Merry ParkRun to All and to All a Good Flight! In Praise of ParkRun

Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree, how lovely are thy cheapo hats

After a few days of indulging in every delicious food and drink we now have the delight of New Year's Eve ahead of us, with its perceived obligations to look glittery and make grand schemes, or 'resolutions' to be better and achieve more in the new year. Last year I wrote about feeling anxious about this event, a day when one looks in the closet or on the sales racks for sequins and spandex, hoping that the two will come together in a wonderful symbiosis which belies the enormous quantities of stuffing that we've just cheerfully crammed into ourselves without a care for our waistlines or coronaries.

The closest I shall come to the above (and I do have dresses like this that don't fit)

is this: sequin spanx. (marilynmeetsjohnny.com)

This year I started a little better on the journey towards eating one's own body weight, by taking part on two consecutive days in my local park run at Bushy Park. Have you heard of ParkRun? Here's a little about them from the website:

Click this link for more about Park Run

"parkrun organise[s] free, weekly, 5km timed runs around the world. They are open to everyone, free, and are safe and easy to take part in.These events take place in pleasant parkland surroundings and we encourage people of every ability to take part; from those taking their first steps in running to Olympians; from juniors to those with more experience; we welcome you all."

In a typical week I try to do exercise as part of my week's activities, in order to boost the endorphin levels and (I would hope) to keep my mental health on an even keel or at least on the up (however minutely). Around Christmas, though, I tend to head squarely for the sofa from the desk and leave the thousands of emails unanswered with a to do list to rival the length of Santa's naughty and nice list, but the issue I then face is that my body starts to mould into the fabric of the sofa, and does not want to move, not one little bit. This is quite dangerous because the less I do, the less I want to do. The more I watch television and eat, and do nothing but that, the less I can do. And that could lead to a dissatisfaction with everything because I don't feel like doing things, but I certainly do not need any more sitting or scoffing.

You can find a parkrun near you every weekend, in the UK and around the world

It was probably good luck (and good management on the part of the Bushy Park's parkrun management committee) that I found myself down to write the run report for Christmas Day and Boxing Day, meaning that however many mince pies I'd managed to gorge myself on the night before, I wasn't going to be able to excuse myself from the festive fitness proceedings. 

A sea of Santa Hats getting ready to cover 5K...however they wanted

The 5K runs that parkrun organises gets everyone involved, and is a great way to kick start my weekend. Not only that, but when I feel totally reluctant to see another soul I can participate in the run with no obligation to speak to other people, but with the lovely sense of having joined in with something, even though my mind has closed itself off to callers.

Boxing day in a toned-down version of headgear. Just sparkly antlers.

My weight had already increased through Christmas consumption!

My stomach is not feeling very well eve n now as I type this because despite my attempts to moderate the consumption of meat, cheese, potatoes and, mainly, sausages, on a typical day I'd be more likely to eat carrot and lentil salad than chestnut stuffing, which means that I'm still overeating even when compared to the average calorie intake I've taken it pretty easy. It's annoying that this happens - and I'm sure I'm not the only one - who makes an effort not to overdo it, only for my stomach to tell me that I have been immoderate in my moderation. 

Anyway, I'm lucky that I had to run 10K in total over 25th and 26th. I also drank some vegetable juices to keep some semblance of normality in my diet. Tomorrow, I plan to run again to keep my hand in and (hopefully) my hips within their normal range on the lead up to New Year's Eve. And my mental health? It's hanging in there, but I certainly plan to keep it that way as far as possible with the amount of exercise that will start to return things to normal after five days of solid stodge.

View from the snug sofa.

It is pretty hard to leave these woodland animals to head for the, err, woods.

As something a little different I composed a poem for the run report I wrote for the Christmas and Boxing day Bushy Park runs. The point was to have a little bit of fun with the report, very much in the spirit of Bushy Park itself. This post serves for me as a 'check in' for my health - in every sense - and to remind me why I love parkrun and how helpful it is for me. It also serves as my community fitness contribution. I've written before about Mind's #GetSetToGo programme, which helps people to become more active for better mental health, but although this programme is currently working in a handful of locations, it's good to know that there are other community fitness schemes like the wonderful parkrun to help us to become active.

This is Andy, one of the key Bushy Park parkrun volunteers

If you are looking for a new way to keep fit in 2016, you can find a local park run here on the registration page (click for more) and even start your own. The next parkrun at Bushy is on New Year's Day, and you can walk, run, jog, hop or do a combination of all of these to join in with your community and do a bit for your fitness. Parkrun is a run, not a race. Everyone is welcome, and encouraged to do what they can. I share its desire to help people to participate at any level, for free, for better fitness for everyone. 

Runners go Crackers!

Take care in the remaining days of holiday, of yourself and others, and perhaps see you at a parkrun in 2016? x

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the town

No creature was stirring (we were all lying down).

The running tights snug in their drawers all together,

As we shut out the wind, and cold winter weather.

Then at seven AM, arose such a clatter

I opened my eyes to see what was the matter.

My alarm had gone off, surely by some mistake?

On Christmas Day morning? No one else was awake.

But apparently no, it was meant to be done,

As today was the Christmas day Bushy ParkRun!

I rose from my bed, and put on the lights,

To avoid falling down as I put on my tights,

Then out of the door donning festive headwear,

Hoping some other runners would also be there.

A thousand one hundred plus forty five more

Turned up as elves, reindeer and Santas galore!

Double buggies and dogs in tinsel and bells,

Dodging puddles of mud just like graceful gazelles.

Congrats to Andrius Jak-sev-ic-i-us

Who finished in first (did he hop on a bus?)

Molly Renfer: first female, 18:11

A jolly good time for a mud-spattered run.

To Craig Jarman, Matt Reed, and to Richard Berry

Congrats on new PBs and hope you are merry.

Add on seventy eight with new personal bests

Well done all eighty one, now, have well-deserved rests!

Around forty park run volunteers ran the show

With a three-funnel finish to manage the flow.

Prosecco, mince pies and sweet treats were in store

For the finishers, volunteers, fam’lies and more,

So Christmas Day started in true ParkRun style

With goodwill shown to all for just over three miles

Our five K now ended we went home to our trees

Till we’d eaten our eight thousand (ish) calories

A warm glow in our cheeks till the next week’s park fun

No, wait, it’s tomorrow for the Boxing day run!

Boxing Day turnout of 700+ parkrunners. 

Perhaps a little slower in some cases (mine) but good to participate all the same!

I Love Lucy. A post on Tragic Loss, Suicide, Depression, Bullying, and Hope

Trigger warning: this blog contains information about suicide and bullying. Please take care while you are reading this.

Image: Banksy

On Sunday my friend Lucy (whom I knew from my stay in hospital starting last year) tragiically lost her battle with depression and ended her life. Lucy was brilliant, bright, funny and beautiful. She had attended Cambridge, like me (although I attended Oxford which Lucy would argue was inferior!), been ambitious in her academic aspirations and had recently returned to Sweden - a country she loved - to resume her studies towards becoming a doctor.

And now she is no longer here. I will never meet her and share a joke with her about the therapy groups we attended together at hospital.We won't discuss ice cream flavours over lunch. We won't watch terrible television together. She won't listen to music any more, sing anymore. Her singing is at an end. Her voice will never be heard again. And although I do love to write, I cannot find any words to describe what that sadness feels like to me.

What I do know, is, that there is not enough help for those of us who are struggling with depression and our mental health. Today in the UK, 17 people will die because of suicide, and up to 100,000 will attempt suicide this year. And that is not even touching upon the terrible lack of support forcing people back to work when they are too sick, which is why we must change the WCA. Nor the fact that too many young people and adults of every age are becoming sicker and sicker with the many facets of debilitating mental health conditions.

I will never. EVER. stop talking about how important it is that we support each other until we have ended the stigma around mental health and changed those harrowing statistics into more lives kept, more lives lived, more lives better because of access to care, support, kindness and love.

To honour Lucy, and everyone in her position, I will do this work. I will do it with others. I will do it for everyone with a mental health condition - or without one. I will do it for those caring for people with mental health problems. And I will do it for myself.

Here is my own story of times when I have lost "Hope". I know I have to watch carefully to try to prevent myself from harming myself during tough times.

I first lost Hope when I was five years old. My memory is so clear. I am standing on a wall in the playground again, because Rebecca and her friends tell me to. The wall has bars behind it and it’s too high for me to jump off. I can’t remember anymore how I got up here. I now know that play-time means wall-time, and when I realise that is how it will be from now on, I come home from school that day and in my room, alone with my toys and books, and I notice that Hope has gone.

I was hurt that she had left without saying anything to me. We had spent the last years together. She was there when I first rode my bike on the grass without stabilisers. She was there when I went to school (the school where I stood on the wall  every play-time) when we painted, when we ran, and when we made bread rolls and mine came out just like everyone else’s, round and golden and smelling so sweet. Hope was my friend: she was nearly always close by. And in the past, she only sometimes stood a little way off from me looking into the distance, like when I fell off the swing and cut my knee and my mother wasn’t there, or when *Beverly said that my painting of the owl was by her, not me, and Mrs Maler said that because we couldn’t agree, neither of us would have the painting, and she tore my owl picture in two and put it in the bin.

I had no words to describe the emptiness of life without Hope. I asked to stay home from school. I didn’t want to go in without Hope. Hope made me a bit braver. Hope showed me the squirrels who climbed the chain link fence at the other end of the playground and hopped along it, drawing out my smile after another play-time on the wall. Hope made things funnier, easier, lighter. Better. Hope made me want to keep exploring things. Hope showed me that the world was exciting and safe and different.

My mother eventually found out about the play-time wall game and that I wanted to stay at home so I didn’t have to play, play again, and play without Hope. Something must have happened – I don’t remember what – but I went back to school and I never played that game again. And then one day, when I was looking at the fallen leaves looking like someone had had a wonderful accident playing with the green, brown, red, yellow and orange poster paints, I smiled. And when I looked up I saw Hope at the end of the playground, watching the squirrels. Hope had come back.

As I grew up, Hope didn’t always stay. She came and went, sometimes staying for days, sometimes leaving for weeks. It was hard to manage when Hope left me. I understood Hope didn’t like school. I didn’t like it either, when Mrs Tramwell told me that a C was an awful test result, and I cried or when Jayne and Tessa sniggered behind my back, though not behind my back because they were right in front of me. As I got older, Hope struggled to stay. I sympathised. Sometimes I didn’t go to school because it was too hard without Hope.

By the time I was twenty I knew Hope found life with me hard. She would turn up sometimes to see me, when I was in a concert or handed in an essay that received positive comments from my tutors, or when I had a picnic on the river friends. Hope came for these times, and lingered a while beyond. I loved times with Hope. But Hope didn’t stay. She would take long trips, especially in the winter when the sun didn’t come through the grey clouds, and the mornings and evenings were dark and cold. It was hard without Hope. I relied on my hot water bottle, extra jumpers, socks and the comfort of bed to read or sleep, while Hope was away. I didn’t want to go out without Hope; I didn’t want to do anything. She would pop in from time to time, and sit on my bed, next to me, just so that I would know she was there. I think she wanted to stay. I just don’t think she could.

Life was hard without Hope, so I decided to work at making her stay. I watched her closely. If she moved towards the door, I took her hand and led her back towards me. If she looked out of the window, I distracted her by creating a picture with my oil pastels or walking in the park to see the squirrels I knew that she loved. I arranged to see more friends, to go to the cinema, cook, travel and explore the world, organising lots of things I thought would make being with me more desirable for Hope. I wanted Hope to stay.

Image: Hey Miss Awesome

Life events tested me to fight for Hope. At twenty four a great friend died and my father got cancer. I asked Hope to stay, small as she was, quietly in a corner as I grieved and worried. I whispered to her, “Please stay,” on days when I stayed in bed. Slowly my whisper became a voice and I started to find happiness again, hand in hand with Hope. I got my degree and a new job; I met a wonderful man and we fell in love; I got another new job (a better job, though a harder job). Hope remained, watching me rush through into new things and exciting experiences.

Image: Love this pic.com

I was afraid Hope might leave again, as the changes – happy and sad – brought my anxieties and worries back. I worked again to keep her, making more friends, socialising, doing, working, walking, and filling every moment of the day with something that would keep Hope with me. I bundled memories of rest days, calm and quiet under the duvet where I had warmed myself, rushing forward into everything clinging on to Hope to stay.

Image: Negatives are taking over

But I failed. I couldn’t keep Hope and myself in this way. In the spaces between this new different life of work, love, new (and old) friends and new city, the quiet moments were dangerous. I saw that I was tired. Smiling pained me. I wanted my mouth to droop into expressionlessness. I preferred isolation and sleep to any alternative. A fog of numbness filled my head with its heavy coldness, which flowed into my sinuses, my cheeks, my ears, down to my neck and through my body to my leaden feet. It weighted down my limbs, pushing me back into bed as I tried to get up. The fog took away my taste buds for food I ate with friends I had no energy to see, which I wasn’t hungry for. Surely my friends wouldn’t want me anyway. I was worth nothing like this. Without Hope. I went back to the doctor, again. I cried. “I have lost Hope.” My nights were wakeful, though all I wanted was to dream away these difficult days. I watched for Hope to come back, but all I saw were shadows of her. Wisps of something close to nothing. Not Hope.

Image: Havocjournal.com

Today, Hope has run away from me again, and I can’t find her. I should be better at looking for the signs that she’s about to bolt, really, after twenty years of living with her, here and there, from time to time. I’m feeling heaviness again; I cannot sleep; I don’t want to eat or see people. But I do. I do because I know that the only way to find Hope is to believe in her. I see people when I can. I eat things I know I like even if I cannot taste them. I run in the park looking for the squirrels Hope and I both love. I take my medicine. I go to work. I write. I try to be kind. I love my husband. I live.

I have succeeded at work despite losing Hope at times. I have achieved more things than I thought I could. I have grown. I have railed against the people who don’t understand depression; what life without Hope feels like. I tell them they are not alone. I stand up believing in Hope even when she is barely a memory to me. Please believe in Hope. Hope is there for you, even if you have to work to find her.

Image: ourworld.unu.edu

I believe that I will find Hope and that you will too. The wisps will become shadows, which will grow darker and more substantial. At last, tiny, but real, Hope will appear. And I will welcome her again, be kind to her and try to keep her with me, always.

Image: kcbi.org

Burn Out Versus Balance: The (Almost) Eternal Flame

I have had a wonderful week in so many respects, despite having an horrific cold. Seriously, this time I think it was man flu. I genuinely didn't get out of bed last Sunday. It was the real deal. Scary.

Last week was the week after Inclusion Week at work and some wonderful experiences speaking on a Women's Network panel, a Mental Health 101 panel and more. Little surprise then that I would perhaps get sick and need to do more self care than usual. I wrote a long post about taking care (both of ourselves and one another) when we think about our mental health. Not just our mental health, in fact, but our entire health. Every bit of it. But for me I do want to treat myself as being an ordinary person, for whom depression is just one part - one - of who I am. One of the questions I was asked was: "What are some things that you do to take care of yourself?"

I have never been good at this. I've been hopeless at it in fact. If I set myself a goal, I'll want to achieve it, even if it means studying for longer, training for that marathon just a little bit harder, working extra hours, skipping breaks, all to get those goals checked off.

In reality this is not sustainable. To use the same sports metaphor I tell my colleagues - particularly the graduates coming in - life is a marathon not a sprint, whether at work or away from work: we have a long way to go and if we're going to have the best chance of making it to the end we have to take care of ourselves and find that balance between being ambitious and stretching ourselves, and trying to make sure that we don't achieve that (too often named) condition that affects every bit of us: "burn out".

I hate this phrase because it suggests that there's nothing left; a blackened match with no fire power left, completely useless. In some very extreme cases of burn out I imagine that people would need months (years maybe) to recover, depending on the personal circumstances of whatever led you to be there.

I have probably only burned out during a project in the USA where the clients were challenging, the hours punishing and the goals almost unattainable (I say almost because I attained them, but at tremendous personal cost to my health and wellbeing.)

Even in the above circumstance however, it wasn't as if there was nothing left at all: I could still go out for a meal, go for a run, visit a museum, walk in the park. I could even write my blog and carry on working. This is why I am so adamant that even with a mental health condition I can still be 'resilient' and why I'm working to make sure we have those conversations to #RedefineResilience : and not equating the word 'resilient' with bouncing back better and stronger than ever and never ever again having a slight off moment. Ever.

I don't bounce. I think I established that last year when I broke my back.

but I. Come. Back. Eventually.

Now, had I been a lottery winner, I'd be the first to admit that given the choice I would have just left work and booked myself at least a year of recovery time. But unfortunately, knowing that the chances of winning the lottery 1 in 32,441,381,280. 32 Billion - thanks Lotto for adding those extra numbers - I think I'll focus on a little thing I like to call REALITY.

So here's my a view of what balance looks like for me:

1. I eat some fresh juices courtesy of my own recipes and those of +JuiceMaster Jason Vale and @Joethejuicer Joe Cross) because the juices give me the vitamins I so need as well as reducing my anxiety levels and helping me to maintain a healthy weight. I also eat burgers with fries, onion rings and coleslaw. Because. I. Love. Them. And no matter that I will never have the waist of Kate Moss (that ship has sailed so far out I can't even see it. In fact I can't even see the horizon. Because I'm in a town.) I love good tasting food and for me it makes me happy to eat nice food.

   

   Yes, not my usual ingredients for a glass shaped like this. But juices help

   . 

   

   And NOW we are talking.

2. I see friends and go into the office because seeing people and having a chance to be social is good for me. If I'm in a slump it gets me out of the house and if I'm not it's energising. This assumes that I surround myself with people who are nice, mostly positive (or at least realistic!) and who are caring, kind, generally lovely and smart. In these cases my life is made immeasurably better by spending a few hours in their company. If, on the other hand, the people are rude, negative, life-haters, like Stuart the Virgin Trains man on the train from Manchester to London who once gave me a ten minute lecture for asking for the sandwich which (as someone who had a first class ticket) I had already paid for, finishing with "You know you're wrong. You ask your mother if I'm right..." then no, I won't feel better, and I tend to avoid these people like I would the currently rutting stags in the park.

   

   Yep. I'm not keen on these types of people.

   I might not die, but I'll certainly feel worse. On the other hand, I can't have too much contact with people because it is very tiring to be face-to-face all the time, so I have a couple of days at home each week at least, go to bed early and don't socialise too much, and spend a lot of the weekend having 'quiet time': hello Netflix and Kindle.
3. I exercise - for me it's running - a few times a week. I channel my inner Paula Radcliffe (the non-peeing-outside-part-of-Paula-Radcliffe, just to be clear)

   

   Did she or didn't she?

   and take to the streets or park for fresh air and fitness that will provide natural endorphins to boost my medication. I also walk up the escalators on tubes and walk around as much as I can. But I do not do too much. So I'm not currently running every day - more like 4 days a week (although clearly, see above, not with a cold...man flu no less!). And on those rest days I do, really, rest.
   
4. I work and love to work, but I don't work much outside of my 40 hour week.

   

   I also 'don't work'. I.e. I have a life outside of work. And I'm not just talking about writing this blog or talking about mental health. I'm talking real life outside of work stuff - whatever that is. Rest, painting, drawing, talking to people, watching Grand Designs and Bake Off and so on. I might make an exception to this, (the work, not Bake Off)

   

   Do. Not. Mess. With. My. Bake Off.

   but if I do, then I compensate for it. E.g. I recently went to a two day training course which completely shattered me. I therefore (suspecting this would be the case) took the day off the next day and spent it recovering. Eating, meeting my mum, sleeping. Feeling a bit better. I do make myself write a blog post every week because it makes me feel so good to be writing and - especially if I reach just one person and help them know that other people like me are also feeling a bit, frankly, rubbish, and that they deserve help, then that just makes me so happy. (Crying happy, smiley happy. The whole thing.)

Selfie fun with @Dawnoporter and @NimcoAli

For the last one - I should add that fun is in the mix. So with this in mind I went to Stylist Live on Thursday. I practically tackled Nimco Ali to the floor when I saw she was there, I pouted while taking selfies with Nimco and Dawn O'Porter (who I confirmed to that I didn't know who she was - or at least I didn't recognise her by sight!) and I told Stella I didn't know who she was, and then found out that Stella was Stella Creasy. And of course I knew! Surrrlightly embarrassed.

Dannie and Stella Creasy. 

But I did talk to all of them about mental health. I managed somehow to stand up in a room full of people and simultaneously 'come out' about my mental health (again, but this time...) to Caitlin Moran while I asked her what the last taboo was (that we could talk about) and she said she said 'everything' was still taboo - so a lot more work to be done! But the best thing about the day was talking to all of the great people there: Mosama, Zoe, Nancy, Fareeda, Linda, to @ThisWorks sleep and other beauty products) and to @YullShoes,

to Katie at Stylist Magazine and all the other amazing women (it was all women on this occasion) I met and who shared their mental health stories with me. Their brothers with anxiety, their husbands whom they call at lunch to help him get through the day, the antidepressants we've taken, the therapists we've seen, the bereavements we've had...everything. I always feel honoured by every person who shares a story about themselves or someone they know with me - it's like getting a present - and I hope that by talking about it myself I'm making this easier to talk about, and that we will make it easier for others too, and enable people to get help and feel that they deserve it.

This stuff really works by the way. Ahhh, a good night's sleep. 

A real rarity for me now less rate thanks to this!

I'm really tired now so signing off but please take care of yourself, and whatever you've got lined up for the week ahead, maybe consider a little balance. It can help.

Love xxxx Jessica

You Matter. World Suicide Prevention Day #WSPD15, #RUOK

I think few would disagree that suicidal thoughts are in themselves very frightening. However hard we may find it to live in this complicated world of wars, births, deaths, marriages, losses gains, progress, recession and so on, suicide is not something that we often discuss, at least not among my friends. Imagine, though, a person whose world has become so unbearable that it seems a release to consider letting go of all of the things that are making life seem impossible for a different choice – a choice where none of these struggles exist anymore, and where that person will be freed from expectations and constraints of life placed on him / her by others, or, most importantly, by him/herself.

I recently spoke to a group of senior leaders at work about resilience in my definition of the term. More to come on that in another post. During my talk, I mentioned how bad things had been last year and how things still were, quite often, very very bad for me with depression and anxiety invading and dictating various aspects of my life – what was possible and impossible. I told the group that at my lowest ebb I had not been suicidal, meaning I had not made plans to kill myself or set about putting those plans into practice. What had happened to me, though, was something very damaging: I had stopped wanting to live. I awoke each day with a heavy head as I looked out of the window at a world I no longer wanted to be part of. I felt a total failure, despite the promotions, the new job, the happy marriage, the friends I had. I felt awful. I felt I was awful, and that feeling this terrible way each day was my life sentence, a sentence I wanted to give up.

Nothing if not practical, I eventually realised that the tears every day before work and the panicked feeling that I couldn’t shake no matter how much exercise I did, sleep I got, reading or other distraction techniques I employed, the feelings of absolute hopelessness, were not going away, and that I had to do something about it. I chose to see my psychiatrist and explain how I felt. He made me fill out a questionnaire to assess the severity of my depression, and as I circled ‘very frequently’ against ‘feeling of not wanting to be alive’ I started to cry and cry, realising when I saw my self-assessment on paper just how bad things really were. I was dreadfully ill. I was living not even a half-life, even though from the outside every aspect of it was going well.

And this is how to interpret...

Mind puts it like this:

Mixed feelings
You may be very clear that you want to die – or you may simply not care if you live or die. However, for most people, suicidal thoughts are confusing. As much as you want to die, you may also want a solution to your difficulties. You may want others to understand how you feel and hope that they can help. Yet, you may not feel able to talk to anyone who offers to help. Having such mixed feelings and being unsure about what to do can cause great anxiety.

The latter description is more relevant to me – I just did not care whether I lived or died. But I did want a solution and I did want others to understand.

In hospital I met many other patients who were stuck and wading through the treacly mess of depressive thoughts. Looking into the treacle to try to find meaning, but seeing only blackness. Trying to get out of the treacle, but being sucked back into its sticky, strong mass that we had not the means to counterattack.

One patient who became my friend was very silent almost the entire time that I was there. Many more were like him. I was pretty well versed in the language of therapy and (no surprises here) had always been something of a talker, but others, particularly men but not exclusively, were so immersed in the terrible depths of their illnesses, so entrapped, that their mouths and gestures were glued shut and slowed by the treacle. And even if they opened their mouths to speak, many times they had no language to say what was going on.

You may be aware that more men commit suicide than women, by which I mean that more men succeed in the attempt. It is always dangerous to make generalisations, but the rates of suicide among men are rising over the past few years, whereas for women they have stayed broadly the same.  Wikipedia says: “The rate of nonlethal suicidal behavior is 40 to 60 percent higher in women than it is in men. This is due to the fact that more women are diagnosed as depressed than men, and also that depression is correlated with suicide attempts.”

The Guardian says: “The Adult Psychiatric Morbidity in England 2007 survey found that 19% of women had considered taking their own life. For men the figure was 14%. And women aren’t simply more likely to think about suicide – they are also more likely to act on the idea. The survey found that 7% of women and 4% of men had attempted suicide at some point in their lives. But of the 5,981 deaths by suicide in the UK in 2012, more than three quarters (4,590) were males“

As I have said before, I am not a doctor and have no qualifications in this field other than the benefit of my own lived experience.

I personally believe that we need to do more to support each other – whether we are struggling or not – to prevent ourselves and others potentially struggling to the extent that life ceases to be enjoyable. Even for me, while I may (may, no proof) be genetically predisposed to depression and therefore have life’s experiences + genes to thank for my seemingly effortless propensity to become depressed through various times in my life, life can be enjoyable and often is. I am so lucky that I have people who ask me ‘Are you okay?’ and really mean it.

The hardest thing for me about feeling so dreadful was the loneliness of it. And I talked about it as it was happening to my husband and my doctor, and still I felt alone. What must it be like to be someone who is experiencing these terrifying thoughts that a world without them in it would be a better reality than one with them?

We cannot move mountains to end all suicides today. But we can do little things to connect ourselves to one another and seek to invite connection from others, so that people feel that they are not alone, and that someone – a lot of someones, in fact – cares for them. We can ask each other how we are, not as a throw away ‘hello’ platitude, but as a real question expecting (and accepting) a real answer.

We can ask about each other’s lives and share something of our own, so that we make connections with each other. We can smile at the person we meet out running and wish them a good morning. That might be the only time that person sees a smile or hears that all day. Simple steps like these can be very powerful. And at the end of the day, we can say thank you to our work colleagues for what they have done for us. We can ask them what their evening or weekend plans are, and listen and share our own. We can thank our friends or partners for helping with dinner (whether ordering Domino’s or cooking a three course meal, whatever!).

By connecting ourselves with others and by sharing things about ourselves, especially if we are not having a good day and we feel we can say it aloud, we are inviting others to do the same. So when I next ask you how you are, or how things are, or if I ask, “Are you okay?” I promise: I really want to know the answer.