Below is an article I originally posted on my Facebook page. Writing it was a cathartic exercise and, due to its intensely personal nature, I thought long and hard about whether I should publish it at all. I’m so glad I did as the response I’ve had has been overwhelming. The most wonderful thing about it though is that a few people have contacted me since to let me know that reading the article has helped them take the first brave steps to seek help.
This is what I wrote:
On August 2nd 2018, it was exactly 40 years since my dad died. He was only 38. I was just about to turn 15.
This milestone anniversary, combined with the recent death of a childhood friend, has prompted me to share my story with you.
After reading it, if just one of you finds the courage to seek help for your own problems, it will be the best, and most important article I’ve ever written.
Anyway, for what it’s worth, here goes…
At some point between my parents’ bitter divorce and my dad’s death a few weeks before starting my last year at secondary school, I got lost. So lost that I can’t remember much of that school year at all. I must have sat some exams as I’ve got a bunch of O’Level certificates, but I don’t remember taking them.
Being a sensitive child caught up in the middle of an imploding marriage was tough, and even though I was living through a perpetual shitfest, I obviously didn’t want my parents to separate. But, when my dad did eventually move out, it was a relief. At least there were no more rows I had to pretend not to hear or stony and uncomfortable dinner-table silences I had to sit through. Sadly though, this relief was short-lived and things were about to get far worse.
During the following months, I had to cope with the trauma of my mother’s two suicide attempts. I was also the lucky recipient of a letter she left for me after “going out for a drink with a friend”.
The letter stated that she couldn’t cope anymore and had left home, never to return. My dad had already gone and now my mum had deserted me too.
The pain I felt from reading the last line of that letter: “never forget your mum”, remains the single most horrific moment of my entire life. It was so mind-shattering that for a long time I firmly believed that anyone I cared about would always leave me.
In the years that followed, my mother would often comment to friends, family and anyone who would listen that I was “just like my father”. Despite the smile that accompanied her words, it wasn’t a positive statement. Her resentment, although she didn’t realise it, was palpable.
I was now at an age when the emotional turmoil I’d suffered as a kid was about to collide with hormonal teenage angst. The self-doubt and debilitating lack of confidence I felt were horrible and I spent what should have been a joyous and carefree time in my life worrying about, well, everything and anything.
Bizarrely, at least when I had one of my frequent panic attacks, I “felt” something, as most of my waking hours were mentally fogbound: a heady mixture of lethargy and numbness.
Sadly, I barely knew my dad. Over the years, my young mind had blanked out any essence of who he was or what he meant to me. I’m not a psychiatrist, but I guess this was an attempt at mental self-preservation.
In fact, I did such a good job on myself that on the day he died, although I can remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard the news, I felt nothing. I didn’t even go to his funeral. This still saddens me so much.
As my formative years were such a massive psychological disaster, getting too close to anyone as an adult was a terrifying prospect.
The trail of disastrous and broken relationships left in my wake is testament to this. I’ve also suffered several bouts of depression and anxiety, and I still have a tendency to self-destruct at the drop of a hat.
Although I’ve dealt with many of my issues, my godlike comedy-genius and outwardly confident persona are still hiding the real me. Imposter syndrome? Check me out!
My reason for sharing this very personal story is simple. As I’m a massive coward, if I can find the strength to seek help and talk about my problems, I know you can too.
When I was in a very dark place, just before my 40th birthday, I plucked up the courage to speak to someone. I was in denial; drinking way too too much and not looking after myself properly.
I left seeking professional help much later than I should have – almost too late. I was desperate and, I suspect, not far away from chucking myself off a tall building. I talked to my doctor and was then recommended an amazing counsellor. She listened and listened and then listened some more.
Gradually, through her patience and skill (and lots of my tears), I came to some understanding of why I felt and acted the way I did and she gave me some tools and strategies to help me cope with these feelings.
I still have my dark moments and they will probably never completely leave, but Rachel, my amazing wife and my steadying rock, is always there for me when I need emotional support.
Anyway you lot, never EVER feel that you have to suffer in silence, because I promise you there is ALWAYS someone out there ready to listen and help.
So take that horrible, almost impossibly difficult first fucking step. I promise you WILL thank me later that you did!
RIP dad – I wish things could have been different x
❤