A Personal Take on NZd's suicide stats

 Mike King - being honest and real about the state of our mental health system.

I need to pre-empt this by saying I really wanted this to be a more timely post.
I wanted to have this out there after reading about Mike King quit our governments suicide panel.
I wanted to write this immediately after hearing about Chris Cornell.
But as well as an irregular blogger I am a Mum and a human and have a job and a household to run.

So I didn't have time.
But I have time today.

So I want to talk about some things I haven't really blogged specifically about before.  And it's pretty raw, so read on at your own risk.

When I was 14 years old I took a purposeful overdose of amitriptyline.  It was a medication prescribed to me to help with insomnia.  I cannot even remember why I did it.  I had probably had an argument with my Mum about some inane thing.  I had gone through a lot of personal upheaval prior to that time and was your regular crazy teenager with a developing prefrontal cortext AKA poor at making good decisions.

I took an amount that I thought might kill me.  I didn't really care if I was there or not - and regardless, it would sure as shit help me sleep.

15 year old me at the ball.  So upbeat!

On this instance I did wake up.  So I was like - obviously wasn't meant to die today.  Oh well.  Lets watch some X Files.

As a consequence of this, I thought it would be 'fun' if some friends and I took some at school.  Like a high.  We each took a different amount - they took less than my and I took the same amount as I had when I had tried to purposefully OD as I knew it wouldn't kill me, and maybe it would be fun.

It wasn't.  As a side effect of that type of medication I cannot remember exactly what happened after taking the amitriptyline.  I know that one peer suffered no ill effects.  The other fell asleep in German class.  I felt sick in Drama class and remember little after that.  Apparently I went to the nurses office (it was the new nurses first day) did crazy shit and they called my Mum and an ambulance.

I don't remember the ambulance (or fighting the ambo's to stop them from removing my bra).  I do remember being made to drink charcoal in hospital.  I couldn't do it (it's fucking gross) so they put a naso-gastro tube in but I was fighting them so it didn't go in far enough and a lot of the charcoal came back out through my mouth in a weird spit/vomit situation.  I was then put on a heart monitor (amitriptyline can mess with your heart) and into a ward with elderly ladies*.

Besides being covered in charcoal vomit for longer than necessary (they did not clean me up nor help me shower) I was physically completely fine.

As it looked kinda like a suicide attempt (aside from the whole being at school and around people bit), I wasn't allowed to go home until I was cleared by the psych team.  Of course, I lied.  My Mum was there.  I didn't want to have to divulge the information about the initial overdose.  I didn't want her to feel badly, like she was doing a bad job.  And I didn't want to get my friends in trouble.  And I also didn't want to look like a dumbarse for taking a barbituate to 'get high'.  So I lied.  I told them I just accidentally double dosed - I was allowed up to 6 tablets for sleep at night (maximum adult dosage).  I told them I just took two doses too close together as I was stressed about exams (4th form midterms...).  They believed me and let me go home.

Following this, I had to see therapists at Marinoto for a while until I could convince them I was not a nutbar.  I called them Bill and Ben the flowerpot men.  I remember very little about them other than that they did not come across very genuine.  I lied to them.  I was the top drama student in my year every year I did drama at Massey High School.  I was a very convincing liar.  I was left alone.

I tell this story to illustrate that there are consequences if you actually try and top yourself.
I want to contrast this with this story from when I was a little older.

I was 20 years old and I was working in a middle management job in a callcentre.  I was good at this job, and enjoyed it, but my life felt a little surreal with being young and having power etc.  I lived alone in a flat over a shop.  I felt like I was living the epitome of independence.  During this time I had a(n unplanned) pregnancy which turned out to be ectopic.  I had surgery and went back to work too soon and tore my stitches.  I consequently suffered from chronic abdominal pain.  Then my Grandfather was diagnosed with late stage lung cancer and passed away.  And my Great Grandmother unexpectedly passed away.  All in the space of about 5 months.

I did not cope.  I just suddenly shut down.  I left my job.  I struggled to leave my house - not because of depression or lack of energy, but because I couldn't cope with dealing with other people.  I shared a bathroom with the shop downstairs and literally peed into a bucket during the day to avoid having to interact with them if we accidentally met.


Consequently, I couldn't financially survive alone.  I moved back home.  I was afraid of going onto anti-depressants because of my previous experience with amitriptyline.  I started self harming.  I was concerned that I would have a bad day and kill myself, and in spite of everything I really didn't want to die.  I had support from my Mum and other family, but it wasn't enough.  I was just not coping.  I felt that I needed 24/7 support for a while and Mum couldn't provide that (I wouldn't allow her to).

I called one of the Auckland based suicide hotlines because I didn't know what else to do.  I told them my fears.  I told them I needed help.  They told me that I obviously wasn't that unwell because I had called them.  They told me that they basically couldn't do anything unless I actually tried to kill myself.  They told me there were no residential care places available for me for at least a month, and it was unlikely that they would take me anyway because I was clearly not unwell enough.  Because I had called a helpline.

I was floored.  And I was angry.  I think the anger was a really good thing as it helped me (and Mum) to find some help and support.  I tried numerous antidepressants (to no avail).  I changed Doctors (my Dr didn't believe in long term mental health problems and couldn't understand that Aropax didn't work for me [this was the third antidepressant we'd trialled]).  I found a therapist I could afford to go to and was eligible for a government subsidy to help.  I slowly started to feel better.

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So when I found myself back in a very dark place after a relationship break up I was like, what am I going to do?  I was just about to finish my degree and felt I had lost so much in such a short space of time.  I was very, very frightened of self harming.  I didn't want to do it, but I knew that I would struggle not to without help.  I didn't feel like I could confide in people to get enough support to get through.  And at this time I was on medication (fluoxitine) - it just wasn't enough.  I was at a (nother) crisis point.

And I didn't want to have to try and kill myself before I could get the support.  I can remember the fear of slitting my wrists and surviving and maybe having cut the ligaments and no longer being able to knit.  That in itself is a living mentality - the fear of not being able to do one of my favorite things.
I really, really did not want to die.  But I also didn't know how I could live with the despair I was feeling.

So I came up with a solution.

I knew I could get into drug rehab.  As someone in a creative degree it wasn't like there wasn't free alcohol on tap.  And I had definitely indulged.  And I had definitely also done stupid things when drunk.  Retrospectively, my behavior was probably not that much more extreme than my peers**, and I still wouldn't consider it alcoholism.  And I knew that it was a live in program.  And that it would address my issues.  And that it would keep my safe from myself.

So I finished my degree and applied for rehab.

Me in Black Magazine, the year before rehab

And I got in.  Basically, if you have ever black out drunk, by their standards - you are an alcoholic.  There was a waiting period (maybe 2 - 3 weeks) but because I knew I had something safe to go to, so I was ok.  I had a goal.                                                   

I went into Higher Ground on the 1st of January 2007.  It was a 16 week live in program.  It was highly controlled.  There were womens and mens areas in the house and two people per room.  You were not allowed to be on your own.  You had to participate in group therapy, one on one therapy, morning walks, cleaning and other jobs, sports and (of course) copious AA or NA or OA meetings.

 Higher Ground - beautiful vista on the Te Atatu Peninsula

It was a fucking dream come true.

This place not only kept me safe, but taught me numerous skills I have to say I don't think I would have learned in any other place (and I don't mean how to cook meth type skills).  We had to write 'commitments' about different areas that were issues for us, and this really resonated with me.  We had to participate in team sports and I realised that I am actually pretty good at some sports!  I joined the kapahaka group.  A group of us started playing 500 and other card games. It was genuinely a good time, and helped me rebuild my sense of self.

It was not easy.  And like most people going into rehab I did not graduate.  I only lasted 6 weeks.  I had had to come off my fluoxitine to be allowed into the program (with Drs approval) and I got progressively more anxious.  I struggled without time alone.  I had issues with my memory.  There was a mix up with times I was allowed out to see my Uncle who was in a local hospital after a major heart attack.  I was accused of manipulating staff to get my own way.  And my Uncle was sick.

So I left.

I hadn't planned on leaving early.  It was a brilliant program in spite of some flaws*** and I had met some amazing people there.  But I was angry, and I felt misunderstood.  I left rehab and my Uncle passed away that day.  I was grateful I had left so I could help organise the funeral and be there for my Uncle and my family.

And to be honest, rehab had served it's purpose.  I feel like an arsehole but I wasn't there to do all the 12 Steps and stop drinking (although I did also do that for some time too).  It had got me through that tough time, and it genuinely helped make me a stronger person for which I am truly grateful.
  
Me in London - same year as rehab, post rehab.

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So, what's the problem here?

The problem is that folk shouldn't have to come up with a creative fucking solution to stay alive.

The problem is that we have a bottom of the cliff mentality when it comes to our nations mental health.

The problem is that everyone's all like 'Why are our suicide stats so high?' when we have little systemically in place to prevent it.

And the problem is that all this shit happened to me more than 10 years ago and little has changed since then.  In fact, our suicide stats haven't shifted much in the last 15 years.  And while the next government budget is chucking some money at it those at the coalface of mental health are saying it's not enough.

And it's not.  It's not keeping up with inflation.  It's not making up for all the services that have been taken away from us over the last nine years - rape crisis hotlines, 6 free couples counseling sessions through the family courts (we used this before we got hitched - it doesn't EXIST any more) along with many other services.  And an increase in prescription costs ($3 - $5) makes it difficult for those who are struggling financially to access medical help.

So Mike King's decision makes sense to me.  He's just tired of banging his head against a brick wall.  It doesn't matter how many John Kirwin ads we have, or how many depression websites**** we have - this will not fix the crux of the issue.  We need more targeted services.  We need staff that are not swamped.  We need more crisis facilities.  We need some/any accessible support for solo Dads.  We need more outside-of-office-hours counseling available.  We have a great maternity mental health system (for the first year of a childs life...) but have absolutely nothing available for PPD in Dads (and I'm focusing on the mens here because these are where the bulk of our suicide stats lie).

Yes, it's important to say it's ok to not be ok.  But we also need a system to support those that are not ok.  Currently, we don't have one.

I think John Kirwin is great - but we need more than him and Mike to make any real change

So anyway, I'm doing this epic share of personal stuff today because I want people to understand just how fucked the system is, and just how frustrating it can be for those who have experienced it. Because I genuinely think that most suicide is preventable.  I have never ever wanted to die, but have sometimes struggled to exist.  I have never wanted to traumatise my family.  I have never wanted to be a statistic. 

I am sure this is the same for many who have not been as fortunate as I have, who have not had the support or the faith that I have.  And I am angered that we have lost so many of these people due to a problem which - to me - is so transparent within our society.

This is not ok.



* One of them was an alcoholic who had a massive skin infection.  I am sure they purposefully put me in there with her to try and freak me out.  Have to say, I have never forgotten her, so it kinda worked (although I did go to rehab...).

** In saying that, NZ has a major issue with women binge drinking, so that's not necessarily a positive thing - just a comparison.

*** I'll maybe expand on that later...

**** When I wrote to complain to the government some years ago about their mental health services they wrote back and said basically 'but we have a website...'