* WARNING: CONTAINS RECYCLED MATERIAL *
I made a mistake on Thursday night. A simple, stupid mistake that I had trained myself not to make, but being me, I made it yet again. First, I shall go back in time.
No thanks to the multitude of therapists, councillors and mental health specialists I have been treated by over the years, but I came up with a simple strategy to reduce the depression, anxiety and stress in a variety of circumstances. It is not a strategy for life, just for dealing with particular circumstances. More than that, it works.
My theory came alive in 2011 when my father Anthony Johansen died. Of course, I was upset but, I suspect, the shock muted my true emotions. I had to fly to Ottawa in Canada for his funeral, the first step of which involved taking the National Express from Bristol to Heathrow Airport. So far, so good. I listened to music, I read a book and given the circumstances I seemed to be coping rather well. It was when I went to check-in for the flight that things started to go wrong.
The woman at check-in started asking me questions and one of them struck a raw nerve. “Is your visit for business or pleasure?” My brain immediately turned into papier-mâché. There was a pause which felt like many minutes but was almost certainly seconds and I started crying. And not just any old crying; proper full-on blubbing. Somehow, I managed to blurt out the visit was not for business nor pleasure. It was for my dad’s funeral. I don’t remember what happened next. I must have pulled myself together and made my way to the departure lounge.
Then, my flight was called and I made my way to the gate. As I showed my ticket and passport to the member of staff, I broke down again. I was a total mess. They asked if there was anything they could do. Any chance you could sit me alone, away from everyone else? Miraculously, they did. I boarded the Air Canada Boeing 767 and found they put me on a window seat on the left hand side of the plane. I then became absorbed in the flying experience. But I started to think. Why had some things upset me and others hadn’t? And then it came to me. I had known I was getting the bus to the airport and what it would feel like. I knew what it involved finding the right terminal. I was prepared for all that, not consciously, but everything was predictable. What I hadn’t prepared for were the things which upset me. So, I set about making a plan.
I thought through what would happen after we landed in Ottawa. I had done it twice before in happier circumstances but this time my dad wouldn’t be waiting for me. I thought it through. Then, over a period of hours, I thought through my entire stay in the city, including the funeral itself. I knew I would be speaking so when I wrote my speech the night before, I knew it back to front, even if I wasn’t capable of speaking without a written version in front of me. I thought of everything I could. What others would say, I imagined how it would feel speaking to an audience of well over 100 people and a calm came over me which never went away.
I took my dad’s ashes back to England after the funeral and again prepared myself for everything that might happen. It worked. Although I felt sorrow as I boarded the return flight, I was in control. That control stayed again and I’ve been in control of my emotions about my dad ever since.
Here, I’ll take a brief pause. This, I have concluded, was about controlling my brain, something with which I have always struggled, but in this case it worked. But in recent years, I have forgotten my own lessons. My mental breakdown in 2017 caused by the British Red Cross was mainly down to their bullying and abusive behaviour, but it was also because I could not control my mind by preparing myself. It all happened very quickly. I’ve been quite ill ever since.
Having become a virtual hermit during lockdown and ever since, only recently I have begin to venture out. I am forcing myself to do stuff and I am employing my old strategy of preparation. Until last Thursday, it was working.
I put myself down to attend an evening at Bristol Rovers Football Club planned by the club’s independent Community Department which was about mental health, specifically the Talk Club initiative. The evening consisted of showing a film called ‘Steve’ about a young man who had killed himself and then a discussion about why so many men kill themselves. In attendance were various people from the Community Department, a. current player, a former player and the people behind Talk Club.
I had not been to the stadium for nearly four years since I stopped going to games. Successive owners and officials had drained my enthusiasm for Bristol Rovers but here was an opportunity to re-engage. It didn’t go well.
As the evening approached, I became increasingly anxious. A few months ago, maybe just weeks ago, I’d have just not gone, but sod it, I thought: I can do this. So, I drove to the stadium and upon arrival my heart felt like it was jumping out of my chest. I went into the well-lit Thatchers Bar and found a seat as far from anyone else as I could. In any event, I only knew one of the people who were there and even then not very well.
Finally, at around 7.20pm, the lights were finally dipped and the evening began. Film maker Ben Akers gave a brief introduction and on came the film. I wanted to leave immediately. I was crippled with anxiety and I could feel a wave of depression rushing over me. There were two things at play, neither of which occurred to me at the time. First, I had not prepared myself in any way. I had just turned up ‘on spec’ without knowing who and what ‘Steve’ was and more importantly what the Talk Club was. After about 10 minutes, in circumstances were classic Rovers, I saw my chance to run.
Suddenly, the sound system began to conk out and eventually Adam Tutton, who runs the Community Department, stopped the film and grabbed the microphone to explain the problem, how they would seek to address it, how sorry he was and if anyone wanted to get a drink when we were waiting now was a good time to do so. I have no criticism of anyone but the hubbub and overall atmosphere felt to me – I emphasise to me – as just another social event. I had not done my research, I did not know what was supposed to be going on, I knew nothing about Talk Club; basically I was in the wrong place. As discreetly as I could, I picked up my scarf and coat and left quietly, passing the queues for the bar as I did so.
I could have kicked myself for being so stupid as to not prepare for the evening, given how well I had done on 2011 and numerous occasions since. In the absence of any NHS treatment I had treated myself and for once I had found something that worked for me but that night I forgot all about it. More fool me.
Part of it was undoubtedly the return to Bristol Rovers. I started to fall out of love with the club back in 2006, something that accelerated with the actions of the previous owner Nick Higgs and turned into a full divorce under the ownership of Wael al Qadi and the current management of the wretched Joey Barton. Maybe this, an issue that has defined my whole life at the club I always supported, could sow the seeds of a return to the club. But now, maybe not.
I wasn’t so much dreading club officials. More what I might say to them. Happily, none, bar one of the players, attended. But the experience did something else. I learned that the Memorial Stadium was not the place for me to be spending any more of my time and, irony upon irony, I am far too unwell to attend mental health evenings like this.
Being the hermit did and didn’t fit with me. I have a need to spend a lot of time on my own but then again there are people and places I want to see. Many of the people, it transpires, attend matches at the Memorial Stadium. After Thursday’s experience, which I can’t fully explain nor understand, I’ll have to meet them elsewhere.
The watchword for the future will be preparation but only after I’ve carried out my own personal risk assessment of how something will affect me. Some things I just won’t be able to do. I am not going to kill myself with what will effectively be self-inflicted depression and anxiety. And with the NHS facilities for mental health being unfit for purpose or non existent, I am my own psychiatrist. Not exactly encouraging.
An old friend once told me his therapist advised him to stop going to Bristol Rovers games because it was “making my mental health worse”. I laughed along with him, but I knew what he meant. A mental health event made my mental health worse last week. Probably my fault but I’m not going to risk it happening again. BS7 may be just three miles from my home, but it may as well be in, say, Canada.
