The Crash (Part 1)

A woman is at the centre of this. Inevitably.

Or rather, two women. Or maybe three. Perhaps, ultimately, even four. 

But that’s a story for later.

Safe to say, my world was crashing down on top of me.

I had been driving home along the motorway on a rare visit to my sister’s home when my emotions began overwhelming me once more, choking me. And I couldn’t breathe.

The Crash (Part 2)

My daughter finally got me to hospital. 

She had rushed up from London to Sale to be met by her father, a quivering wreck, and a gaggle of police hovering around me in the kitchen. 

They were ever watchful after my bungled suicide attempt. I was curled up in the corner. Hardly able to speak.

We’d already waited two hours for an ambulance, but one had still not been mobilised, my daughter was told. And the police were, understandably, losing patience with their unscripted role as mental health nurses.

Sanctuary? Inside an NHS Mental Health Unit

The relief was palpable.

After three days in limbo at my daughter's flat in London, a place at a mental health unit had finally been found for me nearer home in Trafford.

Back up the motorway to Sanctuary.

First impressions were markedly different from 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.'

No dragooning, no strip search, more informal.

"This is much better, Dad", said my son.

I thought so too. It was now five Days since my suicide attempt.

At last, this was somewhere I would find help with the thoughts of Sarah and Angela still pounding through my head and heart.

I prayed that being here would soothe my very soul.