The Mental and Physical Toll on Farmers: Insights from the Wheatbelt
Please note: this article is also available as a podcast episode by the same name on WELLpod.
It’s Mental Health Week here in WA and I was undecided on how I was going to mark it on the podcast. I brainstormed of all the things I wanted to talk about using this platform and through searching I found my answer.
How are farmers feeling mentally and physically given the current outlook of agriculture?
There is so much going on in ag right now - the Aboriginal Cultural Heritage Laws, the banning of live export, dry weather conditions, falling sheep prices, and declining export values. On top of inflation and the cost of living that is impacting every single person in Australia. So, how is the agricultural industry feeling?
I asked a couple of farmers the exact question - how are you feeling mentally and physically given the current outlook of agriculture? Unfortunately, the answers didn’t vary too much, but I want to share them with you anyway.
You’ll probably not be surprised to know that none of them wanted me to mention their name.
Farmer #1: A third-generation sheep farmer from the Central Wheatbelt, currently farming with his two sons. We talked mostly about the upcoming Live Export ban and what the declining sheep prices meant for his farming business. He told me that he was feeling the pressure more than his sons, they hadn’t seen the industry like this before, so they didn’t know just how bad it could get.
Recently he sold 350 sheep for just $1 each, that was all he could get, he said his heart plummeted when he heard the price, and his eyes closed in disbelief. Mentally, he said some days are a struggle. Like the days when he has to consider digging a large hole and shooting some of his sheep because it’s too expensive to keep them anymore, and no one wants them. He said he’s angry. He feels angry a lot of the time. He’s angry that the government won’t do more to support the ag industry. He’s angry that he cops abuse from people who don’t understand live export. He’s angry that there may not be a farm left for him to pass on to his sons. “I’m just fed up and angry.”
Farmer #2: A farmer who kindly offered me much insight into his personal life. On the farm, it’s just him and his dog, with the occasional seasonal worker. His wife died of cancer a couple of years ago and his daughter is living her life overseas. He tells me that every now and again his brother comes to stay and help out, but he has his own business, his own family, his own life. He told me about the isolation. He has his mates in town and that he goes to the pub with, but more often than not it is just him and his faithful kelpie. He’s lonely, the loneliness eats away at him. He tells me that one day he will pass, and no one will know for days. He continues on that he has considered selling the farm, but where would he go?
He has only ever known this farm, this lifestyle, he says he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. I ask about workers, has he considered taking on someone to help around the farm? He has, and he’s tried a couple of them out, but no one seems to stick. “They never last long,” he tells me, “no one wants to work like they used to.” During seeding he had two backpackers, only found at the last minute. For harvest, he has another two lined up but told me they were “bloody hard to find”. Physically, he’s tired, he’s exhausted. But he tells me he will never back down, no matter what life throws at him.
Farmer #3: A broadacre cropping farmer from out east of the Wheatbelt, “been doing this for years” he tells me when I ask him how long he’s been farming. You can hear the smile in his voice as he tells me about the previous two years, and how good they were. “Best we’ve ever had!” he remarks. You can hear that smile fall when I ask him what the situation is looking like for this harvest. He tells me that he’s only seen about 170ml of rain this year, a far cry from the year average of 300ml and the 330ml he’d seen this time last year. “We won’t be hitting any records this year, that’s for sure.”
When I ask him how he’s doing mentally I hear him sigh, “Not many people ask that, do they?” he starts. He continues to tell me that he was diagnosed with depression a couple of years ago and that it’s been up and down ever since. They suggested medication at one point but he brushed the idea away swiftly. There was a pause when I asked him how he felt about that diagnosis at the time. “I remember crossing my arms and grumbling at the doctor. I hadn’t gone in there about my head. I’d gone in there about my bloody chest and I was coming out with a referral to a psychologist. Was he going to fix my chest?” Before I even asked the question, I had already guessed the answer, “Did you ever go to see that psychologist?” I asked. “Absa-bloody-lutely not! Do they think I have time to jump in the car and drive three hours to the city to sit and talk? The farm won’t run itself.”
Farmer #4: My final chat was with a farmer who began by thanking me for this project, he told me it was much needed and it was good to see someone stepping up and taking action, even if he was too scared to take much action himself. I asked him what he meant by that, by being “too scared to take action.” Too stuck in his ways he told me. That he has built up the persona and the belief in himself that he is unbreakable, that he is strong, that he is the family rock and there was just no way he could break that to be publicly vulnerable. I asked him how the current agricultural industry was affecting his mental health, and he laughed and called it “a bloody shit show.”
“It’s just one thing after another at the moment isn’t it?” He comments. He tells me he was quite stressed about the Aboriginal Cultural Heritage Laws for a while there, and that really took a toll on him. He tells me he won’t be fully satisfied until the laws are officially overturned, but who knows when that will be? He tells me that while the live export ban won’t directly affect his business, he’s watching all his mates suffer. “They won’t admit it out loud, but you can tell it’s taking its toll on them. What are they going to do with their sheep? They don’t want to shoot them, but they might just have to.”
“Do you and your mates talk about your mental health?” I ask him, and he laughs slightly. He admits that it takes a couple of beers at the local to get a conversation like that flowing, but after the suicide of one of their friend group, they have realised how important it is to check in with each other. “We all had our arms around each other at his funeral, we know what it feels like to lose someone who let it all get a bit too much. We don’t want that to happen again.”
After my final chat, I had the perspective of four, male farmers, they stereotype if you will, but what about the ladies, how are they feeling mentally and physically?
My real final chat, farmer number five was a local woman who kindly gave me a couple of minutes of her time to chat, knowing how important this project is. She laughed when I called her a farmer, “People usually just refer to me as the farmer's wife!” But I know how much she does on the farm, how much hard work she does, it was only right to call her a farmer. I wanted to get two sides of her story - what is it like for her as a farmer, but also as the wife of a farmer who is watching him struggle? When I told her this she replied quickly, “It’s fucking hard.”
She lives on the family farm of her husband's family, they’ve been together since they were teenagers, and have three children together. Their oldest is already doing a lot of work on the farm, she tells me that this helps alleviate some of the pressure on her and her husband, but it also means he is feeling the consequences of the season. “We haven’t been hit too hard yet, but we know that this year is not going to be as great as the past couple has been.” She tells me that her son has really only known these two great seasons, so he’s going to be hit hard by the result of this season.
“There have been a lot of late-night conversations between me and my husband.” They chat about the financials, about the forecast for the year, about the fact there is just no rain on the horizon. They talk about the future. Sometimes her husband gets angry and remarks that it’s time to throw it all in, but she knows that won’t happen. “I think we’re all just mentally and physically exhausted, the whole industry.” She starts. “It’s one thing after another. The government trying to tell us what we can and can’t do with our own land. They taking away an important industry like live export. Everything costing so fucking much money. It’s a lot for everyone I think.”
Let me leave you with this. No matter how strong you think you are, no matter how strong other people think you are, there is no shame in reaching out for help. There is no shame in taking a couple of hours away from the farm in order to talk to someone. There is no shame in the struggle. Please, if you need it, seek help before it is too late.
