As usual, my wife Mary spotted the warning signs, knew what they meant and knew what needed to be done.

My nightmares had suddenly returned after a long period without any. In one nightmare I dodged mortars (Iraq?). In another I was in Baghdad covering the 2003 invasion of Iraq with just one other Reuters correspondent as bombs crashed around us (staff cutbacks?). In another I was carrying dead bodies (Indonesia’s Aceh province after the 2004 tsunami?).

I’ve been waking up with bags under my eyes. Most afternoons I’ve needed to have a sleep, I’ve been that tired. My anxiety levels have shot up. Barely a day goes by without me taking Valium. I’m jumping out of my skin at any unexpected noise and feeling tense inside supermarkets or cafés. I’m depressed. I’ve also started drinking alcohol again, sometimes before midday. I got a new tattoo on my arm recently, partly because I wanted to feel the pain of the needle.

“You need to go back to Ward 17,” Mary said to me. To her relief, I didn’t argue. I’m being admitted on Thursday, Aug. 23.

Ward 17 is a psychiatric unit run by Austin Health in Melbourne. I was first admitted there for five weeks in August 2016 and then for another three weeks in July last year.

Some experts consider Ward 17 the premier PTSD facility in Australia because it offers one-on-one treatment as well as group therapy. During my previous admissions I’ve met Australian veterans, male and female police officers, paramedics and prison guards as well as civilians who were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

All my admissions to Ward 17 have followed Mary's intervention.

That's one of the key points I want to make in this blog – listen to your loved ones, friends or work colleagues if they notice you're not travelling well. In my case, I denied for years there was anything wrong even though signs of PTSD first started appearing in 2009, the year after I left Baghdad for the last time. In 2015, Mary begged me to see someone. I finally relented and saw a psychologist but put on such a mask that I fooled him into thinking there was little wrong with me.

Finally, again, at Mary’s insistence, I saw a highly qualified psychiatrist on March 8, 2016 who took less than 45 minutes to diagnose me with PTSD. 

Still, I deteriorated. On the evening of July 27, 2016, I told Mary that I wanted to die. I wanted to end the pain. I wanted peace. Mary said I needed treatment in a psychiatric hospital, and fast. I knew she was right. That led to my first admission to Ward 17.

The prospect of going to a psychiatric ward will unnerve most people. I was terrified when I entered Ward 17 the first time. As I walked toward the ward last year for my second admission, I shook my head in disbelief. I couldn’t believe I needed to go back. I was convinced one admission would be enough. Turns out my treating team were not surprised to see me again. 

This time round? I’m counting the days till I get there.

Each time I’ve learnt much about my PTSD as well as the moral injury I felt over the deaths of Reuters photographer Namir Noor-Eldeen and driver Saeed Chmagh in Baghdad in July 2007 when I was the Iraq bureau chief. 

That’s another point I want to make. It's not a sign of weakness to need help with mental health issues. I've emerged stronger from each of my previous admissions to Ward 17. I'm sure the same will happen this time around. 

You share experiences in a psych ward. You quickly realise you’re not alone. Other patients have similar symptoms. A bond develops. I’ve also been a member of a closed Facebook group for Ward 17 patients since my first admission. It’s a marvellous social support.

Finally, it’s really helped to be able to speak openly with my manager and the HR team about my PTSD and treatment. They have my best interests at heart and are working with me to make sure I take the time I need to get better. That makes me feel comfortable about returning to a suitable level of work when I’m ready. I’m passionate about my role as head of mental health and wellbeing strategy. Having an agreed return-to-work plan in place gives me confidence that I’ll do the best job I can.

For anyone curious about the tattoo, it names the three locations that were the main contributors to my PTSD – Iraq, Aceh and Bali (the 2002 Bali bombings).

But it’s the words underneath that right now are the most important. Fight Back.

Be passive and PTSD will eat you alive.

P.S. – I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me. Instead, I want you to think about your own mental health. How are you travelling? Noticed any troubling signs? Then, if you’re a manager, have a think about your team members. Ask them how they’re doing. Show you care.

Dean Yates was a journalist, bureau chief and editor for Reuters for more than 26 years. He has reported extensively on war, conflict and natural disasters in Southeast Asia and the Middle East. Dean was diagnosed with PTSD in March 2016. He has been admitted three times to the Ward 17 psychiatric unit in Melbourne. He also served as head of journalist mental health and wellbeing strategy at Reuters.

This blog post first circulated internally on Aug 22, 2018.

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