Georgina’s Story

In this blog we hear from Georgina, one of our new Trauma Ambassadors. Please be aware that this blog mentions suicide, mental health and childhood abuse.

“I’m sharing my story today not because it’s easy—but because it’s important. People like me—those with mental health challenges, trauma, and undiagnosed autism—are often ignored, misunderstood, or told we’re “just being dramatic.”

Almost two years ago, I tried to end my life.

It didn’t happen out of nowhere. It followed years of feeling overwhelmed, out of place, and exhausted from trying to survive in a world that didn’t seem to have space for someone like me. I had tried therapy, medications, fresh starts—over and over—but nothing ever truly helped. I felt like I was pushing so hard just to keep going, and still no one saw it.

In August 2023, I walked into the woods, believing maybe the world would be better off without me. But even then, a small part of me still wanted to live. So I called 999. That should have been the turning point. I did what we’re told to do: I asked for help. I said I didn’t feel safe. But the system didn’t know what to do with someone like me.

I was passed from 101 to the crisis team and sent to the Lakes. A professional told me I was “highly suicidal.” She seemed to understand. But after I shared everything, I was sent home. Alone. With only a vague promise that someone might call next week. I had spoken up. I had told the truth. And I was still sent away.

That wasn’t just disappointing—it was dangerous. I didn’t just fall through the cracks. I was pushed. If it could happen to me, it could happen to anyone.

Another autistic person in my place might not have called. They might not have survived. Even when I followed every rule—when I was calm, polite, and articulate—it still wasn’t enough. I didn’t “look autistic.” And because of that, I wasn’t seen as someone who needed help.

But autistic distress doesn’t always look like panic or rage. Sometimes, it looks like silence. Like someone shutting down, sitting quietly, waiting—hoping someone will notice they’re falling apart.

Georgina on the beach

I kept trying. I went back to my GP. I told the truth again. Later, a nurse from the Lakes called and admitted someone should have followed up. But still, I was told I didn’t meet the criteria for support.

It felt like the system was saying: “You’re not broken enough.” I wasn’t better. I was surviving by the day. But thankfully, that nurse listened. She invited me back for a risk review. My aunt Carol came with me and said what I couldn’t: that I was dangerously close to the edge. That I needed more support.

Finally, I was given access to the outpatient crisis team. For four weeks, I had daily visits. It helped—but I still felt like I was being treated as a problem to manage, not a person to understand.

Then came therapy—DBT over Zoom. Each week, I was told not to overreact, not to be “too emotional,” not to cause scenes. But that’s not how I react. I don’t explode—I implode. When I’m overwhelmed or afraid, I don’t lash out—I shut down. I hide. I disappear into myself. But that wasn’t what they expected. So I was misunderstood—again. Told to work harder. Told that my reactions were wrong—even though no one took the time to understand them.

At one point, I said that eye contact was painful. That it made conversations harder. Instead of curiosity or support, I received a long email explaining how I could practise eye contact so that other people would feel more comfortable. There was nothing about my discomfort. No understanding. No kindness. Just more pressure to erase who I was—to shape myself into something more acceptable.

Working with professionals who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see autism as a possibility was one of the hardest parts of all.

I was doing everything I could just to be honest and stay alive, but I kept hearing the same things:
“You don’t meet the threshold.”
“You’re too articulate.”
“You don’t look autistic.”
“You’re just emotionally unstable.”
“You’re doing this for attention.”

Those last words echoed the same ones I’d heard growing up, during childhood abuse.
And still—I kept showing up.

I pushed for referrals. I asked questions. I gathered evidence. I chased letters. I raised concerns. Not just for me—but for everyone who has ever been turned away in crisis because they didn’t “fit the pathway.”

Eventually, I made the difficult decision to go private for an autism assessment. After months of being bounced between teams, told I didn’t meet the right criteria, I realised if I wanted answers—if I wanted to understand myself—I had to find another way.

I shouldn’t have had to fund my own diagnosis just to be seen. But like so many others—I did. That diagnosis didn’t unlock immediate support. But it gave me something I had fought for my entire life: validation.

It helped me understand why everything had felt so hard. Why I had to work so much harder just to exist. Why I wasn’t “too much”—just wired differently. It helped me see that the problem wasn’t me. The problem was trying to survive in a system that isn’t built for autistic people like me.

Today, I’m a lived experience ambassador for the Oliver McGowan training campaign. I speak to NHS professionals about autism and learning disability—not because I enjoy retelling painful memories, but because I want to stop someone else from living them.

I want professionals to know:
Listening matters. Language matters.
And assumptions can wound more deeply than you’ll ever realise.

I may be articulate. I may advocate. But I am also someone who just wants to feel safe. Who wants to understand herself. Who wants a life worth staying for.

Please—don’t let people like me keep slipping through the cracks.
We’re not broken.
We’re waiting to be seen—fully and compassionately.
Thank you.”

Georgina,
Trauma Ambassador