Content note: this article contains references to suicide that readers may find upsetting.

When I was in university, I had aspirations of becoming a clinical psychologist. I convinced myself that I wasn’t scared of the dark – that I could handle the demands of the profession, especially the branch that deals with depression. 

Getting accepted for postgraduate programmes in psychology isn’t easy. The demand is far greater than the spaces available and so students look for anything that will give their application a competitive edge. One such ‘edge’ is volunteering in a therapeutic space. And that’s how I found myself, at 22, in training to volunteer at a suicide helpline.

The training was intensive. I was schooled in how to answer the phone (warmly, inviting the caller to share details they may otherwise withhold), how to handle the switchboard system (surprisingly complex), how to balance speaking to the caller while looking up resources that would help them in their particular circumstances (no lengthy pauses allowed). I was first assigned to listen in on other, more experienced counsellors’ shifts. Then I was granted my own.

At the beginning, I relished the opportunity to enact change. I’m saving lives, I would tell myself. Is there a higher calling than that? I felt invincible.

In writing this piece, I asked my now-husband, then-boyfriend what he remembered of my time volunteering for the helpline. “You felt like you were drowning,” he said. “You would call me, your voice shaking, after each shift.”

It happened slowly, but there are a few moments I still recall vividly.

I remember the prisoners. The helpline was toll-free and incarcerated men would capitalise on that by calling us, enjoying the sound of a young woman’s voice on the phone. We realised this because they would hang up if an elderly person or a male volunteer answered the line. I didn’t understand what was happening on the call, the first time. Heavy breathing, a whimpering voice pleading with me not to hang up. “I’m nearly finished,” said one, before I slammed the receiver down. They were frequent callers. We couldn’t reject the calls. It would go against our ethos. What if one day a prisoner called because they were feeling suicidal instead of jacking off to the sound of our voices? So we answered the calls.

I remember another call with a father. He was calling to ask for help because his son was depressed, in a funk from which he couldn’t break free. After further questioning, it became apparent that his son was depressed and anxious because of fear. He wasn’t sleeping at night. He was worried that the woman he had sexually assaulted might report him. This caring father just wanted his son to feel happy again – there was no concern about what his son had done, how he had wrecked a woman’s life. As a trained counsellor, my job was to remain polite, calm and helpful, even as I screamed with rage inside.

I remember the slurred speech on some calls. Were they drunk? Had they overdosed? Only questioning would yield clarity, and even then the questions didn’t help. If it was an overdose, I would beg for their address so that I could frantically call an ambulance to try save them. Sometimes we got an address, sometimes not.

Some calls would last hours. I’d try to communicate with the shift-relief to come in later. “I’m on a long one,” I’d say. These calls were few and far between but when they came, I could barely drive myself home afterwards. The emotional energy spent on every shift was intense, but some took me to the brink.

The worst calls by far were the ones where you thought you were getting through to someone, that they understood that things would get better, that there were resources we could connect them to that would help them find a way through. And then, suddenly, the line would disconnect. We would call back and there would be no answer. We’d try again a few minutes later. No answer. We would leave a note for the next shift to try again. No answer. When there was no answer, we completed the narrative ourselves. On a good day, I would tell myself that their phone had died but they were fine.

On a bad day, I’d imagine the body.

I started to dread my shift. My aspirations of becoming a psychologist slipped further and further away from me as I felt myself sinking into despair. The helpline offered debriefing – a psychologist to help us process what we were dealing with. I was a fool not to use the service but I was worried that it would come across as weakness, that it would hurt my chances of being accepted for the psychology programme. “Too weak,” I imagined my letter saying. “She needed therapy.” 

As someone who is now in regular therapy, I understand how wrong that perception was. I also understand how dangerous it was to be providing counsel on a suicide helpline at a time when I was struggling with my own mental health. On one of my darkest days, I remember calling the helpline myself. I hung up when I heard a familiar voice.

I turned away from the path of psychology. I reasoned that if I couldn’t tolerate losing a stranger on the phone, I would never handle losing a client I’ve built a therapeutic relationship with over years.

Suicide helplines do vital work. They deserve more funding, more volunteers, more everything because they truly do so much for mental health. I have endless respect for volunteers who can handle the dark, shining a light to help those stumbling through their own darkness. I couldn’t keep it up. Now, I help safely from the sidelines in the form of donations. And sometimes, I write about it.

If you or someone you know is struggling with their mental health, you can find support and resources on the mental health charity Mind’s website and NHS Every Mind Matters or access the NHS’ list of mental health helplines and services.

If you are struggling with your mental health, you can also ask your GP for a referral to NHS Talking Therapies, or you can self-refer.

For confidential support, you can also call the Samaritans in the UK on 116 123 or email jo@samaritans.org. In a crisis, call 999.

Frame Of Mind is Stylist’s home for all things mental health and the mind. From expert advice on the small changes you can make to improve your wellbeing to first-person essays and features on topics ranging from autism to antidepressants, we’ll be exploring mental health in all its forms. You can check out the series home page to get started.

Images: Getty; Stylist