Monday night I was due to have my consultation with Dr A of the Mexico clinic. That evening I had an email from the administrator saying that Dr A was rubbing late and may need to reschedule. I handled it just fine (my husband has been concerned that if I get any set backs that I’ll go into meltdown – it has happened). I suppose I knew that this was only a postponement rather than a cancellation; hubby even suggested that I give the administrator a phone call, which I did and she arranged for the food doctor to call me only a few minutes later.

I felt that it was a really good call and I got a good understanding of what the procedure would entail and got done guidance on recovery. Husband was distressed by the lack of discussion over reasons for wanting the procedure – or even questions about my medical history.

The next day hubby was angry with me – he felt that I had already chosen a single solution (ie the Mexico clinic) and had not performed any kind of due diligence. He felt that I’d not given sufficient thought to my own psychological reasons for wanting castration. This did send me into meltdown: I suddenly felt that he would not support me and the only way it was going to happen was if I did it myself.

I discretely banded my balls, then quietly downed several strong painkillers, a couple of sleepers, followed by a good glug of JD. Anyone familiar with my blog might recognise this as my Plan E.

As the pain grew, I took more painkillers, determined to see it through. Then I suddenly went from wanting to kill my balls, to wanting to end my own life. It wasn’t where I started from, but I now felt “it’s me or my balls”. I went into the garden, which hubby took simply to mean that I wanted some space. He did eventually realise that something was wrong and bashed an ambulance.

It was the dog who gave the game away regarding my balls: she stood on them to lick my face and I woke from my stupor to shout in pain. He then recognised what is done.

I woke up this morning in hospital and I cried. I hadn’t died and neither had my balls, although they were very sore and dark. I am amazed at how quickly I descended into despair. I never ever thought that I could ever try such a thing.

I’ve seen a couple of doctors and a rather unsympathetic urologist – I continued my policy of being honest with the medical profession. The first doctor I saw said that the mental health team were “very worried” about me. Twelve hours later and they’ve still not been to see me.

My husband came in for the afternoon (visitors are not permitted before 2pm) she’d we talked at length. He said that he really didn’t know that I felt that desperate. For me this want a cry for help: at that time I genuinely wanted out. I still wanted out when I woke up. I’m ok now. We talked about how we can better communicate when we are angry or hurting.

He has also asked me to wait six months before committing to any plan, in which time I should spend more time exploring what this means for me and us, and that we should investigate more carefully the Mexico option and any other alternatives that might be found. It also gives more time for the NHS engine to stall. If I give him that six months, then I shall have his unequivocal support.

If anything is worth having, it’s worth waiting for. My husband’s support is very much worth having: it is essential.