Andrew's journey with mental health and homelessness

The Beginning

It all started in a comfortable middle-class way. No this is not a story of a bad sink estate or being thrown out by uncaring parents. The point of mentioning this is it can happen to anyone, at any time of life and from pretty much any background. This is important because it is so easy to stereotype people. My mental health had probably been affected from an early age but I had no clue about that. If you cannot walk properly, people spot it and you would certainly know about it yourself. One way or another you would get help and, in this country, it is usually pretty fast and pretty good.

No, the problem with mental health is, with certain exceptions, it is not always very obvious or at least you can ignore it. You put on a brave face, you lock things down and you certainly don’t talk about it. Not from my generation anyway. Oh, I am in my sixties by the way. Mental health is something you are unlikely to make a big thing about at least publicly. After all, it might affect your career, promotion, opportunities. What will my colleagues and bosses be thinking if they knew? So, you keep quiet, you soldier on. Things are buried and fester deep inside.

Fortunately, things are changing and this is a message to the world, accept and show understanding, compassion and support just as you would for someone with a bad back, broken leg or a migraine. Don’t make people feel alienated and certainly don’t put people down and pick on them. You will affect not only the person you target but you will make others less willing to be open and frankly you are likely to affect yourself too.

Things came apart and very obviously so, a little over eight years back and I shut down. I was unable to communicate. When I say this let me be very clear. I could talk to people but I could not ask for help. I denied anything was wrong and was consequently trapped. Part of me knew something was desperately wrong whilst at the same time, I could do absolutely nothing. It is actually pretty frightening being trapped in your head like this. We can all imagine what it might be like to be trapped in a building after an earthquake. Some reading this might have experienced it. But at least you are aligned in mind and body to getting out even if you feel the situation is hopeless. People will be trying to find you. When you are locked away in your mind it is a bit like that without the prospect of any help. People who are asked about you might say things like “He kept himself to himself” or “I had no idea. He never said anything”, “He should have said something”, “He should have called the doctor”. Well for most of the last eight years I ceased to be able to even use a phone without someone there.

Well to cut a long story short, I eventually went downhill and my world came apart. I lost, along the way, the ability to work, to operate as I had done, to maintain friends, to look after myself. My home was gone and so were my records – we will come back to this later. I got to the point I did not want contact with people. I felt great shame that I had “lost control”. After all, this cannot happen to someone with a good education and a good mind – can it? Yes, it can and does!

Washing up by the Thames

I ended up sleeping on benches along the Thames Pathway. There is a lot in between but I am not ready to share and frankly do not have the space here to do so.

For someone who likes the outdoors, it is not a bad spot. I could never cope with a pitch in the City. It is also quieter – human noise and activity is a big issue for me. My problems include trauma, some going back to early years and aside from horrific nightmares, flashbacks, panic attacks the big problem is anxiety levels which can leave me agoraphobic. I cannot face going out or coping with a bus. But I am jumping ahead.

As I was saying, the Thames is a good spot. Generally quiet overnight and if you like the stars, the sounds and sights of wildlife, it is a great place. But it has downsides. The slowly rising mist is magic when you are wrapped up for the cold and damp. If you are a good photographer, it is a delight. When, however, you are trying to sleep and the damp creeps over you it is no fun. Neither is it when all the surfaces are wet, including you. Worse still if a wind gets up you really start to get cold. Cold damp is not a good thing. I have had to receive help when close to hypothermia. Bizarrely I did not want help. I felt like I was down a well and people were leaning in to rescue me but I just wanted peace and for them to leave me alone. I would not say I was suicidal but I had simply ceased to care and that is, in some ways, just as bad.

The journey back

This was the time I was starting to get real help. Great kindness was shown to me by those living on the barges and boats along the Thames. When I went into the City to try and get food, I often found kindness and sympathy. It was quite a revelation the number of shop staff who told me their trials with mental health. Showed me the scars on their arms from self-harm and then telling me they got through it. A member of staff at a bookshop sharing his problems with anxiety. Words of encouragement can be simple but they mean a lot.

Sadly, it was not always so. Although I had managed to keep looking moderately well dressed. I got people who showed the dark side of humanity. Extreme levels of noise, at least for me, leave me feeling punch drunk and sometimes hanging on to a wall or lurching as I walk. Comments from people including telling me I was a crack-head (I have never used drugs), I was drunk, I was a nutter (people have actually shoved mobiles in my faces – they are lucky I am not a violent person), being told to “Kill yourself and do the world a favour”.

Such comments make things worse for all. As I pointed out, talking to people like that can lead to violence, anger, acts borne of desperation and even suicide. Encouraging people to take their lives is, at least in my book, tantamount to murder. The treatment rough sleepers get, including urinating on them while they sleep, only makes things far worse.

But help was on its way. A local priest brought me coffee and gave me the chance of breakfast and a shower. I felt so guilty seeing all the muck washing off me. What had I become? Another priest from the same church, St Ebbe’s, helped the St Mungo’s outreach team find me. There is an issue with counting and identifying the homeless. If you have a regular pitch with your sleeping bag it is relatively straightforward but if you are like me, with no sleeping bag – just a poncho, and you move around to keep out of the wet and any driving rain or cold wind, you do not fit the “standard model” and consequently can slip through the net. But very fortunately St. Mungo's have a good outreach team and there are others in the community who try to help including the priest who got up early when the outreach came out and pointed out to them where I could be found!