Christmas Eve 2014. His mates were meeting at the village pub. But he wasn't feeling up to it. Telling his mum he was popping out for a while he drove a few miles to a lake. It had been his and his (by then ex-)girlfriend's special place. Connecting a length of piping to his exhaust, he shut himself inside his car and started the engine.
He was 21. My only child.
And that could have been the family Christmas to end family Christmasses. but we caught a break. I don't know who it was, male/female, old/young but one of the police/paramedics said something about a passing motorist stopping for a pee and raising the alarm.
My boy would live on.
And live on he does. I count my blessings every day. But nine years on the vulnerability that led him to that place is still in him, his confidence hanging by a thread, any setback seeming to floor him.
He'll go weeks without making contact. Without intending to make this about me it's a total mindf*ck. Is he punishing his parents for divorcing? For the mistakes we've made? Has he just broken up with his latest squeeze? Perhaps he's on a stag weekend in Prague? Or all of the above?
A few years back a mate lost his son to suicide (following numerous failed attempts). At the funeral my mate and his daughters, broken though they were, all seemed somewhat resigned to the inevitability of his demise. It seemed bizarre but in amongst their raw pain was the smallest tinge of relief that their interminable angst had been replaced; uncertainty displaced by certainty.
And that's my problem with campaigns such as this. They're oversimplifying. Because mental illness is really f*cking exhausting. Both for the sufferers and their nearest and dearest. And it seems never-ending.
My best mate suffered depression throughout his adult life. I bloody loved this man. I miss him every day. I still "talk" to him most days. He had no problem sharing details of his problems, the treatments (medicinal and therapy-based) he'd explored. Though nothing seemed to help. He'd talk about walking to the bus stop and wrestling with whether to step in front of a passing lorry, to end his pain. As much as I made myself available to listen to him it made no discernible difference. He claimed he'd read every self help book in Waterstones, tried every drug prescribed. I loved him, but it got very wearing being there for him, feeling utterly impotent; unresolved conversations on repeat.
It's a nice ad. A conversation starter. I hope it helps someone.