Life and Death

For the last couple of weeks, I've been thinking about the plight of a young man. He is the most delightful person you will ever meet, but he has a cloud hanging over him. Every cloud is different, yet I feel like I cannot reach this person's troubled mind until I tell him my story. My horrible, horrible story. This is not going to be easy reading for anyone that cares about me.

With World Suicide Prevention Day having just passed on 10th September, I suppose now is as good a time as any to show that one man can rise from rock bottom. This is my story.

.....

I won't publish this until I'm stone cold sober, although at the time of typing, I am absolutely demolished. The amount of Jack Daniels I have had tonight goes beyond the realms of possibility. I am amazed I made it back from that random house party in Flitwick at all. Yet, part of me is reflective, and incredibly so. And this is why I am about to open up entirely. When I say "entirely", I mean... Completely. 100%. This terrifies me beyond belief...  However, I must do this to prove that things get better.

On December 31st 2012, I went to a house party. It was New Years Eve, and I was in unbelievably high spirits. Sure, I'd had a tough Christmas period, in which stages of my depression had almost become too much, but come this day, New Years Eve, I was certain it was all behind me. At 4pm on New Years Eve, I spent about an hour searching the web for a new cricket bat, simply because I felt like I deserved a present for getting through the toughest of Christmas periods. The start of a new year equals the start of a new state of mind, and I was certain this would be the case. New year, new cricket bat. I set out on this night - New Years Eve night - firm in my belief that everything was fine. I spent my night at a house party and everything was going great. Ok, I was pleasantly drunk after a touch of Jack Daniels, but certainly no more than I had had on nights out in the past. This was a place I was used to being in on a normal weekend, until something changed in my head. A random woman, who's name I cannot remember, had a go at me for not being ambitious enough and a switch in my brain had gone from "happy" to "the worst place ever".

That place... I cannot describe with the English language. Even leaving this party, saying I was walking home to save a few pennies, I was convinced I was OK. This woman's words had not affected me, and I knew it was simply the alcohol talking. The alcohol had said those words, and it was the alcohol making me think like I was. I was completely convinced I would be absolutely fine, but there was no clue as to what would happen next...

I was halfway down the road, Tyne Crescent. I could feel that I was stumbling slightly, but not sick or on the verge of chucking my guts up. I was nowhere near terribly drunk. I would make it home and then go to sleep, without waking up my parents. Everything would be fine in the morning.

I used to come home after a night out, at the age of 18 or 19, completely ruined and being sick all over the show, because I wanted to forget about being gay. I used alcohol as a get out clause - so much so, that I was verging on having a serious problem with it. I was sure I could vomit out my homosexuality. It sounds like nonsense now, but that was the way I thought. It was a regular occurrence when I was 18. I was that scared of my sexuality that I would go on nights out, not caring about the state I would get in. I say this with genuine feeling... I'd go on nights out with the mind set that if I killed myself through alcohol poisoning, it wouldn't be the worst result. At least I wouldn't have to feel like "this" anymore. At least I wouldn't have to go through those stages of absolute torture. Those stages of absolute dread of people's reactions to my sexuality, or of complete rejection.

Anyway. New Years Eve. I had made it halfway down Tyne Crescent, relatively okay but stumbling. There was no danger of me not making it home, until I just stopped. Halfway down the road, I simply came to a stand still. I was frozen. I could not walk another step. I must admit, things are a bit of a haze at this point. I remember ringing an ambulance, and this is the statement I told the operator:

"I'm drunk. I cannot go on any further. I fear I am about to kill myself. I am in the middle of Tyne Crescent, and I need major, major help. Please come and help me".

And I hung up. With that, I threw my BlackBerry against the brick wall in front of me. Upon seeing that it hadn't broken completely, I threw it against the wall again. And again. And once more. The case had been destroyed, but the SIM card was still intact. I took the SIM card out and snapped it in half, before throwing the phone over the wall and out of sight. At a later date, I told everyone I had simply lost it. This was a lie. I destroyed it because I wanted to be alone. I had destroyed it because I was apoplectically angry that I had reached this point, yet again, even if it wasn't entirely my fault.  I had rang the ambulance as I feared I was about to kill myself, but deep down, I didn't want to die.

I was sprawled on the floor. On the cold, hard concrete, I simply lay there crying my eyes out in the middle of the road. One chap walked past me, without paying any attention to me, and this confirmed my belief that I was a goner. I was dead. I firmly believed there was no way back. At this point, I would have given anything to be swallowed up by the devil himself. Even if I somehow survived this, I was convinced I would spend the rest of my life under supervision or classed as insane. I saw blue flashing lights approaching, but this hardly mattered. My life was over. Dead or alive, it barely mattered. I was unresponsive to the paramedics as they tried to coax information out of me. The only info they acquired was that my name was Tom. I was silent. I wasn't moving. I was a dead man.

As we got to the hospital, I was placed in a wheelchair. This seemed inappropriate as I was not disabled, but then I wondered if I was already dead, so maybe I deserved to be placed on top of wheels. I was taken into the hospital, and taken into the waiting room. Upon walking in, I saw someone I recognised from my school days, and wailed. I was adamant I didn't want anyone to see me in this state. With this news, I was placed inside a cubicle instead, with a plastic cup of water, and I sat in there for about half an hour. Except after half an hour of nothing, I got frustrated. I was on the edge of sanity, the edge of reason and the edge of life itself, yet no one cared for me. No one was there for me whatsoever. Apparently, no one gave a damn...

I walked out. I literally planned an escape route, and eventually walked out the fire exit and out through someone's back garden next to the hospital. And I walked.

I walked, and walked, and walked... Almost round in circles...

By this time, the alcohol had worn off, and I was acting on pure sadness. It was roughly 4am, January 1st 2013. The promising start to the new year had evaporated and had been replaced by the demon. The blackness of life. Nothing was changing. I was faced with a lifetime of this cloud hanging over me, a lifetime of darkness and isolation. By this time, I had already been dead for a few hours. I genuinely thought I wouldn't see my family again, or any of my friends. This was it.

I made my way to The Barley Mow, the local LGBT bar, to see if I could talk to my friend, as a last ditch effort to see if anyone cared. It was closed. Confirmation to me at the time, that no one gave the slightest fuck. Sure, it was nearly 4.30am at this point, of course it was closed. But the mind had reached a stage of no return, so naturally, I thought the worst.

"He doesn't care either. Just like everyone else".

The multi-storey car park was just round the corner. The same car park I had been in just a week before as my Dad had parked there for a long stint of Christmas shopping. I jumped the barrier, and walked towards the top floor. This was it. I was whooping with joy, completely delighted at the fact that this nightmare was about to end. Upon reaching the top floor of the multi-storey, I looked up at the stars and imagined myself up there, in heaven, with my Grandparents, disconnected from the struggles of everyday life. I was completely void of human life or interaction. Completely free from judgement or decision. I was about to die. Who cares?

I walked towards the corner of the car park. The view of Bedford town, the town I had spent my whole life in, was spread across the landscape. I could see the hills of the surrounding countryside, and the tower blocks in the distance. The pylons that provided power to thousands of homes nearby and the owls hooting as daybreak drew ever nearer. None of this mattered. This was the moment I had dreamt of, before the alarm clock of the morning of reality wailed. This was it.

I was there for ever. Stood on the edge of literal life and death. The promised land seemed so near, yet so far away. The practical fear of jumping was the only thing stopping me from doing just that.

And as I looked down, I realised. The shit load of emergency services had gathered below. The policemen, the paramedics and the fire engines, all of them.

They all cared. They all cared for the plight of this one young man.

Stood on the rooftops....

"It's fucking scary up here isn't it."

I turned round to see a hi-visibility jacket with a head on top. It was a copper, who was sat on the edge of the railings.

"Why would you want to come up here, on a night like this?"

I cannot remember what I replied, although I remember saying something. I cannot remember a lot about that conversation in all honesty, but roughly 3 hours later I was being guided back down the staircase to the bottom of the multi-storey car park, and into the back of a police car. At that point, I felt terrible guilt, amongst terrible regret and sadness. I still thought my life was over. I was going to be put in a straight-jacket and sedated. My life was never going to be the same...

Sure, I spent a couple of nights in Weller Wing at Bedford Hospital, with the stereotypical types you hear of mental hospitals, amongst the screams and the wails. Those nights were the worst of my life, barring the story I've just told you. 1st January to 3rd January was horrific. I told my boss, most friends, and others that my drink had been spiked and I had been hospitalised because of that. These were lies. Merely cover ups for this story that I was so scared of telling. There is no other way to describe what depression can do.

Yes, there are still down moments, and challenges and times where I think, "Oh no, here we go again", but once you appreciate what you have and appreciate the people who love you, (of which there are many!), the world is a much better place. At the moment, if you're in this same place, you think no understands your plight, but rest assured, they do.

I do.

The sooner you know this, the sooner you can make things better. I was LITERALLY one step away from death. And I'm here, doing okay for myself. There is no reason at all why you can't do the same.

No reason whatsoever.