One Story Out of Hundreds

Every year in this country - and in this industry - many great people go through their own version of this. Most of us are here to remember it. Some people are not.

I just want to share this so anyone who reads it might know, that you are not the only one who’s been there.

And that loneliness, depression and anxiety are not the things that separate us. They are the things that we all have in common.

Twelve years ago this month, I got arrested.

I had been at my flat in Wellington, somewhere after the second bottle of wine, when it hit me that I knew what I had to do.

The previous few years had been rough. I'd had a break-up that seemed worse than anything I'd ever been through before, and my dad had died in the previous year. My feelings about that were more complex than I knew how to deal with.

The idea of just checking out had been with me for most of my adult life, as a shadow in the room whenever I was alone.

And yet outwardly, even the people closest to me probably had no idea. I was surrounded by mates—and I always had a table of regulars who were happy to see me at a couple of bars. I usually had a relationship on the go, even if it was based more on mutual drinking than any real connection. I'm sure if I'd met me back then, I would have thought, "he looks like he's having fun." And I was, even though I was unhappy all the way to my bones.

The night I made my decision, I stumbled outside to my Toyota van and drove to Kelburn Viaduct. I sat there for a moment to make sure I knew what I was about to do and then headed for the wall, high above the road below.

The fact that I was in the exact place that I first ever earned a "Key Grip" credit, on a short film about a man who attempts suicide, was not something that occurred to me until the next day.

As I stood there and then readied myself to get up on the wall, a big arm came around my chest from behind. And a voice said, "easy mate."

A cop had seen me driving and had followed me. He hadn't pulled me over immediately because he was curious where a lone van might be heading at 3 a.m. on a Tuesday, and there was no one else on the road for me to harm anyway.

When I parked, he had been right behind me, but I had been too drunk to notice. And then he saved my life.

I woke up the next morning in a cell at Wellington central. The door was unlocked. I walked to the watch house reception, was given a mug of tea and my shoes, and was handed a package of pamphlets for support services I could contact. The drink-driving wasn’t mentioned, and I never asked.

The van was where I'd left it.

That night will always be a part of my life. In the years since, I have talked with doctors, got the drinking down to a tolerable level of sociable, and learned a few things about myself.

When I was first diagnosed as ADHD, it made perfect sense to me. I ticked every box, and having a name for your type can be a useful tool towards learning how to live with yourself.

A few days after getting that diagnosis, I was back on a film set, looking at the people I worked with, many of whom I had known for years—and it was as if I could see some of them clearly for the first time.

The film industry is absolutely full of neurodiverse types. We crave variety and new challenges every day. We hate "the rules," but we love the structure of a film set. We like knowing that we have been handed responsibility that maybe the outside world wouldn't see us as fit for. But here, on a film set, we can prove ourselves and fit in.

We are great people. But we are vulnerable. Anxiety, depression, abuse, and lousy self-esteem are all a part of the same personality type.

In the last few years, my diagnosis has been refined, from ADHD to low-level autism. Again, it's a blessing. I can read books and blogs by people I have this in common with. It’s actually great to know I’m just one of millions.

These days the friendships are easier to maintain, and the future mostly looks like somewhere I want to go. But it's taken a long time. And I am one of the lucky ones.

A few years ago, I was watching a talk show. The guest was a famous actor. The host asked him, "what do you think happens after we die?"

He paused for a minute, before he said ‘the people we leave behind will miss us very much’. The room went silent, and that clip has become famous.

If anyone had told me that they would miss me, on that night twelve years ago, I'm not even sure I would have believed them.

But mainly, I just didn't know who to ask. Look, if any of this has resonated with you, at least know this: You are not alone. The anxiety and helplessness you might be feeling, are connecting you to thousands of other people. And whether you know it or not, people care about you. And they will miss you very much.

Reach out to them now. Give them a chance to tell you. Give them a chance to listen. And keep telling them until they hear you.

Love your work,

GT