I resolved to go to the chemist to get some sleeping pills, but once I’d bought them I became so scared that I might accidentally overdose I decided it wasn’t safe to hang on to them, and put them in the bin.
That night, awake, quivering for no good reason, you idiot, it seemed I had only one thing on my mind: death. It was the last thing I wanted to think of, but there it was—the feeling of death. So close. I kept thinking of Rowie, imagining how it must have felt for her to no longer be able to move—to know she was going to die. I cried then, as quietly as I could, and couldn’t seem to stop crying, no matter how hard I tried. Clearly, there was something wrong with me.
The next morning, I walked into reception and told the young man behind the desk that I was not well and I needed a doctor. ‘Can you please help me?’ I begged. And then I started crying again. I had never felt this thin-skinned in my life—never felt this afraid. Every bit of me ached.
He moved quickly out from behind the desk and put his arm around me, told me not to worry. He called the doctor and then an out-of-hours number and gave me the phone. A receptionist answered and asked a series of questions. What seemed to be the problem? (I didn’t know). Had I lost my appetite? (Yes.) Did I have a fever? (I didn’t know.) Was I having headaches? (Yes.) I had stopped crying by this time. Her voice gave me something to focus on. She reassured me that it didn’t sound like anything serious. There was a virus raging through Oxford, she told me, and no doubt that’s what it was, but I should pop in to the surgery later today for an appointment. It felt so good to be told that everything would be all right. For a moment, I even believed her. But then I heard it again, that voice in my head, the one that said, she’s lying.
The guy on reception’s name was Ian, like my father. A sign, I thought. Being with Ian made me feel safer than I had in weeks. Very kindly, he moved me from the dorm into a private room, told me to get some rest, and for the first time in weeks I did manage to sleep for a few straight hours. In the shower afterwards, I smelled the mould again, but I was able to remind myself not to stress. You have a virus. You’re just feeling sensitive. It was easier to tell myself a better story after sleep. Ian kept an eye on me. Told me to call my parents. ‘I’m telling you, they would want to know. Go call home.’
My sister Anna answered the phone. She asked me if I was okay. I tried to talk calmly but within thirty seconds, I was howling. Mum got on the phone, asked me if I was drinking enough water, eating enough. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten. I felt too nauseous to eat. She said I needed to eat something, and also I needed to get myself to a church and light a candle and just sit there and let the grace of God settle on me for a little bit. It had always annoyed me, the way Mum talked about God so much, but this time I didn’t mind at all. Any tiny little piece of comfort I could get, I was taking. She asked me if I wanted to come home; she could arrange it in a flash, she said, that’s why credit cards were invented. When she said that, I felt bad. The voice in my head told me what a bad daughter I was, worrying my Mum like that, and I stopped crying, and said, ‘Mum, I’m gonna be fine. I just miss you. I’ll call you later.’
When the doctor agreed I probably did have a virus, and prescribed paracetamol for pain relief and pink chalk liquid to stop my nausea, I felt relieved. But then she said something else, something that terrified me. She said, ‘Clare, I realise this may come as a surprise to you, but I think there may be more going on here. I think you might be depressed.’
I didn’t want to believe her when she said that. I told her that, sorry, she’d got it wrong. Trying to hold back tears now, I told her that, in fact, I was a very happy person. Ask anyone. There was no way I could be depressed. It seems silly now how obvious it all was but, in 1996, I was as ignorant and fearful about mental illness as the next person. In my mind, the word ‘depressed’ had always been synonymous with ‘crazy’. The only books I’d read on the subject were Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar and J.D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye. The only stories I’d heard were of Plath putting her head in the oven, Vincent Van Gogh cutting off his ear, Virginia Woolf walking into the river with stones in her pocket.
The doctor was patient and kind and said, ‘Perhaps I am wrong, Clare, but either way I am going to prescribe you some Valium to help you sleep, and also to help you on the plane home. I really think you need to go home. I think you need to be around people who can help you to take care of yourself.’
I didn’t take the Valium. Didn’t trust myself to take the right amount. I was quite sure that if I took even one I would become an addict, or accidentally overdose. But I did get the prescription filled, just in case. In case … I really did go mad. I put the bottle in the very bottom of
