MY MENTAL HEALTH, AN INTRODUCTION.
Almost a decade ago I lay dying in the bathtub at my house in London. It was January the 4th, not very original, early January is notorious for depression, suicide attempts and couples breaking up.
I had drunk half a bottle of Patron Tequila, taken about 50 milligrams of Valium and slashed my wrists up the vein with a razor blade. When my best friend couldn’t get hold of me she called the Paramedics and Police at the same time. I couldn’t tell you who arrived first or who dragged me from the crimson bath. My friend told me later she’d been informed I was a minute from death.
I spent three days in the Psychiatric unit at Roehampton Hospital London. Whilst they had been sewing up my wrists at the Chelsea and Westminster hospital a nice kindly mental health nurse had asked me if I would like to go home with the girlfriend who’d come out in the middle of the night to hold my hand, or go to what she said would be a ‘nice place to relax and get well’, which I won’t lie in my unhinged mind sounded a little like a lovely Spa.
At about 7am on the Friday 4th I arrived at what was to be my hellish and sometimes hellishly hilarious home until Monday morning. The first thing I discovered was that I could not leave, not because I was sectioned but because of a cunning little method they employ to keep you there until they think you are mentally fit to leave. So, it goes like this; I was there voluntarily, I was not sectioned, but if I tried to leave before they said I was fit to go, guess what? they would section me. Clever huh?
I looked around at the other inmates with trepidation, my first thought being; ‘how the hell am I going to stay sane in the middle of this crazy warzone’. Depression, suicidal thoughts were immediately replaced by horror and fear, think ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest’, on steroids. It was the most insane scene I’d ever witnessed, some people were calm gently rocking in a corner, others were definitely not calm, not calm at all.
There were all sorts of people there, from every walk of life and age. It was a like a zoo, a Kafkaesque type of zoo. Immediately obvious were those that we actively acting out; picking up chairs and throwing them at the nurse’s station, shouting abuse at staff, snarling as you walked by them. Probably in reality not any threat to me but still it was something I had never witnessed before and played out like a hideous nightmare. I couldn’t believe where I ended up, seriously this was nothing like any Spa I’d ever been to before!
I can’t tell you how quickly I sobered up from the Tequila and Valium, I knew straight away I needed to get my shit together or I’d be in there for a while. I was informed immediately that I couldn’t be released until I’d seen a psychiatrist and that since it was Friday there wouldn’t be anyone in until Monday, my heart sank, but at least I knew if I could somehow get through the weekend I might be able to convince them to let me out on the Monday, fingers crossed.
I had no phone, no laptop, no iPad. One of my friends had felt I should not be allowed any tech which whilst good intention wise was not helpful. I felt alone, scared and worried about everything. I couldn’t stop thinking about what might happen to my daughter now that my ex-husband would obviously find out what I had done, would he take sole custody? Then there was everyone else, what would people think? would everyone despise me? hate me? think I was weak and pathetic? My mind raced trying to piece together my actions and work out what my life would look like now I had done this dreadful shameful thing. I found myself almost writhing in emotional and mental agony.
That night, the first night, a very large mute woman, about 20 stone plus attempted to get into bed with me naked. This happened to me several times each night. Why she was so enamoured with me remains a mystery as I myself was a ghost woman, withdrawn, haunted and utterly broken.
On Saturday afternoon a group of about 5 friends came to visit me. We were led to a room where the wall behind me was made entirely of safety glass, the sofa I was sitting on against it and my friends seated on another sofa in front of me. As I was explaining to them that it would all be okay and that I would get professional help they suddenly all let out a collective gasp of horror and passed rather shocked and horrified looks between each other.
I later found out the aforementioned mute 20 stone plus naked woman had been running up and down the corridors when for some reason she launched herself at the safety glass behind me jumping up as she did so, landing just above my head then sliding down like a large, bloated bug on a windshield.
In retrospect this is pretty hilarious in a very dark and disturbing way but at the time just left my poor friends utterly traumatised and me baffled as to why they had looked so absolutely confused and terrified when I was pouring out my heart to them telling them I would get the help I needed.
I was released on Monday after being clinically assessed and diagnosed with a good old fashioned ‘nervous breakdown’ caused by the onset of the Menopause and my relationship ending. My partner had left me and my daughter, packing his bags and going to stay with friends of mine on December the 19t. I was unable to cope with this at the onset of the Menopause and along with a couple of other heart breaking incidents had meant I had got to the end of my rope and truly believed everyone, including my daughter was better off without me.
I believe everyone has their breaking point, this was simply mine. The psychiatrist told me I was suffering from ‘Reactionary Depression’ and that I needed to rest and look after myself, have some therapy, go on Antidepressants and change my life. I went home by taxi returning to an empty house with the razor blade I had used left thoughtfully on the sink next to the bath, a detail that still baffles me today.
The recovery from this was brutal, I wasn’t allowed to see my very young daughter on my own for two weeks, I was assessed every day by the mental health team and had regular visits from psychiatric nurses and doctors. I have to say the NHS were great and agreed with the diagnosis but most of the time I was on my own, in the house where I had so nearly died.
I was offered CBT and a recommended course of Antidepressants. I chose neither of these deciding at the time that I would ‘white knuckle’ my recovery and ‘stare into the abyss’, the vocabulary I used to explain myself. In retrospect and now that I work as a therapist myself I have to admit this wasn’t the quickest or most sensible route to recovery, however my thought process was I wanted to try and work out why the end of a relationship would break me so much, why I fell into such a well of despair, why I had unravelled so spectacularly and to understand this to a point where I could make sure it didn’t happen again.
I can honestly say the 6 months after my suicide attempt were the worst, worse even than the dreadful heartache I’d suffered and my hormones running wild. Some friends judged me one person in particular told several others that I’d tried to kill myself many many times meaning I frequently had to show people my wrists. Some friends were very angry and upset and it was the worst snow and winter for years. I had no car, no money and a house that I had loved for years about to be repossessed as well as sole care of an infant.
It was a complete nightmare, beyond bleak, I don’t think a day passed for 6 months where I wasn’t curled up at some point on the floor in the foetal position groaning like an animal trapped in a cage. I rocked from time to time and used to wander around muttering the mantra I had made up in an attempt to stay sane ‘it’ll be alright, it’ll be alright, it’ll be alright’.
Thank god I had a few great girlfriends, funnily enough all single mothers too, who spent the time and energy talking to me on a daily basis. I can honestly say one girlfriend in particular kept me more or less sane speaking to me every morning at 7.30am listening with patience, love and empathy to what must have been insane ramblings. These women got me through this whilst working and bringing up children on their own too.
After a battle in court with my mortgage company who had wanted to repossess my house I somehow managed to sell it pack up and move to Gloucestershire, not with much money left over from the sale but enough to rent myself a little cottage. Mostly being able to do this was due to the support of my single mother friends. In essence though, I pretty much moved on my own setting up a new house and life for my daughter, golden retriever and myself.
As I crawled out of the emotional wreckage of my life I began to take stock of what had happened. Selling my beloved house in London had been terribly upsetting but I had enough money left to enrol my daughter in a local private school and bank roll us for a year before I would have to find work again. During this time though, to make extra cash I did all sorts of interesting and creative things from sous chef’ing in an on-location catering truck to attempting to do telephone sex chat lines, something I was truly awful at. Just about surviving financially from a small bit of leftover money and menial work I also began the slow process of healing myself, going on long walks with my dog, speaking to dear close girlfriends, mediating, doing yoga and slowly beginning to understand the dreadful depression that had nearly killed me.
At the end of my first year in Gloucestershire I found myself considering what I would do next. There was no doubt in my now calmer mind that I had been completely mad and whilst relieved I hadn’t been sectioned suspected that I probably should have been and also quite possibly shouldn’t have been in charge of such a young child. I was lucky I guess, a couple of really great friends and a desire to do better for my daughter literally saved me.
I knew one day I would have to tell her exactly what had happened, what I had done. This is that day. The day I publish this she will have read and heard this account for the first time. I hope she agrees and understands that I’ve worked hard to change the narrative and be a mother she can be proud of. It’s a bit scary telling her, I know that I’ve changed my life beyond recognition and she is almost 16, but there is still some shame associated with this experience and whilst we are much more understanding these days about mental health, especially after the Pandemic, it’s still a hard thing to tell your only child.
So how did I get here and where is here? Well, I decided in that first year that I wanted something good to come out of my suicide attempt, that I wanted to help other people who had suffered from extreme depression and wanted to end their lives. I also knew I wanted to work in addiction, substance abuse and with people who had spent their lives unhappy or struggling. I also wanted to be a positive role model for my daughter, so I went back to university.
I spent a year doing an introductory course in Counselling at Gloucestershire University, two years doing a Foundation Degree in Therapeutic Counselling and a further year doing a BA top up in Therapeutic Counselling at Warwickshire college submitting a 10,000 word thesis and gaining a second class honours degree. I have also gone on to do a Post Graduate Level 7 Advanced Diploma in Couples Counselling and am hoping to do a doctorate next year.
I’ve had two successful practices since qualifying, one in Harley Street London and one in the Cotswolds, I have also volunteered and trained with two treatment centres; SWADS/IPSUM and CGL/Turning Point, the RNIB, Action for blind people and an outreach hub of Barnardo’s.
