Suicide - a devastating act that underlines the desperation felt by those who succumb to it, and causes lifelong pain for the loved ones left behind. Why not read Sarah's story?

My boyfriend, Roger, committed suicide 17 years ago. He began showing signs of mental illness about 3 or 4 months before he died. At first, his family and I thought he was depressed but with hindsight we think he may have been developing schizophrenia. We will never know. He was off work a while and became very withdrawn but kept insisting that he was fine. One day he seemed more cheerful and this continued for a while so I decided to take a much-needed break, with his support and agreement. While I was away, I rang him every day but he never answered and I became increasingly concerned for him.

When I got home, I was shocked – he had lost a lot of weight, hadn’t washed and seemed paranoid. Phone calls to his friends confirmed he had cut contact with them in my absence. I rang his parents and they came over. They too were shocked at how low he had sunk. It was a Saturday but I rang my GP anyway and begged him to come to the flat. Roger put on a good show for my GP, who thought he seemed fine but we weren’t happy and spent 5 hours persuading him to go to hospital voluntarily to see a psychiatrist. Once in hospital, Roger wanted to go home again but he eventually agreed to be admitted. Behind our backs, the psychiatrists decided to section Roger and we were really angry. I felt that Roger would think I’d betrayed him – I’d spent so long trying to persuade him to stay at the hospital and he was terrified of being sectioned. While we argued with the doctors to reverse the section, Roger walked out of a ward that was supposed to be locked and where he was supposed to be on 15-minute observation.

Once we knew he had left, we went home, I to my flat, his parents to their house and we began the tedious task of ringing people to see if he’d shown up at friend’s house. It was late night but I couldn’t sleep. I think I eventually dozed off at around 6am, only to be woken an hour later by banging on the front door. I opened it to see two plainclothes police officers and a uniformed PC. I knew then, I just knew.

They came in, made me sit down and said they had found his body. I heard a horrible screaming, like a wounded animal and realised it was me. I’d worried so much while I was away that he might self-harm, but it was still the worst shock to know he was dead by his own hand. The PC helped me dress and drove me to Roger’s parents’ house. We had to give statements about the events of the evening before then they left us. We clung to each other, crying. His father, never one to show huge emotion, then went jogging. His mother made sandwiches that nobody wanted to eat. I got on the phone again, this time to break the news of Roger’s death.

The funeral was a week later. It gave us something to focus on. Afterwards, though, I had to return to work as I was self-employed and needed to earn money. I couldn’t stop crying. We’d talked about getting married just a few weeks earlier. And I felt guilty that I hadn’t done more to save him. I felt responsible for talking him into seeing the psychiatrist at the hospital. If we hadn’t taken him, he might still be alive. And I had to live with the fact that Roger’s last thoughts were possibly that I’d lied to him when I’d said he wouldn’t be sectioned. That was the hardest thing to deal with. I was also incredibly angry that he had left me – I felt like a dumped girlfriend, but dumped in the worst possible way. It felt as if by killing himself, Roger had said I was such an awful girlfriend that that was the only way he could leave me.

After the funeral, I started to drink very heavily. I’d wake up at 4.30am and pace the flat, then go into the office where I freelanced as early as possible, just for something to do. Of course, I could only work 8 hours a day so I’d be finished at 4pm and I’d go home and start drinking. When I was drunk, I’d sob all night into the carpet. I kept hoping I’d hear his key in the door but I knew I wouldn’t really. I had to change my route to work as it involved walking across the bridge over the river and I would often stop, looking into the dark swirling water below and think about jumping in. I started taking the bus instead, so I didn’t have to go over the bridge on foot.

Three months later, I attempted suicide anyway. I was depressed, lonely and grieving and just wanted to be with Roger. I ended up in a psychiatric ward, just like Roger, and was threatened with a section myself. I managed to talk them into letting me go home and I realised I had to find a way to live without Roger. Slowly, I cut back on the drinking and changed my job to one where I was working longer hours, but also socialising with my new colleagues – this helped me focus less on myself and my grief and also didn’t give me much time to drink alone and feel miserable. My new job involved helping people who were fighting for social justice and that gave me a sense of purpose. It was a way of channelling my grief into something constructive.

Six months after Roger’s death, it was time for the inquest. This was something I was both dreading and looking forward to. Dreading because I knew it would rake up many painful emotions, but looking forward to because at last we would get some answers (we hoped) from those who had been responsible for Roger. We had to find a barrister to represent us, as we knew the hospital would have legal representation and we didn’t have the skills or knowledge to ask the right questions. It took a while to find the right barrister and then we had to spend several sessions with her so she was completely familiar with the events.

On the day of the inquest, I had to give evidence which was quite nerve-wracking, but I managed to hold my composure until the coroner gave his verdict. This, as we had hoped, was accidental death. Many families hope not to have a verdict of suicide as it can be difficult to deal with emotionally. In our case, we never had any doubt that Roger had deliberately chosen to end his life and we accepted that, but we didn’t want a suicide verdict as it would have let the hospital off the hook, legally speaking. Under English law, a suicide verdict can only be given if there is proof of intent to take one’s life. As Roger had not left a note or told anyone of his intention to kill himself, it not only meant the coroner had to bring a verdict of accidental death, it also meant that the hospital could not say his death was unpreventable. This paved the way for us to sue the hospital. However, we decided not to as the legal fees would have run into thousands and the compensation we could have received was just £3500. We felt his life was worth more than that and instead we used our new-found legal powers to force the hospital to revise its care policy and practice for psychiatric patients. In our view, we could not bring Roger back, but if we could stop even one more family from experiencing what we did as a result of medical negligence it would be worthwhile.

Eighteen months after Roger died, I married a friend of his and moved away. It seemed like a good idea at the time but, with hindsight, it was a big mistake. We were divorced within three years. I was still grieving too much to focus on my new husband and he felt he had too much to live up to as Roger’s “replacement”. We parted on bad terms, but years later we have become friends again.

When I hit the five-year mark, I felt I was finally moving forward from my grief. It helped that I have remained close to Roger’s family over the last 17 years. We are able to talk about him and I do still wonder how my life would have turned out if he were still alive. Would we still be together? I will never know the answer to that, of course. I still can’t listen to “our song” without crying and I still think of him every day. His photo is on my desk and he will always be a part of me. But I look back now and remember the good times with him rather than that dreadful weekend – I remember the fun we always had, the daft things he did to make me smile, the intense and passionate conversations we had about politics. I still have a Roger-shaped hole in my life, but I’m happy in my current relationship and I know in my heart that Roger would have wanted me to be happy.

Do I wish I could turn the clock back? Yes, of course. I would never have taken him to the hospital if I’d known what lay ahead. But I also know deep in my heart that Roger was ill and may well have killed himself at some point anyway. I have found it pointless to ponder on the “what ifs”. To do that would have meant burdening myself with guilt for years. It has been more constructive to accept what happened and remember him as the handsome, funny, witty and intelligent man he was rather than the ill person who chose to end his life. And to create a life without him, but with space in my heart for him.

DISCLAIMER:This story IS subjective and ‘Sarah’ has asked that it be made clear to everyone that individuals should make their own decisions based on what they think is right under the particular circumstances. ‘Sarah’ would still advocate taking someone to hospital to get expert help in similar circumstances and has asked that it be pointed out that the hospital in question broke its own rules at the time regarding patient care, which came out at the inquest.

Please note: Names have been changed to protect anonymity. 'Sarah's Story' has been reproduced in full and with kind permission of the author. Stamp Out Suicide! cannot take responsibility for the content or accuracy of 'Sarah's Story'.