If you’re thinking of applying for Love Island, the reality TV suicide rate should make you think again

In the past year, three people connected with the reality TV show Love Island have taken their own lives. Two, Sophie Gradon and Mike Thalassitis, were contestants, the third was Sophie’s boyfriend Aaron Armstrong who killed himself just weeks after Sophie’s body was found in her home last June.

If, as has been suggested, both Sophie and Mike’s mental health were badly affected by appearing on the programme, then I’m not sure I’ll be able to watch it again. How can I tune in without worrying who, amongst this year’s cast, might be too vulnerable for life through a camera lens?

Reality TV can be notoriously brutal. Over in the States, suicides committed by people involved with such shows run into depressingly high figures.

Not that that’s going to stop people making them, because in comparison to comedy and drama, once you’ve cracked the formula, they’re cheap ratings winners and the audience’s appetite for new faces is voracious. Once a series is over, with the exception of a couple of characters, we tend to forget them. Who cares about the Love Island bods once the summer turns to autumn and we have a fresh cast of Bake Off wannabes to distract us?

It’s this disposability that is potentially at the root of the problem. In its infancy, reality TV gave its participants a pretty good chance of a career, but as the beast has grown, it’s become a big, uncaring chew ’em up and spit ’em out monster.

The people most at risk probably aren’t those who enter competitions to demonstrate a skill, be that sewing or singing. It’s those who have little more to offer than looks and personality who potentially have the trickiest time.

Now I’m not knocking looks and personality – plenty of people go a long way with less (the present government are a case in point) – but I think some people have an unrealistic idea of what fame might bring. For starters it doesn’t come with a guaranteed fortune. Just because your mug’s been on telly a few times doesn’t mean to say you’re going to spend the rest of your life eating lobster off the back of a speedboat.

One of the many problems of social media is that many people have a tweaked idea of what celebrity means. They are force fed an Instagram diet of fancy watches and shoes, year-round tans and five-star holidays in Marbella. Whatever they’re paying you for, a seasonal appearance on a reality show is unlikely to amount to more than a couple of years’ regular income. Think of it like a Xmas bonus: once it’s spent it’s spent and you’re unlikely to get “more where that came from” unless you’re one of the rare reality stars the country decides merits national sweetheart status for more than just a few weeks. Everyone else is just revolving tabloid fodder and the only way to keep the tabloids interested is to actively seek their attention. But once you start playing that game, don’t expect anyone to play by the Queensberry rules.

Much is made these days of how much psychological testing and support there is for reality contestants and I’m sure everyone means well and a few questions get asked, but no one knows how they’re going to react in an artificially constructed melting pot. And in any case, it’s a bit like those earnest voiceovers after a soap has aired a difficult storyline, the one that parrots, “If you’ve been affected by any of the issues raised in this programme then please contact the following helpline.”

This gives the impression that help is at hand should anyone need it, when the reality of mental health services in this country is that budgets have been slashed to the barest minimum and people have to wait months to get any kind of decent counselling.

I do wish we didn’t pretend that we had a secure mental health safety net for the millions of people who suffer every day. We don’t – and to pretend otherwise is misleading and dangerous. Anxiety amongst young adults has reached epidemic proportions and as the pursuit of online perfection increases daily, so commensurately does the niggling doubt that real life isn’t matching up to your dreams.

This is where the allure of a reality show comes in. This could potentially be your magic golden Willy Wonka ticket to Lamborghini land. Although in reality you’ll be lucky to get more than a Skoda out of it.

Unfortunately, some people genuinely expect a Cinderella lifestyle transformation and for a few months that’s what you’re going to get: a whirlwind of showbiz invites and prosecco fuelled telly bashes. But these invitations will dwindle, people will stop lending you dresses and suits. In fact because you’ve been on the telly, people will expect you to put your hand in your pocket, after all you must be loaded now. But you’re not and eventually all you’ve got left is blind panic. “It’s just a game”, everyone mutters, but for some people the game is a matter of life and death.