By Daniel Crespin
One of the most joyful memories I have is the call I got in June 2013 informing me that I had gained a place on the three year BA Acting Course at LAMDA. I had dreamed of going to drama school since the age of fourteen, and was completely bowled over by the fact that I had gotten in on my first attempt at eighteen years old - in hindsight I was personally far too young to be in any way prepared for what lay ahead. I may have been ready as an actor, but I certainly wasn't ready as a human being. I remember running down my garden and pounding the air with my fist in triumph. I had arrived, and my future was set...that was the plan anyway.
I had always papered over the cracks of my frayed self-esteem with achievement. I was a high achieving child in most areas that I turned my hand to. It wasn't until much later that I realised that it was a feeling of lack that drove this will to accomplish, a feeling of not being good enough. If I could just convince the world that I mattered, then perhaps I would finally feel that way myself. So, when I got into LAMDA at such a young age, I assumed that this track record of success was continuing to its natural end point of the fulfillment of my dreams.
In actuality LAMDA turned out to be a struggle of epic proportions for me. My anxiety had started in the first term of first year and it led me to not being able to sleep for almost three years. Two hours a night, four if I was lucky, and with a hectic and physically demanding schedule I was just trying to hold on for most of my training. I remember mentioning to a member of staff towards the end of my first year that I didn't think I could do this. I was barely making it to the end of each term and then collapsing in the holidays, trying to get some energy back to start again. I was convinced by this staff member to carry on, which looking back I wish I hadn't listened to. Let me be clear, I don't blame LAMDA for anything in this regard, in fact when I did come back to restart my final year they paid for me to have both therapy and psychiatry with some of the top professionals in London. This is something I will always be grateful to them for. However, if I had left in my first year, I could have restarted with a new group of people, and truly felt like part of the group. As wonderfully beautiful and lovely the year I joined was, it was incredibly hard trying to integrate into a group who had known each other in such close proximity for two years already.
Monday 2nd November 2015. I remember that day with vivid clarity. At least I believe it is clarity. However, the mist that lingered in my mind at that time and had slowly entangled itself with my rapidly decaying sense of self means that I must admit to myself, and you, that some of the details could be a false memory. A trick of the mind created when the mind is broken. I have tried to piece it back together again, and it has taken me the better part of a decade to even partly reassemble.
I woke, attempted to rise, and felt the hollow pressure of another sleepless night bearing down on my chest. It took me at least half an hour to rise to my feet out of the half-slumber that my alarm had taken me from. The strength it takes to get up into oncoming oblivion is something I now struggle to comprehend. I certainly don’t think I could find it again within myself now. I slipped on a jacket, missed breakfast, and hesitated at the foot of my front door. I paused for one brief yet infinite moment, knowing that to step out into the cacophony of the bustling city would almost certainly be the beginning of the end of the dream I had had all my life.
As I stepped out into the November cold, the city whined and heaved as if an entity of its own. The people trudged begrudgingly with coffee in hand to another day of mundane repetition. I felt the wind pound my senseless cheeks and I managed to begin putting one foot in front of the other; head and heart now on autopilot, dragging myself to LAMDA.
I finally arrived and slowly proceeded up the stone steps to the entrance of the illustrious building where many a famous face had trained. I walked down the halls passing by the dreams I had had before; shaded photos of alumni who had gone on to find success formed in rows along the corridors, seemingly never-ending, adding insult to injury with every proceeding step I took. Each step was one closer toward my own dream of success being shattered in front of my eyes. Many who I had once thought close to me tried to give me words of encouragement, yet I fail to remember a single word they said.
I finally got to the principal’s office. I immediately felt a sharp tinge of fear from within myself as I entered. What happened in that room is hazy to me now, but can be summed up simply as indecision. I had no idea what to do. I couldn’t stay and play the lead role I had been assigned, that much I knew, but to admit defeat meant the end of everything; a different life a million miles from the one I had dreamed up through years of chasing this seemingly unattainable dream. I remember that all I really wanted was to go home and cry in the arms of my mother. Prolonged suffering had caused me to regress to something like my infant self. My body and mind had finally given up, and the dream of a graduation filled with future promise had been shattered. Thankfully, the principal made the decision for me. I was to go home, try to recover and come back to restart my third year in just under a year’s time.
I walked out with a mangled mind and a sore body. The fight was over, and I felt nothing due to shock. I walked out onto the harsh noise of Talgarth Road and the first face I saw was my girlfriend at the time. I didn’t even have to say anything; she knew immediately. I remember the look of panic in her eyes that she was desperately trying to hide for my sake. I’ll always be grateful to her for the care and love she showed me that night. A lot of shit went down after that, but she was there for me on the worst day of my life and it’s something I’ve never thanked her for, so I’ll do it now in the hopes that maybe she reads this someday.
She practically dragged me back to my flat, holding me up as we walked arm in arm. As we arrived I could barely get up the stairs and I don’t know how she managed to keep a brave face while witnessing the shell of the man she had once loved. I hurriedly threw together necessities into a backpack and headed for the nearest tube station. The urge to escape from London and to get back home was overwhelming. As we got to the station entrance I don’t really remember what I said, yet the look of sorrow and panic in her eyes will be etched into my mind for as long as I live. I knew it was over and I said my goodbye. I trudged up the tube station steps and daren’t look back for her, knowing this huge chapter of my life was now at its end.
I arrived at Paddington Station and I remember staring vacantly at the departures board, trying desperately to figure out the next train back to Bristol. As I got on the train I lay down, beaten and bruised across two seats, staring aimlessly at the grey fur of the seat in front of me. A fellow passenger caught me in a brief moment of eye contact and gave a subtle nod. Caring or scared I can’t really recall, but he swiftly shifted his eyes back to a beaten paperback, as if afraid to engage. The din of my phone kept ringing throughout the journey home, but I couldn’t bear to face whatever messages of love or support people were sending me.
The next snapshot I remember is falling into bed and immediately being knocked out by sheer exhaustion. The next morning I realised that it was the first time in almost three years that I had woken up and it hadn’t still been dark outside. I was relieved for a brief moment, before the reality of my situation hit me like a roaring wave. My dream really was over, that was it for me. At least that’s what my depressed and exhausted mind was telling me at this point.
I know this is quite a bleak tale and I’m sorry for anyone who has gone through anything similar. I write this because the trauma of this day, and even worse, the trauma of the next four months that followed are still with me today. It doesn’t happen anymore, but for at least five years after I would sometimes wake up in a cold sweat, panicking because I’d had a dream that I was back in that time in my life and thought for a few moments that I truly was there. Since that time it has always been something I’ve never fully gotten over. It’s like there was my life before that day, and my life after. I hope the chapter that begins with that day ends triumphantly; a redemption story of the most powerful kind, but life doesn’t often work like that. We’ll see what happens. I have finally learned to be sad for the boy who went through that. To realise that I didn’t deserve it and that it was a truly tragic thing that happened. For years I blamed myself, so perhaps at least, there is progress.
For anyone out there who thinks that everything will end if you are in a position where you have to leave drama school, I get it, I've been there. However, I'm here to say that my life didn't end that day, as much as I believed it had at the time. If I'd soldiered on and taken that lead role I probably would have either had a nervous breakdown on stage, or I'd have been signed by some huge agent, collapsed on a set somewhere and never worked in the industry again. Instead, I went away, finally started the long and continuing process of dealing with my mental health, restarted my final year and managed to graduate! It's not been plain-sailing. I'm not quite at the heights within the industry that I'd hoped yet, however, I have been part of work that I am truly proud of, and after years of feeling embarrassed to even claim I was one, I'm here to tell you now: I AM an actor!
This isn’t a redemption post, I’m afraid. I’m not ending on a positive note like I usually do and saying that everything happens for a reason and that it made me stronger, because I’m almost certain my twenties would have been a lot better if that never happened. That day and the trauma that followed it very nearly destroyed me and I wish it had never happened. Yet, through the mist that lingered for so long after those events has come hope. My life may not be what I had dreamed of as a kid, but it is something meaningful, of that I’m sure. After years of PTSD like symptoms over what happened, I finally look to the future with hope and an intrigue of what is to come. Life goes on. In the words of one of my very talented writer friends Georgie: we move.
Daniel Crespin is an actor, musician, podcast host and writer. He graduated from LAMDA in 2017 and since then has worked both nationally and internationally as an actor in theatre, TV and as a voiceover artist. Daniel's blog and podcast is called Starving Artists and is co-hosted by musician Lewis Shepherd. The podcast is hosted by two artists and recovering addicts and explores the frustrations, challenges and beauty of pursuing a creative and sober life. www.starvingartistspod.com