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I admitted I needed help with depression after 15 years – better late than never

Depression, anxiety, self-harm and suicidal ideation were all found to be disproportionately common among men under the age of 26: iStock
Depression, anxiety, self-harm and suicidal ideation were all found to be disproportionately common among men under the age of 26: iStock

In the grand scheme of things, a year is nothing more than the tiniest grain of sand on an ever-expanding cosmic beach. But when you’re living with depression and anxiety, it can feel like the total opposite. A year might be insurmountable.

2018 was one of those years. By July, I’d had enough; I attempted suicide. In the aftermath, the momentary relief to still have air in my lungs convinced me to open up the backpack of nightmares I’d been carrying for so long.

I spoke to my football team about what I was going through. The love my bros showed me and the catharsis of unburdening was beautiful. I wrote about my experience. More love. More release. It was all temporary, though; darkness steadily poured back in.

At the beginning of 2019, I made one resolution: get help. The grip of toxic masculinity’s omertà is impressive, so it was 15 years after I first clocked I was struggling. Still, better late than never.

I saw my GP in January, cried a lot in his office, and completed the self-referral forms for mental health services. I work in education, with children who desperately need to access those services but can’t for lack of funding. The Tories value fair and equal access to mental health support as much as dogs value toilet paper. I’d be waiting a while, but knowing help would eventually come gave me a reason to hang about.

In the meantime, I resolved to be kind to myself and kickstart the healing process on my own.

Respite from work seemed logical. My GP signed me off. The initial novelty of not spending several gruelling hours absorbing children’s trauma was dwarfed by shame at not being there to support them. Visits to the docs to extend my sick-note added a shot of “I’m pathetic” to the mix.

My employer didn’t rate my struggle, nor that I had the cheek to write about it. My position became untenable and I resigned.

I’d practiced mindfulness to get in the zone for boxing matches in the past. I figured my faithful Headspace app might keep give me an advantage in the fight I was having with myself. My internal monologue was a negativity mixtape, with “‘what’s the point in anything, Rob?” and “why don’t you just give up?” big in the rotation. The app’s gentle tones didn’t cut the mustard. It’s hard to be present in the moment when you want to be permanently absent.

In April, I had an initial telephone appointment. Cue lots more crying to a kind voice on the other end of the line, who reassured me I’d be contacted “in about two weeks” to be offered a course of treatment.

With time on my hands, the routine and structure of preparing for another fight could’ve been what I needed to anchor me in the storm. I was also clucking for some exercise-induced endorphins. Training can be a great tonic for depression, but training for a fight requires digging deep within myself, and I felt hollow. My mind was swamped with emptiness. My body was overwhelmingly fatigued. I downed a couple more shots of “I’m pathetic” and sacked off the boxing gym.

I still wanted those delicious endorphins though, or maybe some dopamine, or serotonin. I’d been chasing highs and dragging myself out of the subsequent lows since my teenage years. Now I chased them with the determination of a Brunel Uni fresher. The lows which followed threatened to become bottomless.

The “in about two weeks” timeframe was optimistic. I received an “are you still alive?” letter in August from the mental health team. I guess the idea was that while I wait for treatment, my depression, anxiety and suicidal thoughts would quietly scuttle away like mice and I’d get better on my own. Plot twist; I wasn’t getting better.

Playing for my football team was a constant. My team-mates are more than my friends, we’re family. We’re all broken men, in one way or another, but we hold each other together. Turning up at Hackney Marshes on a soaking Sunday morning is self-care for us.

Our new season kicked off in the autumn. Anger swirled in my belly. I’d been abandoned because the Tories have bled mental health funding dry. I knew exactly who to aim my anger at; posh boys. If there was a posh boy on the pitch, they were getting that smoke. The simple joy of playing football was being eroded by my inability to not kick posh boys.

While waist-deep in pre-Christmas booze, I got an “are you still alive?” text from the mental health team. The message landed in my inbox at 02:27 AM, like an office booty call. If you ask me if I still require therapy at the Devil’s hour, when I’m full of powders and potions, I’ll tell you I don’t because I feel invincible. Thankfully, this was a “do not reply” service.

My grand attempts at healing had failed. I found occasional peace in the subtler things.

Music offered me comfort and strength. The vibes of Earl Sweatshirt and Mac Miller reminded me I wasn’t alone with my demons. A dose of Freddie Gibbs in my headphones hauled me out of bed when I couldn’t face the world. I lost myself in books, from Murakami’s deadpan surreality to Tomi Adeyemi’s Orïsha. I enjoyed the daily warmth of my girlfriend’s skin against mine as I sipped coffee in bed, and watching sparrows hustle wood-pigeons out of seeds in the garden.

2019 had been another impossible year; these things allowed me make it out the other side.

I wasn’t going to heal on my own because I am sick, sometimes desperately so, and require treatment. Paracetomol won’t reset a broken leg. Drinking Oatly won’t halt climate change. Time off work, mindfulness, exercise and self-medicating will never be adequate substitutes for professional intervention.

And here I am, in big 2020, with a therapy appointment finally confirmed. I hope Ian is ready for me. I’ve got a lot to say.