I stumbled upon this piece of writing recently. I thought it had been lost forever. It was penned in 2014 for a project across social media, Twitter in particular, called A Day in the Life – Mental Health. It was because of writing this, and how therapeutic I found it, that I went on to launch this blog in early 2015. My friend suggested I use it as a comparison, see how far I’ve come. My health is infinitely improved, that’s fairly obvious. But I think my writing now is better too. More consistent, more reader friendly. It wasn’t a comfortable read, but I’ve made a lot of progress, of which I’m proud. Enjoy isn’t the right word. But celebrate with me.

A day in the Life MH 7th November 2014.

“It is nearly 1am,” said the voice on the end of the line, “Perhaps you should try and get some sleep.” I sighed. I promised the out of hours nurse that I would get changed for bed, make a milky drink and try to sleep. I felt calmer than before the call, and suddenly very tired. I pulled the duvet up and turned out the light. I slept for a while, visited by puzzling dreams, but by 4am I was awake again. My head was spinning in the darkness, with peculiar images, line-drawn and monochrome, like ’70’s album covers. The familiar voice, the source of the damning thoughts, taunted me with name-calling and how I should self-harm, how I should kill myself, how no one would miss me, no one would notice. I fought to bring my mind to order, but the images, the voice and random emotions all jostled for position. I tried relaxation. I tried distraction. I put on calming music. Nothing. After an hour of trying to get back to sleep, I picked up the phone again. Same person. It’s such a relief to hear the nurse on the line is compassionate, and not dismissive, hurried, or dare I say it, just too busy to really care. He talked me through a deep muscle relaxation exercise, and to my surprise, it helped. Next, mental exercises for distraction, and a plan. At this point I did make a cup of tea, and at 7am, just as the world was waking, I went back to bed.

I awoke again at lunchtime. I lay cocooned in my duvet, unwilling to move. Evidence of my distress the night before was everywhere, a knife, packs of pills, a huge glass of wine (untouched) and some new cuts on my forearms. That overwhelming rush of the dawning of another day hit me, the realisation that although I had been talked out of the disastrous, I felt no joy, no relief. I wished in that moment I had taken the pills and drunk the wine. 

I forced myself to move. Ashamed that I had slept in my clothes, I ran a bath. I also called the Community Mental Health Team to speak to my care coordinator. Out on a visit….can I take a message?…..I’ll get him to call you…..blah blah. Same old same old. I ignored the sinking feeling and plodded on with bath, tooth cleaning, dressing, eating and taking my meds. 

A friend sent me a text to see how I was doing. I told her I was waiting to hear from my nurse. It is heartening that someone cares and takes time to check in with me. I felt guilty and decided against telling her I planned to head out shortly for the top of the multi-storey car park with the intention of ending my life. 

The day was as cold and grey as my mood. As I stared blankly across the town, the sun briefly came out through the rain. Although the stunning full arc of the rainbow caused me to marvel, my mood remained unchanged. People below were going about their business, and I wondered at what point I became so detached from everything around me. Startled suddenly by the ringtone of a phone, it takes tangible seconds to realise the ringing phone is mine. Hesitantly I answer. The familiar Yorkshire accent of my CPN. I can’t process what he says and the traffic below makes it difficult to hear. Yet I feel reassured by his voice. As I tune in to his words, I curse him silently for knowing me so well. He knows the only important people in my life are my son and my dad. He reminds me what my death would do to them and I begin to waver. He assures me he can arrange for me to see a different psychiatrist, as the relationship with mine has broken down. He reminds me I have an appointment with my GP early next week, and that I should seek his help in the meantime.

As the call ends, I suddenly become aware of how cold I am. I stare a while longer, then glance at my watch. If I go now I can still get to my choir rehearsal. Singing is one of the few things in my life that lifts my mood. Maybe I don’t want to die today. Maybe I can trust the reassuring voice of the Yorkshireman. Maybe.

👼🏻