"All I needed was for somebody to care"

I struggled with my mental health for many years before finally seeking help. A diagnosis of autism and several years of repeated recoveries and relapses from depression followed. In 2023, after an escalation of events in my personal life, I took an overdose. Perhaps something deep down in me didn’t really want to die, because I woke up the next day. A conversation with my GP took me to A&E, the CDU, the Decisions Unit, and then home under the Home Treatment team.

2 years later, I am in a far better place. But this is despite rather than thanks to mental health services, who I genuinely believe caused psychological trauma; it was one of the worst experiences of my life and I remain scared of any future need to use the service.

I hope my story can be learnt from.

I turned up at A&E alone (I had nobody to call) and unable to speak (I had my details written down). I was triaged quickly, tests were done, and I was taken to CDU. I was seen by a doctor. All staff were polite.

But then I waited, alone, for almost 12 hours.

Nobody spoke to me. Nobody told me if the tests were ok, or what I was waiting for. I wasn’t able to ask.

The noise, the beeping, the phones, the lights were like a drill through my skull. I hid beneath my coat, fingers in ears, stress building, building, building. Nobody noticed.

I didn’t eat, drink, use the bathroom; I wasn’t able to ask. Nobody noticed.

I didn’t know what was going on. When I tried to leave, it was explained that I would be seen by psychiatric liaison soon, next.

Hours passed, stress built from the uncertainty, and from what they’d said would happen not happening. Nobody noticed.

I was eventually seen by the psychiatric liaison team and, after more uncertain waiting, taken to the Decisions Unit in the middle of the night.

I was not in a fit state to work out how to recline the chair, or get the duvet in the cover. I still had a cannula in; I pulled it out myself. Nobody noticed.

Next day came; nobody spoke to me.

I didn’t eat and barely drank; nobody noticed.

Another night passed.

Stress was building again; another patient was now in the room so I couldn’t relax; the uncertainty of what was happening was gnawing away inside and the on-edge-ness becoming bigger and bigger.

I finally found myself able to knock on the office door and ask what was happening.

I was shouted at. Told they’d already told me, I knew what I was waiting for. And that if I was upset, I could leave, they weren’t keeping me there.

Implosion imminent, I managed to communicate a need for a private space.

A meeting room was opened.

I curled up in a ball on the floor in the corner.

I was shouted at again.

I melted down. I scratched my arms until they bled. Nobody noticed.

I was finally seen by the home treatment team. Sent home with a plan.

A taxi arrived next day to take me to Crisis House.

But they didn’t tell me the address. I knocked on the wrong door. Was not expected and couldn’t communicate when I knocked on the right one. So I walked several miles home.

Future home visits were unhelpful; just handouts about activities inaccessible to me (autism and social anxiety go hand in hand).

One visit upset me so much that I shut myself in another room and seriously contemplated another overdose. Noone noticed.

After two weeks I was discharged. That was it.

It could have, should have been so much better.

What did I need?

I needed understanding within the context of autism.

Yes, I got up in the morning and showered. That did not mean I was ok; it meant I could not cope without some semblance of routine.

Yes, I was agitated about not being seen for a long time. But this did not mean I needed appeasement; it meant I needed clarity about the length of time I’d be waiting, some semblance of certainty.

Yes, I looked like I could communicate. But this was autopilot, perfected through years of masking and pushing through. I could keep a neutral expression. But behind this I was on the edge of shutdown. I was unable to take in anything you told me. I was unable to approach you, to ask for anything, to express any needs.

I needed you to understand this. To be patient. To not shout at me. To help me meet my own basic needs.

More than anything else, I needed you to care.

To the person who noticed that my lips were cracked from dehydration and encouraged me to drink, thank you. You were the only person who made me feel like someone cared.

Apart from this, the experience, far from helping me, made everything worse.

I knew my reason for being there was self-inflicted. I was racked with guilt for wasting your time when others were genuinely unwell. I knew that my overdose had been more a cry for help than a committed suicide attempt, an act of desperation to end the unbearable loneliness, rejection, worthlessness.

I just needed you to speak to me, to ask me if I was ok. To check in with me, to reassure me I wasn’t alone. To tell me that it was ok for me to be there, that I wasn’t unworthy of care. To tell me not to feel guilty; that you had heard and understood my desperate cry for help.

You didn’t. By leaving me alone and ignored, you reiterated and validated every single one of the negative feelings that had brought me there in the first place.

You made me feel simultaneously invisible and like a burden, unworthy of help.

What you didn't do was care; and this should be such a simple thing.