‘I want to live up to what Dad could have ...’
Johnny Bentley-Cribb’s father died in Wellington Hospital’s mental health unit when Johnny was just 11. Now 18, he’s joined a youth collective fighting for mental health reform. Nikki Macdonald reports.
The memories are few and fading. Trips to the dairy. Eating junk food together. But Johnny Bentley-Cribb figures there’s one sure way to keep the memory of his dad alive. By trying to live the life he couldn’t.
After 14 years bouncing around the mental health system, 34-year-old Mario Cribb died in unexplained circumstances in 2017, while in the legal care of Wellington Hospital’s mental health unit.
“He had all this potential, he could have had an amazing, stellar life. He was one of the best rugby players in college. And then it was all taken away from him, essentially. Because the system is so s..., and because it’s so broken.
“I’m just trying to use what I have, to do what I can, because he didn’t get to.”
On Tuesday, at 12.30pm, Bentley-Cribb (Ngāti Kauwhata, Ngāti Raukawa ki te Tonga) will stand in front of parliament to call for mental health reform, as part of a rally by youth advocacy group Mental Health Matters Initiative.
From tragedy he wants to build transformation, from the mental health system he believes failed his dad, to the Coroners Court that took five years to investigate his death, and then gave the family no answers.
“That’s what grounds everything I do. I wouldn’t be here today if Dad didn’t die and if the whole injustice of that - of the inquest - hadn’t happened. Because that’s what really made me go ‘Wow, I need to do something about it’.”
Diagnosed with bipolar affective disorder at the age of 20, Cribb was admitted to mental health inpatient units 17 times in 13 years. Eventually, in 2016, he robbed a petrol station and landed in prison.
Having had art therapy, drug treatment programmes and psychologist visits in jail, he emerged a new man. But with minimal support transitioning back into the community, Cribb ended up high on cannabis and playing chicken with cars, one of which ran over his ankle.
He was admitted to Wellington Hospital’s mental health unit under the Mental Health Act. As well as treating his mental health, doctors gave him opiate pain medication codeine for the injury. A week later he was found dead, with fatal levels of pain drugs.
His family were left to believe his death was a suspected suicide, although that’s not how the coroner was treating it.
Then a pupil at Upper Hutt’s Fergusson Intermediate, Bentley-Cribb was too young to understand what had happened. He got grief counselling from his school counsellor, which morphed into coping strategies for anxiety.
And then he mostly forgot about the mental health system, until 2022, when the coroner finally investigated his father’s death.
“The inquest sparked everything up again. That was when I kind of realised that government institutions and government bodies try and do their best but ultimately, they fail a lot of people, and the mental health system is the example of that.”
While he wanted to speak up for reform he figured, “I’m one person, I can’t change the world”. But then he found out about Mental Health Matters Initiative, a youth collective founded by former Kāpiti College head of school Amy Skipper, in October 2022.
“We’re a bunch of 15-18-year-olds, trying to take on a massive, massive challenge... We’re essentially saying ‘Enough is enough. The youth are here and we care about mental health, and it’s been too long’.”
So what needs to change? Hanging around Bentley-Cribb’s neck is a pounamu pendant his whānau gave him for his 18th birthday. It includes elements representing different members of his family.
“That’s the number one place where we learn, and young people grow through. I don’t think in that space you’re taught how to love yourself, or how to be comfortable with yourself. You’re taught reading, writing, maths... But you also need that kind of holistic understanding of mental health, which isn’t provided, unless you’re fortunate like me.”
“I love it. I wear it all the time. It’s based off of Dad’s one - it was made of bone.”
To him, it’s a recognition that family empowers everything he does. It’s that kind of holistic approach that Bentley-Cribb believes is missing from the mental health system.
“The way that we treat and recognise mental health has failed. When I look at te ao Māori, for example, it’s almost in no way recognised in the mental health system. The idea of spirituality and mana isn’t seen when you go to a mental health practitioner, at least not in my experience.
“It’s often very pharmaceuticalised. It’s a whole lot easier to medicate people, as opposed to trying to reconnect them with te ao Māori, or their whānau, or whatever that may look like. And holistic solutions as opposed to medication - or institutionalisation even - in the case of Dad.”
Change starts with culture, Bentley-Cribb believes. Whether that’s politicians being allowed to show emotion in parliament, or an end to divisive talk about the rainbow community, who have high rates of suicide.
The pay, conditions and culture in the mental health system also need to improve, to make it an appealing place for young people to work, he says.
While there has been policy progress, not much seems to have changed on the ground, Bentley-Cribb says. In 2018, five people died by suicide while inpatients in mental health units, and another 10 died within a week of being discharged.
“I think that is a prime example of the mental health system failing... If I could wave the magic wand, I would make sure that people that are in mental health institutions, like Dad was, actually aren’t committing suicide. And aren’t able to.”
With an epidemic of mental health issues in young people, he’d like to see more work done in schools.
“That’s the number one place where we learn, and young people grow through. I don’t think in that space you’re taught how to love yourself, or how to be comfortable with yourself.
“You’re taught reading, writing, maths, and that’s all well and good, and you need that. But you also need that kind of holistic understanding of mental health, which isn’t provided, unless you’re fortunate like me.”
Bentley-Cribb found his sessions with school counsellor Ronda Bungay helped by giving him coping strategies for dealing with anxiety symptoms, without slapping a label on them. That’s something that could be implemented across schools, he believes.
He also wants reform of the Coroners Court. Every aspect of the process is confronting, from the courtroom setting, to the involvement of lawyers in what is supposed to be a fact-finding court. If government agencies really want to honour Te Tiriti o Waitangi, they could hold inquests on marae, following tikanga, he says.
“I don’t think a courtroom can ever live up to that idea... I think the entire coroners system is broken.”
Because his whānau waited five years for an inquest, the memories of those involved in Cribb’s care were eroded. And then the coroner failed to even explain how he died. “I don’t think those questions will ever leave me, because of those findings. There was no answer, so I will live the rest of my life wondering what happened.”
Bentley-Cribb turned down a scholarship to go to university overseas and is instead studying law, politics and Māori studies at Auckland University. He reckons his Dad would be proud.
“He would probably say I’m going to be the prime minister one day... I want to live up to what Dad could have, if he wasn’t chucked in that system.
“Which I think will be hard, because I think he could have done a whole lot with his life.”
We stopped at Portmadoc (now Porthmadog), a pretty little seaside town, where we enjoyed a walk along the golden sand.
Further on, we came across a Butlin’s Holiday Camp looking as unappealing as we had expected, with rows of garishly painted wooden buildings. It wasn’t at all like the camping holidays I was used to at our beautiful New Zealand beaches. We hadn’t needed the artificial entertainment that these Butlin camps turned on for their guests.
Further inland, we drove through hills and valleys, then out to the coast again to Caernarvon (now Caernarfon) with its huge 13th-century castle – the birthplace of the first English Prince of Wales.
Here, among much pomp and ceremony, Prince Charles was invested as the Prince of Wales. But that was a few years in the future.
After a short stop at Bangor to collect our mail, a wonderful opportunity to catch up with letters from home, we crossed the Menai Strait on the suspension bridge connecting the mainland to the island of Anglesey.
Our travelling time was getting short but we were determined to visit Llanfairpwllgwyngyll. In full, the name was 58 letters in length. It was such an unprepossessing little place that we drove through it before realising our mistake.
Once we’d retraced our steps, we bought stamps from the little post office for our mail home. The postmistress kindly pronounced the unpronounceable name for us in her lilting Welsh accent. She knew about the New Zealand town in Hawke’s Bay with the incredibly long name but, to my shame, I could neither pronounce it nor spell it.
Back on the mainland, we travelled through the gloriously wild and rugged Llanberis Pass. On we drove past a couple of lakes with views of mountains, but unfortunately Snowdon was shrouded with the black clouds which seemed to appear in the afternoons.
Beyond yet another Welsh castle, we passed through one of the loveliest valleys, the Nant Gwynant, until we reached the village of Beddgelert. According to a 13th-century legend, Gelert was the name given to a hound owned by Llewelyn, Prince of North Wales, a keen hunter.
One day, when the prince set out, Gelert was not to be found so the hunting party left without him. When Llewelyn returned at the end of the day, he was greeted by his hound covered with blood and gore.
When the prince realised his baby son was missing, he suspected the worst. With one thrust of his sword, he dealt Gelert a fatal blow.
As the dog gave a last whimper, the prince heard a baby cry. Llewelyn discovered his son was safe and well, but nearby was the body of a dead wolf.
The prince was heartbroken and full of remorse when he realised his faithful hound, in killing the wolf, had saved his son. Gelert’s grave is still in the village, and we couldn’t leave until we paid our respects.
Back to the coast, where we reached Harlech with its impressive medieval castle perched on a cliff across the Tremadog Bay, part of the sweeping Cardigan Bay.
If only I could sing, I might’ve burst into a rendition of Men of Harlech, but made do with talking to a couple of middle-aged women who had spotted the NZ sticker on our small van.
They were intrigued by our tales and how far we’d travelled in our mini-van, Min. We were impressed when they told us how they had tired of the hustle and bustle of London so had moved to a secluded valley among the Welsh mountains. It seemed a daring thing to do as so many of the English we’d met were far from adventurous.
They suggested we drive around the Mawddach Estuary at sunset, saying it was particularly lovely at that time of day. And they were right.
The sunset streaked the sky with red. This was reflected on the still waters, and across the estuary the trees stood out clearly against the skyline.
As we reached the open sea again, the sun sank like a great orange ball and the sky became softly pink, the water almost white, and in the distance the hills turned silvery grey. A magical evening.
After another very cold night sleeping in the back of Min, condensation running down the walls of the van, it turned out to be a lovely day for the drive through the Dysynni Valley.
We had uninterrupted views of Cader Idris, one of the mountains in Snowdonia National Park which covers a large part of North Wales.
Soon after, we came across the peaceful Tal-y-Llyn Lake, so calm that the reflections of the nearby mountains appeared to be floating upside down.
No wonder we were loving the Welsh scenery – and the charming place names.
After rejoining the main road, we were delighted to find little traffic – at least for a while. Many of the roads were virtually empty, except for a few arterial routes which were packed with lorries hurtling on their way.
After leaving the small town of Machynlleth, we discovered the Mountain Road, so of course we couldn’t resist the challenge. And challenge it was, with Min grinding up and up as it puffed and panted in low gear until we reached the summit.
As there was scarcely another vehicle
we were able to enjoy the rugged tussock-covered countryside, where a few hardy sheep fossicked for food on isolated farms.
We slowly descended the hill until we reached another small village, Llanidloes, which is more or less the centre of Wales. We stopped long enough to visit the fascinating museum in the Old Market Hall. It was a half-timbered building right in the middle of a crossroad so we had no chance of missing it.
Beneath the main part of the building was an open arched area where markets were held. It was also where wrong-doers were put in stocks or imprisoned in tiny cells until in the 19th century it was deemed to be inadequate for the purpose.
I loved the eclectic collection of interesting exhibits in the museum, such as an emu egg, coins from around the world, old photographs, jewellery, women’s stays as well as a 16th-century exercise book. Arithmetic problems were written in neat columns, probably with a quill.
The museum director was an elderly man who remembered when women used brass clips to hold their skirts up when crossing the road to avoid them being muddied.
He also recalled when there were five public houses down each street. He told us how the children had cooties picked out of their hair before going to school and the day the teacher told a small girl, “… right, Mary, you’ve got something in your head.”
She evidently replied: “But my Mam only found one today.”
I’m sure we must have left the museum scratching our own heads.
Even if we were wearing skirts, there was no longer any need to hitch them up as we crossed the road to the bank. As often happened in these small villages, it took a lot longer than necessary to cash a traveller’s cheque.
The teller, with a typical soft voice, was keen to keep us talking. He had recognised our Kiwi accents as he’d been in the army in Malaya with lots of Kiwis and Aussies but preferred the Kiwis because “the Kiwis weren’t as rough or noisy and didn’t drink as much”.
Like many other young ones we met on our travels, he’d toyed with the idea of emigrating to New Zealand. I wonder if he ever did.
From here, we travelled to the Brecon Beacons National Park, with good views of the bracken-covered Brecon Beacons.
Then we were into the Welsh valleys of South Wales, an ugly mining region with towns lined with row after row of drab houses all the same and the landscape littered with machinery and chimneys belching smoke.
What a contrast to the beautiful scenery we’d passed through so recently.