On the evening of the 25th December 2018, in extreme emotional distress, I stood on the wrong side of the railings of a bridge in Brighton overlooking the motorway. I saw the bright lights of speeding traffic beneath my feet, but I was not afraid. I felt the harsh wind whip against my tear-stained cheeks as my hands gripped the icy metal of the railings behind me, waiting for the perfect moment to just let go. The perfect moment for my excruciating pain to end. Thankfully, an unknown passer-by alerted the police of my presence on the bridge and in under five minutes, two officers stood at my side, able to successfully convince me to step down. It is no surprise that I was instantly detained under the Mental Health Act, unknowingly diving headfirst into a four-month hospital admission during which I would face copious amounts of trauma, but also an admission of which would save my life.
My first two months of this hospital admission were unbearably painful as the entirety of my body turned to self-destruct. I spent most of this time on arms-length, eyesight observations, meaning either one or two nurses would always be at my side in order to protect me from the harm I was causing to myself. I was stripped of all my privacy, with eagle eyes gazing at me as I took a bath or changed my clothes, leaving me feeling vulnerable and exposed. On a daily basis I was restrained and injected with medication when I could not calm down and the only method of dealing with my intense emotions I knew of was to violently bang my head against any available surface, be it the wall or the dirty hospital floors. This behaviour led to numerous trips to A&E for CT scans of my brain as I was hitting my head with so much force, causing my whole face to bruise and swell as well as a break to the nose.
In these traumatic first two months, very little progress was made in my recovery. I remained desperately unwell – a nurse who treated me at the time has since told me that I was one of the most poorly patients she has ever nursed throughout her entire career. I lacked hope. I was sinking rapidly into this void where everything seemed pointless and simply staying alive felt too painful to bear. Feelings of helplessness suffocated me; it felt as though I was watching everybody around me ride waves that I did not know how to surf. I was drowning in my sorrow and pain and I didn’t believe that it would ever get any better. I believed that giving up was the only viable option, and so I religiously attempted to take my own life by fastening ligature after ligature around my neck.
It was following an extremely serious incident on the 7th March 2019, three months into my hospital stay, that everything changed. Being merely 30 seconds from death altered my perspective on life wholly. I had tasted death and I had discovered that it wasn’t what I truly wanted. I finally understood that although I was dreadfully unhappy, I didn’t really want to take my life, I just wanted to live a better one. I wanted a life outside of hospital. I wanted to watch my nieces grow up. I wanted to complete my University degree. I wanted to see my family’s faces again. I wanted a future without mental illness.
From that day onwards, with a newfound energy and motivation for life, instead of putting my efforts into taking my life, I instead focused on rebuilding a happier and more fulfilled one. I started specialist trauma therapy which I fully committed to, each session gradually restoring my inner strength and belief that I was strong enough to overcome all the adversities I have already had to face. It was far from easy – many of my days were spent curled up in a ball on the floor, pouring my broken heart out to staff through muffled sobs. There were days where I doubted myself and my ability to get better, but with help from those around me, I persevered on the good days, the ok days and most importantly, on the bad days.
After a month of dedication, commitment and robust hard work, my treatment team deemed me safe enough to leave the hospital to continue my recovery from the comfort of my own home. I felt a multitude of emotions overwhelm me; excitement for the future tainted with the anxiety of being in the community where there is comparatively less support. Unless you have experienced a prolonged stay in hospital, it is very difficult to comprehend how daunting leaving can be. After four months under section, I was familiar with a regimented routine where I had to eat at a certain time, where others were responsible for my medication and where staff were available 24 hours a day to provide emotional support. So much responsibility was being passed back to me; I could no longer rely on others to help keep me safe. I had no choice but to save myself and that is exactly what I did.
It has now been three months since I left the hospital for the last time and I am so proud to be able to say that I have not looked back. With gratitude to the specialist therapy I have been lucky enough to access as well as the support I received from staff, family and friends throughout my admission, I am unrecognisable to the woman who stood on the edge of the bridge on Christmas Day. My journey has not been linear, nor do I expect it to be, but I am continuing to move mountains daily with my determination to recover.
To anybody struggling right now, I want my story to be proof to you that it gets better. Even when your whole world crumbles around you and the future seems bleak and hopeless, it will always get better. So stay strong, have hope and strive for the happiness you deserve.
All my love,
Shann x x x
shannon phillips 