I was sad to read in the paper earlier about Brendan Coyle, the man who plays Mr Bates in Downton Abbey. He’d just spent four weeks in a rehab facility in Thailand dealing with the fact that he drinks too much, and it seems he checked out and then got loaded on the flight on the way home. I couldn’t help thinking how he must feel, knowing that not only has the month he invested in his recovery gone to shit as soon as he stepped back into his real life, but now his problems are splashed all over the tabloids too.
It must be excruciating to have your demons laid bare for all the world to see. I know that people who choose a career in the public eye have to accept a certain amount of scrutiny as par for the course, but he’s a person first before he’s an actor and I think the papers are a bit cruel picking over the bones when the wheels fall off someone’s life.
It’s hard enough dealing with addiction in private. I can remember back in the day, whenever the binge monster would rear it’s ugly head I’d easily consume five or six thousand calories without batting an eyelid, in my big fat leather recliner with the dog drooling by my side. Incidentally, he rarely got anything, because I didn’t want him to get fat…how ironic is it, that I’d consider the welfare of his waistline but ignore the fact that mine was on the ropes.
The morning after was aways horrible. I’d wake up feeling not sick exactly, it just used to feel like I had a brick lodged in my chest. My mouth used to taste like I’d licked the sole of Ghandi’s flip flop and I felt sluggish, like I had no energy at all. There was rarely evidence when I went downstairs that I’d gone for it in a big way the night before, because most of the time all the packaging would be in the bin outside. That way, I was never forced to confront the reality of how much I’d actually packed away.
The worst thing though was the utter self-loathing, followed closely by a full-blown self-pity party. It’s not a combination designed to bolster your self-esteem, you know? And the thing is, it didn’t matter that I felt like shit, I would always wake up with food on my mind. Not thinking about what I’d eaten the night before, but what I was going to eat next.
They seem like very dark days, when I look back. Thing is, I know I’m one cheese ball away from being back there you know? I mean, yes I’m in the sweet spot and I’m not letting go of that for anybody, but my food sobriety feels fragile. I want to swaddle it in bubble-wrap and keep it away from harm.
I know, when I do things like eating five Ferrero Rocher chocolates on the bounce, one after the other that I’m tearing off the bubble-wrap and throwing my sobriety near the wheels of the bus, and it’s only Lady Luck who’s saved it from going under. I need to be more careful. I didn’t go over points, but I’m flirting with the monster and one day that’s not going to end well.
Which kind of brings me back to the man we all know and love as Mr Bates. His addiction is different to mine, and it’s been played out in a very public arena so I reckon that the self-loathing and shame which follows a binge must surely be magnified…at the end of the day you’re not just judging yourself are you, it must feel like the whole world is picking over your issues and forming a view.
I’d like to put my arm around him today. I reckon he’d need it.
