Introducing the Forensic Psychiatrist

At a certain point in pursuing compensation for historic institutional abuse, you are introduced to a new character in the process: the forensic psychiatrist.

This role was explained to me carefully. Forensic psychiatrists, I was told, bring specialised expertise in understanding the psychological impact of trauma. Their assessments are meant to provide the court and the parties with an independent, clinical evaluation of how abuse has affected a person’s mental health over time.

It was made very clear to me - this is not 'Not treatment. Not care. But Assessment.

I was told to expect a thorough and nuanced process. One that would explore my mental health history, my current psychological state, and the long-term consequences of the abuse I endured as a teenager. These assessments, I was assured, are designed to establish whether there is a causal connection between the abuse and conditions such as PTSD, anxiety, depression, or other trauma-related injuries.

In theory, this makes sense.

In practice, it depends entirely on who is holding the clipboard.

Two Assessments, Two Purposes

In my case, two separate forensic psychiatric assessments were required. One commissioned by my own legal team, and one commissioned by the lawyers representing The Southport School.

Both were legislative requirements. Both were presented as routine. Both lasted roughly two hours.

They could not have been more different.

The assessment obtained for my lawyers was focused on understanding harm. Within the constraints of time, the psychiatrist sought to identify patterns, impacts, and the psychological injuries that had followed me into adulthood. The resulting report attempted to connect the abuse to my ongoing mental instability and supported my legal team in arguing that the damage was real, enduring, and compensable.

It was imperfect. But it was recognisable.

The second assessment was something else entirely.

The Defence Examination

The forensic psychiatrist selected by the Church’s legal team was Jill Reddan, engaged through HWL Ebsworth, acting for the Anglican Church of Southern Queensland.

I was told this assessment was to provide balance. An independent view. A safeguard against exaggeration.

What it actually functioned as was a credibility stress test.

The focus was not on understanding trauma, but on interrogating causation. Every answer I gave was weighed against alternative explanations. My medical history, employment record, relationships, and adult life choices were mined for competing narratives. The abuse was treated less as an event that altered a life, and more as one possible variable among many.

This was not subtle.

The purpose was clear: to locate any explanation for my psychological state that did not involve institutional failure.

The Report That Erased Me

I told Reddan, in explicit detail, what had happened to me at that school. I described the manipulation. The grooming. The environment that enabled a teacher to abuse a boarding student living on campus. I spoke about the aftermath. The way my life bent around those experiences. The adaptations. The damage. The grief for the person I might have been.

Her final report bore almost no resemblance to that conversation.

There was no meaningful acknowledgement of the abuse itself. No recognition of the depravity involved. No attempt to grapple with the long-term behavioural and psychological consequences of being violated by someone in authority and then left unprotected by the institution responsible for my care.

My experience was reduced to a checklist. A verification exercise. Responses recorded without context, depth, or narrative integrity.

When I told my legal team that I did not accept the report, I was given three pieces of information that clarified everything:

• The report would only really matter if the case went to trial

• I was not entitled to access the psychiatrist’s notes

• This was “common practice” for this practitioner

That was the moment it clicked.

This was not an assessment designed to understand harm. It was a box-ticking exercise designed to neutralise it.

Not an Isolated Experience

After the assessment, I did what institutions hope you won’t do. I looked her up.

The public record is unkind. Review after review describes a consistent pattern: patients feeling disbelieved, dismissed, and demeaned. Accounts of clinical coldness. Of assessments that appear more aligned with insurers and defendants than with human beings in distress.

Some reviews are alarming. People reporting suicidal ideation following consultations. Others describing being accused of dishonesty. Many describing a complete absence of empathy.

This pattern is not subtle. It is sustained.

And it matters, because forensic psychiatrists occupy a position of extraordinary power. Their reports can shape outcomes, influence settlements, and determine whether a survivor is seen as credible or inconvenient.

When This Pattern Reached the Courts

In October 2023, this same psychiatrist was stood down mid-evidence during a coronial inquest into the death of Selesa Tafaifa in Queensland custody. The report she prepared was criticised by counsel for the family as lacking detail and substance. The word “rubbish” was used, in court.

That moment matters.

Not because it vindicates me personally, but because it confirms a broader concern: when empathy is absent from forensic work, harm is not just misunderstood. It is compounded.

Follow the Chain

The structure here is not complicated.

• The forensic psychiatrist was hired by HWL Ebsworth

• HWL Ebsworth were hired by the Anglican Church

• The Anglican Church runs The Southport School

Religious institutions often speak eloquently about values. About care. About moral leadership.

The Royal Commission demonstrated, in devastating detail, how often those values collapse when reputation and liability are at stake.

This chapter is not about vengeance. It is about visibility.

If institutions insist on calling this process justice, then the least they can do is allow us to name what it actually feels like on the receiving end.

And no, thoughts and prayers will not be sufficient.

Get stuffed!