So far, touch wood (touches head), I’ve never required the services of Samaritans, at least not for me. I’ve badgered others into making contact when their lives were in various states of disarray, but for me, I’ve usually managed to somehow muddle through. I take suicide very seriously, having lost a number of friends and acquaintances through suicide and heard about many others. And Samaritans, especially in the absence of any meaningful state provision, is undeniably essential. But what for those of us who fall short, in varying degrees, of wanting to kill ourselves because we want to live that bit more than we want to die?
That’s a place I’ve been to on many an occasion on the walk of life and it’s never, quite, been an emergency. When I have felt hopeless, useless, down-and-out, defeated and clinically depressed there’s always been tomorrow. For those who use Samaritans there can be no tomorrow unless they reach out for help. So, I can’t call them to have a conversation something like this:
“Hello. This is Samaritans.”
“Oh, hiya. I’m ringing up because I’m very depressed and I feel like giving up on life.”
“Are you having suicidal thoughts?”
“Yes.”
“And have you considered killing yourself?”
“No, not really. Sometimes, I feel I just can’t go on. My brain turns into Papier-mâché and I don’t do anything for days, sometimes weeks, on end. I do think how things would be if I ended it all, but I always find the prospect of living better than dying.”
“So, why are you calling Samaritans?”
“Good point.”
Of course, that conversation never happened because, to state the bleeding obvious, my issues aren’t serious enough to waste the time of Samaritans, but in that case, what do I do?
I already know the answer and that’s nothing. I mean, there are things you can do, like go to a GP, get referred for some short-term counselling, maybe even CBT and, most likely, get prescribed antidepressants. Don’t let me put you off using those options because if you’re feeling a bit shit in the mental health department one or more of these options may work for you but if you believe, as I do about me, that you’re too far gone there is nothing beyond dealing with a dysfunctional brain forever.
This is the problem with Britain’s mental health system: there barely is one. Sure, good folk from well meaning charities tell you it’s good to talk and it is, but is this it? Yes. Numerous well-meaning GPs at my local health centre have provided me with signposting (I know. I hate the word, too.) as a means to treat my depression. But that’s like telling you to treat yourself. You’d never expect the NHS to treat people will physical illnesses to seek out treatment and cures through charities and self-help manuals but with mental health, it’s no different from what my grandfather used to say to me. “Pull yourself together. Snap out of out. There’s always someone worse off than you.” I’ve tried, I can’t, I know would have been the stock replies, if I hadn’t been 12 years old boy not knowing what the hell was up with me. Ignore the “things are so much better these days” bullshit. No for most of us, they aren’t and I seriously think there was more help when I was 12 and having bonkers panic attacks and night terrors.
Anyway, I digress. What’s the point of this rambling, self-pitying blog? There isn’t one, really. Just another whinge about unless you are at either end of the poor mental health spectrum – from minor depression/anxiety to suicidal thoughts and being sectioned – there lies nothing.
There is life-saving help out there. Life-changing help? Not so much. I suppose we should be thankful for what we have. In broken Britain, the bare minimum is the best we can expect.
