Losing it

A year ago last Tuesday, things were pretty decent all things considered. Happily married, in a relationship with the person I loved more than anything in the world, great new job, loads of mates and a whole bucket of self-confidence. On a health kick, off the booze and fags, blissfully smug in my having the cake and eating it existence. My diary tells me that I was going to Kew that night for dinner and drinks. Ten days in, and 2016 felt just fine. Good things were going to happen.

Last Tuesday was a bit different. I spent most of the day in my pyjamas, on the sofa in the living room, with the curtains drawn. I’d not showered, washed or changed for three days, and had “Too Much Love Will Kill You” by Queen on repeat. Really loudly. I was desperate for a piss, but wouldn’t let myself go upstairs to the toilet, because my purple dressing gown belt was on the top of the landing, and the last time we hung out it all got a bit daft. I’d eaten a tub of cornflake cakes, an entire selection box, and was halfway through a tray of After Eight mints. I’d also run out of fags, but was unable to go to the shop round the corner because I’d come to realise that they were selling me Russian counterfeit goods, which could – most likely would – damage my health. So I’d have to make the walk to newsagents down the road.

None of this struck me as in any way odd. The eating, the not washing, the inability to go upstairs and use the bathroom, the binge-listening to late era Queen, not even the plot hatched by the fella from Peacocks Food and Wine to poison me with Russian knock-off fags. But the thought of going to the shop in my pyjamas was doing my head in. Would people notice if I had a coat on? Was it really okay for a normal bloke like me to go out in pyjama bottoms? Would people assume they were hareem pants, maybe? Could they pass for skater trousers at a push? I spent a good hour turning this over in my head, bladder bursting, Freddie giving it big guns on the stereo. I finally gave in, tucked the bottoms into my reindeer slipper socks, put my coat on and left the house. “You’ll be fine”, I told myself. “Just be yourself and no one will look at the trousers.”

***

November 11^th 2016 was the day that I officially lost my mind, in the somehow fitting setting of a conference centre car park in Kent. I’d not been well for quite a while before, something which is alarmingly clear with hindsight. Weeks of relative lows, followed by flashes of euphoria fuelled by a naïve belief that everything would be alright in the end if I just wanted it bad enough. So not great, but sort of manageable. I could do my job, see my friends, cook a meal and use social media without the risk of harming myself or anyone else. You know – usual, normal stuff. For a long while after November 11^th, I couldn’t do any of these things. So that’s why I fix on that date. The day I lost my mind.

I stopped going to work pretty much straight away, and found myself a therapist the day after. There are other people who have written far more eloquently than I could ever manage about the appalling lack of NHS mental health provision – most brilliantly Isabel Hardman – so I won’t bother. But suffice to say I only got the help I desperately needed by paying for it. I still am – and Emma is worth whatever it’s cost ten times over, and almost certainly kept me from doing something properly silly early on – but god knows what people without the money do. Anyhow, I soon settled into a pretty standard routine. I’d walk loads, ten miles or more a day, under the guise of making myself better. I’d spend hours making sure my Instagram made it clear that I wasn’t well enough to work, but also gave off the sort of vibes of someone deeply committed to getting better as quickly as possible. I’d also be totally honest with my friends and family about how bad things were. I had depression, but wasn’t ashamed. I didn’t know what had brought it on, but I’d beat it in the end. Because I was Luke Holland, and that’s the sort of thing he’d do.

But it was all a bluff. A trick. A ruse. A load of bollocks. Because the walks would always be to places I knew would take me back to a bad place, soundtracked with a playlist purpose-built to fuel my sadness. And – deep down - I knew why I felt this way. But I also knew I’d never tell my friends. Or my family. And it made my skin crawl with shame, sadness and anger. It made me want to curl up in a corner and never see anyone again. It pushed down on me like a lead weight of guilt, the sadness, fear and worry I’d inflicted on so many people doing somersaults in my head from morning to night. It made me want to stop it all – for me and everyone else, especially the people I loved. It made me want to die. And that’s not a great thing to want. And that’s how the days would pass, in a fug of dirty, dark and nasty emotions. The clouds just refused to pass. And as fully signed up lunatic, everything takes so much longer. It’s like living your life in cat years; each day is a week, each week a month, each… well. You get the picture.

And all the while, I’d pick at the scab that my enforced absence from everyday life caused. I’d fill in the blanks in conversations, chats, drinks and catch-ups that I was no longer part of. Before long, the blanks became bigger than the things themselves. I was no longer stitching together a story that I had been part of, but instead creating another story all together, one filled with actions, motivations and betrayals that most likely bore no relation to reality. 

Meanwhile those that did cut harder, deeper and more ruthlessly than you can imagine. I’d sit on the floor, sit on the garden wall or park benches on any number of London streets and wait for a message that was never going to come. I felt betrayed. I felt replaced. And I felt sadness that I can’t ever put into words. And most horrifyingly of all, I could feel myself changing. Changing from Luke, who was funny, clever and great to be around but struggling with depression, into Luke who had depression. My illness was becoming my defining characteristic. And for a narcissist – even a mad one – this was bad news indeed.

And then a few things happened. On one of my walks, stopping underneath a bridge near Clapham Junction, I was reminded of a conversation I’d had with a very dear friend a lifetime ago. In the conversation, they fixed me with a look I will never forget and simply said “I don’t think I will ever be happy again. And it terrifies me.” And I remembered not understanding quite what this meant, quite how anyone could ever feel this way. But I also remembered how much I wanted to help. How much I wanted this to not be the case. And how much all their friends wanted this to not be the case as well. And here I was, fully convinced that I’d never be happy again. Ever. But I figured that I should give it a go. And that I should stop obsessing about the couple of people who hadn’t called, and let all those that had throw their arms around me and try and sort me out.

And I have. And it’s helped. Loads. Because if truth be told, people have been genuinely brilliant. My family have been beyond brilliant.. Firm friends have shown why they’re firm friends to begin with, while some pals have gone above and beyond, their kindness as astonishing as that from people who I barely knew from the internet getting in touch with a wink, a goat gif or some small piece of advice to lift me up. I’ve not been judged. I’ve not been pigeon holed. I’ve not been patronised. I’ve just been helped, in a kaleidoscope of ways that I’ll never understand, never feel entitled to, but will always be eternally grateful for. I’ve also been inspired, uplifted and empowered reading some of the astonishing things that fellow sufferers are doing for themselves and others. Bryony Gordon’s fabulousMental Health Mates in particular has been huge for me. Sunday’s walk round a sodden Clapham Common with a bunch of people, all with mental health problems, was actually brilliant. And a damn sight more fun than it looks on paper. Talking. Supporting. Helping. And laughing. Especially the laughing.

I’m not better. Not by a long chalk. I still don’t read. Apart from this, and a very self-conscious note I wrote then deleted prior to my tussle with the dressing gown a while ago, I don’t write. I’m still not back at work. I still drift in and out of conversations, nights out and time with friends. And some days the curtains still stay drawn for much of the day. But I’ve not listened to Queen for a week, have some new routes to walk, and realise how fabulous my family and friends are. I’m determined to repay my old ones, keep my new ones, and find a way to win back some of those I’ve lost. I’m determined to write another piece sometime soon about what happened when I went to the shop in my pyjamas (it was genuinely brilliant, if you’re wondering). Moreover, I truly, really, desperately want to get better. I want to be happy again. And for the first time in an age, I reckon that I will be.