13 days in The Priory

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DAY ONE
11am. We stayed up all night last night, having a final bender before we check into the Priory this afternoon. We're going there because I'm depressed and Shane wants to give up the drink. I've no idea what to pack.
What do you wear in the Priory? It's probably full of supermodels and footballers, all Gucci'd up. F*** it, I'd better bring everything I've got. I'm already depressed and anxious without being underdressed as well. Maybe I'll phone Kate and ask her what to bring.

11.35am. Kate's not home. Or maybe she's just not picking up. I'm always afraid, with famous friends, that I'm far too unfamous for them to like me. I hope they can cure me of this in the Priory.

1pm. Shane's not home yet. He says he's on his way, but I hate being late so I'm going without him. I've booked a taxi.

2pm. OK, I'm here. I've got to admit I'm excited, even if I am depressed. It's so glamorous, checking into the Priory. I really feel as if I've arrived. Anyone who's anyone has been here. General Pinochet was here. This could be a career move. I'm not disappointed, so far. The facade is splendiferously grandiose. I can't wait to see my room, but I have to see the shrink first.

5.30pm. This is weird. I've been interviewed three times now, by different people, and I've told them each a slightly different story. I hope they don't compare notes. They all wanted to know how much I drink and how many drugs I take and if I've ever tried to kill myself and if I feel suicidal. What if they section me? I only wanted a rest and some nice therapy. They're taking this way too seriously. The shrink asked me if I hear voices or see things. Does it mean that you're mad, if you see things? I've seen angels frequently and I talk to dead rock stars but I've decided not to admit to anything like that.

6pm. I'm in shock. My bedroom is tiny and I've only got a single bed, a metal one with a rubber mattress, like you get in hospitals. No fluffy bathrobe or slippers and the towels are thin and small, like the ones in motels. I checked and all you can see from my window is a wall. I'm pretty sure there's no cable telly, either. This will make me even more depressed.
The nurse who showed me my room wanted to know if I'd brought any medication or sharp objects. I have to surrender my vitamins and razors and nail scissors. Do they really think I could kill myself with a Ladyshave? The thought of handing over my herbal remedies upsets me terribly. I take all kinds of stuff on a daily basis, ginseng, aloe vera, green algae. I'll never manage a bowel movement. The nurse says I've got to go down to dinner now and it's only six o'clock.

6.30pm. I might have to discharge myself. I can't believe I'm sitting here eating deep-fried fish and chips with mushy veg. It's worse than boarding school and not remotely organic. I'm eating it because it's comforting and I've got no willpower. Now they're offering me crumble and custard for dessert. I wonder where Shane is. I'm nervous. I don't like sitting on my own in the restaurant. I haven't seen anybody famous. Maybe the supermodels eat in their rooms, so they won't get fat.

7pm. I'm in my room, feeling sick. I don't know if it's the crumble or the walls, which are my least favourite shade of bridesmaid's-dress peach. They want me to pay a cash deposit of £3,000 each for me and Shane. I've told them I didn't bring any money. Shane will have to sort it out, when he turns up. I've just had a horrible thought. Supposing he doesn't turn up? What will they do to me?

7.30pm. Shane's arrived and they've put him in the room opposite me, which is nice, so we can watch telly together. The nurse comes in every 15 minutes to check on us. There's no room service, so I've ended up eating white sliced bread and jam and drinking tea, which isn't herbal, out of a plastic cup. You have to make your own tea and coffee in the kitchen. We could have gone to the Dorchester for what they're charging us. But I'm glad we're here and not at home. Our place was so messy even our cleaner had given up on it. It feels safe here and it's nice and tidy.

DAY TWO

7.30am. I've been restless all night. They kept observing me and waking me up. I shouldn't have told them my life isn't worth living. I am getting breakfast in my room, though. I've asked for scrambled eggs on toast. They'd better be free range, or I won't be able to eat them.

9am. My scrambled eggs were cold and the toast was soggy. Yuck. I hate mornings, they just make me want to go back to sleep. The nurse says I have to get up for group therapy. He asked me if I know Ronnie Wood and I said yes and he was impressed. I like the nurse.

9.30am. The admissions office keep calling about the deposit. Neither me nor Shane has any money. I said that my agent will call with a credit card today. I hate worrying about money, it depresses me and makes me think life's not worth living.

12.30pm. I didn't have the heart to dress up for group therapy, I was too depressed, so I wore an old tracksuit and last year's pashmina. I hate having to be glamorous. In group therapy, everyone sits in armchairs, in a circle. You say your name and how you are feeling and then people take it in turns to talk about their problems. I was horrendously nervous, but I felt the fear and did it anyway. I said I was glad to be in here because it gives me a break from having to decide what to do every day for the rest of my life and from worrying about what a failure I am. Most of the others had more serious problems, which I'm not allowed to discuss, but they were very sympathetic, even so. I like it when people listen and don't just tell me to get a job and be sensible.

2pm. I got apprehended on the way to lunch by the lady who wants me to pay the bill. My agent hasn't called. I was too anxious to eat lunch, even though there were chips and ice cream. I feel hopelessly inadequate now. I sat on my own and pretended to read a book, because I was too shy to talk to the others. My confidence vanishes when I feel inadequate.

4pm. We had drama therapy, which I liked. I wish I could get a job doing something like that all day, just playing stupid games. I would have been an actress but I'm too afraid of rejection to audition for anything. Now we have a relaxation class. I can't relax because I'm still afraid they'll throw us out.

6.30pm. Shane's having dinner with me in the restaurant. I'm highly anxious, because I think everyone's staring at us. I have a phobia about being embarrassed in public. Shane always gets stared at, but he doesn't give a shit. He's got no shoes on and his suit is covered in cigarette ash and he's reading out loud from a book of Irish history. I hate this, because I secretly have a desperate craving for fame and success, which I can't do anything about, because of my fear of embarrassment. I want to watch telly now.

DAY THREE

9am. I dreamed I was driving a sports car which was out of control and I couldn't find the brake pedal. The nurse says we have to eat breakfast in the restaurant with the others and I don't want to because they'll stare. I heard people talking about Shane yesterday, because they read in The Sun that he'd been thrown out already. I need a massage, but there's more group therapy after breakfast.

12.30pm. I confessed to the group that I think everyone's staring at me because of Shane, and thinking nasty things. They were all very nice about it. The group leader said I should learn to see myself as a separate person, and stop worrying about what others might be thinking, because that's a symptom of anxiety. I've signed up for cognitive behavioural therapy, which is supposed to change the way you think about things.

5pm. I phoned a friend and told her I'm in here and she was jealous. She said she'd like to be in here, having her nails done and chatting up footballers in the Jacuzzi. Actually, there isn't a Jacuzzi. There isn't a pool, either. There isn't even a gym, only a crappy exercise bike in the lounge. I'm horrified. Exercise is supposed to be good for depression. There's nothing to do in the evenings except watch TV or sit in the smoking room where there are board games and some paperbacks. Oh, and Ping-Pong. Fantastic.

DAY FOUR

10am. I dreamed I was being stabbed to death with a carving knife on my mum's kitchen table with the whole family watching. There's still no news about the bill. Shane says he's asking his publisher. I'm completely useless, I never seem to earn any money and Shane pays for everything. And now we can't even afford the Priory. I just want to stay in bed forever. I hate myself and I want to die but I have to get up and go to group therapy.

Noon. In the group, the three people before me all said that they were ashamed of being depressed because they felt as if they should be grateful for being alive. That made me feel better. I'm having lunch with some of them today. They've got far worse problems than I have - death, divorce, children, that kind of thing - but they're very sympathetic. It feels good to have them to talk to.

3.30pm. My psychiatrist is very soothing. I feel as if he cares about me, like a dad. My real dad never even phones. I told him I get depressed about the fact that I'm not famous. Sometimes I want to kill all famous people, so I can be the only one, like Mark Chapman wanting to kill John Lennon to get himself noticed. I know I'm sick, so I wouldn't actually do it, in case you're famous and you're reading this and you're getting worried. Especially if you're George Harrison. I just read too many magazines and watch too much telly and I've been brainwashed into believing that if you're a VIP, that makes you a better person. I do want to be cured, but I get depressed when I read about parties that I wasn't invited to. I got depressed when Posh and Becks didn't invite me to their wedding. And I've never even met Posh and Becks. Shane says I'm way more f***** up than he'll ever be.

8pm. Shane's publishing company is paying our bill! I'm so relieved I could die. All he's got to do is write some more songs. Now I'm playing Ping-Pong with a lovely heroin addict I met in one of the groups. He's really good at Ping-Pong because they always have Ping-Pong in rehab.

DAY FIVE

11am. There's yoga this morning, which I'm looking forward to. Last night I dreamed that Posh and Becks phoned me to ask if I'd like to come shopping with them for clothes for baby Brooklyn. This morning I was allowed out into the park. That means I'm sane enough to go into the village. I'm not sure I'm ready for the outside world. But it felt good to be outdoors, with the ducks.

1pm. Yoga wasn't very good. Not like Triyoga in Primrose Hill, where I usually go. Madonna would have hated it. They've got vegetarian pasta for lunch, but I'll probably eat the chocolate ice cream with it. I've decided I'm a compulsive eater.

4pm. This afternoon, we had stress management. We had to fill in forms, challenging our negative beliefs. Mine was, "I am inferior to people who are more famous than me." I listed lots of disadvantages to thinking that way, but I'm still convinced that people who are slim and rich and successful and good-looking and famous are considered more attractive than fat, poor, ugly, ordinary people. Is this just me or is it actually true? We had to fill in charts, too, to see how much of a perfectionist we are. I ticked most of the boxes, which means that I'm setting myself up for failure. For homework, we have to see if we can stop being perfectionists. I might just not bother to do the homework.

DAY SEVEN

10am. Last night, in my dream, my guardian angel appeared and took me to the Clarence Hotel, in Dublin, where Bono was having a party. Me and my guardian angel were trying to get past the velvet rope, but the bouncers asked us what kind of passes we had; VIP, VVIP or Extra VIP. We didn't have any passes at all. Then Bono himself arrived, in a limo, with Naomi Campbell and the Corrs and I waved at him frantically, but he didn't see me. The angel said maybe we should just go to the pub, but I wanted to go home and cry. So the angel went to the pub on her own.

6pm. I had a visitor, which was nice, because there's nothing to do at the weekends. I rang my dad to see if he would visit me but he's busy. He asked me what it's like in here and I said they make us wear straitjackets. I think he believed me. My friend Carole brought me a card that her daughter Phoebe made for me and flowers, which made me want to cry. I do get lonely. Shane's busy writing songs and I'm still shy, so I hide in my room.
They say that depressed people hide from other people because they think no one will want to talk to them. You're supposed to make yourself talk to people or else you make it worse. But I can't imagine anyone wanting to talk to me. I'm selfish and boring and pathetic. I wish I could do something useful with my life, such as become a nurse or a teacher or help the homeless, but I don't think I'd be doing anyone a favour by inflicting myself on sick people or kids and I'm sure the homeless have enough problems already. I'm writing down all the bad things I think, so I can change them.

DAY NINE

4pm. In last night's dream, I was in a field with Joe Strummer and we were being chased by a pack of ferocious sheep. I tried to get into the social phobia group this afternoon, but the door was locked. Then the man who teaches it said I can't do social phobia because I haven't been assessed for it. I feel excluded.
Then I went to psycho drama and the lady said I should go away and come back on Wednesday. I'm embarrassed now. It reminds me of being in boarding school, having the wrong colour uniform on and getting sent home. I'm convinced I have body dysmorphic disorder.

DAY TEN

11am. I was so exhausted this morning, from the driving dream, which I had again, I almost couldn't get up for breakfast. But I'm starting to enjoy it, once I get there. I've learned to ignore what Shane's doing and talk to people from my group. They know I'm embarrassed, which makes it easier.

1pm. Today we did cognitive behavioural therapy. You have to write down a situation that makes you depressed and then list the negative thoughts that come into your head. For me it's waking up in the mornings. I immediately think, "Oh no, it's time to get up. I hate getting up. I'm too tired and I've got nothing to get up for. I just want to go back to sleep where it's safe." That kind of thing. Then you write how it makes you feel, because your thoughts create your feelings, which then cause more negative thoughts. Then you write what that makes you do. Like stay in bed every day and feel guilty about it. The difficult bit is challenging your negative thoughts.
I tried to think of situations in which I might look forward to getting out of bed, like winning the Lottery or being on the cover of Vogue. The trick is not to lose hope that something nice might happen. I think I need a sense of purpose.

DAY ELEVEN

11am. I got up early and walked in the park and watched the squirrels. I wish the Priory was my house and I could wander into the park every morning before breakfast. Thinking about the squirrels makes me want to get out of bed.

2pm. This afternoon, we had art therapy. I loved it. I did a painting of me and Shane in a black hole together, on a sofa with lots of nice colouredy bits floating around the outside and I called it Home. Then I drew my inner baby, covered in blood and stabbing itself in the stomach with a carving knife and asking, "Is this what you want?" It was fantastic. I was so pleased with it I did a whole series of inner babies, in different situations. I've definitely found my vocation. I'm going to be a famous artist like Tracey Emin.
I have to go home soon. I'm scared. I want to live here and do art therapy every day and eat fattening food and never see anybody thin or glamorous again. I even like my room now. It makes me feel safe. The psychiatrist said it's common for people to feel safe in here and not to want to go home. He says I've got to think about how I'm going to manage on the outside. I'm worried about it. It's so much easier, having other people to plan your day. If they won't let me live here, I might join the Army or become a nun.

DAY TWELVE

12.30pm. In the group, one of the women said she's planning to kill herself as soon as she gets out because she's a useless mother and her kids would be better off without her. We spent the morning trying to convince her that she's not useless and she shouldn't kill herself. A lot of people in here think no one would miss them if they killed themselves. Hearing other people say it makes you realise how crazy it is. We told her she won't always feel this way, it's only because she's depressed. I'm going to miss the other people when I go home. It's like a village where everyone knows your worst secrets and they're still friendly.

DAY FOURTEEN

I've been home. Shane got out before me, so he's already here, playing his guitar and watching videos. I phoned the Priory as soon as I got here and asked the staff to let me back in. The nurse said I won't be able to live in the Priory forever, so I'll have to try to get used to being at home. The cleaner hasn't been and the mess seems worse than it was before because I've got used to things being neat and orderly. I'm not so bothered about being famous now, but I want to live in a nice big house in the countryside and have all my meals cooked and play Ping-Pong and paint pictures. I'm thinking about joining a commune.

 

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