princess Margaret Hospital 24 separate times over the next 12 years. The hospital started to feel like it was part of me – I became institutionalised. I had no control over my own life. No matter how much I complained or questioned the doctors, I was ignored.

I felt so humiliated by what was done to me, and sometimes I hated myself and felt like I had no reason to live. The doctor would ask me inappropriate questions about being a lesbian, like “how many times a week do you have sex with your partner”, and “what is it like”. I was scared of him and didn’t want to be alone with him.

There was never actually anything wrong with me – although I was labelled an alcoholic, a schizophrenic and a drug addict, none of these things were true and eventually I got them all wiped off my records.

The effects are long lasting. I’ve lost some of my memory, I have tinnitus and severe headaches, as well as dealing with the hepatitis C and scalp burns. I’ve self-harmed, so I’ve got scars on my wrists and it’s a terrible reminder.

I’ve battled ACC and the Crown for compensation and recognition, including spending all of my inheritance money on expensive legal fees. It is so traumatic to have to talk about it over and over again, to try to get people to believe that what I was saying actually happened. It is incredibly disappointing that survivors have to rely on local MPs and doctors to speak up on their behalf.

My current GP, who has since retired, has been very clear that I have no symptoms of mental illness, no delusions, hallucinations or signs of being out of touch with reality. He says any diagnosis of schizophrenia can’t be sustained, and in fact I’ve shown great resilience and strength.

I think it’s incredibly sad that these things were done to me simply for being gay in a time when it wasn’t acceptable. If I hadn’t been put into psychiatric care I think my life would’ve taken a very different turn. I’m sad I didn’t finish my nursing training, I know I would’ve gone far as a nurse. It ruined my life, but I try not to be bitter about everything – I just keep going forward. This is the end of a chapter for me, to finally be heard and believed. I’m very thankful.

Source

Witness statement, Joan Bellingham (25 February 2020).