Jonny Benjamin - The Stranger on the Bridge: My Journey from Despair to Hope

For

All my family, friends, and everybody who has shown me so much love and support in every step of my journey. I wouldnt be where I am today without you.

Neil, for stopping that day and giving me the hope I needed to carry on living. And for later meeting me again and joining this adventure we are now on together!

Mum and Dad, who together have been my rock. Thank you for never giving up on me even when I had given up on myself. Please dont blame yourselves for a single thing that happened to me. But instead take heart that your love kept me alive through so many of my darkest hours, and beyond.

And for all of those who think they are unable to overcome their difficulties, I hope this book will instil a seed of hope in you, like the one Neil gave to me when I most needed it.

The Edge of Waterloo Bridge

Standing on the edge of Waterloo Bridge,

With a cold wind cutting my face,

I glance down to the Thames far below,

It ebbs and flows, a sea of waste.

I hold tight to an iron bar behind me,

Fix my gaze on the hands of Big Ben,

Behind me the busy morning commute,

As chimes strike a quarter to ten.

From here heaven feels so close,

My madness dosed with urge,

London sits majestic in its sphere,

As my feet inch off the verge.

Then, abruptly, a voice behind me

Hi there, my name is Mike.

I pretend not to hear but he carries on,

Whatever it is, it isnt worth your life.

Mute, I turn to meet the face

Of a man barely older than myself.

Smiling gently, he says with sincerity,

You will get through this mate, I can help.

Mikes voice is calm, mine sounds so weak,

As I speak, I begin to cry:

I dont know what Im doing any more.

I was so certain I wanted to die.

But as we converse, me and my Mike,

This need is starting to lessen.

His words of hope give me reassurance,

Lift the fog of my depression.

Heavy rain is beginning to fall.

We could go for a coffee, he suggests, talk it over?

Mike holds out a hand,

Takes a careful step closer.

I take his hand, he grasps mine tight,

Youll learn how to cope,

He says as I climb to safety,

Around me he places his coat.

Three police from behind us charge:

Are You Hurt? Whats Your Name?

Afraid, I turn and attempt to run;

To the ground I am quickly restrained.

An ambulance arrives into which I am led,

Mike gradually fades from sight.

Dazed by the faces surrounding me,

My vision bleaches to white.

When I awake, I find myself here,

Sectioned on a psychiatric ward.

Finally, I gain a sense so long been removed;

My faith in life, thanks to Mike, is restored.

Jonny Benjamin,

Pill After Pill: Poems from a Schizophrenic Mind

Contents

On the Bridge

Sunday 13 January 2008

I cant stay in this place.

But I cant stay at home. Im just going insane.

Why cant they just declare me insane? Thats what I am.

G-d, why on earth did you put me here? My mind wont be still. Why give me this brain? This pained and agitated brain? Im back at square one, in the mess I came in.

Take out these veins of mine,

And stop the blood flow to my head,

Then maybe all the voices will go to sleep,

And I will fall into my bed.

Diary entry, 13 January 2008

On a gloomy, drizzly winter morning in January 2008, I found myself standing on the edge of Waterloo Bridge, determined to end my life. I had hatched a detailed plan the night before and travelled to the busy commuter bridge at the first opportunity. It was a mind-numbingly normal hospital morning: woken up at 7 for meds. Saw psychiatrist at 7.30. Breakfast at 8. Straight afterwards, I told the nurse on duty that I, a non-smoker, needed to go outside for a cigarette. As soon as she let me out of the secure door into the grounds, I ran as fast as I could to the station and jumped on the first train up to London. And then headed to Waterloo Bridge.

Most of my memories of that day are hazy. Many have been pieced together years later. But what I remember most is the overwhelming, desperate need to find peace, and my conviction that the bridge was my only way out. Anything to stop that pain, a pain so intense and unbearable that it left no room for any thoughts beyond the need to end it. Somewhere through the thick fog of my despair, I remember thinking that I didnt want my family to feel guilty. But equally, I didnt want to admit to anyone how I was really feeling, or to see their faces and their reactions when I told them that I didnt want to live any more.

Even though it was a bitterly cold day, I was wearing only a T-shirt and jeans. For some reason, Id torn out some pages from my diary and wrapped them up in my hoodie, which I then discarded in a public bin. Ill never know exactly what was in those pages, but I clearly didnt want anyone to see them. Im fairly certain Id written about my sexuality. I was desperate to end my life with everyone believing I was heterosexual because, amongst all my other problems, I was too ashamed to reveal that I was gay.

On any given day, tens of thousands of people cross Waterloo Bridge, a major artery connecting Londons bustling West End with the South Bank. Even if I had known this statistic, it would have meant nothing to me on that dark, freezing January morning. As I walked to the middle of the bridge, stepped over the barrier and stood on the edge, I was oblivious to the stream of commuters walking past me. And in turn, the commuters were seemingly oblivious to the man teetering on the edge all except for one.

Why are you sitting on the bridge? A male voice. I hadnt seen him coming up behind me.

I told him straight away that I was going to jump. And to go away:

Dont come so close.

I said this over and over again, not really listening to what he was saying, until he asked me where I was from. It turned out that wed grown up in the same area of northwest London, and for some reason this made me feel more comfortable talking to him. He started telling me more about himself; he said that he worked as a personal trainer in Covent Garden. He told me not to feel embarrassed about what I was going through, and this gave me permission to begin to open up. He also said he would cancel his clients for the morning and instead we could go somewhere and talk. I was so touched by this that I confided in him that I had run away from hospital that morning, after having been diagnosed with schizophrenia the month before.

When I told him how I was feeling that until then I hadnt realized I was ill, that Id thought everyone heard voices in their heads, that I had come to the conclusion that I was possessed by the devil it was the first time Id ever opened up so frankly. Somehow I felt safe with this stranger. There was no judgement there. Just compassion.

The turning point came when he said to me, gently but directly: I really believe youre going to get better, mate.

Having this complete stranger put some faith in me, at a point when I had absolutely none left in myself, changed my mind about what I was about to do. Someone believed in me. It restored my trust in humanity.

The last thing I remember the stranger saying was, Lets go for a coffee then, as I asked him to help me back over the railings to the pavement. Then suddenly we were intercepted by the police who had been waiting behind me on the bridge in their car, with an ambulance behind them. As soon as I saw them coming towards me, I tried to scramble back over the railings. I didnt want to go with them; I wanted to be with the stranger. Id felt safe with him. He grabbed me just in time, but then the police stepped in. Ignoring my extreme distress, they handcuffed me and put me in the back of their car. Eventually I was moved into the ambulance and driven to St Thomas Hospital, where I was sectioned.