Early childhood
I had a happy, stable early childhood – I particularly remember long summer holidays with my family; my parents both being teachers, we often had six weeks off together. For three long, glorious summers we went across to see my aunt and uncle and cousins in Salinas, California.
Looking back, it was quite a long time to spend with them, but I think it was as much a holiday for them as it was for us. We drove across to Florida from California (in a large camper van – four adults and six children, ranging from two to eight!), ending up in Disney World.
School was good early on, and my brother, sister and I all seemed to have quite natural abilities at school and with sports, my brother brilliant at football and cross-country running (frustratingly better than me) and my sister gymnastics.
We all went to church with my parents, never really questioned this, and also to Boys’ Brigade (where my dad was one of the leaders) and Girls’ Brigade for my sister. I took it for granted that there was a God, and went to church each Sunday. I enjoyed the football, table tennis and tuck shop at BB.
Secondary school was a little different, with lots more people, and a few pretty rough kids. Although I got picked on a little at first, I was reasonably tall and sporty, so not the easiest target. As I began to get selected for the first sets, I found that work at school was reasonably easy if I put my mind to it. My parents were always supportive, and at home it was easy to get work done.
Looking back I used to pack in so much – football, Croydon Harriers running club, Boys’ Brigade and gymnastics – I joined the London District Boys’ Brigade team, which allowed me to travel around to competitions and performances all over the place – Liverpool, Inverness, The Royal Albert Hall, Birmingham NEC, and a “Gymnaestrada” in Berlin.
I had a relatively charmed life for a while, but then as my brother got a little older, things began to darken. I always loved my little brother, who was a cherubic kid, cheeky and very good at sports. However, we did argue and fight! Almost every game of tennis or table tennis would degenerate into an argument or fight! Underneath it all there was always love, but I suspect I didn’t always show it. Similarly with my sister, we used to argue quite a bit.
Difficulties
My brother was always rebellious, would talk back to my parents, refuse to have a bath, try to run away. I think that was just the way he was. I was always more cautious, eager to please. My brother fell in with a difficult crowd of people at secondary school, and as I was getting good grades and praise at school, my brother was gradually heading towards a path that he would be locked in to for the next 20 years. The first thing I noticed was that he was out a lot. A lot more than me! I was naturally bookish, and spent most of my time outside school (when I wasn’t out doing some form of sport) in my room, working and getting ready for exams. He would be out late in the evening, often with my parents following him and trying to bring him home. Alcohol and cannabis, skipping days of school, rapidly became harder drugs. As things got worse, I think a lot of my parents’ time was focused on my brother; they were so worried about him, and I would often hear them talking through the wall that separated their room from mine.
During this time, I just turned inwards. I worked really hard, probably too hard, not wanting to put a foot wrong. In some ways I felt that if I got good exam results and did well in school it would compensate for everything else going on. That time feels like a bit of a blur now, but I remember feeling pretty sad at times – in many ways I just missed my brother – he was my main companion during my early childhood, and it felt like I had lost him. As he got in more trouble – at school, with drugs, with the police – I just did not know what to do. I felt lost, that he was getting in more and more trouble, with people from whom I could not protect him.
When I went to church with my parents it felt like everything should be fine, we had a good family, a nice home and enough money to live with, but at home things felt like a mess. I felt a long way from God.
Things just carried on like that for several years, and my brother changed – he was angry, sullen, would not get out of bed in the mornings. He was just not the happy-go-lucky, cheeky, sporty boy that we all knew and loved so much.
By the time I did my A levels at John Ruskin College, I felt pretty isolated from my peers – I was a bit of a geek, getting very good exam results, but rarely venturing out of the library at lunchtimes. In the evenings I would just eat, watch a bit of TV and then work. One thing that did help was music, and I feel that the music of the Beatles, the Beach Boys, Blur, Oasis, Pulp, Bjork, Carol King, Tracy Chapman, Stevie Wonder, David Bowie, T Rex helped to save me – I just let it flow around and wash over me; it would always help. I often spent hours lying on my bed in the dark, just listening to music.
One other thing that helped was a group of friends near home. Our parents all met each other before we were born, and so I have known them pretty much since day one. We all went to the
same church, and also to Boys’ Brigade. We didn’t talk that much about God or religion, mostly about football and girls at school, but we had a common bond. We are still all in touch and meet up a few times a year.
They have always provided an anchor, have helped to stop me drifting out to sea.
Medical school and freedom When I first went away to university to study medicine, I was pretty nervous about being away from home. I remember my mum being led away in tears at leaving me in the halls of residence in Camden Town. However, quickly I settled in – I found that a lot of the people there had a similar outlook to me, and that ability and brains were a great leveller – it didn’t matter whether or not you had been to a private school or how much your parents earned. I started to enjoy my life again, working and playing hard in a way. I managed to keep up with my studies while getting to know a lot of new people. Behind this though, I had a gnawing sense of guilt; I knew that my parents were having a difficult time, and that my brother was “off the rails”; I just did not realise how bad things were getting. I would go along to the medical school balls, in a dinner jacket and bowtie, drinking a load of vodka and RedBull before going out, having a whale of a time, but in the background feeling guilty at enjoying myself.
As the years went on, I used to see my brother quite a bit, and it was always great when he came up to visit and stay. He is such a lovely, likeable guy, and my friends always took to him. We had a few great nights out, having a few drinks, playing pool, just the two of us. I think it reminded me of when we would muck around when we were younger, but with less competition and fighting.
Although I hadn’t been going to church regularly, my best mate – one of the group of six from home – and I would catch up and pray, particularly for my brother. He knew my brother well, for all of his life, really. We would pray most weeks, and at times it just felt pointless – nothing changed, the words just going up into the sky and disappearing into the ether. Although I didn’t realise at the time, those prayers would be answered to a degree that I did not think possible.
My grandfather was a doctor, a general practitioner, and I was amazed by his ability to hear a few details about someone, a symptom here or there, and then work out what was wrong with them. He was really the reason why I wanted to go to medical school. He was so proud, and I remember calling him as soon as I got my results at the end of medical school, which was just great.
The work was difficult at times, and I was by no means the brightest in the year, but it was – and is – so interesting learning about the human body, and then putting this into practice. When I started my clinical years in hospital, after three years of more academic work, I think I really started to shine;
I found that by learning about conditions that patients had I could put a human face to all the theoretical work I had done. It gave me a real reason to work hard, for people.
In our final year we all had the opportunity to work abroad for a couple of months, and I chose to work in a relatively small mission hospital in Manali, Himachal Pradesh, in the north of India. I was pretty nervous travelling to India alone, and I remember have a bit of a panic attack in a tiny hotel room in Dehli – I just thought, I cannot manage this, I am going to get on a plane back to England as soon as I can. I am so glad I stayed – I spent eight weeks up in the foothills of the Himalayas, working with Indian doctors in a mission hospital. Although I was not yet a fully-fledged doctor, I was able to help with clinics, seeing patients, and assisting surgeons with a number of operations, ranging from appendicetomies and incision and drainage of abscesses, to bowel resections and pinning and plating of broken bones. The degree of skill, expertise and dedication of the doctors there left me speechless. Lady Willingdon Hospital is a mission hospital, run on Christian principles, and I found myself going to the church on site. It was such a wonderful experience – I would spend the days in the operating theatre or in the clinics, and then the evenings and with some of the gap year students who were working at the school, exploring the area. I would go to sleep with my mind full of ideas of coming back to work there once I had qualified, and of all that God would do in my life.
As I was going out to Manali I was in the process of splitting up with my girlfriend of four and a bit years. Although it was sad, it was good to have some time apart, and for me to think about my life and what I wanted to do with it. We broke up finally when I got home, and she quickly got together with a work colleague we both knew. I found myself single and with a mountain of work to do to get through my final exams; my confidence evaporated, and I found myself pretty low in mood, moving between various hospitals around the country. I knew I needed to get on with revision and clinical attachments, but I found myself persistently sad. I think this was my first real taste of depression, or its predecessor. Friends and family kept me going.
Fast forward
Fast forward a couple of years and I was getting ready to fly out to Australia with my girlfriend at the time (who would, for better or for worse, become my wife, and go through a version of hell with me over the years). Exams aced, medical school done and dusted, and plans for a beautiful future.
We found an apartment two minutes’ walk from Cottesloe beach, and it was just lovely. It was the first time we had lived together, and it was nice to share our lives in such a beautiful place. We worked at the Royal Perth Hospital, 20 minutes’ drive away in a battered old Hyundai with 120 000 miles on the clock.
We spent a lot of time on the beach, meeting new people, learning to surf, going out for dinner. The work was a challenge, but staffing levels in Australia were much better than in the UK. We also travelled south to Margaret River, where there were lots of vineyards and beautiful beaches. On one trip I was a little stressed, as it had been a busy day, and my girlfriend came to pick me up as we were driving down to stay in Margaret River, to go SCUBA diving off Busselton jetty. As I sat in the car, I thought – something is not right. I could not put my finger on it, I just didn’t feel quite right – I was anxious about work, worrying about the patients I had seen that day. I could not put my finger on it, but the joyful feelings of falling in love and being abroad in a beautiful county, were dulled. I began to feel like I was just no good, not as a doctor or boyfriend or son or brother.
This was the beginning of a relentless downwards spiral that would lead to me sitting on the edge of a train platform, seconds from jumping in front of a train. It caught me off guard – everything was going so well – how could I be depressed in a sun-soaked place with a beautiful girl and a job of which I could only have dreamed sitting in the classrooms of my secondary school in Croydon? I just could not understand or accept that this was happening to me. I maintained a persona of hard- working, fun, enthusiastic young doctor, while feeling pretty dead inside; as I felt worse, the feelings of worthlessness and hopelessness turned to thoughts of and plans for suicide. I felt that I could not tell my girlfriend about how I was feeling, I just kept things hidden, feeling steadily worse and worse until the only option seemed to be to take my own life. I started to look for help, and I went along to a church just down the road, and met a thoroughly Australian minister, who quickly recognized how I was feeling, and sat and prayed with me on a number of occasions. He was so calm and non-judgemental, and he reassured me that although I did not think so, that things would get better.
I went to see one of the Consultants at the hospital and broke down – I think he saw that I was so low, devoid of hope and exhausted. He arranged for me to see a local GP, who diagnosed me with endogenous depression, started me on medication and pointed me in the right direction. It was such a difficult thing explaining to my girlfriend that I was profoundly depressed, and that it was nothing to do with her. Harder still was making the decision to fly back home to England, to recover. I thought that it would be the end of our relationship.
Before I left Perth we travelled up the west coast of Australia, to Broome and Exmouth. These were pretty remote, beautiful and unspoilt areas, and as I was beginning to recover we had a good time on the beautiful, peaceful beaches and diving along parts of the Ningaloo coral reef that felt as though we were the first to lay eyes on it. When I got on the plane to go back to the UK, I felt at an all time low, really. I was leaving my lovely girlfriend and my job in Australia to return to an uncertain future back at home. I remember sitting on the flight, listening to Greenday’s Boulevard of Broken Dreams, and feeling sorry for myself. I had a 36-hour stop off in Auckland on the way home, and at that time I felt that it would be best if I just got off the plane and disappeared. On the way off the plane a voice behind me called out, “James…”
At this time, the last thing I wanted to see was anyone I knew. When I turned around I saw John, a guy who had been on one of our dive boats in Exmouth. We had been joking together on the boat, as I had given him a pointer about how his breathing regulator fit together, when he asked how many dives I had done; when I answered about twenty (thinking that was quite a few really) he said that this was his 500 th dive! In a good humored way. He and his wife Janet were returning home to Auckland after a couple of months in Australia. They were coming back with a lady who was starting work as a teacher in the school they ran. They were going to drop their things back at their house and then show her around the city. Did I want to join them? They also asked if I wanted to stay at their house until my flight went the following day. Part of me thought, Just go to a hotel and disappear, but part of me was tremendously grateful.
Given how I was feeling, it was lovely to travel around Auckland, and feel welcomed and loved. We went back to their house and had dinner overlooking the harbour. They were so kind; I do not know if they recognized quite how bad I was feeling, but meeting them coming off the plane just felt like God putting them there just for me at that place and time. I do not think they realise how grateful I am to them for their kindness.
Being off work, back at home living with my parents, I felt that I had fallen a long way from the cheerful, bright medical student of a couple of years before. My mood hit rock bottom, and I just did not know what to do, who to turn to. I had times when I would just sit with my parents, in tears with my head on one of their laps, while they prayed for me.
I gradually got back to work, and when my girlfriend came back from Australia she was just great – supportive, loving and reassured me that life could get back to where we wanted it to be. I also felt a profound need for God – I found myself praying a lot, just for healing and to survive. I also joined an Alpha course running in Selsdon, which was just perfect for me at that time; I had forgotten God really, and the course and people on it brought Him back into my life. In time, the low mood and feelings of worthlessness lifted, and I got back to work as a doctor – it felt really good to get back to doing what I love, and in some ways my experience gave me a new empathy for patients who were often struck down by illnesses they neither wanted nor understood.
As I continued with my life I settled back into work and home life, and really enjoyed just spending times with friends and family, appreciating all of the things that make life so good.
At work I managed the clinical parts of my job well, and I think set a good example for junior colleagues. One of the nice things about medicine is that you work very closely with colleagues (nurses, therapists, other doctors), and form close bonds with member of the team. I made some friendships during my time working in Bournemouth and Poole and Southampton that will last a lifetime. We would often go out one night in the week, to a bar or club, and all get together, drinking and dancing and just enjoying life. I have found over the years that I am prone to drinking too much – sometimes almost self-destructively, getting such positive feedback from drinking, that I would just keep on until whatever time in the morning. However, knowing that my girlfriend was at home and also that I had patients to look after the next day, did always get me home.
One thing I did notice at work was that I was troubled at times by people’s attitudes towards patients with issues with drugs and alcohol. At this time my brother was still going through a very rocky time with alcohol and drugs, and when I saw him at home I was often shocked by his appearance – thin, dark semi-circles under his eyes, agitated, restless. When I saw patients who looked similar to this – after drug overdoses or suicide attempts or alcohol withdrawal seizures – I felt a rush of sadness, but also love for them; it just made me think of my brother. I remember a couple of times having to leave the ward round, going to sit in a bathroom stall, and just sit crying with my head in my hands, thinking of my brother.
Sometimes people’s attitudes towards patients who have addictions (alcohol, drugs) can be very dismissive when they end up in hospital, for whatever reason. This does make me sad and angry, and when I meet people who have come in with drug overdoses or complications of alcohol abuse, I just see friends and family who have been affected by this. I usually try to take time for these people, to speak to them about their lives and what happened to them when they were younger, what experiences have informed their lives. I often feel a rush of love for these people, as so frequently their lives have been full of sadness, bereavement, abuse, pain and anguish. A comment that was made by an expert in addiction has always stuck with me, that most people who drink or take drugs to excess “do not do it to make themselves feel really good, they do it to feel less bad”, that it often comes from a sad, lonely place.
The quote doesn’t exactly fit with this, but always makes me think – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: “If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each person’s life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.”
A fresh start
As I have said, I feel like I have had a pretty charmed life, and for a number of years it was relatively plain sailing.
I have always enjoyed the intellectual challenge of work, and as I became more senior, I found working out what was going on with more complex patients satisfying and emotionally rewarding. I still found it difficult dealing with patients with drug and alcohol abuse, but often I just felt a real empathy with them.
As time went on, my girlfriend and I decided to get married, and both we and our families were overjoyed. My wife’s parents had become like an extra mother and father to me, and our wedding day was just a brilliant, love-filled, fun-packed meetings of all our family and friends.
We settled into family life, and pretty soon afterwards my wife fell pregnant with our son. When he arrived, I was just amazed at this tiny little person that God gave to us. It is such a strange feeling, but as soon as he was born I just felt this profound love for him, that I would just do anything for him and my wife.
With the lack of sleep and a busy job, my mood dipped again, and the familiar feelings of worthlessness surrounded me. I felt that I was not a good father or husband, and not a good doctor, despite plenty of evidence to the contrary. I worried a lot about my family, about my brother. I also had a lot of guilt and negative thoughts about religion, I felt guilty that I had not gone to church regularly, that God would judge me for this, and that was the reason I was so depressed. The feelings were not as bad as when I was out in Australia, and with time and medication, they began to improve. I also started having sessions with a psychologist, which were tremendously helpful. Using cognitive behavioural therapy and counselling, the psychologist and I talked about things that I had not spoken about to anyone, and some I think my mind had just blocked out. With all of the chaos at home, I wanted to try to keep my parents happy, get good results at school, keep out of trouble. I think I just kept my head down, worked perhaps too hard, trying to get everything as close to perfect as possible. I would spend most evenings on my school work, taking breaks to go for a run or work out. I think part of me just switched off – I was never that keen on socialising outside school, kept myself to myself.
As the depression lifted, I felt like nothing bad could happen to me again – I had learned too much from my experiences, and I threw myself back into life and work. Towards the end of my training I decided to take a job in a relatively small district general hospital, where I felt at home – it was easy to get to know people and felt right. It was good to come to the end of a pretty long and at times grueling training program, a hopeful, bright future ahead.
Starting work as a Consultant was more difficult than I had thought, requiring good clinical skills, but also abilities in dealing with difficult colleagues – skills I did not always feel that I had. As time went on, I did develop as a clinician, and in time was asked to take on more senior roles in the hospital. I have never been very good at saying No, and over time my roles and responsibilities grew. I found myself lead for various things, including a service providing aspects of inpatient care in people’s homes. This Hospital at Home service grew and developed, and took up more of my time. I found that working with different teams, seeing patients both at home and in the hospital, was rewarding and good fun really.
Our daughter arrived a few months after starting at the new hospital, and it felt like our family was complete. I felt so lucky to be in the position I found myself at that time, secure in my job and family.
Downwards
Over time, my job became more and more pressured – I often felt that every minute at work was filled with seeing patients – in the hospital and in their homes – administrative work, and meetings. At times I felt like when jobs were being distributed, we were all stood in a line, and then when it came for volunteers, everyone took a big step back and I was left stood there!
I began to feel like I was not really doing a good job, that I was rushing around too much trying to keep everyone happy – my family at home, my parents, the managers and executive team at work, the patients and their relatives. However, I did not feel able to stop, to say that I was struggling; I felt that I had to keep going, taking on more responsibility, getting to the end of each day feeling that I had not achieved what I needed to, that I was not good enough.
I also felt guilty – that I was not dedicating enough time to my family; that I had not done enough to help my brother (when he was going through his worst time I was off at university, “drowning myself in pleasure” – Matt Haig, Reasons to Stay Alive); not spending enough time with the patients and their relatives; not providing enough support to colleagues. Underneath it all, I also felt terribly guilty about my faith – I had not gone to church regularly for quite a number of years – I tended to go more often when I was depressed, leaving this behind as soon as I began to feel better. . Similarly with prayer – when there were clouds in the sky and the rain was pouring, I would pray regularly, but once the sun came out, I would be elsewhere.
Although I had struggled with depression before, the changes were insidious; I began to feel more pessimistic about life and the future, that I was not a good father or husband, that I was not doing a good job at work, and that my colleagues did not like or respect me. I would wake up at three or four in the morning, worrying about work, about how I was going to get through the day; I would drift back off into a fitful sleep, but wake again feeling pretty terrible. Mornings tended to be the worst.
Despite starting to feel this way, I kept my feelings well hidden; I got up in the morning, got the kids to school or nursery, continued to put on my usual cheerful front at work, being careful to try to keep people happy. I felt that if I worked harder, these feelings would pass.
Over the next six months, there was a relentless decline in my mood, I felt like I just did not care about life, that my wife and children would be much better off without me around. I was deeply pessimistic about the future; I just could not see a good outcome of my life. It is quite incredible the effect of depression, the negative thoughts and loss of noradrenaline and serotonin from the brain – in so many ways my life was so good – I have a lovely, loving wife, two healthy children who were and are great fun, a good, consistent job, and a supportive family. And yet I felt that the only way was down, that things would get worse and worse, until I would inevitably take my own life.
I would leave the house, and be convinced that the police would be there to arrest me, for what I did not know. I just felt that everything was going to collapse around me. Eventually I realized that I could not continue to function at work, and that I would have to take some time off. I went to see my GP with my wife, was signed off from work, and started on an antidepressant.
The next few weeks were a blur – my parents came down to help support us, but I just remember a feeling of profound hopelessness, like all was lost and never to be retrieved. I woke early in the mornings, and just felt like I was staring into the abyss.
Not being at work, the feeling of letting down my colleagues and patients, and also my family, led me into a downwards spiral that I was absolutely powerless to resist. The negative thoughts, of worthlessness, hopelessness, and suicide pressed down on me, harder each day.
One day we had been to a friend’s for lunch, and I was just beside myself – I could not see reality, it just felt like everything was heading towards disaster, that I had to end my life, there was no other option. My wife called my best friend, and he prayed with me on the phone, and then said to do what my wife asked, and we went to the emergency department (where I had spent many long hours on the other side of the stethoscope). It all felt unreal, but I knew that my risk of killing myself at home was much too high, so I agreed to be admitted to a local psychiatric unit.
The process of being admitted, someone taking my history, examining me, taking blood tests, was so surreal – I am very used to doing this for other people, but to be on the other side felt very unnatural. I was reluctant to talk about all of my thoughts, particularly the thoughts of self-harm and suicide, because they felt so painful and so irrational. I fell into a fitful sleep, absolutely terrified of other patients getting into my room.
Waking up the next morning, for a few seconds I felt OK; I looked around, and it dawned on me where I was and what had happened. One of the mental health support workers (who in time would be a great support, and become a good friend) had to help me up out of bed, and then pour my cereal for me – my brain was not just working, and it felt like my head was weighed down with lead, pulling it towards the floor.
From there, I just felt worse and worse, my mood spiralling down. I remember my wife coming in to see me, pretty upset herself, and not being able to do anything other than lie with my head in her lap, reading me Danny Champion of the World (even in the worst of times, Roald Dahl has always been a great source of joy). My wife has been through an awful lot with me over the years, but sitting with me there then, I knew that she would always be on my side, for which I was and am tremendously grateful.
As things worsened, I was barely eating and drinking, hardly able to speak, so the psychiatrist and team looking after me decided that the only option was electroconvulsive treatment, requiring a short anaesthetic and then electrical treatment to induce seizures or fits, with the aim on acutely boosting levels of the chemicals in my brain that maintain mood. For a period of time, I had one-to- one care, where one of the support workers was with me 24 hours a day, for my own safety. One of the last things I remember was just lying on the bed, with the NHS sheets and blankets underneath me, saying the Lord’s Prayer over and over again; I could not really do anything else.
I remember the drive from the psychiatric unit to the ECT centre, being simultaneously terrified and also not really caring what happened to me, wishing that I would die under the anaesthetic. The team were so kind and reassuring, and two of the anaesthetists my wife knew well from working in Poole – I had been out for dinner with them before. One of the psychiatry registrars who was wielding the electrodes I had taught as a medical student in Southampton.
I had twelve sessions over six weeks, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Slowly but surely, the treatment worked. One day I noticed that rather than dragging myself out of the pre-procedure room and being helped onto table, I walked through and hopped up myself!
After about two months in hospital, the team felt that I was ready to leave hospital. I felt as though someone had opened me up, removed all of my organs, closed me back up and then said, Good, get on with your life.
Although I was much, much better than I had been two months ago, I was not prepared for how hard it was going to be, signed off work, at home mostly on my own during the day. I felt terribly guilty that I was not able to go back to work, that my wife was working partly to support us. Although when asked I would talk about plans to get back to work, deep down I knew that I was no way near ready to return. My mood dipped further – the effects of the ECT wearing off – and I had to return to hospital.
At first I just felt dejected, like a complete failure. However, the staff who knew me were tremendously kind and positive, and I took up running again with one of the healthcare support
workers. Going running with one of the team did give me a purpose, and I will never forget their kindness, empathy and compassion. I think I learned what people wanted to hear (I’m feeling a bit better each day. I know I’ve got a long way to go, but I’m going in the right direction. I’m not having thoughts of killing myself anymore.) I just wanted to go back home, to be with my wife and children, and get on with my life. I persuaded them to let me go home after about a month, although I think my wife was reluctant as she (quite rightly) recognised that I was far from OK. I tried and tried – I engaged with family life as much as I could, I went running and to the gym, I started going to a church nearby, I started the process of returning to work (meeting up with colleagues to look at how this would work. Underneath all of this, I felt absolutely terrified of life, of managing at home, of going back to work – I still felt that everything was going to collapse around me.
As I got closer to a time when I would go back to work, I tried harder and harder to convince myself and others that I was ready. I seemed to be unable to be open and honest about how I was really feeling. I think as a child I had got used to hiding my real feelings and pretending that everything was OK at home. I still find myself doing just the same now, over thirty years later.
One morning, after saying goodbye to my wife (who looked at me slightly suspiciously, and asked, Are you OK?) and dropping the children off at school, I went upstairs and wrote a letter to my wife, to say that I was so sorry for all of the pain and difficulty I had caused, and that the only option I could see was to end my life, that I loved them so much but just could not go on. I remember just crying out to God to make these feelings stop, but meeting a deafening silence.
The day ended with me standing on top of a cliff, tears in my eyes, calling out to God for an answer. I just could not continue with this degree of mental pain. I was stood on a grassy outcrop at the top of the cliff, looking over the edge and preparing myself to jump. All I could think of was my wife and children, how I would miss them, but that they would really be better off without me. I do not know what stopped me, but I found myself pacing along the coastal path, a few metres to one side a sheer drop down to the rocks and beach below.
When my phone rang, my initial reaction was just not to answer it (did I even really need it now?). However, when I saw it was my wife, I felt a sense of relief. She was clearly worried, and then I remembered the note. I felt absolutely terrible. She spoke to me so gently, explained that she and the children loved me very much, to come down from the cliff and wait for her there. I could barely look at her, I felt so bad. I just broke down in tears and fell into her. Although reluctant to go, I knew that going back to hospital was going to be the only safe thing for me. My best friend came down a few days later, and we went for a long walk up to an old Iron Age fort nearby. We sat down on the grass, looking out over our town, and he prayed for me, firstly to keep me alive, and also for true healing.
Third time lucky
Going back into hospital, although I felt pretty hopeless, I was struck by the kindness and positivity of the psychiatry team, the nurses, healthcare support workers and doctors – it felt to me like a huge failure on my part, ending up back in hospital; however, one of the HCSWs (who had helped me so much, had gone running with me on countless occasions) explained that this was all part of the journey. Although it felt like I had failed, actually this was just part of the process – they needed to try to get me home, but it does not always work. This may be my last admission, but it was OK if it was not.
“Everything will be OK in the end. If it’s not OK, it’s not the end.”
John Lennon
I decided to be brutally honest about how I was feeling, and really the suicidal thoughts were almost unbearable. I just could not explain why I felt this way, and I remember saying to the staff that I felt I had enough insight into what was going on to realise that I did not have insight into my situation.
Whereas before, I was desperately trying to work out what people wanted to hear from me, now I just said exactly what I was thinking. It helped just to be honest, to explain the way I was feeling and thinking. The team on the ward were incredibly kind and patient, and would often just sit and listen. The other patients were a great support too; often people are really worried about people with mental health difficulties, particularly those within psychiatric hospitals – and there were some who could be aggressive or violent – but most people I met in hospital, who had their own issues, were generally kind, talkative and quite good fun. I keep in touch with a few people who I met in hospital, and plan to maintain those friendships.
Things were still pretty up and down, and the negative and suicidal thoughts never really left (I remember once taking a sleeping tablet, and in the ten or fifteen minutes while the drug was working but hadn’t got me to sleep, I was without the suicidal thoughts, and I thought, This is just lovely!).
Over time, things did improve, and I made it back home just before Christmas. I was worried about managing at home, particularly when my wife was at work and the kids at school. I had a few friends from work who had come to visit me regularly during my time in hospital. This had been so helpful in keeping me in touch with work, and helping in the gradual process of returning home and to work.
Although I still felt like I would not see the new year, I did begin to feel a little brighter. A change in medication from the psychiatrists made a huge difference.
As I began to rebuild trust and my relationship with my wife and children, there were small snatches of time where I felt that things could work out. Progress.
Walking back into the hospital for the first time since I was admitted through the emergency department was tremendously difficult for me – I was so anxious about what people would think of me, that I was a freak for having been in a psychiatric hospital for such a long period of time. I was sweating profusely, my heart rate well above 100, eyes darting around. I felt like this most times I went into the hospital over the next couple of months, but it gradually got better. My colleagues were tremendously kind and supportive, and helped me every step of the way.
Going into hospital that first day, and every other day, I had the following verse running through my mind:
“The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?”
Psalm 27:1
It has helped me so much over the last few years and is permanently etched on my mind.
My return to work coincided pretty much with the beginning of the Covid-19 pandemic – I started back in February 2020, and the first lockdown began in March of that year. Although it was a difficult time, both because of the emergence of a new, previously unknown infection and also because I had been away from work for almost a year, there was a feeling of a common goal and camaraderie among NHS staff, which helped me tremendously.
Three things that have helped me hugely during this time are: the love and support of my family; praying regularly, both alone and also with my brother and best friend; I also began to see a psychologist after coming home from hospital – initially I think she was quite shocked at what I had been through, but over time (meeting once a week) we explored what had happened, my childhood, and my responses to and coping mechanisms for what had happened. Looking at some of the patterns of behaviour – trying to work harder and harder when things are not going well, trying to keep everyone else happy, blaming myself for all manner of different things, feeling guilty about enjoying myself – has helped me to address them fully.
During all of this time, although I have railed against God, cried out for the reason why all of this has happened, I recognise that God has always been here with me, listening, guiding, loving me all along.
On New Year’s eve last year, after videocalling with my mum and dad and brother and sister, I was singing along to Prince’s Purple Rain with my daughter on her karaoke machine, and I thought, I am pretty lucky to be here; life and God are good.
“Strength is born in the deep silence of suffering; not amid joy.”
– Felicia Hemans