Jonny McCambridge exclusive book extract: I told my son ‘Daddy’s afraid of the dark as well, you know’

These are exclusive edited extracts.

VISITING THE DOCTOR AS A TEENAGER

My name has been called. I slowly walk the few steps towards the surgery before some sense of inbuilt deference makes me knock lightly on the door. There is an edge of harshness in the voice from the other side of the wood. ‘Come in, come in!’ I enter the brightly-lit room. The doctor is at a wooden desk, head down, writing swiftly. He uses a proper fountain pen. I stand uselessly until he looks up and beckons me towards a chair with the wave of a hand. Now he stares at me with dark, severe eyes. His eyebrows lift slightly. Is it surprise or contempt?

‘How can I help you today?’

This is the moment which I have been moving towards for most of my life. The moment when I finally take my problems outside of my own head. When I ask for help, find out if a better way exists. But now that it has arrived all I can focus on is how dry my mouth feels. How the air in this small room seems to be desperately thin, like the top of a mountain, so I can’t get a proper breath. I think about my breathing and the eyes of the doctor which are fixed upon me. Each second becomes like a lifetime and I fear that I will be unable to summon any words.

‘Well?’ the doctor continues.

I stare back at him, my face burning with shame. I hear words being delivered slowly.

‘Well. . . I’ve been feeling a bit down lately. . . I just . . . well, I just get really down.’

‘“Down”?’ he replies quickly. ‘What do you mean, “down”?’

I begin to fall apart under the heat of his dry interrogation. I mumble some more sentences but I know that my complaints are absurd and weak. My speech begins to slow, like a toy when the batteries start to fail. I try to tell him about the dark thoughts of suicide, the crippling lethargy, but he continues to stare without comprehension as my efforts at coherence falter. Soon I give up and let the silence hang between us, waiting for him to bring the torture to an end. He sits back in his chair and looks away, making me think that he feels I’m not worthy of his gaze anymore.

‘Have you spoken to your family about this?’

I shake my head. He scans the room again, as if searching for an idea. Then he turns back towards me and sits upright.

‘You went to a grammar school, is that right?’

I nod.

‘And your predicted exam results are good enough, aren’t they?’

I’m not sure if I react to this at all, but he goes on.

‘So in a couple of months you’ll be able to go off to university and then after that you can get a job as a teacher and you’ll have nothing to worry about.’

Perhaps he sees something in my face, maybe uncertainty or doubt, because his voice hardens slightly as he gestures towards the door.

‘You see all the people in that waiting room? How many of them do you think have had the chances that you have? How many of them do you think have had the chance to go to university? Some of them are really sick and they are not talking like this, talking about being down. When they have a bad day they just have to get on with it because there’s nothing else for it.’

And I know that he is right. At this moment his logic is undeniable. I have committed one of the deadliest sins by trying to talk about it, by not being stoic, displaying weakness in front of another. My problems are mine alone, they are not to be shared. There is to be no empathy, no support in this struggle. All my life, in my mind, I’ve been digging holes to hide my defects from the rest of the world. Now I know the next hole I dig will be the deepest yet.

TRYING TO GET OUT OF BED IN THE MORNING

I’m not asleep but not quite awake either; I’m somewhere between the two. I can hear a noise outside the window – the tortured squeal of the bin lorry as it crushes and compresses piles of rubbish. The sound reminds me of the bray of a distressed animal and I’m repulsed and terrified by it. I shrink down into the bed and pull the duvet over my head to block it out. Soon, more sounds filter through – the low rumble of a passing car and the dog next door barking at the singing morning birds. The bright early autumn sun is pouring through the thin blinds of the room and its rays reach the edge of the pillow, close to my face. It’s a fine day and it occurs to me that most people will be getting ready to go to work, or if not, to go out and make the most of the weather. But, for me, I know the first, almost insurmountable challenge will be just getting out of bed, before I can even contemplate facing the world on the other side of the glass.

On the worst days, the mental impacts on the physical. The plodding, suffocating heaviness seems to pour out of my mind and into my bones; the overwhelming sadness morphs into an oppressive weight on my chest. It’s not only the fear and anxiety about getting out of bed and going out into the world that afflicts me, it’s the fact that I’m not sure I’ve even got the physical strength to do it. I’m brutally tired, as always, but the relief of sleep is rarely to be found these days. My arms and legs feel like alien limbs, not under my own control.

I feel I’ve been lying like this for hours and I know that the longer I leave it, the worse it will be. I keep telling myself that I have to try, whispering it over and over to myself like a prayer. I pull my head off the pillow, just a couple of inches at first, before sinking down again like a bag full of wet sand. My skull aches but I will myself on.

I lie there, building up for another effort. This time I manage to lift my head a little higher, heaving my body up somewhere close to a sitting position until I can lean against the headboard. Then I rest again. My arms are folded across my chest, as if I’m holding or protecting myself, and my head is sloping forward into a slow, desperate nod. The urge to slide back down into the bed is vast and threatens to shatter me. ‘You’ve nothing to get up for’.

I feel that if I don’t get moving soon then the last splinter of hope for the day will be gone, so I quickly swing my legs sideways until I’m sitting unsupported. The contact of the carpet with my bare feet sends trembles of anxiety up my legs and through my body and, again, the longing to go back rather than forward is fierce. I rest some more, nodding and shivering. The wall is just a metre away so I thrust myself up and forward, unsure if my legs even have the strength to support me. I grab desperately at the wall, scraping and scratching at the plaster until little flecks of paint have wedged themselves underneath what’s left of my fingernails. But I’m standing. Slightly bowed rather than straight, but I’m definitely upright. For just a second there’s the dimmest glow of triumph, before the thought of the vast emptiness of the day ahead snuffs it out and I’m terribly afraid again.

PUTTING MY SON TO BED

I cuddle in beside my son in the bed. He puts his face against my chest. There’s an unspoken intimacy in his skin against mine, a link which goes back to when he was a baby and I had to get up in the middle of the night to feed and wind him. Then he was so small that he could fit in the palm of one of my hands, and he’d rest his soft little head against my shoulder. It made me feel that I was his whole world.

Soon he is asleep, snoring softly, moving around the bed like a drunk man. I could leave him now, go downstairs to watch TV, surf the web or check in with people I don’t really know on social media. Instead, I decide to stay and watch him sleep. As he murmurs quietly, I can’t help but wonder what’s going on in his head. What dreams and fears are trying to form which he doesn’t yet understand? His pale skin is slightly illuminated by the bedside lamp and as I watch, I’m so in love. The tantrums, questions, demands, insults, slaps and the early mornings all feel gloriously inconsequential. Now, like this, with his thin chest rising and falling, I want time to stop. I want to throw something around him to protect him against the journey we all must take. I feel that I couldn’t bear it if he were to ever suffer or be unhappy like me. I feel that I want to take all the pain in his life and absorb it into my own body. He turns over, his twig-like arm reaching out, as if searching for something. It comes to rest on my stomach and a little bit of the warmth of his hand transfers to me.

We lie like that for some time. I suppose I must have dozed off, but after a while I’m aware that he’s stirring beside me. It’s dark now and I turn on the lamp once more. James is sitting up; he’s afraid at first but his features relax when he sees me.

‘I’m thirsty, Daddy.’

I give him a cup of water. He drinks for a long time but when he hands the cup back to me, I notice that he’s only taken a very small amount. He moves closer beside me again.

‘Daddy, are you going to stay with me?’

‘Yes, son, yes I am.’

‘And will you keep the light on, Daddy?’

I hesitate for a moment, I’m not sure if I should indulge this or resist. His little bottom lips trembles.

‘Please, Daddy, I’m afraid of the dark.’

My resistance melts faster than the Easter snow.

‘Of course, buddy, of course I’ll keep it on.’ Then, ‘You know son, Daddy’s afraid of the dark as well.’

He looks at me without comprehension. We settle down once more. Within minutes I can hear a soft contented growl and I know he’s sleeping again. And we lie there just like that, protecting each other.

THE FIRST WOBBLY TOOTH

I lie on the bed, wandering somewhere deep inside my own mind. I know I’m not depressed or anxious right now, but I’m concerned that I’m heading in that direction. So I just concentrate on being self-aware. Trying, as ever, to understand all of the layers and processes within my own head. I can’t stop thinking about how fine the lines are between a healthy mental state and something much darker.

Then I hear James coming up the stairs. My first emotion, I’m ashamed to say, is one of weariness. I’m anticipating another long bout of superhero role-playing. But when he comes through the door, his face is flushed and serious – a child trying to replicate what he imagines is an adult expression. I sit up immediately as he begins to speak.

‘Daddy, there’s something I have to tell you. Something I need you to check.’

‘What is it, buddy? Are you alright?’

His face is creased with the effort of processing new thoughts and experiences.

‘Daddy, I think I might have a wobbly tooth.’

He wants me to look in his mouth. Eventually I manage to persuade him that he needs to remove his finger and move his tongue – and then I see it. A tiny pearl-like tooth in the bottom row which is dangling by a thread. It must have been loose for some time but he has only just realised what is happening.

‘Yes, buddy, you definitely have a wobbly tooth. That’s going to fall out soon.’

And then it begins. The pleasure overtakes his tiny body and he begins to bounce, as he always does when excited. ‘I can’t believe it, Daddy. I can’t believe I have my first wobbly tooth.’

He talks like this with animation for some time. He begins to tell me about every person in his class at school, naming them individually as he recites how many wobbly or missing teeth they have had – a complete juvenile dental record of all of his friends. He has never spoken to me on this subject before but now I’m aware of how it must have dominated his thoughts and the discussions in the playground. How often must he have wondered when it was going to be his turn? Children’s minds, just like those of adults, are full of unspoken mysteries and surprises.

Afraid of the Dark, published by Dalzell Press, is available now on Amazon.