They weren’t always the best of influence. One evening, they were all drinking in a carpark, when James walked by. He pretended he hadn’t seen them, but Matthew shouted at him, and Tina called the police to arrest them. The incident caused a huge rift between father and son. I was angry with Matthew, but sad, too. All he ever wanted was to be accepted and loved by his father.
I gave him hell over the drinking, and Matthew promised it wouldn’t happen again. And when, on a midweek evening, he asked if he could go to his friend, Jordan’s house, and play on his X box, I didn’t see any harm in it, and agreed. How was I to know that it was the lad’s mother’s 30th birthday, and that she would buy her son a bottle of vodka? Or that they would drink it, then wander, drunk, around the estate?
Who would have guessed that they would end up in someone’s garage or that they would ‘lift’ a rucksack full of crisps and chocolate? They almost got away with it. They were back at Jordan’s house, finishing that game on the X Box, when the police caught up with them, arresting them for breaking into the garage.
Something broke in Matthew after that, and he started leaving school early and experimenting with cannabis. With this addiction came the costs. From then on, he was in and out of court time and time again for shoplifting, mostly when he was off his head and needing munchies. He never even remembered what he had done.
There wasn’t any badness in Matthew. The problem was that he wanted to please people. He was loved by everybody, and, particularly after being bullied, he wanted it to stay that way. He did all kinds of good deeds. He painted his nana’s house, helped with my shopping, cooked for me, and told constant jokes to keep me amused.
The problem was, that he didn’t always differentiate the things that were helpful, and those that were damaging. If one of his friends said, ‘Smoke a joint,’ or ‘play a game of football,’ he would.
And of course, once he got used to that illegal high – mainly from cannabis – he needed money to fund his habit. And from the ages of 13 to 15, he was in and out of court. His reputation in the town was well known, and as a consequence, everybody knew me too.
Worried though I was, for Matthew, I was pleased when he attended court. He had to know his actions carried consequences. And when, one time, he was in court for an offence carried out around alcohol, whilst his friend and co-conspirator was given a small fine, Matthew was remanded at Woodlands. I was not pleased. I was starting to see that the justice system, which I had always assumed was fair, was far from it. It seemed that it was a performance, and whoever put on the best show won. What sort of a message was that for a lad in trouble?
I was starting to see inequalities in how people are treated. I often wondered would it make a difference if the judge sitting there, dishing out sentences, knew that the young boy in front of him was the same young boy he had protected all those years before from his violent father?
By this time, my current partner, Terry had entered my life. We met in 2009,
when Matthew was 15, and he proved a good influence on my son. Altogether, life seemed to be settling down, but then another complication entered Matthew’s life, in the form of a girl called Shanice.
When I first saw Shanice, in 2010, I could understand, at once, what Matthew saw in her. At 17, she was older than he was, and she was beautiful. She was slim, with a sheath of shiny blonde hair, and she looked after herself. I never saw her without makeup, and she was always well groomed.
Matthew had another girlfriend at the time, and she said she had a boyfriend, so, at first, I saw no harm in the friendship, but when, a few months later, Matthew told me the two of them were now an item, I was worried. But Shanice seemed to be a good influence. Done with partying, she had moved out of her troubled home to live with her grandmother; and now seemed happy to be at home watching DVD’s. I relaxed, happy that he had found her. They became inseparable, and all Matthew wanted was to stay home with Shanice. Off the streets, he was safe and would keep out of trouble. I decided she was an angel!
‘I love Shanice,’ said Annie Jean, and the older girl was the perfect big sister, painting Annie-Jean’s nails for her, and helping Natasha do her hair. She was the perfect surrogate daughter too. Not to mention the perfect girlfriend for Matthew. I couldn’t have been happier.
In the end, the age gap proved a problem. Three years mightn’t seem much, but there was a yawning difference between 15 and 18 – not to mention in Matthew and Shanice’s experience. Shanice worked, in the play area of Adventure Island, on shifts, and so she had money, whereas Matthew, very often didn’t.
‘Do you realise Matthew only has pocket money, and sometimes not even that?’ I asked her once.
More serious than that, though, Shanice wanted a baby. Her sister became pregnant at 16, to a boy a year younger, and Shanice felt left out. I had a word with her, saying that a baby would disrupt both her and Matthew’s future – that they were too young, but she didn’t listen. And when, in January, in the same week that I discovered that I was pregnant, with my partner Terry’s baby, she announced that she was pregnant too.
Shanice was excited – and pictured herself moving in with me. I told her that was impossible, and that she would have to sort herself out, and continue to live with her granny, and she accepted that. But a week before her nephew was born, Shanice suffered a miscarriage. And following that, and the birth of my baby, Daniel, on 25th June, her relationship with Matthew deteriorated. They had terrible, vicious rows.
Matthew was thrilled when his dad asked him to his 40th birthday party, and Shanice tagged along with him. But she ignored Matthew and spent the night flirting with his cousin, Stuart. Their relationship went from bad to worse; Matthew was finding it hard to cope with her, and in the end, I barred her from the house.
In September 2011, Matthew had started at the Oriel Training, hoping to become a chef like my brother, Richard. His placement was in the Dunadry Hotel. Shortly after starting there, he met another girl, Bronagh, and they started going out together. I was pleased. Things were looking up for Matthew; he was behaving like a normal 16-year-old.
I relaxed for a while, happy that Shanice was out of the picture, but that scenario wasn’t to last. Shanice accused Matthew of rape – a charge he strenuously denied – but he was dragged through the courts causing him extreme distress, before, finally, Shanice admitted that it wasn’t true. In October 2011, she went into the Antrim police station to withdraw the charges against him.
He expected his ongoing legal case to be resolved, but the PPS said they still wanted to proceed, and by November, he was back in court. The case dragged on. It was changed to the County Court, and there were several adjournments before it was finally dismissed, the following May. By this stage Matthew’s mental health had deteriorated, and his relationship with Bronagh had cooled.
‘We’re two different people, with different interests,’ he told me. ‘We’ve agreed to go our separate ways.’
When the PSNI asked me If I wanted to prosecute Shanice for having sex with an underage boy, I was aghast. She needed support, not a police record. And you would think that enough time had already been wasted on the case, what with all the toing and froing. Wasn’t it all a waste of taxpayer’s money? I was struck, once again, by the inadequacies of a legal system which fails to provide justice for everyone.
But why had she lied? Later, it transpired that she wanted money so that she and Matthew could buy a house. She’d reasoned that if Matthew pleaded guilty, she could get compensation, and that my insurance would pay. Hadn’t she realised the possible consequences of such foolishness?
The main consequence had been the level of Matthew’s distress. He loved Shanice and could not understand why she seemed set to destroy him. Every time a solicitor’s letter arrived, or Matthew had to visit the police station, his level of self-harm would increase. I watched with horror and bemusement. It’s hard to observe your son’s terror with the criminal justice system, particularly when he is so in love, he would ris
k anything to please his girlfriend. When I read the research showing that first love can be a powerful addiction, I could only nod my head in recognition. No question, Matthew was addicted to Shanice.
4
Nearing the End
When, in January 2012, taking some clean clothes into Matthew’s room, I found him with my dressing-gown cord round his neck, I was profoundly shocked. What mother wouldn’t be? Yet part of me understood that the strain of the court case, hanging over him like a dead weight had become simply too much to bear.
When, some while later, he attempted an overdose I knew I had to intervene. I fixed for an emergency appointment with doctors. He told the doctor that he was unable to sleep, and in fact hadn’t slept for some time. The doctor asked how he could help, and Matthew said, ‘Give me a lethal injection so I can die.’
Was it my fault? Had I not supported him enough? I tried to dismiss that thought and went all out to help him. I knew the drill through my job in youth work. I’ve completed ASIST Training and MHFA Training, so I knew what to do in the situation. And yet, I began to doubt myself.
But if I doubted myself, I couldn’t fault Terry. He also worked in the Youth Service, and he was especially helpful. His job, at that time, was working in a project supporting young men with mental health problems. We both had a good understanding of how to signpost and help marginalised and ‘at risk,’ young people.
The skills needed to connect and engage with young people and adults, was helpful when it came to deal with our families. Matthew confided in me, always, and I challenged, educated and supported him the best way I could; both as a mother, and by seeking other services when necessary.
It’s partly my training; partly my personality. Once, when I was shopping in Primark, minding my own business, a stranger approached me and related her whole life story. And that’s not the only time it’s happened; people randomly confide in me. They perhaps sense that I’m approachable. I care, and I will listen.
I remember the first time that Matthew took tablets – enough to give him a sore head – not, thankfully enough to kill himself, he told me how disappointed he had been to wake up and find himself alive. When Terry came back from work, I asked Matthew to repeat what he had said to me. ‘Tell Terry why you’re not feeling well,’ I said.
‘I took an overdose,’ said Matthew.
Terry asked why. He listened, as Matthew listed his woes. Then he sighed. Sitting on the sofa, asking Matthew to sit down beside him, he said, ‘I’ve had a pretty bad day at work today. I’ve come from a community that is devastated. Do you want to know why?’
Matthew grunted in reply.
‘A young boy has taken his own life.’
Matthew shrugged. ‘Sure, everyone will be sad for a week or two. But they’ll get over it. It’ll be alright.’
Looking Matthew in the eye, Terry asked him how long it had been since he’d fallen out with his former girlfriend, Shanice.
‘A year I suppose. Well, off and on.’
‘Are you still missing her?’
Matthew nodded.
‘Well, how do you think your mum would feel if something happened to you. Her son?’
He looked at me. Then he looked away. Had he taken that in? Or did he still believe that my life would continue as before.
Grateful as I was to Terry, I didn’t feel entirely reassured. I couldn’t just leave it at that. I decided to talk to Matthew’s friends about the attempt.
‘Oh Ma!’ said Matthew, when I mentioned what I planned. But he didn’t say I shouldn’t tell them. I think, deep down, that he wanted them to know.
They listened but had trouble believing me.
‘Matthew?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But he’s always happy. He’s the life and soul.’
And maybe that was the problem. He didn’t show his feelings. Not to them.
I told his father, James, too. I wasn’t leaving anything to chance. I said, ‘Matthew’s not feeling too good.’ And he popped around occasionally, threw him a packet of cigarettes, and left, muttering, ‘I love you, son.’
We made the house safe, hiding tablets. My mother took out a gym membership for Matthew. He was enthusiastic, taking his fitness seriously. He was constantly out with his friends. But there were times, when something happened, or the court case threatened to blow, that he would flip into uncontrollable anger and rage – rage that he targeted at himself and would cause self-harm. He would cut himself or bang his head off the walls. He would have a joint in order to dull the pain, but it only made his mood worse. I lived in dread of those very worst times, when he made those attempts to take his life. It was like living on a knife edge.
Five months before Matthew died, I persuaded him to go to CAMHS – The Child and Adolescent Mental Health Service. He had been referred to them on several previous occasions, and if anyone could help him, I thought, they could. But they let us down. They let Matthew down. Lying there, that night, remembering how they had responded to him, I inwardly seethed.
Matthew hadn’t wanted to go. He hated anything to do with the mental health services. I pleaded with him, and then, feeling frightened, I started to cry in despair. ‘I’m frightened Matthew’, I said. ‘I need help in order to help you, and if you want to live, you need help. Don’t you see?’ I became hysterical. ‘The way you’re feeling, Matthew, it’s just not right.’
Finally, Matthew agreed. He would accompany me there. ‘But only to keep you quiet,’ he said, raising his eyebrows.
I sighed my relief and led him out to the car. We were both quiet in the waiting room, but I was full of hope. Surely Matthew would now receive the help he so badly needed? We were called in.
There were three people waiting for us, in that room; a psychiatrist, a counsellor and a social worker. They asked Matthew how he was, and he told the truth. He talked of his low mood and admitted to self-harm. Then he looked at me for support, and when I related everything that had happened at home. Matthew nodded his agreement.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s like my ma says. I get frustrated with things. I can’t help getting angry.’
‘And what happens then?’
He repeated that he cut himself. ‘Or I throw things. Or hit my head off the wall. I do try,’ he said. ‘I want to put things right, but something always happens. Something I can’t control.’ He shrugged. ‘Life’s just not worth living.’
I took over again then, explaining all that happened, about Shanice, about the court case, and of his precarious relationship with his father. The psychiatrist was busy scribbling notes – notes I later requested.
‘April took 2 strips of anti-depressants. Planned, disappointed wasn’t successful’
‘pulled dressing gown cord around his neck – mum couldn’t release it’
‘cut himself with knife on neck and arm’
‘don’t care about anything in general’
‘don’t think about nothing’
‘unclear what would help’
‘agreed mum’s description is correct’
‘mum worried about mood’
‘Matthew at GP when asked what would help, he responded, ‘lethal injection’
Surely, that list should show them that my concerns for Matthew were justified. That, having tried to end his life, he would, eventually be successful?
I waited for them to take action, as my GP had inferred that they would. Perhaps they would admit him to a psychiatric unit for counselling; or failing that, put him on anti-depressant medication. They didn’t. Instead, prescribing Melatonin to help him sleep, they stated that he had no significant mental health issues, and they discharged him from the service.
I couldn’t believe it. That decision gave Matthew the impression that his behaviour was completely normal; that all teenagers went through similar issues, and, after all my efforts to get him there, that was the last thing we needed. Matthew hated the term, ‘mental health,’ and not wanting the stigma attached to himself, had missed
appointments in the past. It had taken all my power to get him to this appointment; and it was if they were agreeing with him. I protested. I said again that I felt he was in danger, but they wouldn’t listen.
‘You’re a youth worker,’ they said as we got up to leave. ‘I suggest you put him on an anger management programme. You have more resources to help your son than we do.’ Those words have haunted me.
Did they not realise that it takes an outsider to sort these things out? Leaving, I felt frustrated. I had done my best to keep Matthew safe, but I hadn’t been heard. I knew they had done wrong by us. They didn’t do what they needed to or what their webpage or leaflets said they would do ‘offer support and help to those self-harming or attempting suicide’.
I wanted to challenge them further. I wish now that I had. Why did I not make a complaint, and take Matthew somewhere else? I had phoned Lifeline who told me I was doing all the right things and to give their number to Matthew should he wish to speak to someone. I took him to the GP where he asked for a lethal injection. Did I fail him by not taking him somewhere else like Zest, or Action Mental Health?
Climbing into the car that day, Matthew turned to me and said, ‘I told you I was ok.’
Smiling, grimly, I didn’t know how to answer.
I relayed all this to Terry. ‘They normalised his behaviour,’ I said. ‘They didn’t acknowledge that it was unsafe, and that Matthew, and I, desperately need help.’ I sighed. ‘They seemed to be implying that Matthew would get better in time, and the trouble is, he seems to believe it too.’
Terry stared at me in disbelief. ‘And, obviously, you don’t agree?’
‘Well, no. How can he improve if CAMHS aren’t prepared to give him intervention?’
Forever Young: A mother's story of life after suicide Page 4
