It’s roughly a day to the year since I had my breakdown. I won’t go into details as to the how and why, but let’s just say that it was a culmination of too many things at once. When it rains, it pours, and all those other sayings you’ve heard a million times. Life being life.

I knew for a long time that something wasn’t right. My anxiety had been spiking for weeks, making me second guess every decision, over analyse every conversation, and come to the worst conclusions for the hypotheticals. I was existing, but I was sleepwalking into turmoil. Days taken off work and sleepless hours spent in bed weren’t working, instead allowing me to slip deeper and deeper into the pandemonium going on in my mind.

Things came to a head when, during a regular working day, my heart was pounding like I’d just run a marathon. I wasn’t doing anything, just sitting at my desk during the morning routine. I became clammy, fidgety, and suddenly aware that I’d become my own worst enemy. Following a complete capitulation in front of my boss, I was granted time off, but I think I already knew as soon as I walked out of the door that I wouldn’t be returning.

My boss, as caring and understanding as you could possibly hope someone in a senior position to be, showed me that people care, as much as I tried to make myself think otherwise with my one-versus-all-manly-man outlook. Prior to the breakdown, I wouldn’t open myself up to anyone. Before I quit drinking, I used alcohol as a means to vent, singing my tales of woe for all to hear. Once I’d put the bottle down for good (and not a moment too soon, if you ask anyone who even slightly knows me), I steeled myself to become a strong-willed adult who didn’t need help from anyone.

That was stupid. Very, very stupid.

Instead of using a bottle of Jack to help me open up, I chose to shut myself off completely. Any troubles, worries, or concerns weren’t allowed to surface because that just wasn’t the thing grown men do. There’s no denying that mental health issues are more rampant with the hairier of sexes in the United Kingdom, and I fell into the outdated belief that men should present themselves like they break trees with their bare hands and that emotions are only for women. Believing this shut me off, allowing everything wrong in my life to bubble beneath the surface until it eventually boiled over, leaving me in a bad state.

I spent the next few months doing nothing. I isolated myself even further; who needs a downer in their lives? Until my girlfriend came along, I had resigned myself to days spent playing games and self-punishment by entering MMA matches with my psyche. Knowing that things wouldn’t improve unless I at least tried to put myself out there again, I pestered (with charm) a beautiful girl from Caernarfon until she agreed to meet. Even though we barely knew each other, it felt like it had been years after just a few meetings. She helped me open up, feel comfortable within myself, and accepted the weird little man that I am.

It would be naive of me to say that everyone should go out and find a partner and that mental health issues will simply fade away as a result. The point is that if you allow yourself to open up, as jarring as it might initially seem, to someone that truly cares, you can help to delay the fuse on a time bomb. You may never be perfect (nobody is) and the bomb may always be subtly ticking away in the background, but with enough support, everything might just be okay.