Depression, being a football fan and the 2018 World Cup
It all started in December 2017. One day I started being sick after I ate and it didn’t stop for a year. At first I thought it was a stomach bug, then an extra troublesome stomach bug, maybe some sort of infection or a polyp? Finally I was told I had an incompetent oesophageal sphincter and it would require dizzying array of increasingly dehumanising tests before finally surgery, which took place in January 2019. In the meantime, I was gradually receding into a physical and emotional shell. At my lowest point I weighed under 9 stone, down from my normal weight of approaching 13 stone.
I don’t know if I was clinically depressed, I’ve never really spoken to anyone about it or involved myself in the mental health system. I do know having read peoples accounts of depression I recognise many things. The eternal heavy fog weighing down on you and never allowing you a single moments respite, the waking up and feeling the same every day, counting down the moments until you can sleep again and be at some semblance of peace. And the complete aversion to any kind of emotion. The almost physical pain at being confronted with happiness, excitement, contentment, even conventional sadness, because I was no longer capable of such range. I couldn’t bear seeing old photos of myself, my previous self where I was smiling, where I had hope. He was gone now and all that was left was the shell. This feeling probably lasted for the year between me falling ill and having the operation, then continued for another six months after the operation.
In this context football played a significantly painful role. What is supporting a football team if not harnessing your emotions? The eternal hope, the intrinsic link with your past, the sheer unrestrained joy after an important goal, the pre match nerves and the anger when the result doesn’t go your way. Unfortunately for me right in the middle of me feeling like this, fell the 2018 World Cup. I love the World Cup. I love the stories, I love the tension, I love everyone coming together regardless of who they support or how little they normally follow football and getting behind the national team. I love the feelings it inspires. Leading up to the tournament I thought I was safe from any extreme emotions trying to infiltrate my shell. England were grouped with Belgium, Panama and Tunisia. With possibly the weakest squad for a generation it felt inevitable that England would struggle through an easy group before being knocked out by the first decent team they faced. It was concerning that the teams England would be placed with in the last 16 looked suspiciously lightweight, but a laboured win over a Colombia surely wouldn’t make a dent on the nation’s conscience. After that England were scheduled to face World Champions Germany where it would all be over but for the biennial inquest. I could manage that. The players would be like me. They would be told they had no passion and were not good enough. We may as well all give up. Instead my worst nightmare materialised. The opening game against Tunisia progressed exactly as expected but then there was Panama. Suddenly there was a lightness about England, England were young and care free, now everybody loved England. England were everything I was not. After a dead rudder against Belgium, England faced Colombia in the last 16. I watched it in a packed pub with my friend surrounded by people. When Eric Dier converted the winning penalty I have never felt so alone. As I made my way home across London I felt nothing. I was confronted with a jubilant capital, strangers hugging me and singing about Gareth Southgate making them whole again. I was empty.
The quarter final against Sweden turned out to be one of the worst days of my life. It was a gloriously sunny Saturday and my friends 30th birthday. We were all due to meet in a pub to watch the game before heading out for the night. Everywhere I looked on social media people were out enjoying themselves, it was the biggest party the country has seen for years. I was having one of my bad days. As the nation sang and danced England into only their third World Cup semi final, I was hunched over a toilet being sick. To this day I get a horrible knot in my stomach whenever anyone mentions it or I see any photo from that day. Yes even THAT one. I envy anyone who is merely repulsed by the sight of a middle aged man’s bare arse. In the days leading up to the semi final I was in a state of fevered panic. Croatia had not been very impressive so far save for a win over a poor Argentina team. Indeed they had required penalties to get past Denmark and Russia in the knockout stages. What if we beat them? What if we won the whole thing? I knew I could not cope if England won the World Cup with me feeling like this. If this was the greatest summer in England’s history with one big party I would fall apart. I picked up a flag on the way home from worked and feigned interest. I was ashamed at how I felt, I couldn’t bear to tell anyone the pain this was causing me, ashamed of potentially ruining their fun. I just wanted to disappear. When England lost to Croatia I was desperate with relief. This specific torment was over. I could go back to my day to day shell existence without the fear of being intensely confronted with my inability to feel the nations joy. I hated feeling like this and I hated myself for feeling it.
My first footballing love, Crystal Palace had the decency to match my numbness by playing out some of the most uneventful seasons in their history. There was a brief flirtation with the FA Cup but that was soon extinguished. The FA Cup run of 2016 had given me some of the most vivid memories of my life. The emotional intensity of a Cup run like that sears into your soul and makes you feel inescapably alive. I shudder to think what would have happened had we reached another Cup Final. I would have had to have gone to Wembley, to have stood while ‘abide with me’ played knowing I was incapable of feeling what the other 90,000 people surrounding me felt (perhaps minus club Wembley, although at least they could stomach the lavish buffet).
Of the long list of painful things my suspected depression did to me, robbing me of the ability to feel football was one of the most stark. I urge everyone reading this to embrace and enjoy the full range of emotions football forces upon you. If this article strikes a chord with anyone or brings up something they would like to talk about please feel more than welcome to contact me via my twitters DMs or in the email listed on the contacts page.