Grief is a strange thing. The journey after bereavement is full of twists and turns, and everyone experiences it in different ways. Counsellors will tell you that there different stages of grief and anger, and they’re right, but each individual has to find their own way through the mess of losing someone. Looking back, I can see that beginning my patrols was as much a part of my grief over losing Maggie as it was about helping others. Put simply, at first I was driven to be up there and it helped me in some way, just as it helped the people I talked to.
In those early days and months back in 2004, the time I spent up at the Head managed to focus my mind a little. Just a little. But each day, when I returned home, I was also returning to a dark, deeply depressing place in my mind.
I didn’t want to be at home and be reminded of Maggie, yet I didn’t want to be out facing other people. I didn’t want to be awake, yet I couldn’t sleep. And when I woke up in the morning, I didn’t want to get out of bed and face another day. To me, the world had become a strange, grey place and I felt like an alien living in it. Being conscious merely reminded me of how difficult life had become, and only made me feel more isolated. As I walked around, I felt like an empty shell – and an angry, empty shell to boot.
When you’re so down, you become very focused on yourself and lose the ability to see things as they are. To me, everyone in the world seemed happy apart for me, and I didn’t know what on earth I could do to help myself. Why is everyone else smiling? I’d think. No one gives a shit that Maggie’s dead, no one cares about me and the world’s just going on as if nothing’s happened.
As time went on, my thoughts became even darker: I began to feel that everyone was looking at me because I was the man in the newspaper whose wife had died. Looking back, I’m sure they weren’t, but at the time I was convinced of it and I began to shut down. I didn’t want to eat, I only wanted to sleep and be away from it all. I wanted some peace from my thoughts of Maggie, and being unconscious was the only real answer. But I couldn’t sleep forever, so every day I faced the same question: ‘How am I going to get through the next 24 hours?’
I was prescribed Prozac. My GP had been close to Maggie and was devastated when he heard she had died. There was no way he was going to let me go the same way, so he kept a close eye on me. Dr Ribbons was absolutely brilliant. I was reluctant to take the pills, but they proved invaluable as a crutch to get through the day. They didn’t make the pain go away, but they allowed me to function on a very basic level. Without those pills, I think there’s a good chance I would have taken my own life.
Maggie and I had been with each other 24/7 and now it was just me. I could hardly work any more, the debts were piling up and I was beginning to really struggle.
I didn’t know who to turn to. At first, everyone had been so very kind, asking after me and offering to help all the time. But people are only human, and after a while they get bored of helping others if they don’t feel their help is – well – helping. After all, I didn’t show many signs of improvement. I soon began to notice that the people who had been so keen to look out for me before were now crossing the street to avoid me. In the pub, friends would try to turn their backs subtly when I walked in – just from the looks on their faces, I could see they were thinking, Crikey here comes Misery Guts again, with nothing to say apart from how much he misses his wife. The thing is, this was all perfectly understandable. People want to get on with their lives – they go out to be happy, not sad. I understand that now, and I understood it then, but it doesn’t change the fact that it only made me feel more alone at the time.
I knew I could call my family if I needed them, but I also knew – or at least, I felt – that I was a burden. The fact was that I didn’t like myself very much, and didn’t expect myself to be liked. I felt I was one big pain in the arse, both to myself and others. Everyone knows the saying, ‘Laugh and the world laughs with you.’ Well, the flipside of that is, ‘Cry and no one gives a monkey’s!’
I felt dead inside. I was quite literally dying of a broken heart. And then I began to drink again.
I’d cut out booze after Maggie died. I knew it was what had killed her and I just didn’t want it in my life. But time wore on, and two or three months later I began having a few whiskies at home, which turned into a few more whiskies and before I knew it I was knocking myself out with the stuff virtually every night of the week. Being depressed draws you to drink – alcohol gives you a temporary lift, but ironically ends up making you even more depressed. It’s what happened to Maggie, and I suppose it’s what was happening to me.
Even though I was sinking into a downward spiral, nothing could stop me from going up to Beachy Head each morning. It was the only routine I had left. I was up there seven days a week without fail, starting at 5.30 in the morning. Each day, I parked my car at the car park, walked up to the highest point and, using my binoculars, looked along the cliffs to see if there was anyone standing at the edge. If there was no one around, I’d look over the edge to see if anyone had gone over – by this stage a Christian organisation called the Beachy Head Chaplaincy Team had begun patrolling the cliffs from 6 pm ’til midnight, but I was always concerned that somebody may have killed themselves during the hours between the chaplains finishing their patrol and me starting mine. I was obsessive about checking because in the early days I took it very personally if a person went over. It made me feel like I had failed.
One warm June morning, I was patrolling as usual at around 7 am and noticed a man sitting on the grass near the edge. Because erosion is causing the cliff edge to fall into the sea bit by bit, there are parts of the cliff that look like little steps and can act as benches to people who don’t suffer from vertigo. The man was reading a paper on one of them. It was a warm morning, for sure, but it struck me as a little odd that someone would be up on a cliff so early just to catch up with the news. Certainly, it was the first time I’d seen anyone do it. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, though, so I decided to observe him discreetly rather than rush up and interrupt him.
I walked past him from behind. Sure enough, nothing seemed amiss. I carried on walking for a few minutes, turned, and began to make my way back to the bench. As I walked past him again, I noticed that he wasn’t reading the paper at all. He was staring over the top of it. What’s more, I noticed that he hadn’t turned the page in five minutes. So either he was a very slow reader or something wasn’t quite right.
I sat down on the same ledge and remarked on what a nice day it was. Then I asked him casually if he was feeling OK.
‘Yes, why shouldn’t I be?’ he replied, very matter-of-factly. Perhaps I’d made a mistake. Perhaps I was merely disturbing this man’s peace and quiet. Still, I’d disturbed it now, so why not carry on for a bit? I would rather have discovered I was being a nuisance than have passed by a potential jumper.
I told him about my patrols, and about Maggie. I always mentioned Maggie because, nine times out of ten, her story caught people’s attention and made them concentrate, irrespective of whether they had a problem or not. You can teach people all sorts of things, but you can’t teach them experience and my experience always seemed to give me some kind of authority. Whether or not my story inspired respect, empathy or merely made people inquisitive, they seemed to want to listen to it and that was good enough for me.
The man seemed moved by my words, and said he was sorry about what I’d been through. His concern for me made me begin to think that I was really barking up the wrong tree with this one. Still, I had one more question for him.
‘When I walked past you just now I noticed you weren’t turning the pages of your newspaper. Please forgive me if I’m intruding on you at all but…’
Tears began to form in his eyes.
‘You have got a problem, haven’t you?’ I continued.
He nodded.
‘Thought so,’ I said. ‘Do you want to talk about it? After all, a problem shared is a problem halved. Believe me, I understand how you feel. You feel like you’re in a tunnel with no light at the end of it, don’t you? That’s how I feel now I’ve lost my wife.’
‘You’re right,’ he said, looking at me a little more directly.
‘I’m not asking you to walk away from here,’ I assured him. ‘All I’m offering you is a shoulder to cry on. Why don’t we talk about it? You never know, you might have second thoughts about doing what you’re thinking of doing.’
At this, the man began to speak. He explained that his wife of forty years had died six months ago and that he was in Eastbourne on holiday with his second wife. He had remarried quite quickly, but there was a major problem in his new relationship: his new wife wouldn’t allow any of his first wife’s photos in the house. She wouldn’t let him talk about her, and wouldn’t let him share anything about her. By the time he finished telling his story, he was in floods of tears. I put my arm around him, and told him it was OK to cry.
‘You haven’t had time to reflect and grieve, have you?’ I asked.
‘No, not at all.’ He loved his new wife very much, but it didn’t mean he was ‘over’ losing the woman he’d spent 40 years with. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, ‘I’m glad my new wife’s not up here to see this!’
It was obvious how much emotion this guy had been holding back.
‘You’ve had a great loss, and you’re not being allowed to get it all out. Have you tried talking to your new wife about your feelings?’
‘I’m frightened that – if I tried to – we might have a row,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to push her away.’
‘That’s understandable,’ I said, ‘but surely this isn’t a perfect situation. Who knows, if you are open with your wife, if you explain everything and reassure her that you love her but that you also need to grieve, she may understand. It could even bring you closer…’
He nodded slowly. Yes, I thought, he’s starting to see things differently. It was time to get him away from the edge.
‘Come on,’ I smiled. ‘Put that paper down and let’s go over to the pub and have a coffee.’
He didn’t take any persuading. We walked away, took a seat in the Beachy Head Pub for a while and then said goodbye once we got back to his car.
We shook hands and for a moment I thought he was going to shake mine off! He was smiling and had a look of resolve in his eyes. I could tell he intended to finally address the situation that had brought him so much anguish.
‘Good luck,’ I said.
‘Thank you for what you’ve done,’ he beamed. ‘And keep up the good work!’
He let go of my hand, and off he went.
Blimey, I thought once he’d gone, where did all those words of advice come from? I was elated again, for sure, but I couldn’t fathom quite how I’d managed to talk in that way. I’d always been a helper and a carer and family members had often come to me with their troubles because I’m a good listener. But I’d never been known for handing out advice so… fluently. The words I spoke to that man had rolled off my tongue and as I was talking I had a sense that I didn’t know quite where they were coming from. I hadn’t had time to reflect and consider – to think before I spoke – yet words that were able to stop a man from killing himself had fallen spontaneously from my mouth. It seemed to good to be true. Perhaps it had been the pressure of the moment, I thought. Maybe when humans are faced with extreme situations where lives are at stake, something in the brain kicks in and the right words just flow.
But something else occurred to me. Maybe they weren’t all my words. Maybe I was being helped. That day was the first time I thought that someone was guiding me in those moments. And that someone was Maggie.
* * *
I’d saved three people in a short space of time, and I was very happy about it. But it was all I was happy about. When I wasn’t patrolling, I was still a total mess. I may have spent my time up there talking to people about their problems, but when I came down I wasn’t talking to anyone about mine. I tried going to a counsellor, but raking over my feelings about losing Maggie made things worse. The fact was that she was gone, and there wasn’t anything I – or anyone else – could say to bring her back or help me feel better.
When I felt up to it, I was doing window-cleaning jobs here and there. One day, I was working in a customer’s garden – and feeling really terrible. My mind wasn’t really on the job and my emotions were all over the place as I cleaned. I could feel myself welling up, so I climbed down from my ladder. Not wanting to be defeated by my feelings and simply go home, I went to the bottom of the garden and into the customer’s shed to avoid being seen, and once I was there I began to cry uncontrollably. I couldn’t stop. It seemed that, no matter what I did – work, patrolling, trying to get on with things – the pain just wouldn’t go away. Crying in that shed, I felt as if my heart was going to burst out of my body. God I missed Maggie. My life meant nothing without her by my side.
My customer must have noticed I was gone and heard me crying. She opened the shed door and put her arms around me.
‘If you want to cry, just cry,’ she said. She didn’t question what was wrong – she must have read about me in the local papers.
‘I think you need to see somebody,’ she said after a couple of minutes. ‘I’ve got a friend and I’m going to give you her number. She’s a spiritualist.’
Spiritualist? I thought. My God, what good will a spiritualist be to me? I looked up at my customer, unsure of what she meant.
‘Don’t knock it,’ she said. ‘Just trust me and phone her.’
Why not? I thought. I was willing to try anything if it might help me out of the hell I was in. I took the number for the spiritualist, someone called Jules, and went home for the day.
I made the call. A woman answered and I gave her my name and the name of my customer. I told her my story and asked if she thought she might be able to help. She listened but told me she was taking a break at the moment in order to attend to some personal matters in her own life. She was sorry, but explained that giving up time for others was just too draining for her.
Great. So that was that. We said goodbye and my heart sank.
Thirty seconds later, my phone rang. It was Jules.
‘I’m calling you back because as soon as I put down the phone, the spirits were telling me that I had to help this man, that it is my duty. I must see you as soon as possible.’
Blimey, I thought, Now that is a result! We agreed to meet that very evening. I can’t say I wasn’t sceptical. After all, I’d never really believed in spirits, and apart from the brief moments I’ve already described, I’d never experienced anything that you could really call a ‘spiritual experience’. But I decided to go along with an open mind.
The moment I met Jules I felt a wonderful sense of comfort. She had an aura of wisdom and calm that put me at ease immediately. As we talked in her lounge, I found myself opening up in a way that I hadn’t done with anybody since Maggie’s death. I was like putty in her hands – she seemed to know how to relax me and draw me out of myself in a very natural way.
Jules said that she had heard from the spirits and that Maggie would be making contact, but not yet. My departed wife had only just crossed over to the other side and wasn’t quite ready.
It’s easy to dismiss the idea of spirits and spirituality as mumbo jumbo. I’d done it myself in the past. But listening to Jules now, I had a sense that she was speaking from the heart. This wasn’t some palm reader trying to make a buck at a fun fair – Jules wasn’t making any promises or giving me false hope. She was merely asking me to have faith that Maggie would eventually make contact.
I was very aware that my desperate position meant I might have been more willing than usual to clutch at straws. But at the same time I could not completely dismiss the possibility that spirits exists and that Maggie may want to get in touch. I can’t say I had faith straight away. Rather, because of my situation, I wanted to have faith, I wanted to hang on to something – anything. If there was even the remotest chance that I would be able to have some contact with my Maggie again, I was willing to give it a go. So I decided to suspend any lingering disbelief and go with the flow. My world had become a very dark place, but now I had a glimmer of hope.
I started to see Jules once a week. Every time we met, I felt the same sense of calm and comfort, which was good in itself, and she and I quickly became good friends. During every session, Jules told me where Maggie was, but that she was still not ready to make contact. I had to have faith. It wasn’t easy to keep believing, but I did. And as later, amazing events proved, I was right to persevere…
Despite that glimmer of hope, I was still very delicate emotionally. As the days and weeks passed I felt like I was falling into a black hole that I couldn’t pull back from. I kept telling myself that life would get better, that I just needed to hold on, keep going and muddle through until the misery started to wane. But I was so depressed that I could hardly believe what I was telling myself. The strain of living was dragging me down.
Then, one night, I decided I’d had enough of everything. I decided to go up to Beachy Head.
I was completely smashed. I’d downed a bottle of vodka at home and ordered a taxi. I took a little stool with me in the cab, which seemed to go unnoticed, and once the cabbie dropped me off I began stumbling up the hill. It was pitch black and I had no torch. With the logic of a drunk I decided it would be a good idea to sit on my stool and talk to the full moon before throwing myself over the edge from Maggie’s spot. There was one problem, however. I was so drunk that I couldn’t find it in the darkness! I look back and laugh at the whole plan now, but at the time it was far from funny.
I flailed around, desperately searching for Maggie’s cross. I was perilously close to the edge and so drunk that I ended up on my stomach in the pitch black, feeling around for the right place, hoping I’d end up with the cross in my hand. I must have been inches from slipping away forever.
Then, something triggered in my brain. In a moment of clarity I became painfully aware of the finality of what I was about to do – and that I shouldn’t be doing it. I was at the place where I would normally be persuading people not to die and asking them if it was what they really wanted; now I had to answer that question myself. Seconds earlier I’d been hell-bent on ending it all, but now I was overwhelmed by one thought: I didn’t want to die.
I needed to be away from there. I needed to be safe and I needed help. Drunkenly, I pulled out my mobile phone and spoke to Jules. I told her where I was, but that there was no need to worry: I was coming down but I needed to talk to someone.
I began to stumble back down the hill towards the road. I’d decided to head home, but I was so drunk I could hardly focus on what was in front of me. As I stumbled down the road, stool in hand, I must have been quite a sorry sight!
The next thing I knew, two police cars had screeched to a halt in front of me. It turned out that Jules had been so worried about me falling from the cliff that she’d called the police. Now I was facing two police officers wanting to know what on earth I was doing – and wondering what the stool was for!
‘Don’t worry about that,’ I slurred, ‘I’m not going to jump. I’m 500 feet from the edge now and I can’t jump 501 feet!’
With that they threw me in the back of the car. I think they knew I was in a state and they couldn’t take any chances that I might do something stupid. Back at the station I was questioned until they were satisfied I wasn’t going to kill myself, and then released.
I wasn’t proud of myself, and I had to think long and hard about what I’d done. Looking back, I can see that my actions were little more than a cry for help. I went up to the Head with the intention of killing myself, but I don’t think it was real intention. In the years that followed I would meet many people who really had the intention and who could not be stopped, but I didn’t fall into that category. I think it just took me getting to the cliff edge to realise that I didn’t want to die. Rather, I wanted help; I wanted some kind of way out.
I was in such a desperate place in my mind. Because of my Beachy Head work, and the drugs, I was keeping just above the water line – bobbing along in a leaky boat but not quite sinking, and this episode marked my lowest point. It was the first time I had contemplated suicide. I couldn’t have got any lower. When you’re that bad, it’s natural to end up seeking attention. Humans need other humans, and unconsciously I was trying to reach out and pull people towards me.
My daughters were distraught and – understandably – angry. They were very upset about Maggie’s death themselves, and to have to live with their father out of the picture too would have landed them in the same predicament as me. I was stunned and ashamed that I’d even contemplated doing something that would put my daughters through what I’d suffered.
I felt I’d acted selfishly and realised I was at a pivotal point – either I carried on as I was or I made even more of an effort to drag myself out of the hole I was in. I made a pact with myself. ‘You’re in a desperate state,’ I told my reflection in the mirror, ‘but whatever happens you’ll never contemplate – and act on – killing yourself again.’
I’d hit rock bottom. For months I’d been taking one step forward and two steps back, until I’d gone so far back that I’d done something desperate. My self-esteem was in tatters, but acknowledging that fact by shocking myself with my own behaviour was enough to pull me back from the brink of total despair.
I began to get better. It didn’t happen overnight, and there were still many dark days for me to face. But gradually, subtly, over the coming months I noticed that I was now beginning to take two steps forward and only one back. When you’re coping with depression, it’s only when the good days start outnumbering the bad days, and when the bad days are less severe, that you know you’re on the road to recovery. For a long time, the bad days had overshadowed the good. But by August 2004, I could feel the balance starting to shift a little. I’ll never forget the moment when I realised I’d had two reasonably good days in a row. It was enough to make me hang on a little longer.