Trigger warning: references to suicide

Growing up, my entire childhood was shaped by the constant anxiety of whether my mum would be okay. Every day, I woke up wondering, “Is today the day she’ll want to end her life?” “Will she be suicidal today?” My mum struggled with her mental health for years, and there were numerous suicide attempts throughout my childhood, each one more intense than the last. She was frequently sectioned, and some of her attempts were her trying to find a method that would succeed.

From a very young age, I became her carer. She would always turn to me when she was struggling—not to my dad, my brother, or her friends. She wasn’t good at seeking help from professionals, often in denial and unwilling to engage in support. I was frequently the one who called an ambulance or helped save her, and afterward, she would be angry at me for having kept her alive.

This constant anxiety followed me into adulthood. I always felt the weight of responsibility to keep her safe. Her pain became my pain, and it was an exhausting, never-ending cycle. The last time my mum was discharged from the hospital, she had apparently told the nurse that she was going to kill herself, but the nurse didn’t think it was important enough to share with me and my dad.

 So, we didn’t know she was at risk. We thought she was being sent home to recover, and we assumed she must be all right. Because of that, we weren’t as vigilant as we should have been, and just after my 21st birthday, she took her life.

It’s important to provide some background on my mum’s mental health journey. Her struggles were deeply connected to the fact that her own mum died by suicide when my mum was just 19. I don’t know much about my grandmother because my mum rarely spoke about her childhood. The few things she did share were quite awful, which makes me wonder how much worse the things she didn’t share might have been. 

From what I understand, my grandmother was forced into marriage at a very young age after becoming pregnant out of wedlock. Back then, there was no mental health support, and people didn’t really understand or talk about these issues. This intergenerational struggle defined much of my upbringing. This is one of the ways that a life can be affected by suicide.

My Mental Health

For years, I told myself I wouldn’t take my own life—no matter how depressed I got, no matter how low I felt, I wouldn’t go that far. Even though I’ve struggled deeply at times, I believed I’d never reach that point, and I held onto that promise like a badge of honor. The trauma still lingered, and I had nightmares every night, but I never stopped to truly reflect on my feelings or my mental health. Instead, I threw myself into work and studying, as if staying busy could keep the demons at bay.

Then, on my 29th birthday, my dad died in a road traffic accident. Once again, I threw myself into everything I was doing, but eventually, I burned out completely and hit rock bottom. A few months later, I made my first serious suicide attempt because I was so fed up with fighting the overwhelming pain.

After that, I ended up in an abusive and controlling relationship, which worsened my mental health problems. It became hard to use the techniques I’d been taught to manage my mental health. One night, I felt very unloved and lonely, and I attempted again—this time nearly died.

I don’t remember much except waking up in the hospital with mental health officers standing next to my bed, asking, “Do you realize you were nearly successful in killing yourself?” I looked at them and thought, That’s a shame. Of course, I wanted to succeed. Why do you think I didn’t want to die? What are you really trying to get at?

Then, the guilt-tripping from family members started: “How could you do this to me? Don’t you think about us?” These are the kinds of things some mental health professionals and family members say that aren’t helpful at all. They just make you feel guilty. I believed I was a burden, that the world would be better off and people would be happier without me.

What I Find Frustrating in  Mental Health System

I have access to a community mental health team, including a nurse who meets with me. But whenever I’m in crisis, they tell me to call certain numbers. In those moments, I just can’t bring myself to make those calls. I need an alternative because, when I’m struggling, it’s too overwhelming to pick up the phone. I also find it stressful to talk on the phone.

They’ve also offered me to go to a safe house, but when I’m feeling suicidal, the last thing I want is to go to an unfamiliar place, surrounded by strangers, and sit with people I don’t know. That sounds unbearable to me. So, neither option works for me.

I live on my own, and ideally, I’d like to have a few familiar people from my mental health team come out to see me, especially someone who understands my ongoing issues. If they knew my situation and could just come and sit with me for a while, that would be ideal. I just need someone to be there, to remind me I’m not alone, and to stay with me until I calm down. Once I’m safe to be on my own again, they could leave. That’s what I’d really need in a crisis situation

What I find really frustrating, especially after struggling with my mental health for years, is how quickly everyone just puts me on medication. I experience every single bad side effect, and after nearly 15 years of being on meds, it has caused me serious physical health issues. I’ve gained weight and developed medical problems that  wouldn’t have occurred if I hadn’t been on them.

All I’ve wanted, and all I’ve asked for, is proper trauma therapy and treatment. They know trauma is my main issue, yet I still haven’t received it. I’m on a waiting list now, but it’s so frustrating. I’ve been asking for this for so long.

Instead, all I get is more CBT. I’ve been “CBT’d to death.” It doesn’t work for me, and it’s been shown that it doesn’t work for everyone. Multiple nurses I’ve worked with believe I might be autistic, and tests I’ve taken show that I score highly in that area. I also have traits of ADHD, which makes everything more complicated. It feels like no one truly sees the full picture of what’s going on with me.

Things That Help Me

Though the road to recovery can feel endless at times, I’ve learned that small moments of connection and care—whether with people, animals, or nature—make all the difference. I have complex PTSD, and having my dog around is really helpful, especially when I’m feeling down. She helps me get up in the morning, get moving, and go for walks. She’s always here, cuddling up to me, and just being a constant source of comfort.

Friendship and kindness are really important to me. I had one friend, a mechanic, who really understood me. When I felt down and lonely, he’d ask me to sit in his van while he drove around doing mechanic jobs. I thought that was such a thoughtful gesture.

I’ve also been working on making more neurodiverse friends since I’m in the process of being diagnosed with ADHD and autism. I feel more comfortable around neurodiverse people, and I want to make more queer friends too. It’s important for me to be around people who understand that side of me and my relationship dynamics

Running, walking, and being in nature have been really helpful for me. I also enjoy gardening when I have the space for it.

Recently, I referred myself to a free bereavement service called Cruse, where you can talk about your grief with a trained counselor. I found it incredibly helpful as I have been able to process my trauma and develop more compassion for myself and my parents. It allowed me to understand why things unfolded the way they did. I really wish this kind of service, especially for those affected by suicide, was available on the NHS. It made such a huge difference in my healing journey.

I Would Like to Say…
Having a few close friends nearby who you can reach out to—especially on those tough days—can be a lifesaver. If you’re feeling low, try connecting with people who understand you. It might be hard, and reaching out can feel daunting when you’re struggling, but when you’re feeling even a little bit better, it can help.

Recovery doesn’t happen in isolation. I know it’s tough to step out of your comfort zone. Sometimes, all you need is to sit down with a friend and enjoy a meal together. You don’t have to talk about mental health or anything heavy—just having someone there, being a compassionate listener, makes all the difference.

This powerful story, shared anonymously, is part of the Suicide Prevention project funded by Sheffield City Council and run by Sheffield Flourish. Through one-on-one conversations, short personal stories have been created to raise awareness around suicide and help break down the stigma surrounding it.

Robyn Fletcher

May 13, 2025