Kodaline's Steve Garrigan: Dark days under the bright lights
Steve Garrigan: details the anxiety attack that finally led him to seek help. Pics: Ruth Medjber, @ruthlessimagery
We had two 3Arena shows in Dublin in December 2015. These were like two big homecoming gigs for us after almost an entire year on the road and it was an occasion to celebrate with all our friends and family. It was coming up to Christmas and on the second night we got everybody on stage to sing Fairytale of New York. They were really awesome shows and probably, for me, still some of the best gigs that we’ve ever done, in the way they just flowed, from start to finish, and with everyone singing and dancing.
Those shows should have been the highlight of my year — I was at home, surrounded by friends and family and performing for thousands of fans in our hometown. And on the surface I probably appeared to be fine. But I was barely keeping it together. That second night I was laughing and smiling. But what nobody could have known is that only hours earlier I was in a doctor’s office desperately looking for help.
That morning I was being driven into town with my then manager and my mate Andy on our way to the gig, chatting away in the car, everyone in good spirits, but when we pulled up in the car park at the back of the 3Arena I just broke down in tears. The other guys were saying: ‘What’s wrong? Are you OK?’ But I just sat there, bawling my eyes out. I was like: ‘I don’t know what’s going on but I really need to get some sort of help.’ I was feeling really low.
I knew in my heart and soul that these gigs were amazing and I shouldn’t be feeling the way I did, but I did, and I needed help. There wasn’t a lot the lads could do for me so I left them there while I went straight to a doctor and told him about the anxiety, and how it was nothing new to me. But I also told him that there was this new, unfamiliar low that I was now experiencing and that it scared me.
He told me it was quite common for anxiety and depression to go hand in hand. He said if you’re dealing with one, unfortunately, you can find yourself trying to deal with the other.
And I think that’s what happened. I had never felt depression before. I was almost fine with the anxiety, I was so used to it. If I had some palpitations or if I was nervous or needed to catch my breath I’d go into a different room and regain my composure. But this was different. He was very calm and reassuring and he prescribed me some anti-depressants. I left feeling a little bit better and any fears I had about taking medication went out the window. I was looking for a quick-fix solution. I thought I would take these tablets and I would be fine. That, of course, is not how it works. I got through the gig that night but afterwards I just felt burnt out. I had been so busy for so long that I never stopped to reassess and check in with myself to see if I was alright. I just threw myself into it and kept going.
I had never learned how to look after myself while I was touring. There was no bracing myself, or taking a breath. There was no real healthy eating (I never made a point of actually going to dinner or having lunch), or exercise. I had stopped running because I couldn’t fit it into the endless schedule of gigs, interviews, and touring. And that was probably the one thing that had been helping to keep my head above the water. I wasn’t really planning my days, it felt like I was just getting pulled along. And there was a lot of drinking going on as well. Like, after every show there would be a full bar there and it’s very easy to fall into that.
So I wasn’t looking after myself on a physical level and all the while I was trying to ignore the grip of anxiety that was constantly there.
After that 3Arena show I took those anti-depressants for about six weeks, but I stopped then because, for whatever stupid reason, I was ashamed that I was taking them. I know now that taking medication was a step in the right direction. It was me acknowledging that even in the chaos of all the touring, I needed help. But when I started taking those tablets, for something that was all in my head, it just confirmed to me that something was seriously wrong with me. It made me feel like I was broken. And I didn’t want to be broken. It made me think less of myself, when I didn’t think a lot of myself anyway. And it made me feel more alienated from everybody else because I was afraid that if anyone found out I was on medication, they would treat me differently.
Like with the medication, I was looking for a quick and easy solution. But I’ve now learned how it’s important to find the right therapist, to find what works for you. And since then, I’ve tried various therapies and learned about certain things that triggered my anxiety, and why.
I continued touring and for the most part the gigs were fine. Some of them were amazing, and getting to be on stage and singing, doing radio sessions, the promos, all that was great.
It was after a show, or beforehand, when all these people would be there backstage, that I’d really start to get uncomfortable. I’d feel trapped and overwhelmed and I was glad the other guys from the band were there because they could kind of jump in and talk while I’d step out of the room. I’d try to avoid the afterparties as well, if there were too many people there. Instead I would sneak off onto the bus and just sit there on my own.
There were many moments like that when I felt some sort of panic attack was coming on. It never actually got to the point where I had a full-blown attack but I would often have to go away by myself and let the feelings of panic wash over me. I managed, but this was becoming a daily occurrence and sometimes I’d drink a load of beers to try and counteract it and then wake up feeling worse. But it all came to a head one night in Barcelona in March 2016.
It was a Friday night and we were playing at a place called the Bikini. We had another gig the following night, in Madrid, and then we were off to Portugal. But even before that tour I was excited to go to Spain. These were some of the first gigs to sell out on that whole European tour so I was curious to see what the fans would be like because there was obviously a buzz there for us.
We arrived the day before and we had that night off so instead of staying on the tour bus we got a hotel. I hung out with my friend Peter that night and it was nothing wild, we just went for a few beers. I woke up the following day and from the moment I opened my eyes, it kinda felt like I was on the verge of having a panic attack.
Now, this wasn’t unusual for me. This was just the old familiar anxiety back again. I was like, ‘Uh, here we go again’, here’s anxiety, this horrible feeling. I’ll just put up with it, I’ll push through and I’ll be grand. Just like every other time. But I just couldn’t shake off this really edgy feeling. Over the whole of that day, it was there and it got worse and worse.
By the time I got to the venue I was feeling really horrible, to the point where I couldn’t concentrate. I don’t think any of the lads or the crew even noticed. I’m sure I seemed fairly chill, but in my head I was like,’ I need to step out, I need a second, just to catch my breath’.
The only way I can describe it is to compare it to an expectant dad who is pacing up and down outside a maternity ward. I was kind of like that all day. I know now that this was my body and my mind saying ‘You need to put the brakes on, you need to look after yourself, you need to speak to someone and get help’. It was a warning call but I ignored it. I put on a brave face, pretending I was fine, and did the sound check. But by now I was screaming on the inside.
I lay down, hoping that if I went for a power nap I’d wake up feeling a bit better. But I couldn’t rest, and with 15 minutes to stage I was still sitting there, holding onto myself and thinking ‘I don’t know how I’m going to get through this’. I was trying to talk myself down:
‘C’mon Steve, you’ve been through this before, it’s nothing new. It’s shit, but it’s just the way it is. You can do this, you can deal with it’. Then I started to get incredibly dizzy, to the extent that I had to lie down again. I slumped off the seat and slipped onto the floor. Everyone was there — our tour manager, the lads, all the crew — looking at me while I just lay there. They were like, ‘Steve, what’s wrong? Are you okay?’. I remember our tour manager, Lewis Thorn, got down on the ground with me. He actually lay down beside me and said: ‘You’re OK. Can you get up?’ And I said: ‘No, I’m not, I’m not OK.’
Now, when I had my first serious panic attack, when I was 20, all those physical symptoms made me believe that I was dying. Because it can feel real, like what I imagine a heart attack would be like. It’s a very understandable response for somebody who’s never experienced a panic attack before to go straight to ‘Oh my God, I’m dying’, and of course that makes it worse.
You freak out more, you get dizzy because of the hyperventilation, your breathing goes, it’s like you’re struggling for air, your heart is beating really fast, your hands are shaky, and your mind is racing. I had many moments after experiencing that first major panic attack when I felt those same strong sensations rise up. But I knew I wasn’t dying.
I’d be like, This is anxiety, it’s a horrible feeling but it will pass. I would usually step outside and breathe, or sometimes I would lie on the floor in a toilet cubicle and just wait for it to ease off. And I always got back up again, and managed to get on with it. But for whatever reason this one was as bad as, if not worse than, that first one.
The room was spinning so much I was completely disorientated. I could feel my heart pumping, like it was trying to burst out of my chest. Lewis was down there with me the whole time, looking me in the eyes and repeating over and over: ‘You’re OK. Come on, get up.’ In fairness to Lewis, he’s firmly of that ‘show must go on’ type mentality. But as I lay there on the ground in Barcelona, I knew there was no way I could go on.
Lewis was urging me to get up, telling me: ‘We’ve been through this before, we can do it.’ I was still lying there, struggling to breathe, with the room spinning. We were supposed to go on stage at nine and I think it was about 10 past now. Our support band All Tvvins had finished their set, there was a sold-out crowd outside with everybody chanting and cheering, it was loud and noisy, but none of that mattered to me.
Finally, Lewis stood up and turned around to the others and said: ‘We’re going to have to tell them the gig isn’t happening.’ I think the guys went out on stage, Mark, Vinny and Jay, and I could kind of hear them saying, ‘Steve’s not feeling well, we’re sorry, but unfortunately we’re gonna have to cancel the gig.’
I remember hearing the noise of the crowd, letting out a huge groan, there was some whistling and jeering, you know, an unmistakable noise of disappointment. I stayed on the floor as the crowd emptied out. I managed to move over onto a bench and I just lay down on that with a pillow under my head.
By now the physical symptoms were so overwhelming that even though a part of me knew it was a panic attack, it got to the point that I told Lewis to call an ambulance. When he told me it was on the way, that put me at ease a little bit. I started to feel slightly better, you know. I still felt shit — anxious, rattled and drained — but my breathing started to come back to normal. My shaking hands and heart palpitations, that all kind of started to ease a bit. The ambulance came fairly quickly and I think by the time it arrived I was already starting to get my breath back.
I was still a bit dazed so the paramedics checked me over, and of course they couldn’t find anything wrong with me. One of them asked me had I ever had a panic attack and I felt like saying, ‘Yeah, every feckin’ day’. I remember feeling so disappointed in myself. I was like, ‘Oh my God. I could have just gone on and done the gig’. But I also realised that I had a serious problem and it wasn’t going away.
I had never had to cancel a show before and my anxiety had never got in the way of me performing. I had always found a way to dance around it. I had often told myself that as long as the anxiety didn’t interfere with the band or music or performing, I’d manage. Now I knew that road had run out.
- High Hopes: Making Music, Losing My Way, Learning to Live by Steve Garrigan is published by Hachette Books Ireland. Signed copies available from Easons €15.99
