Back in 2023, Riley,  who lives at Croft House, a supported living service run by SIL, which is part of Lifeways, took the bold step to share his poignant story with us.

But like everyone’s story: it’s never over. And for Riley, since then he’s been going from strength to strength.

Late last year, he kindly agreed to share his full, more detailed story with us – and also to be filmed.

Riley’s story is very personal, and painful in parts. But Riley believes that if his story can inspire just one person who is having similar struggles, it’s all been worth it.

To highlight Riley’s love for music and songwriting, we’ve woven lyrics from his original songs throughout his story.

Please note:

The following account contains descriptions of a suicide attempt and struggles with mental health, which some readers may find distressing.

If you are feeling overwhelmed, struggling with your mental health, or having thoughts of suicide, you are not alone. Please consider speaking to someone:

• Samaritans: Call 116 123 (free, 24/7) or visit samaritans.org
• Shout: Text SHOUT to 85258 for free, confidential support 24/7
• Mind: Visit mind.org.uk or call 0300 123 3393
• Papyrus (for under 35s): Call 0800 068 4141 or text 07860 039967

Please take care while reading.

 

My story, by Riley

I was 20 the night I decided it was going to end.

I’d just come out of a secure mental health hospital after a nine-month admission. I'd been sectioned, which meant I couldn’t leave, even if I wanted to. When they discharged me, it wasn’t because I was better.

It was more like they didn’t know what else to do with me. So they placed me in supported accommodation, and I was still numb, hollowed out. Hopeless.

But really, that story doesn’t start at 20. It goes way back. I was born and raised in Preston. Growing up, life wasn’t easy. My childhood was unstable and full of fear. There was a lot of trauma in my early years, but I didn’t have the words to explain what I was going through.

I just knew I felt constantly unsafe. I learned to keep my head down, stay quiet, and pretend everything was fine. I carried that into my teens, but inside, I was already breaking.

I started to really struggle with my mental health around 13. I felt things so deeply.  For weeks I would be euphoric and on top of the world. Then all of a sudden I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed.

Maybe everyone felt like that and just hid it better. But it got worse after my GCSEs. By 16, I was barely functioning. That’s when I was first sectioned. It was terrifying.

People often have no idea what being inside a mental health hospital is actually like.

I think they imagine soft walls and people rocking in corners. But the reality is much more complicated - and much more bleak.

The first time I was sectioned, I was admitted under the Mental Health Act and taken to a young person's psychiatric unit.

I didn’t understand what was happening. All I knew was I was being held somewhere against my will. It was sterile and cold.

You’re surrounded by other young people who are also struggling, some in ways you can’t imagine. Everyone's hurting, but no one really talks about it. The atmosphere is heavy, like grief in the air.

There’s a strict routine. You get woken up early. Medication is given out in the morning and evening. Meals are served at set times. You attend therapy groups, sometimes with staff who change every few weeks.

Imagine yourself in my situation:

Your privacy disappears.

Your bags are searched.

There are rules about what you can wear.

What you can bring.

What you can say.

I understand the safety side of it. But it also strips you of your sense of self.

‘My eyes are a window to my soul. It’s the only real place to see the pain that I hold and grieve for my childhood dreams. Right now, living till I'm old seems pretty extreme.’

I moved between several different hospitals over the years - some better than others. Some were overcrowded, understaffed, and chaotic. I saw restraint used on patients. I saw people have breakdowns. I had breakdowns.

I spent a lot of time just sitting on the floor in my room, feeling like nothing in the world could reach me. I was convinced I was one of the people who didn’t get better.

Doctors tried different diagnoses - depression, PTSD, eventually bipolar disorder. They tried different meds. Some of them helped a little. Others made things worse. They made me tired or jittery or numb. Sometimes, all at once.

And when nothing seemed to help, I started to believe what one doctor said to me: that I would always be unwell. That hospital would always be part of my life.

By 19, I’d had six hospital admissions. After my sixth, I ended up in a homeless hostel. It was a rough place.

I’d gone from being surrounded by nurses and locked doors to sleeping in a room with paper-thin walls and strangers shouting at night.

My mental health crumbled. I was barely holding on. I stopped trusting that help was even possible.

That’s what led to my seventh and longest admission - nine months, in four different hospitals. It was the worst, and in a strange way, also the one that changed something in me. Because I hit bottom. I didn’t think it could get any lower.

But I survived it. And that meant something, even if I didn’t know it at the time.

When I finally got discharged from that last admission, I moved into supported accommodation. That’s where I was, not long after being released, when I made my plan to die.

I waited until the staff member at the accommodation had gone to bed. I wrote letters to my family and loved ones. I was calm, too calm, looking back. I thought I’d finally figured it out: how to end the pain once and for all.

But as I left, the staff member saw me on camera and rang my phone. He asked where I was going. I said, “To the shop.” He didn’t buy it.

He said, “If you’re not back in 15 minutes, I’m calling the police.” I hung up and kept walking.

I went to a park near a bridge where I’d planned to take my life. I’d stuffed my backpack full of heavy things. My idea was jump from the top of the bridge, and the heavy backpack would help me drown.

 

‘People don't understand because it can't be seen. Never been religious or believed in a god, but now I'm down on my knees hoping that there's one - because I'm praying for a miracle. I feel so miserable.’

But when I got there, the whole bridge was fenced off. Closed. Inaccessible. That wasn’t part of the plan. I started to panic, thinking the police would be on their way. I didn’t want to be sectioned again. That was my worst fear, even more than death itself.

I sat on a bench and called him back.

I told him everything.

And then he just listened.

He didn’t rush me. He didn’t panic.

He just stayed on the phone with me.

Told me to come back. Promised we’d talk through it all.

So I walked back. And when I got there, I just broke down. Properly cried.

I told him everything: how a doctor had once said to me, “You’ll never be well. You’ll always be in and out of hospital.” And I believed that.

But that night, the staff member told me something different. He said, “That’s not true. You can get better. You deserve to get better. We’re going to fight for you. Just give it one more try.”

That one more try saved my life.

The next day, they helped me access community mental health services. And from that point on, very slowly, things started to change.

It wasn’t linear.

It wasn’t easy.

I still have dark days.

I still experience episodes.

But they’re nowhere near as bad. Or as frequent.

I’m still here. And this time, I’m finally, finally not just surviving. I’m living.

‘I know you smile but don’t mean it. You breathe, wishing you didn’t. The world seems so dark. You can’t see the beauty. You remember your fear. You believe that this is it for you now.’

I’m 24 now, and I live in supported accommodation in Preston [a supported living service run by SIL, part of Lifeways]. I love my flat. It’s the first place that’s really felt like my own.

I’ve got my bed, my wardrobe, a sofa I picked out. It’s not fancy, but it’s mine. It’s safe. It’s home.

And I’ve got Lyra, my dog. She came into my life when I was really struggling with flashbacks and nightmares. My community mental health nurse suggested getting a dog because she knew how much I loved animals.

That’s when I found Lyra. From the very first night, she made a difference. She sleeps right under my arm and helps me feel safe.

If I wake up in the night, panicking or disoriented, Lyra’s there. Just seeing her calms me. She makes me laugh every single day. She gives me purpose.

When things feel heavy, Lyra is my reason to get out of bed and keep going. She’s not just a pet. She’s part of my healing.

Music is another anchor. I’ve always loved it. I play guitar and piano, and I write and produce my own songs in a little studio I built in my flat. Last year, I wrote and recorded an album called A Beautiful Twisted Mind.

It’s a journey from the depths of mental illness, through therapy, and into recovery. I used lyrics I wrote during my darkest moments, including while I was in hospital.

The album starts in a really dark place, and slowly, song by song, it builds toward hope.

I wanted it to be something people could listen to on their worst days and feel like they’re not alone. That things can change.

I’ve taken that idea of sharing hope and turned it into something bigger. In 2023, I began setting up my own community interest company called Grow With Hope. It focuses on mental health education and prevention for under-25s. We run two types of workshops.

One workshop teaches young people about mental health, how to look after themselves, and what to do if they start to struggle.

The other is on bereavement, especially in cases where someone has taken their own life.

A lot of schools don’t know how to support students through that. But they need to. Because when young people lose someone to suicide, they are at higher risk themselves.

Alongside the workshops, I’m also building an app. It will be a free, comprehensive mental health toolkit for young people. There are a lot of mental health apps out there, but I want this to be the most extensive and most accessible one. No paywalls. No limits. Just real support when you need it.

I’m still developing the app, but I know it will make a difference.

I also study counselling and psychotherapy at the University of Central Lancashire. My goal is to become a therapist for young people.

I want to be the person I wish I’d had when I was younger. Someone who listens. Who understands. Who believes in recovery, even when you don’t.

Because the truth is, when you’re deep in it, when the darkness surrounds you, you start to believe it’s all there is.

You smile, but you don’t mean it.

You breathe, wishing you didn’t.

You think, to yourself: this is it.

I’ve tried and tried, and I keep ending up in the same place.

You wonder: would I be at peace if I just let go?

‘When you feel like your story has come to an end, delete that conclusion you wrote in your head and rewrite the ending where you’re happy and achieve all your dreams. Because this is what you fight for when hope can’t be seen.’

I know that because I was there. I stood on the other side of that bridge. And if someone hadn’t reached out, I wouldn’t be here. But I am. And now I smile, and I do mean it. I laugh. I cry. I live. I’m finally alive again. And one day, you will be too. Just hold on. The sun will rise.

My journey hasn’t been perfect. I still have dark days. I still relapse sometimes.

But I’m living a life I didn’t think was possible. I never thought I’d get to a place where I love life. I never thought I’d be able to help others, to give back, to build something that matters. But here I am.

If I could tell you one thing, it’s this: no matter how hopeless you feel, there is always hope. Your brain might be tricking you into thinking there’s no way out, but that’s the illness talking. Depression lies. Bipolar lies. Trauma lies. But healing is real.

Instead of asking, “What’s wrong with me?” ask, “What’s happened to me?” You’re not broken.

You’re not too far gone.

You’re not beyond saving.

You’ve just been through more than most people can imagine.

And you’re still here. That takes strength.

So if you’re reading this, wondering whether it’s worth holding on, let me be the one to tell you: yes. It is. You are.

You are worth it.

And you are not alone.

‘I’m living a life I never believed was possible. I was lost for a moment, but now I am found. A life full of abundance and a hope so profound.’