The First Time I Asked For Help
By: Henry Foster
Tags: Schools, Mental Health Awareness, Mental Illness, Mental Health

I’d moved schools at a strange time, at the start of Year 10. It was a move that took me from a comprehensive right next to my house, to a grammar school in the adjacent town. The old school hadn’t felt right for a long time, I didn’t fit in and although I had some friends there, I was lonely. The move came about through the 14+, and I took some tests, and eventually, it was agreed.

The new school involved lots of exciting new things; a proper canteen with proper school meals, a more modern campus, the prospect of potentially finding a group of people with whom I might have things in common. The other major change was that now I had to get a train, an 8-minute ride through the fields, parallel to the road, which deposited us below a bridge. It was then a quick walk up and across the bridge, through the car park, and then into the school.

Whilst the move was, in all, a positive, I was justifiably rather nervous about being thrust into a group of students who’d known each other for years, had formed their friendships, and were now rightly focused on their upcoming GCSEs. The idea that I might not be liked was massively salient for me. I remember distinctly the first day there, in my oversized new blazer (a first for me; jumpers and polos were the previous norm), nervously wandering around. The awkward moment where I had to introduce myself to the teachers, and find a seat. In my first Chemistry class, I was sat right in front of the teacher, on a stool, with my dark wooden desk in front of me. I recall looking behind me and overhearing a whispered ‘Here’s the new boy’, and being terrified of making the wrong impression. One teacher responded to my standard ‘Hi, I’m new’, with ‘Hi new, welcome to French’. (That particular teacher became one with whom I had one of my stronger bonds with at school, letting me sit in their classroom and talk when I needed to.)

The lesson which I loved the most was English. Our teacher was a young, small woman, who, looking back, mustn’t have been older than 25 at the time. She wore the most incredible outfits, which I presume she made herself, because they were so coordinated with her shoes and her headbands or little hats. The shoes themselves were extraordinary, tall heels most of the time in bright colours, with pom poms or some other form of decorations on the front. She would clip clop around the classroom, and peer over you, her necklaces dangling down over your desk. And she was funny — of course I can’t speak for everyone in that class, but I certainly felt as comfortable and happy in that class as I did at any point during my school years. And I think it was because of this atmosphere of comfort and happiness that she was the first person I felt comfortable talking to.

The conversation itself wasn’t particularly remarkable or special, and it didn’t feel like the huge relief that I might have expected it to have been. The cloud didn’t lift, and I didn’t see the hopeful light that such disclosures are sometimes ‘supposed’ to elicit. But it was a first step.

‘Miss, who do you talk to about how you’re feeling?’

It was after an English lesson, and everyone else had left. I stood up, and had sat on my desk whilst she was packing up her things before a break in the day.

‘Well, you could talk to anyone here if you felt like you could. You could talk to your form tutor, or you could talk to me. Is there anything you wanted to talk about?’

(Big inhalation of breath) — ‘It’s just that, this morning, I was walking over the bridge, and I… I felt as if I wanted to jump off.’

I couldn’t then, and can’t now, explain what had led me to feel that way. But I do remember the feeling of walking to school, of stopping, looking over the edge onto the railway tracks underneath, and wanting to climb over the bridge. I understand more now that these thoughts of harm are more common than people think, and that the likelihood of me acting on these thoughts was probably quite small. But the thought of it had scared me; I hadn’t felt this before, and the sudden appearance of a suicidal impulse had been shocking. Despite the shock though, I felt calm, and I think I appeared calm too, which might have added to the concern that my teachers had.

I was asked to stay in the classroom, and then my Head of Year appeared. He was a tall, fit man, a classic PE teacher, forever in shorts. I remember his disappointment when he realised his new charge wasn’t going to be in the rugby team, or be much of a sportsman generally. He was always in a bit of a hurry, always seemingly rushing between appointments. I’m one of those boys for whom connecting with other boys has always been a bit of a struggle. My closest friends had always been girls, and I’d found female teachers to be much easier to connect with than male ones. But Sir had experience of dealing with students with mental health issues, mostly (to my knowledge), girls, who’d later become a good support to me. And whilst he wasn’t perfect, he knew what to do.

I was taken to Student Support, which was at that time housed in the converted Caretaker’s house across a car park. Its inconspicuous location meant that any student that needed to go there for an appointment or for help had to take this strange sort of walk of shame past the performing arts building and the tennis courts, which made us all feel quite uncomfortable. Since then, it’s been moved, thank goodness. And that’s when the head of student support, an auburn-haired lady behind a desk, made the comparison between what I’d just disclosed, and a terrorist incident.

I’d like to think that armed police would have more thorough protocols for dealing with a bomb than schools have for dealing with unwell students. I couldn’t be analysed instantly to discover if I was a real threat or a hoax, and then dealt with accordingly. I couldn’t be sniffed by an overeager King Charles spaniel. I couldn’t be carefully handled by an Army Bomb Squad and taken to a field somewhere and be exploded in a controlled manner. I wish I could. I wish it was as easy as dealing with a bomb.

Unfortunately, that day was only the first step. The first step on a path that I’m still on, and one that I’ll likely be on for my whole life. But the important part is that the step was taken.

And that for all the false starts and waiting that was to come, help was on the way.