DISCOVERING THE VOICE OF LOVE
This is a true story about discovering the voice of Love inside, when I needed it most, and why I give journaling workshops: to encourage others to connect with the voice within themselves.
In March 2021 I watched with envy as my husband backed his van out of our driveway. The government deemed his work ‘essential’ – delivering building products to sites around Dublin – and he was eager to be on the road. As he drove away, I had no idea I’d shortly be wandering around a clifftop looking for the highest place to jump.
My beloved Dad had been in and out of hospital for months. Locked away on his own, without the strength to use a phone and banned from having visitors, I lived and breathed every moment with him. My business had been closed for six months, forced online and was teetering along with the help of government funding. My income had plummeted and my publisher had recently rejected my second novel. On top of that, I was forced to listen to the news which usually I avoid because every tragedy hits me like a blow and prevents me from sleeping. The rules kept changing. We could venture two kilometres from home. Then five. We could go into a restaurant. We couldn’t. We could meet one person. We could meet three. We could have a visitor to our homes. We couldn’t.
The idea to jump off the cliff came to me that morning as I was walking our dog, Beau, towards the headland, which juts out between Loughshiny and Rush, on the coast of north county Dublin. Crossing the fields behind our home, my mind landed upon the most brilliant idea: wipe myself out and the pain would be gone. It hit me like a bolt of inspiration. At last I had the answer to all my problems. Checking in briefly with God, who at the time I believed to be an entity only outside of myself, I believed I received a resounding YES.
Jumping was the Way Out.
Relieved and euphoric, I searched for the most dangerous point along the cliff edge; the place with the deadliest rocks and the longest fall. I didn’t think about my beautiful dog and how she would get home. I didn’t think about my dad, my family, my friends or even my husband. I thought only about ending my pain and blessed peace.
But as I looked down on the rocks below, a quiet voice within spoke up. It wasn’t my usual frenzied ‘mind’ voice which continually sourced solutions and came up with plans. This voice was calm and steady. Without any fuss, it casually suggested, “Might wanting to end your life mean your mind is unwell? Might you have depression?”
This caused me to lift my eyes across Dublin Bay to Lambay Island. I had read about depression. I knew an unwell mind could tell a person to end their own life. But I hadn’t thought it could happen to me.
Where was this voice coming from? I decided to listen.
With shaking hands, I pulled out my mobile phone and did what you’re supposed to do in these situations: dialled the number of a friend.
Lucky for me she picked up.
“I’m standing on a cliff, looking for a place to jump.”
She didn’t hesitate. “Call your doctor.”
“Huh?” Wasn’t that over the top? I mean, I didn’t have a broken leg.
“Megan,’ she said, ‘this is serious.”
Her tone frightened me. “Okay.”
Calling Beau, I clipped her on the lead, turned my back to the cliff and walked home.
When I arrived, my husband was in the kitchen.
“You’re back?” I spoke as if everything was normal.
“Yeah. The roads are dead.”
Usually I grilled him for nuggets of information about life ‘out there’ but instead I said casually, “Just have to make a call in the office.”
When I got through to the surgery secretary, the sound of her sensible voice caused my own to crack.
“Can I talk to my doctor?” I asked.
“Is it COVID related?”
“No.” I began to cry, my body shuddering.
“Just a moment, l’ll get her on the phone.”
This was highly unusual. My doctor was always busy, especially during the pandemic.
Suddenly I was talking to my GP.
In stops and starts I told her what I’d been planning to do. I felt so stupid as if I’d been almost knocked down by a reckless driver, except the reckless driver was me.
“Have you told Oisin?” she asked.
“No!” I’d no intention of telling my husband.
“You have to tell him.” She was firm.
“I don’t want to.” I couldn’t bear the shame of it.
“If you don’t, I will.” She was his GP too and had his number.
“Okay.”
“Are you meeting up with a friend for a walk?” Her tone was brisk.
“Eh, no.” I’d given up doing anything. Even things we were allowed to do.
“You need to start. Meet up with one friend every day for a walk.”
I nodded, wondering who I could ask.
“If this happens again, go to A&E and wait there until the urge passes.”
“Right.” She made it sound so normal. Like going to a train station to wait for a train.
“I’m putting you in contact with the local psychiatric service. They’ll call you soon.”
We ended the call and I returned to the kitchen where my husband was sitting. I sat down beside him. “I’ve something to tell you.”
He listened. He took my hand. He didn’t judge. My husband was no stranger to suicide.
From that moment on, it became my mission to become intimately acquainted with the quiet voice that spoke to me on the cliff. If I hadn’t listened to it, I’d be one of those people who died by suicide and no one understood why, least of all the person who’d done it.
I attended a psychiatrist with the HSE followed by a series of counsellors, psychotherapists, and psychologists. It was like interviewing people for a job and I paid €70 for the pleasure. One counsellor explained my mind had got stuck and suggested I track my mood to prevent it happening again. I was to write the numbers zero to ten in my journal every day and circle how I felt. Ten for great zero for bad. Gradually I began to learn how it felt to be a two or three – a stomach-ache due to anxiety. A seven – a little irritated or upset. A ten – not euphoric but peaceful despite ongoing challenges. I learned that a high zinging state of ecstasy rarely happens.
I’d been journaling since I was twelve years old and now my practiced intensified. On top of pouring out my worries, resentments and overwhelm, I began labelling my feelings and the reasons I had them. And what I found is the mind prioritises the negative ones. It is only when I’ve listed all the feelings that I discover positive ones underneath. Feelings like gratitude. My heart rate slows, my shoulders drop and my mind is able to relax.
I began writing from different perspectives within my mind: the inner bully who’d been running the show for most of my life; the vulnerable part of me who tried her best to please the bully but no longer could; and the Wise Observer – the voice that had spoken on the cliff.
And the more I did this practice, the more my vulnerable part began to feel safe, and the inner bully conceded she might not know everything and was only trying to keep me safe anyway. Under the gentle guidance of the Wise Observer my vulnerable part gained confidence and began to take care of the bully because she understood that underneath her harsh and cutting remarks, the bully was terrified.
And when I let the wise quiet voice speak, the other parts calm down and I become whole. The three parts of me alive, respected and heard. And we found a way forward, together. No part shut down, alienated or persecuted.
And, to my delight, the benefits of journaling have been proven by professors of neuroscience like Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor who wrote Whole Brain Living, Matthew Lieberman UCLA who coined the psychological term ‘affect labeling’, James Pennebaker who discovered the health benefits of Expressive Writing, and James Doty who wrote Mind Magic: the Neuroscience Behind Manifestation and How it Changes Everything.
And now, with the experience and knowledge I’ve gained, I give talks and workshops about journaling. I share tools that empty the mind of cluttered, busy thoughts, reduce the power of overwhelming feelings, and enable us to connect with the quiet voice in our hearts. The precious voice that guides us to our best lives.
The voice I know as Love.
