Thread by @Whatleydude, So it's #WorldSuicidePreventionDay / #WSPD2019.Been going back and forth on this one [...]

So it's #WorldSuicidePreventionDay / #WSPD2019.

Been going back and forth on this one all day.

But seeing the samaritans at the station on my way home from work pushed me over the line I think.

A sign maybe.

I think I'm finally ready to talk about this.

OK. Let's go.

June 5th, 2017 I tried to take my own life.

And I'm sharing this because fuck me this shit is important.

If this saves one life, it's worth it.

If this stops one of you, it's worth it.

If this makes you DM me instead of going for a walk and never coming back, it's worth it.

So yeah. This is hard. But it's time.

A month prior, in an entirely predictable fashion, I wrecked the entire world I had built around me.

My own actions wrought pain and sorrow on those I loved most.

My actions. My choices. My fault.

Fast-forward 30 days and everything is worse.

The shame becomes unbearable (and we will come back to SHAME - because, well, we'll get there).

I look in the mirror and I don't like what I see.

The thing is, with men, we're all so BLOODY RATIONAL.

Looking in the mirror, looking at the mess staring back. The bloody pain of my actions soaked across my reflection, I came to the *entirely rational decision* that the world would be a better place if I just wasn't on it.

So bloody rational.

And at that point I had an enormous sense of calm and peace.

And this is the danger - this is the dangerous point we never talk about; sometimes men *believe* that going, just going 'away', is the right thing to do.

I knew I had to 'go'.

The kids were out. So I hugged my children's clothes to say goodbye (I'll never forget the smell of my son's coat that day). I put the bins out (!!!!) and then wandered down to Sainsbury's and bought a pocket full of pills to take on the train.

Oh, and my arm was bleeding. I did that before I left the house. Didn't hit anything major. But it was a pitiful attempt at maybe pushing things along a bit faster.

My partner, then ex-partner, called my sister who lived nearby. Something was off. This time something was different. Something about the way I said goodbye, apparently.

My sister phoned the police.

And the police found me at the station.

They sectioned me under the mental health act there and then. I can't remember the specifics. But I recall it being explained to me 'because I'd tried to do it in a public place'

Here are some things I remember:

I remember my sister arriving at the station. I was in the back of the car. My sister sat in the back with me. I recall with *complete clarity* calmly explaining to her that it was OK.

That it was alright.

That it was completely *the right thing to do* for me to go.

I remember driving around for hours while the police tried to get me in somewhere.

They tried one place, it was full.

They took me to A&E to get my arm treated, then, eventually, they took me to a mental health hospital of some description (I can't remember the name).

I remember driving into this place. Being checked in. They took my name, my age, my shoes, and my belt.

'Any history of mental illness?'

'No'

'Have you tried to do this before?'

'No'

'Huh'

'What?'

'Normally people try to do this a few times before they get to your age'

err.. ok.

They took me to my room. They told my sister to go home and they'd call her in the morning.

And there I stayed.

I didn't sleep.

I just sat there.

Thinking about the world I wanted to leave.

The world I wanted to leave behind.

The children that would be better off not knowing their dad.

Better off finding a better man that could bring them up and not be such a fuck up.

So ashamed of who I was I just wanted to erase any and all trace.

Shame. That's the killer. Shame. Not mental illness (although I'm sure it is in some cases) but *shame*.

'Shame is the distance between your actions and your beliefs' - my therapist told me once.

Hell on earth he was right (as he was in many many things).

I died that night.

The man I was. He went.

I left him in that cell.

I knew it then. I know it now. Christ knows what came out of that room but it wasn't the man that went in.

The worst thing? They had told my sister that they were going to let me out at 6am.

I didn't get processed until 10am.

My phone was dead. They didn't answer theirs.

For four hours my family and loved ones thought I was actually dead.

When I arrived home at 1030, my mum, my sister, my partner... all of them were in pieces. They thought they'd let me out on time and I'd just gone off and carried on where I left off.

Christ. Their faces. I'll never forget it.

(I've made it this far and *now* I'm crying)

There was a policeman. He stayed with me from the moment they picked me up at the station to the moment they checked me in at the mental hospital (can't think of a better name for that place so that will have to do).

Anyway,

He said to me:

'James, I'm not leaving your side. I get called out to a few of these and your the first person in 20yrs who I believe when they tell me they're going to do this thing'

'I lost him, the one before. 20yrs ago. I won't do that again'

He didn't leave my side. For easily seven hours.

I'll never know who he is.

My sister never got his name.

But he helped save my life.

So what then? What happens after that?

There was a call to my employer.

'James is not well, he's been in hospital'

I was signed off for six weeks.

Into therapy.

Sorting myself out.

OH.

Then there was the ONLY EVER SO SLIGHTLY TINY DETAIL of social services assessing me to see if I was well enough to look after my children.

That's a whole other kettle of hideous fishbags. But we got through it - and it was fine.

So then I set about rebuilding myself from scratch.

Understanding shame. Owning my shit.

Being better.

Showing up.

Just being.

(then my stepfather died, then I had to move house, then I was on a pitch, then I had a funeral and eulogy to give)

When it rains, it pours.

But all was so raw, I could only be *present*.

And slowly, so slowly, things got better.

Because things do.

They always do.

Always.

So this has taken me two and a half years to build up the courage to talk about publicly.

Why? Err. Have you seen my follower count?

#wanker

Jokes aside. I have friends, clients, colleagues - all who follow me here. Talking about this, here, means tomorrow, when I go into work, people might look at me differently.

Y'know what, I've made my peace with that.

*AND THAT'S OK* - as I like to say these days.

Someone noted recently that they'd sensed a change in me. That somehow I had developed vulnerability. And, if you subscribe to my newsletter, maybe you've detected it too. Well, this is where it has come from.

Visiting the bottom and making it back up again.

Knowing what it's like down there.

It's where stuff like this comes from: https://twitter.com/Whatleydude/status/996154936252608512

https://twitter.com/Whatleydude/status/996154936252608512

And since then, I've made it my goddamn mission to listen to men, mainly - but women too. And just say *it's OK*.

It's ok to feel shit.
It's ok to feel like you're drowning.
It's ok to feel like you're barely coping.

It's ok. I promise you it's ok.

Those that I've spoken to know the story. I tell them. I need them to know that I've been there too and that I'm living, walking proof that there's a way out.

Which leads me to another point:

Suffering with a mental health issue - be that anything from life-freezing anxiety issues to contemplating ending your life ('a long-term solution to a short-term problem' - another one from the therapist there) makes you different.

Makes you special.

IT REALLY DOES.

It's a god damn superpower.

And here's why.

*You get to look other human beings in the eye and say 'I've been where you are and it's alright, you're not alone'*

And that my friends is the most powerful gift.

THE most powerful gift.

I was absolutely and entirely blessed to have someone who did that for me.

And now, whenever and wherever possible or appropriate, I will do it for others.

(DMs open btw)

So yeah, that's my #WorldSuicidePreventionDay story.

I remember the thoughts that man had. With *such* clarity. Such clarity. But that man has gone now. And I'm left.

I hugged my children's clothes goodbye.

But now I hug my children for real. Every day.

And I am better, stronger, more on top of my shit than I have ever been in my near-40 years on this planet.

It gets better.

I swear it - take it from someone that knows.

It. Gets. Better.

Whatley out x

#WorldSuicidePreventionDay #WSPD2019 #WSPD

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