December 4th 2023. My wake up call.

Trigger Warning : Self harm and suicidal Ideation.

It’s just past 1pm on an overcast, blustery Monday in February as I sit here, still in my fluffy green and white checkered dressing gown, in bed, suddenly filled with the (often fleeting) courage to write again. I know very well from multiple Mental Health interventions/books/meditations and therapists that this fear has a source. I know very well that, in reality, I have very little to be afraid of; what are the real-world worst-case scenarios of, even in an objectively small and anonymous way, verbalising my truth/raising my head above the parapet again?

The not-so-helpful hyper protective voice in my head tells me to be quiet. That no good can come from making myself in any way vulnerable again, to bare my softness, wounds, trauma to another living soul (especially on the internet). And I get it. In fact, little voice, I’d like to publicly thank you for trying to look after me. We’ve been through a lot, you and me.  But you need to calm down, I got this.

The only way I know to overcome fear is to face it. The only way I know to quieten those voices in my head/soothe the churning of my stomach and tightness in my throat is to dig deep, find my voice and honour it. Something those voices, when so very loud, cripple and gag.

I won’t allow myself to be my live-in bully. A victim-turned-abuser. That is what anxiety, depression and PTSD  has become; a perhaps well meaning guest, hugs on the doorstep, closes the door of the threshold behind them, draws the curtains, cuts the phoneline. Isolation creeps in. They become your only company. A Stockholm syndrome of sorts takes hold; familiar fear fills every waking moment but the seedling idea of breaking free is even more terrifying, “unrealistic”, “I will always be here, you can’t be you without me.”

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Since December 4^th 2023, the fight against the worst of my thoughts has been reignited. I hadn’t dared to write of it until now, for fear that if I looked at it too long, tried to hold onto the moment too tightly, the historically fleeting nature of momentum for positive change would vanish, that I would be left with the bare bones of what the darkest voices in the shadows of my mind would simply see as a failed suicide attempt.

For context, in the run up to 4/12/23, the following had happened:

• The accident  on 2/11/22. I was still in long term recovery with a physio, clinical psychiatrist, hydrotherapy etc. My civil case against the driver (who ran a red light and hit me on a pedestrian crossing) was and is still ongoing.
• The company that I setup a month before the accident had moved into strike off and I could not function or process the grief.
• The police messed up the investigation against the driver who hit me and lied to me about having no witnesses, (there were at least seven, two of who gave their contact details and were never contacted). They closed my case, and she was not prosecuted.
• My treatment for PMDD (Prostap and add back HRT) had become much less efficient. Symptoms started to come back in waves of crippling depression, paranoia, insomnia, anxiety, feverish crying, migraines and suicidal thoughts.
• Two days before, on the Saturday, I had built up enough courage to attend the wedding of two of my dear friends. I managed to stay for the ceremony, but whilst sitting at the table at the reception, a long, painful panic attack overwhelmed any commitment I had to the here-and-now. I left.

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December 4th 2023

On Monday 4^th December, I was still exhausted and a little self-deprecating after deserting my friends’ wedding two days earlier. Though my body and mind felt heavy and numb (I usually feel this way for some time after a panic attack), I had managed to pull myself out of bed and make a cup of coffee. My cute- as -heck cockapoo greeted me in the kitchen, with the familiar not-completely-awake-yet waddle and nuzzling of his head into my bare legs. I bend down, one hand on the kitchen counter for balance, and stroke his soft, caramel brown face. Melted chocolate eyes that seem to look directly into your soul and say, “I love you, spend all of your time with me. Also… treats?”

I check the mail, expecting the usual litany of correspondence ranging from impersonal junk and yet another fast-food leaflet to appointment reminders, PIP tribunal updates or bills.

The source of two envelopes do not immediately reveal their source; I know by now from the familiar font, logo and dimensions which letters originate from, for example, the NHS, DWP or Severn Trent. I sit at the desk in the front room, coffee placed on a slate, vape in hand. Inhale. Release. Open envelope one.

As I scan the first page of a bundle, the dissociation of the last two days following the panic attack cracks. From emotional flatlining to through-the-roof cortisol.

I am being sued.

The second bundle is the same, the only difference is the claimant.

Two people are suing me.

My throat tightens. Stomach cramps. I taste bile in my mouth.

As my eyes dart from one component of the page to another, I realise it has been some time since I exhaled. I put the bundle down. Breathe. Breathe. I can’t breathe through my nose well enough since the accident, so the air comes to me through my open mouth, cold and harsh.

My throat tightens. Stomach cramps. I taste bile in my mouth.

As my eyes dart from one component of the page to another, I realise it has been some time since I exhaled. I put the bundle down. Breathe. Breathe. I can’t breathe through my nose well enough since the accident, so the air comes to me through my open mouth, cold and harsh.

The more air enters my body, the tighter my chest becomes, pain in my forehead, throat closing up. The tears come. I sit for some time, eyes closed, trying to find my breath amidst the sobs.

Eventually, I am calm enough to process what is happening. Or, atleast, what the document says, and my PTSD and anxiety do the rest.

The two claimants were freelance hires of my company, the company going through strike off. I’d tried everything to make it right, but they were still owed a portion of their wages. I’d offered mediation. I’d sent over all of the evidence to prove there was no wrongdoing; just (not in these words) a clusterfuck of circumstances including a venue fucking us over, an investor needing to pull out and my health being so bad that I couldn’t go on as Company Director, and therefore get more funding. I’d offered the only thing I could as a gesture of good faith; payment of wages from me personally when my civil case is settled. There was nothing else I could do. Like most Company directors in the first year, I hadn’t taken a wage, had put my own money into the company and now, as a result of the accident and PMDD, I was on benefits and unable to earn. I just wanted to do right by them but, yes, to make it go away. I couldn’t cope anymore.

They refused everything I had offered. Made threats against my career and reputation. Accused me of lying and misleading them. Driven by (understandable) anger, they could not see the truth.

And now they were suing me personally, not the company.

I think most neurotypical people, without PMDD, PTSD or Depression would struggle emotionally with that situation. It’s hard to describe how I reacted. I don’t remember much from the following hours, except sitting on my bed and “knowing” that if I moved, I wasn’t safe.

I messaged a mental health text service. They rang me. By the end of the conversation, they had called an ambulance.

My friend arrived home around 6pm and came to sit with me. He held my hand tightly, maintained eye contact and helped me to breathe in between hysterically, full body sobbing.

The vilest, mind-bending thing with PMDD, PTSD, Depression and anxiety is that they feed of each other, strengthen each other, reinforce the intrusive statements of the other, turn up the volume, make it near impossible to touch reality. So, when the thought that I needed to die entered my mind, it was via a megaphone, on repeat, drowning out whatever self I felt I had left.

The paramedics arrived and eventually, after a few hours, persuaded me to accompany them to A and E. I told my friend he could stand down, as it was late evening now and he would be leaving for work early. He hovered in the hallway, not knowing what to do. “Seriously, mate. Stand down. I’ll call my mom. She can meet me there. I’m safe.”

I remember talking to one of paramedics about Hamilton. I remember feeling both old (as all of them were in their 20’s) and simultaneously child-like; I just needed to feel safe. The paradox made me feel so confused; I’d tutored and mentored people their age. Yet here I was, suicidal and vulnerable, in their hands. I felt that I’d failed as an adult. There was no wisdom I could pass on or legacy, I imagined a train at the end of the line. Lights off, unclean, litter strewn about, tattered chairs and broken toilet. Graffiti and shattered windows. Nothing but a tired, empty vessel. High speed, shiny vessels arriving and departing a whizzing by on every side, paying no mind to the static relic stationed, hollow, at a deserted platform.

My mother met me in the Accident and Emergency assessment area. Visibly upset. How strange it still seemed that my instinct was still to mask my own feelings and comfort her. Role reversal, as per. That sounds cold, doesn’t it?

I love my mother. We have built a semi- normal bond in the last ten years or so. With time has come more acceptance; of who she is and her capacity. I had realised some years ago (through one of many therapists), that I can hold both love and pain at the same time. That I can see more objectively her character and limitations, but still be hurt and angry that she was never the mother that me or my sister needed. Still, she came to A & E without hesitation, knowing we would be there all night.

I had bought a book with me, The Bleeding Tree by Hollie Starling. Although I hadn’t started reading it yet, it would later reveal itself to be a most poignant choice. At the time, I had picked it up, paramedics waiting downstairs, thinking, “I’ll distract my mind, If I get bored, I’m in trouble.” At the same time, an intrusive thought : that was a stupid choice, don’t get too invested. You wont be around long enough to finish it.

Anyway, I ended up giving the book to Mum to read after about an hour of Eye Spy.

Every few hours I would be called into a different room for assessment or consultation. Each new room would have a waiting area. In the waiting area before I finally got to see a consultant ( I lost track of at what point that was, but I know I roughly got there at 11pm and didn’t leave until 9:30am). Two armed police officers stood at the door, I couldn’t work out if they were waiting for a specific patient but as the night rolled on with a myriad of drunk and disorderlys, I felt an iota safer with them there.

Accident and Emergency in the UK at nighttime (though any time, really) is a no man’s land. A surreal, disorientating experience made bearable by the occasional cup of tea or smiling nurse.

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The woman in the depths

The waiting area. Opposite to me, a woman in a dressing gown and pyjamas, of perhaps a similar age to me has pulled two chairs together to make a makeshift bed. She mostly faces away from me, towards the adjacent wall, foetal position. A UV drip is attached to her wrist above her hospital wristband. I look at my own, read my own name, number. I am conscious of the thought/fear that if I touch the wristband in anyway, my wrist will be slit. Deep breath. Dismiss. Dismiss. Dismiss. I am safe. I am safe.

The pyjamaed woman turns over restlessly to face me, though her eyes do not meet mine I can see they are bloodshot, surrounded by layers of tear-run mascara which seems to have been smudged desperately to every area of her face. They stare at the floor with a simultaneously lost yet searching eyes, the kind of stare you’d expect when looking into a body of water; it’s depths and secrets unknown.

My intrusive thought is starting to quieten, and I wrap my palm and fingers around the wristband and squeeze gently, proving to my shattered nervous system that I not only still inhabit this body, but that it is safe.

I look at the wrists of the pyjamaed woman.

Angry red lines. Black stiches.

Our eyes meet. Both filling with tears. For a fleeting moment before she starts to stand and, bringing her IV drip stand with her, starts to leave the waiting room. I hear her in the hallway, slurring, swearing, where is the fucking doctor? She wants fucking *insert name of medication*. She can’t have that because of what happened earlier this evening. Fucks sake. Where’s the toilet? Fucks sake. The last words broken with sobs.

The waiting room goes quiet again, save the snoring of two dishevelled looking men, each sprawled across the comfy chairs… bastards.

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I can breathe.

I stare at the floor, the same floor she had been lost in. Eyes wide. Tears streaming silently down my cheeks. I see the dark waters she sees. Depths and secrets unknown. I see it. I feel it. Terrified.

As if the waters had been suddenly disrupted by some storm, some seismic event, a wave of freezing water seems to crash down on me. I am under the surface. Sinking. No, pulled under. A moment of piercing clarity strikes me, a kind of animalesque survival instinct rising from the pit of my stomach. Swim. Kick. Try. Try. This is not how I am going to end.

A deep inhale of what was previously stale, anxiety-sick oxygen fills my lungs. It feels fresher now. I can breathe.

As I eventually follow a practitioner from the Psychiatry team to a (let’s face it, utterly depressing consulting room with damaged walls and old, cracked yellow paint), and again when I wait outside in the rain in the mid-morning for an uber home with my mum… the only thought in my mind is that : I will keep breathing.