Recovery And The Future

/

I’ve been out of hospital for a number of weeks now. As many of you know, I was suddenly admitted into psychiatric care at the end of May, spending roughly seven weeks on Succoth Ward in Lochgilphead. It was a necessary admission which undoubtedly saved me from the ravages of the deep depression I was suffering. As ever I’m deeply grateful for the care and attention I received from the community mental health team, in particular the crisis intervention folks, and ultimately the staff on the psychiatric ward. I had left things rather late in seeking help and when I did, all the stops were pulled out to see me right and I’m deeply grateful for this.

Now I’m home, my recovery isn’t being left to chance and I receive regular attention from the local GP and the new community psychiatric nurse on the Isle of Mull. I cannot fault any aspect of the care I’m receiving. I’m pleased to say too, the new anti-depressant medication I’ve been prescribed is working well and I’m not suffering any side affects at all. I think this is the first medication for depression I’ve taken which has had a noticeable impact on shifting my low mood. I won’t say what it is because this information I want to keep personal.

Life on the ward was as I expected it to be and it did me the world of good to take a step away from regular living for a significant length of time. The greatest benefit is the palpable sense of safety I experience the moment I enter the ward and the door locks behind me. The seemingly impossible weight of fighting the urge to complete my suicide is lifted and suddenly I’m able to fully concentrate on overcoming the desolation of the illness I’m suffering. I was not well at all. I think as I age, so my depression interludes become fiercer. This bout of depression was also the first time I felt I was mentally ill, rather than experience my depressions as an expression of my psychological frailty and inadequacy. There was something organic about this episode because it emerged from deep within me rather than from an external trigger or life circumstance. Needless to say, the symptoms were all too unpleasantly familiar. I kept a daily journal during this admission and this entry somewhat explains what I was experiencing during the first few weeks of my stay.

“My desire to die is strong this morning. I want to end this inner turmoil and hatred I feel, once and for all. I’m tired - so very tired. I have no energy left to keep fighting this illness. I’m tired of referring to it as an illness with the following words, it will pass and I will recover again. I’m done with listening to this fact over and over again. The words I hear sound so glib and at times so plastic. I feel myself I am so plastic and unreal. The desire to drift off into the sea is so incredibly strong within me. I’m not frightened by this and think of how pleasant a death it would be. I remember so vividly how this felt when I jumped off the ferry. I felt I belonged to the sea and hold no fear for my gradual death through hypothermia.”

While I struggled with these deeply dark thoughts and feelings, I knew I was safe on the ward and there was no intention on my part to act out. I simply waded my way through the morass of the illness, aching for the moment the glimmers of recovery began to shine forth. It seemed to take a long while before these appeared but when they did, the transformation was remarkable. I’ve never been one to sit and wait for recovery to occur. I’ve always held the notion this is a process which requires my full participation and compliance with the medical protocols presented to me. In my opinion, there is little to be gained through non-compliance and a suspicious outlook. I trust the professionalism of all the staff from my psychiatrist through the various levels of the teams involved in my care. This is not to say I find it easy to communicate with everyone and there are those who I feel closer to than others. However, I firmly believe everyone working on the ward or in the external teams has my best interests at heart and I value this.

I’m not a gregarious ward participant and prefer to keep my own company when I can. There have been previous hospital admissions where I made friends with other patients, but on this occasion I found I kept my own company. As with everyone else on the ward, I appreciated we were each there for our own reasons and as such, respected the privacy and needs of each individual. We are a tight community on the ward where the nature of our conditions creates a level of intimacy not replicated in the outside world. We share our vulnerability and equally experience the vulnerability of others. I actually view this as a privilege and I believe this helps me become more accepting of others behaviour in all aspects of life. There can be times when this is a challenge on the ward, when outward behaviour can be alarming, disturbing or simply annoying. Nevertheless, even these moments are more readily accepted with the simplest response of removing myself from the situation and not allowing myself to be sucked into high energy which might be occurring. I value how the staff generally leave us to manage our style of community only intervening if a situation is really becoming untenable for all.

The key to my recovery on the ward is keeping myself busy and sticking to a self-imposed regimented routine. This does two things. Firstly, it prevents me from becoming introverted and indulging in harmful introspective thinking. Secondly, it helps the time pass by, so much so that the days begin to blend with subtle ease into each other. Of course there are times when time seems to drag or even stand still, but on the whole, I rarely struggled with boredom. I devoured easy to read ‘whodunnit’ books, puzzle books and rediscovered my creativity with writing my journal and this time, writing screeds about last year’s kayaking journey. I was never stuck for something to do and apart from my early days on the ward, I very rarely slept during the day. There is also a sense of safety in a regulated routine and this was invaluable for me too.

Setting targets for myself was useful too. I found myself determined to lose weight while in hospital and I’m pleased to say I managed to reduce my weight by nine kilograms during my time there. This required considerable will power to resist the delicious lunchtime puddings, the copious tea time biscuits and the supper time racks of hot buttered toast.

Eventually the tide turned in my favour, as I knew deep down it would. Here’s an entry in my journal.

“A great review yesterday. All is leading in the right direction and I’ll be going home soon. This is all very exciting! I realise now I’m ready to get back home and get back to living. I know I’ll be nervous and I have concerns about being isolated again. However, I’m growing in realistic determination that all will be well and I will be reinvigorated and renewed. I’m feeling much better and stronger, my thoughts much clearer and positive. I have all but stopped thinking of suicide which is a really big positive for me. I want to use the rest of my time on the ward to prepare for getting home. I want to create a plan of action to keep me heading in the right direction and keep me safe.”

Another sustaining factor for me was the incredible support I received from family, friends and the thousands of people who follow my social media channels. I was truly heartened by the genuinely warm comments and words of encouragement, support and love. Equally, I loved receiving cards, letters and gifts from people I have yet to meet for real. In this day and age, it’s a commitment to use the postal services to make contact and I really appreciated the effort folks made in this regard. It continues to concern me I do not show sufficient appreciation for the support I receive from my social media community and I hope writing this, goes some way to emphasising the true value I receive from everyone.

During the final couple of weeks on the ward, I put my mind to life beyond hospital. I realised there would be a period of adjustment when the regimented safety of the ward would be replaced with the unambiguous freedom of home life. I understood the need for me to have focuses onto which I could place the energy and motivation I had rediscovered in hospital. It wouldn’t do if I returned home without some structures to work within. With this in mind, I decided to place my energy into projects I’d considered after completing my year long kayaking journey but hadn’t yet made headway with.

Completing the book about this incredible journey and experience is at the top of the list and I feel a sense of confidence in seeing this to fruition. While on the ward, I’d managed to hand write copious anecdotes which I’m pleased with and in doing so, I think I’ve discovered how I want to tell my story.

I will be establishing a charitable foundation too. This will be known as the “Lifeafloat Foundation”. It will be a grant making charity for people over the age of fifty, who are seeking adventure in their lives as a means for personal growth. Particular emphasis will be given to those struggling with poor mental health and other life challenging situations. My intention is to provide grants which range from enabling the purchase of a pair of boots to funding ambitious adventures. I intend to establish a network of employed advisors and mentors who will offer assistance and wisdom to anyone who may need this, to assist them realise their adventurous ventures. In addition, I would like the foundation to offer workshops and training events in all matters adventurous. The motivation for establishing this foundation stems from a desire to give something in return from the privilege I’ve been honoured to enjoy as an adventurer myself. Additionally, I’m a passionate advocate for the power of adventure incorporated with a meaningful immersion in wild landscapes, to facilitate personal awareness and positive change in peoples’ lives.

I’ve researched in detail the requirements for establishing a charity, registered in Scotland and will be approaching key (and important to me) people I’ve identified as possible Trustees. Once the Trustee group is established, I will begin the process of registering the charitable foundation here in Scotland through the OSCR, Scottish Charity Register. There are many intricacies to address before I make the Foundation totally public and I’m confident these will be in place by the close of 2024.

My determined intention to establish the foundation leads into my plan for my next big adventure beginning on 1st January 2025 - “The Four Corners”. This is where I walk and wild camp, from the southern most point of mainland Scotland to the northern most point via the eastern point, the centre of mainland Scotland and the western most point. The route I’ve planned will be just over one thousand miles. The primary purpose of this adventure will be to launch the Lifeafloat Foundation and to raise funds to enable it to begin operating in 2025. I think this adventure will be perfect to highlight the potential of the charity. Equally I will continue to raise awareness about mental health matters, living a full life despite the rigours of mental distress and the all important message concerning suicide prevention. The concept of this venture occurred to me before my admission into hospital but the real planning for it took place by my bedside on the ward, with the maps I bought for the purpose.

I’ve returned home motivated to keep myself meaningfully busy. My shed of creativity is bulging at the seams with projects I’m keen to develop. I will be returning to making jewellery with pure silver and beach combed items. I have taught myself how to make paper and have ideas of what I can do with this. I am also very excited to have my mono-printing artwork accepted for display and sale at a local gallery here in Tobermory and will be continuing to throw myself heart and soul into creating more art pieces. I have begun to kayak again and I have plans for overnight journeys. I want to return to creating YouTube films for my channel there too.

The key to all of this will be keeping my feet firmly on the ground and not expecting too much of myself. I know full well how easy it is for me to chastise myself for under achieving because I’ve taken on too much. Above all, I’m looking forward to leading a full and rewarding life once more. However, I’m also aware the recovery pathway is not a simple linear one and there will be setbacks along the way. I’m realistic enough to prepare myself for these moments and I’m hopeful I will have the sense to accept the self-care I can offer myself and seek extra assistance if I require it. Indeed, I will continue to regularly meet with my CPN and attend appointments with my psychiatrist, to ensure my recovery is balanced and attainable.

Finally, I want to close this blog entry with an apology. So many of you have kindly and warmly reached out to me and I’ve been selfishly tardy in not replying to you. While I was very ill, I withdrew deeply into myself. This is an excuse, I know, and I hope as I begin to regain my inner strength, I will become attentive to others again. My sense of self and a belief I hold worth continues to be depleted. This is not to say this will remain the case because I’m working hard to regain a modicum of self-belief and I will find the inclination to engage more and more with the world around me.

Thank you all, so very much for all the support you have given me. I deeply appreciate every word and act of kindness you have shown.

I dedicate this blog to my wife Karen, who has been a constant by my side through all of this and over the past twenty years.

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.

Emerging Into The Light

/

Finally! I have some happy news to share in a blog post. A few days ago, seemingly out of the blue, I felt a sudden shift in my mood, where almost bodily and sensationally, I experienced a feeling of self-goodwill and positivity. I hadn’t experienced either of these, even in the slightest way, throughout this lengthy depressive episode. As with understanding the triggers for my depression, it’s useful to understand the triggers for a recovery process out of it too. To be honest, I can’t be sure if I can pinpoint specific moments or events which sparked a positive change in my self-perception, but I’m aware of various influencing factors. Before I outline the most notable of these, I want to describe what it feels like for me, right now at the point I’m aware I’ve successfully turned the corner with this particularly bad episode of depression.

I feel punch drunk, or maybe more descriptively, heavily hungover (without the boaking). I’m exhausted but relieved to have come through unscathed. I’m relieved too I did not end up in hospital this time, despite almost continually feeling overwhelmingly suicidal. There is a sense of embarrassment where, like after a riotous drunken party, I remember I was the only one who streaked naked down the high street (I apologise if this’s now an image you cannot shake). When I read back through my earlier blog posts and look at some of my social media contributions, I have this feeling of vulnerability, like I have shared too much - too openly. I don’t feel any shame and it’s important for me to state that, but there is embarrassment. I don’t like the suspicion I have which is; I was only sharing my recent experiences to garner sympathy and possibly more darkly, to gain notoriety. It’s important for me to believe I was sharing so openly as a means of accessing the first rungs of the ladder for my own recovery by outlining to myself more than anyone else, what was happening for me. It’s also important for me when as a spin off to this, I hear what I have written has been helpful to others, either struggling with depression too, or finding some understanding of what may be occurring for a loved one or friend. Knowing from the comments and messages I have received from so many people, what I have shared has been important and informative, is hugely rewarding for me and this leads me to my first important depression beating influencing factor .

Despite many times and for many days sometimes constantly feeling bereft of any hope, there was within me the desire to fight my way through and survive. There were many times when I denied this reality to myself and to others, but it is there within me, and by writing and sharing as I did, I was somehow reminding myself my depression is sadly a permanent part of me and I must have a respectful relationship with it. Not experience it as definitive outside factor where I believe I’m forced towards the inevitability of choosing to end my life. The dreadful beliefs I experience in the midst of my depressive distress; I’m a worthless person, a hateful individual, a fraud, a terrible husband, a useless son, a feckless father, a horrible friend, and so much more, are not the reality. It’s my illness which is leading me to think and believe all of the above. Sharing as I did and will continue to do, challenged the destructive depressive myth I do not deserve to live, or too, I’m exhausted with fighting the illness, fighting the annihilating thinking and simply fighting incapacitating bouts of anxiety and I want out. As I write this (see, it does help me to share), I recognise a growing sense of self-pride - I have successfully reached the other side and I have managed this without serious harm.

All of these positive influencing factors merge with each other and do not stand alone. Despite recognising my enduring sense of self-preservation, I could not have made it through totally on my own. I owe a huge amount of recognition and appreciation to the unconditional love I receive from Karen, my wife. She is a tower of strength in my life and she burdens herself with me for many long periods when I need support the most. Never judgemental, or openly frustrated and angry, or unhelpfully rescuing, she allows me to find my own path through the morass of the depressive episode, always there to offer me guidance when I ask for it and never unsolicited. Her simple acts of love expressed through warm words of affection and all embracing hugs and kisses are particularly powerful for me. There is simplicity in our animal humanness where warm touch and words of devotion carry so much potency.

The same is true for the incredible professional support I received over the last eight weeks. It is the individual humanity of the various NHS Scotland professionals I interacted with which offered me the greatest assistance when I required it most. I always felt heard and understood and what is hugely important, I realised I was responsible for my own recovery. It was not up to any of them to perform this task for me. Knowing that at the point of crisis, I had the relatively easy ability to turn for their support, enabled me to totally trust my local Community Mental Health Service. Quite simply, if at any time I felt overwhelmed with keeping myself safe (not completing my suicide), all I had to do was present myself (by phone or personally) at our local hospital or GP surgery and steps would be taken to intervene in my crisis. I can’t overstate how important this was for me. Even in those moments when I was sure I was ready to leave the house and enact my carefully devised plan for my death, I held onto the safety net which had been so effectively place within my reach by my CPN. I have a crisis plan which is typed up and I have pinned on my notice board in my creative shed. This has been an incredibly simple but powerful preventer and served many times to slow my thinking down and aid me in making a rational choice.

It goes without saying, allied to the humanity I experienced professionally, I experienced this socially too. I know how so many people; family, friends, friends I have yet to meet and strangers were rooting for me. There is incredible power in our humanness and our (your) capacity for unconditional expressions of love, kindness and support. In those darkest moments when I struggled to access any healthy rationality, I felt held by the wide and diverse community which has built up around me and my persona as ‘LifeAfloat’. Many times thinking of this community (you), helped me ground myself in the reality I am regarded and liked.

I have a good friend who has recently embarked on her personal journey with cancer and like me with my depression, she is choosing to be open about this with the wider world. Her contributions have been powerfully inspirational for me, particularly when she eloquently writes about the importance and pleasure she finds in living her life to the fullest each and every day. Reading her words whenever she shared them, served as a challenge to me - how could I be considering to end my life when she was ardently striving to survive hers in the fullest way she could? As I worked away at my jewellery making, I found myself pondering this a lot.

This leads me on to how remaining steadfast with my creativity was also an important factor in keeping me out of hospital or worse. I had a sense of purpose every day and more than this, I had a sense of accomplishment too. Whenever I’ve been in hospital because of my depression, it has been Occupational Health which so often unlocked within me, my capacity for self-recovery. By allowing my inner creativity to flourish and not be denuded in any way by my depression or depressive thinking, I have managed to hold onto my day to day existence and lose myself without self-rancour in creative reverie. My shed, my dedicated creative space, became a haven of protective solace for me, and in the depths of my anguish, I often found myself aching to lose myself within it. Where before in previous severe depressive episodes, I dreaded the coming day, I now found myself looking forward to unbolting the wooden door and stepping inside what has become a familiar and safe space for me. This is not to say that there were not many times where I lacked creative inspiration or even found pleasure in what I was doing or indeed ruminated on self-critical thoughts. Despite those negative experiences, allowing myself to be creative was akin to a powerful anti-depressant medication. It was slow to take hold, but certainly worked wonders over time.

This leads me onto medication. I’m not certain about this because despite the regime I am on, I found myself in another depression. Needless to say, I kept with what I had been prescribed and benefitted from an extra prescription of Diazepam to help me cope with crippling anxiety.

A new friend of mine and her partner have just completed a paddle board and kayaking expedition respectively around the mainland coastline of Scotland. I was fortunate to meet them early in their adventure and even more lucky to spend a day on the sea with them as they rounded Ardnamurchan. Remaining in touch with her progress and her openness (there it is again - that willingness to share) about her moments of joy as well as her moments of challenge, helped me reconnect with my innate desire for adventure and an understanding of what she was facing. I was reminded of how important my immersion in wild oceanic nature is for me, and how natural physical challenges can lead to many powerful insights and new awareness. The fact that she persisted with her challenge was an inspiration for me to persist with mine.

I think all these I’ve listed above, are the main influencing factors which led to a transformative change in direction in this current bout of depression. There are others which are too personal for even me to share and some which really don’t require writing about.

Finally, I want to acknowledge a residual sadness within me, despite the positive news I’ve been sharing and it is this - I’m sad at having ‘lost’ precious weeks of the wonderful summer we’ve been experiencing. Despite knowing how important nature immersion is for me, my illness overwhelmed my motivation to get out in my kayak or even take the dog for a walk. To be blunt too, I’m not certain I felt safe enough to take myself out to sea on my own. However, there is much of the summer left and I have some wonderful plans in my head with what I can do.

Thank you again for reading my writing and giving me your time. I truly appreciate the consideration shown for me and what I’m choosing to share. As ever too, thank you for the unconditional support I receive daily from so many of you, most of whom I’m yet to meet and sadly, may never enjoy that opportunity.

It is wonderful to emerge into the light again and to once more engage with the world.

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.

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.

Compassion

/

On the morning of the 14th February, I had a meeting in the Oban Lifeboat Station with two senior representatives of the R.N.L.I.. This was a generous response on their part to a complaint I had raised regarding a film the organisation were supposed to be producing about me, living with severe depression and suicidal ideation, how connection to the wild through walking and kayaking helps me live with this, and finally, how being an R.N.L.I. volunteer was helpful for me too.

It’s not right for me to detail the nature of my concerns and subsequently, the substance of the meeting too. Needless to say, I was deeply grateful my issue was responded to with good grace, concern for my well being, and a desire to set matters straight. This was not a conflictual meeting at all. Without dancing on eggshells, we addressed the main issue concerned. Heartfelt apologies were given and accepted. This was really important for me. Then the conversation moved to the future and how the footage and content of the film would best serve the R.N.L.I. This led into a fruitful and in depth discussion about opening a wider public dialogue about mental health matters, more specifically suicide.

I did not realise this fact, but the second highest reasons for lifeboat launches around the country are for the desperate souls who have completed their suicide or survived an attempt to do so. I noted my shock, when realising I am one of those statistics. The three of us agreed the issue of suicide is more than often too delicately discussed, with me going onto insist, it should become an important part of our societal lexicon rather than being hushed up. There is wide ranging national debate about how this can be achieved, where the information and messages about suicide do not lead to vulnerably ill people becoming motivated to attempt to complete their suicide. This was the main issue of the film about me. I had been frank and honest during production and this was deemed to be too descriptive by two mental health agencies who were approached for advice about the film. While I understand the need for caution, especially the huge outreach the R.N.L.I. have, I did feel it was a lost opportunity to share my story in a manner which does not glorify mental distress and suicide in anyway whatsoever.

There was little more to discuss about this issue. I am hugely relieved to now know what the intentions for the film are and I look forward to my future involvement with this.

The unintentional theme of the meeting for me was - compassion. This first came up when I described my experience of when I was taken aboard the Oban Lifeboat from the CalMac rescue craft which had found me in the sea. With a broken voice of emotion, I described when lying on the stretcher in the pungent warmth of the lifeboat Thomas, a crew member knelt by my head keeping me awake with warm words of encouragement, often referring to my kayaking and connections this had brought for me and the R.N.L.I.. As an aside here, when I walked into the Oban Lifeboat station for the meeting, I was greeted by Thomas. For the first time since my rescue last May, I was able to grip him by the hand and emotionally thank him for all he did. Not only did he look after me on the lifeboat, he also visited the hospital casualty to find out how I was and to speak with my wife. I’m eternally grateful to him and all others who saved my life that day.

Through our discussions about the future of the film, we realised the heart of the matter is the selflessness of the lifeboat crews. We surmised because of this selflessness, it may be easy to miss mental health worries crew members may be dealing with. After all, the culture of a life boat crew is one of robustness, an essential attribute given the primary purpose of their existence. We discussed many scenarios where my messages through my personal telling, of hope, suicide awareness and living with deep depression could be shared for the benefit of all in the R.N.L.I.. We did not come to any conclusions, and I was happily satisfied to know this is a subject which increasingly gaining ground within the organisation.

I experienced yet again, the selfless compassion of the R.N.L.I. personnel from the two managers at our meeting. Their kindness and warmth were authentically generous.

Here I quote from a passage in the book I’m writing about my kayak journey around Scotland where I visited each of the Scottish R.N.L.I. lifeboat stations. This piece comes from the chapter about Longhope in the Orkney Islands:

“Even though they were strangers to me, I connected with each of their names on the plaque, because I understood the motivation which impelled them, despite knowing the danger this entailed, to heed the call for help and head out into that fearsome storm on the night of 17th March. I was certain that their motivation was not for fame or glory. I was certain too, it was a motivation which runs far deeper and because of this, can be difficult to quantify. There are sometimes insufficient words to describe the compassion people hold for strangers, which compels them to risk everything of themselves, to at least have a chance at saving a another’s life. Maybe it can be best explained like this and here I paraphrase from Kurt Hahn, the founder of the Outward Bound movement; “The experience of helping a fellow human in danger, or even of training in a realistic manner to be ready to give this help, tends to change the balance of power in a person’s inner life with the result that compassion can become a primary motive.””

In recent months I had lost sight of the R.N.L.I.’s compassion in the fog of my sense of indignation and self righteousness believing I had been wronged by the charity. From the moment I tabled my complaint to the meeting yesterday, it was the compassionate sense for my well being which set the order for the day. It’s a relief for me believe this once more, compassion is the core our nation’s treasure, the R.N.L.I.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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’.