Snow Moon
It’s like a scene from a movie… we are driving through London, snow falling outside blanketing everything in its beautiful white magical layers.
My two companions for this journey had made a tiny snowman before we set off, a live affirming blip of childlike joy during this strange surreal storm. My heart felt humble joy watching such simple humanity unfold around me amid that slow motion movie scene following a near tragedy… but this is not a movie.
My cheerful companions are the paramedics who have come to pick me up, in an ambulance headed to A&E.
I view this all as a spectator to this weird experience we call life…. mere moments ago, I was on the floor with handfuls of hair around me, my mind screaming every abuse I have ever endured at me, my exhausted soul unable to keep the darkness at bay. Desperately snipping, and then shaving off my glorious mane of wild curls. A shaved head: the universal meltdown symbol, what a cliché I am (face palm) ….
But clichés exist for a reason! They exist to explain emotions/situations that contain the human expression of an emotion we can all recognise.
And here I was being held safe by beautiful strangers because my heart, body and mind had screamed in utter desperation …’I have reached the limit of my capacity, I have had ENOUGH!’
I need help.
I have lived with suicidal depression since age 13, this is when the Flashbacks and other CPTSD symptoms started manifesting from my suppressed trauma of CSA at age 3.
It was not till I was 20 that the jumble of scary images I would see in my nightmares started making sense as being the shattered memories of the unconscionable sexual abuse perpetrated by the church elder neighbour who was taking care of us while my Dada grieved losing the centre of his heart to suicide. Sick individuals in trusted positions took advantage of this vulnerable time to violate me in ways my nightmares and painful memories informed me were so dreadful my mind had to lock it away so I could survive it. At 20 I started what was to become over a decade long journey to remember, uncover and heal from these horrific things.
I am still on that journey...
Abuse might last merely a few hours, a few weeks, sometimes years, but the affects are lifelong. Yes, it does get easier but when you are emotionally and physically run down, when your usual safety network is no longer available, when the things that recharge your soul are not accessible and when you are processing the fresh trauma of an unbearable personal loss, your mind simply cannot always keep the jumble of noise at bay.
The volume of trauma can vary from a faint hum that is easy to ignore and seldom affects your daily life, to a violent raging screaming chorus of hateful thoughts, memories and destructive ideations. With trauma recovery the healing cannot erase the voices, but it can help lower the volume and teach you coping mechanisms for when the noise starts building.
However, this is far easier to achieve when you are in balance. When overwhelmed by the uncertainty and messy reality of life (i.e., during a pandemic, and whilst weathering the loss of your closest friend) the noise reaches a painful crescendo many desperate souls unfortunately end with their own lives, my Mommy included.
Here I was in the ambulance watching this strange moviesque moment, my exhausted self, viewing the aftermath of emotional overwhelm and burnout rendering me incapable of self regulation and applying the wonderful things incredible humans had taught me over the years during my healing journey.
My sweet companions are proud of me telling me how relieved they are I recognised my truth. Proud I made the call that I am still telling myself was “a waste of resources, others need it more”.
“Absolutely not!” They explain too many allow shame to win… too many would rather end their lives than face a cruel society’s judgement. My companions explain that to them this is a good call out, they would rather calm a storm than collect a body. The dark price of societal shame does not just affect the lives of the loved ones left behind but those of the emergency services who must collect a lost life they wish they could have saved had that individual felt brave enough to make a call instead of making the cut….
Oh, trust me I have felt the shame, bald headed in winter is a stark reminder of my lowest point, but it is also a vibrant reminder of my courage, my forced humility, my raw humanity, my lived reality. I survived a battle for my life. I chose me. And then as the snow hit my shaved head, as I step out of the ambulance flanked by my current favourite earth angels, I realised I could not hide my truth, I had to share it honestly, I had to uphold my personal ethos to END STIGMA and BE THE GOOD. I had to be authentic about this experience. As vulnerable and as exposed as it feels.
Who wants to see a suicidal therapist?! My mind tells me how damaging this account may be to my reputation…. but then I remember my last therapist, a glorious human with 2 PhDs, an intimidating total of 5 degrees in Psychology to her name. She told me I had an unusual blessing as a therapist. I had inside insight into what for her and many of our colleges is mere textbook knowledge. My experience and understanding of exactly how f$£king hard these battles are, make me more empathetic, they enable me to light the way for my clients in a way, years of textbooks and schooling could never manage, as I know intimately which corners need the light most. Her appraisal left me flummoxed at this different take on what to me feels like a mess of being. It has however, encouraged and emboldened to see the strange blessing in my messy history. My scars are not a weakness to be ashamed of they are my battle scars, hard won experience. I know others need to hear this: you can be a hot mess AND an inspiration. Failing, falling, needing help…. these are not the marks of cowardice; they are the mark of the truest rawest human courage.
Be brave enough to live precious hearts, be brave enough to hold space for those who share their messy truth, be part of changing the narrative that broken is unwelcome. #bethegood.
let us smash the shame and stigma, YOU ARE NOT ALONE, share your story. Light the way for others fighting those battles that seem impossible in the moment.
I will be walking 310000 steps in March (10 000 per day) to raise funds for the Samaritans. Please help by donating (all proceeds with the reference Sam will be added to the fundraiser) or joining and creating your own if you can, let us help spread awareness. These guys and similar organisations do incredible and thankless work. I am forever indebted to the beautiful angels who have “held space” for me, and done so with such warmth, as I face these internal challenges.
***If you are struggling please reach out, the Samaritans and suicide hotlines are available and many have a text/email service too so you do not even need to pick up the phone, you can also call your GP or emergency services as they have protocols in place to support you through this.
I promise you; you are not alone, you are not a burden, your mind is a lying a$$hole.
You are so worthy!
I love you precious heart.
Please stay.