something told me “don’t give up”

116 123. I never thought I’d dial that number. “Hello, Samaritans. How can I help?”

by an anonymous comms professional

You got a friend in me

I’m that friend. You know the one; the one who is always there, no matter what - steadfast, true, kind.

The friend who asks how you are, and really wants to know. The one who gives thoughtful gifts. Who remembers to check in when you’ve had a doctor’s appointment, a job interview, a tough week at work.

The one who puts the date your dad died in their calendar to remember to send you a message every year on the anniversary. The one who knows when to back off in the midst of your depression but always gently reminds you they are there, waiting, ready when you are.

That friend who dispenses wise counsel whenever you need it and who always seems to know what to say to make you feel better, make you feel worthwhile, make you feel loved.

Yep, that’s me. I’m a cracking friend, and I love being that person.

Demons

So how come I found myself totally alone, totally bewildered and with no one to talk to?

Truth is, it’s my own fault. I don’t much like talking about how I feel. I’m not very good at it. I applaud it in others, admiring their gutsy vulnerability and yet run a mile when it’s my turn to truly step into the fray.

Perhaps that’s why I get others to talk about themselves instead.

Fiercely independent, I’ve learned to never rely on anyone else, to pull myself up, no matter what. To bury childhood trauma, and never let it define me. Shoo away the demons, look them dead in the eye, give them a wink and grow stronger because of them…not in spite of them.

This time

Only, this time, something is different. This time – I don’t seem able to do it.

This time, we’re in lockdown. Again. Number 3. Winter. Socially cut off. Longing for a hug, a smile, a passing compliment, anything that makes me feel human, connected and, well, just a little bit loved.

And at the same time, I feel like a brat because I have absolutely nothing to complain about – compared to so many. I don’t like myself very much because of this. I convince myself I’m a bad person and not deserving of much at all.

This time, I spiral. Alarmingly fast. The demons return, night after night after endless night. They won’t sod off this time.

I stay up, literally all night - to stop them coming. Exhausted and dangerously sleep deprived, I drink. A lot. Aching to get through just one night without waking in a sweat, panicked and scared. But drinking doesn’t help, still they come, and it just means I spend the next day sleepwalking through my work and counting the hours until I can drink again. Rinse. Repeat.

This time, something is different. I’m giving up.

Amidst it all, I still check in on others – I’m that friend, remember? I wait for someone to ask me back, how I am. They don’t. I decide to play a game with myself for a few days, counting how many times I ask someone (friends, family, colleagues) how they are, compared with how many times they ask me back. I lose, by a long shot.

And anyway, even if they did ask I’d simply parrot back “I’m fine”. It’s my stock phrase; I suspect it is for many of us. I’m hardly going to blurt out that I’m plagued by unspoken things that happened a lifetime ago, that haunt me at night, make me drink like a fish and generally feel pretty worthless. “I’m fine” is easier. I don’t want to burden someone else with my troubles, it’s not what I do, it’s not what I’ve ever done.

Absolutely, for everyone else - it’s ok not to be ok. Mental health is just like physical health. It’s good to talk. For everyone else; not for me, that’s not who I am. I don’t need it, I’m an island, I’m strong, resilient, darkness is my friend. I’m different. Only, this time…

Darkness

This time, the excessive drinking, lack of sleep and lockdown conspire against me and, one Saturday night, I find myself in a terribly dark place. I’m beaten by it, alone and frankly, a bit scared. Wondering if anyone would miss me – not just miss having a good friend but actually miss me.

If a friend turned to me and described such darkness; I’d tell them to urgently seek help. I’d help them take their mental health seriously, I’d tell them this wasn’t normal.

Somehow, maybe thanks to years of dishing out advice to others, I knew this time was different. I was in too dark a place to crawl back out unaided. Something told me “Don’t give up” as I Googled a number I never thought I’d need.

Talking to a stranger

I did the one thing I always vowed I wouldn’t. I spoke to a stranger. A Samaritan.

I won’t go into the detail of the call, but I will tell you this: it was the best thing I have ever, ever done.

Talking it through with someone who knew nothing of me, who wasn’t judging how far my façade had slipped, who cared only about me in that moment was beyond liberating. “I’m fine” had no place here - I absolutely wasn’t fine, that was the whole point.

And, as it was, turns out I had the answers all along. They just helped me say them out loud. They helped me in a way I don’t think someone who knew me could have.

I now know I have to somehow share my demons to banish the ever-returning darkness. It’s why those suckers still come, because – despite all my bravado - I’ve never actually dealt with them, never really looked them in the eye. I’ve just kidded myself I have as part of the “I am strong” act.

I wasn’t ready for sharing right then on that call and they put zero pressure on me to talk about it. But it’s formed the foundation of my action plan – I have committed to talking about it, maybe even writing about it.

The Samaritans helped me realise how the unspoken is deafeningly loud and my resilience has just been too low to rediscover silence. Life had always provided other distractions, but the reality of lockdown brings no relief, no distraction. Just sharp and unending focus.

Since I’ve been able to sit with this truth, that talking about it can set you free, I have also been able to sleep. And, for all you wellbeing comms bods out there, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve also stopped hitting the bottle quite so hard.

What’s any of this got to do with comms?

Ah, so you’re wondering what the link is.

Is this a clever parable about the art of vulnerability, storytelling, authenticity or openness?

Sorry to disappoint, there is no link.

I have simply written this for my fellow comms peers because, well, I had to put it out into the world. I had to make it real and I had to commit to the actions I’ve said I’ll take.

And I wondered if it might help someone else. Our comms crowd is renowned for being pretty thick skinned and I wondered if there’s someone else out there who thinks they’re ok, who proclaims they’re the strong one who can do it alone. As I discovered on that dark, lonely Saturday night – none of us are immune. None of us, whatever you may tell yourself. Asking for help is not weakness, in fact it’s the biggest display of strength you can gift yourself.

Three things

So, I’m sorry not to have a comms angle. Sorry to use you so shamelessly but saying it here makes me have to make good on my action plan.

I have too much respect for my professional peers to waste your time and not humbly offer something in return. So, here are three things. Three things from the bottom of my heart:

1)     Check in with yourself…and be honest. The speed at which I went downhill was quite terrifying. Yet it was also, I can now see, a slow build-up. A build-up in which I ignored the signs. This past year has been unbelievable. Relentless. Brutal. Even if you’re “lucky”, as I am, not to have been personally affected by Covid, your reality is just as important as the next person’s and you have a right to feel however you’re feeling. Take notice. It’s not a coping competition and it’s not a time for stoicism.

2)     Talk. Talk. Talk. Maybe you’re better at opening up to friends or family than I am – if you are, then do it. Routinely. If you don’t feel able to, then talk to a stranger - a helpline, your GP, perhaps that workplace counselling scheme you’re so good at ‘comms-ing’ to colleagues. I never ever thought I would lay my soul bare to a stranger, but I cannot overplay how much it helped. How they brought me back…well, actually, how they helped me bring myself back. And now I know I can do it again should I need to, I have it in my toolbox. I no longer feel scared. And so, I sleep a bit better and tell the demons where to go.

3)     Check in with others, with family, with friends. In particular, with that friend – the one who is always so keen to make sure you’re ok. Don’t assume they are; don’t allow them to simply say “I’m fine.” (I have a very dear friend who seems to sense when my “fine” is genuine and when it’s bullshit. If they suspect the latter, they will always follow up with “You sure?”. I brush it off and mostly pretend I’ve not heard, but it means the world that they ask. Maybe next time I won’t brush it off so quickly.) If people you love and care for respond with ‘I’m fine’, perhaps pester them with a ‘You sure?’ – it can’t do any harm; it may just do the world of good.

Thanks for reading. Sorry for being anonymous.

Take care of yourself, and each other.

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Image via Florida Memory