'I’m Glad it Didn’t Work' – When Not to Believe a Suicide Survivor

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By Melanie Llewellyn

My seemingly carefree daughter was only twelve when, in the secret grips of mental illness, she swallowed a potent concoction of pills in an attempt to end her young life.

After five days in hospital, by some miracle she survived. Along with the relevant agencies now involved, I needed to find out why she wanted to die, so we could help her. But she wasn’t talking. ‘I’m fine, I’m glad it didn’t work’, was all she would say.

This sounded desperately familiar. A year previously, I had attempted my life whilst in the grips of stress-induced psychosis. I was unimaginably unwell, frightened, exhausted and delusional. Sadly realising I had survived, I told the hospital psychiatrist, ‘I’m fine, I’m glad it didn’t work’, even forcing a smile. I was lying. I was desperate to end the suffering, and planned to jump in front of a train as soon as I was out of there.

I’d reached the end

I knew I was suffering from some kind of breakdown, but nothing had helped in seven months… not rest, not antidepressants, not counselling. Things had got worse and worse, and I had reached the end. I could take no more.

Luckily I was sent to a secure psychiatric unit, where the true horror of my mental illness was revealed and treated. Not that I felt lucky at the time. It was my worst fear come true; I was being locked away, incarcerated, something I had feared would happen. It transpired I was suffering from psychosis. I spent the next three months there, while my daughter stayed with my parents, who we’re very close to.

Thankfully, in time and with the right medication and treatment I made a full recovery. I returned home with my daughter, where with lots of support life returned to normal. As a family, we all put that awful nightmare behind us.

It came out of the blue

I had a new lease of life; I’d been to the depths of hell and come out the other side. I was so grateful to be well again and focused on my wellbeing, my family and my precious daughter. She had coped so well. She was doing well at school, getting top grades in her SATs, and had lots of friends. Life was good again, or so I thought.

Then came the night of her overdose. It had come out of the blue, and here she was saying it was for no reason, she was fine. I was so worried she would try to do it again unless I could find out why and get her help. Was she being abused? I wondered. What could be so awful that she had come to the conclusion she would be better off dead?

It all came to light one hazy summer’s evening a few weeks later when she came into my bed for a cuddle. I knew she had things on her mind that she didn’t want to share, but I persuaded her to open up. She was scared. ‘You’ll think I’m crazy’, she cried. ‘I won’t, sweetheart, I promise, please tell me’.

It transpired that she had been hearing a voice. A nasty, horrible voice in her head. And she still wanted to die to escape from the unbearable mental turmoil, which she had been battling alone and in secret for a year. Unbeknown to anyone, she had been suffering from elements of PTSD, psychosis and depression, and had the beginnings of an eating disorder.

Recovery

Now we knew what we were dealing with, I was so positive that, just like me, she would get better with the right treatment and support. And she did. After 16 months of art therapy, counselling and support from CAMHS (Child and Adolescent Mental Health Support) alongside support from her school, social services and other agencies, and several months of taking child-appropriate medication, my daughter made a full recovery.

My daughter is now 17, learning to drive, studying law, and has the whole world at her feet. She is stronger for her experience, as am I. I’m just so thankful that our stories of ‘I’m fine, I’m glad it didn’t work’ weren’t believed, that we were not given the opportunity to attempt suicide again, and were instead supported and treated.

Reproduced with permission, originally posted here: rachel-kelly.net