When I was a teenager - probably from being about 15 years old - I suffered very badly with depression. I didn’t realise it, at the time. Realisation came - aged 17 - when I had, what was described then as, a nervous breakdown. I prefer to think of it as my brain actually shutting down for a short time, giving itself time to reboot. It seems somehow more mechanical that way and something that could be resolved and forgotten as my brain reloaded the vital software to continue my life.

Just prior to the actual episode, I was fairly manic (looking back), living on a cocktail of ProPlus, vodka, self-harming and guilt. I would perpetually corner myself in situations and relationships which were toxic. I’d live several lives - one for my parents, one for my friends in the Gene Puddle, one for my friends in Cardiff and yet another for friends in London. It was exhausting - but by fragmenting my world, I could somehow keep things under control. I could pretend I was the most together person in the entire world - even if that was in direct contradiction to the daily reality of prising myself from my mattress.

To my parents I was the A-grade student, studying hard and flying through all the hurdles towards a glittering university place and onwards to a satisfying career. To my friends in the Gene Puddle, I played mother, holding their hands in saintly virginity as they unburdened their woes onto me. To my friends in Cardiff I espoused knowledge of the local indie scene and alternative culture - being a left-wing, right-on, outsider in the middle of it all. To my friends in London, I was the organiser, the one who delivered - regardless of the arguments that raged around me.

I spent nights in perpetual loneliness in the loudest clubs, days surrounded by friends feeling distracted, ill-at-ease, hours in the company of my parents, playing a role, whilst wanting to shout, to scream, about the pain I actually felt inside. On the day I actually took an overdose and made a, in hindsight, somewhat feeble attempt to cut into my arm, I rang one person, spent 40 minutes not explaining what I was about to do and gave up. I felt like the world no longer needed me - my family, my friends, were better off without my presence.

I’ve continued my divided life as an adult - separating worlds and constantly juggling myself. It gave less time for introspection - and the black cloud that continued to haunt the times I had alone. The cloud of indecision, self-doubt, self-loathing and threat that I knew could engulf me at any time. One constant remained through the two ages - the self-harming.

Some people self-harm mentally (tick), some emotionally (double tick). Some abuse drugs (tick), some abuse alcohol (tick), some abuse sexual relationships (tick) and some, perhaps a smaller minority, abuse themselves, physically. The latter is about preparation and then performance. As a musician, trained in the classical style, this came as second nature.

First you practice. You gather your instruments and prepare them meticulously. A time-honoured tradition of removing the “safety” part of razors, to gain access to the blades contained within, collecting fragments of glass - sterilising them to reduce the risk of infection (lest you have to receive medical attention), finding pins, needles, compasses, in fact anything by which you can make the small incisions about your person that would (and I know still will), even temporarily, relieve the pounding within your head.

I don’t remember the first time I took a blade to my body. It, like many memories pre-breakdown, are confined to the dustbin of thoughts and experiences which swirl around within a blackened area of my brain - unreachable. I can only imagine that the preparation wasn’t as great, although, given the few scars that cloud the areas of my skin on daily view, I must have been fairly cognitive of the reaction that would be received. I do remember finding my “kit” again - securely placed underneath the draw in my bedside cabinet, alongside photos of friends that I felt then had driven me to the abuse - following my “recovery”. I destroyed the kit - but not the photographs. In those days of counselling and looking towards the future, this seemed somehow unnecessary.

Over the, nearly 20 intervening years from my first breakdown to today, I have reassembled a variety of kits. They mark progressions in my life - sometimes remaining unused, but often not. I heard, from a friend, about the way in which they harmed the soles of their feet, to avoid detection. I never went that far, but found that other areas in constant contact with clothing could also allow the pain to follow you around, throughout the day, without the danger of discovery through the discarded pads of gauze or plaster, or the blood on socks or shoes, where blood would only rarely be. The physical pain, which overtook the mental anguish of living this fragmented life on a foundation of ever increasing paranoia and guilt.

I’m lucky that these times have left me with few physical scars to haunt me, although those that remain (includng the patch on my left arm, just above my elbow, where, for several weeks I continually scratched away, leaving nothing but the very bottom layer of skin) are a constant reminder - not only of the harm I am capable of doing, but also the immediacy and joy of the “performance”, the release into a realm of physical pain.

The kit is there - in my bedroom - hidden behind tampax, vibrators, old bottles of perfume and the amassed detritus of 36 years of life. It’s somewhere that won’t be found by people, especially small people, in the house. I took it out again last night - which makes a row 6 nights, now - although put it back again unused. It’s like taking a viola bow from its case, tightening the strands of horse-hair that make it up and slowly, carefully, applying resin to every strand that will come into contact with your strings. I open the bag, remove all the items onto my bed, move them into a particular imagined order of use - starting small, moving to the more painful instruments - touch them, pick the first up, replace it. Then slowly, carefully, I put them away, tucking the bag back into its recess. I turn out the light and hope - hope like hell - that sleep will come quickly enough that I don’t pluck up the courage to take the bag back out and start the dress-rehearsal again.

The day I place the bow to the strings, I know, is the day that the world becomes an even blacker shade and the descent into the illness becomes more difficult to reverse.

I do understand that the things that have happened recently are not my fault, although, some of the pain that has been caused to those I love is, implicitly, my fault, as I was the one to introduce into their lives the source of all our anguish. Being told that the situation has wrecked the lives of those around you, those you most love, by implication is being told that you’re - however blamelessly - to blame.

Tomorrow I will again become a mother, a daughter, a professional, a friend and a stranger that you pass in the street. Tonight, I will practice again for the performance that, one day, will come - although the date and venue is yet to be fixed.

He’s done it!  I’m humbled by this guy - and can only hope that a few bottles of Dog next time he’s in this neck of the woods will help him to recover.  He’s also had some coverage in the local newspaper up his way.  Shame they didn’t link to the charity he’s done all this for - or provide a link to the website where you can make donations.

Perhaps a well-timed letter to the paper may rectify this before tomorrow’s edition goes to press….

I’ve been treated this week to two days in one of my favourite cities - Edinburgh.  It was for work, but nonetheless, it’s nice to be in a city where on your left you have architecture takes your breath away, whilst on the right you have such magnificent views of nature that you just have to stop and stare.  Unlike my last visit, which was much to do with the company and the beer, this was all about good hotels and some excellent dining.  Therefore, my recommendations from 40 hours in the capital city of Scotland.

David Bann’s is a vegetarian restaurant, without the worthiness that I remember from some previous visits to similar establishments.  Then again, I don’t think I’ve ever been in a vegetarian restaurant this chic and well designed.  The menu is faultless and I took great pleasure in the samples taken from my hosts plates.  I went for soba noodles with smoked tofu, which was excellent, whilst my colleague went for the chick pea cakes and her partner plumped for the savoy wrap of butter bean.  In different company I would have been far pushier with my fork - but convention dictates that you can’t mug your hosts (not even in the Gene Puddle)!

The following night took us to the Vermillion Restaurant at the Scotsman Hotel, where I experienced my first ever “amuse bouche” (a roast garlic and parmesan soup, which I would happily have eaten as my main!).  After a mushroom dish, which included a consumme, ravioli and tartlet I moved onto organic salmon with lobster and asparagus tips, served with a sauce that needed bread to mop it up!  I finished with cheese, but by that point even I was groaning!  You expect restaurants of this calibre to deliver teeny-weeny portions.  Not here.  Proper portions of some of the best food I’ve ever tasted.  It’s a restaurant that feels expensive.  Luckily I wasn’t paying!

Finally, the hotel.  I’ve never really enjoyed my hotels in Edinburgh.  I tend to go up very last minute and end up in some dive or other.  This time, my colleague surpassed herself and booked me into the Radisson (Royal Mile).  The hotel must have recently been refurbished, with the sort of lobby/bar that wouldn’t have looked out of place in New York or London.  The room was more than functional, with a bed that could easily have held 10!  It had that lovely white cotton bedding that just needed to be rolled across.  The only shame was I didn’t have anyone to mess it up with me!

So, back in the Gene Puddle and to pasta with olives, mushrooms and chilli for tea.  Not quite the same, but William’s smile when I picked him up was worth a thousand dinners (although another go at that bed would be good…)!