What's Normal Anyway? Celebrities' Own Stories of Mental Illness (16 page)

And it led to thoughts of suicide. It was sort of strange really cos I was a bit drunk and it was a bit surreal and I don't know if I . . . I don't know if I attempted to do it properly or not. I don't know if it scared me or what, but it got to a stage where I just . . . I didn't want to be here, but I don't think I 'ad the bollocks to fuckin' do it, basically. Nothing was going through me head really, I just didn't want to be alive, just felt: ‘Well, if I take these tablets then I won't be fuckin' here anymore.' And, you know, drinking Amaretto and taking tablets, I just thought well if . . . if I just take tablets then everything will go away and I won't wake up and then obviously I can't hurt anybody else. Cos that's all I kept doing, I kept hurting the ones that were closest to me, in Helen and Josh and Jordan. It was a selfish thing to do, yeah I know that, I know that now, but at the time you think if you want to stop hurting people then if I kill meself, or if I'm not here, then I don't hurt anybody.

The first time I was found by me girlfriend in the kitchen, on the floor. Obviously I was very down but I can't really remember it. I just spewed up, then I went to bed, and then I was alright again the next day to be fair. The second time, I was on the landing and I just thought I'll try and see . . . see, basically, if I can hang meself. I'd rang up me friend close to me and just said: ‘I'm really down and I'm gonna fuckin' do something stupid.' I got a sheet but cos I was, like, hungover and drunk, I got a sheet which was too long so it didn't work. Then I got a belt and I tried . . . I put a belt round me neck. And as I went to try doing it, when I was just pulling it onto the landing, she walked through the door, you know? So if she hadn't of walked in, then I don't know what would have happened. And that's when she rang me mam up and me brother-in-law, and they came round and said: ‘Look you need to fuckin' . . . you need to get some help.'

So what I done was I got all me gear, left me girl, left the house, and went back to Leeds and went back to me wife. Obviously we weren't having a sexual relationship, she just let me sleep in the eldest lad's bed and helped me. And then Ian Ashbee put me on to Clarke Carlisle, as obviously Clarke Carlisle has suffered the same, and he said: ‘Look I'll put you on to a gentleman at the Sporting Chance Clinic.' So I spoke to him and he asked me to go down for an assessment, but I just couldn't speak really, I was in tears, and he just said: ‘Look, you need to come in.' So, like, I had to go in, sort of two weeks later, for twenty-six days.

When I was there part of the programme is you go to the gym in the morning every day at 9 o'clock. Then you come back and you do a group session and speak about what's happening to people, and I was just breaking down. And in the afternoon you'd have one-to-one meetings, and then you do your steps, you go to AA meetings, and share in the AA meetings, even though I was saying I wasn't an alcoholic. Before, I thought AA meetings were for these down and out fuckin' people, but there's some very sophisticated people that go to them meetings you know? There was this big famous rock star in one of our meetings, so if a big personality and big star can stand there in front of twenty-odd people, then I can. And I actually really enjoyed going to the meetings, cos everybody was talking about their problems and sharing really, and that's what they got into your 'ead: that you have to share with people, cos if you don't you end up fuckin' dead.

I didn't take any medication for depression, I didn't take anything at all, cos I think my biggest problem was having the bollocks to come out and say that I am fuckin' down. It's tough, but when I went to rehab I learnt to talk about things. I never used to talk about things, like when me dad died and I bottled everything up, and that's when I used to go drinking and I was crying all the time, I was fed up all the time. You know, I was like a yoyo, I was up one day and down the next, there was no in between with me. But even though this stuff was difficult at first, once I started to pour everything out, it made me feel better. It was like a weight lifting . . . a weight lifting off me shoulders.

And the response I got when I was in rehab was incredible, on Twitter and letters that got sent to Sporting Chance, from Hull City supporters and football supporters in general. I had a great response from people saying: ‘Hope you get better soon', an' this, that 'n' the other. I have had some negative reactions though. A girl had a go at me in me local pub once, cos her dad committed suicide, and she sort of said, you know: ‘You're a fuckin' selfish man.' And I thought: ‘Why's she being funny with me?', cos I obviously didn't know that her dad committed suicide. So it sort of . . . I think it upset her, thinking: ‘Well you've got a good life in front of you . . .'. But she was suffering because her dad killed hi'self and she had all the heartache with it. Listen, everybody's got their own opinions, you know, and she was right, the lady was right, it was a selfish way. I wanted to die. I didn't want to be here anymore cos I didn't want to hurt anybody else.

You know, I may be a big 'ard fuckin' man on the football pitch, but I'm soft as shit when I come off it – that was my personality. I'd fight anybody, it weren't a problem to me, but obviously I looked at meself as a failure really cos, well, I'd lost me wife and me kids and everything that I'd worked hard for, so that's the road I went down. But if I'd of gone ahead and done it then I'd a ruined me kids for the rest of their life. And I think that if I didn't get to rehab I don't know what would've happened to me. Looking back now it was probably one of the best twenty-six days I've had for a number of years, I really enjoyed it. I mean, I wanted to come home, of course I did – I wanted to give it up halfway cos I didn't think I'd be able to do it, 'n' the three lads who I was in with was exactly the same – but I did it and I felt good. Obviously I lost a lot of weight by training and I didn't have a drink for forty-odd days, and that's how I sort of got me help really.

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And I'm 'appy now. Even though I ain't got the money, I'm 'appy. I work in Hull for Quality Fixings, selling nuts and bolts, and I get up in the morning . . . I actually wake up in the morning and want to go to work. The bloke who give me a job said: ‘You're the face of Hull, you, you might get me a bit of business and some hard work at the same time.' Even when I got done drink-driving and crashed me car and was banned for two years, he still kept me in a job. I get drove around now by one of the lads in the office, and we go out and meet people and get through the doors and try and sell as many things as we can really. So I work hard, you know, I work hard for what I get now. It seems a bit of a stupid cliché really but the more you have, the more people want to take off you. So, you know, when you ain't got nowt they can't take it off you. And now I don't have hardly 'owt, just a bit to get me by.

Filling time and keeping busy is the main thing I try telling people: that you've got to keep busy, you've got to get up for something in the morning. I don't care what it is but you've got to get up, cos if you don't, you end up going to the pub cos you're bored and eventually your fuckin' money runs out, and you fuckin' end up going crackers, you know? Now I play football on a Saturday in Hull, so that takes me mind off it for an hour an' half or so, and I enjoy me weekends. And I do a lot of commentating as well now with me Sky Sports work on the radio on Thursdays, so I've got summin. And obviously I got community service for me drink-driving. So I work three days a week, do me community service Mondays and Fridays – even though I don't want to do me community service in a charity shop in Bingley, I've gotta do it, cos if not, I'll go to prison! – so at least I'm, like, busy.

And yeah, depression never leaves you; it's treatable innit, but it's never curable I don't think. I have good days and I have bad days, I'm still having good days and bad days. I'm still having fuckin' fights and arguments with me ex-wife about me children, and me children don't speak to me cos I'm back with this girl again now, and it's very difficult at the moment. You know, I miss me kids dearly and hopefully they'll forgive me and eventually come round and want to see me again, but at the moment it's a bit raw, so there's nothing I can do about that, I've got to get on with it. But I'm probably a bit mentally stronger than I was before. Before I was fuckin' . . . before I would crumble and go out on the piss and get drunk and feel sorry for meself. But I don't do it now. And obviously now I can talk about me dad and not cry. Don't get me wrong, I miss me dad fuckin' deeply but, you know, I can cope with it now, I can live with it. But before I couldn't cope with it, I couldn't, you know . . . when he died it screwed me up inside.

If I had one message for people it would be: just be strong, just come out and please admit that you've got a problem, cos if you don't, it could sadly end in a bad way. I'm glad I can talk about it now, I'm glad I'm here to tell the tale – if it helps anybody in any way, shape or form, if I can help one person, then brilliant. I'm not doing this for sympathy or for people to feel sorry for me, it was just the path that I'd gone down. And even though I still have bad days – I've had a bit of a bad day today really, I've been down today – I've got to be positive, I've got to keep fuckin' active and keep working. So first and foremost: just come out and talk and go and see your GP, go and see anybody, go and see your next-door neighbour if you have to. You know, when I do me guest speaking now, I come out and say: ‘Listen, I don't care if you're an 'airy-arsed fuckin' biker or you're at Oxford or whatever – if you don't tell people that you've got a fuckin' problem then how can anybody help you?'

‘There's no glamour in being a mental health patron – with mental health they think it's catching and they still connect mad and bad. Where are the big balls to do with mental health? Who are the glitzy stars who hold star-spangled do's for mental health? You know, there's no glitz, there's no glamour, no pink or red ribbons, no Liz Hurleys and Elton Johns. When I had breast cancer everyone was my best friend, wanting to come and hug me and saying: “Can you do this, and can you do that, and can you be guest of honour at this, that, and the other?” Oh, I could live high on being a spokesperson for a breast cancer charity, which I will not be. There's far more glamour in that than in mental health.'

B
orn in London in 1957, Trisha spent her childhood in Tanzania, Norfolk, and Surrey. After emigrating to Australia in 1985 she became a reporter and television presenter, most notably on
Play School
; presenting ABC's
7.30 Report
; and the prime-time show
Everybody
. She then started her own production company, where she produced and presented over 400 programmes of the chat show
Live It Up
. In 1998, Trisha moved to the UK to present the ITV daily chat show
Trisha
and later
Trisha Goddard
for Five. In 2012, she began to host the US
Trisha Goddard
talk show on NBC and now splits her time between America and Norfolk, where she lives with her third husband Peter Gianfrancesco – CEO of Norwich Mind and a psychotherapist – her two daughters Billie and Madi, and their dog Alf. Trisha has experienced episodes of depression, anxiety, eating disorders, and obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD) since she was a teenager, which led to a nervous breakdown and a stay in a psychiatric hospital in 1994. In Australia she worked as a mental health activist, while in the UK she became a licensed Neuro-Linguistic Programming (NLP) Practitioner, Mind Mental Health First Aider, and Patron of Norwich Home-Start and Norwich Mind. The interview upon which this chapter is based took place in London, just before Trisha began filming for her new US talk show.

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You know what? Madness is normal. How can it not be, with so many people? All of us know at least one person with some sort of mental illness, it's not that unusual these days. In fact, it's everywhere, it is everywhere. One in four, we say. Or, you know, some people say one in one, because we're talking about mental illness, but mental health is part of that continuum. And we've all got mental health and how it is at the time depends on a lot of different things. It's a normal part of the human condition for something in the body to go wrong: it might be a foot, it might be a knee, it might be an elbow, it might be the mind.

With the benefit of hindsight I really started suffering – and I use my words very carefully – from mental health problems when I was around fourteen. But to me, it was just how I was, I was a very sensitive child. The person I thought was my father, who I learnt a few years ago was actually my stepfather, worked as a psychiatric nurse – in the days when it was more about restraint and learning judo – and could be very unpredictable and aggressive. So I always felt I had no control, because there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to his behaviour. I couldn't say to myself: ‘If I do X I'll get into trouble and get a hiding, if I do Y . . .'. I didn't know when and where it was coming because, in retrospect, whether he laughed or lashed out was tied into his moods, not what I did.