Yesterday my mind tried to kill me.
The day-after debrief while the experience is still bleeding.
Reader note:
This article discusses severe depression and suicidal thoughts from a reflective, recovery perspective. If you are currently struggling, please consider reading with care or alongside supportive resources.
The Day the Ground Disappeared
The day began quietly.
I woke early with the usual stomach discomfort that comes with Barrett’s. Nothing dramatic. Just the familiar irritation of the body reminding me it exists.
Conversation drifted into odd places. Gravity. Physics. Small jokes. The mind was curious and functioning normally.
There was no warning of what was coming.
A Fragile Morning
Morning medication was taken.
Breakfast was simple: overnight oats Andrea had prepared the night before. Cold yoghurt, oats, berries. Something practical rather than enjoyable.
Physically I felt uneasy.
Mentally I was still steady enough to talk and reflect.
Looking back now, it felt like thin ice before the crack.
Sudden Descent
The shift came quickly.
Not a slow sadness. Not a gradual decline.
A drop.
Within a short period my mood collapsed into a place I had not visited for some time. Thoughts became darker, heavier, and harder to control.
The feeling was not just depression.
It was despair with direction .
Intrusive Imagery
The mind started producing images that were not welcome.
The loft hatch.
A rope.
Not physically there — that had already been removed after a conversation with my psychiatrist — but the image appeared again and again as if the brain was replaying a film I did not want to watch.
These were not plans.
They were intrusions.
And they were disturbing.
Radical Honesty
Instead of hiding it, I told people.
My daughter.
My sister-in-law Kath.
Others close to me.
My words were blunt.
“Suicidal. Same shit, different day.”
There was no point dressing it up. The truth needed to be said out loud.
Strangely, speaking the truth reduced the pressure slightly.
Physical Collapse
Medication continued.
Pain prevention.
Mood stabilisation.
But the body was exhausted by then.
Headache.
Nausea.
Emotional burnout.
When the brain goes through that level of internal conflict, the body eventually demands payment.
Stabilisation
I stayed in the house.
Andrea was nearby. Not necessarily talking, just present.
A film played in the background.
At some point I made a hot chocolate. The kind of small comfort that seems ridiculous until you realise how grounding it can be.
The storm began to ease.
Poetry in the Dark
Sleep did not come easily.
Instead I wrote.
I cannot sleep, there is no cradle within me
My day will just not end
So I lay in wait like heaven’s gate
If there was a word for eternal awake
it would be just a mistake
So I close and breathe but the night begins to ignite
That ball of life rises to shine
and the demons say you must be mine
I’m not, as the slumber takes hold
I can sleep in the sun it just makes me old
And old I shall be as the bird in the tree
Alas the tree will be still there
when the bird is no longer there.
Even in a difficult mind, something creative can still surface.
Clinical Snapshot
At one point in the afternoon the state of things could be summarised like this:
Pain: 5 / 10
Mood: 3 / 10
Energy: 3 / 10
Cravings: 5 / 10
Not catastrophic, but clearly unstable.
Morning After
Today I woke feeling tired, medicated, and slightly embarrassed.
But also relieved.
Because the truth is simple.
Yesterday I walked very close to the edge.
And although the emotional storm had passed, the exhaustion did not disappear quickly. The heaviness and fatigue carried on well into the afternoon the following day, a reminder that the brain and body need time to recover after such an internal fight.
What Yesterday Taught Me
Days like this reveal uncomfortable truths.
The mind can fall apart without warning. One moment you are discussing gravity and ordinary things, the next you are staring into something dark and heavy that feels older than you.
But yesterday also reminded me of something else.
Speaking honestly helps. Saying the words out loud removes some of their power. Silence feeds these thoughts; daylight weakens them.
Small things matter more than we realise. A film playing in the background. Someone else moving around the house. A hot drink warming your stomach. These are tiny anchors, but they stop the mind drifting too far out to sea.
And finally, exhaustion is real. The storm may pass, but the body still carries the aftermath.
Yesterday I learned again that surviving a day like that is not dramatic or heroic.
Sometimes survival simply means telling the truth, staying in the room, and waiting for the storm to pass.
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