Here's a statistic for you: by the time you finish reading this, at least two people in the world will have lost their lives to suicide. According to the World Health Organization 800,000 people die every year. One every 40 seconds. Here's another statistic: in the USA alone, 64% of people who attempt suicide will have seen their Doctor in the last month of their life and 38% will have seen them on the same week as their attempt. Tentative scrambles for help will have occurred and for many, that help won't come. Too little, too late.

It begins with a tiny grey cloud in the distance. The promise of a storm that is so far away, it's not worth thinking about.

That's the staggering sneakiness of depression. It approaches so slowly that you don't know there's a problem until it's a terrifying situation. It begins with a tiny grey cloud in the distance. The promise of a storm that is so far away, it's not worth thinking about. Years can pass and then the presence of the little cloud becomes so familiar that you forget what a clear sky looks like. Eventually that cloud comes closer; it gets larger; it gets darker; thunder erupts from the skies and rain begins to pour. Suddenly, you're drenched. You don't recall the steady progress of that little cloud.

How dry can you get with a hair dryer while you stand in a storm? Recovery isn't quick or easy. Finding the umbrella for the cloud can take a while. For some it's a small tablet, for some it's a bigger tablet, for some it's a week of therapy, for some it's a year of therapy, and for some it's a long combination of trial and error.

Sometimes you have to completely overhaul of your life. Your clothes could be so drenched that you need a whole new wardrobe. You'll definitely have to acquire that umbrella. For some, that overhaul will feel impossible and the cold will seep into their bones.

For some, that overhaul will feel impossible and the cold will seep into their bones.

That's suicide. That's what has happened to those people I mentioned while you were reading this.

For a while that was me: I couldn’t find my umbrella. People around me whipped out hair dryers, but I remained damp. Every day brought a new storm, but I decided if I couldn’t fix my old umbrella, then I was going to have to find some sort of hiding place. A cave, perhaps.

My quest for sanctuary began amongst a pile of stationary because, truly, who doesn’t love a fresh notebook? With words on a page I began to pile up little stones; a poem added a roof; a short story added some windows; ideas for all the novels I would love to write helped me acquire some heaters. Typing away at my laptop, I fixed myself up a blog and those two posts a week kept my clothes dry.

Over time my umbrella, though battered, was no longer the only tool I had to keep me away from the storm. My wardrobe was kitted out with sketchbooks, fancy coloured pencils, and more stationary than is socially acceptable. All that equipment is helping to build a very secure house where I can hide from the storm while I repair that umbrella. That house is worth everything to me.

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