This blog discusses mental health issues, suicidal ideation, alcoholism and possibly some other triggers you may find uncomfortable. I would advise you don’t read it if you feel like you might be negatively affected by it in anyway. I also borrowed the title of this from one of my 300 favourite Biffy songs. I have the lyrics tattooed on my arm. You can listen to it here and you should.

This has been an incredibly difficult piece for me to write, and I have debated for a number of weeks now whether to publish it or not. My first thoughts were 'no, keep it for you, keep it for the book - it will look like you’re asking for sympathy/help/making excuses for letting people down/not showing up. It will make you look like a fucking liability. Nobody will want to come on trips with you, everyone will think you’re a volatile mess of a human including your employer your family and the few friends you have left.” All good thoughts. All relatively daily thoughts for me.

But I haven’t written it to ask for sympathy, forgiveness or to solicit any sort of judgement really. I'm not making excuses for anything. I’m saying it like it is. If I am asking for anything at all, it’s understanding. Not just for me and what I have gone through in the last few months, but for everyone that has ever been through something similar, even the people who are acting weird but have never said anything like what you are about to read. I’m still the same person I was before this happened underneath all the shit and painful bits, I may be an even better person when time has taken it’s toll and this is all a memory, but I am not and never will be a shiny finished product. I am a work in progress. I am a human, I make mistakes, sometimes I break down and sometimes I hurt so badly I just don’t want to be here anymore. I’ve been very ill for the last couple of months. I’ve been hiding. I haven’t known what to say. I haven’t been interested in what anyone else is doing. I just haven’t wanted to be here. I’ve wanted to be invisible. At my lowest, I wanted to be dead. And now I am ready to write about it.

Not all mental health breakdowns/crises/episodes or whatever you want to call them are the same. In fact they are never exactly the same. Your experience is as individual as your fingerprint. For some people, these experiences can be an inconvenience, something that can easily be managed and quickly forgotten. For other people they are a harrowing personal tour-de-force. They are a rip roaring battle against yourself that you have no idea if you will win.

What certain humans can cope with (and a lot of the time ignore), completely destroys others. Then there are the people that hide it, or think it is normal to be in a constant dogfight with yourself. Those are the people for whom this is most dangerous.

In a way, I have been all of these people. But not facing it is the worst possible thing you can do. It won’t go away. You cannot bury it. Pretending you’re going to be OK and not asking for help is so common and probably a good thing to remember when reading this. There may be someone in your life that you think is completely resilient, happy and functioning who is actually absolutely fucked and in proper need of help.

On the 12th July 2021 I went into work and asked for help. In fact I walked into the office, dropped my bag and went straight into my line managers office and started crying. I told her I couldn’t do it anymore. I just couldn’t do it anymore. “It" being living. I just didn’t want to live anymore. I would have done anything to not wake up that morning. One of the only reasons I did wake up was that I was staying at a friends house instead of my own. I have absolutely no doubt that had I spent the previous night alone, I would not be here typing this. I had promised my friend (Sarah) that when I got to work I would ask for some help. The whole way to the office I wanted to crash my car. I just wanted to end it. But I had promised my friend I would get some help. It was terrifying for me and terrifying for Danni (another friend but also my manager) and there is a lot of that morning I can’t really remember. My sort of cobbled together survival plan was to take a week off and drive home to my mums and try and sort myself out like I had done countless times before, then get back to it. That was not what happened.

“It's not the answer sticking plaster on a shattered bone. What do you need? What do you need from me? It's not the answer. Keep treating cancer like a cold.” Frightened Rabbit - Decembers Traditions

This was my breaking point. Some people call it a ‘shattering' and that's what it felt like. It had been years in the making, but previously I had patched myself up and glued myself together more times than I can remember to keep functioning while the storm roared and roared in my head, occasionally just dropping to a slight wind before ultimately picking up again. There were ups, there were downs. Everyone has them. When I was good I was super fucking good. Everyone wants a piece of Allie when she’s on top form because she’s fucking brilliant. Everyone wants the best bits. Turns out very, very few people want a piece of her when she’s not. To all the people that say there is no longer a stigma around mental health, I say fuck off. There is a huge stigma around it. It's fucking massive. Most of you, sitting here, reading this, are frightened of people who say they want to kill themselves. Terrified of them. You don’t know what to say, you don’t know what to do, so you back off and pretend it’s not happening. That is a fact. The thought that someone might want to do that to themselves scares the shit out of you. The irony is nobody, not one person, could ever be more scared of me than I was of myself on that day. (There are resources at the end of this blog that maybe useful to people that feel this way, their family and their friends. The way forward is education.)

I have ALWAYS been someone that has battled against myself - it's not like I’ve ever hidden it (despite being told to do so by a number of people because apparently it’s ’not socially acceptable'). I’ve documented it publicly for both myself and for other people in my blogs, interviews, on instagram, facebook, all the good places. I’ve had some good times where I’ve really felt like maybe I was rid of the whole thing, I’ve had some times where there have been wobbles and I have managed to avert disaster (or so I thought) and I have had some times where I have just felt so shit that I’ve not told the whole truth and tried to mask over it because even I am sick of talking about it. I am ashamed of that. I am ashamed of covering it up. Sometimes I feel like a broken record, but maybe by writing about it helps others to know they are not alone. It certainly helps me to write it down.

A lot of you who follow me on socials will know that I pride myself on how ‘incredibly honest’ I am all the time. Well even I am not that honest. Even I gloss over it a bit. Example in point. A lot of you will also have seen my lovely trip to Dominica for work a couple of months ago. I looked like I was having a fucking great time right? Go back and have a look at those posts. Back out after a year of cancelled trips, doing what I do best in one of the most beautiful places on earth - how could I not be happy?? Well guess what? That was actually one of the most difficult and frightening weeks of my life. I literally could not trust myself. I put on a good (ish) show, but inside me lava was running through my veins, there was a constant bin fire in my head and I was completely emotionally fucked. I should not have gone on that trip. I should have asked for help sooner. I hid how ill I was from my employer and for that I am truly sorry. I thought I could manage myself. I absolutely could not. I was dying. Or at least planning in dying. And there was nothing I could do about it. How the fuck did I get in this state in the first place? Here’s how.

Over the last 10 months my mental state has been, for want of a better word, completely unravelling. I moved to Yorkshire from Somerset in October 2020, mid-pandemic. I moved up for my new dream job at Rat Race. A dream job that I was unable to do fully (at times unable to do at all) due to the world being slap bang in the middle of a global pandemic. When I got to Yorkshire, I was alone. Lockdown number two came. I couldn’t go out and make friends. couldn’t join any clubs, couldn’t go running with anyone, and couldn’t hang out with my work colleagues. I couldn’t get internet in my flat. I didn’t have it for the full 10 months - fuck you, BT. This meant I couldn’t connect with my family or friends back down south. I couldn’t have my dog with me because my flat was a brand new 'no dog' flat, was way too small and had no outdoor space. Why the fuck did I move there? Because it was all that was available and because I wanted to prove I could do it. I also did it because I had been promised things that never came to fruition. Believe me, I’d looked everywhere for a flat. For a long time. It was all that was available. And I thought it would be OK. Spoiler: it was NOT OK.

There was also another factor involved, one I am not going to go into in much detail, mainly due to completely misguided loyalty to the person involved. But it was a big, big factor that compounded not only my worst fears but everything else that was going on and slowly tipped me over the edge of reason. It prevented me from living the life I had been promised, from having the support I needed and from coming anywhere close to building a life in Yorkshire. It sent me mad. It completely dissolved my confidence in myself, it totally exhausted me and it utterly utterly emotionally fucked me like nothing else ever has before. My self esteem plummeted from mid to low levels to absolutely zero. I was made to feel like I was worth nothing at all. I have never, ever felt as hollow or as worthless or as humiliated as this situation made me feel. I can never ever feel like that again. I felt isolated, I felt confused, I felt angry, but most of all I felt completely and totally abandoned. Maybe one day I will write about ’the other factor', maybe not. For now it's staying as it is. In the past.

This all sets the scene for the not so gradual decline (or complete cliff fall) in my mental health.

Back to that word abandonment. Abandonment is my big thing. That is my big trigger. I have managed to rise above the other triggers one by one - apart from the not being good enough trigger - there is that too. But to be honest that stems from the abandonment. Anyway, I digress…….

Fear of abandonment is a form of acute anxiety and usually stems from a childhood trauma. In my case, it's a repeated trauma, the reasons for which are too much to go into here. A lot of the time, people who experience abandonment issues find themselves drawn to people who will treat them badly or situations that are volatile (usually to ‘fix’ them) and eventually the people will leave them and the situation fucks right up. Sufferers can even - without consciously knowing it - manifest situations that lead to abandonment. This fear can be present in work situations, friendships, relationships, when the Amazon delivery guy doesn’t turn up etc etc. I tell pretty much everyone I meet it's my main trigger. I warn friends not to be late without telling me, I tell people to message if they’re not going to turn up, I’ve briefed every single boyfriend I have ever had not to ever, ever make promises they can’t keep. I make sure everyone knows so it doesn’t happen. I do all I can to avoid the trigger but I have never actually put my fingers into the wound and had a good dig about, disinfected it and tried to move on. That would be too painful. This process has taught me that is exactly what I need to do, however painful it is.

Although I shouldn’t be, I am super embarrassed about admitting all this, especially as a lot of people see me as a very strong, resilient human being. I feel like it makes me weak. In reality, admitting it makes me strong and goes part way to getting over it for good. I also think it’s important to really try and be honest now. Over the course of almost a year I have been beaten down emotionally, mentally and psychologically by my environment and circumstance, by some of the people I chosen to have in my life, and by myself. I was drowning. My gradual descent into madness was even caught on camera recently. Anyone that watched the SDW100 video the running channel made and saw me have a proper meltdown when my pacer ran on ahead with someone else - that is my abandonment being triggered. It was not her fault. It appears completely irrational. In my head it was completely sane. It makes me look like a whiny little bitch. It makes me utterly hate myself. I am cringing even writing this. But that’s what these mental health issues can do to an apparently “resilient” person. It. Can. Happen. To. Anyone. If you ignore it, it will not go away.

This all makes me sound really fucking needy and I honestly feel so so embarrassed about writing it all down. You do get needy when you are completely isolated, super fucking depressed and your worst fears are coming true. But the interesting thing is, as much as you ARE needy - for affection, for truth, for approval and for comfort, you also start to shutdown socially and live in your own head. You actually don’t trust or believe anyone at all which is highly ironic as the people that love you are telling you that you’re great. But people can tell you they love you or that you’re awesome until they’re blue in the face. They can give you a fucking crown. It’s too late. You just don’t believe them. The hatred you feel for yourself, the repeated battering you have had and the pain is so chronic that nothing can get through it. If the same things happen over and over again, you can never imagine a time when they won’t. You don’t trust people, your don’t trust situations and worst of all you don’t trust yourself.

Sometimes I feel these triggers as a physical pain that rages through me in waves. It's not something I can explain in words that well, as much as I try. It just makes me fucking hate myself and feel utterly, utterly sick. And feeling like that only proves all the worst thoughts I have about myself - that I am not good enough, that I am worthless, that I am a fraud, that I am a piece of fucking shit and that I deserve to be miserable or even better, dead. It is utter torture and I cannot live with the pain.

But all too often there IS a way to get rid of that pain. There is self medication. And I chose to medicate with booze. Lots and lots of booze. For a long, long time. And we will come back to that.

"You didn't see me I was falling apart, I was a television version of a person with a broken heart” Pink Rabbits - The National

On that day, the 12th July 2021, when I went into the office and just broke in front of Danni, things moved very quickly. After some phone calls to various metal health lines with little to no help at all, we eventually got through to a doctor who immediately and without much chat, prescribed me a course of anti-depressants that I would pick up at my local Boots. It’s insane how easy it is to get hold of this stuff but it was also a huge relief. Pills don’t start working for a few weeks though and I needed help there and then. Throughout this process, it became very apparent the strain that mental health services in this country are under. I experienced some pretty terrible delays in my treatment the whole way through the process and continue to. Theres a 8-10 week wait for any type of therapy on the NHS. That’s why it’s so important to know what to do for yourself and your family. Without Danni, Jim, Julius, my mum, sister and brother, I would not be sitting here typing this. You have to get educated on how to deal with this shit like you would do a basic first aid course. It could save someones life. It could save your life.

Danni put me in her car and drove me home to South Cave to pick up some stuff and the meds before I drove back to Dorset. It was only once I had got back into the car with a very rushed (and very small) bag of clothes that she told me I would not be driving home at all, SHE would be driving me home in the work vehicle. From Yorkshire to Dorset, a 250 mile journey. Once I was there they would hire me a car. Cecil the mini was staying here. I started crying AGAIN, because I didn’t know why anyone would be so nice to me. I didn’t know what to do, I was a mixture of scared, relieved, angry, confused and totally lost. I didn’t know it then, but I would never spend another night in that flat, the flat I had spent so many nights getting hideously drunk in alone and just crying and crying for weeks and weeks and weeks and then pretending everything was normal the next day. There was nothing in that flat for me to go back to. The next time I saw it would be when I was packing boxes to move out 10 weeks later.

The drive back was weird and scary. I don’t remember much about what I said. I remember crying a lot. Then not. Then crying again. I remember talking about ’the other factor’ a lot. I remember getting a message from someone telling me they were worried about me but couldn’t give me “the emotional support” I needed. That was a highlight, but not something that surprised me. I called my best friend Julius and told him what was happening and asked if I could come to his house in Somerset instead of my mums. I needed to see my dog. I needed to ground myself before I explained to my mum that I had fucked up AGAIN, and here I was AGAIN, a pathetic mess of a human at the grand old age of almost 40. Back to mummy. Running away again. Julius sounded frantic but agreed. I was going back to my dog. Just think about the dog. Just think about Pie.

After 6 hours in the car (we stopped a lot for coffee and phone calls and for Danni to buy food I refused to eat) I was back at the front door of the house I had spent 3 years living in before it all went to shit. I had my dogs and my friend and I just melted into nothing. I drank a bottle and a half of Rose. I cried and cried and cried and then fell asleep. That was the last alcoholic drink I would ever have.

The next few days I spent asleep. Literally. I just slept and cried and tried to eat food. I was looked after by Julius and my dogs who knew exactly what I needed and would not leave me alone. I went to my mums. I spoke to my boss. I was signed off from work for two weeks and was told in no uncertain terms not to do anything. I lived for two weeks like a ghost. I slept, I ate a bit, I cried, I cuddled dogs, I did some pretty difficult jigsaws, I read and I weirdly learnt how to upholster dining room chairs pretty successfully. I also went through the motions of calling every single mental health line and Crisis team I could, trying to get some treatment on my private health insurance (I couldn’t - longstanding condition) and being told the waiting lists even for the high end private practices were 8-9 weeks. I didn’t know what to do. There was one day where I got so bad I actually screamed at my mum and scratched a load of skin of the side of my face with my own nails. I was so angry and frustrated and ill. And I’d also stopped drinking. Something I should have done a long time ago. I was coming down off 25 years of self medication.

"First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you.” F. Scott Fitzgerald

I have always been a drinker - I LOVE a good booze. From the age of 16 I was on it like a car bonnet. It was the thing to do. Going to parties in the 80’s with my parents, I watched every single adult around me drinking in order to have a good time - literally from as early as I can remember. When my dad left **DING DING DING THERAPY BELL** I was 16, and that’s when shit started to get real. I had a lot to deal with and I didn’t particularly want to deal with it, so I would go out to indie nightclubs and get drunk. It made me WAY more fun, it made having sex with boys easier and it made me forget how much I hurt, how shit my school life was and how 'fat and ugly and uncool' I was. It made me confident. I kept this going for the next 25 years. In the music industry days (my Flamingo years, darling!) it was positively encouraged. I spent at least 8 years solid drunk. When I left music (and started running) I became more aware of what was going on with me and alcohol, but it was too late. Booze was my best friend. It made me cool and fun and creative. You couldn’t have a good time without booze - it was impossible. You also couldn’t live a life mostly free of really fucking bad thoughts without it. It made the thoughts go away for at least an hour. Then when they started to swim, you could drown them a little bit more, and then you could keep drowning them until you went to sleep. Problem was, the thoughts could actually swim, and when they came back to the surface (and they always came back) there were more them and they were a lot worse. It was OK though. You could shut them up again. With booze.

I was functioning. I have always functioned. In my late twenties and early thirties I went through times of intense blackouts from drinking and some very very dark self harm attempts. I had people tell me they were worried and I should stop. I told them to fuck off. I would generally give up for a few weeks to prove to both myself and everyone around me that I 'definitely did not have a drinking problem'. I actually knew from about the age of 30 that I definitely DID have some sort of drinking problem. I would drink to celebrate, commiserate, and because I was boring without it so I had to. I would drink because I was frightened, alone and depressed. I would drink because I was nervous or because I was excited. I would drink because I was on top of the world and on my A-Game and because I was lost and miserable and had been abandoned again. I would drink with people and alone. Drink was a glorious celebration and a destructive annihilation. I did not, and have never had, a ’normal’ relationship with alcohol. I lied to myself and everyone else for years and this took an intense toll on my already fragile mental health and ability to process thoughts.

As I got older, my ridiculous behaviour calmed itself. Or so I told myself. No more blackouts, no more massive nights on the town. Just a nice quite bottle or two or three to stop the bad thoughts. Or give me confidence. Or to try and get me to think straight. Or because I deserved it. I knew it was a depressant. I knew it was making me even more anxious and hollow. But I still did it. All the time. It was my BEST friend. But I was also doing it because I fucking hated myself. I deserved to feel shit.

There’s a really interesting Freudian theory (that’s been argued about a million times so please don’t start here...) and it goes like this. Human behaviour is governed by one of two things. The pursuit of pleasure or the avoidance of pain. Given the choice, humans will pretty much always choose the avoidance of pain over the pursuit of pleasure. That's why they make super clever decisions like not stepping out when a bus is coming (avoiding the pain for being hit), but also stupid, cowardly decisions like lying to their partner (to avoid the emotional pain of a row) or drinking more booze (to stave off a hangover/bad throughts)

When I stared drinking it was the pursuit of pleasure - that fuzzy buzz, Bailey being hilarious, boys thinking I was cool. The pursuit of good times and approval. Then I realised it could also stop the bad thoughts. So I did it more. I was using it not only in the pursuit of pleasure, but in the prevention of pain, which is highly ironic. The next day I would feel shit. I would feel pain. My thoughts would be worse, my anxiety insanely high. So to avoid this pain I would drink some more. And round and round we go. This is not what ’normal’ people do. Or is it? I don’t know. I could never just have one or two drinks. I always wanted more. Since I have stopped drinking this has flipped itself. I will now do anything, ANYTHING to avoid feeding that emotional pain that has been attempting to kill me for so many years. And that means never drinking again. And that is 100% non-negotiable. And so far, it's working out pretty well. I can honestly say, hand on heart, that I will never, ever drink again. There is no doubt in my mind.

(Quick side note - if you are worried about how much you drink and want to stop, please check in with the resources at the end of the page and/or your GP - it can be extremely dangerous just to go cold turkey. There area tone of resources available to you even if you’re just curious)

Not drinking does not, however, cure your problems by magic. It makes you think more clearly (which is actually horrifying) and it has a million benefits for your health but it also makes the thoughts you have all the more real and that means you have to learn to deal with those thoughts and not drown the fuckers until the next morning when their armbands are on and they’ve bred overnight. And that is the hardest bit. And that is why so many people go back to anything that will stop you thinking - be that drink, drugs or putting out cigarettes on their arms. You have to be super brave to face yourself. And I know I am super brave. And I do not want to live my life in fear of myself anymore. I am going to try my best to face the mountain of shit in my brain without dulling the pain around it. I needed to find a way to start dealing with broken Bailey.

While I was staying with my mum, she mentioned a friend of hers who was a pretty well respected psychiatrist. Her friend had talked to her about a new type of therapy - ACT. ACT is the snazzy new boy on the therapy block, and having tried every single type of therapy ever over the past few years with no great results, I decided to read a book that her friend had recommended. That book was The Happiness Trap. And it was a game changer. I cannot encourage you enough to get a copy and read it. Whether you’re the most calm rational person in the world or whether life is a total shitshow, that book is utterly brilliant.

ACT (Acceptance and Commitment Therapy) works by getting you to accept your fucked up feelings rather than fighting them, trying to get rid of them or feeling guilty about them. You cannot get rid of feelings. it is not possible. Feelings have a scientific physical effect on your body. You have zero control over that. ACT uses mindfulness (I fucking hate that word) therapy combined with the practice of self acceptance. And in order to do that you need to be committed to doing it. And it's fucking hard work. And there are loads of shitty days, but way less than there used to be. And that is what I am doing. I have a therapist, I have a tonne of books and I have a big notebook full of insane ramblings. But I am committed to getting better and completely changing the way I have been thinking for the last 25-30 years. Keeping the good creative bits, the kind bits, the funny bits, the bits I am super proud of and rewiring the fucked up bits where I tell myself I am awful. Big ask. But I can do it. And I will do it. I want to live a life full of promise and wonder and experience, not one of being trapped in a fake hate trap of my own making.

So there we were, two weeks in, and my boss Jim came to see me. He drove all the way from York to Somerset. I remember it being a pretty horrendous meeting at times, and there were a lot of home truths in there. I felt like I was being told off, mainly because my brain was still wonky and the drugs hadn't quite kicked in. I wasn’t being told off. It was being explained to me that I needed to get better before I could even think about work. It was being explained to me I was loved and missed and I needed to be running on at least 90% to even begin to contemplate getting on with stuff. Throughout this whole process I cannot stress enough how good my work have been to me, and how well they have dealt with it. To my bosses and my colleagues I say a huge thank you. I can never ever repay your understanding, kindness and professionalism. I hope in the future I can pay you back in some way (maybe by making you shit tonne of money or something by you know…actually doing my job while firing on all cylinders….maybe something like that)

I was told that I was not to return to work for at least another 6 weeks. It killed me. All my plans down the drain, all the things I had dreamed of doing, trips I had dreamt of going on and working on gone. Just sit here like a fucking lemon and do nothing, Allie. I imagine this sounds GREAT to some people, but I just wanted things to “go back to normal”. Again - the irony of that. ”Go back to normal”. Normal for me was the seventh circle of hell in my own head. Normal was being treated like a cunt by people that said they loved you and accepting it because you hated yourself more than they ever could. Nobody wants to go back to that. I need a new normal. I still do.

Ultimately enforced “do nothing" was needed. I was very, very ill and I needed to get better. Even I didn’t believe how ill I was at the time. Now I absolutely do.

Now, when I wake up, I am grateful to be alive. Now when I see things that genuinely make me smile like a bloody pigeon wobbling right at the top of a tree or a cat falling off a wall and actually laugh, I realise how ill I was. Those things were grey to me. Now when I think back to some of the behaviour I have put up with in the past few years, I recognise the manipulation and abuse instead of accepting that I probably deserved it. If my arm had been broken I wouldn’t have been expected to jump back into a job that required me to use my arm all day every day, and that would be fine and understandable. But when you can’t see the injury, when it is in your head, it is very hard to justify not working to yourself or (in my mind) anyone else. It's fucking awful that even I, someone that has been through it over and over again, still refused to believe that I was ill when I absolutely was.

Time was a gift. I had time to try and find me again. And so that’s what I did. I started running a bit - I hadn’t really done any running - it was the last thing on my mind. I didn’t want to do it - just getting to the end of the day alive was a win. I knew running would come back at some point. And believe me, it will. I did jigsaws and read books. I did a lot of decorating for people and got REALLY into upholstery (which I’m super good at - eyes on the gram people!) I looked for (and found) a new flat in a new village that wasn’t crowded with memories of loneliness and misery. It has outdoor space and my dog is allowed to live there with me. I sold Cecil and got a red skoda called Rufus. I set about helping my sister and my friend Julius move - my sister to Wales and Julius up north to Yorkshire. I now have my best friend living 3 miles down the road from me.

I read. A LOT. I wrote. A LOT. I journaled and journaled and journaled. I cried, I got angry, I ran, I walked, I cuddled and talked to my dog. I took gratitude in things I had taken for granted like the sky and the sea, and I have slowly started to get better. And every day I get a little bit better. And some days I don’t. But it's an upward trajectory. And that’s a huge relief. I’ve taken the pieces and am building them skyward.

There's a lot here I haven’t written. A lot more to write. But now if not the right time. Mainly because even I am bored of thinking about it. But also because it’s not relevant to now. I was VERY lucky. I knew that the end was near, I asked for help and I got it. I have a brilliant employer and a very tight unit of excellent people around me. I had to be vulnerable and brave, and I was, even at my lowest ebb. You can be brave too.

I want people reading this to know that the only way we can make people better is to really, really talk about this, about death, about suicidal ideation, about ALL of it openly and frankly. We need to educate ourselves and other people about it. It can happen to anyone. I also publicly want to thank my mum Violet, and Jim my stepdad, Julius - my best friend in the world, Oscar and the dogs, especially Pickle Pie - I have no idea where I would be without her. My sister Janey - a total rock, and my little brother Ollie for dealing with me when literally nobody else could. My squad. I can never repay your kindness but hopefully I can pay it forward. And to Jim and Danni at Rat Race. Thank you. Danni - that day you saved my life. And I am sorry if I frightened you!

Going forward I am happy to talk about this experience - as long as it’s the right time for me. If I feel like I am being triggered or tired, or sad, or stressed then I won’t. One day I will know exactly how to deal with those feelings and will be able to talk about it whenever. I am working on that every day. For now, if you want help or advice on anything you’ve read here, please use the links below rather than ask me for advice. I am not a psychologist and I am still healing. One day I wil be able to tell you all about everything without fear. That time is not now.

Last Thursday I went back to work. I’m on reduced duties and won't be going anywhere soon. My instagram will probably be pretty boring for a bit. But if you like dogs then stick with it. I have very focused work projects. I will be planning a US/AUS take-over for 2022 and I WILL make it a huge success. I am also focussed on building me back up, on learning how to live with me, how to like me and how to be 100% honest with myself and other people. I am going to start running again for pleasure. No more events for me until next year. Then bring on the ultras. I will be back. Just not right now.

I am looking towards a shiny future with occasional bouts of hideous weather - but this time I will have the right clothes to put on when the storm hits. And if the storm is too much I will stop until it passes. I am accepting I am not perfect, I am damaged and traumatised but I am alive and with love, support and time I can improve. The world is mine. And I am going to take it.

Resources
Urgent Mental health care
Call your GP or contact your local Crisis team - be patient they are under incredible pressure. You can find details here

Mental health charities
Mind
CALM
The Samaritans

Social media
Club Soda Together on Facebook - a brilliant community for anyone interested in moderation or quitting alcohol. They also have a website here

Self help and help for friends and family
Mental health first aid courses are brilliant. Find one here

How to cope when someone talks about suicide or sucidal ideation and how you can help them

Books
The Happiness Trap
Alcohol Lied to Me
As A Man Thinketh
Mans Search for Meaning