Rather than leave a long gap in my blog, I thought I’d serialise the first chapter of my first book into bite size chunks. It’s not what people want to hear about at Christmas, but the harsh reality is, for some, this will be the worst time of the year. I’ll see how it goes down and then I may do the same to chapter two, as it’s at that point where my sense of humour begins to creep in…
The first page is called The tale of woe and it relays, in brief, the background of how I became ill. Following that is a poem called This year’s blackness, which depicts the depths of my depression and then the first part of chapter one begins. As it is a true-life story and not a soap story, please expect some expletives, but there aren’t as many as there could’ve been. Also, if you are of a sensitive nature do not read this chapter.
THE TALE OF WOE
My childhood was a happy time in my life. My mum and dad were the best parents anyone could wish for. And a large part of my working life was spent laughing, grafting and paying the bills.
In 1988 my marriage fell apart. To add to this, in 1989 I was made redundant for the first time when the printers I worked for, D.S. Colour International went into administrative receivership. Twelve years of work ended in one fell swoop one afternoon in January. Six weeks later I resumed work at another firm, only to be made redundant again four months later, a month before Christmas 1989. The icing on my cake of doom was watching my father die of lung cancer on November the 2nd 1990. It crushed my spirit to the point of attempted suicide.
Prior to this, I had been drinking heavily every night for eighteen months. I felt as if the entire structure of my life was falling apart, and so I resumed to alcohol as a way out. The worst part was not being able to control these life-altering losses. On three separate occasions I managed to find new employment, but having a mental illness meant that I was unable to sustain a working life.
Eventually my flat was repossessed and I felt as if I was left with nothing. By then I had moved on from clinical depression and was diagnosed with a bi-polar disorder. I regained some, if not all of my lost marbles and today I am stabilised on Lithium and anti-depressants. Unable to return to my old trade I fell into writing by chance. I found a way of channelling my negative energy and turning it into positive thought. I simply wrote it all down onto paper… lots of it. I am a special person and I don’t mind saying it out loud now. I survived everything that you are about to discover in this book…
After reading the first 70 pages I wrote my eldest son, Daniel, broke down in tears. He said, “That upset me, I didn’t realise that you had been through so much.” Poignantly the pages he read were about the beginning of my illness and my first hospital admission.
At that stage I hadn’t seen my kids for over 10 weeks. A short dad cuddled his son’s six foot frame and with a lump in my throat I replied, “You were only 11 at the time mate, it all happened a long time ago.” In truth, I still remember it as if it were yesterday, but at least it is in the past now.
What saddened me the most was that my disorder had raped me of my passion for music. Then it had the audacity to remove my chuckle button as well – never again! I now know that my sense of humour is one of my finest qualities.
THIS YEAR’S BLACKNESS
I sit here like many condemned to this illness,
What I hadn’t banked on was all the stillness.
After thirty-two years of row and noise,
I no longer felt like one of the boys.
Sitting in darkness the mind drifts away
Suffering from years of mental decay.
Knowing tomorrow I’ll feel just the same,
I’m slipping, but slowly, I’m going insane.
Neil Walton 13/9/99 copyright (c) 2006
CHAPTER ONE: THE LONG LIE IN
I had been on the missing list for sometime; ignoring the phone, the door and the outside world. My mind and body had taken such a battering over the past three years, (1986-89) and I just couldn’t take it any more. I didn’t have the energy for conversation. My brain was on overload and my body was paralysed and lethargic.
I had turned into an introvert, the direct opposite of my usual character. My arms and legs were like lead and I felt bone cold, as if my core temperature was lower than any body else’s. Add to that a poor diet and a feeling of utter worthlessness; I was a sorry example of a human being.
I had a loop-tape of losses and problems to come relentlessly playing in my head. The only thing that stopped this tape was sleep – the next step was obvious. I was at breaking point. If I could have laid my hands on a gun… I might not be here now. Only a fellow sufferer or a specialist would understand the mental pain I was experiencing. I found a scalpel blade in my toolbox and went into my bedroom closing the door behind me.
I gazed at the sterilised Swann & Morton for hours on end, the loop-tape still playing. I slept most of the time. But there were those awful four to six hours spent awake, going over and over the reasons for ending my life. Why was this happening to me? What had I done to deserve this treatment from life? The answer of course was nothing.
I began nicking at the skin on my left arm just to test the pain factor. With a brand new blade it was quite painless. Then I cut deeper into my arm making seven to eight cuts between my forearm and biceps. I watched as my blood pumped from the wounds. I laid there in a cold sweat as it trickled down my arm and soaked into the duvet cover. Sometime later, I reached for my lighter and cigarettes which were on the bedside cabinet.
I was momentarily prevented as the duvet cover was firmly stuck to my forearm with congealed blood. As I pulled it away from my arm, it opened four of the cuts I had inflicted on myself. I remember thinking that this wasn’t going to be easy. The pain was so severe that I had to stop and think of an alternative way to end it all.
The options seemed endless at the time. What about an overdose of paracetamol? How many would I have to take? If I could have been sure that I would have just gone to sleep and not woken up to being resuscitated, I might have chosen that option.
As it was, I continued questioning each form of suicide but had no answers – looking back it probably saved me. My lethargy was so painfully strong that I couldn’t find the energy to drag myself to the chemist, only a hundred feet from my front door. I drank a glass of water, lit another cigarette and laid there wondering what to do next.
I thought long and hard about my sons, Jack and Daniel, who I think played a key factor of my survival. How could I even think of leaving them fatherless? I felt so selfish and yet in so much pain. Suicide or death in general seems so unfair. You die and everybody who knows you suffers in one way or another. What a dilemma, what a guilt trip, as if I didn’t feel bad enough already. I went back to sleep with thoughts of my parents, children and close friends on my mind.
More next week…
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