I Went to A&E After Trying to Take My Own Life—Here’s Why Andy Burnham's New Mental Health Centres Are a Good Start But Not a Complete Solution

Editor's Note: This article contains personal accounts of mental health issues and a suicide attempt. If you or someone you know is affected by any of the issues raised in this story, call CALM’s suicide prevention helpline, open daily from 5pm to midnight, or find support via its free CALMzone app. If you’re worried about someone, CALM also offers tools to help you check in, plus a conversation coach to help you navigate difficult conversations.

I woke up, disappointment flooding me after realising I was still here, followed by a small, shaky sigh of relief. I crawled out of bed and debated going into school as normal: a mock drama A-Level looming. But, growing concerned about the impact what I’d taken could have on my system, I got up, found my mum and told her.

My mum, a nurse, barely said anything. Anger, confusion and disappointment flitted across her face before she picked up the car keys and drove me to A&E in silence. After a hushed conversation with a nurse, embarrassment slowly creeping into my cheeks, I was shown to the kids’ ward. At 17, I was legally still a child. My mum and I sat alone on a low, squidgy foam bench in a painted room adorned with flowers and animal pictures. I felt like I’d been put in Teletubby jail. When the nurse came to take my bloods, the needle was tiny, and the plaster left behind bore a teddy bear. I was put on fluids to flush my system, no words exchanged, and sent away.

My mum drove me into school. I walked into the drama rehearsal late but carried on with my day. A CAMHS (Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services) appointment followed in the weeks after — a checklist system culminating in the question: “Are you going to do it again?” I swiftly answered no. Honestly? I was thinking that if I did try again, I wouldn’t risk this rigmarole a second time. No one even seemed relieved my attempt hadn’t gone the way I’d planned. Embarrassed, feeling like an inconvenience, I felt more alone than ever.

Andy Burnham’s £343 million investment isn’t just the 100 new community mental health centres many reports have focused on. It’s also 59 dedicated mental health emergency departments, giving people in crisis specialist care in a place designed for them. “A busy, bright-lit NHS A&E in the middle of a suicidal crisis can be brutal,” notes Simon Gunning, CEO of suicide prevention charity Campaign Against Living Miserably (CALM). These new spaces sound exactly like what I needed. But support that doesn’t feel genuinely caring can be just as soul-destroying in a nicer building — is expanding access enough if the experience of care still leaves people feeling unheard, ashamed and unsupported?

Psychotherapist and Counselling Directory member Jessica Haynes and CALM Director of Services Wendy Robinson are united in their views on what people in crisis need immediately. They recommend one consistent staff member, a safe and quiet place, a feeling of being heard without judgement, a “clear next step”, help finding the right sources of support and not being left to navigate services alone. I don’t know if my mum being there — and being a nurse — changed the approach. If it did, it shouldn’t have, particularly given our turbulent relationship was a factor that weighed on my mental health. Either way, I certainly didn’t receive this nuance of support. And this set the tone for my aftercare too.

Haynes says that because crisis teams are “understaffed and underfunded”, it’s usually left to the community mental health team and NHS therapy services to focus on recovery. “The crisis teams are full of wonderful people who are trained to help with and assess risk — but they can only do as much as the system allows,” adds Haynes.

After A&E and CAMHS, I was sent to the school’s therapist every week. In the first session, she sat me in front of a blank piece of paper and some pens, and said nothing. Five minutes later, I splattered the page with hot tears. I felt stifled. I’ve seen eight therapists across my life; a mixture of private and free. Six out of eight made me feel worse, not better. Simply more misunderstood and more unheard. In the UK, “therapist” is not a protected title and training can differ vastly. Voluntary regulatory bodies exist, and the NHS has “stricter requirements”, but Haynes — who has NHS, Papyrus and HOPELINEUK training — says: “We need better training and a better evidence base for understanding how to respond and support these situations in general.”

What could make new mental health centres genuinely transformative? “If funding wasn’t a question, I’d prioritise staff training, support and minimising caseloads — burnt-out staff often leads to an impact on those they’re supporting,” Haynes says. This is echoed by Robinson, who adds: “It’s vital that those expected to run these new services are given suitable training and that they are staffed adequately to meet the demand we know there will ultimately be.”

In the NHS specifically, Haynes points to “huge understaffing” and “underfunding”, which make it hard for staff to take the time to listen without rushing. “The suing culture also makes people wary of deviating from strict, clinical (and often cold) questions in case something happens and they end up in coroner’s court.”

Since my last — and hopefully final — attempt, I’ve worked hard and been lucky. I got into a university which gave me space from factors negatively impacting my mental wellbeing. I found a therapist who, as Burnham hopes for the centres, offered the “right support” at the “right time”. I’ve learnt how to manage my highs and lows far more steadily. How did I get here? Hard work, but mostly luck — extreme luck, too, that the attempt didn’t go the way I’d planned.

I’ve realised it’s not that I didn’t want to live; I just didn’t want to keep living the life I was. I know now that every new day offers the possibility of change, and even if I don't feel it at the time, I can never rule out experiencing happiness again. As Haynes notes: “There is nothing urgent that says that you need to die right now. I'm sure it feels that way — but dying right now is a pretty big deal (no matter how it feels) and nobody can take this emergency exit away from you, so why not keep it in reserve and see if you can try just one more thing to help yourself (or let someone help you) first?”

I’m clinging onto this hope when it comes to Burnham’s plan. Robinson says it’s “a really great start” that the mental health sector has been desperately calling for, but it’s just that — a start. The £343 million is amazing, but not enough. Gunning notes that mental health accounts for 20% of the UK's total disease burden, yet receives less than 9% of NHS spending, and no amount of money guarantees improvement either.

Burnham's 59 emergency departments and 100 centres offer the infrastructure, but it's what happens behind closed doors that matters most: proper staffing, capping caseloads and giving professionals the nuanced training and time it takes to help people not just survive a crisis, but carry on; to not only live after, but, as Burnham says, to “live well”.

I don’t blame the mental health professionals or my mum. I know how despairingly helpless it feels to love someone but feel unable to help patch them back together again. But to say something is always better than saying nothing. Often, words aren’t even necessary. Acknowledging someone’s pain, offering to listen or simply holding them gives them more than enough of a thread of hope to cling onto — to pull through one more dark day. I would know; I’ve not only learnt how to better survive them, but how to wake up each day without disappointment, but instead, gratitude to be alive.

If you’re struggling, call CALM’s suicide prevention helpline, open daily from 5pm to midnight, or find support via its free CALMzone app. If you’re worried about someone, CALM also offers tools to help you check in, plus a conversation coach to help you navigate difficult conversations.