My Lowest Moment
So, I usually put a bit about how if this resonated with you to talk to someone at the end of these. But this one is about suicidal thoughts and I want to make that super clear from the get go. If that makes you feel uncomfortable in any way it’s probably best to skip this one. This is actually the first thing I wrote as part of this whole idea of writing things before I talk about them. Anyway, it might be a tough thing to read so please go in with that understanding.
I also want to be clear on this point too. I’m not sharing this for sympathy. I’m sharing this because I know there are people out there who have experienced something very similar to this and haven’t had any help. I’m explaining what happened to me the best I can, so that someone else might realise they need to get help.
Ok, with those things in mind here we go…
This is one of the few memories I know I’ll have with me forever. I know that, because I can put myself back in that spot so easily and see, hear and feel everything exactly as it was.
I’m standing at the sink in the kitchen at my brother and sister in law’s house, in Cambridge. I’m washing dishes. The TV is on quietly because the kids are being put to bed. It’s still light outside. My hands are in a pair of pink rubber gloves that are too small for my hands. The water is very hot and when I have my hands in the sink for too long the gloves start to stick to my hands. I’m alone in the kitchen.
I’d been having what I know as panic attacks for a month leading up to this point. It was a combination of work stress and the fact that, in my mind, I wasn’t as great a father as I had planned to be. I’d gone into fatherhood thinking that I would do half of everything. But that isn’t the case in the early months. I can’t breast feed and our daughter didn’t like a bottle. I spent most of the day at work and evening bath times always ended in her crying and I couldn’t understand why. There was nothing I could do to help in so many situations.
I had built up an idea of what I was going to do as a father. I wasn’t getting to do any of it. Worse than that, I wasn’t able to nurture my daughter in the same way that my wife could. It wasn’t 50/50 at all, not even close and I felt useless.
I’ve always been prone to anxiety and depression. I always expect far more of myself than I do of anyone else. I hold myself to higher standards than I do other people. Then remonstrate with myself when I fail to live up to the unattainable. It’s a cycle I have lived with for as long as I can remember. I put pressure on myself over and over and over again, until I finally crack. Usually this manifests itself in the form of panic attacks. They are a combination of tightness in the chest and an animal instinct to flee wherever I am. As well as heightened breathing, sweating and heart rate. It’s a case of triggering my fight or flight response through entirely internal forces.
Anyway, on the night I was describing at the start, something different happened. I was standing at that sink when all of a sudden a feeling enveloped me. My wife, my daughter and the world would be better off without me around and that I should just disappear. It wasn’t a panic attack, in fact it was the exact opposite. I was so calm and it was crystal clear to me that I was utterly worthless and should cease to exist. I stood there, staring out the window with my hands in the too small gloves. I was overcome by a feeling I’d never had before. I was completely out of my own head and body. As if I’d already disappeared and felt warm and cosy in a way I can’t really describe. I’d finally ignored what my brain and body was trying to tell me enough times that my body and brain gave up on me. I had been warned, and now things were being stepped up.
After about 10 seconds or so, I came back to myself. I picked up where I had left off with the dishes and went about the rest of the evening as if nothing was wrong. As I said before, I’d been through the cycle before where it had culminated in me cracking. This time it had felt as if I’d completely broken. There was no panic. No sore chest. No anything. Numbness. A resignation to the fact that my existence was worthless. The world, my world, would be better off without me in it.
I went about the rest of the evening on autopilot and went to bed. That night I don’t think I slept at all. I lay there rooted to the bed. Petrified of getting up, petrified of myself. I was in the room with my wife and baby and I think that saved me. I considered getting up and out of bed a few times, but knew that if I left the room, I wasn’t coming back. That thought seemed to hit me. It reminded me that even if I didn’t feel of use to them, I didn’t want to have a negative impact on them. That tiny voice of reason in the sea of worthlessness is why I’m here to write this. Being in that room, anchored to them.
When we returned home to London, I told my wife that I had a really sore chest and I went to the doctor. I don’t know why I didn’t tell her about the specific experience. My excuse then was that I didn’t know what it was. My excuse up until I actually confided in her, was a combination of shame, guilt and not wanting her to be worried about me.
I went through a few examinations, I even got to the point of having an ECG on my heart. But once that came back clear, I had to admit what was really going on. First to myself. Then I talked to the doctor about the fact that I had experienced anxiety and panic attacks before. I got some medication to help relieve the physical symptoms. But the most important thing I did was get back to having sessions with a psychologist. I talked through the things that I’d found stressful. Both at work and about being a new dad and worked on some coping mechanisms. These were things I’m sure I’d been through before with other psychologists, but it was so great to re-learn them.
Through all this process I was asked a number of times if I’d ever thought about harming myself. I never said yes. I didn’t know how to explain what I had felt at that time. I was scared about triggering some alarm, scared of being hospitalised, sacred of myself too. So I just said no. But through my therapy, I began to see things a different way. I regained some of the perspective I’d lost and learnt to forgive myself a little.
What have I learnt? That I need to start being a bit easier on myself. To be OK with, and understanding of my own limitations. Also to set my expectations a bit lower and to be realistic and honest with myself. Being happy with what I have, rather than focusing on what I’m missing out on. I’ve also learnt that I need to put things in place to manage my mental health. Getting outside and exercising enough. Identifying and talking about what is making me stressed. Often this is more about being honest with myself. In fact a lot of what I’ve learnt revolves around that. Being honest with myself in what I’m feeling. In what I’m struggling with and what I’m capable of. I’ve got the tools to manage my anxiety. I just need to know when I need them and the only person who can help me with that, is me.
It took me over 3 years just to write this down, let alone talk to anyone other than a psychologist about it. My hope is that no one keeps this to themselves out of shame or fear. So, if you have ever experienced anything like this I can’t encourage you enough to talk to someone about it. It’s going to be one of the hardest things you ever do, I can’t lie. This is about as tough as it gets. But getting it off your chest is so important. But you’ve got to start the conversation.