Craig’s Thoughts What happened? Or where did my Craigy go?

By Craig Hanlon-Smith @craigscontinuum

Following the US election in 2016, a couple of years later Hillary Clinton published a memoir entitled What Happened? I shared my purchase of said writings on Facebook and a friend responded with the additional subheading …Was Nothing to do With Me. I feel as though a personal memoir from the past nine months, many attributes of which we all share, may bear the same heading. Our personal journeys through the current collective – I am going to call it a crisis of course – have everything to do with the I, self, me. That is not to say that it does not sometimes feel like a period of being extremely done to.

The first two weeks of lockdown were a novelty. I’m rarely home so the sudden commute to the kitchen from the bedroom felt as a new-born fairytale and so much cheaper than a monthly gander to London train pass. You know the problem with honeymoons? Ask Charles and Diana.

I cannot recall a key or landmark moment nor sudden descent into the darkness, although from past experiences some time ago now I appreciate these tend to slowly roll in as though a cold, dank sea mist. You know how those work. You were basking in the burning sun one moment and then suddenly find yourself deep in the fog, unable to see one hand in front of your face while desperately cramming the other fist down your throat to stop yourself from screaming.

A low or high point, depending upon your perspective, was crawling naked across the bedroom floor while sobbing uncontrollably and explaining to my husband why we can’t be married anymore. Two weeks away from the 20th anniversary of our meeting. This coincided with working full time, albeit from home and, wait for it, running 144.4 miles over 20 days to raise money for Terrence Higgins Trust, which either makes me a complete sadist or suggests that my extreme ability to empathise with the needs of others when I should be giving myself a cuddle, is potentially quite dangerous. To me. And perhaps at times, to others.

I know these past months I have been distant, remote, a challenge to reach and at times impossible to recognise. I make no apology for this. I have often felt that the ‘me’ others expected to appear was locked into a suitcase rotting in an airing cupboard never to be seen again. I do not intend to be glib when I say I care little if the Craig others want to see doesn’t always show up, but not recognising yourself as the story plays out can at best be destabilising and more frequently utterly terrifying. It is akin to sitting in a darkened auditorium watching somebody else stuff your lines up but with that fist in your mouth, you are unable to give them the next cue.

Running away from your life can take many forms, for me it was refusing to get out of the spotlight while actively wrestling all the other performers in the story out of the way. Occasionally kicking them and at times aggressively. Metaphorically of course, I have taken a gun and spent months shooting from the hip at anything and anyone familiar, like a robot-cowboy whose circuits have exploded. There have been days and nights where I have felt utterly insane and unstable. Sleep deprivation will do that. A good night was waking bright and alert to start the day at 3am, moreover my days regularly began randomly at 1.15am soaked in serious infection-style sweats, and they ended at 9.30/10 the following evening. Did I mention that during all this I ran 144.4 miles in 20 days? Totally bananas.

The term ‘breakdown’ is at times unhelpful and conjures images in me of Arthur Fowler dribbling in the shed of his allotment having stolen the Christmas club money to pay for his daughter’s wedding. In my experience the breakdown and extended period of depression was nothing like this and has in all probability been bubbling under for a number of years.

“I cannot recall a key or landmark moment nor sudden descent into the darkness, although from past experiences some time ago now I appreciate these tend to slowly roll in as though a cold, dank sea mist”

What has been consistent with me for decades is a refusal to acknowledge mental health challenges within myself. My grandfather spent time in what the state used to lovingly call an asylum and underwent surgery to remove the offending part of his brain. He suffered from depression. These practices have thankfully changed and yet despite these events taking place before I was even born the idea haunts me. At my most frantic I’ve had dreams which involve people I do not particularly care for hacking away at my forehead with a pencil of all things. I think in addition to the horrors of lobotomy, in those dreams there is also an artistic component, hence the pencil. I fear the labels of crazy, unstable, mental not so much, but these definitions are in my case self-determined and everything to do with me. And yet some of the greatest artists in our shared histories were known to be utterly unstable while most adept with a pencil.

I am not sure I can completely blame the lockdown for these recent behaviours as the bubbling under has been an unwelcome companion for some time. I am, for example, an expert in imposter syndrome across many contexts. However, in lockdown I quickly felt utterly bereft at the removal of so many things I took for granted, from the gym to the train, to catching up over a coffee and to remove them with the snap of a finger brought me to the brink from which it has been exhausting to begin any kind of recovery. And we are not done yet.

Having resisted medical intervention 20 years ago, I’m a recent convert to talking therapies and a short course of sleeping tablets to stabilise the night-time. Other chemical support options are under discussion and have not been discounted. And despite official current corona guidance, I’ve had some hugs. I know the dangers associated with that in light of the current pandemic but sometimes you have to weigh up the ability to self-medicate with the physical touch of a good friend. Had I not done that you may not be reading this article at all. I wouldn’t have been well enough to write it.

If there are days when you feel utterly crazy, unstable and, yes, mental, totally bananas and repeatedly asking yourself what happened?, I hope you find some warmth in knowing you are not alone. I feel you. With or without the hug.