A trigger is a strange thing. In terms of my anxiety, a trigger could be a simple thing that I would manage, deal with and move past for weeks on end. Then, out of nowhere; that simple thing would blow up. Become a hard to manage, impossible to pass situation – that I simply had no way to counter. The granddaddy of all triggers for me is failure. Of course you can easily throw in a soupcon of rejection, a dash of change, a mere morsel of overloading – but in the end it all comes back to one thing – the fear of failure. Episode one, as we will call it to keep things simple – was as much to do with overloading as
I was once told that through sport, I lived a double life. I disagreed. My view was that what I did was no different to how others involved in amateur sport lived their lives. I had a decent job, a part-time hobby and a dedication to the sport I played. But then if I introduced myself to anyone new. Told them what I did. How I made my living; where I would be on a Friday night – what I would then be doing on a Saturday morning – a lack of understanding would permeate through the rest of our conversation. They simply refused to believe me. The job meant working at different European sites. The hobby was as an events reviewer for DJ Magazine.
There are certain points in time that we are all supposed to remember exactly where we were, when something profound or ground breaking took place. My Mum claims to remember exactly where she was when JFK was assassinated. Others can recall where they were when man first set foot on the moon, or when Phil Collins played two gigs in one day for Live Aid. But then, that really is nothing compared to what I am about to share with you. For I can quite clearly remember where I was the day I first paid £2 for a pint. It was the same day that I realised England were rubbish at football – The date was the 17th June 1992. The place was The George