Brains, Balls & Politics

I. AM. LAZY.  Not in the sense that I spend each day draped across the sofa, soaking up the dross that is daytime TV like an upturned turtle, or that I can't summon the energy to get out of bed before midday.  But in the sense that exercise has always had little to no appeal to me, none in the slightest.  Something of a paradox, given my somewhat unhealthy addiction to football and cricket. For years the hordes have queued up to tell me how much of a release commitment to a personal training regime, or a good five kilometer run is for one's state of mind.  Indeed even those high profile public figures whom I revere the most, as a result of their commitment to mental health campaigning (such as Alastair Campbell and Professor Green), appear to wax-lyrical about the benefits exercise has for the mind.  In fact, when I first confessed to my being a depressive back in 2018, exercise was one of the first constructive suggestions my significant other had made.  "Nah, not for me&

We all remember Caroline Flack. A celebrity subjected to unprovoked levels of harassment, public criticism, negative press coverage and social-media abuse, which ultimately led to her death by suicide. At the time of her tragic passing, there was (quite rightly) a coming together of people up and down the country who firmly got behind the #BeKind campaign. The basis of this campaign was essentially to remind people of the need to say nothing at all if they have nothing pleasant to say, because you never quite know what somebody is going through. Seems reasonable. At the time of the campaign gathering momentum I was, whilst supportive, sceptical too. It struck me that many of those bearing the #BeKind hashtag and profile picture frames, were only seemingly happy to apply this fairly basic principle to people who they felt were deserving of kindness. Now of course this makes perfectly logical sense in many respects, for example very few on planet earth would argue that the likes of Ro

The death of George Floyd and the events which followed, have caused me to seriously analyse the privilege afforded to me as a white male. The journey of realisation has been a turbulent one and my outlook has adjusted significantly as a result. Before the death of George Floyd, and even in the months following this horrific loss of life, I would have snarled at the idea that the pigment of my skin has, in any way, afforded me any advantage. How wrong I was. I must take a moment here to recognise that, as a white male with a reasonably large audience who take the time to indulge my (often poorly) written endeavors, I am exercising my white privilege by even sharing this entry because structural inequality gives me a sturdy platform that is rarely afforded to my friends of colour. I point this out not as a bid to signal virtue, but to avoid any misconception that I am attempting to undertake the racial equivalent of 'mansplaining'. I recognise my unfair societal advantage, but t

I have waited for the storm to settle somewhat before commenting on the words of Piers Morgan in response to the barnstorming televised interview between Meghan Markle, Prince Harry and Oprah Winfrey (which, for the purposes of reference we will call ‘the interview’). In circumstances such as these, the level of conflicting coverage and media opinion can lead to one struggling to see the wood for the trees. So, it is always advisable to allow the whirlwind to pass and retrospectively analyse events calmly, coming to a sensible conclusion in the absence of social-media furore. I should, at this point, make my position, indeed my ‘biases’, on three points crystal clear: 1). I am, always have been and, but for some significant unforeseen event or change in circumstances, always will be a strong supporter of the British monarchy. 2). I have little to no interest in the private lives of Meghan Markle and Prince Harry, mainly out of respect for their privacy. 3). Whilst I don’t find

I woke up this morning (Sunday 7 th March) feeling well rested and happy, about a 2.5 on the depressedometer. Yet here I am some eight hours later having about an hour or so ago, slipped rapidly to a seven. I don’t know what triggered it, I seldom do, but the moment I felt the cloud descend, I knew I was in trouble. The symptom most prevalent today is my inability to physically speak without feeling even worse than I already do. It’s strange that I can eloquently string a sentence together in my head but uttering words seems almost impossible. I can’t quite describe it, but I feel like a balloon filled with water, once the water starts leaking (in my case, the words) what follows will be totally out of my control. Actually, that’s a much better way of summing this up, not speaking is currently my only form of control in a state of depression that is otherwise un-controllable. My urge to write this post is, I think, a response to the need I have to ‘spill’ but in a controlled and t

I don’t know precisely how I generate the energy to work on the days I am depressed, never mind fulfil entirely my role as a senior leader, whilst meeting the needs of my employer, my team and my customer, but somehow, I do. An old friend and former colleague who is a HR professional and has a sound understanding of business psychology, suggested I write an entry which explores what it is like to be a depressive at work. A brilliant idea, I thought, but I’ve found myself really struggling to articulate what it is actually like and I’ve reached the conclusion that this is because my depression has played a key role in the career success I have enjoyed. I am not ashamed to admit that the majority of career opportunities awarded to me have been as a result of both dumb luck and being in the right place, at the right time. Depression has also contributed enormously to the person (in a professional capacity) I am today. The stigma associated with ill-mental health often drives employers

I am often wrapped up in my own little world during a depressive episode. This isn’t by design, but the all-consuming nature of depression makes it hard to see past the slump one routinely finds themselves in when they score a five or above on the depressedometer (see previous post titled ‘Today I am a 4.’ for more info). Consequently, there is a routine failure by many depressives and those expressing an interest in or participating in a conversation about ill mental health, to forget the other people most impacted by this cruel disease. I speak of the many partners, wives, husbands, boyfriends and girlfriends, parents, close friends, siblings and extended family members of sufferers. During a bout of 03:00 AM insomnia last week, I spent about thirty seconds watching my fiancée, Holly, sleeping. As I observed her looking completely at peace, I couldn’t help but wonder ‘Wouldn’t her life be so much easier if I wasn’t around?’ . What prompted that relatively abominable thought was the

  I have, on countless occasions, denied that what happened to me in early 2018 was a breakdown but that is exactly what is was. I’ve had several requests from friends and acquaintances asking me to share the specifics that both led to and were part of my 2018 crisis point. They tell me this will help them understand how depression can manifest itself when ignored and the warning signs that are associated. For the most part I believe them, though I can’t help but feel some simply see it as a ‘juicy read’ and I’m OK with that, because if a desire for something as such, results in them reading material which is likely to help them and others around them, who cares what their motivations, it is the means and the end result which matter. I’ll start at the beginning (whilst perpetually reminding myself of the need to exercise brevity). For as long as I can remember, I’ve always felt like I’m just not as good as everyone else and I cannot think of a entire week when I have not, at some poi