Like many other women, I started having to help my dad a little, then a lot, and before I knew it someone was calling me a carer
One night in early 2016, I found myself calling for an ambulance. My father had locked himself in the toilet for four hours and wasn’t responding to anyone. My brother and I listened at the door. Nothing. The person at the other end of the 999 call had a volley of questions: “Why did he choose the toilet? Does he have a weapon? Do you think he is suicidal?” I replied with don’t know, no and no. They wanted his rejection of life to be defined as an absolute, but it was far more shadowy and ambiguous.
Panicked, I called a mental health crisis helpline too, who advised me to connect with my father through the toilet door. “Speak louder, put some force into the words,” he told me, as though I was auditioning for a part. My dad did not reply. It had been hours since I had last heard his voice, fragile, fading to a whisper. My younger brother was trying his best to help. After rummaging through a toolbox, he found a screwdriver to force between door and lock. White flakes of paint flew; the door swung open; and there was my father. He was wearing his pyjamas, standing upright, his body locked into a strange, repetitive loop. His left arm would rise, jerk above his head, then his right foot would lift, and the mechanical process would begin all over again. His face was scarlet, screwed into a fist of agony.
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