Why am I too old to adopt but not to have IVF? My Grandmother lived to be 103 years old. Which means, if I can replicate this wondrous longevity, my children will be the mature age of 60 when I pass on. I may even get to meet my great grandchildren.

I always planned to have a baby at around 39. After the incident… well ok here goes – I had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after an excruciating abortion that I didn’t want to have at age 22… then as it went untreated the PTSD triggered depression.

A year after I returned to Australia I went back to University and started nannying to pay the bills, as well as waitressing (another long story). I was lucky enough to start working for a very glamorous woman and her younger, dot-com-millionaire partner and their adorable 18 month old child. The woman, Stephanie, was 38 and had been in fashion in France and met her Dutch partner in Amsterdam and got knocked up straight away, dragged him back to OZ and Bondi. Come to think of he was unwell too… anyway.

She inspired me. The thing was, my partner at the time was a massive traveler as was I. Although neither of us worked in the industry when we met, he ended up becoming a tour guide when I failed to meet the interview criteria (I could not drive and that’s another story). He was older than me by eight years and I was always somewhat envious of his adventures. I suppose I wanted to be like him and have some fun before I settled down on one level. On the other, when we conceived a child I was fully conscious and present and wanted it with all my heart.

Otto – 31 – said he was ready. He’d always said “Wouldn’t I make a great father?” I told my mum I was pregnant and she told the whole family . I mean, I was only 7 weeks. Boundaries.

Strange things happened… a girlfriend of ours (well she was Otto’s ex’s sister) also fell pregnant, with twins. Otto was a twin. He’d always cheated on me – coming home smelling of other girls after being at dance parties – but told me I was crazy if I asked about it. Now he began riding off into the forest toward this girl’s house. She and I were close after learning yoga together, scuba diving with our partners, having barbeques every other weekend… She maintained she was having an abortion, she was 30.

As a 22 year old I couldn’t understand this of course. She was in a great relationship and they had a huge house. They loved to travel and often showed us slideshows of nature and lot of her peeing in the bushes… but surely a child – twins – was the best gift in the world?
Anyway she went ahead with it, and she was fine. An American girlfriend had just gone back to the states after having one with her German boyfriend too – she wasn’t so fine.

Suddenly Otto was backing down and then my mother said “You’re too young. I spoke to your (rich) uncle about it and he said it would end up being me looking after it, and he’s right. I think you should have an abortion and wait until you’re a bit older.”
It never occurred to me at the time that I’d always been very strong and looked after her all my life… I’d also left home just shy of my 18th birthday and been financially independent ever since.

But I felt alone.

We went to this doctor who showed me the insides of a uterus and a tiny plastic foetus. She tried to tell us there was no reason we couldn’t have a baby. In a stern, German manner.

Then we booked in and in I went to a clinic close by to our small village. I don’t know why but I woke up on the operating table in agony, nobody was around. I felt this awful dragging hollow pain and my beloved baby was gone… I was in a hospital gown and attached to a drip. I made my way to the toilet. I didn’t have to pee or anything but I felt like I needed to… do something worse. Blood was coming out of me.

A nurse came in and spoke to me in German, she gave me a pad and my clothes. Otto took me home and I lay on the couch and cried.

I was broken. I slumped into despair. For months. I went to see my friend in New York and her mother told us “girls, your boyfriends are controlling you.”

At that point I cut off my hair and dyed it black. I had some anger, to say the least. I spent New Year’s Eve 1998 in a New York nightclub with my friend and all her college buddies and I remember getting drunk and pushing someone.

That time is so fuzzy but I remember back in Germany I started having heart palpitations and sweats, and to see people on the street as pieces of meat walking around. I would see buses and think about walking in front of them. Otto began to travel a lot on tour. I eventually had a breakdown, leaving my job as an English teacher, trashing Otto’s apartment and getting on a plane home.

Dad picked me up from the airport when I called out of the blue at 6am – he wasn’t thrilled, and after a few days of my moods and screaming tears down the phone to Otto – who I suddenly missed – he avoided me altogether.

For the first time ever, when I took dad to the Kimberley this year we talked about that time, “I thought you were on drugs” he said.
“I had PTSD Dad, I know that now. I needed help.”
What I got was mum telling me to get my act together and get a job. She sent me to the GP to get antidepressants. Some made me worse – suicidal. Eventually I was put on Zoloft and remained on it – on and off – for many years.

All I can say is thank god for yoga. I was a vegetarian and I practised daily alone. I’m pretty sure that kept me alive.