I first met Norman – not his real name – a couple of years before he killed himself. Coming home to my flat one evening, I heard a yelp at the other end of the dimly lit corridor. I approached the sound and found a short, middle-aged man, trying to unlock his front door. He was sweating.
The key wouldn’t turn – I tried too and failed. Then I noticed a look of sudden terror cross his face. “I’m mentally ill,” he said gently. “I’ve got a mental illness. I’m very frightened.”
“Well,” I said, in what I hoped was a reassuring tone, “don’t worry, OK? The guys at the front desk will be able to help you. They’ve got spare keys for most of these flats. Go and speak to them. Down in reception.”
I suppose I was in a rush or something. I didn’t have time to help him myself. Maybe this was a daily occurrence. Besides, we weren’t really neighbours – he lived right at the other end of the corridor.
We only had one more conversation, not long before it happened. He knocked on the door one weekend and announced, wide-eyed, that he was having a panic attack. Then he launched into telling me his medical history.
I learnt that his name was Norman. He had been in and out of a mental hospital. He’d been to his GP recently. But no one seemed to understand how serious it was. “Do you have friends or family that you can talk to about it?” I asked. It turned out his partner was on the way.
Phew, I thought. A partner. There’s someone looking out for him. Someone who cares. Someone … who isn’t me. I distracted him for a few minutes by asking him about his favourite music.
The Samaritans – anyone having suicidal thoughts can contact them on 116 123 – give very wise advice on writing about suicide, which I’m going to follow. So I won’t say exactly what happened. But Norman tragically took his own life early one morning. There was a siren, flashing blue lights. I think they tried to save him, but couldn’t. His body was taken away after a few hours.
And I was left wondering, pathetically, did I do enough? Did I do anything at all to help? No, not really. We had two interactions and both times I tried to keep him at arm’s length. This stranger, this broken man, was nothing to do with me.
In the parable of the Good Samaritan, I would have walked by on the other side of the road. But who knows – perhaps the priest and the Levite felt terrible afterwards.
After the pangs of guilt came the justifications. He was suffering from a serious mental illness. What could I have done? Why wasn’t he in a mental hospital receiving professional help? What about the GP? But I knew I should have done more. It was a vital lesson.
There is, thank goodness, what people call an “increasing awareness” of mental health. You notice it at work – posters with numbers to ring and so on. You hear more than you used to about friends or relatives receiving treatment. Public figures – including, I notice, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and Prince Harry – are campaigning more to eliminate the stigma that still surrounds it. Get people talking is the idea, so they know they aren’t alone.
My old friend and colleague from the Telegraph, Bryony Gordon, suffered terribly from obsessive compulsive disorder. Often this means irrational fears about being contaminated by germs. Bryony fretted about accidentally burning down the house. She used to bring her iron to work in her handbag at times, just so she could be sure she hadn’t left it switched on at home.
Now she’s set up a group called Mental Health Mates (MentalHealthMates.co.uk), which invites people to walk around parks in a group and talk about what they’re going through. It’s a small but growing initiative. “Mental illness,” writes Bryony, “lies to you by making you feel like a freak.” The idea of her meet-ups is to make people realise they are not just a “me” – there is a “we” for everyone.
What I love about the idea is that it started in London, a place where there is so often zero sense of community. You don’t know your neighbours because you never lay eyes on them. In a block of flats, the only evidence of others’ existence is the sound of slamming doors. No one says hello. You commute to and from work alone, in silence. You shop in the supermarket, in silence.
If you’ve got friends and family and colleagues – people to talk to – you hardly notice this. You enjoy life and can prosper. If you’re alone, suffering from a mental illness, what you need to begin with is someone – anyone – to reach out to.
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