The pain was intense, raging through every vein in my body, it hurt, it hurt so much. In sheer desperation I raised my head and brought my face crashing into the wall, as the blood trickled from my nose, for that slight second the pain was gone.
Only I knew it would return with greater strength.
I dropped to my knees and clasping my hands together I prayed. My knuckles turned white as I held my hands together as tight as I could, as if this would make any difference.
I have never been a religious person but God may have been the only person left who could save me, I was lost.
The warm salty tears rolled down my cheeks and blurred my vision; I could not see how many pills lay in the palm of my right hand. All I knew was I could no longer fight; I wanted the pain to end.
If I were asked what the pain felt like, I could never describe the feeling. I don’t even remember which part of me hurt; I just know I experienced excruciating pain. From the moment I woke I felt it.
I was in mid cycle of a bipolar low mood; intense and trapped in sheer desperation. Although at this time I was not even aware I was suffering from bipolar, I truly thought I had lost my mind.
Any rational thoughts were banished, fear, guilt, anger and repulsion all mixed into one and some bubbling concoction of poison was running deep into my veins.
I had wreaked chaos in our family home; I was ashamed and believed everyone would be better off without me, including my 5 children. The growing bulge of my 6th child growing inside of me was no deterrent, I wanted out.
I have no idea why I did not end my life that evening back in November 2009. I am thankful to whatever it was.
The following day I would walk into the doctor’s surgery and speak to a GP. I would break down and for the first time speak honestly about how I felt. As I begged him to stop the pain, I saw the blood drain from his face. I knew then I was in trouble, real trouble.
As difficult as that conversation was, I had done it, myself. I had finally, after years of suffering in silence opened my mouth and as soon as I had, the words, the horror and the devastating effects that mental illness had over my life, came pouring out.
It was a long and slow process, calls had to be made, appointments with various mental health professionals were given and I didn’t find any of this easy.
I had pondered over speaking out for months, I knew something was drastically wrong with me, yet was afraid. Would they take my children away from me? Would I be locked away in some padded cell? The outcome was bleak, but so was the dangers of suicide, I had already planned how to kill myself, I was just awaiting the right time.
It would take 3 years before I was fully free of my demons, I have unleashed them all and none of the bad things I imagined to happen did.
While the mental health service have failed me at times, they also gave me support and more importantly hope.
I stand today as a new person, how could I ever go back to being the women I was before mental illness stole my life? So much has happened and changed me.
If there is one thing I have learned along the way, its suffering in silence very nearly killed me.
If you are doing now what I did then, if your worried about the implications of speaking out and asking for help, I understand you, I truly do. Speaking out finally gave me my voice back, the fear lurks and the little voices of doubt creep in, barley making you a whisper, yet you do have a voice, use it.
