A Day In A Life

They say retrospect is a wonderful thing. To be able to review; objectively and honestly – moments, times or even periods of time. Critically or loosely. Positively or negatively. Sometimes that essential clarity of thought cannot be granted until enough time has passed, as the mind (it has been known) to play tricks on us. In this particularly unique instance it has taken me this long – twenty-two years, in fact – to be openly able to absolutely look everything in the eye and be brutally frank. To the point where it’s almost completely written in the third-person, about another individual.

 I suppose it could be as much the self-therapy I’ve wanted to gift myself, as it is hopefully a document of mental health learning for others. Tomorrow I will turn the grand, fuddy-duddy, middle-aged, wrinkle-washed age of forty-four. Double the age of probably the most pivotal and instrumental birthday anniversary of my life. Those who have known me forever will know why – but as I try not to assume that I know everything about everyone – this is a story from a very jittery life journey. Having lost people; friends and acquaintances from my generation to mental health struggles and coping mechanisms which didn’t work – “every little helps”, as Tesco says.

 On Wednesday, May 7th, 1997, I travelled back to Nottingham; to my university life, having visited my mother after a write-off, nasty car accident had broken both her legs. She used to tell me up to that point “I’ve been driving twenty-five years and had no accidents, so don’t tell me how to drive!” When the time had clearly come to blemish the self-prognosed perfect driver’s record – it was done in destructive style. Anyway, having left my pin-legged mother in Llanelli, I returned to pre-arranged birthday drinks in Nottingham. A month or so away from completing my BA (Hons) Communication Studies course, this was to be probably the last big celebration before a month of coursework was to be completed. Life was good (apart from the aforementioned Mrs Damon Hill-Jones’s road exploits).

 After a few hours of not paying for any drinks, I felt on the brink of being annihilated - should I drink any more. So, after running into my work colleague from my part-time job at the Beatroot nightclub, the two of us diverted from Sam Fay’s late bar – to his nearby flat, near Nottingham castle, so I could chill out for an hour. The plan was to return and see the night out until 2am. Whether the walk and fresh air had helped or not, I had a semi-second wind. We got to his flat and my ideals of birthday grandeur got the better of me. I wanted a bottle of bubbles. At that time of night, the only place I could get one would be a nightclub, so we ordered a taxi to take us to…sigh….The Black Orchid. A cheesy, yet huge club in the enterprise park which had Wednesday student night on. Did I need the bottle? No, yet the cab was booked.

 It was at this point that my mental hard drive crashed. My next memory was waking up in a hospital bed, the following afternoon, with not only my friends around the bed, but my father as well. I opened my eyes and asked; “What happened?”, as if I was in a scene of a film where the character had woken up in heaven – only to be sent back to earth with a completely abstract life narrative to the one which was being played up to the Wednesday. Turns out I had probably had another drink at my friend’s, at some point of the night consumed a small amount of amphetamines, then passed out on the first-floor landing, but falling sharply down the twenty feet of stairs on my head, all the way.

Now, with music playing loudly, my workmate and his flatmate heard nothing. It was their neighbour who heard a large ‘thud’, who rang the doorbell in concern which alerted them, along with the taxi which had arrived outside. There was blood everywhere. I had fractured my skull, torn nerves while breaking my nose and had a slight haemorrhage on the side of my head. Five days were spent in Nottingham’s QMC Hospital, mostly sleeping. On the Saturday, I remember getting out of bed in a complete fuzzy daydream, wearing only one of those crappy bed gowns; walking to the toilet with the nurse calling after me “Nathan! Where are you going?” “Home!” was the abrupt, muddled answer. I urinated, went back to bed and proceeded to enter hibernation once again.

 Doctors said I was lucky to be alive. There was a dent at the front of my cranium, around an inch long. Had that been an inch higher in position on my skull – I was told I would have died. Those nerves I severed were my smell and taste nerves, so I’ve had very diminished senses in those departments, since. Most pivotal – was my doctor, back in Llanelli; once I returned and spent another five days in Prince Phillip Hospital, he said “You will experience some depression and levels of fatigue.” Immediately, in my head I decided – no I won’t. Not the depression, anyway. I’ll find a way of keeping lively and feeling good. The fact Being ruled out of playing rugby or football for at least nine months became a huge problem. My penultimate match played before the incident was for Wales Students Rugby League team against Scotland. The previous summer I had trained pre-season with my beloved Llanelli RFC, with the likes of Stephen Jones and Ieuan Evans; taking my fitness to a new level. I was twenty-two with the world at my feet. There was no way I was stopping. Unsurprisingly, it took a very short space of sleepy, anxious time to realise I’d have to succumb to the doctor’s prognoses.

 Panic attacks began, embarrassingly in public while visiting a friend for their birthday in August 1997, having seen out three months of ‘no alcohol’ from my doctor’s orders. I had no energy. Not even enough to complete my coursework, so Nottingham Trent University gave me an extension of three months – to the end of August, to submit my work. However, I was living away from the university and my beloved friends. What the hell was happening? No energy; forced to live with my mother and brother while my father and sister both lived in Cardiff; both studying for their new careers. Here beginneth the hardest years of my life.

 By the end of 1997, I had managed to graduate successfully, but I was by then suffering heavy depression and anxiety, fuelled by the loneliness of having no friends around; not knowing why I was on earth and wanting to die. I had lost all tracking of whom I was, what I was doing and where any of it was going. Plus, glandular fever had bitten me hard, taking a month out of my glorious, progressive freezer job at Asda.

In January 1998, I was charged with drink-driving, having driven home on Christmas week with no care for repercussions; caught on camera making a U-turn in a forbidden area. While living at home with my mother caused all sorts of tension, arguments and vitriol, the only thing which kept me partially sane was my first set of turntables. With very few points of company around in a reversal of vibrant, university life – it was me; and the decks. Over time, it became a slow, fearful return to “normal” life. I have never been a naturally confident person – easily intimidated in the past by louder, overconfident characters, but this new anger in me – for what I didn’t know – became something, someone – I had to allow to be played out. Not a villain, but an even more insecure little boy to that one on the morning of May 7th, 1997. Unapologetically cavalier, which only cost me at times – and those who suffer depression will know how past mistakes can eat the soul of those who made the mistakes.

For many years I refused to accept depression and anxiety were a part of me. My mother has since told me she believed it began with my grandfather’s death when I was seventeen, but I know from looking deeply inside myself, from exploring instincts I’ve always had, but with which I’ve had to become accustomed – questions I’ve asked in early teenage years, that my fears and those scared instincts – must be tied into my neurological wiring. Throughout my early twenties, from that point I lived out wild teenage years – years locked away inside the vault of a strict upbringing. Partying. Having to surrender, also – any instinctive passion or talent I had for playing rugby, from being oversensitive to knockbacks and increasing lack of confidence.

 Seventeen thousand career changes later, I find myself at almost full-circle completion point. Only now, a bit of maturity (which I appreciate) makes the Peter Pan in me; hopefully a more reasoned character and person. I went into teaching (having told myself at eighteen I would never become a teacher) to try forging a predictable, 9-to-5 life for myself in a past relationship. To try proving to myself I was a virtuous individual (ironically omitting the thought that there are vile and immoral teachers out there too – luckily not many, but there are!) among the clouds of twentysomething decisions – without realising I didn’t have to almost burn myself out a second time, by becoming something I was not aligned with - to prove I could be virtuous and good. Back, now; working in hospitality and trying to revitalise my DJ career (as that’s what I always wanted to do), playing music I love and believe in – rather than what I fooled myself into thinking others wanted, in those hazy days.

 Personally, visiting a psychologist in 2013 (my own choice) to try fathoming whether I had ADHD – which could explain these seventeen-thousand career changes, as well as lack of interest in my later school days – may have given me the road signs I needed. Being told it wasn’t attention deficit, but depression – being medicated has been like having a carbon monoxide fan for the air I breathe. It can always seep back into the oxygen channels, but I have now the ability to blow it away. The ridiculousness of life is something I have to laugh at – I don’t believe in staying miserable (despite being the younger Victor Meldrew). I appreciate the chances I have now and my family life. The point being – the imbalanced brain wires may have always been there but became violently exacerbated by this accident. I cannot stress enough how important it is to consult a mental health professional. Drop the pride, the façade and ideals of grandeur – everyone has some kind of something going on. Some are better are dealing with it than others.  Some can’t hold on in the battle.

 In one of those seventeen thousand careers – twenty years ago, in fact – I worked at what was, pretty much – an abuse line, call-centre; at British Gas in Cardiff. One reason I didn’t last there was because I am not a salesman. Plus, I’m an impatient non-salesman. In this job, the department had to deal with calls from people who had been mis-sold contracts by field agents, selling gas and electricity. On one memorable occasion an English man called, calling me a “f***ing c***” for asking him to explain – a little slower – what exactly happened and how he was conned. When I told him I’d hang up if he didn’t change his abusive tone, he replied “Sorry, I haven’t had my medication today, have I love?” To which his wife, shouting in the background answered, “No, he hasn’t.”

 I still laugh at that, knowing that’s the bar of communication I’d prefer to stay beneath.