There's always hope

By Virginia Winder

I lost hope on a hot Tuesday morning in March two years ago today. 

Talking about that time is tough, but I will tell you that everything had conspired to create the perfect storm of mental distress and I broke.

Losing hope wasn’t a conscious effort, or a moment of giving up completely. Instead it was a cutting loose, a floating feeling, as if I was no longer here. In psychology terms, I disassociated.

That night before I went to sleep feeling calm. Nobody could tell I’d disappeared; not even me.

The next day is a blur of events by the sea. I drove there with a purple embroidered cosmetic bag filled with pills and a bottle of L&P, which I can no longer bear to taste. 

On the way, I took a picture of a blooming pohutukawa to do my last “flower of the day” post on Facebook. I parked the car overlooking Back Beach, sent loving texts, wrote a farewell letter on my iPad and methodically began throwing back pills, still in that zoned-out state.

The air was baking and still, the cicadas noisy, the sea a distant shush below the cliffs and Charlie, a photographer from our local newspaper, ran past me twice, throwing out a “hey VW” each time. I raised an arm. 

Then there were desperate phone calls from my husband, a reluctant admission about where I was and a slow crunch of metal as the police car pulled up. Then the ambulance came.

I made it to hospital, talking all the way, held the hand of my sobbing husband and then let go. I nearly didn’t make it, had to be intubated and woke up in ICU, where the staff treated me with the same distance as I felt about the world.

There were hallucinations then. I felt like every word people spoke was a déjà vu moment, as if I knew what they were going to say. The walls were covered in bright yellow flowers, which slowly faded over days to yellow dots and then they were gone. 

My family came. They loved me. Nobody judged me. I remember a delicious great nephew being laid on my chest and feeling him squirm. I kissed his soft sweet head.

Eventually, I was moved to the psychiatric ward, where the staff no longer treated me with hard-to-hide disdain. At Te Puna Waiora I was among my own tribe, the mentally unwell, the lost and the desperate. And also the brave.

That’s where I met a young Irishman, who was a musician, teacher and swimmer. We tried to take our lives on the same day and both of us spoke of disassociating, of entering a surreal place of watching ourselves.

This young man gave me hope through music. One night three of us sat in the ward’s courtyard and sang to his guitar. We were melodic to Ben Howard’s Black Flies, belted out Bob Marley’s Redemption Song and howled the chorus of Radiohead’s classic, Creep: “We don’t belong here…” We got shut down by the nurses after a noise complaint from the elderly section of the ward. But we were exhilarated.

Then there was the song Esperanza, which means “hope” in Spanish. My Irish friend wrote it and it tickled me back to life. It has a phrase that says: “This will not last, it’s just a moment…”

I got to go home before him. But we kept in touch through texts and I went back with my iPad and recorded him singing Esperanza. I filmed him in the whanau room, a beige boring place, which he brought to life. We put it up on YouTube straight away.

At home, on the days when I felt the world dissolving, I played his song and clung to those words like they were a red lifesaving tube.

Slowly I got better through the right medication, learning about self-compassion, using mindfulness and love from my family and close friends. My wise daughter said: “Mum, it wasn’t you who tried to kill yourself, it was the bipolar.”

My friend got out of hospital and went back to Ireland. We messaged each other and I learnt he was struggling with depression. Still, there were happy-face pictures with his girlfriend on Facebook, so I assumed he was doing OK.

But In July last year my beautiful friend lost hope. When I found out, I sat here, on the other side of the planet weeping. Because damn it, I knew, I’d learnt, he’d helped teach me, that even in those god-awful hide-from-the-world times when the pain is never-ending, there is always hope. “This will not last, it’s just a moment…”

HELPLINES

Lifeline: 0800 543 354 - Provides 24 hour telephone counselling

Youthline: 0800 376 633 or free text 234 - Provides 24 hour telephone and text counselling services for young people

Samaritans: 0800 726 666 - Provides 24 hour telephone counselling.

Tautoko: 0508 828 865 - provides support, information and resources to people at risk of suicide, and their family, whānau and friends.

Whatsup: 0800 942 8787 (noon to 11pm)

Kidsline: 0800 543 754 (4pm - 6pm weekdays)

The Lowdown: thelowdown.co.nz  - website for young people ages 12 to 19.

National Depression Initiative - depression.org.nz (for adults), 0800 111 757 - 24 hour service

If it is an emergency or you feel you or someone you know is at risk, please call 111

For information about suicide prevention, see http://www.spinz.org.nz.