Before the Bridge and How grief, prison, and 3:17am taught me that “just enough” can be the difference between staying and leaving.

Trigger Warning: This piece discusses themes of suicide ideation, imprisonment, bereavement, dementia, and childhood trauma. If you are struggling, resources are listed at the end.

The Poem That Says What I Couldn’t.

Some months I cannot write an article.  I can only write the truth.  This is what came out one night:

3:17AM, Layby

Dear me,

It’s 3:17am again.

House is asleep.

My brain isn’t.

It’s doing donuts in the car park of my skull.

V8 engine. No brakes. No God in the passenger seat

except sometimes now, there is.

Nobody answered at 3:17am back then.

Not the kid I was

before the marks got left.

Not the man doing twelve months

counting bricks, counting days,

counting the ways I’d fail.

She was suffering while I was inside.

Dementia eating her name for me

one letter at a time,

and I was too far away to hear it.

I missed the signs.

Missed the slippage, the forgetting,

the way her voice thinned out like radio signal.

I got out.

She held on just long enough

for me to see her go.

Grief with a prison shadow over it

doesn’t echo right.

It just stays in your chest

like swallowed concrete.

I learned early: scream once.

If no one comes, you learn to do it quiet.

Internal. All. Night. Long.

This isn’t a breakdown.

It’s the layby before it.

Engine running. Heater on.

Rain so thick on the windscreen

I can’t tell if I’m crying

or if the sky is.

I sit and do the maths:

Petrol left. Reasons left.

Which runs out first?

Anxiety is thunder

behind hills I can’t see.

My shoulders live there.

Hunched. Braced.

Phone screen lights up my face.

No new messages. Just blue light saying

you’re still awake.

you’re still alone.

I’ve got a wife. I love her.

I’m lucky. Technically.

So why am I drafting this?

If you’re reading this,

I tried to be louder than the dark.

The dark brought better speakers.

Childhood taught me how to vanish in a full room.

Prison taught me how to vanish in myself.  

“Legend,” they say. 

If they knew how many night’s I begged a God I wasn’t sure about to just take the wheel.

Cars meant freedom once.  

Now they just mean I know the exact speed.  

So now I don’t drive at night.

I don’t trust the calculations my head does uninvited.

Then the violin cuts in.

One note. No words.

And sometimes, not always, 

but sometimes,

a verse I didn’t ask for:

Be still.

It doesn’t fix the night.

But it sits in the passenger seat

when the seat’s been empty too long.

Faith isn’t a floodlight.

It’s a cigarette lighter in a blackout.

Small. Shaking.

But mine.

It says spite.

It says you’re still here.

And that’ll have to piss the dark off.

So I stay.

Engine running.

I delete the draft.

Again.

I don’t text anyone.

I whisper instead:

Your will. Not mine.

But if You’ve got an hour,

sit with me.

Little grey delivered

doesn’t show up for prayers.

But the air changes.

Just enough.

That’s the whole victory.

That’s the whole reason.

For now.

What This Is About

This is about the layby before the bridge.  Not the breakdown itself, but the moment before it. The 3:17am in your car with the engine running, rain on the windscreen, doing the maths:  Petrol left. Reasons left. Which runs out first?

I am a 46-year-old man. I have served a twelve-month prison sentence. I lost my mum to dementia shortly after I was released. I missed the signs whilst I was inside. I live with anxiety that sits in my shoulders like thunder behind hills I cannot see.

I have found a version of faith that isn’t a floodlight.  It’s a cigarette lighter in a blackout. Small.  Shaking.  But mine.  If you have ever sat in your own layby, physical or mental, this is for you.

The Moral: What the Layby Taught Me

The moral isn’t that I’m cured. I’m not. The moral

is “for now”.

1. Grief with guilt doesn’t echo. It stays in your chest like swallowed concrete.  Prison and dementia run on different clocks.  I missed my mum’s final decline because I was counting bricks. That guilt is real.  It doesn’t get fixed.  It gets carried.  But carrying it doesn’t mean it has to drive.

2. Faith isn’t a floodlight. We’re sold a version of recovery that’s all sunrises and breakthroughs.  Mine isn’t.  Mine is a cigarette lighter in a blackout. Prayers don’t get read receipts.  Little grey delivered doesn’t show up for prayers.  What you get, sometimes, is the air changing “just enough”.  That has to count as a victory, because for some of us, “just enough” is the difference between staying and leaving.

3. Knowing the exact speed is dangerous. Cars meant freedom to me once. Now they mean I don’t drive at night.  Because I know the maths my head does uninvited.  If you know that maths too, you are not broken.  You are ill.  And illness needs a plan, not a judgement.

How I dealt with my demons — And how you can deal with yours

I am not a clinician. I am a man who is still here.

This is what works for me. Take what helps.

Leave what doesn’t.

1. Name the layby.

Call it what it is.  This isn’t “a bit low”.  This is 3:17am and I’m doing the maths on petrol vs reasons.  Naming it takes it out of the abstract.  You cannot fight what you won’t name.  Write it.  Say it.  Text it to yourself.  Make it real.

2. Accept cigarette lighter faith.  Stop waiting for the floodlight moment.  If all you have is a flicker of spite that say’s “you’re still here and that’ll have to piss the dark off”, use it.  Recovery isn’t a finish line.  It’s collecting “for now”.  One night at a time.  The air changes.  Just enough.  That is a victory.

3. Delete the draft, but don’t stay silent.  I delete the “if you’re reading this” texts.  But I whisper instead: “Your will.  Not mine.   But if you’ve got an hour, sit with me.” You don’t have to tell the whole world.  Tell one person.  Tell God.  Tell a page. Tell a helpline. Silence is where the dark gets better speakers.

4. Make rules for your red flags.  Mine: I don’t drive at night. I know what my head does.  Yours might be: no drinking alone, no isolating for more than 24 hours, no skipping medication. Set the rule when you’re well. Obey it when you’re not. The rule keeps you alive so you can feel better later.

5. Understand that “for now” is enough.  You do not have to promise you’ll never be back in the layby.  I can’t promise that either. You just have to get through this night.  For now is a complete sentence. For now is a victory.

If You’re In Your 3:17am

You are not alone in the layby. The silence is loud, but it isn’t just yours.

Stay. Out of spite if nothing else.  The dark hates that.  You don’t need a floodlight.  You just need the air to change “just enough”.  And it will.  It did for me.

For now, that’s the whole reason.

Get Help Now

Samaritans: Call 116 123 — Free, 24/7, confidential

SHOUT: Text SHOUT to 85258 — Free, 24/7 text support in the UK

CALM: Call 0800 58 58 58 — 5pm to midnight for men

In an emergency: Call 999 or go to A&E

This blog reflects personal experience and is not a substitute for professional medical advice. If you are struggling, please speak to your GP or a qualified mental health professional.

Written by Darren Parker

Blogger @PoemStellium