Depression, Fact not fiction, Mania, manic depression, Mental Health, Uncategorized

down to where all hope is lost (4 of 4)

Posted on January 1, 2023April 16, 2026 by David Clifford Stent

It took me a while to adjust to the reality of being back in the real world where I was not being constantly monitored by nursing staff. I could lie in. Eat what I wanted, not what was given to me. Small mercies. My mum had drawn the short straw and kindly gave me a place to stay on my way down from a long period of mania. The nursing staff had forewarned that it was very likely, almost inevitable, that I would crash through the floor and depression would replace my elevated mood.

This wasn’t immediate. I stayed with my mum for a short while and I insisted that I return to work. I was feeling more like my old self. It was premature, but we could be forgiven for our approach as there was no manual for this. My thinking was becoming more rational, and I was more reflective. Since my mood had been high, I hadn’t cared or considered how my behaviour throughout this period of my life had impacted others. I thought a lot about my previous relationships, friends and family I had hurt, and I dwelled on the embarrassing things I had done. I had shown little or no regard for those closest to me for years, sharing things that were extremely personal and private online without consent, and without consideration. Saying and doing things I now regret. Some still occasionally haunt me in my darker moments.

I hired a car and one night decided to drive to Oxford for a walk around the university. For no rational reason. I wasn’t through the woods just yet. When I returned, the police got in touch once again. I had filled up the hire car and not paid for petrol before driving off. It was an honest mistake, highlighting the state of mind I was in. I returned to the petrol station and made the payment. I craved my old life and normality, as did those around me, this whole experience had been extremely traumatic. Sadly, the worst was still to come.

Once the insurance company had paid out the claim for my car which I had written off in Kent prior to my hospital visit, I was keen to use the money to buy a replacement. I am forever indebted to the policeman that attended the accident on the M2 and kindly wrote on the crime report, ‘swerved a fox’ instead of the actual reason for the car crash.

I bought a new car quickly and foolishly paid too much; I was still impulsive. I returned to my mum’s house, and she was shocked to see a new BMW on the drive. She was noticeably apprehensive about my desire to return to work so quickly. I was asked to meet a Senior Manager, to work on a new proposal for a new contract with a public sector client. My uncle offered me a room in his house in Shipley, West Yorkshire for a short stay. I can still remember the exact moment when I walked across the divide and the depression started to slowly set in like the inevitability of an encroaching tide. It had turned. I was in my Uncle Séa’s house, sat on his stairs. I suddenly had an overwhelming feeling of sadness and dread. I had felt something similar before when I was travelling in 2008 and prior to that when I was at university in 2006, but this was more pronounced. Deeper. Darker.

The feeling of dread coursed through my body and my mind flooded with sadness. I couldn’t function. I called my family and spoke to my mum and younger brother. I was meant to be heading down South the following morning for work. My younger brother had returned from his trip to Australia, cutting his trip short to help out. He offered to drive me to meet my colleagues first thing as I gathered my thoughts and prepared for the meeting. He returned home by train across the country so I could at least try and put on a brave face on for my colleagues.

It didn’t play out as we had all hoped. I attended the meeting at a hotel in Berkshire, but I was useless. Making up the numbers. I found it hard to concentrate, work was suddenly no longer important. The dip in my mood cut to the very core of me. I started catastrophising everything. The plan before my mood had changed was to travel down South, to Reading and then onto London to visit an old friend for the night. I continued to Twickenham to see Adam, but I wasn’t myself. He let me have his bed and he slept on the sofa. I hardly spoke. I made my excuses the next day and left returning to my mum’s house. I managed the drive back to Doncaster which was, looking back equally as dangerous as driving when manic. I called HR and said I would be taking more time off.

Over the next couple of weeks, I deteriorated. It was mid-February, cold, dark and I became more and more insular. I lost the ability to enjoy time with my family, speaking to friends, listening to music, watching United, food, a cup of tea. I couldn’t find solace in anything. I was constantly thinking of the ruin and devastation I had caused people over the past few years. The darkness became self-loathing and self-hatred, and it was a vicious cycle where I would play out horrendous scenes over and over, cast in the lead role on an endless film reel. I was embarrassed by the culmination of years of stupid mistakes, stupid actions and complete disregard for the people I loved. The only way to describe it would be to imagine the fear and dread you feel when you wake up with a thick head after the work’s Christmas party knowing you’ve done something foolish after too many drinks, having said or disclosed the wrong thing. It was like this but magnified a hundred-fold; colleagues replaced by people you cared about the most in the world, and the party a catalogue of real events over years.

My family recognised I was getting worse as I distanced myself from everyone and everything. Over the next couple of months, I was only able to answer my phone on a handful of occasions when it vibrated into life during the short window when it was switched on. When it did and I answered, I couldn’t hold a conversation. I wanted to be left alone and I thought about the spitting incident from my time in hospital. Again, a shiver of shame made its way down my spine. Join the queue. My phone would remain switched off for weeks at a time. I was off the grid and my friends tried in vain to contact me. Depression can be an extremely selfish illness.

The Mental Health Team started visiting every couple of days once my family had updated them on my decline. The visits were short. I would be asked questions about my mood, and I had to provide a score out of 10. This must have been painful for the nurses and my family. I found it excruciating. Having people, strangers, see me in this state, a shadow of the person I was, was in short, impossible. Monosyllabic, I had to work hard to muster up my response of “two” for each question. I reasoned “one” would be catatonic and I wasn’t quite there yet.

The Mental Health Team persevered with different combinations of meds over this period, like a team of psychiatric mixologists. Initially, I continued on the highest dose of 15mg of Olanzapine, an anti-psychotic that I had been prescribed in hospital which helped me to sleep through the night, it had successfully slowed my mind to the point now where I was struggling to keep my eyes open in the morning. Without the noradrenaline running amok when manic, I was now slower, walking deeper into the fog of depression each day, lost. They had mentioned amongst other side effects, that the Olanzapine would likely result in weight gain as it increased appetite. They also forewarned the chance of higher cholesterol and potential kidney damage. I couldn’t give a fuck. I’d have eaten glass in that minute if it would have loosened the stranglehold depression now had on my mind.

Prior to all this, I had been taken off Citalopram when I was sectioned at the beginning of January. It was prescribed as part of the misdiagnosis of depression back in 2008. Taking only Citalopram for the best part of four and a half years had been exacerbating my heightened mood. Pouring petrol on the fire. Looking back, it had contributed along with my mind’s own agenda, to produce extended periods of hypomania, impulsivity and chaos. I would have given anything in that moment to be manic again. Instead, I laid on the bed staring at the wall motionless in my mum’s spare bedroom. Curtains drawn and the darkness swallowing me.

The next medication I was prescribed was lithium, a mood stabiliser highly effective at treating bipolar disorder. The Mental Health Team explained that it would take time for this to be effective. I would have to have my lithium levels monitored by blood tests every three months. Not a problem. I wasn’t sure how much time I had left to fight this. I was having to battle to get through every minute. I hoped the lithium would finally help.

They assured me it would get better, but I had to ride it out and fight. Sadly by this point I had no fight left in me. I couldn’t face waking up each day because as soon as I did, the dread in my chest would set in within seconds. The emptiness was killing me. I couldn’t feel anything. I would try and force myself back to sleep each morning for a reprieve, but it was no good. I would lie in bed until one of my family walked me to the bathroom, where I would be asked to shower and brush my teeth. This took an enormous amount of effort and after some encouragement I would comply. Returning to my bed or the sofa downstairs, the daytime TV providing the backing soundtrack for a very sad boring drama. I would lie there all day everyday, my life on pause, unable to focus on the programming. My mum would make me a cup of tea and a sandwich when she returned home at lunch, which I forced down, simply so I could be left to face my demons in self-imposed solitary confinement. February slowly became March, and the days began getting longer. Unfortunately for me the brightness of the evenings was still failing to make any impression on my mind. My mum would take me out into the cold winter afternoon on walks on the odd occasion in an attempt to break the cycle. She would hold my hand trying to comfort me, it wasn’t reciprocated, I had nothing to give.

I was meant to be going to the Cheltenham Festival for the Gold Cup in mid-March with the lads. I had organised tickets in November which had arrived at my mum’s address a couple of weeks before the event. I couldn’t go. Not a chance. Writing this now it is remarkable that I made it over to one of the lads’ houses on the other side of Doncaster. I handed him the tickets as he opened his front door, mumbling something inaudible, I remember him looking puzzled before I retreated to the safety of the car and my brother drove me back to my mum’s. He didn’t have to say it as I could clearly see it from the expression on his face, “Who are you and what the hell have you done with Stenty?”

When I had turned on my phone to get his address before the drive, the messages came through along with countless emails and voicemails. I couldn’t face it; how could I speak to my anyone in this state? Who would want to spend time with me? I was beyond miserable. Embarrassed and ashamed. My family were obligated, but they were as desperate as I was, and they helped me out of love.

I came to the conclusion after weeks of willing my mind to get better that this was the new me. My brain was completely fucked after years of driving with the needle on the rev counter permanently in the red. It wasn’t going to get any better. When the Mental Health Team visited, I didn’t fake a smile anymore. I didn’t sit up. I just laid staring into space as they spoke quietly to my mum. It was apparent to everyone I was getting worse, not better. There wasn’t much further to fall. In a final throw of the dice, they decided after consulting the psychiatrist to prescribe Fluoxetine (Prozac). This is typically something psychiatrists aim to avoid with bipolar patients because of the risk of mania, but they were out of ideas and both me and my family were facing a brick wall, our foreheads bleeding.

Another risk with Selective Serotonin Reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs), is if they are effective and the patient is considering taking their own life, they can enable the patient to act. Studies have shown a slightly improved mood provides the motivation to mobilise and execute the end game. I had lost all hope. Up until now there was part of me deep down at the back of the room quietly mouthing, ‘this could work, hang in there’. Not anymore. This voice had fallen silent. All hope was lost.

In the following days my mum continued to head to work, leaving me in the house alone. I had visitors but I no longer put a brave face on it. My ex-girlfriend arrived at the front door one evening and my mum politely turned her away as she knew I wouldn’t have wanted her to see my sad sunken eyes and the shell of a man laid on the sofa. A shadow of my former self. I would have been ashamed, and this would have made the situation worse. She is an incredible person. After what I had put her through, she still cared and tried to help, forgiving my catalogue of failures.

There was only one way out of this scenario and whilst it would be the worst outcome for the people who loved me, love wasn’t enough to keep me here any longer. I couldn’t face waking up and having to endure hell for another day. Depression is an extremely selfish illness.

My mum headed back to work for the afternoon after coming home for lunch and I got dressed. It had been a good while since I’d been outside, and I felt a little calmer walking along the road beside the canal. I remember it was wet underfoot and there was a cool breeze, a typical quiet weekday afternoon in a market town just outside of Doncaster. I made my way to the A614, there was no pavement, I walked on the side of the road with the ditches and fields either side of me. I walked purposefully up to Tudworth Roundabout, up onto the fly over that crossed the M180. I climbed over the railings and slowly positioned myself overhanging the motorway, looking down at the blurred vehicles passing quickly underneath. I had to find the courage to drop from the concrete ledge and time it so an articulated lorry would put me out of my misery. I didn’t spare a thought for the driver. Depression is an extremely selfish illness.

I hesitated. I tried a couple of times, counting down in my mind but as I willed myself to push off the edge, I caught myself and held on.

“You alright mate?” A voice from behind me asked, just audible above the humm of the traffic passing beneath us.

I turned around and looked at the roadside. Two cars had pulled up in a lay by with their hazards flashing. One guy was sat in his car on the phone and the other stranger in his shirt and tie speaking to me.

“No” I replied, dejected.

“Do us a favour pal come away from there and we can have a chat. Yeah?”

A minute passed as tears ran down my face. The first emotion I’d felt in too long. The stranger continued:

“What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry mate, I’m really sad and I can’t stop it”

“Don’t be sorry. What’s your name?”

“David”

The police arrived. I can’t remember exactly what they said, they were great with me. It wasn’t their first time. I knew my destination; I was being returned to sender. I cannot thank the two strangers who pulled off the motorway cancelling their plans when they saw me on the bridge on that wet March afternoon back in 2013. They saved my life. I never got their details; I didn’t have the presence of mind at the time to ask. The kindness of strangers is never wasted on me.

I was on my way back to St Cath’s three months after I had first set foot into the Cusworth ward. I was the same person by name and appearance only. My older brother left work immediately when called and drove across to Doncaster from his office in Scunthorpe to sit with me, as I waited for my assessment. I narrowly avoided being sectioned. The nurse (Jarvis) spoke at length to my brother and got the assurance she needed. In the weeks that followed my mum arranged for someone to be in the house every minute of the day. Mostly it was her and my brothers. But my cousins, my uncles, my aunties all put in a shift to keep me safe when they needed to. My mum was determined to prevent what happened to my Uncle Cliff all those years ago, happening to me. Knowing all too well the devastation losing someone to suicide, does to a family. She hid the keys, she hid the bottles of bleach, the painkillers, the knives and got rid of anything else she didn’t immediately need that posed a risk. If she had to go out, she would take me up the street to my Uncle Keith and Aunty Lynne, they would watch over me.

I missed our Phil’s 30^th birthday in Edinburgh at the end of March, which was a shame as it would have been great to spend it with him after what he and all my family had done for me throughout this period of my life, but I was still struggling.

Then, a couple of weeks later, I remember it like it was yesterday; a Friday afternoon, mid-April, I walked into the living room and asked my mum and our Tom who were sat chatting,

“Shall we go out for a curry? We haven’t had one in ages.”

They both looked at me startled and couldn’t believe it; it was the first positive thing I’d said in three months. My mum’s prayers had been answered, she had been living this nightmare with me for too long. Since my dad died back in 2002 my mum at 39, had always been the constant for the three of us being Worlds Greatest Mum and Worlds Greatest Dad. Sacrificing herself for her children, the rock we all needed as we set out on adulthood. This whole episode of our lives had required every ounce of resilience she had. I stood in front of her, and it was clear I had turned a corner. The relief was palpable. We had turned a corner. That night we went for a curry together, it was bloody awful, but it didn’t matter, my family were there and for the first time in too long, I was in the room, present.

I recovered slowly from this point and come the end of the summer; I was stable.

Mental health treatment isn’t a perfect science. I am lucky that the psychiatric team found a combination of drugs that keep my mood within a healthy range. I still have periods of depression and periods when my mood is elevated, they are difficult, but they are manageable. It was explained to me that if my normal range without medication is from the floor to the ceiling, the floor being taking my own life and the ceiling full blown mania, so reckless, misadventure would probably kill me. Taking the medication ensures the range is curtailed. The lows and highs are not as extreme. I know some people prefer to live through the highs and the lows without medication. They don’t numb their emotions or their creativity, I honestly don’t think I could ever live through this whole experience again. I certainly wouldn’t want to put my family and friends through it again.

Recently a friend asked me if I worry that I will have another episode as bad as the mania and depression I experienced in the years leading up to and including 2013. I said without any hesitation, no. With the medication, therapy, correct lifestyle choices and the love and support of my family and friends, I am confident I will never be back walking that road. I am very lucky.

It is definitely a case of the ‘the first cut is the deepest’ this was my first real experience of depression. Many men don’t make it through to the other side to share their experience. Death by suicide is still the biggest killer for men under 50, seventy six percent of all suicides are male.

Bipolar is not miraculously cured by medication. Sadly, no mental health conditions are. Mood stabilisers, anti-psychotics and anti-depressants help me; however, everyone is different. Some people don’t respond to treatment. These drugs aren’t what penicillin is to a chest infection. They of course do a lot of good, but bipolar is a lifelong illness that must be constantly managed. Being bipolar doesn’t define me but it is certainly part of who I am, and despite how hard this has been to write, I wouldn’t change it. I’m a better person for it and I hope it goes someway to helping others.

If someone you know hasn’t been their self lately, reach out to them ask them how they are.

Thanks for taking the time to read my story.

Phil’s wedding, my lovely sister-in-law, Kaz and my beautiful mum

Laura Elizabeth Munson. Bear. Lau. Lauzy. Munsey. Burner. Munsonator.

My Uncle Séa, left wing. Bloody top bloke #movember

The Stent boys and Stent girls, Halle and Elena

Recent one from my mum’s 60th. My brilliant cousin Emma making a very welcome guest appearance.

Little Thomas, my sister in law Jan and my not so small anymore niece, Elena

Finny P, Jan Louise, Halle Bob, Elena Boo and Thomas

Depression, Mania, Mental Health, Section 2 Mental Health Act, Texas 2012, Travel, Uncategorized

From Paris with Love

Posted on January 1, 2023April 16, 2026 by David Clifford Stent

It has been over 10 years since I was sectioned under section 2 of the Mental Health Act. It was the most difficult experience of my life. The deep resentment for myself after a period of mania was debilitating. Back in 2013, I found myself at the mercy of a cold Psychiatrist, a warm Nursing team and dated Legislation that has been in use in the UK since 1983.

It was a long road that led up to me losing my freedom. A road leading all the way to St Catherine’s Hospital – in the town where I grew up, Doncaster. Looking back now, it is sobering and frightening to think about the situations I found myself in. I was always one second away from irrationally lashing out. Putting my foot down and undertaking on the hard shoulder. Spitting an insult at anyone that crossed me. An eventful period but for all the wrong reasons. I hurt a lot of people and I lost a lot but eventually, I have gained an insight into something at the time I was ignorant of.

In the time since the Mental Health Team in Doncaster found a combination of medication that relieved my symptoms, the world has continued to recognise the importance of good Mental Health. Recently my Chief Information Officer was out of the office for two days on a course, Mental Health First Aid Training. Knowing what his salary commands, two days of the CIO not on email or available by phone shows how seriously businesses are now taking Mental Health. This is positive. We met up and had a chat about my condition and he has been extremely supportive.

It is of course Mental Health Awareness Week and I wanted to make sure I shared my experience. Of late I have read articles online about anorexia, depression, crippling anxiety, personality disorders and the experience of being sectioned. I felt the need to write down my experience with Mental Health, which explores the danger of mania and depression. Having had seven healthy comparatively incident free years, now feels like a good time to detail an account of what it was like living through a mental breakdown, the chaos of mania and the living hell that is depression. I hope you the reader will think about those around you, that friend or family member that is having a tough time and hopefully if needed you will encourage a conversation.

The black Labrador, my Churchill reference, first wandered into my life when I was a teenager. I didn’t know what this was in my youth, I would go through periods where I would struggle to motivate myself, struggle to find enjoyment, struggle to sleep and overthink almost everything. It didn’t have a name, but it was there. Whilst I was travelling after graduating from University in Newcastle the dog appeared again in my life. Depression hit me hard. I knew the trigger but I didn’t know what to do. As I lay awake in a backpackers hostel in Cairns Australia, I felt broken and wondered what the hell was happening to me? I couldn’t snap out of it. It wasn’t sadness. More a feeling of emptiness. Uncomfortably numb. Considering I’d spent the previous nine months saving up for the trip, working two jobs paying barely more than minimum wage, the timing was unfortunate and expensive.

What had been a routine call to my mum to update her on my trip left me feeling lost. The 8^th of May my parents’ wedding anniversary. I had called to say I remembered and to see how she was, having lost my dad suddenly back in 2002, I felt it important that I recognise what to most was just another day. Out of all our family, my mum being one of eleven and my dad being one of seven, sadly no one else had remembered. This wasn’t intentional of course, I know life moves on. My mum was upset. This hurt and in turn it hurt me. I hung up the phone and covered myself with a dark cloak. I couldn’t take it off.

For weeks, I tried in vain to pull my socks up, get it together to hold my chin up. I failed. My friends who were having the time of their lives, grew increasingly frustrated by my despondence and they didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know. I had to get help. I hadn’t slept in several weeks and I felt like I was stumbling through each day and enduring each night. A shadow of the lively lad excited to see South East Asia and Australia. I was now unable to experience new places and meet new people. I couldn’t find enjoyment in anything. Chatting to my friends was all of a sudden alien to me. I had lost the ability to communicate, I was ashamed. I felt as though I was wasting my opportunity and I didn’t know what to do. United won the Champions League against Chelsea in Moscow back in May 2008. I watched the match on a boat in the Whitsundays, but I didn’t enjoy it. I watched out of habit if anything because it is what I always did. The result should have seen me running amok, shirt off hugging strangers chanting ‘Viva Red Army’. Instead, for me at least it was another sombre affair. A live production I was an extra in.

Encouraged by the strongest person who in time would become my girlfriend, I decided to leave New Zealand which was next on the travel itinerary. My family were as always great support and asked that I speak to my GP. I did and he prescribed me Citalopram. It was remarkably easy. A concern really looking back. It took time but after a month of lying in bed through the summer days, darkness around me. The sunshine started to light the fabric of both the drawn curtains and my mood. The first thing that suggested the medication was helping was when I began looking forward to things again. I can’t remember what it was thinking back, but the event was probably something trivial to most like a meal time or seeing a friend. My recovery from this point was quite remarkable in hind sight. I went from being bed ridden with debilitating depression in June, living my days in my mum’s spare room staring at the four walls. To starting a Graduate Programme in October. Travelling to London and then a further two weeks training in Chicago. I felt positive. I was a little apprehensive and sad to be leaving those who had supported me, but it was only five weeks and I would be home at the weekend when I was back in the UK.

I completed the training meeting some new friends and started work at the company’s offices in Manchester, my first client was HMRC in Newcastle. What a stroke of luck. I had friends in Newcastle and it was a second home for me. I jumped at the chance to return there with a few quid in my pocket. My dance with depression was a distant memory now and I thought Mother’s Little Helpers were the best thing since John Terry slipped on the penalty spot on that famous night in Moscow. Viva John Terry! I was back. As with most mental illnesses often the first diagnosis requires a review, I didn’t have one. As much my fault as that of my GP. I surpassed what was normal, my mood heightened for long periods. Over the next four years I flirted with Mania on an almost daily basis. I was susceptible to depressive episodes but for the most part I lived through hypomania, long periods of mania that could go undetected to those around me. For those times when my synapses weren’t devoid of serotonin, I would continue to flood them with my morning’s dose of SSRI’s. Overloading my brain. The best comparison I can give is it feels a little like taking MDMA, but for days on end, no let up. I could run 5km in under 18 minutes after only a couple of weeks training, boundless energy. Gym every day. I could talk and drink for England. I would bounce out of my bed in a morning and find myself throwing up after a run around Regents Park in London trying to beat yesterday’s personal best, before heading into the office.

I don’t have the time and you certainly don’t have the patience for me to document all the stupid things I did. It was a very precarious time. I tested my own resolve, the resolve of the people who loved me. Thankfully I didn’t find myself in front of a magistrate or worse. I had my jaw broken by a delightful fellow after picking a fight on a football pitch. I stole a car whilst dressed up as a 1970s Australian rugby league player on a night out in Manchester to get home from Stockport. I found myself scrapping in the toilets of clubs on several occasions when a stranger would marginalise a friend. I pushed the envelope, turning up at work with bruises and cuts on my knuckles. My family and friends became accustomed to irrational outbursts, embarrassing displays of me losing my temper. On one occasion I was ready to go toe to toe with a guy in the middle of a dual carriageway after slamming my brakes on, he had cut me up at a roundabout, how fucking dare he! Did he know who I was!? My mum who was sat beside me talked me down. A collectors item. All this complimented by impulsive thinking and my speech running at a hundred miles per hour. Promiscuity ran with me as did drinking, gambling and recreational drug use. It did tune me in when I chewed my chin or so I thought. I was a ticking time bomb.

I ruined the relationship with my girlfriend. She wasn’t aware of my indiscretions, but I decided in my heightened mood that she wasn’t the one for me. I wanted to be single. I moved out of the flat we rented in Leeds where I was now living in 2012 and looked forward to a trip to the US with friends across the Southern States. The mania was becoming unmanageable. Having a gun pulled on me whilst stumbling into the wrong RV at 4am in a campsite in Houston Texas, dressed as a Tour de France cyclist certainly sobered me up. Sadly it didn’t sober me up for long enough. The next day I was unloading a compressed Uzi and I wouldn’t recommend it in the midst of mania. I would get very down and cry most evenings aghast at my behaviour then recover, sleep for a few hours and do it all again. I returned to the UK and continued to self-destruct.

Over the festive period in 2012 I ran out of fuse. For those of you reading this that have experienced mental illness yourself or know someone who has battled with it. You will not be surprised to learn a huge issue in my life was social media when I was manic. I am not proud of my actions, but I disclosed indiscretions with no regard for those reading online. Facebook posts would be my downfall. I disclosed things that left me distraught once my mood dipped. I still to this day shudder embarrassed to my core when I think of what I posted online. Girls I had slept with. Girls who were close friends of mine and my ex girlfriend. Some tales I thought were true, which turned out to be fabrications and at the very least exaggerations. Laid bare for all to see. This set off a chain of events that I was never able to recover from. I lost many good friends.

I was sleeping very little as I have mentioned during this period and my brothers took me one night to A&E when I flirted with psychosis, thinking I could hear my late uncle who took his own life at 18. A week’s worth of zopiclone for sleep then back to it. Back to drinking too much until I hit reset and then up at 4am absolutely wired. Writing nonsense online. I was unable to listen to a rational point of view. This was my new normal.

Having destroyed several relationships, I had little remorse. I was in the right. They were in the wrong. It was from here things unravelled. Paranoia from lack of sleep and my deteriorating mental state saw me making more stupid ill thought out decisions. Psychosis was setting in for the long haul. In one final attempt to atone for my infidelity over the Christmas period in 2012 I visited a supermarket and attempted to buy my ex-girlfriend several boxes of champagne, pathetic isn’t it like some sparkling wine would do it. Christ himself pouring it into a chalice wouldn’t have done it. This plan didn’t materialise as my gold corporate Amex was declined, I’d hit my limit in more ways than one. The £1400 leather jacket I had bought the previous day in a department store in Leeds wasn’t the best way to spend the best part of a month’s disposable income, nor was laying the draw on a football match for 3 bags as the liability, it of course ended 0-0. I was out of luck and out of time.

Over the years that led up to this I had been the master of disguise. Taking my daily anti-depressants but now my ability to mask what was going on behind the eyes began to wane. I decided in a second one morning to visit the tomb of Oscar Wilde in Paris. Alarm bells would have been ringing had my friends and family not been accustomed to ridiculous behaviour previously. Anyway they didn’t know this time and I could no longer trust them. I’d never been to Paris after all. Into the car I jumped on New Year’s Day after waking up in a living room in Leeds City Centre following a night out. The living room I had stirred in was owned by a friend of another former friend. She walked away like so many others because she did not want someone so volatile to be around her and her little girl. I couldn’t argue with this and have never tried to. I was far away. The girl whose flat I woke up in enjoyed wearing what I thought was a lot of makeup. Before I left her flat I scrawled in large letters using her eye liner on the bathroom door. “You need makeup like I need a psychiatrist!!!’. Ironic. This went down like a shit sandwich as you might have guessed.

I started to think someone was following me. For my trip to France I wouldn’t take the obvious route down the M1 to Dover. No, stupid like a fox I would take the A1. In the grip of a panic attack I thought they would track my phone. I pulled over next to a post box, in went my phone and then ripping the number plates off the car I continued to drive south a little calmer. Invisible. I thought I was being covert. I was a flashing alarm siren blaring. I was in a Black BMW travelling as fast as the car would allow me to down the A1, no number plates and quite honestly no chance.

Paris had to wait. I got as far as the M2 near Maidstone when I totalled the car. The attending traffic Police Officer did me a big favour in writing the write off was a result of ‘swerving a fox’ on the Crime Report. Thankfully the Insurance paid out. I was taken to hospital in the back of a mode of transport I would get accustomed to, ambulance. I was lucky, the fact that I walked away from this was a miracle and thankfully I didn’t hurt anyone else. The Doctor’s face when my blood and urine samples came back clean there was an expression of surprise and confusion. I was in the grips of full blown Mania. What happened next could have had repercussions for the rest of my life and had it not been for another incredibly astute policeman, I think it would have. The experience would have seen me surrender my career at the very least. I can only think he had already attended the course my CIO had recently been on. I was discharged from the hospital in Kent, I had no money, PP Pat and Jess had my phone and my car a crumpled mess kissing the crash barrier. I was past the point of no return, oxygen masks deployed, going down quickly. Finding a dual carriageway near the hospital I wandered down the hard shoulder until I found a 24-hour petrol station. I walked in and politely asked the attendant working if I could have a glass of water as I was thirsty. It had been a long time since I had drank anything, a simple thing you forget to do when manic, the mind is such a powerful bit of kit. It was days since I had eaten, simply hadn’t had time to give it a thought.

The only phone number I could remember was that of my ex-girlfriend. It was the early hours of the morning on the 2^nd January. Considering I had humiliated this girl and betrayed her several times over. Broken her heart then rubbed her nose in it. The fact she answered the phone in the first instance without telling me to get fucked was a small victory of sorts. I begged for her to come and collect me from Kent. Her family thankfully helped her see how ridiculous this request was. My overactive mind served up a memory to me as the phone line went dead. The police officer that attended the car accident did offer me transport back home if I needed it knowing my predicament. Now, what he offered me and what I heard were two completely different things. I asked the attendant in the petrol station if I could again make a phone call. She was extremely polite and handed over the phone.

I dialled 999 and got through to the Police. When I explained the situation, the lady on the other end of the phone abruptly cut me off. ‘Stop wasting my time’. I used to think the police were a lot of things but a glorified taxi service they are not. I called back. A different lady answered, again I made my case for a lift home, citing the police officer from earlier in the day. I was met with the same response. At this juncture I threatened if she did not oblige, next time I called, I would get someone to come and collect me. She cut the call. For the third time I punched in 9 9 9. I got a response.

One of the officers that attended the petrol station with several colleagues from the Emergency Services noticed my behaviour was erratic. I wasn’t quite grasping the enormity of the situation, claiming I was in possession of an explosive and then trying to make small talk was rather unsettling. I chatted at length to the two officers who took me in the back of their car to the police station. I remember one of them was a West Ham fan. ‘They won the World Cup in 66 for us they did!” I spent the night in a cell. Wasting so much of the Emergency Services time and resources wasn’t my finest hour.

In the custody cell I didn’t sleep despite being exhausted. Falling further into psychosis. The officer attending the cells gave me a book to read. I stayed up all night and ripped pages into small pieces and placed these around the floor of the cell, creating messages for the camera lens above me. No one was watching. I could hear them and see them. In the morning my older brother and mum arrived, they had travelled through the night driving 200 miles to pick me up. The journey back home was tragic. I was erratic, shouting, crying, laughing, hysterical, hearing things, seeing things. It took us over four hours and I can honestly say they were probably the most harrowing four hours. There was no manual for this.

I would scream at my mum when she tried to reason with me. I wouldn’t trust anyone not even my closest family. The police were called again as soon as I was home. When the police arrived, my family asked them to take me somewhere where I could get help. I went in the back of another police car with my brother to Doncaster Royal Infirmary where my family sat waiting for a Psychiatrist to attend. It felt like five minutes to me but it was hours. I heard a pair of teetering high heels at one point, I knew these were those of my ex-girlfriend outside in the corridor, she had come over from Leeds. My mum kindly asked her not to come into the room as it would be too much emotionally for me to deal with. Even with my behaviour, what I had done, the people I had hurt my family and friends were still in my corner fighting for me when I couldn’t. I was single handedly taking my life apart piece by piece. When the Psychiatrist arrived he informed my family there was nothing he could do. The beds were all taken.

Think about this for a second. Think about this when you cast your vote. In my hour of need our health service were having to turn me away. How many people each day get turned away? I will never forget my brother breaking down in tears when he heard this. He was desperate. We were all desperate. On seeing his tears the Psychiatrist left the room. He returned a short while later when he had managed to pull whatever strings can be pulled in the UK’s underfunded, oversubscribed Health System. Some other person was turned away. He had found me a bed. For the first time in a long time I was safe.

I lost count of the number of Police Officers that saved my life. The numerous nurses I met along the road that saved my life. The Psychiatrist in Doncaster Royal Infirmary and the Psychiatrists at St Catherine’s all played a part in saving my life. Not for the first time my family and friends saved my life. Not for the last time the Mental Health Act saved my life.

I resent myself a lot less these days, it has taken years. I am not trying to absolve myself of the pain and hurt I caused a lot of people throughout this period of my life by writing this, far from it. I was a horrible version of myself. When I came out of the other side sorry simply wasn’t enough for a few people. It would be wrong for me to blame my illness and medication for the mistakes, a joint effort combining the hedonism of youth with a trauma response that kicked me out into the world and I couldn’t cope. I am responsible and where I wronged people I have tried to make amends. In many cases this has meant walking away as I said, leaving people to move on with their lives. I have good memories of times before my mind unravelled. This whole experience serves as a reminder to myself to be vigilant. To make positive choices. To speak to my psychiatrist. To speak to my friends and family. To exercise. To give that pub lunch after the big night out a miss. To look after myself for the alternative is a reality I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy and believe me, after this period of my life I have a few.

Why write this at all then? Writing it down is cathartic and it keeps me honest. Sharing is what is encouraged to remove the stigma of mental illness. I know I am extremely fortunate to be in a position to do so. I work in a company that is extremely forward thinking, to be able to share my journey. I hope it goes some way to helping someone. Please share if you know someone who would benefit from reading this.

I made it to Paris a few years ago and no, I didn’t drive.