The biggest ever review of mental health provision in the UK has concluded that seventy-five percent of the people with mental health problems have been failed by the National Health Service due to lack of funding and an emphasis on physical illness at the expense of mental illness. Even the prime minister agrees that something needs to be done and there is talk of extra money being made available.
They should save their money and let us die. In fact, they should spend any money they have got on helping us to die without all the blood and guts and inconveniencing of the public that jumping off the Tyne Bridge can cause. All that the psychiatrists, psychologists, therapists and mental health nurses are doing is patching us up for a life of redundant hell outside of the hospital ward.
My depression did not take my life away from me. It only took five years out of my lifespan. The tablets I take every day do a great job of keeping me sane enough to function well enough to be able to live a full and rewarding life. The problem is that I am not allowed to. I am deliberately excluded from society, directly by being excluded from meaningful employment and indirectly by being kept poor. Therefore, my life is a complete waste as far as I am concerned. I am expected to carry on with my meaningless existence for other people. I am not to kill myself because that will remind other people of how they and society have failed me and that will make them feel bad.
It was not my depression that took away my life. It was Bishop Martin Wharton of Newcastle who sacked me because he doesn’t believe a person who has suffered from depression should be a parish priest, a paedophile vicar, four archdeacons, an area dean who pretended to be my friend, another rural dean who couldn’t wait to get rid of all pastoral responsibility for me, a future archbishop of Canterbury, a bishop in the Scottish Episcopal Church who refused to help me because, in his exact words, I came with “too much baggage,” the two serving bishops of my two local dioceses who ignore my pleas for help, the archdeacons of my present diocese who will not even acknowledge my emails to them, the bishops who know about my situation, have sympathy for me but are too scared to help me get my job back and every colleague I’ve ever worked with, who did not visit me when I was ill and who have not made any contact with me since I was sacked. These people have killed me and they will all have come up with excuses as to why they completely disregarded their ordination promises and the words of their Lord and Saviour in doing so.
I have a sneaking suspicion I may not survive the season of programmes about mental health on the BBC starting today. The reminder of the lies people say and the futility of a madman’s hope, over and over again, may prove too much for me.