Content warning: this story talks about suicide.
After facing hopeless hurdles for years, this fence was just one more.
I scrambled over it, jarring my feet with zero grace. As I dodged the shadow outlines of salt-toughened bushes, I limped my way toward the edge of darkness.
Clouds shifted to cover the moon sliver. Sitting down warily, I hung my legs over the cliff edge and stared directly into the abyss.
I had never been to this cliff before.
My thoughts turned to the apologetic note on my unmade bed, handwritten in pure desperation.
Hollow, I had searched hard for a pen, with the result brief and completely inadequate.
The gap between what I felt and who I could be was impossible to explain. I’d been drowning for a while.
On the night Amanda decided she couldn't go on, the police offered immediate support. Source: Supplied
'So entirely tired'
Sounds of the ocean waves on the rock bottom below crashed into my awareness. The cliff was not as high as I had expected. What were the odds of surviving, and becoming a quadriplegic?
I recalled standing like a chicken on a rocky ledge somewhere in Africa, gathering the guts to dive into a deep river. Everyone had cheered when I’d finally forced myself to leap. It seemed easier in your head, except my head was not an easy place tonight.
I was so entirely tired, utterly dead inside.
My psychiatrist had talked about chronic fatigue syndrome and bipolar disorder as two possibilities that explained my plunging depression.
Chipped into my left foot was a symbolic representation of my anxieties. My middle toe has been amputated due to Proteus syndrome, where tissues overgrow. Surgeons kept cutting my toes down to size, so I wouldn’t get too big for my boots.
My negative self-talk ensured the same.
After 20 minutes, a bright torch appeared. Someone was looking for me. It was the police, and I was surprised to hear them call my name. They had checked the rego of cars nearby.
What also surprised me is how I refused to acknowledge them. This was unlike me; I had always tried to toe the line.
They didn’t come over the fence, which was of course alarmed.
The gap between what I felt and who I could be was impossible to explain.Amanda Reid
Fatigue had me lying down now, right on the edge. So close I could roll away.
The unsympathetic gusts of wind were insidiously cold and there were mosquitoes. A female negotiator appeared and called out to me every few seconds: “My friend is here with a blanket”.
Police Rescue and an ambulance were waiting, and although I didn’t realise, they’d blocked off the entire road.
I couldn’t just go home anymore and pretend to myself nothing had happened. This meant a first-time psychiatric ward, under schedule, at the age of 40. Even if I didn't jump, I was broken.
More voices.
“We can get help. We can get you someone to speak to tonight."
A life-changing conversation
I didn’t move, except to lift my phone. I still had battery. Could I take the 'phone a friend' option? Who would I call? Who could cope?
I picked an old friend Paul in Melbourne. Living in Sydney, I hadn't seen him in years, but we'd had late-night conversations recently. He picked up immediately and I woodenly outlined the situation.
He paused, then began to talk. About the first thing he could think of. Tomatoes.
Soothingly, he painted a picture of his garden, with fertile ground soil supporting beautiful tomatoes. Leafy plants were growing trustingly from seeds. There were high stalks now, patiently tended. He spoke of his satisfaction in seeing the sun-ripened fruit, swollen with potential. Luscious, full and red. Bringing vivid colour to the world.
He promised meals he would make: a nourishing salad or a rich, nutritious pasta sauce.
He spoke in calm, fearless tones, the creative complexity of his vision belying his humble, simple subject choice.
'The smallest things can have the grandest impact'
Paul didn’t try to persuade me to engage with police or leave the edge. I blocked out the negotiator and focused on the rhythm of his deep voice – even though rain on tomatoes seemed light-years away.
He made me laugh, and the policewoman thought I was crying.
They say the smallest things can have the grandest impact, and Paul had more impact than he ever expected.
Through his words, he had made me believe that I could hope for, expect, even achieve a harvest. He had implanted tiny, subconscious seeds of life, though I understood seeds must spend a lengthy time still buried in darkness.
Amanda says that on her darkest night, the carefully chosen words of a friend were "a lighthouse in the dark". Source: Supplied
I said goodbye to Paul and decided it was time to stand up. I prepared myself to climb over the fence, brush off dirt and face the path back. I took some hesitant steps of emergence.
There in 2018 I started my journey back to health. The road was challenging and extreme, but inside myself I uncovered a surprising sense of self-esteem, value and high worth, whatever the external circumstances. I discovered feelings of control and chose new perspectives.
I am still dealing with fatigue but my inner strength and life force have returned. And I’ve discovered an ability to dance like a goddess, that I never knew I had.
When I remember that night, I see that clifftop as a wondrous turning point, even in its weighty despair. It had its gifts: my choice to stand up, my friend’s tomatoes and his extraordinary capacity to be a lighthouse in the dark.
In the community garden near my new apartment, I’ve planted a mass of culinary herbs.
And one day I'll get to Melbourne to thank Paul face-to-face as we cook together.
If this story has brought up anything for you, you can call Lifeline on 13 11 14. You can also call Headspace on 1800 650 890 or the Kids Helpline on 1800 551 800.
If you or someone you know is in immediate crisis, please call police and ambulance on 000.
