I thought that it was a fantastic, nightmarish story at first; gradually I recognised that it was an account of the lead-up to my son's first suicide attempt. This is my story. It happened 10 years ago; his father and I still talk about it. He tried to kill himself. He tried to kill himself.
He had done well in his 'O' levels, summer holidays passed, he talked of not going back to school but not particularly convincingly. He went back to study for his 'A' levels. He did not appear to be very happy but I could not find out why. We went to Crete at half-term, Dad, Mum and son, he seemed to enjoy his holiday.
Back at school he became steadily more and more unhappy. He would march up and down the landing saying he was 'freaking out'. He asked to see a psychiatrist. I kept telling him he was loved but I did not seek outside help.
He talked of having done everything. He had nothing to look forward to. He lost weight. Still I did not seek help.
I was so worried. When I went to work I dug my nails into my hands to stop myself from crying. It was a relief to be among my small patients whose vast physical problems blanked out my own worries for the time being.
I remember on Christmas Eve doing the ironing and crying. It makes me cry now to remember how I felt. He was so unhappy and I could not help. Somehow we expected him to get better on his own.
On Boxing Day we went to my parents' home and played games. He enjoyed himself, he appeared to be happy for the first time in weeks, perhaps he was getting better. We went to Tenerife for a week over the New Year. We made him come with us. What would he do to himself if we left him at home, alone much of the time? He took a huge suitcase absolutely full of clothes, he could not decide what to take. Why didn't I take notice of these signs of his disturbed state?
After the New Year's Eve dinner he returned to his room before midnight. I danced the New Year in, in tears, in my husband's arms. We explored the island a little. He did not want to come, we made him. The Spanish taxi driver was very worried about his nice white Mercedes when he talked of feeling sick!
Back to school but he did not go often. He saw his friends sometimes, he did not want to see mine, he was like a cornered animal when I persuaded him to meet my friends from Australia. I still hoped he would get better.
He stayed the night at Werewolf's. On Sunday morning he came in and went straight to the kitchen tap and ran water on to his wrists. I looked and saw his wrists black with dried blood.'What have you done?' although it was obvious. I did not understand why BUT at last I had something visible, other than words, to work on. I phoned the doctor. I cannot remember what he said.
He and I went to see the doctor during normal surgery hours. He was given anti-depressants. I do not remember leaving him alone with the doctor to talk. Two mental health social workers came round to visit him. He saw them alone in his sister's bedroom. He seemed not to want people outside the family to know how he felt. He would not talk to people on the phone or go to school.
I went to work each day hoping he would be a little better when I came home. Two weeks passed. I came home each day for lunch. I remember him sitting on the couch in his underpants having his favourite lunch of cream crackers with marmite and cheese done under the grill. He looked so thin and sad. I went back to work, I hardly liked to return home. I put off my return by going to the newsagent to get him a magazine. I don't remember very clearly the order of events when I did return. He had phoned a girlfriend to say he was going to kill himself. She had phoned his father who being unable to contact me on my way home had phoned a neighbour.
He had taken all his anti-depressant tablets. He wanted to die. I rang 999. The ambulance came. He had locked himself in his father's study. The ambulance man broke a pane in the glass door to get in but he jumped out of the window and ran into the garden. Suddenly he decided to come in and we went to hospital.
He had his stomach pumped out. It seemed like hours. I sat in Sister's office and cried, my coat done up over my uniform. Why hadn't I sought help before he got so desperate? His father arrived with his brief case.
He spent a few days in hospital in a male medical ward. He could have come home sooner but I wanted him to be somewhere safe while I recovered a little. His oldest sister was in the middle of her SRN training working in a psychiatric ward with disturbed, suicidal patients, she could hardly cope. His other sister's 21st birthday passed without notice. We visited hospital every day.
The doctors wanted to transfer him to a psychiatric ward. His father and I were not too keen,'Was he really so ill?' Was it a Freudian slip that we forgot the meeting place and so avoided a visit to the psychiatric ward?
After he came home we went to family therapy for a few sessions. It was horrible. Two people spoke with us while others watched through a one-way mirror and questions were phoned in. I think we were all on the defensive, maybe we felt guilty that we had not helped him enough before he became so desperate. I asked the psychiatrist if he had any children as we were leaving one day. He backed against the wall and his colleagues answered for him.'We are not allowed to answer personal questions.' My husband and I and our daughters had no confidence in these people. I am not sure what my son thought. Eventually it was arranged that he should attend an adolescent centre as an out-patient.
One of his teachers rang and persuaded him to return to school. Gradually life returned to its usual state, I was going to say normal state but as the first psychiatrist would say,'what is normal?'
If he would not answer the phone his father would say 'Is he freaking out again?'. His friend Will decided that he would not need to get his grey suit cleaned ready for the funeral! I'm glad some of my friends know about his suicide attempt, it helps to talk about it. I am not sure why we did not tell everybody. Is it a disgrace to feel so unhappy you do not want to live? I suppose it must be a reflection on your family. At the time we probably persuaded ourselves he did not want everyone to know. I think he has begun to cure himself, his father and I have not been much help.'If only we had listened to him before'.