Foreword

I’m halfway through watching Fake It ’Til You Make It and one question is bothering me. Where is Tim’s voice? Then, as if Bryony and Tim know what I am thinking, Tim takes off his mask, comes to the microphone and speaks. I realize this wait was intentional and that my need for him to speak has to be balanced with his need to feel confident with what he is about to do. Tim speaks from the heart, he holds his hands to hide his nerves, he takes a hammer to his own and society’s taboos. It’s a beautiful moment. I feel connected to him, like I know what he’s going through and why he’s doing it.

There was a moment in 2010 that has stuck with me, that I have to remind myself of now and again. I’d been told by my social worker that my application for homeless status had been rejected by Hackney Council, that I would be kicked out of the homeless hostel, leaving me with nowhere to live – a feat of such stupid logic it would make Monty Python proud. Later that week I see my therapist, and she asks me about my lack of anger. ‘It was a nightmare last time, so I’m kind of used to it.’

‘You’ve been homeless before?’ she asks. As so many times before, I retell my story of coming out of a year long admission in 2000 and how long it took to get the Bed and Breakfast accommodation from Barnet Council, in a distant and matter of fact way.

‘Y’know most people haven’t been homeless James, they haven’t spent long periods in mental health hospitals, they haven’t made serious suicide attempts. I’m wondering what it would be like for you if you didn’t see these things as normal. What if you saw them in a different way? Could we explore that?’ It was such a therapist thing to say, and annoyingly, she was bloody right.

It hits me in the gut on my way home. Luckily, I’ve got my sun glasses with me, so my crying on public transport can be undertaken more subtly.

A week later I go for my Employment and Support Allowance (Disability Benefits) assessment by ATOS to find out if the government thinks I’m fit for work. The ‘Doctor’ asks me if I can bend over, walk down the street and use a telephone. I explain I don’t have a physical condition, I have multiple mental health diagnoses. He doesn’t seem interested, empathetic or even to have heard of my main diagnosis. I cycle home feeling dirty, like I’ve done something wrong, like it’s my fault. I hate myself for being in this situation. I am weak, flawed, a piece of shit.

With her arms around me, the snot and tears flowing off my chin, my partner says ‘I’m sorry, you shouldn’t be treated like this, it’s horrific.’ I can see the anger in her eyes, the red mist descending. I wonder why I don’t feel angry; am I internalizing the failings of an intentionally broken welfare system in ways I hadn’t realized? The answer is obviously yes, but being able to change that is going to take time and dedication.

It’s September 2013, I’m in Riga, Latvia at a festival called Homo Novus, it’s the first time I’ve been able work outside of the UK in four years. Getting here was an achievement and involved 16 mg of Valium for a three hour flight. I’m here to present the finished version of a autobiographical performance called Mental, in which I weave a narrative of medical records and police files against my version of the battles with mental distress and police repression I’ve lived through. It’s taken about two years to make, and that hasn’t been that pleasant. OK, that’s an understatement. Normally I like making art, but this process has involved reliving trauma, a hospital admission, disagreements, and a large amount of medication. I’ve done the set up, I know what I’m going to say and the order in which to show things but I’m wondering what I’m doing. Why am I doing this? What are the positives? What will people think of me?

I’ve agreed to do four performances, which after the first two seems like a bad idea, my body is aching, I want to punch myself and I feel ultra paranoid. I’ve just shown fifty complete strangers my intimate medical records, which include details of acute mental distress, suicide attempts and the thoughts of a Freudian therapist which can be described at best as culturally and socially backward, and at worst as progressive as Mumford and Son’s best work – and yes Mumford and Sons and best work is an oxymoron.

Now, I’m used to taking risks in making art, I’ve broken laws, bled, been beaten by the police, spied on by E.ON, censored by Starbucks and walked a fine line between life and death. I’m not saying this to sound ‘hard’ or ‘manly’; I think most art is not really prepared to break taboos – so it’s important I practise what I preach. Yet there is something about performing the Mental piece that feels harder than anything I’ve done. It’s odd – because all I’m really doing is sitting in a bed, telling a story, showing the reports the state holds about me and playing some records. I am, though, nailing my flag to the mast. I’m outing myself as mad and the reality of that isn’t always pretty. The stigma people with mental illnesses face is still massive and it would be perfectly sensible to want to avoid this discrimination by hiding my illness.

It’s post second performance in Riga and I want to go home. I think the show is going down like a lead balloon. I think people are giving me funny looks, no one has spoken to me about the show, either to bitch or complement. Then like that moment during my therapy session three years early something happens that sticks with me, that I always remind myself of when I’m doubtful about the quality of Mental. Someone approaches me, they ask if we can talk. I’m OK with that. They are young and shy. They say ‘I’ve never told anyone this… pause. I came to see your piece Mental.’ I say ‘Thank you for coming to see it’. ‘I’ve been seeing a psychiatrist for two years, and no one knows, but I’m not ashamed anymore. I live with my parents and I’m going home to tell them. I think I’m going to tell my best friend.’

I don’t know what to say. Saying ‘that’s great’ would be weird, saying ‘you’re brave’, well I hate it when people say that to me, it’s not brave – it’s just dealing with a reality millions of people live through everyday. Saying anything with words feels incomplete. I’m not a poet, a wordsmith, a writer – I’m really dyslexic, and words are hard for me. I get the feeling I need to say something.

‘I’m really pleased you shared that with me, I was about to go and ask the curator to book me an early flight home. I’m not feeling great about this show, the piece whatever this thing is, but… That, what you just said, it means a lot to me. I can’t tell you, I’m not good with words.’ They smile at me, and I smile back. I think to myself – I don’t need to do this show again, my job is done but I also understand that this is why I’m doing it.

Two years later. I’m still touring Mental. Not everyone likes it, and that’s fine. Mental health isn’t something we are all able to engage with – yet. Some people say it’s too real. Some people say it’s like self harm, some people cry, and some people laugh. Some people give it a one star review and some people five. Luckily I personally don’t think it’s my job to be liked or loved – I’m an artist, not a pop star or a politician. Like Tim and Bryony, my job is to ask the questions that need asking, see the things that go unseen and break those taboos that need breaking, or try at least.

The mask comes off to reveal Tim, stood stage right in a spotlight, which is both a metaphor and what actually happens in the show. He speaks about being a man, and how he worries about how being open would make him less of one. He speaks of the hope that he has found in both understanding his experience of depression and speaking openly about it. I feel the solidarity in his act, the strength and agency he has found, and the strength and agency he gifts to me. Depression can feel brutally isolating, yet the act of reaching out and being touched is a vital tool to break down the stigma, but also to build mutual support. As Bob Hoskins says in the old BT adverts ‘It’s good to talk’.

James Leadbitter