It’s time to tell you about my depression

In my last column I talked about the importance of identity, so discussing mental health this week ties in perfectly. I think that the two are synonymous.

As mentioned, I sought to build up my identity as a younger footballer. My interests in cooking and learning to play the piano were very much led by the fact that I was struggling to separate my emotions in life from those of my career. Looking back, as someone who has always loved to play football as a hobby, I should have instantly looked to find a new one once it became my job.

Almost seven years ago, I was sat in a hotel room alone, in the dark and on the verge of breaking down in tears. I was desperate to escape the emotional grip that depression had on me. As much as I was trying to fight and deny it, it was real – and it was winning.

This point in time was actually the pinnacle of my career, and the hotel room I’d locked myself away in was one I was using while representing Team GB at the 2012 Olympics.

A lot of people would look at such circumstances from the outside and wonder how a healthy, 21-year-old professional footballer earning good money, with Premier League and international appearances to his name, could possibly be depressed. But this is how depression works: it doesn’t discriminate.

During that dark time at the Olympics, my manager Stuart Pearce and captain Ryan Giggs both recognised that something wasn’t quite right and sought to comfort me. They might not have quite understood the depths of where I was, but their compassion and empathy can be rare in this great game of ours, and for that I will always thank them.

The Beginning

I can’t pinpoint when exaxctly it all began. I just know that one day it felt as if the entire world was on top of me and I couldn’t figure out how I’d reached that point. It felt as if someone else was in control of my body and my emotions.

During my worst periods, I’d wake up feeling as if I hadn’t slept at all the night before. I’d roll out of bed dreading the day and having to go to work. As I drove closer to the training ground, I'd be filling up with anxiety. I’d try to be there for the shortest time possible, avoid conversation, and head home knowing that I’d have to do it all again the next day. When I got home, I would often sit in the dark for a few hours before heading to bed without eating dinner.

Sometimes I acted completely within myself and shut myself away, but at others I was the complete opposite and pretended that everything in the world was perfect. Either way, I wasn’t my true self.

I’d say there was about four years when I really suffered. Some periods were a lot worse than others, but what helped me most of all was writing. It was the only way I could manage to release some of the emotions I’d bottled up for so long.

I didn’t tell anybody for a long time. I couldn’t – there was too much guilt for feeling like I did. I was living my dream, wasn’t I? I didn’t feel as if anyone would take how I felt seriously. Eventually my wife, who was my girlfriend at the time, practically forced me to go and see a doctor.... Read the full article here