Today is International Men’s Day, and aside this being the day many a mongo claims doesn’t exist on International Women’s Day, it does, and my friend Eddy Temple Morris along with The CALMzone has seized it as a great opportunity to raise awareness of male suicide. The thinking being that men don’t want to talk about their problems, their feelings, they bottle it up, they let these things eat them up inside til it’s too late.
I’m Depressed. Severely depressed. I was diagnosed in September last year after a long summer of festivals and gigs where I noticed an increasing disconnection with the audience wherever I was playing. People were dancing, in fact I was probably dancing (I do it behind the decks without really noticing) but deep down I was having a hell of a time and it didn’t make any sense.
It’s probably normal to feel a bit of emptiness after a slew of gigs – no more noise, no more adrenaline – but a week or so after Bestival I was still feeling low so I plucked up the courage to go to the doctor, and that’s where this spiralling descent into despair really starts.
Making the appointment was the biggest leap for me, it was something I’d been thinking about for a while and I was terrified of the answer but I took a deep breath and called my doctor’s office. The woman on the other end of the phone sounded stressed, I could hear a baby crying, and at least 2 other voices in close proximity. I asked to book an appointment, she told me to hang on whilst she argued with one of the other voices. She spoke to me again, no wait, she wasn’t speaking to me, or maybe she was, I started speaking, she said “sorry, hold on” and continued speaking to someone else. The baby kept crying, another voice was involved, I sat there trying to keep focused til it was finally resolved, she apologised then asked me what I wanted to see the doctor about, “feeling anxious and depressed” I told her.
I kind of wish she’d laughed but it sounded like she was having a worse day than me at this point. Appointment booked, I went on with my week sluggishly, unable to focus on any work. I somehow managed to fit in a friend’s birthday meal with the terror of the next day’s appointment looming over me.
I’d never met the doctor before but he seemed like a nice guy who went through the motions without making me feel like we were going through the motions. The result of the standard questionnaire was “severe depression” and I generally brandish this prefix due to the way “depressed” is so casually rolled out by people who are actually just unhappy about something.
Then we started talking about possible causes.
“Do you drink?”
“No.”
“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“Do you take recreational drugs of any kind?”
“No.”
The poor guy had this sudden pained look on his face like “I’m gonna actually have to do some proper work here”.
I explained my situation. How I’m a recording artist who doesn’t make a great deal of money, which had been fine until I found myself losing the will to do what was required to pay the bills. How my lack of money and job security wrestled with the problem that all anyone in London by this point seemed to want to talk about was mortgages and how expensive property was. How all this was creating insecurities around my career which was also my hobby. How that in itself created the dizzying effect of feeling guilty for feeling depressed about something which I know I should be grateful I get to do as a job, however shit the pay may be.
His response was of course drugs. I told him outright I wouldn’t take antidepressants. He didn’t take this well but suggested I still consider them whilst I undergo CBT and sent me off with a number to contact – apparently they used to hook all this up for you but not anymore due to patients not bothering to attend.
CBT (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy), I’ve been told is great for quitting smoking and dealing with basic problems you can’t quite put your finger on but I was admittedly pretty skeptical about how it could help me. I was willing to give it a try in lieu of anything else and as an alternative to antidepressants, so I once again, took a deep breath and picked up the phone.
Same basic depression quiz, same result. The guy told me I’d get a call in a week’s time and I’d do an interview over the phone with a therapist. I hate talking to people on the phone at the best of times but there wasn’t another option. I had to wait a week to then have another terrifying conversation with an impersonal voice down a phone. I wasn’t suicidal, though at my lowest points it was frighteningly starting to feel like a possible option, I grasped at that fear knowing that the moment it was gone, I would be too.
So I waited a week, in which time a letter came with my registration and some helpful numbers in case I was feeling suicidal, the first of which was 999. Thanks for that.
The phone rang. A nice and almost maddeningly calm guy quizzed me again – same severe results, I was never this good at tests at school – and asked me more in depth questions. I went back over my career insecurities, my money situation, my dad dying a few years before, everything which was troubling me because, as I said, I’m not one to bottle stuff up, and we booked in my first CBT session the following week. Another week of feeling like this, trying to work, trying not to bring down people around me, hoping I wont get worse, hoping I wont suddenly think suicide is my only option. I tried to memorise then number they’d sent me, what was it again? 99 something?
The reception at the therapist’s was stark, a little bleak, the lady behind the protective glass counter handed me a form to fill in. The same questionnaire again. I took it into the CBT session, he totted it up and yet again, same results.
He was a lovely guy and I’m grateful for the help but I realised very quickly CBT wasn’t what I needed. I’m fairly pragmatic whilst also being quite aware of what was going on in my head, and the basic labelling and pigeon-holing didn’t sit well with what I was going through. The buzzword “mindfulness” came up a lot.
At one point I told him about having to muster as much good sense as I could simply to get across a bridge late one night without chucking myself into the river.
“Everyone has moments like that” he told me, and he’s right but when you couple those moments with the seemingly bottomless pit of depression and the irrational courting of that urge for these feelings to be over, that moment is suddenly very real. The short walk across the Thames suddenly became the longest, loneliest walk I’d ever taken, forcing me to focus on the faces of people I love, knowing how much of an idiot I’d be if I did jump.
I think I lasted 4 sessions in the end. The final nail in the coffin was being told I should be less negative. Yes. I also have a number for the police in case I’m thinking of killing myself. 9 something something.
Back at the doctor’s I asked if there was something more analytical I could try.
“Why not give antidepressants a go?”
I told him about many a horror story I’ve witnessed. One of my best friends I grew up with hanged himself whilst on antis, an ex slit her wrists whilst on them, I’ve watched relationships fall apart and amazing outgoing people who were still holding it together before taking them, turn into a shell of their former selves. I try not to take headache pills if I can help it so, no thanks.
He actually got angry with me for suggesting that antidepressants were the cause of these deaths. For a moment I was almost sorry so I said “what if I agreed to take them, what would you suggest?”
I forget which brand it was but he described the effects and warned me of possible side effects. For the first few weeks I can expect to feel even lower than I do now, suicidal thoughts are quite common (good job I remembered that number, I think) but it’ll level out and within a month they should be working.
“I’d much prefer therapy, something more analytical than CBT.”
Sadly it turned out that unless I took the antidepressants there was little more the NHS could offer me, unless, and I shit you not here, unless I was committed. Because I’d have to be insane to refuse antidepressants after everything he’d just told me, right?
He also asked me if I’d considered paying for therapy. Yeah, can you lend me some money?
I left with nothing but a number for a local volunteer run counselling service. I’ve never called. It was time to put this sorry episode to bed and try and deal with this myself.
This takes us up to February this year and I’ve spent the rest of this time trying to get back on track with no antidepressants, no therapy. Sometimes I’m fine, sometimes I’m a terrible mess.
Normally when I’m making music, I do long hours, I become a bit of a hermit and then catch up with friends when it’s done. Not the best method but it works and it’s fairly common (listen to “All My Friends” by LCD Sound-system for a prime example, and a great Steve Reich style piano riff toohttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i2V_ZT-nyOs). With depression I find myself working whenever I feel able, and the down time, when I would have been out and about, instead feeling horrible, unable to socialise or often even talk.
I’ve lost friends because of this. In fact I’d already found this work ethic lost me friends. People don’t understand how long it can take to make music, how maddening it can be to spend hours, days, weeks making something which people may listen to once for 3 minutes, if you’re lucky. Couple that with their lack of understanding about what’s happening in my head and I’m up shit creek.
And I don’t blame them. I’ve been dismissive of people with mental health issues in the past myself. It’s impossible to know what’s really happening even if they clearly seem unhappy, because depression isn’t simply unhappiness, and due to the often irrational nature of the beast, you can’t always expect rational behaviour. Your earnest advice may frustratingly fall on deaf ears, it may even cause offense.
I often don’t know what I want when I feel low, it might be for someone to talk to, or listen, or simply give me a hug, it’s generally more complicated, intangible even. All I really know is I don’t want to feel like that. I want to work, I want to do the stuff I’ve always enjoyed doing and not despise it in the process.
I said i wanted to look at this from an artist’s perspective because the one thing I took from my CBT sessions was that my therapist worked with a few musicians. From chatting to a few fellow artists, musicians and collaborators I realised I was far from alone, and wanted to do something.
There’s a bit in the recent Amy Winehouse documentary where she spoke about at least having an outlet through songwriting for her issues but what about artists and performers who don’t have that? I work with other vocalists, the backing music may well be mine but the song is there’s, it’s hard to treat a dancehall tune as an outlet for my woes, even more so when the lyrics don’t reflect what I’m feeling. What about DJ’s who can’t suddenly play a load of downbeat introspective tortured music to a crowd who came to party? What about all those folks behind the scenes?
I’ve spent a year toying with the idea of a radio show discussing depression, mental illness, bereavement etc with fellow artists, and somehow doing it in a lighthearted and accessible way. I think even the recent admission from a few mentally ill artists is still hard for a lot of people – depressed or not – to stomach and that needs to be addressed. Unfortunately the ongoing struggles in my head and the constant backlog of work I’ve been trying to tackle has stood between me and making this happen.
I did however stumble on a podcast where Eddy Temple Morris frankly discussed his thwarted suicide attempt with Scroobious Pip. This was exactly the kind of thing I wanted to hear, not that he was struggling but that he was being so open about it because as an artist and personality, it’s a bold move to be so forthcoming about such matters. Bumming out an audience who rely on you for fun music, for nights out dancing, is potentially career destroying. If I had a manager he’d probably tell me not to share this but I sincerely hope it helps someone in a similar state.
I don’t pretend to have any clear answers, I can’t even say for sure if I’m getting better. The past couple of months i’ve had a succession harrowing low points as I question my ability to finish the Wrongtom Meets Ragga Twins album which I started recording last summer. It’s almost finished but I often feel like it’s almost killed me in the process.
The good news is I still very much fear the thought of suicide and there are so many things I’m looking forward to, even on my darkest days.
I’m sorry if this all comes as a shock to some of you, I’ve mainly kept it quiet while I try and work out what it is but also because I’m an artist and I worry about the audience’s perception of me once it’s out there. I guess I’ll find out now, assuming anyone’s made it this far.
To my friends and family who read this, I love you, even if you haven’t heard from me in months, maybe even years. To my fans (for want of a better term) I appreciate your support so much. If I’m able to talk about this with anyone, I’ll try my best, just don’t expect me to do it over the phone. And remember, there’s always a number you can call, if I could just remember what it was.
If any of this resonates or you think it might help someone out there, please share this. And most importantly if you’re going through it yourself, regardless of gender, job etc, please talk to someone about it, you’ll be surprised how much it helps.
Thanks,
Wrongtom
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P.S. I chose one of Rothko’s Seagram paintings (above) to accompany this, primarily because I’ve noticed these posts go by the wayside when not accompanied by a pic or video but also because I admire Rothko’s refusal to let the Seagram building display the finished painting when he discovered the kind of upscale clientele they were expecting at the Four Seasons. A similar defiance, though obviously far less noteworthy, has run through much of my career choices and no doubt affected my mental health. I view the Seagrams with as much fear as I do admiration, and I hope neither you or I end up like him.
Support Wrongtom’s music, download his BIG Reggae riddim featuring Tippa Irie, Ragga Twins, JC Lodgeand more here: Possessed – EP – Wrongtom
Wrongtom’s Possessed Riddim – 2015
