Tricky Waters

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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.

The Man Who Jumped From A Ferry - Part 1

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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.

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.

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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

World Mental Health Day - A Sea Kayaking Parable.

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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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.