Monday 25 November 2013

Jonathan Trott

I feel for Jonathan Trott.

Here's a man, apparently at the top of his game, having to call time because of mental illness.

The glory of the Ashes, a winter in Australia away from the horrendous darkness, damp and cold of England, the company of friends and colleagues, family arriving soon but none of it enough to keep at bay the black dog.

I heard the voices of support too, from fellow cricketers and journalists, and sympathy from members of the media.  The man is ill.

He needs a rest from the pressure, he needs rest, he probably needs a holiday.  He may need counselling too, followed by, accompanied with, medication. The latter could last forever.

Trott needs family, friends and employers to understand.

The black dog shows no mercy, doesn't respect anyone, has no preferences.  Rich or poor, he's waiting round the corner for you, for anyone.

I don't know much about Trott.  In the post terrestrial TV world of cricket, he is a relative unknown to the general public and is one of a good number of current internationals who would be instantly recognised in a cricket club but could walk into most pubs and sit quietly over a pint and almost no one would know who he was.

I saw him also as a dour South African who, like countless South Africans before him, decided to progress his cricket career in a country with which he has links, but few roots.  But rules are rules and he played by them.

Suddenly, from left field, Trott is one of us, struck down by the same illness that has ruined many of our lives and wrecked our life prospects.

Amongst fellow depressives (or whatever condition he has), he is equal.  But in modern day Britain, some are less equal than others.

Celebrities and high profile sports folk fall from grace.  Sometimes there is someone to catch them, sometimes there isn't.  Ordinary folk are the same.  But, but…

Decades of appalling neglect and non-investment have left the mental health treatment cupboard bare. Non suicidal cases can wait months - years - for counselling and therapy, treatments that are finite.  If you are not in the upper income groups, forget state assistance.  Take another tablet, keep increasing the dose until you can cope and that's your life.

In the new century, the Thatcher mantra of private good, public bad; there is no such thing as society and I'm all right Jack rules, okay?

I really hope the stricken Trott beats his demons.  It's not his fault he has the resources to buy better treatment than Joe Public and it will be of no comfort to him either.  But he will have a better chance than some.

Me?  I was lucky. My last therapist, during an appalling episode in 2012, kept me in work and kept me in a job.

She advised me strongly to go back to the anti-depressant drugs that I had rejected for years but could reject no longer.

Now my moods are ridiculous. I can feel like the world is nearly at an end but by tomorrow I am behaving like a complete tit; OTT, nearly hysterical.  But I am hanging in there; just.

I believe no one is ever the same after a major episode.

I am changed forever and not for the better.

All is not lost but by the same token, I'll never be as good as I was at some things and I won't be able to do others at all.

That's what Trott has to face.

Not just his demons but also the long term damage they cause.

Part of me is jealous because in Britain today money can buy you better treatment, at least in mental health.

But a bigger part of me acknowledges that no matter who you are money can't buy you good mental health and that's the main reason I feel for Trott.

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