I'm not really sure how to write this. I feel I've made a commitment to be honest about what I'm going through. The risk is this will either sound melodramatic - attention seeking - or will send family and friends into a tailspin because they don't know what to do for the best. I've talked this over with my counsellor and rather than making me feel like a drama queen, he made me feel proud of how I dealt with it. Proud. Didn't think I'd be saying that yet.
I encourage you to read this like my other posts. A candid account that sometimes makes for uncomfortable reading. A moment in my life that doesn't wholly define me - it's simply something I've gone through, very occasionally. A rare event that happened and was incredibly scary when it did.
I've touched upon suicide a few times. It's something I've given serious consideration to. Almost gone through with. Once in 2005. Once in 2006. Once in 2007. And once in 2015.
I've lived for 16,312 days. Many of these have been joyful. An unreasonable proportion have been thoroughly wretched. Only 4 have left me so low I didn't feel I could go on. Until this month.
Indulge me for a minute as I digress.
Unless you’ve been in a media free zone you’ll have seen plenty of coverage this week about plans to invest more money in mental health services. Bea asked me yesterday, “Is that what you have Mummy?” If I've ever doubted whether it was the right thing to do - share my experience - moments like this convince me it was. She may not understand the nuances but at least she can see that being depressed is a condition. It's not as simple as feeling unhappy. I’m frequently happy, just sometimes it’s under the weight of Padfoot and his overwhelming, dog-loyal attentiveness.
I’m fully supportive of an increase in mental health funding. No surprise there. Since starting on this journey I’ve spoken with many people who have struggled to access the support they need. Medication? Here you go. Talking therapies? Maybe. If we really have to, and you really push for it, you can have 8 counselling sessions. Or could you attend group therapy?
Eight may well be an adequate number for some people. They might have talked through all of their issues and found the coping mechanism(s) they need to manage these day to day before they've used the resources allocated to them. I was pessimistic about beginning counselling and only began when I knew there was an option to carry on privately after I'd finished the NHS block.
I landed on my feet when I was assigned Jeff; I've said it before but he’s a gem. Medication alone was never going to be the correct treatment for me. Thirty+ years of living with this illness has left me damaged. I've benefited hugely from talking through the profound effects of depression but last month I attended my last NHS funded session. If you asked Jeff he'd say I've made some significant progress. I’m beginning to accept the things in my life that I can’t change. Learning to view those days when I don’t move from the sofa not as wasted time, rather part of my recovery. Plus on the days I do leave the house and head to London I’m increasingly more productive as a result. I’m not over analysing everything I say or do (well not as much anyway) and generally things are heading in the right direction. However I definitely don't feel ready to stop my counselling. It would be like reading the first few chapters of a book that you can’t put down and then discovering the author isn’t releasing the rest of it. What happens next? How does it end? Will there be a sequel or will it sit in solitude, revelling in its completeness?
There is a point to this. What I'm trying to say is that up until last week I had considered ending my own life four times. Last Thursday it became five. Clearly I didn’t go through with it. For a number of reasons, the crucial one being that now I want to live. Much more than I want to die. So much more.
I’d travelled to London for a regular meeting with a client after dropping Bea off at school. I was feeling neither high or low; a bit tired but pretty even keeled. Which is why it was a surprise when out of nowhere Padfoot arrived. Jumping on my back as I stood on the escalator heading down to the Victoria line. For the first time since I started counselling I felt the magnetic pull. That's how it feels, like I'm being uncontrollably pulled towards something. This time the edge of the platform. I could hear the words clearly in my head ‘you could jump now and it would all be over’. Not without significant effort I forced myself to walk behind the people already on the platform, well away from the yellow line. I looked at the floor. I concentrated on taking one step at a time. Each step heavy, deliberate and frightening. ‘You can’t jump. Imagine the driver and what it will do to them. Imagine the other people on the platform. It’s selfish. It might be all over for you but what if it sets someone else on this path?’ Slowly, steadily I placed one foot in front of the other until I was on the train heading for Oxford Circus. I was physically shaken. Practically in tears. I gripped the rail on the escalator as I left the tube station because I was terrified I'd be compelled to head back down and it would start all over again.
On the street I wanted to call someone. But who? My parents? They'd freak. Ditto for my sisters. Will is a teacher. Not fair on him or his students. My Aunty? She'd listen but I was starting to feel a bit stupid. Jeff? Natural choice but not guaranteed that he'd be available. I found the number for the Samaritans but before I could call them I realised I'd reached the office.
It took me a couple of hours before I started to feel calm again. I was glad that I was seeing Jeff the next day. It would be my first session as a private patient.
We talked about how I'd taken control. Yes it was scary but I'd managed the situation. The situation hadn't managed me. We agreed that I should call the Samaritans* if it happens again. Even if all they do is keep me company until my head's in a better place. That first session I paid for was money well spent. Just about paid for. Honestly I forgot to pay him. He politely chatted to me as I walked to the lift before I suddenly remembered. 'I wasn't worried,' he said 'I would have just left a comment on your blog.' You can see why I like him.
Not everyone is fortunate enough to be able to afford to pay for counselling. This is just one of the reasons more money must be invested in mental health. The support I've been given is invaluable. It has quite literally saved my life.
*The Samaritans can be contacted on 116 123. More information is available here.
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