Tricky Waters

Despite some wonderful sea kayaking in recent days and enjoying all the gloriousness wild nature has to offer, I find myself navigating tricky waters again. My mood is consistently fluctuating, where the dips are beginning to appear more frequently and are a little more deeper each time. I’m working really hard to ward off an enduring episode of depression by insisting I keep active, I do things which give me pleasure and I attempt to keep my thinking to mindful awareness and the reality this eschews. To say I am fragile at the moment is an admission of weakness which I do not like at all. I want to be seen as strong and healthy, not the whining, self-absorbed individual I view myself at the moment.

Fighting depression is determined hard work. It can be exhausting and right now, today and over recent days, I feel exhausted. Settled night time sleep for me is fractured and hard to come by at the moment. I’m very tired, but the moment I lay my head on the pillow, my mind is awash with a plethora of unwelcome, unbidden and self-depreciating thoughts, images and beliefs. When I’m worn out as I feel I am at the moment, suicidal thinking is very much an aspect of my reality.

In deciding to write this blog entry, I was thinking of my suicidal ideation and how this manifests itself in my life. Rather than rehash another description, it’s best if I point you towards a previous blog post I wrote a few years ago about this subject - here.

While the general points of that piece remain consistently applicable, the major change is the fact I have since then made a serious and almost successful attempt to complete my suicide. In short, my suicidal thinking has moved from a conceptual, albeit serious process, to one where I know in reality I have it within me to take the actual step to end my life. I now know I hold no fear of the moment of death or the manner of how I will die. I know exactly what it means to welcome the approach of death and the huge sense of release this embodies for me. With this one change since writing that entry, I understand I have to now pay particular attention to the levels of my suicidal ideation because of the seriousness of me enacting it if believe the need for me to die to be true. It makes openly voicing my thinking all the more important because this leads to the support which helps me regain a sense of balance and recover.

This is what I’m doing here by writing and posting this. I’m giving voice to the terrible thoughts which envelope my rationality at any given moment and time.

Death has been largely present in my mind for a few months and considering my death has become once more, increasingly prevalent. I wish this were not the case because the reality is, I have SO much happening in my life which is happy and good, and what is more, I have so much to look forward to as well. I feel pathetically self-indulgent in admitting this and this is the complex nub of the issue. It’s a never ending process of vacillation between the awareness of the happily real possibilities life holds for me, and the deep despair I hold about myself as a person and the tragedy of the world I inhabit.

There is no singular reason I should think of my suicide at the moment. There are many issues which are important to me and which affect me deeply. However, a couple of ‘triggers’ have reignited the current importance I’m placing on considering my suicide. The dreadful war in Ukraine continues to trigger my suicidal thinking every day. I don’t think I’m alone in feeling the tragedy of this needless war and being deeply affected by the daily images of wonton killing and destruction. What this does is lead me into overwhelming feelings of despair for the world and humanity in general. The Ukraine war is not the only vicious war being fought where cruelty is central to the brutality. There are many populations and communities around the globe who are facing inhuman degradation. And there is more. I find myself thinking of our existential battle with human consumption which is outstripping the natural resources of the planet to sustain us. All the while, collectively as a species, we are destroying the habitats and threatening life for all non-human species. The destruction occurring in Ukraine is emblematic of what is meted out to many of Nature’s inhabitants around the world, through the wanton destruction of habitats, industrial over fishing and so much more. This violence against Nature fills me with a deep sense of hopelessness and exhausts me.

Another recent trigger is the death at the weekend of our darling wee feral cat, Misty. She was hit by a car on the road behind our house. She died instantly and without suffering. I knew this before she died, and losing her has only heightened this awareness, I loved her deeply and truly cared for her very much. She came into our lives by chance and in the short couple of years she was with us, she contributed so much joy and happiness to our household. I will miss her characterful presence terribly. However, it is not her loss which is the trigger for me, it’s randomness of her death and the immediacy of it. One moment she was a carefree little cat with a lot of love and in a split second because of a speeding car, she is no longer here. Stroking her small body before burying her in the garden, I couldn’t help but feel envy that she had died so suddenly. I found myself envying her death and the eternal peace this brought. I now find myself wishing for the same and this is an alluring attraction which is difficult to shake.

All I have described above is what is occurring beneath my surface. These are my internal experiences and the outdoor rejuvenated personality I present, often belies the tumultuous thinking I struggle with. Behind the happy photos and films I share of the joy I experience of being alive in nature is a hidden turmoil. I’m determined not to allow this to overwhelm me again and this is why I write about it now. I am facing this head on and by giving voice to my experience of suicidal turmoil, I am at least being pragmatic, honest and real. It is helpfully therapeutic for me to write and share. I’m not asking for intervention in any shape or form. Instead, I write to tell the world I am fighting my fight and this is happening even if this is not evident in how I present myself.

As always, I will bring this to a close by clearly stating I am safe. I have no plans to complete my suicide and I do not think I’m in danger of acting on my ideations on a whim. I’m working hard to live well and make the most of the life I’m so fortunate to enjoy. My recovery from deep depression is an ever ongoing process.

If what I have shared here has impacted you, please seek support in the best way you know how and please take the steps to look out for yourself.

As always, thank you for reading my writing.

Optimal

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This morning, as I write this, I’m feeling a strong sense of accomplishment. For fifteen consecutive days my blood pressure readings have been within the ‘normal’ range. This morning I received two ‘optimal’ readings, the first when I awoke at 6am and the second on my return from walking Ziggy at 9am. I usually take my blood pressure three times a day to note the changes through the day and after exercise.

When I was admitted to the psychiatric ward in Lochgilphead in the Autumn last year, there was some consternation regarding my blood pressure readings which were regularly recorded as part of the admission process. This was when I was alerted to the fact my blood pressure was high. It was only in the run up to Christmas I began to take my blood pressure at home on a regular basis and I was shocked to learn how high it really was. I wasn’t surprised because by then I was heavily overweight and was suffering from regular severe headaches. I was also extremely unfit, finding it difficult to walk any distance uphill without having to stop and gasp for breath.

Over the Christmas and the New festivities my blood pressure began to regularly record at the top end of the range on our sphygmomanometer, which created some concern for my wife who instructed me to make an appointment with the GP as soon as the holidays were over.

True to form I resisted her requests and instead vowed to attend to the issue myself. I think it was in this moment I realised how important it was for me to regain control of my life. For much of 2021 I had been held in the grip of a severe bout of my depression and as I began to emerge from this before Christmas, I was sensing the realistic opportunities for my mental wellness. During my depression through the latter half of the year, I had neglected my overall health and well being. I lost all interest in my passion for sea kayaking and active enjoyment in the outdoors. My diet was allowed to deteriorate into regular binges of comfort food, namely supermarket pizzas, burgers, curry take away and other such meals. It seemed too much effort to chop and prepare vegetables to enjoy more wholesome meals.

My sense of self loathing was accentuated by the speedy spreading of my girth. My clothes no longer fitted me and when I looked at my body I was filled with self-disgust. I realised too I was drinking heavily in the evenings, so much so, I was putting away a bottle of malt whisky every week. I hated myself for my descent into seemingly bottomless apathy and the total disregard for my health. To be honest, because of the suicidal ideation I was experiencing at the time, I cared little if I were to die from heart failure and I’m sure I sometimes relished the possibility of this occurring.

Then, with the advent of the New Year and the fact I was seeing the end of my bout of depression, I made only one resolution for the year ahead. To lose weight. By the seventh of January my festive bottles of whisky were finally empty and my resolve was set. The following morning I set off into the mid winter gloom and driving rain for what has become my daily hour long walk which takes in a final steep ascent back to the house. Needless to say, I found myself regularly stopping to catch my breath during that first fast walk but this only strengthened the realisation I had to regain my health.

I went cold turkey; no more coffee, no whisky or any alcohol, no snacks, no salt, no sugar and no processed meals at all. Such was my determination I actually enjoyed a perverse pleasure in denying the cravings I began to experience. I remember thinking at the time how I perversely enjoyed the agonising rigours of a long hard day at sea in my kayak, when I will have battled against the wind and tide to reach a far off destination. During such experiences a huge part of me would be crying out to give in but there was always a more determined and stronger part which drove me forwards. The same was now true in my quest to lose weight.

The first ten days of my abstinence showed great results and my weight slid off me at a rewarding rate. Then this slowed to some days with no weight loss and a few times even a gain. It would have been easy in these moments to dramatically throw my hands up and succumb to a delicious breakfast roll from the corner store here in Tobermory, or phone in a mouth watering order to our local Indian restaurant. However, again it was my experiences gained on my kayaking expeditions which helped me through these potentially low moments. Out there at sea, whenever I found myself struggling and questioning my reason for undertaking a challenge, I’ve always managed to somehow picture the end goal and the reward which would come with this. Often this would be something as simple as realising only in a few hours time I would be ashore, my camp set up and I’d be enjoying a welcome mug of tea and eating a meal. This was true for these moments now when I felt challenged with not losing weight and disheartened if I gained any. I found myself forecasting with clarity the sense of wellbeing I will feel in a couple of months time when I’m at my optimal weight again. I found no difficulty in viewing the task of losing weight as akin to one of my extended sea kayaking challenges. It was all about the daily achievements which totalled together added to the eventual success.

As a result of working at losing my weight, it’s been pleasing to see my blood pressure slowly descend and with this, the reduction in headaches and the overall physical lethargy I had accepted as normal. Now my morning walks are merely forty five minutes and I march up the steep hill to the house without breaking stride or gasping deeply. My weight continues to fall away, gradually every day. I now count in days the moment when I reach the point when I’m no longer overweight for my height and age, though I have a fair distance to go to reach the weight I eventually want to reach. This though, feels to me to be a pleasing challenge to be faced with.

If all this sounds like self-indulgent back clapping, I suppose it is. I’m not averse to admitting this, because I’ve the sense it’s been far too long since I’ve experienced such a strong feeling of positive wellbeing. As with my sea kayaking exploits, it’s the moments of sitting back and reflecting on the day’s endeavours when I allow myself to bask in the satisfaction of a challenge overcome and a goal well achieved.

This is what I’m feeling this morning.

Similarly, as with my kayaking expeditions, I realise the challenges are not over, and there are many more days ahead filled with expended effort and a sense of digging deep. But knowing I have the fortitude to face this, is what gives me hope and the realistic opportunity of becoming fully well again, and keeping well.

New Boots

This blog post is dedicated to Toby Carr who died on 10th January. He and I never met but we were online friends. His courageous, adventurous and gentle spirit inspired me, and I’ll miss his presence and all he was so generous to share.

Karen gave me a pair of boots for Christmas. I think they are imbued with magic because I’ve found myself walking in them just about every day since I received them. I’ve fallen in love with walking again. I’ve walked over ninety miles in them already! They’re made by Vivobarefoot who have an innovative and ethical approach to designing and producing a wide range of footwear. I think they are the most comfortable boots I’ve ever worn.

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These boots have come to epitomise my recovery process over recent weeks. Normally at this time of year, I’m feeling blue with grim anticipation for the long pull out of winter. Instead, this year I’m feeling bubbly and buoyant which is absolutely fantastic. 2021 closed well for me and this new year holds plenty of promise. Enjoying an extended, relaxed and happy festive period with Karen certainly helped - though I think there is more at play than this. The therapy I was fortunate to receive in the Autumn and the run up to Christmas was a vital component for which I’m eternally grateful. Linked with this, the continued support I receive from my Community Psychiatric Nurse is important too.

There is within me a settled determination to overcome my depression through positive action. I’m at that point in my recovery journey, when I believe I can literally cure myself through activity and adventure. Indeed, over the last couple of weeks I’ve enjoyed active time in the outdoors just about every day. It’s almost as if my new boots are calling for me to put them on and go exploring. I’ve this sense of coherence with regard to my personal struggle with my depression. My thinking has cleared and is no longer ravaged with thoughts of low self-worth and self-disgust. The clarity I’m experiencing is like the air after it’s been freshly laundered by a heavy rain shower. The haze I’ve been experiencing has been replaced with spotless views, so sharp, they take my breath away.

With my newly acquired coherence comes the awareness, I need to be cautious - not to leap forward like a horse from its stall and rush headlong into a race against myself to be come totally well again. In my experience, this has sometimes led to a crash and a deeper depression. However, it’s difficult not to feel excited about the opportunities before me this year, and be eager to fully engage with the world. Certainly, this eagerness has motivated me well so far this year.

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Recognising a need to be realistic, I set myself only one resolution at New Year. All the rest are exciting aspirations. My resolution is to lose weight. I began this year 12kgs overweight and I’ve managed to lose 2.1kgs since I set my goal. It helps me to align losing weight with my recovery process, to accept it takes time and there’ll be challenges along the way. Again, I find myself thinking of my boots and how much I enjoy walking in them, working up a sweat, puffing my way towards a rewarding summit or a hidden waterfall I’ve wanted to find. The rewards are not simply the views but a sense of achievement and the knowledge my health is being enhanced. I’ve been suffering from pretty high blood pressure too, with it peaking rather alarmingly over Christmas. It’s pleasing to see it returning to a more normal and healthy level, particularly when I return from time out in my kayak or a long walk.

My aspirations for the year ahead are more ethereal; live with purpose, be more present, enjoy more fun, find my laughter again, revel in the wonders of Nature, and many more like those. With the spectre of my depression drifting further away from me, I find myself believing anything is possible this year. I’m feeling strong. I’m feeling creative. I’m feeling adventurous. I’m feeling impish. Who knows what opportunities I’ll encounter.

I’m inspired to live life as fully as possible. Toby Carr reiterated this for me with his sad passing and through the fullness of his well-lived life. So too have the ravages of the pandemic. Life is tenuous and not to be taken for granted. It’s so incredibly powerful for me to understand this, to know this and to embody this too, because only a few months ago, I was fighting not to end my life through my suicide. Thankfully it’s now difficult for me to reconnect with those deep levels of despair, so much so, I find it hard to imagine feeling that way again.

So here’s to 2022 and all it will offer. My warmest wishes to you and as always, thank you for your continued love and support.

Plans Afoot - Rock Climbs, Lighthouses & Islands

All of a sudden it is Autumn! The evenings are noticeably drawing in, there is chill to them too and I noticed this morning in Aros Park how the trees are changing colour. Many people tell me they love this season best of all but for me, it feels like a sad one. The long, warm summer days have come to an end and the prospect of a long dark winter ahead never fills me with eager anticipation. I have lived for well over half my life in the northern hemisphere but originating from the African tropics as I do, my blood runs thin and I am not a winter person. I love the warmth and of course the sunshine too.

This sense of sadness is heightened with an awareness I’ve missed most of the summer because of a long and lingering dose of severe depression. For two months I was laid low because of my recurring illness, incapacitated by severe low mood, dark thoughts of suicide and a general debilitating energy sapping malaise. Thankfully I seem to be on my way towards wellness again, though I have to say it seems like an achingly slow road. Despite my continuing lethargy and sometimes crippling anxiety, I’m once more looking ahead, rather than negatively inwardly.

A week ago I turned 58 and this gave me cause to consider what I wanted from my year ahead. I want to be well, that goes without saying. I want to enjoy adventures and I want to strengthen my connection to the natural world I inhabit. I have a desire too to reconnect with old friends and to meet new ones too. For too long, probably the last ten years, I’ve lived a solitude existence, far away from core friendships which are so important to me. On the other hand I have forged many genuine friendships through my social media presence, many of who I have yet to meet in person. It is my hope, I will realise many of these friendships in the months and year to come.

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My Quiet Place in My Shed With My Three Books of Inspiration, A Climbing Harness & My Treasured Map Of West Coast Scotland.

Here is my plan to make these aspirations happen. I treated myself to a book I used to love trawling through when I worked as an instructor with Outward Bound. It was a staple of all the Outward Bound staff rooms I had the pleasure of enjoying through the years. ‘Classic Rock’, a coffee table book, is a wonderful compilation of the finest easy-(ish) rock climbs in the British Isles. It’s a book from the late 1970s when rock climbing was beginning to become a popular and an easily accessible activity. I was introduced to traditional multi-pitch climbing in the Moelwyns in North Wales in 1984. From that first route, ‘Slick’, a wonderful 80 metre rambling route graded Very Difficult (VDiff), I became an avid climber. I was never accomplished, in that I climbed the harder grades but I did enjoy the long ‘big boot’ routes (as I termed them) found on the innumerable crags and mountains of Wales, the Lake District and Scotland. These are the routes which feature in the book I recently bought. None of these routes is harder than Very Severe (VS), most being graded VDiff. The grade Very Difficult is really a misnomer. It describes a route which is easy to follow, enjoys positive hand holds and foot holds, and generally provides an enjoyable stress free ascent of the mountain crag. There will be some moments when the pulse may run somewhat faster, but this will probably be because of a sense of exposure rather than any actual difficulty.

It is usual in traditional multi-pitch rock climbing to climb in pairs, with a good friend, where one person takes the lead and the other becomes the second. I won’t go into the ins and outs of the traditional multi-pitch rock climbing process suffice to say, if the route is rewardingly challenging, then the pair will leave the crag with a sense of accomplishment and a wonderful shared memory to return to.

Anyway, my plan is to climb as many of the Scottish routes described in ‘Classic Rock’ in the year to come (such as Cioch Direct on the Isle of Skye featured in the adjacent slide show, climbed with Mrs LifeAfloat). I might venture south to the Lake District to complete a few there, but the reality will be I’ll struggle to climb even half the twenty six featured Scottish routes which are widely spread around the Highlands and Islands. My intention is to use the excuse of pairing up for a rock route as a means of reconnecting with old friends and maybe meeting new ones too. I remember with fondness many of the fine shared moments in the mountains and on exposed circuitous routes with Outward Bound friends in my distant past.

When we moved onto our yacht in 2012, I gave away all my rock climbing gear which is something I hugely regret. This means I have to build my kit up from scratch which is no mean feat given the expense of rock climbing gear now. My jaw drops when I look at the prices of essential items! However, it does mean I will have brand new kit and not be using my previously questionable out of date gear, much of which I had owned since the mid-80s. I’m certainly going to have to up my game with my creativity and sell a lot of jewellery and art to afford kitting myself out again.

Karen recently bought me a wonderful book written by Donald S Murray about Scotland’s Lighthouses. I have often thought it would be a lovely project to visit as many of these structures in my sea kayak. I will have paddled past a large number of them in 2015 when I circumnavigated Scotland and the Islands. However, there are many I have yet to see and there are those I have seen but would like to visit ashore. I think it’s because of my ease with solitude and wildness which makes the thought of being a light house keeper a romantically appealing one for me. I love the thought of living a simple but structured existence somewhere on the remote and wild Scottish coastline, or island or indeed, a rocky skerry. It is the lighthouses constructed on the latter which prove the most challenging for me to reach and land on, such as Skerryvore Lighthouse perched on a jagged rocky reef, washed by heavy Atlantic swells, sixteen kilometres south west of the Isle of Tiree.

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Corsewall Point Lighthouse, Galloway

Again it would be lovely to share these kayaking lighthouse visitations with friends, sharing delight in exploring the intricacies of the Scottish coastline and camping overnight in remote and hard to reach wild locations.

This is certainly not a project I would hope to complete in my 58th year. It’s very much a long term one and probably will not be fully realised before I’m to old to paddle safely far offshore. Another long term project is visiting as many of the 900+ Scottish the islands before it’s time to hang up my kayaking paddles for good. Many of these islands are eloquently described in Haswell-Smith’s beautifully illustrated, hugely informative and well researched coffee table book, ‘The Scottish Islands’. As it is for for many mountaineers and walkers, ticking off the list of Munros, the 282 mountain peaks above 914 metres in height in Scotland, there is a compelling desire within me to visit as many of the Scottish islands as possible by kayak. If I trawled through my memories, I’m certain I’ll create a pretty long retroactive list of islands I have already landed on. I intend too, to resurrect my idea of sleeping on a different island off the Isle of Mull every month in my bivvy bag (under the stars) and this is certainly a project which will keep me entertained for the next twelve months. In resurrecting this plan, I’ll make more of an effort to raise the profile of Odyssey, the cancer charity I’m very proud to be an ambassador for.

What I have outlined above may seem overly ambitious, especially for a increasingly overweight man no longer enjoying the nimble fitness of his youth. Indeed, I am mindful of being cautious and not setting myself aspirations which will be too challenging to attain. There is the danger too of shooting out of the trap like a greyhound after a hare and ending up brought up short and winded, because I’m simply too eager to be well again. This is a familiar experience for me and the consequences for not managing this carefully can be dangerous because I might find myself tumbling backwards into another deep depression, experiencing a sense of failure and inadequacy. There is a fine line between being ambitious and over ambitious. I think I have tended to relate to the latter and generally I have got away with my chutzpah. I think for me, what I enjoy most in planning these adventures is the creation of them in my mind and wondering about their possibility and potential. I often say to folks that the advent of Google Earth has been a dangerous tool for me - it’s all to easy for me to draw a line from one place to another and say to myself, I can kayak that. I simply love reading maps, noticing intriguing spots in the landscape, checking these out on Google Earth, and then dreaming of visiting them. There is sometimes a sense of rising panic within me when I realise I probably do not have enough lifetime left to visit all the places I want to in Scotland!

I need these adventurous aspirations to work towards for the motivation they provide. It’s not enough to tell myself I will simply get out into the wilds whenever I feel like it, because now I’m living comfortably ashore again, I’ve somewhat lost the incentive to get outdoors because I feel separated from the natural realm. Now I have a warm and cosy shed to work in, it’s all too easy for me to hunker down in there day after day, losing sight of my adventurous roots and the earthy anti-depressant qualities of Nature.

It’s all too easy for me to be tough on myself with high expectations and a strong drive to achieve. However, by setting out these aspirations for my 58th year, I’m hopeful I’ll inspire myself to become active again and to make a meaningful connection to the world I live in.

My story continues.

State of Play

I’m staring down the rabbit hole of my depression and I’m scared shitless. I don’t mind admitting this. I have been in touch with my Community Mental Health Nurse and I have in place the support I need to keep me safe. Within an hour of me texting her this week, she phoned me back and we have been in regular contact since. I cannot express anymore than I have before, how much I appreciate the professional support I receive from our NHS mental health team. However, no matter how caring the folks are, at the end of the day. my keeping well is down to me. This rabbit hole is a familiar one and this time it’s a particularly dark one. I have an urge to express myself and write about what I’m experiencing. I have a sense this may help me work my way back to the bright, colourful sunlight of the summer. Thank you for taking the time to read this and to hear me out.

The warning signs were there a few weeks back. I noticed changes in my thinking and how I perceived myself and how generally my mood was slowly beginning to diminish - I was losing my spark. The contentment I had been enjoying in my life was being eroded to be replaced with increasing thoughts of self-criticism and self-dislike. “It’s a blip” I told myself. “I can expect my mood to dip from time to time.” So I decided to sit things out and wait for the beginnings of this deepening gloom to shift. After all it was early summer, the months of May and June which are my absolute favourite months of any year. It is when the fecundity of Nature and life, which abounds during these weeks inspires in me a sense of joy. Indeed, there was a long period when all my stars were in alignment. I was engaging in what I love most in life, immersing myself in wild nature and in turn I was rewarded with some truly incredible experiences which reinforced my hard won conviction that life was worth being around for - to be lived at its fullest! There was entering Fingal’s Cave in my kayak on a perfectly calm day. Sitting alone with the early summer Puffin arrivals on the island of Lunga, enjoying my human solitude and my companionship with the wild life around me. Then there were the three days of exploring the Small Isles in my kayak when I was privileged to encounter a friendly and exuberant pod of dolphins just below Ardnamurchan Lighthouse, the film footage of which went viral and propelled me into a short period of recognition from around the world. It seemed then that I was reaping the rewards of steadily speaking of my connection to Nature and how this helps my mental health. I met the dolphins again about a month later and again their obvious enjoyment in swimming alongside me in my kayak captivated nearly 200 000 people on Twitter.

In these early weeks of the summer months my life was as joyful and unencumbered with depressive thinking and feeling as I ever remember it being. I truly believed recovery from my depression was within my grasp.

Now, in the space of a few weeks this bonhomie I had been enjoying with myself has evaporated to be replaced with a self-loathing so fierce, it has taken even me aback. To explain this self-loathing a little. It’s literally looking in the bathroom mirror and hating my reflected image. Not how I look (though I do see myself as a complete shaggy disaster), but the face of a man who I dislike immensely. I’m a person who rarely takes against people, in general preferring to see the good in most, but in those rare moments when I do, my dislike is fierce and uncompromising. Right now, I am the person I most hate in the world.

No matter what positive messages I receive from those who love me and who are my friends, I only hear what I believe is unsaid - criticism of who I truly am. The man in the mirror who I hate is a fraud and this man is me. I talk of Nature being healing and yet I do not allow this to be true for myself. I’m good at talking the talk and because of this I hate the sound of my own voice. So much so I choose to speak as little as possible to prevent me hearing the words uttered from my mouth. Most of all though, I hate who I am and who I have been. I look back and see a swathe of errors of judgement, mistakes, wrongs committed on others, hurt, pain, slights, deceptive inauthenticity and general misdeeds. A recent visit to my family down in England served to reinforce many of these thoughts and beliefs, after all, I consider myself to be a total embarrassment to my family who deserved (and continue to deserve) so much more from me.

I think by now I am making my point. I dislike myself intensely.

The odd thing with all this is that there is in within me the knowledge that all the self-hatred I’m experiencing right now is untrue. It is my depression which is causing me to think like this and as I so often tell myself, this period of intense discomfort will pass. I will come through to the light again and begin to realise the good within me and my capacity to positively touch the lives of those around me. Somehow though there is a corruption of my positive synapsis’ and instead any thoughts of hope are diverted and quashed. This is where I wish I could describe this in greater clarity. There is within me a battle for supremacy, my depression over my authentic healthy self. It is not that I see myself as a ‘poor victim’ and need saving by anyone who wants to save me. Far from it, I seek the support I need and accept this is an internal battle I must fight myself. However, this can be exhausting - literally so. It takes considerable effort to remain coherent to the world around me while at the same time internally fighting feelings of alarm, fear, self-hatred and desperation. Quite literally, I ache for the time to go to bed when I can take my dose of Zopiclone and ease myself towards the relative haven of unconscious sleep. Only this respite is fleeting because I normally wake again in the early hours to a rush of disturbing thoughts.

When I started this post, I said I was scared. I am frightened of being really ill again. I do not want to be so ill I end up in hospital again and yet, I crave the release suicide would give me. I am thinking of my suicide and consider seriously the benefits my death would bring for me and those who I affect through my tumultuous way of living. I wrote a blog post in 2018 about my relationship with suicidal ideation which I think expresses with some clarity what I face with this - here. It is sufficient to say I’m fearful where my thinking about suicide is leading me at the moment. Basically, I’m so fucking tired of fighting this illness, I ache for the release my suicide will give me. Death will be so absolutely final, and while this is the reality, it is an incredibly attractive one.

However! And yes there is a however. There is within me a notion of self-preservation which is why I reached out to my CPN and asked for her support. I’m prepared to trust myself to the professional help available to me. Additionally, as much as it may seem so through what I have written so far, I have not given up and I continue to function, even to the point of continuing to make jewellery, one thing I find gives me a sense of purpose and a level of internal peace. Admittedly, I have Transglobal Underground playing loudly on repeat through my headphones to distract me from my thinking, but each day at 5pm I close my work-shed with some sense of accomplishment.

This then is the chink of hope, even if at the moment I cannot see hope or even feel it. After all my desire to do the things I normally enjoy such as walking and kayaking have completely disappeared, replaced with a self-incriminatory lethargy. One thing I know is to work within these chinks as they appear, to appreciate them and to accept every opportunity towards recovery they offer. Right now, creating wearable art is the one thing which is offering me positivity in the midst of the descending blackness within me. I notice as I write these words, there is a recognition that not all is bleak, and despite what I might believe to be true, I am not totally useless. Finding my way into making a small living from my creativity is proving to be more than I could have ever hoped for.

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This Week’s Production

So, what now? I am here and I’m not ready to give in. I hate where I am right now (within myself that is) and I am desperate for respite from this. At the moment I am safe and I make assurances to remain safe. I have more than enough cognitive resonance to understand what I am living through at the moment is pretty tough but this purely is due to my depression and will ease over time. My fear of sinking further into my depression is real and exists and this leads me into the tangled web of it all. It’s like untangling a hopeless knot of string - there just seems to be no solution or end to it all.

Please don’t be overly concerned for me. The fact I have written this and shared it so openly is an indication I am positively working to overcome this particular bout of severe low mood. Thank you for reading what I have written and please know I truly appreciate all the generously warm comments I receive here and on my various Social Media platforms.

I sincerely hope what I share is of interest and help to many.

Thank you.

A Dose Of Road Rage Exposes My Fault Lines

After eleven hours on the road, albeit a smooth enough 685km (428m) journey from the lovely Herefordshire market town of Ross-on-Wye, I indicated left and turned off the busy A82 into the short lane which led down to the Corran Ferry slipway. The queue of traffic already waiting for the short ferry crossing was almost to the top of the road and I saw I would have to pull in tightly to the rear of the car in front of me to allow other vehicles following me to join the queue. I noticed I should really make my way into the three overspill queue lanes but my access to these was blocked by the car in front, I could reach them without mounting the rough grass verge. Since the ferry had just arrived and was discharging its load, I surmised the queue would soon move forward as our vehicles were subsequently loaded.

The first vehicles off the small ferry were two huge yellow Highland Council road works vehicles, the front one of these obviously containing molten tar because of the signs to be aware of hot liquid the other loaded with grit. These two trucks pulled up to the junction with the A82 and looking in my mirrors I could see a large queue of traffic had formed because of the ferry queue spilling onto the main trunk road. This is the moment I realised it was up to me to move into the overspill queue lanes to ease this pressure but couldn’t do so without mounting the verge. Suddenly feeling indecisive I faltered and hoped the queue ahead of me would soon begin to move as cars were loaded onto the ferry. Looking in my wing mirror again I saw the driver of the first Highland Council climb out of his cab and walk with purpose towards our car. His face was thunderous and I knew with a sickening swoop in my stomach he was about to confront me.

In a matter of seconds he was on our car, thumping furiously on the roof and slapping my driver’s window, all the while screaming at me to “Move my fucking car into the overspill lane! - You fucking cunt of an idiot!” His rage was uncontrolled and for a brief second I wondered if he were about to wrench my driver’s door open and haul me out of my seat. He didn’t of course but he did move round to the bonnet of our car, continuing to thump on the bodywork and scream abuse at me.

Now, I am no wall flower and I have a temper too. In these split seconds my rage surged with indignation and with our eyes fiercely locking I flashed two fingers at him and shouted back “Fuck off you wanker!” No sooner I had expostulated these unhelpful words, Karen calmly suggested I calm myself and do as he was saying. It all happened so fast. I managed to pull our car up onto the verge and drive into the overspill lane but no other cars followed me so I stopped. As soon as I did this, this bulk of a man bore bore on our car again, his bunched fists readying themselves for more than thumping our body work. I prepared myself to get out of the car and face him, such was my anger too. I knew I wouldn’t have stood a chance in a physical confrontation but I’m not fearful of such things.

Suddenly the traffic queue began to move off smoothly and with a look of surprise (and maybe it was disappointment) the raging Highland Council roads operative turned away as I re-joined the queue. The ragefully angry situation was over and traffic was running again.

We were silent in the car, Karen thoughtfully allowing me to fume in silence as I brought myself down to a relative sense of calm. A few minutes later we spoke and both agreed that the man had been unpleasant and needn’t have been so aggressive in pointing out to us that it was our fault there was a queue of traffic forming. As is my wont, I mull experiences like these over and wonder what I could have done differently. It was obvious I should have not dithered when I saw the need for us to drive into the overspill queue lane and I ought to have forced my way through. Doing so would have set the precedent and the traffic stopping queue would not have formed and the Highland Council employee would not have become enraged, I berated myself for my indecision and concluded I had been at fault and suitably chastised myself.

The journey home continued without incident and after just missing the the ferry from Lochaline to Fishnish on Mull, we were home in Tobermory an hour later than planned. The whole journey had taken twelve hours and I was bushed.

Fast forward a day or so after this event and I find myself in an unhappy state. I’m indecisive and my thinking is overly self-critical. I have little goodwill to show myself and I ferociously berate any silly mistake I make. My general mood is low and I find myself cogitating over recent mistakes and a general sense I am simply not good enough. This self-belief of being a useless individual is pretty much a constant in my life. Recently through wonderfully successful therapeutic support I have come to understand more about this belief and its falsehoods but it is deeply ingrained and it doesn’t take much for it to dominate my sense of being.

We had spent the previous week with my parents which was a lovely family event. It was wonderful for us to spend time together after the deprivations of shared contact for over 18 months due to the pandemic and we were royally hosted as is my parents’ wont. I gave up thinking of my waistline and acceded to the offers of platefuls of good food and copious glasses of beer and whisky. The problem with me though, is I find it very difficult to see myself as being someone of worth and most certainly I believe myself to be an inadequate son who has let the family down. I won’t list my litany of perceived failures here, suffice to say, I feel dreadful much of the time when I think of the opportunities for different pathways I let slip by me and deep regret with some of the choices I instead made. I feel deep shame a lot of the time.

Now, you mustn’t imagine I live my life outwardly morose, always opining my sad lot in life. Quite the opposite. These self-critical views I hold on myself are largely masked and I successfully present myself as the cheeky chappie, devil may care, adventurous son, brother, uncle and dad that my family often see me as. Admittedly during this last week, this veneer has been fragilely thin and a few times I let my mask slip and presented myself as an easily injured individual, but on the whole, I think I kept my fragility intact and certainly out of sight.

Now I am home, I find myself fighting off a deepening bout of gloominess where I begin to hate myself and all that I do. I sense depression beginning to loom and I notice I’m thinking of suicide again. I’m certainly not at the level where I fear for my safety, but I realise my thinking is drifting in this direction. I have strategies to combat this deepening low and I have a ‘safe plan’ which I willingly refer to when I find my mood noticeably dipping. Generally a good dose of ‘Nature Cure’ is all that is required to set me back on track again. A few nights away camping and exploring with my kayak works wonders. However, I’m at a point where I find it difficult to allow myself the ‘luxury’ of getting away in my kayak. You see, I’ve been away for a week, I’ve not created any jewellery and I’ve not made any sales. I have to work and work hard! After all, I can see I’m not very good at what I do and I need to get better through hard work and determination. Do you see how easy it is for me to criticise myself?

Writing this has helped me. In doing so I have faced many of the negative beliefs I hold about myself and understand these to be manifestations of both my depression and my unfair self-criticalness. However, I find myself going back to one moment in time and angrily telling myself - “You should have pulled into the overspill lane and then none of these feelings of crapness would be happening!”

“It’s your fault!”

“You are a useless individual!”

So my story continues. My recovery from my depression is not straightforward, no matter how ebulliently I may present myself. I’m in a constant flow of self-query and self-awareness. The general direction is one of happy positivity and as I write those words, I know this to be true. It’s just sometimes my negative self becomes dominant enough to remind me of where I have come from and where I might end up again if I do not take care of myself.

I am determined this will not happen.

A Word Of Caution - For Myself

All this week, I have been Tweeting and posting on Facebook short videos where I describe how immersing myself in Nature is good for my recovery from severe depression. There is no doubt being active in the outdoors, surrounding myself with the grandeur and beauty the Isle of Mull has to offer, is beneficial for me. I am most comfortable with myself when I am out in the wilds. I am a confident and accomplished outdoors person being fortunate to have accrued an incredible amount of wisdom and knowledge through my many years working and adventuring in the wilds. Because of this, my interactions with wild spaces and Nature tend to err on the more adventurous and possibly physically demanding. It’s through a combination of subliminal connection to nature and facing challenge that I gain the most from these experiences for myself. However, as beneficial as this usually is, it’s not always the most healthy or safe approach for me to pursue.

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There are time when Nature may not be the panacea for my depression and I need to take care. This has nothing to do with facing the actual risks associated with adventurous outdoor activity, though of course these are a factor to be considered. It is more about me keeping myself safe from myself.

The extreme safety consideration for me is my level of ideation for completing my suicide. I wrote about this a long while ago and you can read about this - here. It makes complete sense that I do not embark on a solo sea kayaking trip if I’m at the depths of a depressive episode when I have strong desires for my suicide. This is a safety consideration akin to asking some one to abseil without a rope. I wouldn’t do it. Despite my strong desire for death during these difficult times in my depression, there is enough of a sense of preservation within me to know that kayaking on my own would possibly be a bad idea. The safety factor which I attend to most when making these decisions, is asking myself - “How impulsive do I think I am at the moment?” If I’m confident I’m in control of my impulsivity, then I might consider it safe for me to maybe kayak on my own around Tobermory Bay, having given Karen clear details about my plans and the time I expect to be ashore again. The benefits of such a sojourn in my kayak would undoubtedly outweigh the risks in that particular kind of scenario. If though I am thinking of a longer journey with a night or two away, then even though I might feel in control of my impulsivity, I would decide against embarking on such a journey because I would not know how I would cope with any stressors on the way, or how I would cope with my solitude.

To be honest, when I’m at the depths of my depression, I usually lack the motivation to embark on a lengthy kayak trip even if the weather and sea conditions were perfect.

It’s in my make up to expect a lot of myself, to be strong, to persevere and not give in. When I am well, this trait of mine can be an attribute, enabling me to undertake some demanding adventurous challenges - and enjoy doing so. However, when I’m not well, then having this desire to push myself hard can be counter-productive. It’s probably this fact alone which I have increasingly learned to pay attention to when making a ‘risk assessment’ about my engagement with the outdoor realm. The question I find I have to ask myself is - “What do I want to achieve?” The answer to this will be internally debated, weighing up the merits of the endeavour, opposed to the risks of possibly failing to complete the task and what these may mean for my mental health. An example of this occurred a year or so ago. I was not long out of a prolonged hospital admission and in a customary show of bravado, I stated I would kayak solo around the Isle of Mull. I plastered my intent over my social media outlets and blithely set off down the Sound of Mull, overweight from unconstrained hospital eating and dreadfully unfit. Needless to say, I managed just two days of the trip before I phone Karen and asked her to collect me and take me home.

A positive reflection of this experience is the fact I knew I needed to stop my expedition and acted on this. I took care of myself. In fact this one experience forms the bedrock of my decision making processes since then. While I may not have been at risk of completing my suicide because where I was in my recovery at that point, there was considerable to stunting or even reversing this recovery through the consequences of ‘failing’. I push myself hard with an expectation of succeeding and when this does not occur, I can be painfully self-critical. Self-criticism is one of the driving forces for my depression, so avoiding situations where there is a risk where this may occur makes good sense. In hindsight of course, I ought not have set out on an ambitious circumnavigation of Mull given I was just out of hospital. As I write this I notice I’m internally berating myself for even thinking that kayaking around Mull at that point my life would be a good idea. The result of this internal criticism is a huge sigh and exhalation and a profanity laden exhortation. Thankfully though, at the moment I’m strong enough not to allow this one negative thought, lead me into a self-destructive cycle of rumination and instead, I have moved on to think about the positive outcomes of what I am sharing here.

The point I think I’m labouring here is, there may be times when immersing myself in Nature may not be a beneficial option for me, if my expectations of my ability outweigh the realities of the same. The negative consequences of incompletion and a sense of failure would be detrimental to my fragile mental health. This may be true even for considering to paddle around our local Calve Island or not. This is a trip of just a couple of hours and of no great challenge at all. However, there are times in my depressed state when my energy levels are so low, that to undertake even this, might leave me wanting.

Currently I’m at a place in my life where I’m able to assess these situations with a strong level of self-care in place. It’s not difficult for me to judge whether an activity in the outdoors will be good for me or not. Paddling out to the Isle of Rum and back in three days is a great example of this. There was always the risk I may have stumbled with regard to coping with the strenuous nature of the endeavour, but the outcomes to my sense of self would not have been adversely negative. As it turned out this one trip, and possibly the one before it to the Treshnish Isles, have been transformative. As a result of the truly incredible experiences I enjoyed on both these journeys, my self-esteem is stronger than ever before and I’m enjoying a level of personal contentment I can’t recall feeling in many years. With both these adventures, the possible benefits exceeded the risks of incompletion or a sense of failure.

I’m well versed in personal risk-assessment when it comes to my interaction with the natural and wild realms. It’s a dynamic process for me, multidimensional and sometime complex. The bottom line is my safety of course, but what I may positively gain for myself through the endeavour is of equal consideration.

If there is any wisdom I have gleaned from my experiences which I think may be useful for others, then it is this. Be aware of what you are feeling. This will guide you when deciding how and at what level to interact with Nature. You will know yourself best and you will understand what your feelings are informing you. For example, you may find yourself thinking it a good idea to go for an all day walk, but you feel incapable of such a challenge. In this case, it becomes a decision based on what the outcome will be for you if you fall short of your plans and how this may affect your mental health. If it were me, I would err on the side of caution and choose a definitely manageable route and thoroughly enjoy walking it without worrying about incompletion.

Finally, I think this bog post proves how complicated my thinking can be at times and how I’m forever inquisitive about the choices I make and whether these are good for me or not. It also shows my interactions with Nature and wild space are never without thought or consideration. The positive outcome of this is how impactful every moment I spend outdoors can be for me.

Mental Health Awareness Week 2021

From today, the 10th May, it’s Mental Health Awareness Week with its underlying theme of ‘Nature’. As such, I’ve made a public commitment to contribute my thoughts and experiences with regard to my own journey with severe depression and how immersion in the natural world helps me with my recovery. When thinking about what I would offer, I soon realised I had a huge amount of information to share and innumerable illustrative tales to recount. For a few hours I found myself overwhelmed with the numerous avenues I could follow, from which I would offer a range of personal insights and wisdom I’ve gleaned through my nearly sixty years. In fact, for a brief moment, I thought there was enough for me to write a book but I hastily put that idea to bed since I have promised the world two books, yet to be completed.

Instead, I have decided to follow a natural path, allowing myself the leeway of choosing as they come to my mind, some of the pearls I hope will be helpful for others. Since the theme of this awareness raising week is ‘Nature’, it’s apposite I should allow myself the opportunity to travel the trail less travelled and enjoy the adventure. Quite literally, share through my online channels, anything which crops up and which I think will be of interest and I have the time to create, write or film.

The first thing which jumped into my mind when I thought of this awareness week and its theme was the word ‘life’. It has been clear to me for many years now, that my immersion in nature is life sustaining, quite literally so. In fact during recent kayaking trips over the past few weeks I have somehow been acutely aware of this as I witness the proliferation of pelagic and littoral life with the advent of the Northern Hemisphere spring. There is a quality of ebullience to the sea, coastlines, islands and cliffs at the moment. When thinking of this I recalled I had written about this, or something like this, in the first draft of my book of when I kayaked around Scotland in 2015. This book has yet to see the light of day but I thought I would share this long excerpt here as a way of introducing my personal philosophy about my connection to nature and why I choose to do what I do.

The story picks up at Aith on the mainland of Shetland, the most northerly of the R.N.L.I. lifeboat stations of the 47 around the Scottish coastline I was visiting in one continuous solo sea kayaking journey. The theme of my adventure to this point had been coping with the seemingly incessant strong winds which plagued me. Indeed the title of this uncompleted book is “Strong Winds Are Forecast”. I hope the rest makes sense.

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Aith R.N.L.I. Lifeboat, Shetland

One task I had to achieve was my laundry. There was a washing machine at the lifeboat station, and I made full use of this facility, hanging my freshly washed clothes to hang in the blustery sunshine on a rudimentary clothes-line I had created from my tow-line. I laughed to myself as I hung my clothes over the rope in a haphazard manner, thinking of my wife who never allows me to hang out the washing. According to her I never do it properly! There’s not much to do in the hamlet of Aith, so I spent my day off kicking back in the crew room and gazing out of the picture window at the magnificent view up the Voe. I worked out I had four days of paddling ahead of me to complete the circumnavigation of mainland Shetland to reach Lerwick. The forecast was mixed with strong winds promised for much of the time. There were a couple of exposed sections of coastline to contend with, particularly Esha Ness with a reputation for rough seas and few places to hide. For the briefest of moments, I pondered portaging from the west side of mainland Shetland to the eastern side into Sullom Voe over the curiously named Mavis Grind, a neck of land which separated the west seas from the east. Mavis Grind it turned out when I asked Hylton, wasn’t a 1950s dance but a derivation from Old Norse meaning gate of the narrow isthmus. The isthmus, under thirty-five metres wide at its narrowest section, is the land link between the Northmavine Peninsula and mainland Shetland. Even though portaging here would considerably reduce my journey to Lerwick, I wanted to enjoy the achievement of kayaking around the whole of the island.

In hindsight, as Hylton (the lifeboat Coxswain) suggested, I ought to have stayed at Aith another two days, because shortly after setting off I found myself struggling into the teeth of a minor gale. The winds were from the north west from the direction I was heading. I paddled slowly out of Aith Voe, one laboured paddle stroke after another, realising I was exiting a natural and excruciatingly long wind tunnel. I cursed my stubbornness in insisting I would press on, no matter what. As I struggled to gain forward momentum, my conscience niggled with criticisms of my impetuousness. I mouthed silent thanks I had left Aith too early in the morning for folks to spot me struggling away up the voe.

Eventually I passed Papa Little island and crossed to the island of Muckle Roe. Along the shore here I was out of the worst of the wind and I caught up with myself a little, this easing my bad temper. Despite the wind, the day was gloriously sunny, the sea glittering with thousands of dancing diamonds. I looked up at the Scandinavian influenced farmsteads and dwellings and felt again the exoticness of being somewhere wonderfully foreign. I turned from Busta Voe, a name which made me smile because it sounded like a 1980s Ska singer, under the bridge linking Muckle Roe to the mainland, and into Roe Sound. Ahead of me through the narrow stretch of water was the expansive St Magnus Bay across which, nine miles away, was the headland of Eshaness. The wind was blasting down Roe Sound and once again I found myself digging my paddle blades deeply hard with a sweat inducing effort to make headway.

I was less than a mile from Turvalds Head (who was Turvald I wondered?) This was the point where I faced a choice to turn eastwards for Mavis Grind and the short portage into what assuredly would be the easier seas of Sullom Voe or press onwards towards the Eshaness headland. Choosing the Mavis Grind route would ensure the wind would be gratifyingly behind me whilst I paddled the remainder of the route to Lerwick. As I reached forward over another choppy wave and pulled hard, this choice was an attractive insight. I was sorely tempted by the prospect of easier paddling. I was half an hour away from having to make my decision.

The forecast assured me the strong north westerly winds would persist for at least two days, possibly three. I would struggle against them if I continued up the west coast of Shetland. The seas off Eshaness would be nasty and recalling my fearful experience along the west coast of Orkney, I didn’t want to face those conditions again. It seemed to me wisdom should prevail and with a heavy heart I was close to acceding to the inevitable. The glitter went from the day despite the diamonds continuing to dance about me. Despite the prospect of encountering easier conditions in Sullom Voe, my disappointment was palpable. My heart was set on completing a circumnavigation of Shetland mainland. It seemed to me my journey was in danger of unravelling. I was losing purpose. My original somewhat ambitious plans for my adventure, had included paddling right up to Muckle Flugga, the most northerly piece of land in the British Isles. In the cosy comfort of the small saloon aboard our yacht, and with the alluring aid of Google Earth, I had glibly drawn a route to this most northern point without much thought for the reality of the weather conditions I now faced in a rather bleak Roe Sound. As ever with a decision such as this, there were variables to consider, each validly presented. My task now was to sort through these in a logical fashion to arrive at an eventual choice.

The natural realm, the great outdoors as we often like to call it, tests me in many ways. From the dawn of time, humans have pitted themselves against the elements. I would imagine for hunter gatherer peoples, the natural environment was their world, the milieu where they lived, thrived, and coexisted with wild beasts in this mutually shared space. I could not imagine they sought to climb a mountain simply because it was there or paddling a log boat along the coast because they saw this purely as a personal challenge. I imagined for them, life held primary purposes; gathering food, finding shelter, and protecting their children. The essentials of life. As humans moved away from a transient lifestyle to one of settlement and permanent shelter, our aspirations through the millennia shifted and altered to the point here I was, a modern human, sitting in my kayak, on a wind whipped Shetland sea, enjoying the luxury of fulfilling a personal aspiration to kayak around Scotland. If there was no life sustaining purpose to me being here, what did this moment serve me? What did it matter if I chose to cross Mavis Grind and curtail my circumnavigation of Shetland, instead of pushing further westwards to realise my aspiration for a Shetland circumnavigation?

I discovered the answer was this; the personal purpose of my adventure was indeed life sustaining. It was offering me an important opportunity for growth and development. Physis is a Greek word which describes an innate natural force within every living entity which drives us to grow. In humans, physis refers to the energy invested in health and the expansion of our personal horizons. This is the urge to do something different, the aspiration to be who we want to be, and to choose our destiny. Good mental health is not only the outcome of sound relationships but also the fulfilment of essential universal drives within us including belonging, self-fulfilment and survival.

Physis involves change. No living thing can avoid change, we are constantly in the process of evolution. However, because we crave equilibrium, continuity, and safety in our lives, change is often difficult to accept. We hold onto what we know because this provides us with certainty. This desire for stability is called homeostasis, the opposite to physis. Humans are therefore pulled by these two opposing forces, homeostasis and physis. It is this unresolved struggle which underpins many of the unhappy responses we have to our life choices.

My struggle with clinical depression is most likely an outcome of this tussle within me, which is why, suddenly, the decision to complete the circumnavigation of mainland Shetland or cut it short, had become a vitally important one for me to resolve. It wasn’t simply a matter of portaging into Sullom Voe to avoid the winds. It was about the importance I placed on facing, or not facing, the challenge the strong winds presented. Homeostasis determined I would seek the less demanding route, to ensure I maintained my schedule and avoided the probability of serious and demanding sea conditions. Physis on the other hand, invited me to push on, even though success was uncertain and there was a high probability of becoming storm bound with inevitable delays. As so often when faced with this process, it is conducted beyond my consciousness. What I am aware of though, is rationalising the presenting facts of the issue and ascertaining the consequences if these are ignored or considered. The underpinning factor is personal safety, so an indication the task being considered was completely reckless, would determine an immediate avoidance. If though, the risks were such harm may occur but with care, could be avoided, then the task was worthy of consideration.   

It would be simple to avoid the complexities within the decision-making process, to not heed them or desire self-understanding. For me though, this would diminish the opportunity for self-awareness. I consider this to be integral to an adventure experience. Without understanding, there is no wisdom to be gained. It was clear from the outset that my journey around Scotland was so much more than simply visiting the lifeboat stations. It was an opportunity for me to gain deeper insights into my ‘self’. This would help me grow into the older man I hoped to become. I didn’t want to slide into my old age. I wanted to arrive with as much energy and enthusiasm for life as I had when I was in my twenties.

Lang Head from Egilsay

So it was, with renewed determination Turvals Head slowly slipped behind me. I continued out into the steep and uncomfortable waves of St Magnus Bay. The 1950’s dance, Mavis Grind would be enjoyed another time. Despite my resolve to face my adventure head on, shortly after setting out into the bay, uncomfortable sea conditions seriously challenged me. I had previously coped with trickier conditions but somehow, I wasn’t in a sound frame of mind to cope with this continuous onslaught of broken waves and powerfully gusting head wind. Searching as far ahead as I was able to, I saw conditions around Lang Head, my next headland, were dreadful. Even from my low sea level elevation I could see an angry race kicked up by wind over tide. I was faced with another crucial decision. I was able to turn back to Mavis Grind or I could find somewhere to stop nearby in the hope the conditions eased during the day. Pressing on around the headland in these conditions was not an option.

I resolutely held onto my desire to round Shetland. I pressed on another mile through some lively seas to a small island called Egilsay where with a relieved scrunch, I landed on a shiny pebble beach. A small cohort of common seals welcomed me in, snorting and splashing in the waters behind me. I pulled the kayak up the stones and wandered over to the far side of the island where I would gain a better view of Lang Head. From the raised elevation it was immediately clear to me I had made a wise decision not to attempt to get around. It would be a nasty piece of water to be kayaking alone in these windy conditions. I wandered back to the boat and dug out my flask of lemon and ginger tea, always a soothing drink when my mind is troubled, and I need to think things through. I had managed only ten miles out of the thirty I had hoped for in the day. If I stopped here, the wind would only increase in strength and I would be stuck for a couple of days at least, the seas around Lang Head worsening in the near gale force north-easterly. I looked morosely back to where I had come from minutes before. The entrance to short voe leading to Mavis Grind was clearly visible, only a mile away. With the wind behind me, I would reach there in no time at all and within the hour I would be unpacking my kayak and portaging my kit, my boat and myself across into Sullom Voe. I sighed deeply, noticing the seals looking back at me, almost it seemed with sympathetic gazes.

“Fuck!” I shouted and was immediately answered with a few splashes in the small bay as my profanity caused some alarm. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

I was fed up with the winds and I was fed up with what seemed to be a continual process of evaluation and re-evaluation. Why couldn’t I simply enjoy a carefree passage along this stunning Shetland coastline? Was fate trying to tell me something?

I refused to entertain the idea of giving up on the circumnavigation and belligerence within me mobilised my inert body. I heaved myself to my feet and set about unpacking the kayak, making a comfortable camp on short cropped turf a few metres away from the beach. My mind was unyielding. I would sit out the gales after which, endeavour to complete my circumnavigation of Shetland.

The small island of Egilsay became my home for two days and three nights. It transpired, this enforced castaway existence became one of the magical experiences of my journey. There was no phone signal and therefore no internet connection either. For some reason I could not pick up Coastguard broadcasts on my VHF radio either. I was unable to communicate beyond the shores of the island. I was not concerned for my safety because I knew that the YB-Tracker would indicate my location, even pinpointing where I had placed my tent. Nevertheless, I did wonder if the Aith Lifeboat would pay me a visit because they might wonder what had occurred. Without communication there were no on-line distractions which joyfully offered me the opportunity to appreciate uninterrupted solitude. When I was a boy, the tale of Robinson Crusoe enthralled me and ever since I wanted to experience island solitude, the unique alone-ness which a body of land surrounded by water affords. The coastline of the island was a natural boundary beyond which I was unable to venture without paddling in my kayak. Devoid of humans apart from me, my company was the small group of seals, screeching terns, skittering oystercatchers, rather dreamy fulmars, and a cantankerous black-backed gull. To the east, over a mile into Mangaster Voe there was a ubiquitous fish farm. Thankfully with the wind from the direction it was, I wasn’t disturbed by any noise this produced. I chose to ignore it most of the time. One vital thing the island did not contain, was a fresh water supply. Not for the first time or last, I acknowledged with gratitude my obsession, insisting I carry at least ten litres of water every day.

The joy of enforced time ashore creates a delicious sensation of relaxation. There is permission to lie in bed in the morning, brew coffee or tea whenever I feel like it, read, write, read, or simply wander and explore. The time is also valuable for making and mending, attending to bits of kit which require caring for, and re-evaluating plans for future route options.

I embraced my island solitude with enthusiasm. The angst about losing time was easily forgotten and replaced with a tranquil enjoyment of my island surroundings. I explored every inch of Egilsay, clambering along the rocky shoreline, striding over the sheep cropped slopes and ambling alone the small beach, eyes cast down in the hope of finding interesting flotsam. I looked for signs of ancient human heritage, a Viking grave perhaps or evidence of an iron age home. I carried my binoculars everywhere and would sit motionless on the rocks gazing out to sea, wondering if I would spot a killer whale. I desperately wanted to see a killer whale. I sang to myself, loudly and out of tune, idiotic made up songs which were bawdy and full of nonsense. I read, and I slept. I caught up with my journal. Then I wandered around the island again, and again, and again. At six hundred metres long and two hundred and fifty metres wide, it didn’t take me long to stride around the island.

At one point I pondered solitude as an experience. When I worked for Outward Bound, one of the most significant experiences we offered on the classic three-week courses was what we termed, ‘solo’. This important course element would occur midway through the programme (a personal development course for adolescents and young adults). This was the point when self-awareness was becoming apparent for the participants. Ideally, the solo experience lasted for forty-eight hours; two nights and two days of solitude. Each student was provided with rudimentary materials to construct a basic shelter, a change of spare clothes, their sleeping bag, enough water and minimum rations. They were encouraged to keep a written journal but not allowed the distractions of watches, cameras, phones, music players, or books.  The purpose of the solo was mindful self-reflection. Out in a forest or a wild area, each person was placed so they were out of sight of the other group members. They were given clear boundaries for their solo site and asked not to wander, both for their safety and not breaking another person’s solo. Their safety and welfare were monitored throughout the forty-eight hours by the course instructor, such as me. The solo was a pivotal moment for many students during the course, when significant personal insights were achieved. This opportunity for solitude is rarely attained in our modern lives.

One Of My Egilsay Neighbours

I was enjoying my personal enforced solo, though I did have a watch and other distractions which broke the rules. I quickly became aware the effect my presence on the island was having on the lawful inhabitants. Unwittingly, I had pitched my tent a few metres from a tern’s nest. Thankfully this did not disturb the guardian birds who took flight when I emerged from my tent quickly returning when I had wandered away. In the hidden seclusion of my tent I enjoyed listening to the parent’s soft chuckles as they went about their egg warming duty. The seals were extremely nervous, and I wondered if this was due to the proximity of the fish farm. However, by the time I came to leave, one or two of them appeared less eager to slip into the sea from the beach any time they glimpsed me wandering around the island. The highest point of the island belonged to a large male black-backed gull who protected his domain with a vengeance. Anytime I dared come close to his spot, he launched into the sky with screeching cries, wheeling above, gaining height before turning like a fighter plane, accurately diving for my head, causing me to involuntarily duck. I usually scuttled away. The flock of terns were just noisy! If I wandered too near where they were perched, as one entity they would rise into the air, yelling and screeching in their high-pitched tones, all the while flapping like wooden bird marionettes. I attempted to minimise my disturbance on the island but recognised too there was little I could do about my presence. I was not there to cause harm to any creature.

I was relieved to find on the third morning the wind had sufficiently dropped for me to proceed with my journey. I said my farewells to my feathered neighbours and enjoyed the company of a few seals for a fair distance after I had paddled away. I think they were seeing me off their property. Lang Head presented no problems and it wasn’t long before I was crossing St Magnus Bay towards the eponymously named Drongs, a magnificent cluster of bare and jagged stacks standing a mile offshore. These were the first natural highlight of what developed into one of the finest days on the sea during my journey. The sea state was lumpy but not unmanageably so. Crucially the wind had diminished and shifted to become a now helpful south westerly.

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So there you are. I eventually succeeded in my quest to paddle to the Scottish lifeboat stations, eventually arriving at Eyemouth one thousand and eight hundred and fifty miles after setting off from Kirkcudbright four months earlier.

Over the coming week I am really looking forward to using this as the basis from which I share my thoughts and ideas about mental health and why being in Nature is so good for us.

Thank you.

World Mental Health Awareness Week - Friday - Nurturing My Nature

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My parents tell me as soon as I could walk, I would trot alongside my Dad through the bush down to the sandy dry Mzingwane River when we lived at West Nicholson in Matabeleland, Zimbabwe (then Southern Rhodesia). By the age of five I regularly went out with him on ‘Patrol’ into the wild and uninhabited lowveld bush around Triangle in Zimbabwe where we would sleep under the stars beside languid rivers within which the eyes of Crocodiles would be reflected back by torchlight, wake in the night with Hippo grazing around us, and get up in the dawn to watch the sun rise over the African bush from the high vantage point of a granite domed kopje (a low rocky hill, pronounced koppie). My early life memories are infused with many encounters with the wild, learning to walk silently on the balls of my feet, to sit for hours at a time without flinching, silent, eying the fringes of the bush for movement and the eventual reward of a wildlife sighting. How to follow animal spoor, interpreting their size and their intentions. How to simply ‘be’ in the wild, appreciating the fecundity of nature around me. Our family holidays were always camping trips to isolated parts of the country where we immersed ourselves in the wilderness, absorbing every nuance it had to offer.

Moving to Britain in my early teens, I continued to live a life where the open air and wide spaces were integral to my existence. Not one to follow a more usual teenage pathway, many of my weekends were spent camping on Bredon Hill in Worcestershire where sitting by a campfire was more fun than partying in friends houses. Later I would hitchhike to the Lake District whenever I had the chance to immerse myself in the fells and explore the mountain tops. My academic studies took second place to my passion for my involvement in the Duke of Edinburgh Gold Award and the school Combined Cadet Force. I volunteered as a Cotswold Country Park Warden building stiles and dry stone walls. I learned to fly gliders solo before I could drive and every weekend I would head out into the country to explore, history and nature being my passions.

It was no wonder then, I miserably failed my academic studies and my pathway into adulthood led me further into the world of outdoor activities and adventure. At the age of twenty one I became an instructor for Outward Bound and the rest as they say, is history. My life since then has been incredibly rich where I have been privileged to have shared so many wonderful moments of sheer outdoor joy with friends, colleagues and course participants and clients. I have worked in Wales, the Lake District, Lesotho, South Africa, Zimbabwe and Scotland, all the while facilitating personal development awareness for a huge range of people, young and adult. All these experiences have imbued a richness in my life which to be truthful, I find difficult to quantify. Suffice to say, I am truly grateful for the thousands of opportunities I have faced.

Now at the moment, my life is governed by my recovery from severe depression. As best I am able, I continue to live a life of wild outdoor connection where I take myself sea kayaking along the incredible Scottish coastline and set myself reasonable personal challenges. I love nothing more than spending nights out under canvas, somewhere silent and empty of humans. Key to my recovery process is nurturing my natural draw to nature and a need for personal adventure. Without access to this, I very much doubt I would have sufficient meaning within my life to inspire me to keep up the fight.

Outwith the moments of insight in the depths of my depression, my most powerful personal life lessons have occurred during my adventures. There are innumerable moments when my experiences in the wild have proved to be potent metaphors for my life and ones I continue to draw on time and again. In the moments when I’m in the desperate grip of a depressive episode, it’s these metaphorical insights which help me maintain a semblance of self-identity. For example, when asked who I am and what I do, I say my name and that I’m a sea kayaker. I do not qualify this but within myself I know I am a person who is an adventurer with a deep connection to the wild and natural realms. My adventuring spirit does not pit me against nature, but immerses me within it so I come up against myself. It is within this process I learn the most about who I am and my life. In tomorrow’s blog I will explain this in greater detail.

Nurturing my natural connection to nature is fundamental for my existence. I believe this to be true for millions of people too and there is nothing extraordinary in claiming this truth for myself. However, it’s not until recently I have fully embodied this awareness and to some extent, given myself permission to accept its validity. I think I continued to hold onto the notion of fitting myself into societal norms and certainly undertaking a more cautionary medically influenced approach to my recovery from depression. I am not out of the woods by a long stretch, but my understanding of my recovery and the importance of my nature within this is far clearer. There are hurdles to overcome and these require considerable focus on my part. Essentially, I continue to struggle with the belief I do not hold worth and until I rationalise this, my potential for change and success will continue to be locked within me. Paradoxically, it is through my adventures and my natural experiences where I challenge these notions of worthlessness, and again this is why it’s crucial for me to nurture my nature.

My story continues.

World Mental Health Awareness Week - Thursday - Recovery

I was first diagnosed with clinical depression in 1995 when I was admitted to a mental health respite care home when living in Wales. At the time I had no idea what depression was let alone understanding the concept of mental health recovery. I remember the term used to describe my long period off work at the time was ‘experiencing a breakdown’. My next admission, this time to a hospital psychiatric ward was in 1998 in Kendal. After a further two admissions over the next year, it wasn’t until 2000 when I started working in the Mental Health field I came to hear of mental health recovery as a particular process.

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I don’t think it’s true now, but in those early days, my experience of engaging with the concept of mental health recovery was a political one (with a small p). Service users as we were known were gaining voice with regards to our right for our involvement within our mental health treatment. Up until this period in time, as far as I could make out, treatment for mental illness was administered with medical authority where the expert was the psychiatrist. Through a growing movement for change within service user groups and charities, the model for mental illness treatment was shifting from an authoritative top down approach to one where the patient’s personal experience and awareness was increasingly taken into account and validated as shared expertise. In short, it was becoming accepted that mental health sufferers were very much experts in their own suffering.

In 1993, William A. Anthony Ph.D., then the Executive Director of the Center for Psychiatric Rehabilitation at Boston University wrote a paper titled, “Recovery from Mental Illness: The Guiding Vision of the Mental Health Service System in the 1990s.” (link here). Within this article he explored and outlined his understanding and vision for a recovery-oriented mental health system. Essentially, he describes a treatment oriented approach as one where the symptoms of mental illness were managed and alleviated. He describes a recovery incorporated approach as one where recovery can occur even if the illness is not ‘cured’. Recovery from mental illness involves much more than recovery from the illness itself.

It is that last sentence which hugely impacted me when I first read it in 2000 and for the first time, I began to consider my own mental health recovery process.

Twenty years later and I’m still working through the implications for myself of the recovery philosophy W.A. Anthony so wisely espoused. It is his wisdom which continues to inform me about my mental health journey and my pathway towards recovery. Indeed, this is a journey without a destination but always with achievable horizons. There are many other recovery centred models which are variations of a theme. However, I chose to adhere to this one simply because I like the apolitical nature of it. I have never signed up to the political nature of service user emancipation. Although I am antiauthoritarian, I do trust the expertise of the psychiatric professionals involved in my care. I prefer to work with them within the psychiatric system as it is, rather than ‘against’ the system where I determine my rights for recovery set precedence over anything else. This is not to say I do not disagree with those who follow a different path to me and in fact, I support many who have negative experiences of past mental health treatment and seek change as a result. I accept too there are many aspects of our current mental health system of care which could be enhanced, but I hold the view, we are fortunate to have access to what we have here in Scotland and I’m appreciative of this.

This is how I endeavour to live my recovery from my mental illness, the roots of this process set within the words from W.A. Anthony. I understand my recovery is a deeply personal and unique process where I’m developing my attitudes, feelings, goals and skills based on my mental health at any given time. My recovery is about me fostering new meanings and purpose in my life as a I continue to grow beyond the effects of my depression. I am hopeful this will lead me towards living a satisfying life where I believe I contribute even within the limitations set by my illness.

Helping me along my recovery path are these truths.

• Recovery can occur without professional intervention. This is important for me to accept. I hold the key to my recovery, not anyone else. It is down to me when to seek the interventions and support I require. By accepting this personal responsibility, I become responsible for my eventual recovery from a depressive episode. I do not rely on the mental health system to ‘cure’ me and rather view my relationship with them as a partnership.

• A common denominator of recovery is the presence of people who believe in and stand by me, the person in need of recovery. Crucial to this statement is the non-judgemental relationship I need with those close enough to be involved in assisting me through my mental illness. Key of course is my marriage with Karen and her unswaying support throughout my distressful episodes and subsequent periods recovery. Without her love I would not be here today. My collaborative relationship with my Community Psychiatric Nurse is another key example of where I am supported in an equitable and empowering manner. Knowing I am not being judged for being depressed is fundamental to my recovery.

• A recovery vision is not a function of one’s theory about the causes of mental illness. It is extremely helpful to me in my recovery process for an archaeological exploration for the roots my depression to become a key element in my treatment. The fact I suffer from the illness is enough and there is little to be gained by seeking the causes. Understanding a triggering catalyst may help in terms of increasing awareness for the future.

• Recovery can occur even though the symptoms reoccur. This is hugely important awareness for me to embody. By doing so, I accept the possibility of becoming ill again as a reality. This way I will never hold the expectation I will never suffer from depression again. I may hope this may be the case, but this is different to expecting it to be so.

• Recovery changes the frequency and duration of symptoms. Essentially, symptom reoccurrence becomes less of a threat to my recovery as I become increasingly accepting of living with depression as an illness.

• Recovery does not feel like a linear process. As someone who’s professional life has been involved in facilitating personal development awareness for others, I understand my recovery will involve growth and setbacks. There will be periods of change and times of little change, moments when I experience powerful insights, and times when I feel directionless. It is an acceptance that there is nothing gained from planning my recovery and hoping for systematic outcomes.

• Recovery from the consequences of the illness is sometimes more difficult than recovering from the illness itself. As an example of this, I continue to struggle with the awareness because of my last episode of severe depression, I damaged important relationships in my life at the time. Coming to terms with this is just as difficult for me as it is suffering the symptoms of my illness.

• Recovery from mental illness does not mean that I was not really mentally ill. Again this is an important truth for me to embody. As I become increasingly lucid after a depressive episode, I have the tendency to become apologetic for ‘being the way I was’. I minimise the illness as a character failing rather than an integral aspect of my overall health.

All of this is of course not the complete story of my recovery process. There are many subtle nuances which contribute, some more helpful than others. The key for me to understand and accept is the fluidity of my recovery and with this to be patient with its developmental path. Key too is trusting the fact I will recover, the truth that periods of depression will pass to be replaced with opportunities for my life to be lived to its fullest extent.

World Mental Health Awareness Week - Wednesday - Self-kindness

It’s not lost on me how easy it is to offer kindness to others and not as simple to offer it to myself. In fact, being kind to myself can be an anathema for me. The compassion I hold for others does not it seems, apply to myself. I believe this is not unusual for folks who struggle with depression and in my case, self-cruelty and unkindness are the features of my constant depressive rumination.

I wrote yesterday how receiving unconditional kindness from so many people is invaluable for my recovery. This is because these acts of compassion become models for me to emulate with regard to caring for myself. Implementing this awareness is a huge challenge for me, particularly because I’m so heavily self-critical. My wife Karen with her custom loving tolerance will often challenge my many self-defeating outbursts by asking, “Would you say that to someone else?”

Invariably my reply is, “No I wouldn’t… but then that’s different.” There is of course no difference. Why is it OK for me to severely cuss my self when I wouldn’t do the same to anyone else?

I believe for me the key lies in acceptance. This is not an acceptance for who I am at a deeper existential level, but an acceptance of my depression as an illness. After a period of sound mental health and when my mood is beginning to slip towards a depressive episode, I will almost deny that this is occurring and there is a possibility I may become ill again. I avoid acknowledging my deepening gloom and instead push myself harder to effect an outward sense of indomitableness. I make plans for greater adventures and live my life at a an aspirational pace I’m unable to match. I simply don’t entertain the possibility of another bout of depressive frailty. Indeed, when I do begin to realise my mood is deepening I disavow depression as the cause. I attribute this to a weakness within me and so begins my cyclical struggle with severe self-criticism.

It was only during my last hospital admission last year, I realised (with considerable excitement) that my depression is an illness and importantly, I am not my depression. Understanding this has been crucial in my ability to accept I am liable to repeated depressive episodes when I may become ill again. After all, my prognosis is ‘treatment resistant depression’. If and when these may occur I am hopeful I will embody this knowledge soon enough for me to access the element of self-compassion so crucial to my recovery process.

The moment I begin to ease up on myself and offer self-kindness, my road out of my depression will be so much less painful and easier.

World Mental Health Awareness Week 2020 - Tuesday - Kindness

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Love and Compassion

When reflecting about todays blog entry, I realised in my life with depression I’ve experienced nothing but unconditional kindness. In fact, searching through my memory banks, I’m aware more of the kindness shown to me by others than general acts of unkindness. I have therefore been fortunate in my life to have been surrounded by people with warm hearts.

I often say when describing living with my depression, having regularly visited the darkest places within my psyche and being, I’ve had the privilege of deep insight. As painful and dangerous as these times have been for me, I’ve come to realise the importance of love, in particular the love shown to me by others. Without this love I doubt I will have survived.

The wonderful aspect of humanity is our innate capacity for compassion. As a person who suffers, and who has made my suffering public, I enjoy experiencing compassion from others on a daily basis. Every day I encounter acts of kindness which soothe me and validate my existence. Receiving compassion is an unconditional act of recognition, a fulfilment of a vital human psychological drive. Without recognition for who I am, I doubt very much I would see much reason to fight as hard as I do to overcome my depression.

Compassionate kindness then is a fundamental element in assisting a vibrant recovery process from my depression, and importantly, maintain a strong healthy sense of self. In my experience kindness occurs in many guises, some expected and most unexpected. Kindness is the human expression of feelings of care and love for others and in most instances is processed out of our awareness. A smile is probably the simplest act of kindness we perform and one which carries considerable potency. Receiving a smile a stranger in an unexpected moment of internal stress can alleviate feelings of powerlessness, providing a warm glow of recognition and human support. Without much thought, everyday we perform acts of kindness for those we love, our friends and our colleagues. Likewise too, we offer kindness to people we don’t know. For example, we may offer a space in a line of traffic for a driver waiting at a busy junction. We may put this down to simple good manners, but this act of selflessness may have had significant impact for the other behind the wheel who might be facing a tough day ahead. Our casual wave and the briefest of eye contact may have been enough to alter a deepening sense of gloom for the person.

This then, is why kindness has been and continues to be so incredibly important to me in my recovery from my depression. My experience of kindness is this - it’s always unconditional and it’s offered in these forms:

• love

• affection

• humanness / humanity

• patience

• tolerance

• sympathy

• good will

• tenderness

• forbearance

• courtesy

• gentleness

• respect

• unselfishness

• understanding

• grace

• robustness

• honesty

• individual

• humour

• empathy

• professional / professionalism

My attempt to end my life this time last year released a flood of kindness which buoyed me through my intense treatment in hospital and subsequent recovery. For three months while on the ward I received countless letters, cards and gifts from family, friends, friends I have yet to meet, and strangers. Every one of these acts of reaching out to me told me of my worth and were unconditional in their generosity. For this is what kindness means to me, it’s unconditional. The giver expects nothing substantial in return. There is no quid pro quo. In a way I had cried out in pain and others (you) responded with concern, warmth and love. Our innate human capacity for compassion.

The struggle I face with my depression is one based on overcoming a deep sense of low-worth. Simply put, I believe I have little of value to offer except a deeply flawed character with the tendency to harmfully affect my world around me. To receive unconditionally contrasting expressions of the opposite truth from so many people has undoubtedly helped me shift these self-destructive views I hold. Not only were these acts of kindness helpful during my hospital recovery, but they continue to be the case. In a box on a shelf next to the desk where I’m writing this I have every one of the cards and letters I have received in hospital and since. I dip into this box whenever I feel my mood beginning to dip. The written affirmations of love and concern for me will forever hold value.

Likewise too, I continue to receive messages of love and support through my social media outlets, in particular on Twitter. Here I receive nothing but overwhelming recognition for who I am and the life I live. Only once have I had to respond to a hurtful comment about my depression. Everyday I interact with my global community, I receive far more in return than I could ever expect or wish for. Everyday I’m thankful for the unconditional warmth I receive, even if it’s the simple act of acknowledging my contribution with a ‘like’. There are folks who I know I’ll never meet who show me incredible depths of kindness through their words and their attention to my presence within this online world.

Then too, there is the unconditional professional compassion I received and continue to receive from the psychiatric carers involved in my recovery. Here, the doctors, the nursing staff and support staff have chosen a profession where they will care for others, many in deep distress. I recognise the selflessness involved in their work where they give of themselves so others may recover. I am deeply grateful for their innate humanness given to me within the professional context of the hospital psychiatric ward where the intention was maintaining my safety and enhancing my recovery. When thanked to a person they replied that they were merely doing their job. I hope they know there to be an element of untruth to this response because they are special individuals.

Receiving kindness, particularly when in the depths of my depression can be tough as well as heart warming. There is a juxtaposition between acknowledging I am loved and recognised to believing the kindness to be unwarranted. While it is important for me to understand I hold worth for others, it is extremely difficult for me to believe this for myself. This then is where much of my struggle lies and indeed, it is a horrendous struggle at times. The fact kindness shown to me as a constant, is consistent and is forever unconditional is instrumental in helping me slowly shift the destructive beliefs I hold.

This kindness becomes a powerful reference point with which to base my recovery.

As per my ability to self-criticise, I do give myself a hard time for not always acknowledging acts of kindness shown to me. This may be in the form of a failure to respond to messages, Tweets, Facebook posts or cards and gifts. In the depths of my struggles and with huge amount of contact I receive, I find it difficult to physically keep on top of what I term to be ‘my admin’. Days and weeks will go by while I fight my depression, all the while building a deepening sense of guilt about not having responded to the kindness I’ve received. To this day I find myself shuddering with unhappiness with my lack of what I think to be the good grace to respond. It’s difficult to make amends for this except to focus my energy on my recovery in the knowledge this is what people are hoping for me.

It goes without saying I am deeply and truly grateful for all I have received from family, friends, social media contacts, professionals and strangers. Thank you seems such an inadequate expression but in our English language, those two words carry the greatest weight for me. I cannot (and will not) single out any specific expressions of kindness I’ve received and I hope for everyone who reached out to me, you know you have touched my life and you helped me make the decision to live and not to die.

Thank you.

World Mental Health Awareness Week 2020 - Monday

The theme for this years World Mental Health Awareness Week is kindness. This appeals to me greatly and I hope to expand on this when I write a daily blog over the coming week. My intention is to mark this week with personal insights into living with and recovering from severe mental health issues. Having kindness as the theme will certainly assist me in remaining grounded in one of my strongest recovery tenets, this being “be kind to myself”.

It’s probably best if I write an update about my recovery so far. It’s difficult to believe this time last year I was in hospital suffering from the worst episode of depression I had encountered. Indeed, I had attempted to end my life by jumping from the Isle of Mull ferry. You can read about this incident from an earlier blog post here. This hospital admission was tough for me but it provided me with the best opportunity for recovery I had experienced in many years. I returned home after three months on the ward with a renewed sense of self and a determination to overcome my illness.

As is often the case, the few months after hospital are the most hopeful for me and indeed, it seemed as if opportunities were falling into my lap. We made a significant change to our lifestyle by moving ashore from seven years of living on a yacht. This in itself was a huge investment in my recovery process because I hadn’t realised how insular my life had become on the boat. With recovery comes aspirations and I confidently made plans for the months to come and the following year ahead.

I wasn’t alone. I continued to receive generously warm professional support from my Community Psychiatric Nurse and regular appointments with the Psychiatrist. My wife too, as always, was the bedrock in assisting me maintain clarity and remain grounded when instability threatened. My wider family too were just a phone call away with their expressions of love and support. Friends and online acquaintances provided me with friendship and connection which helped me gain a sense of myself in the world.

The months leading up to the Christmas and New Year passed in a blur and I find it difficult to remember anything of note from that period. Mostly I recall a huge sense of relief of having made it out of the crisis I had found myself in earlier in the year.

I think my mood was dipping before Christmas but in the January of this year, I descended into a bout of deep depression. This time there was no catalyst, nothing I could define as a trigger. The winter months have always been tough for me but this itself was not the cause. It was another battle with my inner demons and my existential angst. The spectre of suicide became a concern for me again and this time, because I had made the attempt almost a year before, I knew I had it within me to carry through my desire to take my life. Quite simply, I believed once more, I have nothing to offer and my presence in the world is a burdensome waste. Allied with this was the increasing exhaustion of continually fighting to remain alive, indeed , merely function. Because I dipped so low again, I was on stand by for another hospital admission to keep me safe.

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Thankfully, and for no discernible reason, I have climbed out of the black pit I lived in since Christmas. It has been as recent as two or three weeks I have lost all thoughts of suicide and self-destructive thinking. I find myself enjoying my engagement with the world again. Hope is welling up within me once more and this is expressed in my increased activity. My connection with the outdoors has been a constant through my life which has served to enhance it even when I’m at my lowest. However, it’s always a sound indication of my recovery levels when I notice my positive presence in the outdoor realm. This is the first step to regaining a sense of self-worth. Despite the inhibitive lockdown, I have managed some wonderful long walks where I have relished my immersion within the wild landscapes I’m fortunate to live close to, even wild camping one night a week.

In an attempt to break my cycle of depression, earlier this year I had announced 2020 to be my year of adventure. I made a fairly good start too by bivouacking in some pretty challenging weather conditions (and enjoying this!). However, frustratingly, the pandemic brought me up short and like everyone else, I have been twiddling my thumbs aching to get back out in my kayak and venturing further afield. Despite my inactivity, I have used this time to evaluate the importance of adventure and wildness in my life. This time has been helpful for me to write about this and to plan future expeditions. Moreover, I have been honing the incredibly useful process of mindfulness, particularly during my periods of lockdown outdoor exercise.

I am in recovery from my depression, an almost continual and fluctuating process. At long last, once more, I see my potential and recognise my value. The key is maintaining this awareness and strengthening the foundations. I hope by sharing my insights every day this week, I will help raise awareness of what it means to live with chronic life threatening depression and the continual hope of recovery from this.

The Man Who Jumped From A Ferry - Epilogue

Epilogue

Now I’m out of hospital, homeostasis is not an option. Keeping things, the same in my life will not address the fundamental sources for my depression. During the three months in hospital, I had plenty of time to evaluate how I live. With the help of my CBT therapist, I clarified the changes, when made, I determined would help keep me in robust good health.

Change can be challenging. Remaining within my comfort zone may seem safe, but doing so, continues to expose me to the familiar, and thus comfortable, elements which may stunt my recovery process. In much of my life, I haven’t been content to remain in my comfort zone. My many sea kayaking adventures are a testament to this. There were innumerable moments during these expeditions where I could have taken the safest path but instead chose the more arduous. The rewards for doing so were always incredibly richer.

I identified the key element in how I live which hinders my pursuit of joy in life as being loneliness. I miss day to day contact with others. I miss seeing my friends. I miss having friends to visit and stay. I miss sharing my love of the outdoors with friends and others. My outgoing and richly blessed online life cannot sustain this for me. There are many occasions where I find myself aching to meet Twitter friends for real, to chat, to share time with. Yet, it is through Twitter where I find my most intimate connections with others. It is where daily, I am recognised and valued. Of course, it is not possible to meet people in reality – I would have to travel the world to do so.

I can make changes in how I live which will enhance the possibilities for me to connect with others. The fundamental change is one which carries the greatest potential for loss and sadness for me. It requires me to give up on what I have long believed sustained me but in fact, I have sadly identified, is a major limiting factor in my life.

This is living on our yacht.

We have therefore decided to move ashore. The key reasons for this huge decision are these. I am isolated from others when I’m aboard on our mooring in Tobermory Bay. There is no chance of anyone dropping by and there are times when I can spend a week on board without any contact with others apart from my wife. The only contact I have is an online virtual one. This then leads me to become attached to my laptop, searching my timelines for any recognition for my existence. Although I purport to live a free and healthy outdoor life, this is in truth not the case. I am often cooped up in our saloon, sitting in the same spot all day. Only moving to make coffee or visit the heads. My wonderful photos often trawled from my numerous photographic catalogues. Of course, I do get out and about. I take the dog for a walk and there are times when I get my act together and go kayaking.

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Yacht Life

This leads onto another debilitating factor regarding living on our boat in the bay. To get ashore we must row one of small dinghies. This means anything we need to transport ashore must be packed to keep it dry, and loaded in the small boat, rowed ashore, lumbered up onto the shore. There are many times when arriving at the shore, I have realised I have forgotten something on the boat which needed to be brought over. For example, the scutter in taking stuff ashore often demotivates me to the point I’ll choose not to go kayaking. Additionally, if I do go kayaking, there’s not much room aboard to dry my wet kit. All this occurs when we are on the mooring. In the winter months, we are berthed alongside one of the pontoon docks in the harbour marina.

This leads into another aspect which I have increasingly found challenging for me. Living on the boat through the winter. Winter is not a good time of year for me at the best of times. It’s when my mood is most likely to lessen to the point where I’m bordering on a depressive episode. Winter here in Tobermory can be tough. The winds often blow from a quarter which makes living aboard uncomfortable because of the noise and movement. When one of the many winter gales passes through, I can be guaranteed very little sleep. Another major factor which I’m increasingly finding challenging is keeping on top of dampness through the winter months. Condensation is a problem leading to things becoming mouldy and damaged as a result. We attempt to keep on top of this but it’s a never ending task. In the mornings I can be woken by large drips of condensation falling on my head from the window above me. With the heating we use, the boat is generally warm and cosy. We don’t suffer from being cold but with heating comes condensation.

Finally, I have come to accept I’m not a worthwhile handy-person. There are innumerable maintenance tasks which are required to keep the boat functional. For some reason, I find it extremely challenging to keep on top of these and ultimately perform them to a high quality. I accept I’m self-critical of myself, but this aspect does weigh heavily on me. It is an issue which I ruminate about and can build within me as a negative force.

There will be a huge amount I’ll miss about living on the boat. The first one, and this is probably the key one, is my loss of identity. I’m known as LifeAfloat to my many followers in my online world. Moving off the boat removes me from this attribution. I will personally miss acknowledging myself as a yacht live-aboard. An important part of my personal identity will be given up. This saddens me.

I will miss the elemental aspect of living on the boat. This is the deep connection I have developed with the weather, the sea, the tides, the birdlife and the boat herself. I will miss falling asleep to the movement created by the swell. I’ll miss becoming intimately knowledgeable about the weather and living my life, so I’m prepared for it and not too discomforted. To a certain extent I’ll miss the challenges the elements present because they remind me of my place in the world.

I’ll miss the opportunities to drop the mooring and sail off into the wide blue yonder. The itinerant lifestyle, not feeling anchored to one place. However, to be honest, we don’t do this half as much as we would like.

So, it’s with an extremely heavy heart, I’ve decided to bring to end my living on a yacht. It has been seven wonderfully interesting, joyful, challenging, and rewarding years. I’ve learned so much about living a simple life. I’ve learned much about myself too, namely I’m keen to live adventurously despite my age. Most of all, I’ve enjoyed the alternativeness of my lifestyle to the point it became a completely normal existence.

We are moving into a delightful terraced house looking over Tobermory Bay. We’ll have a garden which will offer us uninterrupted views across the bay, the Sound of Mull beyond and then the mountains of Morvern in the far distance. It’s a comfortable house with plenty of room. We were extremely fortunate to find this house, because rental accommodation in Tobermory is rare.

So, what are the opportunities?

I will have a room as my ‘office’ where I’ll write without having to clear my stuff away when we need to eat. We’ll enjoy all the aspects living in a house as opposed to living on a boat. Namely, no condensation. We’ll have a spare en-suite guest room.

“There are many Twitter and Facebook friends I want to meet and get to know. Additionally, it’ll be so much easier to then share some wee adventures together; kayaking, walking, exploring Mull. ”

The latter is extremely important! We hope this will mean we no longer live in isolation with no visitors. We make this room available to all our friends, even those we have not yet met. I am particularly keen our house becomes a hive of visitors where we share time together and connect. There are many Twitter and Facebook friends I want to meet and get to know. Additionally, it’ll be so much easier to then share some wee adventures together; kayaking, walking, exploring Mull.

There will not be scutter involved in rowing everything ashore before I can enjoy a day out kayaking or walking. I’ll simply open the door and walk down to the quay. At the end of the day, I can wash and dry my salty wet kit without stringing it out in two small cabins. I think this means I’ll get out on the sea far more often.

When winter arrives, I won’t be struggling with the gales and the darkness as much as I would be on the boat. This will be good for my mental health.

I will invite friends around and folks can drop by. My life will become less lonely and this too will be good for my mental health.

Finally, our dear dog, Ziggy, is becoming stiff in his legs and no longer jumps with the youthful confidence he once had. Living in a house where he doesn’t have to jump into or out of the saloon will certainly benefit him.

Although I will no longer be a live-aboard, I’m not relinquishing my LifeAfloat moniker. It is my intention to spend more time on the sea in my kayak than I have ever done before. There are huge swathes of coastline for me to explore. Additionally, I will buy a traditional clinker built sea going sailing skiff. I have my eye on one already. I will do this once we have sold our yacht.

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The View We Will Enjoy

This leads into the final point. The money we’ll realise from the sale of our yacht will not disappear into the general pot. We’ll divide it equally for each of us to realise our adventure dreams. I’m formulating a huge expedition to take place in a few years. Karen for example, has always wanted to trek through Iceland on a pony. There are many other aspirations we wish to fulfil. The key here is the spirit of ‘Anna-Maria’, our yacht, will live on through our commitment to enjoy adventures from her sale. This fills me with excitement. The possibilities!

We have no further plans than the immediate ones we have made. We aspire to live a life with as small a footprint as we can. This move into the house is a stepping stone towards our next life adventure.

The Man Who Jumped From A Ferry - Part 2

If you are experiencing low mood or you are emotionally fragile, please be aware this article details my recent attempt to complete my suicide and my psychiatric hospitalisation. I encourage you to seek help the best way you know.

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After the Succoth ward door had clunked closed behind me, I followed the nurse to one of the side rooms off the long ward corridor. The on-call doctor joined us and a little while later Karen arrived having stopped off at the local supermarket to buy me some essential toiletries and a few bags of sweets. There followed a lengthy process where I was asked a number questions about my life, my experience of depression, and to describe the events which led to my suicide attempt. I was exhausted and it was a laborious process, especially recounting my ‘story’ again. I understood the need for a thorough assessment of my needs.

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The Long Corridor

Eventually it was time for me to be admitted and it was with some relief I knew this was going to happen. I had been fearful I would be turned away. I’m not sure why. Karen left to head back to Oban and stay with her sister. It was in this moment I had a flash of extreme guilt for what I had done. I was concerned about her driving through the dark back from where we had travelled. I could see the fatigue and worry in her face. I found myself saying over again, “I’m sorry.” It was an emotional goodbye and then I was alone with the nurse and being shown to my bed in a four person ward.

As is the process when I am admitted, my belongings were inspected, and everything accounted for on a form which I signed at the end. Anything deemed potentially dangerous was taken away and locked in a small storeroom in a basket which became mine for the duration. The items which were removed were only my belt and a charging cable for my phone. If I had my shoes on, the laces would have gone too. To be honest, I wasn’t affronted by this seemingly intrusive management of my personal belongings. I have enough experience of psychiatric ward life to understand the drill, and anyway, I somehow felt secure knowing that means of possible self-harm have been removed from me.

Most of the nursing staff on night duty when I arrived knew me and likewise, I them. Quite bizarrely I found myself smiling ruefully when we greeted each other as if we were old friends. This was my third admission here after all, so we knew each other pretty well by now.

I was shown into the ward where I would be staying for the coming days and weeks. I find this moment to be a slightly worrying one. It’s the moment I meet the three other occupants I will be sharing this space with. Because it was after ten at night by the time I was properly admitted, the lights were low and one of the three was already asleep on the bed next to mine. The other two seemed to me to be no more than teenagers and each had an I-Pad from which they were competing to see who had the loudest volume for the films they were watching. I realised with a sunken heart; this was going to be a ward where the understanding of the needs of others would be challenged. When the nurse showing me to my bed offered me a sleeping tablet, I accepted this with alacrity.

I knew my way around the facilities so there was no need for me to be given a quick guided tour. Instead I was left to my devices. I sat on my bed and emitted a huge sigh. This was it. The moment I was on my own again and I was desperately low. My body huddled over and my head hung low. Tears welled and ran hotly, noiselessly down my cheeks. It was a confusing range of thoughts and emotions which crowded me. To be honest, I didn’t give much thought to my suicide attempt. I was more concerned with where I was, that moment in my life. I’ve never been incarcerated in prison, but I imagined that moment of realisation all hopes for the coming days and weeks, connection with family, and essentially the freedom to walk and explore anywhere had to be forgotten. Any hope of regaining all of these and more were given up. Or so it seemed.

I was a voluntary patient which meant, technically I suppose, I could discharge myself any time I wanted. I was not under section and bound by law to remain on the ward. However, it was made clear to me this was the best place for me in my condition and for the first few days I was not allowed off the ward under any circumstance. It was likely too; it would be some time before I would be trusted to leave the ward on my own. Until this moment, I would have to be accompanied by a member of staff if I wanted a walk or a visit to the shops.

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Comfortable Bed

I placed my scant belongings in the drawers beside my bed, stripped down to my underpants and climbed under the sheet and blanket. This moment, like so many since arriving on the ward, was a familiar experience leading me to think I had never really been away. It was another instant for me to grasp the fact I was here again. A wave of personal failure flooded through me as I nestled myself into the crisp clean sheets and lay my head on the comfortable pillow. Despite the noise of explosions and monsters being defeated from the two films, the cacophony of thoughts running through my head and my overwhelming despondency, I was soon asleep. I was exhausted.

I awoke in the early hours of the morning with a start and my mind was instantly alert. My levels of anxiety were heightened, and I found myself ruminating on what had occurred the day before and again, the hopelessness of my life. I lay in my bed, eyes wide open working through my options. I really did not want to be in hospital again. I felt such a failure. As daylight broke, I made up my mind once more to attempt to take my life. The ward I was in was almost opposite the nurse’s station but even still, I surreptitiously slunk into the adjacent shower and toilet room with a blanket I had pulled off my bed. The ward and bathroom facilities were constructed in a way it’s impossible for anyone to hang themselves. For example, the curtain rails around each bed are held in place with magnets and would detach if any weight was placed on them.

I had worked a way in which I could make another attempt to end my life by hanging myself. I tied a knot in one end of the blanket and placed this on the outside top of the bathroom door and then closed the door. With the other end I attempted to create a slip knot noose, but the blanket was too bulky. I then tied it around my neck and attempted to hang from it so I would choke. As I was fumbling with this futile process, the door burst open and I tumbled to the floor. Hands grabbed me and I was hustled without any grace back to my bed. A nurses voice sternly said to me, “No, we will not let you do this!”

A short while later I was taken into a side room and asked what I was trying to achieve. In no uncertain terms I was told not to attempt anything like this again because if I was going to do this on the ward, there was no point in me being here. This seemed to be a harsh implied threat, but in that instance, I realised with chagrin, I wouldn’t help myself by behaving in this fashion. The rest of the conversation was far more sympathetic. I agreed to never attempt self-harm again while I was on the ward. For the rest of the day, I maintained a self-imposed low profile, more out of embarrassment than anything else.

The following day I began the familiar process of settling into the comfortable routine of ward life. 8am was breakfast, 8.30am were the morning medications, 9.30 was the diary meeting when activities for the day were outlined and who the nurses for the various geographical areas of Argyll and Bute were, and finally any requests from the patients. These were invariably a lift down to the Co-Op in the pool car. And inevitably, the response to this was – only if possible, because of staff constraints. Straight after this meeting was a chance to take part in a relaxation session or Qi Gong. (I rarely attended these). 10am the tea and coffee trolley was wheeled into the communal area. 12midday was lunch. 2pm out came the tea and coffee trolley again. 5pm was dinner. 8pm the tea and coffee trolley made another appearance. Then it was the long haul for me to 10pm and night-time medication. During the day there were usually group sessions and Occupational Therapy creativity sessions.

Somehow each day passed smoothly and quickly. Except the long drag from 8pm to 10pm. By the evening I was desperate for my bed and as soon as I had received my meds at 10, I was not long climbing into the crisp sheets. As each day passed, so did the weeks. These then blended into months without any difficulty.

Every Tuesday I would have my meeting with the consultant Psychiatrist.  I generally looked forward to these appointments because the Psychiatrist was a star! I thought so anyway. Despite the small room accommodating him, a nurse and a junior doctor, his attention was focussed on me. He was insightful to the point of brilliance. I thought so anyway. A few of his observations cut right through negative beliefs I held about myself. What was most important to me in these sessions was the way he worked with me. It was always clear he was the psychiatric expert, but I soon came to realise he saw me as my own expert. I was the person who understood myself the most and therefore I was always included in my treatment options. He would never decide a path of action without checking it through with me first. Sometimes of course I relied on his experience and wisdom to make the choice for me, but even then, he managed to do this in a way where I left the room at the end thinking the decisions were mutually agreed on. I trusted him completely.

Although the treatment emphasis was centred on medication as the primary intervention for my depression, a lot of weight was given to alternative courses of action. I was encouraged to go for a forty minute walk with a nurse at least once a day. I was also directed towards the group sessions which explored coping with heightened emotions, behavioural activation techniques and hearing voices. Then there was Occupational Therapy (OT) every day. It was because of these daily activities and the hourly routines the days slipped by.

To begin with, I found existing in the four bed ward I had been placed in pretty challenging. The two youngsters had no sense of consideration regarding noise, especially late into the night. I found myself retreating into my shell, hunkering down and attempting not allowing these stressors to get through to me. As an old hand at in-patient psychiatric living, I was mindful of the fact that each one of us was in hospital for our own reasons. To become irritated and judgemental would not help me at all. It was better, and easier, to accept everyone at face value and look upon them as a person and as a fellow patient like me. If there were folks I found difficult to be in the presence of, I had the simple option of finding another place on the ward to hang out. Generally, I kept myself to myself. I felt the need to be quiet and to occupy myself beside my bed with reading, colouring in a mindfulness colouring book, completing puzzles or surfing the world with my I-Pad. (The ward had Wi-Fi for the patients).

About eight days later I was moved into another four bed ward where the mood was completely the opposite. Each of us content to maintain a quietened atmosphere, to the point of not allowing the ward door to slam shut as it normally did. Also, the four of us related well with each other and chatted amiably about our lives out of hospital. We never talked of our individual reasons for our admission.

It took me nearly two months to begin to noticeably see (feel) an improvement in my mood. It took even longer for my levels of anxiety to become manageable. In the early stages of my admission, I expressed my continued desire to end my life, passionately angry about being cheated at being rescued. There were many times I found myself reduced to heartfelt sobs of hot tears; my body wracked by the strength of my emotion. The nurses I spoke to each day in the privacy of one of the side rooms patiently and compassionately listened to my exhortations. Their interjections were respectful and always helped me notice any glimmers of hope amongst the travails I was pouring out. Their insights were often pertinently enough to bring me up short with new awareness. These one to one chats were invaluable to me. I rarely sought the nurses out to speak, it was they who asked me if I wanted a chat. Sometimes a nurse would sit on my bed alongside me talking about my interests, such as sea kayaking, mountaineering, Scottish history and the Isle of Mull. These chats subtly helped me realise my passions in my life and in fact, I realised some remarkable achievements during recent years. It takes great effort on my part to embody this awareness.

Slowly, surely, step by step, my illness was diminishing. It took some time for me to accept my depression as an illness which ravaged my ability to view the world in technicolour instead of bleak monochrome. I allowed myself to be ‘ill’ and understood I had a place in hospital for as long as it would take for me to be cured. Up until this point I carried the guilt I was taking a bed when there were more deserving patients who could use it.

I was eventually given my own room with en-suite facilities. By this time, I was functioning well. I devoured easy to read whodunnit books, sometimes one a day! My parents kindly sent me two books a week and they did not last long. I also enjoyed my colouring book of wonderful scenes of West Coast Scotland landmarks and scenery. One of the joys of having my own space was if I woke early, the ability to read without fear of waking others. It took me until almost my discharge before I began to sleep soundly through the night. The downside of course was solitude. I missed the blether and craic of the four bed ward. However, the benefits of enjoying my space outweighed what I had given up.

My life on the ward was seamless. The weeks blurred into each other where bed change Saturdays seemed to come around all to rapidly. From the beginning of my stay I developed a rigorous rhythm to my days. I would be out of bed by seven in the morning, showered and bed made by eight. I refused to have my bed made by the nursing staff, including bed change days. I always attended the morning meeting even though I had nothing to contribute. I liked to be in the front of the queue for meds. I would make my way to the room where they were administered a good five minutes before time. I was always in bed by ten. If I had taken a ‘sleeper’ for the night, I would curl up and go straight to sleep. If I had declined one, I would read in my bed until my eyes were drooping. This always felt deliciously indulgent to me.

Mealtimes were a different matter. I preferred to wait until most folks had been served before making my way to the serving hatch. We each had chosen our meals from a good menu of options a couple of days before, so there was no danger of no food. I invariably chose a vegetarian option because I found these tastier. I never ate potatoes and loved the broccoli and the sprouts when these were available. I rarely took a pudding but if it was jam sponge or sticky toffee, then I couldn’t resist. Sometimes I would have seconds! All my meals were eaten hastily. I rarely lingered at the table.

I was a loner on the ward. I found gatherings in the communal areas too much for me. I never watched television or streamed films. My place was beside my bed unless I was attending one of the group sessions or OT. For a short while there was a card school in the evenings which I sat and watched being played. The banter was lively, and I found it funny the betting currency were the sachets of mealtime condiments.

Halfway through my stay, I started Cognitive Behavioural Technique (CBT) sessions with one of the nurses who was a skilled CBT therapist. In the past I had ashamedly discounted the therapy because of my training as a Transactional Analyst with psychotherapy speciality. CBT was looked upon as being a rather shallow approach to working with emotional distress. After the first session with the therapist, I realised with astonishment, I was going to benefit hugely from this work. I threw myself into every session and the ‘homework’ which was set afterwards. Sometimes it was tough going and it unlocked some painful long held beliefs about myself which took me time to assimilate. One of these surrounded the issue of assertiveness. I found this incredibly difficult and for a week, I was destabilised by this new awareness. I struggled with the notion of embodying assertiveness for myself. However, I worked this through, and today, now I’m home again, it’s this one attribute which I’m aware has helped me the most. Week by week because of my CBT, I sensed myself positively changing.

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Polymer Clay Necklace

There was a moment during my time when my medication was altered. One antidepressant was changed to another. A day into taking this new drug I noticed alarming side effects. My balance and co-ordination were knocked for six and I would stumble and wobble my way around – as if I were drunk. The other alarming effect was experiencing priapism (you’ll need to look this up if you don’t know since I’m not going to describe it). This was extremely painful, uncomfortable and embarrassing. I did joke with one of the male nurses that I should be proud of this condition now I was in my mid-fifties. This drug was hastily stopped, and I returned to the original antidepressant. Unfortunately, this process set back my recovery time because I had to be weened off one before beginning the other, have a few days on nothing, and then begin the new one incrementally.  

I’ve mentioned Occupational Therapy a fair bit. This was my saviour during my time on the ward. I enjoy being creative and I threw myself into several satisfying projects. I made jewellery out of air dried clay. I also made a chess set out of the clay for the ward since the usual one had been lost. I discovered the joy of polymer clay, and after watching various You Tube instructional videos, I was creating some lovely jewellery. These sessions were relaxed and convivial where the OT staff encouraged conversation which avoided our illnesses and treatment. There was often much laughter. Creativity helped me find value in myself.

I enjoyed one to one walks along the delightful woodland trails behind the hospital with various nurses. One person seemed to enjoy my company because he always sought me out to go for a walk. We shared a love for wild Scotland. When Karen visited, I was allowed out with her and we usually walked the woodland trails too. When my confidence grew, we went further afield for a walk and stopped at a café for a bite to eat. Eventually I was allowed time off the ward unaccompanied. To begin with, it was for only half an hour and no further than the woodland. As my trustworthiness was accepted the time limit was extended as was the range I could walk. It took me quite a while before I went to the local supermarket on my own. Being allowed out on my own was daunting to begin with. I had to suppress urges to disappear, although I knew this wouldn’t occur because of the promise I had made at the beginning of my stay.

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Ziggy Delighted to See Me

Karen dedicatedly visited me every weekend. This meant her catching the last ferry on a Friday, reaching the hospital in time to see me on the ward. Sleeping in the car and latterly a tent, spending Saturday with me and some of Sunday. Ziggy, our lovely dog, was always delighted to see me. Karen always brought me goodies in the form of packets of wine gums and packets of dried mango. Always a treat for me. Sadly, many of her visits were tough for both of us. I was often uncommunicative and tetchy. There were often long periods of difficult silence. However, it was always wonderful to be in her presence and I missed her during the week. Our daily texting and sometime phone calls did not help me miss her any less. My parents visited a couple of times, driving up from Herefordshire with their caravan and staying locally. My daughter, Beth flew up from London early on and my son Chris, made a monumental effort by travelling by coach from Exeter, spending only a few hours with me, and then retuning home the same way. I was also blessed to receive innumerable cards from friends, many I have yet to meet. I am humbled by the love and compassion I was gifted from my wide circle of friends I knew first-hand, and others from my Twitter existence. I felt a large amount of guilt for not replying to them with thanks.

Depression is exhausting for me. Even though I wasn’t extensively active on the ward, I found myself consumed with fatigue a lot of the time. Essentially, I was fighting within myself. My thoughts and beliefs of self-hatred overwhelmed rationality but I fought back, attempting to shift these negative judgements away from me. This fight to overcome my bouts of introspection and rumination was a constant for much of my time on the ward. As time passed, these became easier but nonetheless I was often consumed by periods of ‘black thoughts’. Much of my thinking centred on guilt. The beliefs about my being a father, a husband, a son, a brother, an uncle, a friend, a colleague, even online associates through Twitter. I could only see what I perceived to be my negative manner in how I related with people. Extreme guilt for past wrongs and slights. Shame for mistakes and misdemeanours. I felt a huge amount of shame and guilt for embarrassing my RNLI Tobermory colleagues through my suicide attempt. No matter how much the nurses attempted to guide my damaging beliefs away from my thinking, I would invariably respond with the classic “yes but” rationalisation. When I look back now, I think it must have been hard work for the nurses to chat to me. (There’s an unfounded negative belief right there.) They were always patient and compassionate with me.

My depression this time was deep. Deeper than I had experienced before. Now I knew I had it within me to carry through my desire to take my life, I couldn’t think of much else. In the early stages of my admission, my thoughts always ended with the inevitable belief, I must die, I want to die. If I didn’t, I’ll forever be wracked by this illness and I could no longer live like this. I found myself angry with the misconception I was keeping myself alive purely for the benefit of others. Could they not understand the pain I was experiencing? Could they not allow me to end this all? After all, once I was gone, they would no longer have to put up with my depressive moods.

This belief I must die was roundly challenged by the consultant who asked me one day, “If you didn’t have your depression, would you still want to die?” I remember sitting there my mouth agape attempting to come up with one of my usual negative ripostes. It dawned on me; I didn’t want to die. In fact, I wanted to live a life of potential and hope. I think it was in that moment a shift occurred within me and I understood my responsibility in working towards my recovery. I couldn’t expect the hospital staff to cure me, this was a process I needed to accept control of.

The CBT certainly helped me engage with my recovery process. So did past awareness from my sea kayaking adventures where I had encountered many profoundly metaphoric experiences. Probably the most powerful of these being the awareness – ‘this will pass’. The difficulty, the discomfort, the anguish, the pain, the depression will all eventually disappear, and I will be strong again.

My eventual recovery on the ward as it has always been in the past, was a swift process, happening within two weeks. The CBT sessions were ending, my mood had considerably lifted, and my anxiety levels had stabilised. I was allowed home for a two night stay. This proved to me I was ready to leave hospital. In fact, I suddenly realised I did not want to be there anymore. Within a few days of returning to the ward from this home leave, I was discharged and away the very next day.

I had been in hospital for three months. It did not seem this long, though I did realise with some sadness, I had missed most of the summer. It was a joy to return home to Tobermory and now as I type this, I recognise how far I have travelled since that desperate act at the beginning of May, when I was the ‘Man Who Jumped From A Ferry’.

The Man Who Jumped From A Ferry - Part 1

If you are experiencing low mood or you are emotionally fragile, please be aware this article details my recent attempt to complete my suicide. I encourage you to seek help the best way you know.

This account is not intended to be sensational or glorify my actions. I hope by writing this it offers insight into the dreadfulness of depression.

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I sat in the passenger seat of our car in the loading queue for the Craignure to Oban ferry, morosely gazing at the MV ‘Isle of Mull’ as she hove into view and began her elaborate manoeuvring alongside the Craignure dock. A stevedore expertly performed his task throwing heaving lines with consummate ease to the ferry crew and the thick plaited mooring ropes were secured and the ship gracefully pulled into her mooring for unloading. My wife, Karen, had wandered over to the ticket office to purchase our tickets. I was alone in the car feeling dreadful. We were on our way to the Central Argyll Community Hospital for my psychiatric assessment, hopefully leading to admission on the psychiatric ward.

I looked up at the looming hulk of the ferry, casting my gaze along the external passenger walkway leading to the stern viewing deck. I knew then what I had to do.

~

Turning the clock back a few days, I recall the circumstances leading to this desperately low point in my life. Each of these instances melded into the other in a timescale which rushed past me at a seemingly uncontrollable pace. In describing them, it’s not my intention to apportion blame or responsibility. This is mine to carry, but this is an explanation of how I interpreted what I experienced. It’s important for me to do this in detail because not to do so, would diminish how my wish and my decision to end my life evolved.

A week or so earlier, to my joy I had been offered a job with the Tobermory Distillery as a part time tour guide. This was my first paid employment in eighteen months, and it was a role I was delighted to attain, whisky being one of my personal pleasures. The arrangements surrounding my start date were loose and confused which ought to have alerted me to what happened next. A week later I was sitting in the queue to board a ferry back to the Isle of Mull when I received a phone call from someone in the Tobermory Distillery’s parent company. In no uncertain terms I was told the job wasn’t mine to have been given and there was no role for me. It was a call out of the blue and because no reason was given to why the job wasn’t mine, my internal response was one of catastrophic thinking. I was angry too and turned to Twitter to express my ire, including naming Tobermory Distillery directly. I made an unsubstantiated assumption the reason for the job being removed was because I’m open about my mental health travails and this worked against me. There followed an outpouring of support from many of my Twitter followers along with a few responses cautioning restraint on my part before I knew the facts.

I then received an email from my paddling partner for a forthcoming kayak expedition raising funds for the R.N.L.I. asking me to reconsider my Tweet since he feared this would reflect badly on him and his professional brand. Regrettably, and I sincerely do regret this, I telephoned him and lost control of my temper. My issue centred on my freedom and identity being governed by another. On deeper reflection, this loss of identity to the will of another is an aspect of my life I have long struggled with. As a result of this tempestuous phone call, I received an email from him letting me know he no longer wanted to paddle with me, and would I see to it that money raised from a few of his Project Patrons was repaid.

I was devastated. Although I hadn’t known him long, I trusted him enough to be totally candid about the darkest depths of my struggle with depression and I understood from him, he would stand with me if I faced these demons during our expedition. My interpretation of this sad situation was again governed by my uncontrollable catastrophic thinking. This was the primary trigger which propelled me towards the decision to take my life. My rationale being, if being candidly open about my depression does not serve me, there is no point in me living. Essentially, I believed myself to be totally useless, a destroyer of friendships and an overall burden to those around me. In the absence of any further contact from my friend, I lost perspective and told Karen of my intention to kill myself. We live on a yacht and my intention was to slide into the sea in the dark of the night and drift away.

As per my ‘safe plan’ when I reach this critical stage of a depressive episode, we visited the local GP together. Thankfully he took control of the situation when he clearly understood Karen’s fear and her stated inability to give the twenty four hour care I required. He made an emergency appointment with the Community Psychiatric Nurse later that morning. I know Mairi very well, often seeing her once a week for support, sometimes twice a week when my mood is very low. When we met with Mairi, Karen again explained her fears. Equally I was unwilling to commit to keeping myself safe. My mind was made up and my intention was clear. Mairi contacted the Community Mental Health team and an assessment was arranged later that day at Succoth Ward (psychiatric ward) at the Mid-Argyll Community Hospital in Lochgilphead. Living on the Isle of Mull, this meant taking a ferry from Craignure to Oban on the mainland. It’s a popular and busy route and without a booking it’s not always possible to get aboard with a car. After hastily throwing together some clothes for a potential hospital admission, we were on our way to Craignure hoping we would be fitted on to the next sailing.

Despite the hope I would be admitted into hospital and the profound relief of safety I would experience, I remained deeply miserable, considering myself a complete failure for reaching this position yet again. This was going to be my third psychiatric admission to this hospital. In the last twenty years I have accumulated well over one of those years as a psychiatric inpatient in various hospitals. I had no hope whatsoever my life would brighten, and I would be forever cursed with my depression. Since the New Year, I knew I was maintaining only a couple of steps ahead of a deep depressive episode. The kayaking expedition was a serious attempt to pull myself further away from my looming depression. Losing this was a major blow.

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The MV ‘Isle of Mull’

This is where I found myself sitting in the car waiting to board the ferry and from Oban, an onward hour long journey to the hospital. As I scanned the passenger walkway and the observation deck on the ferry, I made my decision and formulated a plan. I would leap from somewhere on the deck hoping I wouldn’t be seen, and I would drift through the sea into hypothermic oblivion. My mind made up; I remember a sense of complete calmness suffusing my being. It was a release of my pent up pain. I kept my decision to myself and when Karen returned to the car with the tickets it was with a sense of disembodiment, I maintained a conversation with her.

We boarded and followed our routine of finding a seat in the ferry atrium, a place on the ship where dogs are allowed. We rarely find a seat elsewhere, preferring to sit quietly with mugs of coffee watching the excited tourists and the more sanguine islanders wandering from the restaurant to other parts of the ship. On this occasion though, we didn’t buy coffee or any snacks as we normally did. Once the ship was under way, Karen was oblivious to my neck craning manoeuvres to ascertain where were during the crossing. My plan was to jump into the churned tidal waters off the southern tip of the Isle of Lismore. Twenty minutes into the journey I worked out we were close to this point, so I simply said to Karen I was off to the loo, scratched the top of her head and wandered off. I didn’t look back.

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The Sea Off The South of Lismore On A Calm Day

I hastily found my way onto the starboard walkway (right hand side of the ship) where there were too many people gazing down the Firth of Lorne towards a cluster of far off isles. I climbed the stairs to the stern observation deck where again there was a cluster of passengers on the starboard side but only two people in the far corner of the port side (left hand side). Descending the stairs on the other side of the ship to the portside walkway I was relieved to see nobody there. I wandered along to a point where I found I could stand on small flat section of deck after climbing the guard rail and leap with ease into the sea. To make sure I was truly alone I dashed back up the stairs to the stern deck to check if anyone was making their way towards my walkway. I noticed the couple over by the far rail and realised there was a good chance they might see me. I also saw the MV ‘Clansman’, another Caledonian MacBrayne ferry following not far astern. There was nothing I could do about this and I made my way back to my chosen spot. I took off my fleece jacket, so I was clothed in my trainers, trousers and thin t-shirt. I placed my mobile phone on the jacket. Without a second thought I climbed the rail and stood on the edge of the ship. Beneath me the wake of the ship creamed alluringly. Without hesitation I leapt.  

I felt no fear and instinctively pinched my nose with my right hand and held my right arm into my body with my left hand – just as I used to instruct students to do in my Outward Bound days when leaping into deep river pools from the rocks. I forcefully hit the sea feet first and felt pain shoot up from my backside. In a strange moment of ruefulness, I considered the bruise I would eventually have. All this as I disappeared under the water, allowing myself sink as deeply as I could to avoid being seen from the departing ship. The water did not feel cold. I surfaced in the rough and tumble of the wake just as the ship’s stern was slipping away from me. I looked up the stern deck and hoped I hadn’t been spotted by the couple by the rail. I couldn’t be certain, but it seemed to me my jump had gone unnoticed. The next thing which entered my mind was the approaching MV Clansman only half a mile away. I began to wonder if I would be run down.

However, superseding these observations was an incredible sense of peace and tranquillity. I felt no regret, neither any fear too. I am home on the sea and have never viewed it as an entity I have needed to battle with and overcome. I am often awed by the surging power of the ocean, but rarely frightened by it. In this instance now, I had a deep sensation of being at home, where I would peacefully pass away. My body, naturally buoyant, kept me on the surface, causing me to be mindful of how visible I might be. I forced my lower half to sink and with this, I kept my head from my chin up above the surface. The sea was cold but not debilitatingly so. I looked back to the ‘Isle of Mull’ not fully comprehending what I had done. There was no regret, no change of mind, no sense of fear of what was to happen to me.

The ‘Clansman’ loomed above me as she passed by and I kept myself low in the sea to minimise the chance of being noticed. By now I perceived my movements slowing and my thinking was becoming muddled. The Clansman swept by, her distinctive rumbling engines pushing her forward, the sea piling up around her bow. The wash when it arrived tumbled me a little and I felt the waves pouring over my head. Still there was no sign of me having been seen and once both ships were sailing into the distance, I allowed myself to relax. The wheeling seagulls mewed above me and peace enveloped me. I was aware that I was now being pummelled by the tide race which sweeps around the tip of Lismore and Lady’s Rock. Waves cracked over me and I gave myself to the sea. All was peaceful and the anguish I’d been experiencing over the previous few days was washed away. I was serenely ready for my death.

My reverie was shaken when suddenly three loud horn blasts emitted from the ‘Isle of Mull’. I knew then, my disappearance had been noted and a rescue mission would ensue. I attempted to hasten my end by submerging myself in the hope I would be pulled far below the surface by unseen currents. However, my strength and ability had become weakened and I kept bobbing to the surface. Looking back towards the two ships, I saw they had slowed almost to a standstill and were gradually turning in my direction. The sea was sufficiently rough to make spotting my head a difficulty. The tide now had me in its grip, and I had the sensation of being pulled along through the breaking waves.

My ability to reason was slowing down and I was aware of beginning to drift in my thinking. I saw a small rescue boat speed through the waves a few hundred metres from my position and I made no attempt to hail them. I noticed too, a handsome yacht sailing close by, but the waves kept me hidden from them. The ‘Clansman’ had turned and was pointing directly towards me and I sensed the binoculared eyes high on the bridge scouring the sea around me. I knew then I would be quickly spotted. It would be a matter of minutes before I was picked up. My disappointment was palpable, and I couldn’t help feeling angry I had been cheated from death.

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The Rescue Craft Searching For Me - Photo: Hanna Capella, BBC

Minutes later I heard the small recue craft and men shouting. With practised precision the helmsman brought the craft alongside me and two pairs of hands grabbed me and without ceremony hauled me out of the water. I felt my ribs scrunch on the gunwale, and I let out a pathetic moan of pain. It had crossed my mind to attempt to fend off any attempt to rescue me but even in my increasingly befuddled state, I realised this would be foolishly futile. The helmsman gunned the outboard engine and lying in a sodden heap on the floor of the boat, I felt the thumps as the hull slammed into the troubled waves. A thermal space blanket was scrunched around me and a voice close to my right ear was shouting; “What’s your name?”. This was repeated until he could make out my gurgled and whispered response. I was now shivering uncontrollably, my cold body now exposed to the air and wind chill caused by the boat careening through the waves. I could make out some of the rescue crew’s urgent conversation, all of them agreeing it would be best if they took me straight to Oban. Looking skywards I noticed a Coastguard rescue helicopter bank and turn away back to where it had come from. Obviously, it was now known I had been rescued.

I think I had been in the sea for close to half an hour and hypothermia had set in. By all accounts I was fortunate to have survived. This was put down to my strong constitution.

I drifted off into a semi-conscious state because the next moment I was aware of was coming to in the warmth of the Oban Lifeboat cabin, enveloped by the all too familiar pungent aroma of boat and urgency. I was confused because I was now on a stretcher and wrapped in something more substantial. A familiar face loomed into view and a voice with some authority, stated he knew who I was and where he’d met me before. This had been on my 2015 sea kayak journey around Scotland when I visited each of the R.N.L.I. lifeboat stations. Thomas was the mechanic for the Troon lifeboat, and we had stayed in touch since then. Someone took my temperature and I heard them call out I was 35 degrees. My body continued to be wracked by violent shivering and it was nearly impossible to answer Thomas when he spoke to me. I clearly remember him urging me to remain awake and to think of the kayaking journey I was going to share with my paddling partner. I attempted to mumble back that the expedition plan had been shattered but my words erupted in a splurge of regurgitated sea water. I could feel the intense power of the lifeboat surging through my body and for first time I recognised a great urgency around me.

Again, my awareness of being lifted off the lifeboat and into the waiting ambulance is clouded. I can’t remember how this happened. I was beginning to fade in and out of consciousness with only a faint recollection of the wail of the vehicle’s siren and the motion around me as it made haste the short distance to Oban hospital. I think a canula was inserted into an arm by a medic with an urgent voice willing me to remain awake.

On arrival at casualty I was swept indoors where what seemed to me, a host of nurses and medical staff were waiting for me. I was gently but hastily transferred from the ambulance trolley stretcher onto a raised bed in a brightly illuminated room. I continued to shiver uncontrollably, my teeth now chattering a loud tattoo. My clothes were ripped off me, leaving me completely naked. It all seemed a complete blur to me, urgent voices, firm but gentle handling, cannulas being inserted, my temperature regularly checked, my modesty thoughtfully covered. My shivering continued and I couldn’t form any words. A hand suddenly and gently stroked my right cheek, a doctor leaning towards my head, her voice consoling me, telling me I was safe now and whatever pain I was experiencing would be taken care of. She had an Eastern European accent. Her sympathetic words unlocked my emotion and hot tears welled up and coursed down my cheeks. I cried silently while my body ached from my violent shivering. Her ministration was one of the kindest acts I have ever experienced from a stranger.

I was asked if my wife could come into the room to see me. I could only nod and soon she was there, touching my hand, her eyes expressing her fear and concern. I mumbled again and again – “I’m sorry.”

I remember then a voice asking if my spine had been checked and it was obvious this had been missed. I was immediately log rolled onto my right side, a warm pair of hands holding my head still, and fingers purposely prodded my spine. I yelped when my lower back was touched and immediately, I heard the words ‘MRI’ and ‘scan’. I was gently log rolled onto my back again, a brace placed firmly onto my neck and then I was lifted on to a waiting trolley, the medic holding my head calling the instructions. Despite my fuzzy state, I recalled how we used to practice this as mountain rescue medics in my days of being a member of various mountain rescue teams. I was aware of Mairi entering the room and touching me gently, her voice full of concern.

The trolley was trundled through echoing and brightly lit corridors of the hospital, into a lift and then quite bizarrely into what seemed to be an adjacent portacabin. The accompanying medic ruefully told me that this was a temporary arrangement while the MRI suite was being constructed. Nevertheless, I was aware of the scanner to my side. With the same purposeful gentleness, I was lifted off the trolley onto the scanner bed and instructed to keep myself perfectly still. I was still shivering, and I focussed my effort in attempting to bring this under control. The scan was quickly conducted, and it wasn’t long before I was being placed gently onto the casualty room bed again.

I was asked if I wanted to speak to the captain of the ‘Isle of Mull’ who had telephoned to ask how I was. I declined but Karen took the call and later told me he was concerned for me and wished me good health and recovery.

By now my shivering was within my control and I was increasingly becoming coherent. The doctor again ministered her wonderful kindness and told me I was to be transferred to the psychiatric ward in Lochgilphead. She said over and again, she couldn’t offer me the care I required, and I would soon be safe, and eventually I would get better. I could only nod in response, again emotion rising from within me. The sense of urgency around me was beginning to dissipate. The results from the MRI came back and I was told I hadn’t suffered damage from the jump but there was evidence of an old fracture on my spine. I was assured this would not cause me any problems. I would love to tell you this fracture was caused through some past act of daring do but I think it occurred when I was vacuuming a steep flight of stairs and I tripped on the hose, sending me tumbling to the bottom of the floor below.

I was covered with a form of bubble-wrap with large squishy plastic bubbles. A hose had been placed between my legs and warm air was blown underneath the covering to bring my temperature up. This was a rather pleasant sensation on my nether regions. With this warmth my body temperature was soon restored and the business around me was halted. Medics and nurses drifted away, leaving Karen and I alone.

There followed a slightly bizarre and uncomfortable forty five minutes while I got myself dressed in the spare clothes I had brought for the hospital and sat on the end of the bed waiting for a police car to turn up to take me through to Lochgilphead. Unfortunately, no ambulance was available for my transfer and they wouldn’t allow Karen to drive me. The police sergeant assigned to watch over me was kept busy managing his roving units through his radio and it was clear the police in Oban were having a busy time. It was mid-evening on a Friday night after all. I felt the need to make conversation with Karen, but this was desultory, and we ended up sitting together in intimate silence. From time to time a nurse would check on us and I was given a pair of hospital socks because my only pair of shoes were soaking. The policeman kept apologising and tried to engage me in conversation, at one point advising me life was worth living and not to give up. His words well meant, had no affect on me. I only nodded in response.

I was emotionally numb. I did not want to be where I was, and I felt some anger I had been rescued. It was a time of conflicting emotions. Despite the disappointment of failing in my attempt to kill myself, I was extremely grateful for the generous care I had received from the moment I was rescued. There had been no judgement directed at me, simply a warm response to the pain I was suffering which had driven me to my desperate act. I was embarrassed too. I felt vulnerable and exposed. I wanted the police transport to arrive as soon as possible to take me away.

Eventually the car arrived, and I was helped into the back. The door securely locked so I couldn’t open it from the inside. The driver did not say much but the police sergeant sat in the back with me and asked me a few questions about where I lived, what I did and other benign subjects. My responses were brief with an odd feeling of being disembodied – talking about somebody who wasn’t me. I was believing the true me was a complete failure, not fit to receive this unrequited care.

The police driver seemed not to worry about keeping the speed down. I sat in my own world, holding onto the handle above the door to steady myself, gazing at the luscious Argyll scenery passing by. There was an incredible warm orange glow on the hillsides as the setting sun lit the world around in one last flourish before it disappeared for the night. I barely registered the beauty. I found myself thinking of the inevitable. If I had died, I would never see this again. There was no sense of loss within me at this thought and again I found myself wishing for my suicide success. We arrived at a layby midpoint between Oban and Lochgilphead where I was handed over to another police car with another two policemen. The four of them stood chatting while I sat morosely in the new car, beginning to wonder about making a run for it. There was no possibility of me achieving this – this door was also locked.

Finally, we were on our way. Mercifully both policemen remained silent for the rest of the journey, no questions being asked. As the car pulled into the Mid-Argyll Community hospital, I experienced a sinking feeling. I felt a failure with no hope of ever regaining my health. The car pulled up outside the doors to the corridor leading to Succoth Ward, the psychiatric unit. My passenger door was opened and silently the three of us wandered inside. Miserably I walked down the all too familiar corridor until we were at the door. The entry bell was pressed, and the chime reminded me exactly where I was. With the two burly policemen standing behind me, the door opened, and a nurse welcomed me in. Without a word, the two policemen walked away. The door closed and locked with a loud clunk behind. Once more I experienced a curious mixture of sensations – feeling safe at last and a despairing hopelessness.

I was here again, my seventh psychiatric admission in twenty years. This had been my first serious attempt at suicide.

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Karen’s Experience.

After two days talking to the locum GP and Nick’s CPN we were offered an appointment at the mental health unit in Lochgilphead. There was no guarantee of a bed, but I didn’t think they would drag us down there if the local staff didn’t think Nick was in need of care.

It had been a long journey getting to this stage and we were both exhausted. When Nick is this ill, I don’t sleep well; every sound and movement from him disturbs my night and I dread waking to find him gone. I carry on with life but am always wondering how he is and if I might come home to find him missing for good. He once told me that he wouldn’t kill himself when he had the dog in his care, and I try to leave Ziggy at home if I can. We spend evenings together but are somehow detached.

That day we got into the ferry queue and watched the Isle of Mull arrive. I was so relieved that Nick would finally be going into hospital. His safety would no longer be my sole responsibility. We took our usual seat on the boat and I logged on to the wifi. Nick did the same and then told me he was going to the toilet, ruffling my hair as he did so. What horrified me later was that I didn’t even look up.

I remember someone shouting  ‘man overboard’ and I must have ran up the stairs to the stern. One of the crew took me away as I was screaming and friends from the island came up to sit with me.

I have no idea how long we watched The Clansman and other sailing and commercial boats search for him. I heard the captain ask everyone on deck to scour the water to try and spot him. I veered from hysterical to silent, uncharacteristically not caring who saw me or what anyone thought. I slowly became more sure that he would die. Much of the journey is hazy but I do  remember wanting to deck a person who told me she had people all over the world praying for him. The locum on his way home came up to support me, correctly guessing that it was Nick in the water.

Then he was found. We watched them pull a body onto the rescue boat, and head for Oban and the hospital. Someone came to tell me he was alive. Tom drove our car to the hospital, and he and Marjory waited with me until my sister arrived. I was interviewed by the police and then allowed in to see Nick.

There was no ambulance to take him to Lochgilphead, so two police officers were assigned to drive him down. It felt as though I wasn’t to be trusted.

My recurring nightmare is what, if Nick had planned, no-one had seen him jump. When would I have realised what happened? How long before it dawned on me that he wasn’t coming back? Who would I have told? What would I say?

When he is suicidal, I try so hard to keep him alive but this time I failed. I often wonder if I am trying to keep him going for my own sake rather than for his. When Nick is at his lowest, I can understand him wanting to die. Depression is so awful and so constant that death is a release. He really didn’t have any other choice that day, and my regret is that I wasn’t able to prevent him reaching such a low state.

The loneliness of his death would have been the worst part of it. I want to die in the company of those I love, but he was forced to try and die alone.

The reality of life without Nick hit me so hard that day.

Resurgence

The past month or so has been dreadful for me. My clinical depression has had me firmly in its grip, so much so, I’ve been literally fighting powerful urges to complete my suicide. I think this stark statement may come as a surprise to many who have seen me on-line in my Twitter and Facebook personas, posting lovely photographs and typically Nick type cheery comments. This is the nature of my beast,

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Resurgence

Last year during my ‘Three Peaks by Kayak’ adventure, I found myself inspired by the various experiences I encountered to make meaning of my depression and understand how I can live with it. There was one particular moment when fighting against the tide in the middle of the expansive Luce Bay off the Galloway coastline, when I came to the enduringly powerful realisation that the discomfort I was experiencing at the time was not permanent, and when the tide I was fighting against changed in a few hours, it would soon pass. In that moment, I instantly embodied this awareness because of its powerfully analogous pertinence to my depression recovery process. In this moment of enlightenment, I finally believed what the many caring professionals had been telling me for many years - “This will pass. Given time, you will become stronger and feel better.”

Making the decision to believe the impermanence of my depression did not lead me to believing I would eventually be cured of it. Instead, this allowed to me to accept I will live with depression all my life, and it’s the deep depressive moments which will come and go. Likewise, the thoughts and beliefs I have about taking my life are associated with these deep low periods and I was now able to counter these with a belief that they are impermanent. I now understood the notion of making a permanent decision based on an impermanent feeling.

However, when my clinical depression takes hold of me and I sink into a deep and dark low, my ability to cognitively function is impaired by the wide ranging self-destructive and self-hating thoughts and beliefs I find myself struggling with. I find myself literally fighting for my life, voicing out loud (when alone), reasons why I shouldn’t kill myself. This is an internal battle which rages in my head and through my body. Thoughts and feelings merge to be expressed in my language, how I think, how I feel emotionally and how I feel physically. My energy and personal resources are expended on this battle and too, in masking this fight from the world around me. I do not want the ordinary world to know of my pain. There may be hints, or I may put out a Tweet which may be more explicit, but generally, I continue post lovely photos with asinine words. (At least I think they are at the time). Likewise around and about in my lived world, people will probably not be aware of the self-destructive thoughts I have running through my mind when I meet them in the street or when chatting over a pint or a coffee.

There have been a few moments recently when I have desired hospitalisation because the struggle to overcome my thoughts of suicide have been more than I could cope with. However, there’s always been one reason or another why I didn’t explicitly seek this and I continued to fight on my own. In a way, the now embodied adage “this will pass”, enabled me to remain with my distress in the knowledge that it was likely to diminish over time. I continued to live my life in the public realm as unobtrusively as possible, hoping few people would cotton on to the mask I was wearing. Karen was totally aware of course and lovingly supportive. Likewise, my C.P.N. was happy to see me twice a week for lengthy appointments. I wasn’t totally alone.

I’m often asked what the causes are for a particular bout of depression, something I can pinpoint as the originating source. Generally there is none. The malaise takes root, deepens and insidiously manifests itself to the point where I become overwhelmed by it. I’m aware of its early presence and determine I will not allow it to take hold of me, but despite making efforts to stall the process by undertaking health enhancing activities, the depression is the stronger. My mood sinks and I am engulfed with beliefs of self-hatred, self-loathing, and uselessness. No matter how heartening the reassurances from friends and family about my worth, these messages of genuine warmth and love fail to reach my core. I find it easy to counter them with the all to predictable response - “Yes, but…”. This in turn serves to make me feel even more unhappy, because then I add the belief I’m an unnecessary burden to those who love me.

Having met with a psychiatrist, I am on a new medication regimen which he is confidently hopeful will help me raise my mood and begin to feel the joy in life again. To be truthful, I detest taking anti-depressant medication because I have found the side-effects to lead me to feeling more unhappy than the opportunity for a cure. Feeling sluggish, doped, constipated, lost libido and other minor conditions, all serve to reinforce the futility I feel about my life. For the last eighteen months I have been medication free, determined to live with my depression in an organic, self-sufficient manner. To all intents and purposes I think I managed to do this successfully until the point this year, just after Christmas and my mood slipped past my ability to self manage myself. Even then, it took some insistence on the health professionals’ part to encourage me to consider taking medication again. It’s early days still.

Despite this desperate bout of depression, I have looked forward to the future, and found within myself a desire to plan for another kayaking adventure. Not only this, I have chosen to invite a new friend to share the adventure with me thus breaking with my usual process of kayaking solo. In getting to know Jack on-line and then meeting him recently, I have discovered a friend who shares my understanding of the world and a passion for exploration by kayak on the sea. Our common ground is our connection to the R.N.L.I. and it is the charity which forms the basis of this expedition. You can read more about this here.. Sharing a kayaking expedition is going to be a renewing experience for me because it’s many years since I last headed off into the wide yonder with someone beside me. I’m really looking forward to Jack’s companionship.

Today the sun is shining and the sea is calm. It is the last day of March and early this evening we move out to our summer mooring in the bay. I’ve readied the engine, checked the electrics and filled the water tank to the brim. Propane gas bottles for cooking and heating are charged, and the inflatable dinghy we use as our tender has been spruced up with a wash and a new seat. There is something in this transhumance experience of mine, moving from our winter berth to our summer one, which excites me and reminds me of the resurgence of life. Around and about there are the signs of spring. The cormorants are gathering materials for their nests on the nearby cliffs, the trees are beginning to show signs of green and the sea is becoming translucent again. I feel my blood moving within me, a sure sign that life is returning and soon the shackles of this depression will be shaken off. With the help of my medication, I’m hopeful in a few weeks I’ll be noticing the colour of the world around me again.

2019!

A new year! I sincerely hope it is a wonderful one for us and my warmest wishes to you all.

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Tobermory Sunrise, January 2019

I decided at the turn of the year not to set myself resolutions because I know full well I won’t uphold them. This doesn’t mean I’m without aspirations for the year ahead. In fact I think I have far too many ideas and plans to squeeze into the twelve months of 2019.

First things first though and I want to announce I have put on hold my plan to kayak to the rest of the R.N.L.I. Lifeboat Stations around England, Wales and Ireland. I had announced this with some flourish late last year and went as far as getting the planned adventure endorsed by the R.N.L.I. in preparation for approaching sponsors and donors. Then I wrote a book and have had this accepted for publication. This is the book about my sea kayak journey around Scotland in 2015. I was faced with the dilemma of delaying publication while I undertake the kayak journey or cancel this and focus on the book. I chose the latter. The book has taken three years to come to fruition and to delay it further would be demoralising for me. This is the first book I have written and I want it to be something I’m really proud of. Therefore I need to focus on making sure this is the case.

Additionally, there are family concerns which have recently emerged and I can’t in all honesty take myself away for a seven month adventure.

I’m disappointed not to be undertaking what would have been the largest adventurous challenge I will have ever faced and there are moments when I express a big sigh when reflecting on this. However, this is the nature of adventure. There is never a certain outcome and I’m philosophical about the decision I have made. The 3900 miles of coastline and the lifeboat stations will be there in future years.

In the meantime though, I have plenty of ideas for shorter kayaking trips and other adventures. Realising I have these opportunities before me reminds me how fortunate I am. We have the yacht to sail locally and further afield, I have my kayak and endless miles of incredible coastline on my doorstep, and there are hundreds of square miles of mountains and wild land to climb and explore.

Attending to my mental health is a high priority. Thankfully I am feeling strong at the moment and have been for a couple of months now. Writing the book has helped with this. I’m keen to build on my strengthening sense of self and to share more about my experiences with depression and suicidal desires. I have ideas of achieving this through writing, social media and public speaking. Many of you may know me through Twitter and this is where I am most vocal about my mental health experiences.

I would like 2019 to be a year of connectivity for me, where I reconnect with friends, old and new, and forge new connections. To this end then, I live on the Isle of Mull and if you find yourself in Tobermory, I’d be delighted if you looked me up for a chat and a coffee.

Thank you for reading this and for your continued interest and support in my life.

World Mental Health Day - A Sea Kayaking Parable.

I wrote this as an article which was published in Ocean Paddler magazine.

Three Peaks by Kayak

The storm is unrelenting. I have been caught within it for what seems like an interminable length of time. There seems no way out and it takes every ounce of my energy to struggle through. Every opportunity to escape seems impossible and the only solution it seems, is to give up. To resign myself to the force of nature and let go. In fact, this is really what I desire, and I begin to allow myself, battered with fatigue, to drift away from reality. Somehow, a glimmer, a spark of fortitude remains, and I grab onto this at the very last moment. I reach out, I call out and assistance is there. Safety beckons and with my last reserves of energy, I embrace life and allow myself to accept the truth. I cannot do this alone and I require professional intervention. 

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Ben Nevis from Loch Linnhe

The above is not a dramatic account from one of my sea kayaking adventures. It is in fact a narrative of my battle with clinical depression last Autumn, my strong desire to complete suicide and my eventual admission into a psychiatric ward for my safety and recovery. I live with depression which from time to time is severe enough to see me admitted to in-patient psychiatric care. It’s an illness which has dogged my adult life and one I struggle to overcome.

The clinical term for my malaise is ‘treatment resistant depression’. This means that the myriad interventions I’ve received have so far been unsuccessful and future options are diminishing. In the end though, I invariably make it through the worst of the debilitating episodes and I return to healthy normality somewhat battered, but inwardly stronger for the experience. The problem though, is the danger I face when I sink into one of my suicidal phases. The desire for death is so emphatic and real, that unchecked, I may in one irreversible moment see this through.

Fast forward to 15th May this year and I’m standing on the shores of Loch Eil about to embark on another of my long sea kayaking journeys; the Three Peaks by Kayak. This was a fund-raising venture for Odyssey, a small cancer charity I have worked with and continue to be involved in. There was a back story too, linking the Outward Bound centres of Loch Eil, Eskdale and Aberdyfi by beginning at the first and finishing at the latter. I am a former Outward Bound instructor and had long wanted to undertake this challenge when working for them many years ago. There was also another reason for undertaking this journey, one of recovery. I find solace through my immersion in wild landscapes and sea kayaking offers me the purist way to connect with my world around me.

In many respects, the challenge of kayaking from Fort William to Aberdyfi in mid-Wales and climbing the mountains of Ben Nevis, Scafell Pike and Snowdon on the way was a straight forward venture. It turned out to be a kayaking distance of eight hundred and thirty-two kilometres with some challenging windy conditions, the usual tidal gates to pass through, a few long open crossings and Liverpool Bay to traverse! I paddled this expedition solo and set myself the arbitrary timescale of a month to complete it, (which I managed to do with a few days to spare). I’m no stranger to solo expedition kayaking having visited in 2015 every one of at the time, forty-seven RNLI lifeboat stations in Scotland, an unsupported kayaking journey of 2960 kilometres. In 2017 I kayaked the route of the Scottish Islands Peaks Yacht Race and climbed the mountains of Ben More on the Isle of Mull, the Paps of Jura and Goat Fell on the Isle of Arran. Paddling solo is my preference.

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Jura Sunset

An account of my Three Peaks by Kayak journey would be one of many perfect sunny days, unexpected and challenging strong easterly winds for much of my traverse of Scotland, incredibly beautiful and dramatic coastline of course, meeting fantastic people and plenty of humorous anecdotes. It was very much a typical sea kayaking adventure; packing, kayaking, decision making, some eventful seas, beautiful campsites and so on. However, it was far more than all of that. It was in fact a hugely profound experience for me.

When I worked for Outward Bound in the eighties and nineties, the seminal book about our profession at the time was; “The Conscious Use of Metaphor in Outward Bound” by Stephen Bacon. I even went to a training workshop run by him. Very simply, we were encouraged to frame the outdoor activities our students were presented with as metaphors in the hope that this would enable them to establish useful links between their Outward Bound course and their lives at work and home, thus making meaning of their outdoor experiences. Ever since then, I’ve lived my own outdoor life metaphorically, gaining insights about myself and how I relate with the world through the experiences I’ve encountered. It was no surprise then that this adventure would be the same. What I didn’t expect was how incredibly therapeutic it would be.

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Lumpy Seas

Standing on the slippery rocks of the Loch Eil foreshore, about to climb into my kayak and set off, I realised how low I was feeling. I didn’t want to leave the safety of my home and the companionship of my wife. I was unsure of my ability to successfully take on the challenge before me and unusually, I felt fear. I was fearful of the seas and the potential hazards ahead. I wasn’t experiencing the excitement and the anticipation I hoped for which would see me cheerily on my way. Instead, I paddled the eight short kilometres from Loch Eil Outward Bound to Fort William conjuring excuses and reasons to abandon the expedition in its early stages. Then, I climbed Ben Nevis in the small hours of the following morning, arriving as planned at the summit as the sun rose. There followed two wonderfully calm days of kayaking southwards reaching as far as Knapdale on the Kintyre coast. My spirits were lifted and I easily settled into my familiar life of an expeditionary sea kayaker. A 4am encounter with an Otter visiting me in my tent on the Isle of Luing, while I was drinking coffee highlighted the joy of the experience. From Knapdale onwards the challenges set in and so did a resurgent struggle with my depression.

The winds and the seas picked up and I found myself struggling to make headway. The bonhomie with the world I had been enjoying over the previous couple of days dissipated, to be replaced with a familiar depressive malaise. I was shaken by how easily my depressive thinking surfaced and at one point, I was frightened to find myself considering how easy it would be to capsize my kayak in the heavy seas and to drift away down into the Irish Sea. My inevitable death would appear to be a dreadful kayaking tragedy. When this thought occurred, I was heading for Machrihanish, still about nineteen kilometres away. With waves breaking around my waist and realising that a huge swell would make any landing down there hazardous, I decided that I needed to make for the shore well before then to sit out this bout of bad weather. I shifted my thinking from self-annihilation to self-preservation. It was that simple. A rocky reef provided me with the break I needed, and I landed on the Kintyre shore with the merest of ripples to contend with. That night in my tent, I reflected on what had occurred and with a surge of powerful realisation, I recognised my innate desire to remain alive.

Ahead of me, twenty-seven kilomteres away, loomed the Mull of Kintyre and its fearsome tidal race reputation. To make the tidal gate here and get through it safely, required an extraordinary early start. This meant waking at 2am and departing at 4. The forecast was for easier weather, so I decided to make this happen. The early morning rise, breakfast and packing in the dark was not as arduous as I anticipated. In fact, it was quite the opposite with a sense of pleasure at heading out to sea while the world around slumbered peacefully. The sun rising and bring light and warmth to the day as I kayaked along the Machrihanish Beach emphasised the joy to be gained from this type of experience. All went according to plan and I rounded the Mull of Kintyre just as the tide turned against me, gently and without the roaring tide race I have yet to encounter there. I repeated this experience for my traverse of the Mull of Galloway, this time an hour earlier. Again, I was rewarded with wonderful early morning solitude as a nearly full moon slowly descended, seemingly disappearing into a mirror calm sea. In fact, pre-dawn starts became the norm for this kayak journey as I repeated them several times further along the coast.

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Arriving at Ailsa Craig

What I took from these experiences was a powerful reinforcement that I have it within my ability to make positive things happen. I could easily have chosen to tackle the tidal gate later in the day, accepting I would round the Mull in the late evening and arrive at Southend almost in the dark. By motivating myself to rise early and set off into the dark, I gained a fresh perspective on my journey and found myself enjoying this. I recognised too a sense of personal pride in my determination to grasp the challenge. I learned that this translated easily for my recovery process from my depression. The opportunity for change always exists, it’s up to me to seek it and make it happen.

Landing on the iconic island of Ailsa Craig with its cacophonous gannetry was a highlight of this adventure. I had long wanted to visit the island by kayak, and achieving this after a thirty kilometre crossing from Southend on Kintyre was especially rewarding, particularly because regular squadrons of gannets flying low overhead appeared to be welcoming me in. It was here where I noticed my solitude on this trip. Descending from the 338 metre high summit of the island where I had enjoyed the most incredible sunset over the expanse of an empty Firth of Clyde, I slipped on a patch of bluebells and tumbled headfirst down the steep slope, manically attempting to protect my camera and binoculars in my hands. I ended up in a crumpled heap a good few metres downhill with an excruciatingly painful elbow. The next morning, I was greeted with the sound of a gusting force 5 and the awareness that the pain in my elbow had worsened. It was tender to touch and very painful to bend. With a sense of panic, I assumed the worst and rather stupidly posted my concerns on my Twitter feed. I then found myself reassuring concerned followers that I was safe, well provisioned and didn’t require rescuing by the RNLI, who ironically, came to my rescue on Twitter by tweeting an acknowledgement of my ability to care for myself.

What followed was an enforced day of rest, allowing me to explore my castaway surroundings. The abandoned Northern Lighthouse Board buildings were fascinating with remnants of the keepers’ lives lying in the rooms where they had been used. The wild flowers were delightful. The 16th century castle tower was incredible and appeared to have weathered the centuries better than the contemporary buildings. The bird life was spectacular and coming across a large slow worm basking in the warm sunshine, was a particularly intimate encounter. Exploring all of this on my own with the sense that I was indeed a castaway, was incredibly rewarding. Reconnoitring the ‘Temple of Doom’ like walkways along the eastern edge of the island I happened upon an obviously injured gannet perched upon a rock, its head tucked deep under its bloodied wing. At first glance I thought it may be dead but then the slightest of shivers which ruffled its glorious feathers, showed me this was not the case. I stood stock still, suddenly deeply impacted by the painful reality that for this poor bird, there was no future. It had chosen to perch on the rock to wait for its inevitable death.

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The Dying Gannet

There was nothing I could do. Any means to put it out of its misery would be brutal and anyway, I didn’t want to play ‘God’ and hasten its death unbidden. I walked away back to my tent, the angry white capped sea to my left emphasising the potent force of Nature. This was a powerful moment for me, the issue of death being forced into my consciousness again. It occurred to me that unlike the poor gannet, humans are afforded the opportunity to choose the manner of our death. Faced with the inevitability of a dire diagnosis or indeed, suicidal desires, we can choose to curl up and wait for the inevitable end, even hastening it, or raise our heads and face it head on, living our lives as fully as we can before the moment arrives. We can fight too. We can medicate ourselves, undergo surgery and accept professional intervention to prolong or overcome the illness we are faced with. On Ailsa Craig, alone, almost like a shipwrecked mariner, I received the most illuminating awareness of the whole adventure. Choose life!

A few days later, after rounding the Mull of Galloway in the mid-morning after a pre-dawn start, I was faced with the twenty-seven-kilometre crossing of Luce Bay – against the tide. The weather was benign, and the sea was calm. The forecast for the following day was for force five easterlies, so I either set off there and then, or accepted I would be stuck by the Mull of Galloway for at least another day. I vacillated. I was weary and I knew that the tidal stream flowing out of the Solway Firth would be tough to contend with. However, I wanted to press on and make it at least to the Isle of Whithorn where I could sit out the strong wind next day in relative comfort. There was an hour or two of tide left in my favour, so I set off. Indeed, I made it across to the eponymously named Scares eleven kilometres off the Mull coastline in good time. However, after I had made it through the churned waters around the rocks with some nervousness, it seemed to me as if all progress was halted. The hazily indistinct coastline was sixteen kilometres away and regular glances at my GPS showed my progress was counted in metres not kilometres. While checking my GPS, I would drift backwards!

My heart was heavy. This moment seemed interminable and hopeless. I rued my decision to set out and began to consider returning to the Mull of Galloway with the tide. Somehow though, I kept going one slow, heavy paddle stroke at a time. The sun burnt down from a cloudless sky, my hydration bag now empty of water and my throat parched. It seemed as if the gannets and the cormorants swirling around the Scares still only metres away, were in fact vultures waiting for my demise. My spirits were at a low ebb. Then, because it was the nature of this adventure, I began to view my predicament in a different vein. Of course, it was tough. I was fatigued, and I was desperate for the eventual comfort of my tent. However, this moment would not last for ever. Eventually, in only a few hours, the tidal flow against me would ease and then change direction altogether. There would still be plenty of daylight to see me land at the Isle of Whithorn. If I could sit with my discomfort, then all would be well. This then, was another compelling lesson for me to embody. On the back of the insight gained on Ailsa Craig to choose life, sitting with my discomfort knowing that this will not last for ever, was powerfully enlightening. Those words, “will not last forever”, were often spoken to me by the nurses on the psychiatric ward when I was in hospital. They made sense then of course but sadly carried little weight. Now though, in the middle of Luce Bay, with a powerful tide against me, I understood them completely and laughed with joy at their enduring simplicity and truth.

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Birkdale Beach

Again, a few days later I was landing further up the Solway Firth on the depressingly rocky shore of Rascarrel Bay. I had struggled for the previous couple of hours against a force six headwind and an accompanying lumpy sea. Suitable landing places were almost non-existent, let alone those with good enough spots to camp. Rascarrel had seemed the most likely option and when I arrived, the tide was way out and I was faced with hundreds of metres of large weed covered and barnacled boulders over which to carry bulging IKEA bags and my kayak. It was also pouring with tropically intense rain. I set about unpacking the boat, knowing that in these conditions there was little hope in keeping things dry, when suddenly a pair of wellies appeared in my peripheral vision and a voice asked, “Would you like a hand?”. Angels it seems, wear wellington boots! I was warmly welcomed in by the Smith family, third generation hutters of Rascarrel Bay. They invited me to camp in their garden and fed me jam and ham sandwiches!

Again, I was confronted with a convincing metaphorical awareness, that when the chips are down, there will be moments of unexpected help. By now, over two weeks into my journey, I had at last found the joy and the pleasure to be gained from the adventure. I had faced many dark moments. I had also allowed myself to accept the many nuggets of Nature’s instruction offered to me during these. As a result, I was strong again.

The subsequent days and kilometres drifted by, each with substantial challenges, but all faced with equanimity. In fact, I sought some of these challenges before they presented themselves, culminating in an eighty-six kilometre penultimate day of my journey when I kayaked the full length of the Lleyn Peninsula and then crossed Cardigan Bay to camp on Shell Island beach. The final day of the adventure was particularly fitting in that I arrived to a warm welcome from friends at Aberdyfi, the place where my professional life in the outdoors began in the mid-eighties and where a portion of my heart will forever reside. After all I have been through, it was affirming to be welcomed so warmly and to celebrate my achievement of completing the Three Peaks by Kayak, a challenge which nearly a month earlier, on the shores of Loch Eil, I doubted my ability to accomplish.

One of the tasks presented to us as Outward Bound instructors was to facilitate the transfer of learning from an Outward Bound course to the students’ home or work, so that new awareness and opportunities for change were enduring. Having presented the activities they encountered metaphorically throughout their course, this process was not too difficult to manage. Now that I’m home after this kayaking adventure, I too am confident that the self-awareness I gained from this venture will be long lasting. My recovery from my clinical depression will never be straight forward, but now, I have powerfully metaphoric memories to recall when those tough times revisit me in the future.

"if

the ocean can calm itself,

so can you.

we

are both

salt water

mixed with

air."  

~ Nayyirah Waheed

I was raising funds for Odyssey, a charity which provided transformational outdoor courses for people with or have had cancer. My fundraising page remains open - here. Thank you.

Talking Suicide

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September 10th 2018 was World Suicide Prevention Day. To mark the day from a personal point of view, I put up a post on my Facebook page and Tweeted too. A few weeks ago I was filmed by the RNLI Film and Image Unit for a short film they are making about my voluntary role with Tobermory RNLI Lifeboat and my accompanying mental health struggles. I recently had a long and helpful appointment with ‘my’ Community Psychiatric Nurse after a long period of not seeing her. This blog entry is a description of how I live with my suicidal thoughts. I hope by sharing this incredibly intimate aspect of my self, I will help increase awareness and understanding about deep depression and suicide. This is an account of my personal experience and cannot be read as a generalisation of suicide per se. I am confident though, that there are contextual similarities with others who struggle like me which will be helpful.

Recently, despite the many good aspects of my life and my uniquely privileged lifestyle, I have been fighting familiar intrusive thoughts that my life is worthless, that I am worthless and it follows that the most natural conclusion is to take my life. These are not constant thoughts which continue to eat away at me through the day and night. They intrude at the most inopportune moments, sometimes fleetingly but generally with enough force to stick for a good while. They are private thoughts, triggered by any number of interpersonal interactions, thoughts, memories and moments. An incredibly astute observer might see for a split second, a grimace of pain cross my face when these thoughts of death reach into me. They would also hear me emit a muted cry of pain or a deep, lingering sigh.

Since I’m so used to this happening, I find myself burying these thoughts and feelings, fighting them inwards and hiding them deep within me. I used to be a psychotherapist so ‘internal dialogue’ fits comfortably as a term which describes what’s occurring. The thing is, there is no voice attached to these thoughts. I do not hear myself or anyone else, actual or imagined. They are thoughts accompanied by powerful emotional and physical feelings. Essentially they are beliefs - basically an overarching belief that my life should come to an end because of my ineptitude as a person.

Whether these thoughts are serious enough for me to become worried about my intentions and I consequently reach out for help, depend on how I grade them. Because I recognise them so clearly now, I give them levels of seriousness depending on how they arrive in my psyche, into my being and how durably they ‘stick’. First off I have the fanciful thoughts. The ones which are romantic notions of taking my life. This could be anything from the day being a lovely and sunny one, when I might think, “this would be a nice day to die”. Or, “I could head out in my kayak, capsize and drift off towards the far horizon”. The latter might be a response to recalling a moment of embarrassment when I believe I behaved badly to someone in my past. This kind of fanciful thinking serves to assuage my painful thinking in the moment by being a distraction, where I fantasize about a semi-honourable death, drifting off towards slow oblivion in a suitably restless sea.

A level up from the fanciful ideations are the ‘thought punches’ into my head and the ‘body blows’ into my being. These are powerful enough to stick and set in train semi-serious thoughts of suicide. Unchecked they might build into more enduring beliefs that the most obvious solution is to take myself off to my chosen tree and hang myself. If they occur in the dark hours of the deep night when I ping wide awake, as I often do, I might consider slipping out onto the deck of our yacht and lowering myself into the night-time sea to eventually die of hypothermia. I would be clad only in my underpants because I never want to be found naked. These thoughts and feelings of powerful desperation are promulgated by the more entrenched self-beliefs I hold about myself. Examples of these being; believing I’m a feckless father, a life failure in employment and business, a wasteful daydreamer, an untrustworthy person, a poor friend, I have nothing of worth to offer, I am a burden, and so the seemingly inexhaustive list continues. These thoughts and feelings may present themselves at any time, whether life is going well or I’m struggling with a dose of depression. Generally of course, they are stronger and more present when my mood is low. I have learned to rationalise these thoughts, to attempt to see them for what they are and realise that it’s certainly not logical to act on them. If I think I’m struggling with this process I might express to Karen (my wife), that I’m having a tough time and “I’m feeling suicidal”. This one simple sentence, spoken out loud and knowing I have been heard, is usually enough to dissipate the strength of the feelings and/or the thoughts I’m experiencing.

However, there are times when these body blow suicidal thoughts stick like a ball of mud thrown against a brick wall. With sun, the mud might set rock hard and become insoluble. (It reminds me of when I was a boy in Africa, my friends and I used to have battles with clay lakkies - hand squeezed balls of mud on the tips of whippy sticks, which when flicked like a tennis serve, sent the mud screaming through the air. Brutally powerful and accurate. Great fun as well to plaster house walls with nasty splats of mud!) What happens is, I find myself unable to now rationalise my thinking with any certainty. The thoughts metamorphose into beliefs and these then set deep within me. The primary belief being that the time has come to end my life and there is no point in lingering any longer. It could be that I might be berating myself for being a horribly curmudgeonly husband or as with 2017, a useless sea kayak guide. The belief that I am eternally useless, worthless and a burden to others, takes root and instead of distracting myself from this belief, I find myself arguing, “why not kill myself?”

This is a dangerous time for me. This is when the thought of death has become realistically pragmatic. It has shifted from being an attractive desire, to one where it is now the most reasonable solution. When I am at this depth, I begin to make my plans. I have already chosen my tree. It is local, within ten minutes walk and hidden from public view. I know the type of rope I will use and its length. Being an outdoor instructor, I know the specific knots I will tie. The only unknown is whether to leap off the branch in the hope I break my neck, or lower myself off and hang until strangulation has done its work. More recently I have been considering immersion in the sea and dying of hypothermia but here, I find myself pulling up short, because I don’t want my Tobermory RNLI colleagues to be the ones who find me. In terms of being found, I have in the past prepared letters for the local police and coastguard with GPS coordinates of my suicide location. I have also written letters to individual family members.

When this is occurring for me, I am now in the grip of deep depression with a very strong desire for suicide.

Even in this state, with every fibre of my being now craving my obliteration, I find within myself a desire to hang on to life and I make my thoughts and intentions known, not only to my wife but my community mental health support network too. This may be the psychiatrist, the community psychiatric nurse or the local GP. I will do so knowing that I may be admitted to hospital and in some respects, this is what I desire for hospital is a safe haven for me. What I fear most, is that the final decision to take my life will be made beyond my conscious awareness. I know within myself from my adventure activities, that before a risky undertaking I have a propensity to weigh up all the factors, and once done, if they are in my favour, to suddenly act without a conscious decision to do so. It’s almost as if my body moves into action before a cognitive process has taken place. I believe that if (when) I take my life, this is how it will be. I will be in the firm grip of a belief that death is the only course of action to take, I will have negated the consequences and I will act on this - suddenly. I use the word courage to describe the motivating emotion which will literally see me release myself from the tree branch I will hang from..

Equally, it is courage which drives me to struggle against the forces raging within me. The belief that I must die is real - in that it appears very real. Any amount of dissuasion by concerned others does not seem to work. I hear their words but do not take them in. In a vain act of self-aggrandisement, I argue the reasons why I believe I have the right to choose my own path and it’s far better for me to end the pain I am struggling with - for pain it is! It’s a palpable emotional, cognitive and physical pain, gripping my thinking and emotions along with a agonised chest. My mind is a continuous maelstrom of self-destructive thinking and the dreadful reasons why this should be the case.

In these moments despite my firm belief that I must die, I do find myself making agreements to keep safe and to make contact with the health professionals if I’m feeling close to acting. In this regard, I’m thankful that I’m a person of some honour because I feel duty bound to keep my word. When I’m considering taking myself off to my death, I find myself agonising with the fact that I would be breaking my word if I went through with the act. However, even then, I have moments when the desire for death is more powerful than my reasoning and this is when I will choose to be admitted to a psychiatric ward. Here, cocooned in the warmth of the ward, I believe myself to be safe.

Recovery happens. Inevitably it takes root within the process of my struggles and inexorably I begin my long climb back to normal reality. Slowly and surely the light and colour returns to my world and to my thinking. Through dialogue and peaceful ‘time out’, I readily grasp onto nuggets of hope and my beliefs of the inevitability of my death are replaced with aspirations and plans for the future. Needless to say this process of recovery is not linear and there will be times when it seems as if I slip backwards. These moments or relegation become sparser as time goes by until at long last, I’m feeling like my happier adventurous self again.

Recovery does not mean an absence of my depression. This will always be there in my life and very recently, I have come to accept that it is an illness I will have to live with, rather than constantly seek a cure. Not having acted on my suicidal desires and thoughts does not mean that I do not have them or that they are not serious. These are not prosaic cries of help which I have often heard suicide referred to in the past. They are real for me and it is only through fighting hard for myself, that I manage to keep myself from acting on my desires.

Being open about my mental health struggles is becoming increasingly helpful for me. Each time I share my struggle (as I am doing here), I gain confidence in sharing more often because of the warmth and the love I receive when I do. My online community of friends and acquaintances are instrumental in this process. Twitter for me is a power for good! I hope that by being open I may normalising the dialogue around the subject of suicide. This is my hope, that increasingly, our society will become less offended or frightened by the subject and becomes willing to really listen to those who need to talk about their suicidal thinking. It is my experience that it is not helpful when I express my suicidal desires some people either change the subject away from the issue, or attempt to make it better by telling me of all the reasons I have to live. I term the latter a sticking plaster approach. Both responses are undoubtedly well meaning and I am grateful for any time I am given by those who have a desire to see my internal pain healthily diminished.

To bring this blog entry to conclusion, I want to say, at the moment of writing this I am safe. I am currently experiencing suicidal thoughts and feelings but I have these in check. There is enough firm reality in my life for me to focus on and I have exciting plans to fulfil. Additionally, there are the powerful metaphoric insights I gained from my 3 Peaks by Kayak journey earlier this year to remind me that suicide is a permanent solution to an impermanent situation. The simplest and most enduring of the metaphoric insights being “live life” when I saw a tragically injured Gannet on the island of Ailsa Craig and “this discomfort will pass” when I was struggling across the eighteen long miles of Luce Bay against a strong ebb tide.

Finally, thank you for reading what I have shared and I welcome any responses you may have. If you have been touched by what I have written and my words resonate and have a personal impact on you, please don’t dwell and find someone you are able to chat to about what you are experiencing. Please take good care of yourself.

Thank you.