In the depths of a cold January night in 2019, a knock on the door shattered the tranquility of my home. As I opened it, a somber police officer stood before me, a question hanging in the air that would forever alter the course of our lives: “Does Jesse live here?”
With a mix of trepidation and confusion, I confirmed that Jesse was indeed my daughter. The officer’s next words struck me like a bolt of lightning: her IP address had been traced to our house, and they were investigating a potential suicide attempt.
Panic surged through me as I raced upstairs to her bedroom. As I approached her door, I hesitated, my heart pounding with fear and anticipation. Slowly, I pushed it open, and a wave of relief washed over me as I saw her chest gently rising and falling in a peaceful slumber. She was alive. She was safe.
But as I stood there, a chilling thought crept into my mind. Had my beloved daughter, my precious angel, been so consumed by despair that she would even consider taking her own life?
The answer, to my devastation, would come later.
From the tender age of 11, Jesse had begun to withdraw, her once-bright smile replaced by a distant gaze. She confessed to me, “I’m not particularly happy. Why am I here?” Unsure how to respond, I suggested that perhaps talking to a professional could help her understand what she was going through. But she refused.
By the time Jesse was 13, she began experiencing debilitating panic attacks, triggered by the immense pressure she felt at school. She was convinced that failing her exams would irrevocably damage her future. Despite my attempts to reassure her, she remained steadfast in her belief, and my concern grew with each passing day.
At 14, I discovered that she had been self-harming. Shock and panic consumed me. How could I have missed the signs? How had I failed to protect my child?
In desperation, I begged her to seek help, but she refused. In 2018, we relocated to Scarborough, hoping for a fresh start. Jesse pursued A-Levels and media studies while working part-time at an escape room, a job she adored.
To my surprise, she confided in me that she had taken the initiative to seek professional assistance. She had visited the doctors and had been prescribed antidepressants and agreed to see a counselor. A glimmer of hope ignited within me. Finally, she was on the path to recovery.
Imagine my disbelief when, a few months later, the police informed us that Jesse had contacted Childline about suicide. Distraught, I questioned whether I should approach her about it, fearing it would worsen the situation.
Just then, my phone buzzed with a message from Jesse. “I can hear you talking. It’s 2am. What’s going on?” Knowing she was now awake, I felt compelled to address the issue. I went to her room, knelt by her bedside, and shared the conversation we had with the police.
Understandably, she was furious. She accused them of breaching her confidentiality. I tried to explain their concern for her safety, but she refused to accept their actions. “Mum, you can’t. There’s nothing you can do,” she whispered.
Desperate, I pleaded with her to reconsider, to explore other options, to give life another chance. But she insisted that her suffering was unbearable and that leaving this world was her only escape.
“Mum, you just don’t know how hard it is,” she explained. “You have no idea how, every morning when I wake up, it’s a battle. It’s exhausting just trying to breathe and carry on in life.”
I promised her that everything would get better, that all that mattered was that she was here with us. “Just please don’t go anywhere. I love you so much,” I implored.
With tears streaming down our faces, we hugged each other tightly. I kissed her goodnight and left her to sleep. Sleep eluded me that night, and I couldn’t bear to leave her side the next day. But knowing she would hate a fuss, I reluctantly went to work.
When I returned home, Jesse seemed her usual cheerful self. She was bouncing around the kitchen, full of excitement about a new recipe she was eager to try. It was such a relief to see her so happy.
Yet, the memory of our late-night conversation lingered in the back of my mind. I wanted to ask her how she was truly feeling, but I hesitated, fearing it would dampen her spirits. So, I left it.
A few hours later, as I prepared to meet a friend, Jesse convinced me to go. I gave her a tight hug, told her I loved her, and promised to be back in a couple of hours.
Upon my return, I went upstairs to check on her, and that’s when I found her.
I screamed for my husband, Simon, and together we desperately tried to revive her. Simon called 999, and I performed CPR. Her lips were blue, and a sense of overwhelming dread washed over me.
Moments later, the house was filled with paramedics and police. They worked tirelessly on Jesse in her bedroom, while we stood by, consumed by grief and despair.
The police searched her room and discovered three notes, their contents forever etched in our hearts. Jesse was taken to the hospital, where doctors continued to fight for her life.
As we walked through the A&E department, we felt like we were under a spotlight. The time spent in that private room seemed like an eternity. When the doctor finally emerged, he confirmed our worst fears.
He didn’t need to say a word; I knew.
They asked if we would like to see her one more time. We were led through, and even though her skin had taken on a strange hue, she still looked perfect to me. “She’s an angel,” I sobbed. “She was just a complete angel.”
After a while, we were given some booklets and left the hospital in a state of shock and numbness. From that moment on, my life became an endless struggle to survive each day without her.
I yearned to go back in time, to change something, anything, to prevent this tragedy from happening. But it was too late.
I searched frantically online for information, anything that could help me make sense of the trauma I was enduring. I had seen countless stories on TV and in newspapers about people who had lost loved ones to suicide, but I never truly understood the unimaginable pain they carried until it became my own.
The truth is, there is no moving on from such a profound loss. You learn to live alongside the memories and the grief that haunts you. You take things one day at a time, sometimes even one hour at a time, because every moment without your loved one is an unimaginable challenge.
I loved Jesse more than words could say, and she knew it. I did everything in my power to support her with the knowledge I had at the time. But ultimately, it wasn’t enough.
That’s why organizations like NSPCC and Childline are so vital. They provide invaluable support to young people in need, offering them a safe space to turn to when they don’t know where else to go.
Because even as a mother, I didn’t know enough. I’m certain that most parents would feel the same.
This Mental Health Awareness Week, I am sharing her story for the first time in the hope that it may prevent other families from experiencing the unimaginable pain of losing a loved one to suicide. It is crucial that we break the stigma surrounding mental health and treat it with the same seriousness as physical health. This requires a collective effort to raise awareness, provide accessible resources, and educate people, especially young people, about the importance of seeking help when they are struggling.
If Jesse had known about the services available to her sooner, she might have received the support she desperately needed. If she had known that there was light at the end of the tunnel, perhaps she would still be here today.
But I cannot dwell on the what ifs and could have beens. I must keep moving forward, honoring her memory by raising awareness and supporting organizations that are working tirelessly to prevent other families from enduring this unimaginable loss.
