No more boxes

I was 19 when I had my first breakdown

The worst period in my life. I have talked about it in the past – in therapy, and at the other end of the scale, while completely off my tits – but I’ve never committed it to words on the page before. Now, while I’m in the richest vein of form since my creative writing youth, seems like a good time to rectify that. I’ve dropped a few hints in previous pieces, so hopefully you saw this end-of-act-one peril coming.

I passed my A levels with flying colours adequately in 1996. I had two universities willing to offer me a place, but I decided to defer for a year so I could work and save some money. I went full time at the ersatz Mexican restaurant where I’d been gainfully employed. That was the plan: work my tits off for a year, save a load of money, naff off to Sheffield or Norwich and live, comparatively anyway, like a king. 

Only something happened. After a few months, around the time I turned 19, I got a real taste for working in hospitality. Being there full time meant I got to see the kitchen staff prepping, the duty managers making decisions, the lunchtime buffet full of mini chimichangas. Paulina, the girl who made them, started putting a few aside for me every day. Mini chimichangas, on tap. Deadpool wishes he had the connections I had back then. 

I’d graduated from merely waiting tables. I was splitting my time between the restaurant downstairs and the bar upstairs. Slinging drinks in the bar was more fun, so I asked for more bar shifts. Soon I was managing the bar; looking after stock and sorting rotas. I started going to management meetings, where we’d do a bit of long term strategising and have a beer. I thrived off the responsibility; to the point where I was dabbling in kitchen matters and even front of house - one shift a week I’d stick a shirt and tie on, greet the punters and make sure all the bookings ran smoothly.       

By the time 1997 rolled around, I was coining it in. I still lived at home and I was working nine or ten shifts a week. Most of my income came via tips and I got accustomed to having wedges of cash at my disposal all the time. After working a night shift, we’d all pile round someone’s house share (a large chuck of the staff were students) and party till dawn.  

Any time I wasn’t at work I was out with my mates, going to clubs or gigs, weekends spent visiting friends who’d already migrated to further education. My old man was working shifts as a cabbie back then; with mum working days we’d sync our down time, take the dog for a walk then go down his local to play some pool, sink some pints and talk to the old heads at the bar. I had loads of money, was immersed in so many different social hubs, and was the king of the bar. It was like a rather twee remake of Goodfellas and I was a Home Counties Henry Hill. 

I told my folks proudly that I wasn’t going to university, I was going to work in hospitality. It was my calling. My dear old mum was not happy - I would’ve been the first in our family to pursue a degree. We had a lot of arguments about it but I held firm. I was barely in the house anyway. 

Then, in June of ‘97, Matt died. 

My friendship circle had expanded significantly in 6th form, and by that summer we had a loose confederation all linked through friends of friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, and so on. A group of us lads took a week down in Newquay and had a blast. Matt was in that group. He was older than the rest of us, a tall dude with very cool hair who drove a big old Saab. One night he lost control of that Saab, and was gone forever. 

I had lost a grandparent already, and was steeled for more grief there. When you’re young, you nebulously expect elderly relatives to pass away. I think you are almost subconsciously prepared for it. You don’t expect to lose a friend, and you certainly are not prepared for it.

I was at work when I found out. My sister came in, red eyed. She had taken the call to the landline at home. We went into town and told my best mate, who was also her boyfriend at the time. He worked in a menswear shop back then. He broke down crying over the jeans while I stood there in my inappropriately colourful uniform. 

The devastating news spread through our group. Everyone gravitated to the pub and we sat there, shellshocked. Booze, good old fun fuel for so many nights out, didn’t cut through the shock at all. Conversation was thin, tears were frequent, dozens of cigarettes were smoked. 

Work gave me two weeks off. A few of us were due to go to Glastonbury at the end of that period; I remember thinking I could heal in 10 days, draw a line with the funeral, then jump into my first Glastonbury like it was no big thing.

I think I was drunk for the entire two weeks. Various combinations of friends would sit in the pub; we would drink, reminisce, laugh, cry, repeat. I’d go home and listen to Oasis on repeat, always coming back to The Masterplan, Matt’s favourite tune. 

The funeral was heartbreaking. I’d been to funerals before and after, but I do not remember such an outpouring of emotion as at Matt’s. The wake was down the pub, and I was there until closing. I remember my mum saying there was no way I was driving to Glastonbury after that. 

Of course, I drove to Glastonbury. I saw a load of bands and completely banjaxed my mind with drink and drugs. It actually did feel like a bit cleansing. I had purged all the bad vibes and could throw myself back into work. 

For about two months.  

You see, there was another trip to Newquay in the works. A pilgrimage this time, in honour of our fallen friend. I told work I needed a week’s holiday. 

“You’ve used all of your holiday,” the branch manager told me. “Not to mention that we need you in the bar. You do the majority of day shifts, everyone else is part time” 

“I’m not asking. This is important to me, I need this time.”

“It’ll be unpaid, and it’s on you to cover the shifts.” 

I got them covered, but I was a dick about it. I asked all of our part timers - students with classes, parents with children, grafters with multiple jobs - to pick up “a shift here or there.” They all said sure, no problem, anything for you Lew. Then I wrote a total hand grenade of a rota, throwing every single one of them under the bus. I knew exactly what I was doing and I didn’t care. I posted it up the night before I ducked off with my friends, making sure no one would see it until I was on the road. 

That second trip to Cornwall was restorative, life affirming and healing. We reminisced some more, laughed a lot, toasted our lost friend and bonded. Bonded hard.

I got home to a dozen messages from work. My parents were concerned, then immediately stupefied when I told them it didn’t matter, I was going to quit. I drove down there the next day. The manager was ready to chew me out, almost on his toes in anticipation. I gave him my handwritten resignation, effective immediately, and comprehensively fragged my burgeoning career in hospitality on the spot. Then I went to my local High Street, walked into one of the chain music stores, and began my career in retail. 

Not long after that day, I was coming back from a trip to see friends. My mates in the front of the car were deep in conversation and I was slouched in the back, flicking through a music magazine. I came across an article about rock stars who’d recently suffered burn out. Under a screaming red headline - Are YOU having a nervous breakdown?! - there was a little survey so you could see if you too were as messed up as Damon Albarn or Billy Corgan.

I answered yes to every question.

I took stock of my life and realised with dull shock that I had been working 80, sometimes 90 hours a week for about eight months. When I wasn’t working I was partying. I was eating terribly (chimichangas are delicious, but they do not constitute a balanced diet), smoking constantly, drinking daily and sleeping very little. I was still in my teens and I was a fucking mess. 

Not a well boy

It’s only very recently that I sussed it out: I had suffered catastrophic burn out. Symptoms of ADHD that I wouldn’t be able to name until nearly 30 years later had all reared up at once and kicked the shit out of me. If I’d known then what I know now, it would’ve prompted reflection and, perhaps, change. Maybe I would’ve taken up the deferred university places, or fucked off to the other side of the world to run a beach bar.

But this was the 90s and self diagnosis didn’t exist. Reflection was for pussies. I just shook it off and got on with things. I’d addressed it all, found the root problem and removed it from my life. Of course, nothing had been removed, I just took an easier job, locked all the trauma in a box and threw it in the mind cellar. Do not open that door, there are monsters inside.

I did the same with every bit of adversity I ran into until the pandemic. Graded on the curve my pandemic experience wasn’t terrible. I didn’t lose anybody. But the changes to so many aspects of life, of society, were so seismic that they shook something loose for good. I tried locking the whole period in a box and the box just exploded 18 months later. 27 years after my first breakdown, I had my second.

No more boxes.

When I look back on 1997, I think of my friends. Pressure creates diamonds and the events of ‘97 created the firmest friendships in my life. Those lads I went to Newquay with are still my best friends. Life means we don’t get to see each other every weekend anymore, but when we gather like we used to, in the same old pub by the river, it’s like we’ve never been away. The threads are picked up and knotted tight before the first round is sunk. I love those guys. I believe that those enduring friendships are the result of everything that happened in 1997, and that means I wouldn’t change a thing.