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I've had far more people than I expected asking me to blog about the book and share some snippets. So I thought I'd start with one of the more difficult parts of the book- the bit I so affectionately call 'The Crash'- more specifically - my mental crash. I'll post one or two more before March, but please comment/email me if you have anything to say or any questions. The book is released on 1st March. Here goes... On reflection- much to my bafflement now- I had ignored all the warning signs: checking my phone and waking in the night to add to my to-do list, working through lunch and dinner, not speaking with my wife and no exercise. I began to grow distant from my family as well; when Wilfred cried, that weight on my chest would increase, and when he came to hold my hand and ask me to play, waves of Anxiety crushed my insides. I even ignored it when the wakefulness in the night became more frequent. However, that weight on my chest that started to characterise my mornings? It would surely just go away, I thought.… This was life in the fast lane, wasn’t it? How silly. In his masterpiece The Noonday Demon, Andrew Solomon captures the sneaking horrors of this with wonderful eloquence: “The birth and death of Depression occur at once. I returned, not long ago, to a wood in which I played as a child and saw an oak, a hundred years dignified, in whose shade I used to play with my brother. In twenty years, a huge vine had attached itself to this confident tree and had nearly smothered it. It was hard to say where the tree left off and the vine began.”[1] Around that time, my brother – a person I have an unshaking love and respect for- I idolise him truth be told - jokingly commented that I’d ‘died’ on him. It hit me, to be honest, but I brushed it off. No time to waste. Two months earlier at a family gathering, I remember remarking to Philippa - my wife - ‘I feel like the Ghost of Christmas Past: no one gives a toss if I’m here or not.’ I was angry, frustrated and upset, but I didn’t really know why. That day, my mum had looked at me and asked, ‘where’s my Andy gone? I’ve lost him.’ I was a grey, tired, miserable shadow of myself, with huge bags under my eyes, lost under a pile of self-importance, work and stress. At the time, I recall the feeling inside me being somewhere between irritability and dismissive when I looked back at her; I was so, so angry. I thought she was being unsupportive and making it all about her when I was just being busy and successful. Anyway, back to my parents’ house: I noticed a swathe of emotion overcome me and then leave me all at once; I didn’t know what it was, but I just wanted to be alone. I took myself away to my parents’ kitchen and sat there quietly. I felt unspeakably miserable. Beaten to the point of no-return. Just utterly hopeless. Not only was I beaten, but now I realised the Harvey Spector suit I had been wearing was from Matalan, not Savile Row; I didn’t have the finances, the corner office, or even a fraction of the success to go with it. I sat, silently. I hoped to hell no one would find me, yet I was desperate for someone to come and pop their head around the door. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be alone at that moment, or whether I needed someone to intervene. After about five minutes, mum emerged and glanced at me. She asked casually: ‘you alright?’ I looked up, held her in my eye for a second, and just shook my head, then I burst into tears. [1]Solomon, Andrew. “The Noonday Demon: an Anatomy of Depression.” The Noonday Demon: an Anatomy of Depression, Vintage, 2016.
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August 2019
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