Night I hit rock bottom and considered taking my life, by Jenni Murray

One evening, during my late 40s, I was sitting alone in my bedroom, surrounded by piles of research for the following morning’s Woman’s Hour and a book I should have read but hadn’t. I felt completely overwhelmed and lonely but I couldn’t tell anyone how low I felt.

Friends and colleagues wanted bright, sparky, smart Jenni. My husband and teenage sons wanted me cheerful and ­dependable – as did my ailing parents.

Stuck in the middle of the sandwich years – caring for both children and parents – the thought that ending my life would end all this misery flitted across my brain.

I called the Samaritans.

On the end of the phone was a young man I would never know, who wouldn’t recognise me, but who talked so much sense about what I meant to my loved ones that my mood lifted and I was grateful.

I thought back to this dark time when I read about the recent ­suicide data from the Office for National Statistics. Rates now peak among women in the 45 to 48 age group, followed by those aged 55 to 59. Men have higher suicide rates overall but the ­number of women taking their own life has increased by a third over the past decade.

What’s more, the British Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy has warned of an ­‘epidemic of silence’ among middle-aged women. A survey of 2,000 women found that two-thirds had struggled with their mental health since turning 50 and almost nine in ten admitted to hiding mental health problems.

I did it myself. I always put other people’s feelings first and tried to be strong and indestructible with a stiff upper lip.

But I know only too well how this can lead to breakdown – or suicidal tendencies. I still haven’t spoken to my husband – or my two sons – about my suicidal thoughts. In fact, I’d ­prefer them not to know about them. I suffer from an almost manic independence and feel even thinking such dark thoughts is somehow shameful. I should always be the strong one, the one who can cope.

In most families it still seems to be the woman who does the majority of the caring. I have friends who describe their brothers as completely useless – always there when inheritance is under discussion but never there to wash down a needy parent.

Women who find themselves in a similar situation to the one I did are often at a very difficult stage of life. They’re menopausal, they have elderly parents who may be hard to manage, particularly if there’s dementia in the family.

Children are at their most trying in their teenage years. As for husbands, I’ve come across some who made no contribution, except for finding a girlfriend to get them out of the house – or, in some cases, who decide that this was the right time for a divorce.

Is it any wonder that a number of women find it all too much?

Our family home was in the Peak District. My husband David and I shared responsibility for running the house and feeding the family. Our boys had a long trip to their school in Manchester every weekday. It meant a 20-minute drive to the bus stop, which would take them the rest of the way. Then again to collect them at the end of the day.

I tried to do it as often as possible, which was maybe only one day a week. I missed the closeness those journeys would have created with my boys but I had no alternative. My job as ­presenter of Woman’s Hour was based in London. There was no possibility of it moving to Manchester. Broadcasting House in London was its home. It was where guests invited to the programme expected to join us.

I was the breadwinner. But I was also proud of what I’d achieved. For as long as the BBC wanted me, I was determined to hold on to what I considered to be the best job in the world.

I had a scruffy basement flat in Camden Town, North London, dubbed Wuthering Depths, where I spent many sad and lonely hours working on the next day’s programme. Then I would dream of heading for Euston station, boarding the West Coast line which would take me to Wuthering Heights where my family would be pleased to see me.

There I was wife and mother, doing my best to cook nutritious meals, wash the clothes, find the rugby boots, help with homework, do all the things necessary to create a warm, loving, happy home. Exhausting.

On the other side of the Pennines, however, I was a daughter. My elderly parents did their best to manage their day-to-day needs. Mum had Parkinson’s disease and became less able as she grew older. Dad struggled to keep his energy up, not knowing for a long time that he was failing due to lung cancer.

He managed the shopping and eventually learned to cook as mum became bed-bound. I did my best as their only child.

Every weekend I would drive to Barnsley and do as much as I could, dealing with hospitals and social services who appeared incapable of listening to the old people who needed them most.

It was in my bedroom at Wuthering Depths that I first had suicidal thoughts. I’d never seen myself as someone who could feel so low and it’s frightening to look back and realise life could wear me down to such an extent. Thank goodness I was too scared to actually go through with it.

The last time I hit rock bottom during this period was again when I was alone in my bedroom at home in the Peak District. I was exhausted after a hectic day at work, the long journey home, the kids needing help and, horror of horrors, I’d noticed that the nipple on my right breast was inverted. A classic symptom of breast cancer.

It was finally diagnosed the day my mother died. After a lot of extremely distressing thoughts about how I could actually kill myself – but having no real idea of how to achieve it – I seemed to come to my senses. I needed to talk to someone.

I was lucky to know the wonderful psychotherapist, Susie Orbach. She told me to come to her the next day. In the end, we decided we knew each other too well for professional counselling to work between us. She recommended another therapist with whom I talked for six months.

This therapist made me realise this hectic period would not last for ever. Children would leave. Parents would die and, when it was over, I would find comfort in having done everything I could for the people I love.

I also learned that suffering in silence serves no one. It’s far ­better to get it off your chest.

Olivia’s elegance beats booby prize 

I fully expected most of the nominees at the Grammys to wear weird garments and they did. Chappell Roan’s dress hung from her nipple rings; Heidi Klum chose to mould herself in latex. But it was Olivia Dean, winner of best new artist, who stole the best-dressed prize. Looking elegant, not desperate, she was fittingly frocked in Chanel. Well done, Olivia.

Punishing price of university

My degree at Hull University came for free, exactly as it should be. Why are we burdening so many with horrific debt? 

One Daily Mail colleague owes £75,000. And then there’s the penalty applied for succeeding in the workplace: they only start paying it back if they get a job.

No wonder around 700,000 graduates are out of work, with a third of them claiming sickness benefit.

We should ban kids on trains, too

How clever of the French. Last month, train operator SNCF banned children under 12 from premium carriages on its high-speed trains. That would give me the chance to read my book on a long journey without having Peppa Pig pushed under my nose and chocolate buttons in my lap.