I don’t talk about my childhood much. Not only is it not my story alone, it is a part of my story that I struggle to find words to convey. The people who did so much harm to me as a child also caused harm to others that I love immensely. How do I share publicly the things that hurt A child called David while also honouring the right of my loved one’s to maintain their privacy, and my readers right not to carry my pain? A difficult truth of my life is that as a result of the harm done to me, I made choices in my life that hurt the people I loved. I don’t blame myself, but I also haven’t quite reach the point where I can release myself from the sense that I need to make reparations. I have lived a number of years feeling as though I owe the world some unobtainable contrition. Something that is of utmost importance to talk about however, is the way I was failed by professionals who very well could have turned my life around. Who could have prevented not just my pain, but the pain of those in close proximity to me. I am content with my life now, but I do wonder what it might have looked like had I not been left to decay by a service that was meant to be my path out of the darkness. That service was NHS England’s Child and Adolescent Mental Health Service (CAMHS). The worst part isn’t even that they ignored my mother’s pleas to assess me for autism. It’s not even that trying to prescribe me ritalin after 5 minutes of interaction delayed my access to it, a medication that has been life-changing for me, until I was in my thirties. It’s the way they were complicit in my submission to the suffering that enveloped me. I’m a suicide survivor, but I need not have been had CAMHS done their duty. I came to them, beaten and bruised, I laid before them my trauma, my pain, my isolation, my disdain for every aspect of myself. I told them that I couldn’t cope, that I was scared to wake up each day. I told them things about my past that I can’t bring myself to say out loud, even to this day. I was met with silence. Cold, uncaring silence. They did nothing. They labelled me a school refuser. They still refused to assess me for autism. They ignored the increasing velocity of my descent into darkness. Is it any wonder then that I found solace in the abusive arms of opioid, benzodiazepine, and spice addiction? It was inevitable that the answer to their failures would reside at the bottom of my whiskey glass. What can one do in the face of unending suffering other than desperately scramble to drown out the noise? The noise was inescapable. The voices in my head would scream at me daily. I was paranoid and distrustful of everyone, even those that I loved dearly. CAMHS allowed my psychological wellbeing to deteriorate to the point that I could no longer cope with existing. I resigned myself to an early grave. I craved it like the drugs and alcohol that would one day land me in a psychiatric institute. Some might ask why this is relevant, I am a man in his mid-thirties, surely this was a long time ago? No. This is still happening. Everyday, thousands upon thousands of families are forced to watch on as CAMHS allow their children to suffer. If you want to know why so many Autistic people die by suicide, start by taking a look at this (dis)service. CAMHS are complicit in an untold number of deaths. Each data point in those statistics represents a story untold. A future unrealised. With each child lost by the negligence of those meant to help them, our future becomes a little bit darker. I am content today, but it hurts. It hurts to know that my children and millions like them do not have this service in a good working order should they need it. I want a world that protects my children and seeks to heal wounds and change worlds. It’s the least they can do for our young and vulnerable. Yet I have to watch in rage and horror as they fail my children like they failed me. Children who have suffered so much, and their further suffering is permitted by a service that claims they “don't meet threshold”. We should be angry, we should be horrified. There is power in our anger, their is power in our dissent. My name is David, and I’m a CAMHS survivor. Please help us change children’s lives by signing this petition. You're currently a free subscriber to David Gray-Hammond. For the full experience, upgrade your subscription.
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Tuesday, 20 May 2025
CAMHS Nearly Killed Me And They're Still Failing Us Today
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