A dark, wet evening in early November, 2009. Not a crisp, autumnal night but soggy, bleak and damp under the orange glow of the street lights.

Preparing for a two week trip to India, I arrived home late, having stayed at work to finalise travel plans . My partner, a nurse, had left for night shift and my Mam was staying over helping to look after my young son.

Standing over the ironing board, the telephone rang and Mam picked it up.

After a few seconds of listening, she handed me the phone and walked towards the drinks shelf

"Sit down son" - she poured me a whisky.

I remember, at the time, thinking how unusual that was. My Mam hated alcohol. In her eyes, it was the curse.

As I sat down, I listed. I could hear the background bustle whilst my partner stood amidst the chaos of her ward. 

The depth charge of feeling as she see-sawed between manic sadness and the need to share information that would somehow make sense to me.

I'd lost my friend. A good friend. A best friend. Someone I'd only known a short time, 2 years, but shared what felt like a lifetime in memories and friendship. A kindred spirit making sense of each other's silence, humour and frustration.

I lost my friend. He took his own life. I knew he was suffering but I wasn't able to help, unable to change the outcome. 

12 years on, I miss him. 

A persistent, lucid memory that brings back to life my own struggles with depression. Never finding a way to articulate what I was going through, never finding the 'right' way to explain where I was calling from. From hipster hashtagerry to key note speeches, seemingly, our stories weren't being heard in the same way as those that had won their battles. A bit too 'kitchen', a bit too real,, out voices aren't being heard like the juggernauts of stage worthy inspiration found elsewhere.

My friend found solace in his wife, who supported him deeply but was conscious that not everyone had someone to lean on. He saw that Samaritans could offer that support.

He would go on to talk about how, once he was better, he would volunteer for Samaritans.

Sadly, for his wife, children, parents, brothers, friends, he was too close to the edge for help to help him. It was too late.

But it's not too late for other people. 

I continue to suffer with my mental health. A battle since childhood.

I often question whether these posts belong in a public space. Absolutely they do. 

There's more talk than ever before about mental health. From cool community groups to corporate culture. From my personal experience, these efforts make a lot of noise but lip service doesn't translate into genuine empathy or compassion. I just never felt like I belonged.

For my friend, he found comfort in talking. Anonymously and without judgement. It was too late for him, but it isn't for us.

That's why I have decided to face my own fears and fundraise for The Samaritans.

In June 2022, I will be swimming 5 kilometres in the waters of Lake Windermere. As part of the Great North Swim, I will be facing my own fears and, whilst raising money for The Samaritans, remembering my friend and the challenges he faced.

Please support me by sponsoring my swim and let's help people's voices be heard.

Thank you x