Men’s Mental Health: The Film I Really Didn’t Want to Make
A note before reading: This is a personal account of depression, suicidal thoughts and a suicide attempt. If you’re struggling yourself, you can call Samaritans free on 116 123, day or night. If you need urgent help for your mental health, contact NHS 111. If you or someone else is in immediate danger, call 999 or go to A&E.
I Really Didn’t Want to Make This Film
I was standing on the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco.
It was dusk, and I couldn’t quite believe I was there.
We were about to make a film about a remarkable man whose life had become closely connected with this bridge and with people experiencing some of the darkest moments imaginable.
The subject was suicide.
And it was uncomfortably close to home.
I’d travelled to San Francisco as part of Muse Film School, a programme I’d been involved with for more than six months. Our team of six had been challenged to find a remarkable person whose story could become the subject of our film.
Eventually, the stories were put to a vote.
I joined the Zoom call from the UK a little after midnight. I remember feeling incredibly nervous because I had a fairly good idea which story the team was going to choose.
Then I heard Patrick say:
“OK, Briggs gets it.”
My stomach sank.
For the first time during the programme, I genuinely questioned whether I wanted to continue.
Because Kevin Briggs’ story wasn’t simply going to challenge me as a filmmaker.
It was going to challenge something I had spent years trying not to confront in myself.
Kevin Briggs
Kevin Briggs was a former California Highway Patrol officer who had become known for his work helping people experiencing suicidal crises on the Golden Gate Bridge.
After retiring, he continued working in mental-health and suicide-prevention advocacy.
Kevin was clearly an extraordinary person to make a film about.
That wasn’t the problem.
The problem was me.
For several years I’d been living with significant mental-health difficulties. With medication and enormous love and support from my family, I was able to live what probably looked from the outside like a fairly ordinary life.
But there was another part of the story that very few people knew.
In 2012 my mental health reached a crisis point.
At the time, I felt I had no other choice than to take my own life.
Thankfully, my attempt was interrupted.
The delivery driver who knocked on my studio door will never know how grateful I now am for his timing that day.
Without that portrait delivery, I simply wouldn’t be here now.
And five years later I was about to fly halfway around the world to make a film about a man whose life had involved standing beside people at precisely that point.
I really didn’t want to go.
Getting on the Plane
I remember the morning I was due to fly to San Francisco incredibly clearly.
I’ve never been particularly good at goodbyes. Saying goodbye to Katie, my wife, and my two boys, Ollie and Fred, was difficult.
Mentally, I wasn’t in a particularly good place.
So I did what I had learned to do when things felt overwhelming.
I made everything smaller.
Pack my bag.
Load the car.
Say goodbye.
Drive to the airport.
Park the car.
Check in.
Get through security.
One thing at a time.
I also had a deal with myself: if at any point things became too much, I could come home.
Even after arriving at San Francisco International Airport, I went to the Virgin desk and asked about flights back to the UK over the following few days.
Strangely, just knowing that escape route existed helped.
I didn’t need to take it.
Something I Wasn’t Expecting
After meeting the team, we headed up to Sonoma and settled into our Airbnb.
The schedule over the next few days was frantic, which probably helped me. I had things to concentrate on. Cameras, people, locations, logistics.
I felt stronger than I had expected.
Then something happened that I hadn’t prepared for.
Before interviewing Kevin, we decided to interview one another. It was partly an exercise — a way of getting used to working together and of understanding what it meant to sit on the other side of the camera.
Wendi, our editor, went first.
She talked openly about her own experience of depression and suicidal thoughts.
Then it was my turn.
I didn’t want to do it.
Sitting in the Chair
My instinct was to get away.
I wanted to be at home. I wanted to be somewhere familiar. Somewhere safe.
Eventually, after what I can only describe as an internal storm, I walked towards the interview chair.
I can still remember ridiculous little details.
The heat from the lights.
How much the chair squeaked when I moved.
I even made a mental note that we needed to change it before Kevin’s interview.
Two cameras were positioned to my left. Jay, our director and interviewer, was slightly hidden to my right beside the key light.
Everyone else was incredibly quiet.
I sat down.
And for the first time in my life, I was about to tell people properly what had happened to me.
No carefully edited version.
No pretending everything was fine.
Just me.
Then I Started Talking
The interview seemed to pass incredibly quickly.
Jay asked questions.
I answered them.
Then he asked another.
And I answered that too.
Gradually, things came out that I had kept buried for years.
When it finished, I remember the reaction of the people around me. But what I remember more clearly is how I felt.
Lighter.
I’d heard people say countless times that talking could help with depression and anxiety.
I’d never really understood how something as simple as talking was supposed to make any difference to thoughts that could feel so overwhelming.
That day I began to understand.
It didn’t cure me.
It didn’t suddenly make everything disappear.
And one difficult conversation didn’t mean I’d somehow cracked mental health.
What happened was much simpler.
Somebody listened.
And for once, I stopped hiding.
Talking Once Is the Easy Bit
There was something else I learned afterwards.
Opening up once is one thing.
Continuing to do it is much harder.
I’d spent a significant part of my life believing that difficult things were things you dealt with yourself.
Perhaps some of that came from being a former Royal Marine. Perhaps some of it was simply me.
Either way, being open about my mental health didn’t suddenly become easy because I’d managed it once in San Francisco.
It’s something I’ve had to continue learning.
I still don’t always get it right.
But I no longer believe that keeping everything inside is strength.
Making Kevin’s Film
Over the following three days, we made Kevin’s film.
The experience taught me an enormous amount about filmmaking and storytelling, but its effect on me personally went much further than that.
The film was eventually premiered in Portland in March 2018 alongside four other films created through Muse Film School.
Somehow, I even found myself standing on stage at the premiere telling an audience why I hadn’t wanted to make it.
The very thing I’d wanted to avoid talking about had become something I was prepared to say out loud.
That’s quite a journey when I think about it now.
Looking Back
I originally wrote this article because I hoped sharing what happened might encourage somebody else to talk.
Years later, I still believe that’s worth doing.
I haven’t discovered some miraculous answer to mental health.
I still have to manage mine.
I still have difficult days.
And opening up once in a chair in California didn’t suddenly make everything disappear.
But San Francisco taught me something I hadn’t properly understood before.
Being heard helped.
Talking helped.
And perhaps most importantly, I stopped believing this was something I always had to hide.
The film below came from the interview I gave that day in San Francisco. It’s raw and personal, and that’s exactly why I’ve left this story here.
If sharing it encourages one other man to start a conversation he has been avoiding, then I’m glad I told it.
And to Patrick Moreau, Jay, Wendi and everyone involved with Muse Film School who gave me the space to do that: thank you.
You probably helped me in ways you didn’t fully realise at the time.
If You Need Someone to Talk To
If any part of this story feels familiar, you don’t have to deal with it alone.
Samaritans: call 116 123 free, at any time of day or night. They listen without judgement or pressure.
For urgent mental-health support, use NHS 111 or call 111. If you or somebody else is in immediate danger, call 999 or go to A&E.
Samaritans — support and contact options
NHS — urgent mental-health support