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 11th 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
11th, 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.