Fact not fiction, Fiction, Mania, manic depression, Mental Health, Music, Political commentary, Section 2 Mental Health Act, Uncategorized

right down to the bottom (3 of 4)

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

I woke in the middle of the night. Whatever liquid was in the needle certainly did the trick, great for a post music festival coach trip home. I had been out and missed the evening meal, dodged a bullet. Shivering on a blue plastic mat, I looked up. A psychiatric nurse was sat at her post, eyes glazed (she might have had one as well?) watching another slow night pass through the looking glass. My movement rescued her from the boredom. It was the most peace and quiet I had experienced for a long time, same for her I bet. Groggy, my mind turned over slowly, cognitive function lowered, I was still a long way from normal. I was kept in the panic room after waking for a few more hours, until the sun showed his face through the larger windows up high on the cleaner, whiter walls.

When I exited the holding bay, I walked into what most would expect a psychiatric unit to look like. There was space. It was friendlier, calmer and the windows seemed designed to allow more natural light to cascade across the shiny, laminate floors. More importantly the nurse-to-patient ratio was nearly one nurse for every two patients. I relaxed; it wasn’t going to be as stressful in here. I knew it.

In the Psychiatric Intensive Care unit, Skelbrooke Ward, I met other patients; some acute, some in it for the long haul. This was now the knockout stage of the Champions League. I’m as competitive as the next person, but I was slowly realising this wasn’t a competition I wanted to see through. Fuck knows what you would win; a lifetime supply of Prozac, Zopiclone and a signed Straight Jacket by the patients and staff. After my performance the day before I had made it through to the Semis after demolishing the opposition.

The self-harming young girl who had swallowed the batteries earlier in the week was present and correct, as was another lad called David, and an older, very rude patient. He remained nameless, a mute from what I could gather. I am not writing about myself in the third person, with my reference to psychosis previously. David was in the hospital after an incident in prison where he was serving another sentence for a violent burglary. He was tall, wiry, and refreshingly friendly and articulate. I instantly warmed to him. He wanted to know more about what happened in the Cusworth Ward. I happily provided cigarettes and we spent a lot of time in the smoking area chatting. You’ve got to love fresh air. In the first few days I missed listening to music, but my family provided an old iPod, and this helped. When I find myself not able to enjoy music, I am seriously in the shit. I shared earphones with David and spent hours introducing him to what I had been listening to recently.

There was a gym, granted nothing to write home about, but it was something to keep my mind occupied. The rowing machine helped; I was keen to use it when one of the nurses was free to accompany me. They sat on a few occasions and watched me row 2500m over 250m intervals, 20 seconds rest, another notch of resistance up / down. 10 to 1, 1 to 10. I used to do this religiously after each gym session with an old pal when we lived in Manchester, a great time of my life. I had slowly dismantled the friendship since then which still upsets me, but I have done everything in my armoury to atone for my mistakes. Exercising helps improve my mental health massively especially when I push myself. Something extremely cathartic in it. Maybe the pause from pain nullifies the thinking, still haven’t put my finger quite on it but it still helps immensely.

I wrote a lot to my responsible clinician, most days in fact. I would request a pen and some blank paper and list the reasons why I shouldn’t be held in captivity. Often losing my train of thought, I would grab a blank sheet and propose new ways the hospital could save money, improve the health care, and reduce the risks to patients. Like the black rhino knows too well, all this fell on deaf ears but helped me pass the time. You’re staying in the zoo pal.

There were a lot of seriously ill people on the ward as you would expect, I hadn’t yet noticed myself staring back in the reflection of the porthole windows. Some patients I didn’t get to know. Some were unable to leave their rooms. I used to walk the ward and wander past a young lad, he was catatonic, held in an unresponsive stupor. I had never seen this before. It was extremely hard and frightening to witness. He would lie still, eyes fixed on the wall like a statue, beyond help, the nursing staff would try and feed him and give him fluids. Again, made me realise what a powerful bit of kit the mind is. Lost in his own mind. As I write this I am learning about Kanye West and his current plight, reluctant like I was to listen to the professionals, that can help manage bipolar disorder. Another person dismantling his life, piece by piece, impulsive act by impulsive act. I empathise and hope he has people he loves fighting with him. He’ll need them when the parasites have had their fill and there is no more money to be made. Jesus walks indeed.

Visiting time was always welcome, breaking up the monotony of the day. The first visit in the new ward was from my mum and my older brother. I was still heartbroken that my mum had done the right thing, the only thing she could do; giving her permission for me to be detained in the psychiatric unit. In the visiting room I waited, and they walked in. They had brought me some fresh orange juice, worried I wasn’t getting my vitamin C, always caring, and always thinking of me. I was pleased to see them, but I was also angry. I lost my temper. I erupted. Again. Screaming at my mum and our Phil,

“HOW COULD YOU DO THIS!!! A fucking psychiatric hospital!!! I’m fucked now!!!”

One of the nurses quickly came to the room to make sure everything was okay. Crying and sobbing, I was inconsolable. So were my family. I had strained so hard screaming; my nose had started bleeding from the pressure exerted, blood and tears dripped slowly onto the floor. I felt betrayed. They persisted to appease me. After a while, I calmed down and the nurse left us to talk to one another. This was the first time, realising from the look of concern and worry facing me. I had to start listening to the people who loved me and the medical professionals around me.

From this point, I realised I wasn’t getting out of here in my current state of mind. That evening when my family left, I enjoyed a cigarette and mentioned to David that I would start taking my medication. He explained how lucky I was that I had people that cared who would come and visit me in hospital. His mum had never visited him since he had been sectioned at her discretion. He had a brother who was also doing porridge, so he never saw him either.

He went on to tell me about helping a friend of his when he was in prison. How he had been in and out of prison since he was a teenager. I remember him saying sometimes doing the right thing isn’t always the easiest option. When he was in prison his friend was late down to lunch, he panicked and raised the alarm with the prison guards. It turned out his friend had overdosed and was lifeless in his cell. Fortunately, on this occasion he was saved thanks to David noticing his empty chair in the lunch hall. Later in the day one of his other friends would stick a blunt object through David’s neck. David had received all the plaudits for saving his life and this lad did not like that one bit.

David showed me the scar at base of his skull, just inside in his hairline. I in turn showed David the scar on my arm where I had placed with force, a heated knife and branded myself whilst travelling in Thailand in 2008 to commemorate the trip. Hypermania and alcohol, a toxic mix.

I had battled mania and depression for years and only now was it being correctly treated. I thanked him for sharing his story with me and thought about my family, all raising the alarm and doing the hardest thing so I could get the help that I so sorely needed. I slept that night; it was the first time I had slept through in a very long time aside from the post Glasto cocktail. The fasten seatbelts sign was flashing, we were coming into land. It wouldn’t be exactly one from the flight manual.

Over the following days I took my medication from the little paper cup and noticed a change. I was calmer. My short temper and my obsession with escaping waned. I managed to hold my focus a lot more. I kept up my exercise routine, body weight circuits and the punishing session on the rower. I worked on my relationship with the caring psychiatric nurses who I would spend my days with as well as the other patients. I didn’t call them by their first name, instead I learned their favourite musician and called them by the him or her they loved. I insisted that they referred to me as Alex. It amused them a little and I thought helped me recover some of the ground lost when I was selfishly serving my own interests in the other ward. I can’t remember too many nurses by name, but there were a couple who made a lasting impression. Years later I bumped into Tom and Jarvis, as they sat outside The Salutation Pub in Doncaster. It was great to see them, and they were together which was a great result. A romantic relationship created in the Forge of St Cath’s; I suspected this one would last. I thanked them with a beer for treating me like a person, treating my illness and helping me to help myself.

Following my behaviour, the responsible clinician, Dr Alikhan pushed for keeping me in the hospital under Section 3 of the Mental Health Act, for a period of “treatment”. If you think Section 2 sounds harrowing, I can assure you Section 3 is a lot worse. It would have had ramifications for work, travel and could have seen me being kept in hospital for a period of up to 6 months. Everyone pulled together to avoid this, the nurses, the social worker, and my family. My Uncle Séa, one of my mum’s younger brothers was unbelievable through this period. He had direct contact with the social worker fighting my corner. He would travel across from Leeds after work each day and with the social worker would push buttons and pull levers. The night before my Mental Health Tribunal, the team stayed up through the night, preparing and ensuring the evidence was compelling to fight the psychiatrist’s recommendation. The odds were against us, but again with love and support we got the result my family, friends and I wanted. I was kept in for further assessment under Section 2 of the Mental Health Act. I remember my Uncle Pad and my Uncle Tom coming to visit me when my mum and brother couldn’t. I also spared a thought for my younger brother as he was away travelling in Australia. Having the lead up to this play out regrettably on social media, I now know that I was the main reason he cut his trip short to support me and my family. Some boy. Both of my brothers are incredible people.

What is astonishing looking back is the cost of treatment. If you factor in the cost of a bed in a psychiatric unit for the best part of four weeks, nurses, psychiatrists, the support of a social worker, a solicitor, support staff, the help of the police, paramedics, doctors on numerous occasions. This has me thinking of the cost of the number of prisoners not correctly diagnosed for an illness, they are often in the wrong place. The cost of their crimes. The emphasis of early detection of mental health symptoms and how important correct treatment is. I would like to say in the past decade since my correct diagnosis we have come a long way.

Truth is, whilst society is now discussing mental health, it has become more normalised, less stigmatised and I have noticed more people at both work and in my personal life talking about their mental health. In this same period since I was in hospital more funding has been allocated to mental health spending by our NHS. Whilst this is admirable of the government and welcome, waiting times for children and young people in need of assessment and treatment has increased. Young people with life threatening conditions can wait more than 100 days before receiving any form of treatment. I know there isn’t a magic money tree and 14.9% of all funding allocated to Clinical Commissioning Groups for health services is for mental health, learning disability and dementia. Again great but when you think of the billions wasted, for instance on bogus PPE contracts by the Tories. Money that would have gone a long way in helping prevent more young people going through the mill. Getting the help they need before they are desperate. In some cases it is too late compounding the situation more for grieving families.

My parachute didn’t open first time and I relied on my reserve chute for the next ten days in hospital. I slowly descended to earth once it had successfully deployed. There were a couple of hairy moments. I remember the old bloke who didn’t say anything, never engaged or acknowledged anyone, the nurses or patients who tried to help him. I couldn’t stand this. He only ever ate Weetabix with warm milk for breakfast and dinner. I had been told by David to steer clear and memorably that he hated spitting.

One morning whilst smoking outside watching the sun come up over the grey hospital buildings, the old boy was patrolling. I coughed, cleared my throat, and spat the phlegm to the floor at his feet. He snapped, HE’S ALIVE!!! Charging at me, disgusted and ready to knock my head clean off my shoulders, he grabbed me by the throat, shouting incoherent bollocks. I held him at arm’s length despite him having had his Weetabix. I dropped my cigarette, banging my fist on the window of the nurses office, where they were sat enjoying an early morning coffee. Tom responded quickly and ran outside diffusing the situation, restraining old man river. A few hours on the blue mat for you young man. I blew him a kiss as he was escorted back inside.

I learned later prior to his visit to St Cath’s he had consumed two bottles of Domestos’ finest vintage to take his own life and it wasn’t on his hair. This hadn’t worked out well and had sadly left him with serious complications, consequently the only food he was able to digest had to be soft, which explained the Weetabix. I never got to the bottom of the spitting, I didn’t press that button again. Manners cost nothing.

The medication I was prescribed were not the magic pill we all hope for, my mood was still elevated. I wasn’t the easiest patient to treat looking back writing this, I demanded a lot of time from the nurses. I spoke to the psychiatrist only three times in my whole stay and one was when the bastard was trying to keep me for another six months; this was only for approximately 45 minutes at each meeting. That’s less than an hour a week with a psychiatrist. Hardly intensive care. I know this is the manifestation of a lack of skilled staff, resources, and time. We can and must do better.

The hospital manager relied heavily on the overworked psychiatric nurses and support staff who always cared for the patients as best they could. They reported back from what I could gather to the responsible clinicians. She also relied heavily on their goodwill, asking them to stay late, start early, cancelling their plans to work that extra bank shift. I didn’t doubt they would sit vacant at their dinner table, exhausted when with their family and friends. Lying awake, thinking of what had happened or what was going to happen next time they were on shift.

Don’t forget though Tom and Jarvis, we clapped for you on our doorsteps during Covid, what more do you want?

Better pay and conditions please. This might prevent the brain drain to private healthcare.

You ungrateful bastards! No chance. If you don’t like it go do something else. Amazon Warehouse is hiring down the road. Honestly the people these days, want it on a plate.

One evening I set my room up and set a prank on one of the nurses. I had got to know Tom well, not well enough. I positioned my jeans and shoes coming from the shower with the curtain drawn and stuffed my jeans with toilet tissue so that it appeared that my legs were in them. I then left a pillow in view of the porthole window, with a note on it. I can’t remember exactly what I wrote in blood on the pillow (no pens allowed), but it can’t have been pleasant for him to read when he did his rounds and peered through to see if I was safely asleep in my bed. I had crawled from my room and hidden behind one of the sofas in the main living area, waiting for the nurse’s office door to click.

Tom was remarkably calm when he returned to the living space having walked into my exhibition of poor taste. I laughed and he begrudgingly did too, ‘Very funny, I’m glad I found that and not one of the other nurses, come on get to bed’.

The next day I learned that one of the patients had taken their life in their room two weeks prior to my arrival. Very poor form from me. This looking back explains how my mood was levelling, but it was far from what one would call normal, and my behaviour was still erratic and impulsive. I was being given 15mg of Olanzapine, an antipsychotic and whilst this helped me sleep it didn’t relieve me of my mania completely and I still needed to be under observation.

For the rest of the time, I played the X Box, listened to music, completed jigsaws with David and chatted to the nurses. Deploying the waiting tactic meant finally, after three and a half weeks skydiving, I was discharged.

I promised David I would come back to visit when I got the chance. In the week after leaving, I kept my word and returned buying David a tall caramel latte and a retro Leeds United shirt. This is / was his team. His face told me it made his day.

Sadly, the next time I returned; it wouldn’t be to treat mania. I had hit the ground hard, and I didn’t stop there.

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.