The Squeaky Wheel – A Lived Experience Exposé

July 30, 2025

🛠️ The Squeaky Wheel – A Lived Experience Exposé

My name is Narissa McConnell.

I’m a mother.
I’m an artist.
I’m an advocate.
But to the system? I’m just a file.

A diagnosis.
A “complex case.”
An inconvenience.

This is my story — but it’s not just mine.

It’s a spotlight on what happens when mental health care becomes harmful. It’s what survival looks like in a broken system. It’s a warning, a lived reality, and a call for change.

Because I know I’m not the only one.

I’ve been misdiagnosed, dismissed, and told I was too complex to help.
I’ve rationed medications just to make it through.
I’ve sat in rushed reviews, judged by strangers who never looked me in the eye — only at my file, filled with cold clinical labels.

And yet, I’ve been the one holding others up.
I’ve comforted strangers in psychiatric wards.
I’ve de-escalated meltdowns when staff wouldn’t.
I’ve held trembling hands and calmed panic attacks.
I’ve translated pain into art.
Brokenness into words.
And survival into purpose.

When my nan was alive, she used to tell us:

“Be the squeaky wheel. Annoy them until they listen.”

So this is me, squeaking — loudly — not just for myself, but for the thousands of Australians suffering in silence.

For those punished for surviving.
For those dismissed because they don't present the “right” way.
For the ones too complex, too sensitive, too real.

I’m a mother of three.
I live with bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, complex PTSD, OCD, and suspected autism.
I’m physically disabled, managing chronic pain and unexplained neurological symptoms that still don’t have a name.

I’m not lazy.
I’m not dangerous.
I’m not a lost cause.

I’m a person — and I’m still standing.

This exposé is raw. It's uncomfortable. It's real.

It's everything I've documented to prove I'm not making this up.
Because when you're neurodivergent or mentally ill, the only way to be believed is to keep receipts.

This is for the ones who feel like giving up.
For the ones labelled “too hard.”
For the carers.
For the forgotten.
For the fighters.

Because if the system won’t change for us — we’ll build one that will.

I’ve spent years being medically gaslit, denied referrals, and stripped of dignity.

Not because I abused the system.
But because I dared to ask for help inside it.

I keep notes. I remember conversations. I track symptoms. I question medications.
And apparently, that makes me threatening.

This isn’t noncompliance.
This isn’t drug-seeking.
This is a mother begging to be seen.

I do DBT on my own.
I ration medication when scripts are delayed.
I advocate for my kids when no one advocates for me.

But how can anyone heal when you’re trapped in a town with no consistent GP?

Locums rotate in and out.
Scripts go missing.
Referrals disappear.
And somehow, I’m the one punished for it.

I’m not asking to be rescued.
I’m asking to be treated with dignity.

We were already fragile when our landlord got sudden permits to build a townhouse in our backyard. It wasn’t just a home we lost — it was safety, stability, and the last shred of grounding we had left.

We moved house twice after that.
Then we packed our lives into a falling-apart caravan and travelled Australia because we couldn’t take the system anymore.

I was working seven days a week, managing a kids’ furniture business, on the tools up until the night before my C-section with Winston — and back at it less than a week later, because rent doesn’t wait.

Now we’re in a home we love, surrounded by trees and mountains — but we’re still walking on eggshells.

Our neighbour, who has a criminal record, was kind… until he wasn’t. Now he swears at our puppy from his unit (guesthouse) The electricity setup is complicated — and we’re paying the bills for two units just to keep the peace. The owner is disabled, elderly, and kind. So we absorb the costs, again.

We carry the load.
Emotionally.
Financially.
Physically.

Just to survive.

And in the middle of all this?

🔥 Gaslighted, Labelled, Denied

My psychiatrist labelled me borderline — and from that point forward, every clinician saw me through that lens.

I’ve had GPs recline in chairs and chew pens while I sobbed, begging for autism assessments for my daughter.

I’ve had fly-in locum doctors treat me like a criminal for requesting medications that I’ve taken exactly as prescribed and tracked with care.

A man I met once — once — wrote up a “care plan” that now justifies restricting my medication access week to week, under the guise of “preventing misuse.”

I’m not misusing anything.
I’m rationing.

I can’t even pop my own tablets out of the blister pack because my hands are too weak — Jake has to do it for me.
And yet I’m labelled a drug seeker.

Not referred to a pain specialist.
Not offered alternatives.
Just assumed to be manipulative — because someone behind a desk decided I was a risk.

Even my grandfather — a man I don’t speak to, because we’ve accepted we clash too hard — was so outraged that he considered confronting my care team himself. And he would, if it wouldn’t give him a heart attack.
He too was denied care and deteriorated as a result. That’s how deep this injustice cuts across generations.

I collapsed in front of my teenage daughter because my hip gave out.

I’ve had numb patches appear across my body. I’ve had MRIs on my thighs. Nerve conduction tests. Full blood workups.
My heart felt like it was giving out — I’ve worn heart monitors, done stress tests.
They said it was “just panic attacks.” Panic attacks I didn’t even know I was having.

One time, I was given nitroglycerin — the medication used for heart attacks — and it stopped the pain instantly.
And still, it was dismissed.
Never followed up.

I saw a Rheumatologist who tested for arthritis. Nothing came up in the bloods — but he still believed me.
He prescribed Prednisolone to trial in case it was seronegative.
It helped.

But he couldn’t keep prescribing it. He needed the Neurologist to rule out nerve-based causes first.

That Neurologist?
She was okay, but everything took too long.
The nerve conduction test results were available the very next day, but I didn’t hear about them for weeks. She didn’t check until our scheduled appointment — a rushed five-minute telehealth call that cost $74.20 and broke me.

That call — on July 18, 2024 — was the moment I rage-quit neurology.

That was the moment I broke.

I dissociated during the call.
I hung up.
And I spiraled.

I lost my license shortly after.
I was manic — undiagnosed, unsupported, and completely fractured.

I had tried so hard to do it the right way.

My GP had given me every referral: gastroenterology, psychiatry, psychology, rheumatology.
But no one followed through.
The system kept letting go.

The GP who gave me those referrals — she was the most consistent doctor I’d had, despite all the moving, the traveling, the survival-mode relocations.

Let me be clear: traveling isn’t doctor shopping.
It’s survival. It’s going to whoever is available when you’re desperate — whether you’re on the road, in crisis, or living remotely.

I once fell off the back of a ute during a manic episode. I should have been airlifted. I couldn’t walk properly for months.
But in rural WA, they didn’t scan me.
They said, “If you’re screaming in pain, you can’t be paralysed.”
And sent me home.

So yes — I have PTSD.
Yes — I’ve been labelled with borderline.
But my pain is real. My exhaustion is real.
And still — this is how I’m treated.

💸 I Tried to Get Help. This is What It Cost Me.

If I could afford to go back to the private Rheumatologist, I know there’s more tests to do. He told me himself — he just needed me to rule out the neurological side of things first before continuing the investigation.
But I couldn’t afford it. And this is still how I’m treated.

I had originally chosen to see a Rheumatologist instead of chasing every other specialist because we were travelling at the time. I couldn’t handle managing every referral. I had to pick — physical health or mental health. Not both.
I chose physical, thinking it might finally explain the chronic pain, weakness, and fatigue.

Not a day goes by where I don’t wish I could have afforded to follow it all through — when I had the referrals. Because now the local clinic won’t give me any. One doctor (the “pen-chewing one,” let’s call her) said there were already “plenty of scans” and nothing was found.
But that’s the point. Nothing was found because I couldn’t afford to finish the process.

So instead, I spiralled. I started to fall apart after a telehealth appointment with my neurologist on July 18th, 2024. That was the day I rage-quit the whole system — not because I wanted to, but because I was in constant pain, and no one seemed to care that I was running out of time, energy, and hope.

I lost my license on July 27th.
I drank — not every day, but when I did, it was a binge. I was in pain all week. Alcohol gave me one night where I could move like a normal human. It was the only thing that dulled the pain.

What follows is a list of all the doctors I saw, all the costs billed to Medicare, and all the time I spent begging for help — while getting worse.

🧾 Medical Timeline and Costs – What the System Billed vs What I Received

(Note: these are bulk billed amounts unless otherwise stated. Most of these provided no real treatment or follow-through. Some were under 3 minutes long.)

🧠 Mental Health + General GP Appointments

31/07/24 – Dr G (Stawell): Initial help-seeking, possibly bipolar → $82.90

14/08/24 – Follow-up booked but didn't return due to system barriers. He had string attached to getting a psychologist and psychiatrist referral

25/11/24 – Dr F (Budja Budja): I cried in front of my daughter begging for a referral for her autism. No referral was made. I got a mental healthcare plan in minutes for a psychologist but she wasn't interested in the whole picture.

Me: $42.85

Ngaire: $42.85

Billed as a Mental Health Care Plan (MBS item: $152.80)

2/05/25 – 26/06/25 – 9 appointments at Budja Budja or Stawell for scripts or help:

Dr K, Dr T, Dr F, Dr R — multiple consults ranging from brief to emotionally distressing.

Total billed to Medicare: $745.55+

Telehealth psychologist (Dr GM)

15/01/25, 29/01/25, 19/02/25, 12/03/25, 2/04/25 (while inpatient in psych ward because I'd already had my psychology telehealth booked and the Psych wards only psychologist was on holidays that week)

Each billed $96.64 = $483.20

🧬 Physical Health and Specialist Testing

Neurologist Dr MN

In-person consult (1/12/23): $370 total

Telehealth results call (18/07/24): $74.25 — 5 minutes

Rheumatologist Dr MM

First visit (1/11/23): $270

Follow-ups: 22/11/23 and 22/02/24: $150 each

Nerve conduction testing (cost undocumented)

Results: inconclusive, unresolved. Not shown on Medicare. I believe this test was about $400 out of pocket. Mum paid so I'm not entirely sure.

🧪 Pathology + Imaging

9/09/24 – MRI for sciatica: $372.80

26/06/24 – Attempted GP referral: $41.40 (told neurologist had to order scans for my back — false)

23/05/25 – Extensive bloodwork incl. antibodies, vitamin levels, hormone panels: over $330 billed across 10+ MBS items.

Other bloodwork (Nov 2023 – May 2025):

ANA, DNA antibodies, urine, general chemistry, immune tests, HLA-B27 etc.

Total estimated: $250+

👶 Paediatric Referrals

14/11/24 – Winston + Ngaire check-in: $165.80 total. No autism referral made just nightmare appointments that led no where.

22/05/25 – Ngaire and Winston autism referrals finally sent (to unaffordable clinic): $42.85 x 2

19/05/25 – Lacey’s referral + brief MHCP: $42.85

🔚 And Still…

Despite all of this — I have no diagnosis.
No clear pathway forward.
No coordinated care.

I am still in pain.
I am still dissociating.
And I am still having to advocate for myself when I’m barely standing.

Stuck, Sober, and Still Not Seen

My pain is real.

There are days I can’t even sit on a toilet or stand for more than five minutes — and yet I’m still fighting to be believed.

Testing has only ever ruled things out, not confirmed them. But that’s what chronic illness often looks like — a slow process of elimination. Meanwhile, I live in a body that betrays me daily.

But I can’t get the answers I need unless I go stay with my mum — away from my children — or until I get my license back. And even then, my file is stained by a single word: BPD.

One label from one psychiatrist — and suddenly every doctor sees me through a fog of assumption.

I’ve never misused medication in my life. I don’t even have the strength in my hands to pop my own tablets out — Jake does it for me. But I walk into a clinic and I’m treated like a threat. Like a seeker. Because of a note in a file from someone who never cared to hear my side of the story.

Because of the team who discarded me.

Because a locum read a label, not a person.

And I hate that referrals expire.

I hate that the public health system is so broken.

Because when you’re mentally unwell, time doesn’t move the same. You intend to follow things up — but life spirals too fast. You fight for every appointment, every answer, every bit of hope. My mum and I forked out thousands to get my body looked at. And I still dream of paying her back for every cent.

Jake started working for his uncle again to support us while we fixed up the caravan. The plan was simple: keep moving. Travel, survive, get healthy. But then a job opened in Stawell, Victoria. So we parked our van in Halls Gap and I began commuting to Melbourne for appointments, sometimes via telehealth.

It was hard — but it was working.

And then I lost my license.

In a manic spiral fueled by alcohol and trauma, I got behind the wheel — a woman who hated drink driving — and I crashed between a tree and a pole. I didn’t intend to drive. I was trying to sleep it off. But I ended up on the road, disoriented and broken.

License gone. Two years. Grateful to be alive — but left stranded.

Now I can’t access proper medical care.

There’s no transport here. No Uber. No taxis. Just one bus, once a day.

I wish I’d been admitted to a psychiatric facility sooner.

I wish someone had told me about services like Sober in the Country — where mates support mates without judgment. I wish someone had seen me.

I used to beg people to hang out without drinking — to go camping, have coffee, anything. But they only said yes if I brought beer. So I did. Beer became my ticket to belonging.

But in April 2025, I was finally admitted to a psychiatric hospital. And inside those walls — for the first time — I saw myself clearly. The real me. And I found my voice.

Since that stay, I haven’t craved alcohol once.

I don’t want it. I don’t need it.

Jake and I are both sober now. He’s on antidepressants. I’m on antipsychotics. We’re healing — actively choosing better lives.

But it doesn’t matter to the system.

I take 300mg of Seroquel a day and it barely gets me to functional. 400mg is the only dose where I feel grounded, present with my kids. I’ve asked for help adjusting it. Instead, they’re secretly tapering me down — without consent, without explanation.

They even “forgot” to fax my PRN script to my GP.

Jake had to call the psych clinic himself. When the script finally arrived, it was wrong. Again. Just 1–2 tablets. Not enough to manage anything.

And still, they say:
“Only BPD.”

This is what stigma does. It blinds clinicians to everything else. It erases progress. It rewrites truth.

There’s only one clinic in town. The local nurses and receptionists are incredible — but the doctors fly in and out. They’re not trauma-informed. They’re not neurodivergent-aware. They don’t see us.

And we never planned to stay here. But the mountains and trees wrapped around us like a balm, and the community became our family. When I lost my license, it was like the universe whispering — in the harshest way — “stop, stay, rebuild.”

And so I did.

If I hadn’t lost my license, I wouldn’t have started Rolling Recovery.

I’d still be spiralling, or working myself into the ground, pretending I wasn’t drowning. Pretending I wasn’t in pain.

But now?

Now I’m building something for the ones like me.

Pain, Poverty, and the Price of Survival

People with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) often live with pain that most can’t see — and many refuse to believe.

Research has shown that BPD is linked to increased pain sensitivity, not less. Our nervous systems respond like trauma is still happening — like the body is under attack, even years after the threat has passed. From chronic back pain to fibromyalgia, our suffering is real.

But when we cry out, we’re not treated with compassion — we’re labelled hypochondriacs.

BPD frequently overlaps with dissociative disorders, PTSD, OCD, agoraphobia, anxiety — especially in women. These tangled threads of mental illness create a minefield of misunderstood symptoms: self-harm, emotional outbursts, memory fog, extreme fear responses.

Some of us live as if we’re inside a natural disaster zone — heart racing, brain fogged, body bracing for the next aftershock.

Studies using PET scans show blood flow differences in the brains of women with BPD when exposed to trauma reminders. Our brains literally try to shield us — flooding the system with self-made morphine to numb the pain.

That might explain the blankness. The emotional disconnection. The way we forget familiar faces, names, or even who someone is to us.

It’s not manipulation.
It’s not drama.
It’s biology.

This forgetfulness — this lack of “object constancy” — can trap us. Imagine resetting your entire relationship with someone every time you see them. Not remembering the harm they caused yesterday. That’s why people with BPD often return to abusive dynamics — not because we’re weak, but because our brains are trying to keep us safe.

It's not a character flaw.
It’s a survival response.

Misunderstood, Mislabeled

Borderline Personality Disorder in women is often treated like a character flaw — moody, manipulative, attention-seeking.

The same behaviours in men? They’re more likely to be labelled antisocial, or swallowed whole by the prison system — often undiagnosed, untreated.
Either way, people with BPD are punished, not supported.

And while we’re punished, we’re also paying more for healthcare we can barely afford.
Mental illness increases doctor visits — but decreases income — creating a brutal cycle that pushes many of us into poverty, homelessness, or both.

We’re not lazy.
We’re creative, resilient, and deeply empathetic.
Many of us are drawn to roles that demand emotional intelligence: nursing, counselling, community work, advocacy.

We crave structure. We thrive in meaning.
But we’re burnt out by a system that only responds when we’re in crisis.

We live on a rollercoaster with no seatbelt — punished for the symptoms of the very trauma we never asked for.
And when we "split" — when we see people as hero or villain — it’s not manipulation.
It’s because we were never taught grey.

We were raised in chaos.
We learned survival — not safety.

Homelessness: Not Who You Think

Homelessness doesn’t look how you think.

It’s not just the person on the corner with a sign.
It’s the nurse who couldn’t work through his or her breakdown.
The mother or father who fled DV with no savings.
The student who aged out of foster care.
The person too ashamed to ask for help.

Mental illness is one of the biggest predictors of housing instability — especially for women.
Add BPD, physical disability, stigma, and poverty — and suddenly, you're one rent increase or illness away from sleeping in a car.

In 2022–2023, more than 122,000 Australians sought homelessness support, according to the Australian Institute of Health and Welfare.

Many more weren’t counted at all.

A growing percentage are women over 45.
Or young people with undiagnosed or dismissed mental illness.

The system doesn’t just fail to catch us.
Sometimes, it pushes us closer to the edge.

We Deserve Access to Care

RDE Humanised Profiles — What Could Have Saved Me

Respect. Dignity. Empathy.

In the current system, we’re reduced to acronyms and assumptions:
BPD. cPTSD. “Non-compliant.” “Drug-seeking.” “Emotionally dysregulated.”

But none of those words hold the weight of who we actually are — as people. As parents. As artists, carers, advocates, survivors.

That’s why I created the idea of RDE Humanised Profiles.
And I will build them — even if I have to do it myself.

Because these profiles aren’t just a nice idea.
They’re survival.

What is RDE?

RDE stands for Respect. Dignity. Empathy — and also Real. Dynamic. Evolving.
Because that’s what good mental health care should offer: a foundation of humanity, and a structure that grows with us.

Real: You are more than your file. You’re a human being — with context, dreams, triggers, strengths, sensory needs, and support preferences.

Dynamic: Mental health isn’t static. Your care profile should reflect what’s happening now — not what one clinician guessed two years ago.

Evolving: These aren’t intake forms that get buried in a file. They’re co-authored, living documents shaped by your voice, your data, your truth.

If RDE Profiles Had Existed For Me...

I wouldn’t have had to re-explain my trauma history to a 15-minute locum who didn’t even look up from the screen or the ones that stare at the dog fur on your clothes wouldn't judge you but maybe say how's your dog, how's the family and how are you?.

I wouldn’t be terrified to cry in front of a doctor — in case my vulnerability is written off as “unstable.”

I wouldn’t be constantly defending myself from the “drug-seeking” label while rationing medication to survive.

They would’ve known I’m a mum of three.
That I created Rolling Recovery.
That I’m fighting to heal — not manipulating anyone.

They would’ve known that what works for me is:
🟢 Co-regulation strategies
🟢 Gentle reminders, not shaming
🟢 Creative expression
🟢 A safe, non-judgmental tone

They’d see weekly self-written updates like:

“No meltdowns this week. Sleep disrupted. Body pain high. Overstimulated at home but managing with headphones and sensory breaks. Still showing up.”

One paragraph like that could change the whole tone of care.

Why It Matters

RDE profiles humanise us before we even walk into the room.
They build continuity of care where the system offers none.
They replace stigma with understanding — and create space for truth.

And if our clinics, hospitals, and crisis teams won’t build this?
I will.

I’m calling on app developers, advocacy bodies, peer workers, and anyone who’s sick of seeing people fall through the cracks — help me make this real.

This is not a tech product.

It’s a life raft.

Rolling Recovery Is Already the Start

Rolling Recovery is more than a caravan project — it’s a human rights project.
We’re not just building safe spaces for crisis recovery — we’re building new systems entirely.

Every Rolling Recovery location will honour RDE-style care from the start:

Lived-experience leadership

Co-created support plans

Sensory-friendly environments

Consent-based, neurodivergent-informed care

Self-submitted updates, not static files

RDE Humanised Care puts dignity, trust, and trauma-informed practice back where they belong — at the centre of the mental health system.

Because the current system is killing us.

And we’re not waiting anymore.

This is why I started documenting everything.

Because if the system won’t hold the truth, I will.

This next part isn’t theory or advocacy. It’s what it actually looks like — to beg for help, to get punished for honesty, and to survive anyway. It’s what the headlines won’t show you. But it’s what too many of us live.

When the System Ignores the Fire Alarm

RDE profiles could’ve caught me before I fell through every crack. But instead, I became another emergency waiting to happen — and it did.

Because this is what it’s like to fight for your sanity in a broken system.

Chapter 1: The Breakdown After the Bushfires

After the Grampians bushfires, I spiralled. I cried for what felt like 24 hours straight. I couldn’t cook — afraid I’d harm myself with a knife.

Jake drove me to Stawell Hospital. I waited for an hour then I met with psychiatric clinician Dr M. I needed to be admitted. He said there were no beds. Promised outpatient care. Then sent me home. I'd poured as much ouch in that interaction because I was desperate for help. For change. I'd been so deep in a depressive episode that I drank the night before because I wanted to bring a manic episode on so I could feel something, anything that wasn't depression, emptiness and the fear of self harming.

This is the same man who would later try to talk me out of admission again — even as my risk increased.

Chapter 2: I Went Missing — and No One Was Listening

I dissociated so badly after an interaction that I vanished into the mountains. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t want to live like this anymore either.

Local police searched for me. Friends in town looked too. I was found, but I wasn’t okay. I had snapped — and no one in the system saw it coming. This wasn't manipulation, this was a cry for help. Yet I was tucked back into bed to continue feeling like a monster. Like I was too much. That I didn't deserve to be helped.

Chapter 3: Blood on My Face, Still Not Enough

Another time, I hit myself twice in the head with a solid wooden statue. It happened in such a blur. There was blood everywhere. No ambulance could come for two hours.

Jake tried to stop the bleeding. A video triage session followed. No CAT team. No proper support. Just a screen asking if I “planned to hurt myself again.”

I said no — because I didn’t plan to in the first place.

It wasn’t just self-harm. It was illness. And I was begging for help.

Chapter 4: Turned Away Again and Again

Saint Vincent’s Psychiatric Hospital? Out of catchment. Ofcourse the "Decent" public ones are. No choice where you go unless you have the money for private.

Ararat Hospital? They judged me the second I said “BPD.”

The receptionist told me it could be hours — like that would make me give up. Dr M rang again. Said to come to their office at 1pm.

Jake had to babysit me until then to keep me safe.

Chapter 5: “You’re Not Our Patient Anymore”

When we got there, they told me I wasn’t technically their patient. Why? Because I’d been written off as “95–98% likely BPD.” No formal diagnosis. No support.

They don’t treat BPD. They just discard it.

Jake demanded a bed. Only then did they listen. That bed still wasn't available until the next day.

Chapter 6: Finally Admitted — and I Fought to Be Seen

At the psychiatric unit (AAU), I documented everything. I tracked my moods. I asked questions. I showed up. Even with pain. Even with food triggers that made me panic.

Because I wanted to heal.

I read every medication sheet. I learned every rule. I wanted to prove I was worth helping.

And finally, a psychiatrist saw it: “Likely Bipolar II alongside BPD.”

Finally, someone listened.

Unfortunately my chronic pains were not included in the Mental Health Care plan even when nurses saw me after a mindfulness walk crying in pain and reduced to laying on the dirty floor whilst waiting for Nurofen. I couldn't make it back to my room until my back had reset.

Still not worth investigating. A friend there was sent over for a hernia scan and another for brain scans due to previously being hit in the head which could of explained part of his psychosis.

But me with a history of testing not worth sending in to the hospital attached for a check up.

Chapter 7: Hope — and Then the Crash at PARC

I was sent to a step-down facility, PARC. I had a medication plan. I had hope.

But no psychiatrist for a full week. No therapy. No proper monitoring. No support.

My pain and panic were dismissed. I had to join in to cook meals, do dishes and other activities even though my body was in agony. I could barely stand or sit but I had to stay present because the rules didn't allow for the possibility of a young woman in chronic pain but if you were an older woman it was fine to not help out if you weren't feeling great. They also didn't offer any Nurofen or assistance when I physically couldn't get to the shop. I was miserable but kept present and kept fighting.

Chapter 8: Diagnosed as a Threat — Not a Person

Because I was honest about my fears, they sent alerts to child protection.

I never said I’d hurt anyone. I said I was scared. That I needed help. That without the right support, things could go badly.

Instead of support, I got surveillance.

I wasn’t a danger. But I was made to feel like one.

Chapter 9: Systemic Cruelty, Disguised as Care

I asked about my medications. I brought notes. I advocated.

The psychiatrist barely glanced at my file before launching into questions about my relationship. Why was I with Jake? Why was he with me?

He didn't let me read my notes. And when I'd answer his questions he'd cut me off and say we were going off track and started another question.

That’s not psychiatric care. That’s judgment.

When I pressed for information about my discharge plan and medication continuity, the head clinician called me out in the communal area — loudly, publicly, humiliatingly.

She told me I would not be sent home with PRNs. No discussion. Just a cold declaration in front of others.

They treated me like an addict. Like a liability. Not a human being trying to heal.

Chapter 10: Twisted Words, Shattered Trust

When I confided in staff about being afraid — not that I’d harm anyone, but that without proper care, I could relapse or lose control — they twisted it.

Nurse N claimed I’d made threats. That I endangered my children.

I didn’t. I shared fear. I asked for help.

But because I was honest about living with mental illness, they saw a monster. Not a mother.

They put my children’s safety into question not because of actions, but because of my diagnosis.

I wasn’t begging for drugs — I was begging to understand what was happening to my body and brain.

Chapter 11: Advocates, Resistance — and the Backflip

I called my mum. She drove down immediately. She stood beside me as a witness. She called out their treatment. The sarcasm. The subtle cruelty.

She saw through them. And they saw her seeing it too.

There was one lovely lady that helped explain things with my mum present and that AAU psychiatrists don't know much about what actually happens at PARC. That the communication between the 2 is minimal. You could tell she had more to say about how things ran between the 2 but she couldn't. And still because I was young I wasn't worthy of these kinds of answers and discussions on my own unless it was trainee staff being kind to me.

A kind male trainee nurse asked where everyone was. One of the nurses snapped sarcastically: “They’re in the office because someone complained about privacy.”

That complaint was mine.

Instead of accountability, I got scorn.

But I filed a formal complaint with the Mental Health and Wellbeing Commission. And then? Everything shifted.

Suddenly, I was going home with PRNs. The same ones I was denied hours earlier.

So what changed? Did they suddenly believe I was safe? Or did they realise I wasn’t alone — and wouldn’t stay silent?

Chapter 12: This Isn’t Just My Story

A man named Toby (name changed) was discharged from PARC against the halfway house’s own advice. He had been sleeping in his car before admission, and someone even damaged his fuel tank while he was in AAU.

He was discharged into housing that charged him over $300/week — with broken locks, no privacy, unsafe conditions, and inedible food.

He went back to sleeping in his car.

All while empty beds sat at PARC, unused. The system called it “rotation.” We were treated like numbers, not people.

Toby later refused to re-enter the building when he saw Nurse N’s car outside. He said she’d pushed the psychiatrist to deny his second week.

She treated him coldly. The same way she did me. And others. She played things off as the loveable funny Nanna but that's not who she was at all.

One of my closest friends in the unit called me in tears after I left. Nurse N had told him, “I can’t wait for you to leave on Wednesday.” Why? Because he hadn’t peeled potatoes correctly.

That same patient had never cooked before. He was trying. He needed guidance, not mockery.

As he walked out the door, she said, “I’m glad to see you go.”

That’s not trauma-informed care. That’s cruelty.

Other staff joked during group meals about “the boys” disappearing at clean-up time — unaware that one had been sobbing in his room and the other had helped prepare the roast earlier.

A few staff were good. Truly kind. They’ll know who they are if they read this.

And one manager — the one who responded to my formal complaint — sounded like they wanted change. That gave me hope.

Because I need to believe there are still good people in the system.

But they are not the norm.

The Aftermath — Surveillance Over Support

When I got home, the gaslighting didn’t stop.

Jake tried to get my scripts filled — only to find my PRNs had been discontinued without warning, without taper, without a single conversation. Just cut off.

No safety plan. No transition. Just punishment disguised as policy.

I sat in Dr F’s temporary office, begging for help — referrals to pain specialists, neurologists, anyone who might take me seriously.

I brought my charts. My notes. My symptom logs. She didn’t care.

She cut me off mid-sentence and said I was on weekly dispensing “so you don’t abuse medication.” She didn’t ask if I had. She just assumed. Based on a file. Not facts.

This is the same doctor who lied last year about sending off a referral for my daughter’s possible autism — a referral we only chased up because her school raised the alarm.

Before her, I’d seen another nurse. A warm woman, overly focused on my son’s build while Ngaire sat quietly waiting for her turn. That appointment was meant to be about her — not him.

I tried steering the conversation. Told the nurse Ngaire had been able to read complex text since toddlerhood. That she stims by spinning. That her school suspects autism.

She barely responded — until I asked Ngaire to read a sign aloud. She did. Effortlessly.

Only then did the nurse suggest we see another doctor for a proper assessment. She even forgot that Winston was due for immunisations — we had to remind her. It felt like we weren’t seen at all.

So we booked in with Dr F. That mistake still haunts me. Crying with Ngaire awkwardly seated next to me whilst I begged for referrals. I had to say every not so great aspect of her Autism right in front of her. I apologised to Ngaire through the crying, I felt like a monster talking about her in front of her but the Dr wasn't listening. Told me she looked fine. I left with a mental health plan for myself to get a psychologist only and nothing logged for my daughter.

The appointment I have had with her this year was equally as awful and dehuminising.

She made me feel like less than a person — staring at the dog fur on my pants while ignoring my pain, my records, my truth. I’d dressed down because I was low. It wasn’t a sign of addiction. It was a sign of despair. The fur on my pants was because we took Marla in the car with us so she could have a play at the dog park but to her I looked like scum begging for drugs.

The next day, she backpedaled. Slightly. Said she “had to go off the psych notes.” But that didn’t excuse the snap judgment. The way she dismissed me, cut me off, and told me I was there under suspicion — not care.

That consult lasted 2 minutes and 47 seconds. She billed Medicare $42.88.

I got a script only because Jake advocated for me — and has since promised to attend every appointment moving forward. Because without a witness, I am not believed.

Once “BPD” is on your file, that’s all they see.

There’s no profile that says:

Family structure: Mum to 3 beautiful kids. Partner to Jake. Loves cuddling her dog Marla on cold days.
Strengths: Passionate about advocacy, crafting, and making people laugh.
Needs in care: Needs time to process. Prefers clear, calm questions. Easily overwhelmed by noise.
Safety notes: PTSD and dissociation risk under stress. Not drug-seeking. Please explain medication changes clearly.
Fun facts: Favourite show is Stargate. Loves camping and stargazing.

Just letters and labels. BPD. PTSD. Non-compliant. Drug-seeking. “Emotionally dysregulated.”

One locum doctor — a rare one — actually tried to help. He squeezed me in. He listened. He told me people with schizophrenia were once seen as seers. That the world was the problem, not me.

I showed him an art piece I’d made to describe my emotions and physical pain. He asked for it — but he didn’t write anything down. Not the art therapy. Not the history. Not the insight.

He didn’t believe in mental illness labels. That sounds lovely in theory — but I still needed referrals. Practical help. Tangible care.

Instead, he gave me ADHD and autism referrals for the kids… to a clinic charging $1350 per child. No bulk billing. No payment plan. Even with a payment plan that expense for the 3 kids plus Jake is enough to buy us a second used car when I get my licence back and the costs associated.

At least he believed us. But he forgot I’m barely surviving — mentally, physically, financially. I’m not well enough to work regular jobs. Not here. Not now.

So I document. Every appointment. Every reaction. Every time I dissociate or shut down or leave an appointment feeling like I was the problem.

I track it because if I don’t, no one will.

I fawn. I forget words. I shake. I smile so they won’t be scared. I make notes. I practice being calm. But none of it matters if the diagnosis comes before the humanity.

The Ararat Appointment — Shortly After My Hospital Discharge

This appointment was with a rushed psychiatrist who barely looked at me. He checked his watch the entire time. Then he said:
“Let’s just focus on her BPD and cPTSD.”

That was the first time anyone had ever used the term cPTSD in my case — but it was never documented properly.
No questions. No feedback. No medication review, despite all the notes I brought.
Jake had taken a full day off work and driven me 40 minutes each way. It didn’t matter.

The psychiatrist left early for another meeting. I wasn’t even told in advance that Dr B — my usual clinician — wouldn’t be there. Dr B later excused it by saying:
“That’s just how the public system works.”

I left the clinic in distress. Not just because of the labels — but because no one acknowledged the mood charts I’d spent weeks tracking. There was no discussion of the patterns, the mixed states, or the reality that my diagnosis might not be so simple.

We stopped at McDonald’s so I could use the toilet — because the clinic had none for patients. After that moment to regulate, I walked back in calmly and asked for clarity.

I was met by Dr M, the same clinician who once tried to talk me out of hospital admission — even as I cried for 24 hours straight and had nearly harmed myself.

He told me again that I was “resistant to accepting a BPD diagnosis.”
I replied calmly:
“I accept that I have BPD. But it’s not the full picture.”

I even explained the impact of diagnosis on medication affordability — how prescriptions for bipolar are subsidized differently than those for BPD. He said he didn't know that. But he didn’t engage. He didn’t look at my logs. He didn’t ask follow-up questions. Just dismissed me again.

I wasn’t heard.

The Stawell Review — The Most Recent Appointment

Let’s be clear: this was the most recent review, held in Stawell. It involved Dr B and a trainee nurse, nurse G, who I had previously met during my hospital stay at AAU. She was always kind. I was even her first review she sat in on at the AAU.

But this appointment.
There was no psychiatrist present.

I came in prepared — calm, composed, with detailed mood logs and notes. I tried to explain the communication breakdown between my GP clinic and the psychiatric team.
Dr B shut me down.

He told me the psych team was hesitant to help me further because of how I “left the Ararat meeting.”

That’s not what happened.

Nurse G apologised for me feeling unheard. She'd even said how good I was at keeping notes even in AAU and communicating my needs. She looked uncomfortable in this appointment.. I can't say I blame her.

I walked out at the end of the rushed appointment, upset — yes — but then came back in after calming down, to ask for clarity. I didn’t yell. I didn’t threaten. I self-regulated and returned like an adult, because I wanted answers.
The appointment Dr B referred to?
He wasn’t even there.

He claimed he had “fought” to get my medications changed. That didn’t match reality. I had brought in mood logs. Explained my symptoms. Asked for help managing meds — because I’ve had to advocate for every change myself.

I’ve never asked for medication to get high.
I’ve asked to sleep. To function. To not be in agony every night.

They accused me of rejecting a medication change. That’s not true either. I wasn’t offered anything real. The stand-in psychiatrist spent 10 minutes with me, repeated “BPD and DBT,” and left. That was it.

I cried — because it hurt. But then I went to the bathroom, calmed myself, and came back in to speak reasonably. That’s not a crisis. That’s resilience.

What They Missed — and Twisted

The system tells us to track symptoms. Use DBT. Bring notes. Advocate calmly.
I did all of that. They only care if they have a name of a therapist for DBT or therapy. I'm doing the best I can with available resources.

And I was punished for it.
Labelled “difficult.”
Accused of drug-seeking.

I’ve tracked everything — PRN use, mood swings, sleep changes. I’ve rationed medications when I had to. I’ve tried every non-medical intervention I could.

And yes, I’ve asked to be included in conversations around medication — especially because I live in chronic pain.

I’m not asking for diazepam long-term. I know the risks. I don’t care what class a medication is in. What I care about is:

Can I sleep?

Can I function as a mum the next day?

Can I move without crying from pain?

I’ve tried Mirtazapine. Some nights it helps — other nights I wake up with nightmares and worse body pain from disrupted sleep.
I’ve tried Seroquel. It doesn’t knock me out — it reduces sensory overload enough for me to think clearly.
I’ve used Diazepam carefully and only when needed. Some nights half a tablet was enough. Some nights I didn’t need it at all.

Not once have I abused it.

But because of the classification — and because of my diagnosis — they assumed the worst.

What I Actually Brought In

I brought these to my last review:

Mood Observations (past 10 days):

Elevated mood consistent with hypomania

Racing thoughts, high energy, reduced sleep

Hyperfocus on creative projects (Rolling Recovery, podcast)

Spiritual intensity, rapid speech, expansive ideas

Skipping meals, forgetting showers

Sudden crash into deep depression

Medication Notes:

Mirtazapine (12 June start): Calming at first, vivid dreams, body twitching, early waking

Seroquel XR 400mg: Best regulation day on Sunday (that increase was notes with Nurse J over the phone and he had no problems. It's Dr B that shifted the narrative.

PRN Seroquel: Does not sedate, but reduces sensory overload

Requests:

Assess for Bipolar II or mixed states

Acknowledge that PRN Seroquel keeps me safe

Discuss insomnia as both a mental and physical health issue

What did they write down?
“She’s demanding drugs.”

They turned self-monitoring into manipulation. Again.

Jake Spoke Up — So Now I’m Speaking Out

Jake, my partner, usually stays quiet in medical spaces. He doesn’t often attend appointments out of respect for my privacy. But after yet another demeaning GP appointment — this time with Dr F — he’d had enough.

It wasn’t just me speaking anymore. It was him too. A witness. A partner. A dad who’s watched me fall through every crack of a broken system.

He called Dr B directly and said, calm but firm:

“I will now be present in all of Narissa’s appointments going forward.”

“She has asked for help too many times and keeps getting ignored. I’ve seen the toll it’s taken on her, and I’m not going to sit by and let her keep getting dismissed.”

He questioned why my PRNs were discontinued without discussion.

Why I’m on weekly dispensing — despite the fact that Jake himself opens the blister packs for me because my hands are too weak. And why it says in my file that weekly dispensing is in place so I don’t “abuse” my medication — when I’ve never abused it.

He calmly but clearly called out the gaslighting — the way I’ve been talked in circles, dismissed, and harmed. And for once, someone flinched.

Dr B backpedaled. Claimed the PRN script had already been faxed. Then said he couldn’t find it. Then promised to send it again.

These kinds of “convenient errors” only seem to happen when someone’s caught out.

That’s why he was so defensive during my recent appointment in Stawell — the one where Nurse G, a trainee I knew from my hospital stay, sat in silence. That’s why he twisted the narrative. Because for once, I wasn’t alone. I had a witness.

This is what peer or partner advocacy does.

We shouldn’t need someone to speak for us. But in a system like this, we often do.

I’m Not Just Complaining — I’m Actively Trying to Heal

I’m also doing everything I can to access support, despite being broke, exhausted, and unsupported by my local mental health team.

MindSpot — a government-funded, free online psychology service — has been one of the only places I’ve felt seen. They offer proper intake assessments and therapeutic support, no out-of-pocket fees. Their intake process helped me identify patterns and symptoms my psychiatric team has repeatedly ignored.

I’ve enrolled in their PTSD course starting July 7. They don’t pretend it’s a formal diagnosis — but their insights match what I’ve been describing for months. Their questions gave me language for what I’m experiencing. They offered compassion and practical support — two things my local clinic seems to think are incompatible.

I’m also working with Orange Door, who finally responded after I reached out begging for support. They’re now helping with access to autism and ADHD assessments, therapeutic support, and assistance for the whole family — not just me in crisis.

I’m connected with Head to Health, too, and I’m following the formal advice from the Mental Health and Wellbeing Commission, who told me how to lodge my complaints properly — which I have.

I Filed Complaints — Because What Happened Wasn’t Okay

I filed a formal complaint against PARC (Prevention and Recovery Care) for the discharge mess, inconsistent support, and lack of trauma-informed care. It was acknowledged. I was heard. They admitted there were systemic issues and poor continuity.

The most recent complaint — about my ongoing treatment, or lack thereof — is still being reviewed. But I’m documenting everything: timelines, calls, appointments, medication failures, and notes ignored.

This isn’t petty. It’s survival.

I’m Still Trying — But the System Isn’t Built for People Like Me

I’ve tried telehealth — but we don’t have consistent GPs, and the last one glared at me and judged me without even reading my history. I’ve had to rely on phone calls and internet — because I don’t have a licence until next year, and there’s no public transport where I live.

Even if there was a bus, I wouldn’t make it far — I collapse when I walk too long. My body gives out. I can drive, but I can’t stand for long. My physical health is failing and nobody seems to care unless I’m screaming.

I’ve made mistakes in the past, yes — but most of those so-called “mistakes” were actually untreated trauma symptoms, misdiagnosis, and years of begging for help that never came. My illness didn’t come out of nowhere. And it’s not just in my head.

This Is Why Rolling Recovery Exists

This is exactly why I created Rolling Recovery.

To catch people like me — people falling through the cracks. People who don’t meet criteria until it’s too late. People who get denied medications, housing, therapy, transport, or even basic respect because of a label.

This project is about safety. About housing. About hope.
But more than that, Rolling Recovery is about being believed.

We need peer workers on every shift.
We need mobile clinics.
We need safe housing with dignity.
We need free, rural access to therapy and proper medication reviews.

Because without these things?
People like me don’t make it.

Mental Health Reform: Peer Workers Save Lives

I believe with everything in me that lived experience peer workers should be present on every psychiatric shift.

Not just weekday mornings.
Not just a flyer in the welcome pack.
But present. Active. Trusted. Always.
Especially at night.

Because night is when the darkness gets louder — when the trauma echoes, the flashbacks return, the paranoia peaks, and the system often disappears. And what do patients get? Sedatives. Locked doors. Security guards.
That’s not care. That’s containment.

Peer workers know the terrain of terror.
They don’t fear the storm — they sit in it with you.
They speak the language of the frightened mind instead of trying to correct it.
They hold the line when the system lets go.

I saw it myself in the AAU.
That the right people will want to hear you speak.
That you're not “too much” — you're just in pain.
That once you’re labelled with a mental illness, your truth only seems to matter if the listener has been through it too.

I made real friends in there.
We danced under the moonlight — fragments of freedom in a world that treated us like broken files.
And then we all went home… back to the same broken system, now wearing even more stigma than before.

We Have the Data. Why Isn’t It Being Used?

It’s not just a feeling — it’s a fact:

📊 Peer support reduces re-admission rates, hospital stays, and improves overall outcomes in psychiatric settings.

Studies show:

Peer-led crisis models reduce involuntary hospitalisation.

Service users working with peer workers report more hope, connection, and safety.

Rehospitalisation rates drop when lived-experience support is embedded in care teams.

Internationally, countries like the UK and the US have funded peer respite centres and community-led crisis alternatives that show better outcomes than traditional emergency interventions. They save money and lives.

✊ VMIAC Withdrew for a Reason — This System Isn’t Listening

Even the peak body for mental health consumers in Victoria, VMIAC, had to walk away.

“VMIAC withdraws from Victorian Department of Health work on recommendations 8, 9 and 10 due to ongoing failure to centre lived experience expertise.”

These recommendations are about crisis response — the exact point where people like me get hurt the most. Consumer leadership here isn't optional. It’s essential.

But VMIAC reported that:

Lived experience voices were marginalised and ignored.

Consultation spaces were unsafe for their staff and members.

Without genuine power-sharing, real reform is impossible.

And they’re right.

This was meant to be co-led by the Lived Experience Agency — promised in the Royal Commission, still unfunded and absent today. That co-leadership would’ve changed everything. Instead, we get tokenism and performative inclusion, not power.

So what happens when even the organisations created to protect us have to walk away?

We build something new.

📝 Join SHARC and VMIAC in Demanding Action on Recommendation 29

SHARC and VMIAC are campaigning together to bring Recommendation 29 to life. This recommendation called for the establishment of a non-government agency led by people with lived experience of mental illness or psychological distress — known as "Our Agency."

"Our Agency aims to connect and grow consumer-led initiatives, provide training and resources for consumer leadership, develop consumer-led healing and support services, and embed consumer-led approaches across the mental health sector."

Despite being a key recommendation from the Royal Commission into Victoria’s Mental Health System, it remains unfunded and unestablished.

You can support this initiative by signing the open letter to the Victorian Premier, Treasurer, and Minister for Mental Health:

👉 Sign the Open Letter

I’m not part of SHARC or VMIAC. I’m just someone who’s lived through the fallout of a system that refuses to listen. But I believe deeply in what they’re calling for — because I’ve seen what happens without it.

That’s why I’m adding my voice to theirs.

SHARC and VMIAC have been advocating for the creation of a Lived Experience Agency — a real, funded, community-led body with power to drive change. It was promised in the Royal Commission, but never delivered.

I may not be affiliated, but I know what it feels like to be ignored. To be harmed by the very system meant to help you. To be left with no option but to build something new.

This is one of the ways we do that — together.

This Is Where Rolling Recovery Comes In

Rolling Recovery is my answer to all of this.
It’s not just about housing — it’s about being believed.

It’s built on the belief that:

Community heals.

Lived experience matters.

Peer support should be standard, not supplementary.

We need more than glossy reform documents. We need places where people feel seen, supported, and safe before crisis hits.

Rolling Recovery isn’t just a dream. It’s the blueprint I wish existed when I was most unwell.

And I’m not alone. Keep reading — I’ll show you exactly where peer support could’ve changed lives.

Where Peer Support Could’ve Changed Everything

Why Peer Support Can’t Wait

This section isn’t theory. It’s not policy.
It’s what I saw.
It’s who I held.
And it’s why I will never stop fighting for peer work to be present — on every shift, in every ward, in every service.

Because these people — these humans — were not broken.
They were abandoned by a system that had no one like them on the other side of the desk

Grieving on Stolen Land, Treated Like a Child

Clara (name changed) was grieving her grandfather when I met her in the psychiatric unit. But it wasn’t just a personal loss — it was ancestral. Cultural. A sacred grief held in her body as both a granddaughter and a First Nations woman.

And instead of being met with care or cultural safety, she was treated like a child. Dismissed. Patronised. Her grief was pathologized and reduced to symptoms. Staff spoke about her, not with her. Even when she communicated through stories and food, they rushed her.

She needed time. She needed ceremony. She needed someone to say, “I see you. I hear him in your stories.”

Instead, she was trapped in a ward, locked away from the very rituals that might have helped her heal.
She may have been Autistic. She may have had BPD. But above all, she was a grieving human being wearing her grandfather’s jacket just to feel close to him.

Her nurses weren't awful they just weren't informed enough.

We can do better.
We have to do better.

The Garden of Eden of Hell’s Kitchen

Ned (name changed) once called the ward we were in “The Garden of Eden of Hell’s Kitchen.” It stuck with me. Because that’s exactly what it was: a place full of chaos, sedation, grief, and disconnection — but also moments of raw beauty if you stayed soft enough not to flinch. It had just been Hell's Kitchen until we had been consistently grounding him and he told me that it was actually "The Garden of Eden of Hell's Kitchen" because he saw glimpses of connection and kindness through us patients being unqualified peer workers.

Ned had a past. He may have used substances. He may have been confusing to some staff. But he was a father. A partner. Somebody’s son. And he was still in there.

When he was lost in hallucinations and pacing, I reminded him of his kids. I grounded him, gently. I wasn’t a clinician. I was just another patient. But I saw him. I stayed with him when others looked away. We were just patients but we had created a family when we couldn't be with our own.

One night he walked into a young girl’s room — confused, thinking she was his sister. She was only 18. And still, she understood. She wasn’t scared of him. Her family treated Ned with kindness.

That girl — let’s call her C — was discharged during one of her family visits, despite still being suicidal. Her family now keeps her going by bringing her to work with them. I’m still in touch. She’s fighting to live every day. She reminded me of myself when I was her age or younger. She has BPD yet no real tangible supports were put in place. Sometimes people have a home that's safe by night but need somewhere safe to go when their family has to work.

As for Ned?
He needed consistency. Familiar faces. Simple tools like a visual phone call schedule or his kids’ photos.

What he got instead?
Sedation. Surveillance. Locked doors. His name was finally written on his door the night before he was drugged.

He didn’t need control.
He needed connection.
That’s what peer work brings.

What Help Could’ve Looked Like (Instead of the Jab)

What Ned needed wasn’t complicated:

One-on-one staff continuity: A consistent nurse or peer worker to check in, build trust, reduce confusion.

Reality anchors: Pictures of his kids. A daily visual schedule. A call plan taped to the wall. (Not a phone snatched away when he spiraled.)

Symbol-speak instead of shame: “That sounds scary” instead of “You’re wrong.”

Language that soothed, not shamed.

Questions like: “Dont forget you need to get better and clearer for your partner and your children?” I had known them by name at that point which begun to really ground him. He even joined us to lay on the fake grass and sing one night whilst we all looked up at the stars.

I did that — not because I was trained — but because I cared. Because I knew what it felt like to be lost and still want someone to reach for you.

The Woman in the Camper

Next week, a woman will move into our old camper trailer.

Not because she’s done anything wrong. Not because she’s unstable. But because her rental is being demolished and she’s been knocked back from housing for over a year.

Why?
Because she has a dog. Because she has a spinal injury and is awaiting surgery.

She’s not a “junkie.” And even if she was she would still deserve someone to care enough to seek her help, a roof and AoD counselling.

But that's not who she is!

She’s someone’s friend.

Someone’s daughter.

A person with chronic pain trying to survive a system that keeps turning her away.

Someone who's lived through trauma.

We’ve offered her what we could. A cold camper in the middle of winter.
Our friend/Jake's boss has agreed to let us set the camper up at the caravan park they

But this is exactly why Rolling Recovery needs to exist.
Because no one should be forced to live in a freezing camper because they have a pet or a disability preventing them from work.

This was offered as a last resort when I saw her post about her pending homelessness on Facebook. And now the last resort is here as her furniture goes into storage and destined for a cold and smaller camper trailer because it's all we have right now to offer.

With real land, real support, and real funding — we could’ve offered her safety, warmth, dignity.
Instead, she’ll sleep in our borrowed camper trailer while we hope for more.

“S” — A Hug Between Worlds

There was one girl — let’s call her S.

She was often off in another realm — diagnosed with schizophrenia, BPD, maybe bipolar. Her trauma was deep, and her mind tried to protect her however it could.

One day, she told me that sharing vapes or cigarettes was a sin. Not a preference — a rule handed down by God.

So I honoured it. I gave her her own vape and gently told others not to offer things around her. She needed that boundary to feel safe.

Then, slowly, she began to renegotiate her world.
“God says it’s okay now,” she told me later. “For others. But not for me.”

Even that was progress.
Eventually, she asked me to share.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Only if it’s okay.”
She nodded. She trusted me.

There were times she turned on me — convinced I wasn’t real, that I was part of it. And I was scared. But she always came back. She apologised. She hugged me.

Sometimes all I had to do was stretch my arms out — no words — and she’d respond reaching out her arms. Those hugs grounded her. They reminded her she was still here. Sometimes I would just sit with her in silence or whilst she read a poem. She just needed someone to remind her she was still there and help keep her out of her own mind.

She wasn’t just a diagnosis.
She was someone who had been through more than we could ever measure.
And she was still trying to connect. Still trying to believe someone was safe.

These are just some of the stories.
Stories that prove peer workers don’t just supplement care — they are the care.
They hold the line when the system drops it.They see the human before the file.
They ground what the medication can’t.

We don’t need more containment.
We need more connection.

Emily Deserved More Than This System Gave Her

Emily was 24. A mother. A survivor.
She should still be here.

She had two young children — just 1 and 3 years old — but she didn’t have a safety net.
She didn’t have family checking in.
She didn’t have a trauma-informed care plan.

She had Seroquel.
10mg at night and a PRN once a day.
No antidepressant.
No review.

But she had Z — a patient I met in the adult acute unit. A man who, despite being unwell himself, showed up for her in every way the system didn’t.

“She attempted suicide 5 times while I stayed at hers. I was literally holding her back from running onto a road for 40 minutes until police arrived… It’s ultimately the healthcare system’s failure.”

He took her to emergency four times.
He pleaded with doctors — four different GPs and two psychiatrists — to please change her medication.
They agreed with his concerns.
But she was still discharged. Still sent home. Still sedated instead of supported.

The day before she died, Emily was readmitted to AAU.
The next day, she ran in front of a train.

Her children were too young to fully understand.
But they will grow up without her.

This Is What Peer Support Could Have Changed

Emily’s story isn’t just about suicide.
It’s about a system that didn’t listen.
It’s about what happens when someone can’t advocate for themselves — and no one steps in to do it for them.

Z tried.
He gave her shelter.
Held her back from traffic.
Stayed awake with her for hours.
He wasn’t trained. He wasn’t employed. He was just human.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

Because peer work isn’t a luxury.
It’s a life-saving necessity.

In Memory of Emily

This exposé is for you, Emily.
And for every person like you — falling through the cracks, misunderstood, mistreated, misdiagnosed.

We will keep saying your name.
We will keep building the world you needed.

The Catalyst: My Mum Taught Me to Keep People Alive

My mum has always said she was meant to be the catalyst.
Not the one who gets the happy ending — but the one who lights the flame for others.

She raised me through chronic pain, disability, and poverty.
She’s had multiple surgeries — spine, ankles — and still keeps going.
She’s been injured twice at work, mistreated by healthcare workers, and blamed for her weight when that wasn’t the cause of her pain.

She was denied medication because she didn’t look like someone in agony.
She could speak clearly, so she was labelled a drug-seeker.

“I think healthcare focuses too much on separate parts, rather than looking at us as a whole... Departments don’t communicate, and people fall between the cracks. It costs lives.”

But through it all, she’s stood by me.
Even now, as I try to rebuild from my own breakdown, she says:

“I’ll stand by your side through it all. Well — I might sit a lot, because standing hurts.”

She’s always been that person — the one others turn to.
My friends didn’t just come over to hang out.
They came for her.
The safety. The care. The quiet, unwavering belief that they were worthy of love.

She Took People In — When the System Didn’t

We didn’t have much growing up.
But we always had someone.

A spare couch for those fleeing violence.
A teen needing a family.
A friend with an eating disorder.

My mum even offered to foster or adopt one of my friends who felt completely alone unfortunately this girl ran away back to this system thinking she was undeserving of a family.

When that friend reconnected years later — unwell, overwhelmed — my mum didn’t hesitate.
We both visited her in a psychiatric hospital.
She asked if I’d care for her son.
So we did.

We sold our ute. Bought a van.
I did my WWCC, paperwork, everything needed to keep him safe.
He stayed with us. Ate with us.
And eventually — he went home to his mum.
Still together today. Still safe. Still whole.

That’s what real support looks like.

My Mum Was the First Peer Worker I Ever Knew

She didn’t get paid for it.
Didn’t have credentials.
But she taught me how to care.
How to speak.
How to believe people when they say they’re in pain.

Because of her, I didn’t learn to fight with fists.
I learned to fight with words. With truth. With presence.

“We are the stones dropped in the water,” she says. “The ripples we create may not be seen — but they are felt.”

She taught me that our voice is our power.

And because of her, Rolling Recovery exists.

Rolling Recovery: Built From the Ashes, Fueled by Love

Rolling Recovery isn’t just a project.
It’s the ripple effect of every woman like Emily. Every friend like Z. Every mum like mine.

It’s a place where people can live, not just survive.
A home for the ones in-between — post-discharge, pre-diagnosis, still human.

It’s where peer workers are always there.
Where people with lived experience don’t just volunteer — they lead.
Where mothers with nowhere to go don’t end up in campers or condemned rentals.
Where hugs, sensory tools, community meals, and medication reviews coexist with dignity.

Where someone says:

“You matter too much to let go of.”

So Let’s Build It

Because Rolling Recovery isn’t just an idea.
It’s happening.

It’s a place born of heartbreak — but sustained by hope.
And we need your support — your funding, your platforms, your belief — to make sure no one else becomes a tragic headline when they could have been held.

Because we don’t heal in isolation.
We heal in community.
We heal when we are seen.

Let this exposé be the ripple.
Let Rolling Recovery be the wave.

Before We Talk Solutions, Let Me Tell You Why I’m Still Fighting

Homelessness can happen to anyone. I’ve brushed up against it more than once — staring it down, wondering if I’d have to load the car, pack the kids, and just drive without a destination. You keep fighting for a better life, but when your mind and body betray you, when the help isn’t there or comes too late, it’s hard to keep going.

But I’m not giving up.

This isn’t just about me. This is for her — the woman in the camper whose rental is being demolished. For my friend who lived in his car. For another who stayed in a van in his foster mum’s backyard, stuck in a marriage where his husband cheated whilst he was in hospital — because when you’re mentally unwell, broke, and unsupported, you stay in places that hurt you. Because at least they’re not the street.

I want back that time I had on the road, travelling Australia with my family. I think I was trying to soak in every moment of love and freedom before my body gave out… before I completely unravelled. I don’t know if I’ll ever hike those cliffs or see those views again. So now I live nestled in the mountains — my driveway too steep for my broken body to walk — but at least I’m still surrounded by nature. Even if I’m trapped.

At PARC, I requested an alcohol and drug worker. I thought maybe that was my problem. She told me, “You’re not an alcoholic. That’s not the cause, that’s the symptom.”

She was right.

I wasn’t addicted to alcohol — I was addicted to connection. To being heard. Even by people who weren’t safe. Even if the friendship wasn’t real.

Because for most of my life, I’ve been silenced. And in AAU, I finally found people who wanted to hear me speak. Who didn’t call me a “chatterbox” or punish me for taking up space.

I found out I’m not a bad person. I’m just someone who can’t stomach injustice.

But when you’re labelled with mental illness — especially BPD — people stop listening. Unless they’ve been there themselves. You can become invisible in a system that claims to care.

Still, I learned so much inside AAU. I made real friends. I saw people being mistreated and did my best to show up for them.

We danced under stars and moonlight, even as the world outside kept turning. We all returned to our lives, broken systems waiting for us, only more stigmatised than when we’d entered.

I’ve been unheard. I’ve been told I need a man to speak for me. I’ve had professionals accuse me of medication abuse just for trying to track my symptoms the way I thought I was supposed to.

Sometimes I’m so depressed I can’t function. I curl up in a ball and avoid everything — even the people I love most. My kids. My partner. Because what’s the point in talking if no one listens?

And even if I don’t have bipolar, shouldn’t I be allowed to help decide what happens to my body? My mind? Why am I just dismissed?

I know people who were told they have BPD and then… nothing. No support. No therapy. Just a label. Just a script from a GP who barely understood the diagnosis.

One friend spent years obsessed with an ex, self-sabotaging, spiralling — and no one told her: “Hey, that’s an FP. A Favourite Person. It’s a real thing with BPD. You’re not crazy. You’re scared. Dysregulated. And it’s okay to learn to manage that.”

She never got that chance. Because no one told her she was allowed psychiatric care. Because no one explained what BPD actually means. Because no one wanted to deal with her.

And another girl told me her psychiatrist listed “cPTSD” on her file instead of BPD. Not because it was accurate — but because, in her own words:

“Other clinicians are more likely to accept PTSD than BPD. Most don’t want to work with people with BPD.”

Can you imagine that?

Having to wear the wrong name tag, just to be seen as human?

That’s not trauma-informed. That’s not care. That’s survival in a broken system.

💔 Dedication

To the ones I met inside the storm —
The ones who danced with me under hospital moons, who made tea in silence, who knew what it meant to cry without needing to explain why.
To my friends who are still out there, scattered by distance, pain, poverty, diagnosis, or time.

I miss you.

I miss that connection, that understanding — that feeling of being seen without judgment. We’re still in touch, some of us. But time moves differently when you’re living with mental illness. Days slip. Messages get swallowed by shame or exhaustion. And when you’re neurodivergent or disabled, when your soul’s been bruised by trauma and systems that punish difference, staying connected can feel like another mountain to climb.

We’re called dole bludgers. We’re accused of being lazy. But so many of us didn’t choose poverty. We were born into it, or trauma walked us there. Some families never had a chance to break the cycle. Some of us clawed out and still got dragged back down.

We look fine online. Smiles. Kids. Pets. Projects.
But behind the pictures are floating pieces of people — held together by hope, meds, willpower, and sometimes nothing at all.

This project — this fight — it’s for all of you.
For the ones society forgot.
For those who just needed someone to give a damn.

We deserved better.
We still do.

🧭 Introduction & Vision

Rolling Recovery is more than a place — it’s a promise.
A lived-experience-led, trauma-informed recovery village for people navigating mental illness, disability, poverty, parenting, and pain.

It was created because the system failed — and I know I’m not the only one it’s failed.

People are being discharged from psychiatric wards into nothing.
No home. No follow-up. No safety net.
Just shame, silence, or another mattress on the floor.

Rolling Recovery is here to change that.

We’re creating spaces where people can heal — not just survive.
Spaces that don’t disappear after discharge. That offer warmth, community, and dignity.

Because recovery isn’t a neat timeline. It’s messy. It’s human.
And it deserves more than just medication and waiting lists.

This is a place where:

People aren’t “too complex.”

Diagnoses don’t define your worth.

Parents, pain patients, neurodivergent adults, and survivors have space to breathe.

Community is the treatment.

We’ve already started:

Collecting cans through the deposit scheme to raise funds ourselves.

Offering temporary support to someone in need with what little we have.

Renovating old caravans in the past with our own hands — even if we had to sell our last one due to hospital admissions, chronic pain, and survival choices.

Showing up every day with nothing but lived experience, resourcefulness, and the vision.

This is not just a dream.
This is a foundation built on reality.
Even if no one donates, we will slowly build this — one can, one van, one safe space at a time.

🔥 Systemic Failures & Why This Matters

I didn’t create Rolling Recovery because I wanted to.
I created it because I had no other choice.

After psychiatric admission, I was released into a world that wasn’t built to support me — or anyone like me. No home visit. No real follow-up. Just pressure to function like nothing had happened.

I’m not alone.

Across Australia, people are discharged from psych units and told to “just keep going” — even when they’re homeless, unsupported, or still unsafe. Parents, trauma survivors, autistic adults, and people with chronic illness are falling through the cracks. Again and again.

Our current system:

Overmedicates and misdiagnoses women — especially those with BPD, Bipolar II, ADHD, or CPTSD.

Punishes neurodivergent people for not communicating the “right” way.

Discharges patients into instability with no safety net.

Prioritises containment over care — and then blames us when we spiral.

Operates without transparency — no public photos of hospital interiors, no honest disclosure of what psychiatric units are really like.

Forces people to earn rest, healing, and belonging. As if survival isn’t already work.

And when you try to advocate for yourself?
You’re labelled “non-compliant,” “manipulative,” or “too complex.”
The very people trained to help us don’t read our files, don’t listen to our histories, don’t take the time to understand.

This is why Rolling Recovery matters.

Because we are not the problem — the system is.

Because healing should not depend on how well you mask your pain.

Because the people most impacted by the system should have a say in changing it.

Rolling Recovery is our answer to what’s broken.
It’s not just a place to live.
It’s a home base for people failed by the mainstream.

A peer-built, trauma-informed, community-rooted model — shaped by the very people who know what it’s like to fall through the cracks.

🎄 From a Bushfire Christmas to Rolling Recovery

I’ve seen what community can do when the world turns upside down.

In December 2024, I hosted a Christmas for evacuees during the Grampians bushfires. I didn’t do it because I had time or resources — my family had evacuated too. But I couldn’t bear the thought of people sitting in crisis, kids with no presents, families feeling lost.

So, I posted in a Facebook group — just a small idea.

Within days, the community showed up.

We had:

A church offer their kitchen and space for donated food.

A woman in Stawell cooking meals and collecting donated gifts and more food.

Local families dropping off presents for both children and adults.

My own kids standing around a ping pong table wrapping gifts in a caravan park.

My mum driving up from Melbourne to help us pack, prep, and pull it off.

A GoFundMe that helped cover what we couldn’t — even though we were ready to fund it all ourselves.

Even ABC News covered it — that’s me, my partner, and our son at a lookout where we happened to be interviewed.
📰 ABC Article – Christmas kindness during Grampians bushfire

We made Christmas happen for families who had nowhere else to go.

That moment changed me.

It showed me what’s possible when people come together in love — even amidst disaster.

And that’s what I’m trying to do again.
This time, not for one day — but for life.

People opened their homes and hearts for evacuees.

Rolling Recovery is my way of saying:
“No one should feel as alone, unstable, or invisible as I’ve felt.”

I’ve created safe space plans, neurodivergent-friendly routine cards, and a podcast called Sick, Broke & Still Here to tell the truth.

Now we need land. Support. Solidarity.

If we could do that in just a few days for evacuees...
Imagine what we could build together for those stuck in daily crisis — like homelessness, mental illness, or poverty.

Let’s do it. Let’s build it.

📣 This Is the Call — What Needs to Change

If you are reading this and you’ve ever been made to feel like a burden for needing help —
I see you.

If you are a clinician, a policy-maker, a nurse, a decision-maker —
Do better.
Read our files. Hear our voices. Show up.

We are done asking nicely.

What Needs to Change — Now:

🧠 Mandatory trauma-informed training for all psychiatric and allied health staff — not just a webinar or checkbox.

🫂 Lived-experience peer workers on every psychiatric shift, including overnights, weekends, and rural locations.

🛡 Legal protection for patients advocating for their own care — so self-advocacy isn’t punished as “non-compliance.”

🏡 Immediate funding for peer-led, community-based housing alternatives like Rolling Recovery.

🧬 A national review into misdiagnosis and over-medication — especially of women with BPD, Bipolar II, CPTSD and ADHD.

🔄 Accurate, evolving diagnoses and medication reviews that reflect the whole person — not a five-minute intake.

🔗 Trauma-informed care that doesn’t disappear at discharge — healing takes time, and support must continue outside the hospital walls.

🌏 Systems that see people, not risks. That view us not as broken, but as whole beings carrying complex histories.

This exposé is not just a cry for help.
It’s a roadmap to hope.

That’s why I built Rolling Recovery — a place designed by the people who’ve been left behind. A blueprint for what real care could look like.

We don’t need more sedation, more rejection, more locked doors.

We need options. Autonomy. Community.

And we need it now.

🌱 The Rolling Recovery Vision

Rolling Recovery is more than a mental health project — it’s a movement born from lived experience, pain, and persistence.

It is a trauma-informed recovery village for people like me — people with mental illness, disability, chronic pain, poverty, parenting struggles, and layered trauma that doesn’t heal on a clean timeline.

It’s a place where:

People aren’t discharged into nothing, but welcomed into community, structure, and safety.

There’s no shame in needing a second chance, a reset, or simply a place to breathe.

Healing doesn’t mean isolation. Recovery is connection. Recovery is relational.

This isn’t a dream — it’s already begun.

🔨 What We’ve Already Started:

🎨 Designing visual DBT and daily routine tools for neurodivergent families.

🗺 Building a mental health support map to connect others to low-cost help across Australia.

🛍 Hosting market stalls and creating handmade items to raise funds and spread the message.

🎙 Launching our podcast: Sick, Broke & Still Here – Diagnosis Pending — giving voice to people silenced by the system.

📚 Writing our first children’s book, “Mum’s Bipolar Bear,” to explain bipolar gently and honestly to young kids.

🛏 Supporting the first person housed through the project — offering safe shelter while she awaits long-term housing.

💻 Beginning website development with free and low-cost resources, routine cards, and advocacy tools.

We may not have funding yet — but we have momentum.
We have community.
And we have a vision that refuses to die, no matter how broken the system may be.

📋 What We Still Need

To turn Rolling Recovery from a passionate beginning into a full-scale, sustainable model — we need support. Not sympathy. Not bureaucracy. Real, practical help.

🔧 Infrastructure & Renovation Support

Qualified draftsperson or architect to turn our hand-drawn concepts into proper zoning layouts.

Donated or affordable caravans, shipping containers, or tiny homes to convert into safe housing.

Building supplies — ramps, annex materials, insulation, solar gear, safes, water tanks.

Renovation support from builders, tradies, electricians, or even retired professionals willing to donate a day or two per van.

Fire-safe and sensory-aware design input, especially from those with experience in trauma-informed spaces.

💰 Funding & Resources

Start-up funds to buy, rent, or co-renovate a pilot property in Pomonal or nearby.

Donations — even small ones — for basics: sensory tools, first aid, safe storage, signage.

Assistance with grant writing that honours a lived-experience voice, not bureaucratic language.

Advice on ethical sponsorship or NGO partnerships that align with our values.

Ongoing fundraising options, like setting up formal donation accounts through can deposit schemes.

🧠 Mental Health & Allied Health Partnerships

Trauma-informed psychiatrists and psychologists who see the whole person.

Occupational therapists, chiropractors, support coordinators, or case workers interested in contributing to or trialling the model.

Peer support workers to help co-create and trial tools, resources, or intake plans.

Allies within services like Mind to Health, VMIAC, Brook Red, Rural Women Unite, or other lived-experience or rural orgs who want to collaborate.

💻 Digital & Tech Help

A developer or app builder to help bring the RDE Humanised Profiles system to life — a system that logs staff file access, appointment prep, and reduces cold or harmful clinical interactions.

Tech support to develop a WikiCamps-style app for:

Rolling Recovery locations

Peer-safe spaces

Spare room listings (with safety checks)

Resource maps for food, clothes, free help

Big Sibling style volunteer matching

Local advocacy allies and community groups

🤝 Community Support & Collaboration

Landowners, real estate allies, or donors who might lease or sell land, a block, or even a rundown motel for us to co-renovate.

People with tiny home, off-grid, or DIY renovation experience to offer guidance or hands-on help.

Students and placement seekers (social work, OT, psychology, architecture, community services) wanting real-world, impact-led opportunities.

Artists, designers, and creators to help co-design calming, beautiful, inclusive spaces that hold dignity at their core.

This isn’t just a wishlist.
This is a blueprint for change.
If you have one of these things — or know someone who does — you can be part of a solution that changes lives.

🌏 Socioeconomic Impact & Regional Regeneration

Rolling Recovery isn’t just a mental health initiative — it’s a strategic investment in rural regeneration.

By positioning this lived-experience-led village in a town like Pomonal, the project can create real, measurable ripple effects for locals, services, and regional economies:

🚍 Transport Demand = Better Bus Access

With more residents, workers, and visitors, school and V/Line bus routes may expand or run more frequently — supporting locals, tourists, and those without licenses.

This means safer school commutes for kids and greater independence for people in recovery or on low incomes.

🧯 Boosting CFA Volunteer Numbers

Many residents and volunteers at Rolling Recovery will be physically capable, community-minded, and keen to contribute where they can.

This creates a new volunteer base for the CFA and other local emergency services, filling a critical rural gap — especially as the threat of bushfire remains ongoing.

🧑🌾 Growing a New Kind of Farming Support

Some of our community members will be interested in permaculture, regenerative agriculture, homesteading, or livestock care — especially those healing through hands-on work.

With training and land access, Rolling Recovery could provide a small workforce or volunteer base to help older farmers, fire-affected blocks, or drought-impacted properties.

🛍 Tourism, Day Trippers, & Market Culture

Rolling Recovery will attract visitors, buyers, and collaborators through:

Artisan markets

DBT and sensory tool stalls

Mental health awareness events

Public art and advocacy exhibitions

This adds vibrancy and economic activity to Pomonal, Halls Gap, and surrounds, especially during off-peak tourism seasons.

🧑🔧 Local Jobs & Trades Opportunities

The setup and ongoing care of Rolling Recovery will directly create opportunities for:

Electricians, carpenters, plumbers, and landscapers

Hospitality trainers and educators

Retail and market suppliers

Healthcare professionals and allied support staff

We plan to contract locally first, bringing money back into the very towns that raised us.

This is how one small recovery village becomes a rural micro-economy — growing hope, jobs, and connection from the ground up.

💥 Why This Matters — And Who We’re Fighting For

This isn’t just a housing project.

This is about preventing the next psychiatric readmission.
The next suicide attempt.
The next mum sleeping in her car.
The next person misdiagnosed, overmedicated, or turned away.

We are building a system that actually helps people heal — because it’s led by people who’ve lived it.

Who We’re Fighting For:

People left with “too complex” in their file instead of a care plan.

Parents trying to stay alive for their kids but offered no help unless they break down.

Neurodivergent, disabled, and trauma-impacted people forced into silence or chaos.

Rural families who can’t access psychologists, crisis care, or even public transport.

Survivors of a system that sees behaviour but ignores pain.

People discharged from psych wards with no home to go to and no follow-up.

Every one of us who is sick, broke, and still here.

🛠 What Rolling Recovery Will Offer:

Rolling Recovery isn’t a theory — it’s a living, breathing model that’s already taking shape.

Here’s what we’ll run and offer onsite and online:

💡 Life Skills & Real-World Learning

Car Maintenance Workshops – teaching how to check coolant, change tyres, and prevent breakdowns.

Medication Safety Sessions – pharmacist-led talks on safe use, side effects, and self-advocacy.

Basic Tech Access & Centrelink Navigation – help with applying for jobs, payments, courses, or housing.

Resume & Job Readiness Sessions – guidance to build confidence and long-term options.

Can Donation System – even 10c donations will help fund essentials.

🪴 Healing & Creative Programs

DBT-informed peer groups – designed visually for people with executive dysfunction or trauma.

Art therapy and upcycled crafts – creating purpose, community, and income through markets.

Gardening, food prep, and sustainability – offering dignity and daily rhythm.

Self-care & hygiene support – including nail care sessions run by Narissa, a qualified tech, for self-esteem and hygiene.

Hospitality & admin skills – taught from lived experience (former motel management, groundskeeping, reception, kitchen work).

Sensory zones & safe play areas – for families, trauma survivors, and neurodivergent folks alike.

🎧 Advocacy & Outreach

Sick, Broke & Still Here – Diagnosis Pending Podcast – platforming stories that rarely get airtime.

RollingRecovery.com.au – offering free tools, a resource map, and space to connect.

Children’s mental health resources – including our first book Mum’s Bipolar Bear.

Live peer advisory and support networks – still growing, but already taking form.

This is not a shelter.
This is not a “step-down” service.
This is a humanised recovery village — built by us, for us.

With land, materials, and support — this will become a model that others can replicate.
One where people don’t have to get worse to qualify for help.
Where healing doesn’t mean isolation, and where community is a core part of recovery.

We’ve already begun. But to build it fully, we need your help.

Peer-Led Movements Worth Supporting

Rolling Recovery is just one part of a bigger, growing network of peer-led care and lived-experience leadership. We’re proud to stand alongside organisations like:

🧠 Brook RED – Brisbane-based, peer-operated mental health spaces offering non-clinical support, arts programs, and advocacy with deep trauma-informed care at the centre. brookred.org.au

🌾 Rural Women Unite – A grassroots collective supporting women in regional areas who are impacted by isolation, mental health, family violence, or poverty. They advocate for better rural care, visibility, and justice.

🤝 Sober in the Country – “It’s OK to say no.” A bush-born, no-judgement peer platform changing the conversation around drinking in rural communities. Created by people who’ve lived it.

🎤 VMIAC – The peak body for mental health consumers in Victoria. They recently withdrew from Department of Health spaces due to the silencing of lived experience voices — and are now leading the push for a real, funded Lived Experience Agency.

💬 SHARC – Peer-led recovery housing, family support, and community education in Victoria. SHARC is now co-leading the Recommendation 29 campaign to demand a real Lived Experience Agency, as promised in the Royal Commission.

If you support Rolling Recovery, we invite you to support these groups too. Share their pages. Donate. Learn. This is how we build a future that listens — and heals.

🌱 A Community Rooted in Care — Not Concrete

Let us be clear:
Rolling Recovery isn’t trying to turn small towns into cities.
This isn’t gentrification. This isn’t overdevelopment.
This is a compassionate side-community — built to support people in crisis, without taking away the charm, quiet, and connection that make rural towns like this one so special.

We’re not here to “fix” the town.
We’re here to fill the gaps — the ones created by broken systems, unsafe housing, mental health crises, and isolation.
We’re here to lighten the load, not add to it.

There are already people in this town doing incredible work — running festivals, organising wellness days, offering therapy, hosting movie nights, and creating community lunches that remind people what it feels like to belong.
We want to add to that magic.
To build safe shelter, offer trauma-informed support, and run life skills programs that bring hope — not just to the people in Rolling Recovery, but to the wider community too.

Imagine:

A local hub that draws in new CFA volunteers.

A place where someone learns how to fix a lawnmower, cook a meal, or repair a van.

A future farmer given a second chance because someone believed they could.

A small ripple of healing that travels far beyond our postcode.

💌 An Invitation

If you’re already doing the work — in council, in care, in connection — this is your invitation.
Let’s join forces.
Let’s build something that works in rural areas — and can grow in other towns like ours across Australia.

If you can help — with grant writing, Auslan access, outreach, lived experience, or even just a willingness to listen — I’m open.
We’re ready.
This could be the start of something life-saving.

✨ Come See for Yourself — Halls Gap Is Glowing

If you’ve read this far, you already know this isn’t just about housing or health care. It’s about community — the kind that wraps around you when the world has stripped you bare.

And there’s no better time to feel it than right now.

From July 5 to August 31, our town lights up for the Glow Festival —
an eight-week celebration of community, art, light, connection, and healing.
It’s a chance to feel what makes this town magic.

🌄 Camp under the stars.
🎨 See local art installations.
🍲 Join in on community dinners.
🧘 Walk the wellness trails.
🌌 Be reminded that people still care.

Come feel the energy. Come see why something like Rolling Recovery doesn’t just belong here — it was born from the very soil we walk on.

This is where healing happens — in the light, in connection, in places that make you feel like you’re not alone anymore.

👉 Learn more: glowhallsgap.com.au

💛 Thank You — And an Open Invitation

If anything in this exposé spoke to you —
If you’ve lived parts of this, or just felt it in your chest —
Thank you for reading, for caring, for staying with it.

If you want to support the vision, we’ve kept it simple.

You can donate via our website:
rollingrecovery.com.au/products/donations

Or email us if you have time, skills, resources, or heart to offer:
📩 therollingrecovery@gmail.com

Whether it’s land, labour, laptops, or just a kind word — we are building this together.

And if you’ve ever been dismissed, left out, shut down, or told “you’re too much”...
You’re exactly the kind of person we want beside us.

If they won’t listen to the squeaky wheel,
maybe they’ll listen to the people rolling with it.

Because we’re not just surviving.
We’re coming back for what we deserve.

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