Denise Welch - Pulling Myself Together

Contents

Prologue

6 a.m. I pull up outside the Coronation Street studios. I smile at the security guard on the door as I pass him. Its a forced smile, a painted smile that masks the anguish Im feeling, but hopefully he cant tell the difference.

On my way to my dressing room, I greet various members of the cast and crew, saying hello and pretending to laugh at their jokes. Over the years Ive learned how to disguise my depression, so none of them have any idea how desperate I feel. No one knows whats going on inside me.

I knew today would be bad from the moment I woke up. As soon as I opened my eyes, a dark cloud descended, huge and heavy, weighing me down. My limbs felt like lead as I dragged myself out of bed, wretchedly wishing I could just curl up under the duvet and hide from the world.

This depression has the most horrendous effect on me. The blackness is crushing; the day ahead looms like a giant, oppressive mountain that Im being forced to climb. How on earth am I going to get through it?

There was no warning that I would feel this way. I felt fine yesterday. I was looking forward to today and my big scene with Michael Le Vell, who plays my lover, Kevin Webster. Its a crucial scene, full of tension and drama, the kind of acting challenge I really enjoy. I love this role; I love playing Natalie Horrocks. Getting a part in Coronation Street is the best thing thats happened in my career. So why am I feeling so terrible?

I dump my bag in my dressing room and make my way to hair and make-up. The room is glaringly bright and filled with the smell of hairspray, perfume and cosmetics; people are chatting away, despite the early hour. I sit down and someone offers me a cup of tea, which I gratefully accept. But when I take a sip of the hot, milky liquid, I find it almost impossible to swallow, as if something is blocking my throat, something dark that wants to choke me. I look at my hand, clasped around the mug, and see that its trembling. Has anyone else noticed that Im shaking? I quickly put the mug down, slopping tea onto the table.

Abigail, the make-up artist, gives me a strange look. Are you all right, Denise? You look like youve seen a ghost, she says. The room goes quiet.

My heart pounds with anxiety. What am I going to say? I force myself to be normal. You mean the ghost of Ena Sharples thats staring back at me in the mirror? I reply, as lightheartedly as I can. Take a look at those bags! Youd better get busy with that concealer.

Everyone laughs, but I barely hear them. Im staring at my reflection, at my sad face, at the deadness in my eyes, and Im wondering how I can carry on, feeling the way I do. As Abigail works her magic I begin to look better, but the deadness remains in my eyes, and the blackness is still behind them. Why wont it go away? Make it go away! Its been more than seven years since I started suffering these intense bouts of depression, and today Im feeling as bad as Ive ever felt. I dont know how to cope. Ive got this big scene with Michael. What if I mess it up?

Are you sure youre OK? Abigail asks, breaking into my thoughts.

I sigh softly. Im fine, really, I say. Just tired.

A runner comes to get me. Are you ready to go?

Ill be with you in a moment, I reply.

I walk back to my dressing room in a haze, pick up my bag and head for the bathroom. In the toilet, I open my wallet and take a tiny envelope out of one of the pockets.

Theres a blurry battle going on in my head as I tip a small amount of white powder onto a shelf and shape it into a line with my bank card. My thoughts are a complete jumble: I know I shouldnt be doing this, but Im convinced that its the only way I can get through. Dont do it! Its not the answer, I tell myself. But it helps me to cope. How else am I going to survive the day? As I roll up a ten-pound note, I block out my objections. I press a finger against one of my nostrils and inhale the white powder through the other.

Thirty seconds later, Im feeling better. The dark cloud is beginning to clear. I feel more lucid, more alert. Im going to be OK. I quickly size up what remains in the tiny envelope and decide that its enough to keep me going for the day. I check my nose for any telltale signs that Ive been taking cocaine. No one must know. It would be terrible if anyone found out. What if someone guesses? No, I mustnt think about that.

When I come out of the bathroom, the runner is waiting for me. Ready? he asks.

I smile warmly at him. Ready, I say firmly.

As I follow him onto the set, where the director and Michael are waiting, I concentrate on going over my lines. They havent a clue how difficult it has been to arrive at this moment and Im determined not to let them know. Anyway, now that Im feeling normal and can focus on my work, theres nothing for them to notice.

By the time the director shouts, Action! I know this is going to be a great scene. But as I gear up for Natalies confrontation with Kevin, I wonder what the hell I think Im doing. Using cocaine to get through my working day? Theres no way of justifying it and I can hardly bear to think about it. How on earth has my life come to this?

Chapter One

Over the years, Ive been to see a few quacky, cranky people who havent been able to accept that depression isnt necessarily linked to the scars of an unhappy childhood. Theyve made me doubt myself at times, when Ive been at my lowest and most vulnerable, and questioning whether my memories were true or false only increased my anxiety and confusion. But now Im sure that I was blessed with a very happy childhood. When I look back, I can see that I was a very contented child.

When I go through my baby pictures, I get a really warm feeling. I have a vivid memory of being in my pram, in the sunshine, looking out at a lovely trellised wall covered in roses. Mum tells me that I was a beautiful baby, but she must have been wearing rose-tinted glasses because I think I was a rather odd-looking child!

I was born on 22 May 1958 at Tynemouth Infirmary near Whitley Bay, Tyne and Wear, and was named Jacqueline Denise. My parents thought that Jacqueline was lovely and very French and then proceeded to call me Denise. Coincidentally, both my mother and father were born at Tynemouth Infirmary as well, in the same bed, in the same ward, in the same year, a month to the day apart.

Mum came from a very working-class Irish Catholic family. She worshipped her dad, John George, who was known as Mick or Jack, depending on who he was talking to. Granddad was great friends with Sir Matt Busby. He had gone down the pits early in life, before becoming a professional footballer. He played for Reading, Manchester City and Queens Park Rangers and narrowly missed playing in the 1934 FA Cup final, after being injured in the semi-final while playing for Manchester City. My granny was a staunch Labour supporter and I remember heated debates between her and my dad about politics when I was a child. Dad was very fond of Granny, but he was a small businessman and a Tory voter and he used to love winding her up.

My dad was from a very middle-class English family. His father was a terrible snob and Mums family didnt remotely live up to his idea of who was suitable for his son, Vincent. Mum and Grandpa never saw eye to eye as a result. They tolerated each other, but there was definitely a personality clash there.

My mum says now, Look at your dad, hes just like your grandpa! Its true that Dad has become more like his father as hes got older, physically and in his gait. He is also very fiery, which is definitely a Welch family trait Ive inherited it too! But Grandpa was a real disciplinarian. He would make you chew your peas thirty times; he was a total control freak. Nevertheless, my sister Debbie and I adored him. We were equally close to our maternal grandparents.