(Picture: Ella Byworth for Metro.co.uk)

I’ve never been one to feel sorry for myself.

I admire my brave colleagues at Metro.co.uk, who write beautifully and persuasively about the bane of depression, or the mirthlessness of anxiety.

Male mental health: I lost my dad to suicide at 17, and then experienced depression myself

I suppose I’m blessed in that, touch wood, in general, neither has much affected me.

Quite the opposite: my nickname among close friends in younger days was ‘captain sunshine’.


Nothing could get me down – I’d drink and never be floored by a hangover, party and never endure a comedown, be dumped then bounce back within a day or two, spry as a lark.

To my great shame, I confess that back then, I was of the ‘pull yourself together mate’ school of so-called-friends – if my buddy was feeling blue, I’d most probably phase out the sorry sadsack in favour of more jocular company.



The first time I’ve ever felt the icy tentacles of profound sorrow knot tight around my heart was, ironically, during what should have been the happiest moment of my life – when I first held my infant son.

Habitually so upbeat, so eager to crack a joke, I clutched this two-month premature thing, this quivering, hairless creature that now depended on me for everything, and the crushing weight of my hopeless inadequacy made me almost pass out.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be, I thought – shouldn’t I be laughing, and overcome with joy?

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Why am I not running out into the corridor, Del Boy style, sobbing, ‘Rodders, they’ve only bloody done it’?

All I wanted to do was hide.

This puny rodent, hanging on to life by its minuscule fingernails, was mercifully removed from me just in time, laid tenderly in a glass box and perforated with plastic tubes, precious life force surging into and out of it’s helpless form.

And you know what – that was a huge relief.

The machines were in charge; the machines and their slick operators, with their charts and their metrics and their practiced expressions of concern.

I was off the hook.

In a couple of days, my wife and I could take him home.

Of course sleeplessness is par for the course, but even my naps were brief and haunted by nightmares.

What if I roll over on him? What if he doesn’t love me? What if there’s something wrong I should know about, but don’t?

(Picture: Liberty Antonia Sadler for Metro.co.uk)

All this was exacerbated by a growing distance from friends.

Sure, they all came over with their gifts and flowers and screeches of excitement – but none of it was for me. I was relegated; a tired, milk-stained support act for the newborn prince.

I lost my appetite, and would cry in the park behind sunglasses and beard and buggy.

My work suffered, as my preoccupations rendered any form of creativity futile.

And yes, I contemplated suicide.

Over time, the darkness subsided.

I realised, hey, I can do this. It seems to be going fine.

It wasn’t easy, and to be honest, it was months before I told anyone.



Life, as it does, settles into a predictable rhythm. And my darling, golden-haired boy, turning three next month, is thriving.

(Picture: Dave Anderson for Metro.co.uk)

The take-home message, and one that should be engraved on the heart of any new dad who doesn’t feel the way the books or their friends or their wife tells them they should, is it gets better.

Other dads have since confided in me with their struggle to bond during those surreal first weeks, when you’re tired and uncertain and it’s all about mummy.

You will bond. It might take a while, but it will happen.

Yet, still, I’ll never forget that torrid time when nothing felt right, and all I could do was weep and weep until every inner certainty drowned and my previously feather-light heart turned to lead.

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