When I was growing up, I’d often help my Dad with the gardening on weekends and during the summer holidays. He’d task me with mowing, strimming and rounding up hedge trimmings and leaves. When I was much younger, I particularly enjoyed stomping it all down in the big garden waste bin. To this day, we still joke about needing a small child to stomp down all the leaves to create more room. Although I’m one of three boys, I always enjoyed these chores a lot more than my brothers. My favourite part was decluttering and uprooting all the plants in the alleyway down the side of the house. I used to enjoy clearing the alleyway so much that my Dad nicknamed it ‘Jamie’s Jungle’, due to the way it erupted with vines and fast growing roots in the summer months.

I really enjoyed helping my Dad with gardening as a teenager. When I went off to University, things changed and I had different priorities. At the end of my first year at Cardiff, I went to work as a hotel receptionist in Greece. Unfortunately, as described in an earlier post, I became so unwell that I was forced to return home in order to recover from my first true psychotic episode.

My Dad, who was still working full-time, suggested I help tidy up the garden as I was slowly recovering. This seemed like a mountain of a task, as my brain was still trying to make sense of reality at this point. I didn’t trust myself and my surroundings, yet the simple act of gathering the required tools and working outside felt like a nice mental distraction; which it was. With the warm mid-July climate, I could work in the garden without a care in the world. I’d be trimming the hedge, mowing the lawn, weeding the patio and strimming the borders, all without a worry. The physicality of it all, even if it wasn’t particularly strenuous, helped me mentally recover. It gave me breathing space. I was task driven and problem solving in a low stakes and familiar environment. I felt like I was returning back to my usual self. My thoughts became less clouded and paranoid. I started to feel and act more normal.

Whether my Dad realised this or not, he’d helped restore my sense of purpose. Where I’d once completely lost a grip of reality and in turn my own mind, I now had direction and use. Within a few days of working around the garden, my spark slowly but surely returned. He could see it in my eyes. Years later, he opened up to me about his observation, which still makes me well up when I talk about it. He told me that, having seen me go through a number of relapses since, he can tell when his son is “back with us” just by looking into my eyes. He knows that “Jamie’s back”. It’s as if he can see my soul returning to my mind and body. Where once my eyes possessed a vacant stare rife with fear, they soon started to show warmth and joy within them. My dry witted sense of humour is often the first thing to return. My Dad, who is a huge proponent of comedy and laughter, very much appreciated this.

Psychosis is a horrible state for the mind to be in. I would not wish it upon anyone. Despite the emotional turmoil that bipolar sometimes brings to my life, I can manage the highs and lows relatively well. Being truly psychotic is not something you can necessarily manage on your own. There are ways in which I can prevent my mind from getting to this stage; I frequently practise good habits to draw myself away from the dark and murky waters of delusion and paranoia. But once I enter true psychosis, I need extra help and support from loved ones to keep my head just above the water in order to breathe and swim back to the shoreline.

The simple task of tending to my parents’ garden during the Summer of 2014, aside from getting restorative sleep, may have been the single most important factor in aiding my recovery from psychosis. The very act of looking after the garden I grew up playing in as a child, allowed me to heal my mind and return to my usual mental state as a young adult. Although it didn’t cure my illness, it provided me with the tools to recover in a safe environment away from the noise of the rest of the world.

I recently visited my parents for a long weekend with my wife. It came as no surprise that when my Dad asked me to help with some work outside, I jumped at the opportunity. We reminisced over ‘Jamie’s Jungle’ and laughed over needing a small child to compress the leaves in the garden waste bin. We still made puns and joked to one another about how the apprentice had now become the master: he taught me nearly everything I know about gardening. There’s something incredibly wholesome about helping my Dad in the garden. He keeps it in a much better condition now than we ever could as a young family. Now he’s retired, it seems to be more of a hobby rather than a chore. 

As my wife and I settle down in our new house, I hope the garden brings me solace in times of need. I hope it creates a safe breathing space for whenever necessary. I also hope to establish my own way of bonding with my future children and to show them the beauty of nurture, caring for an outdoor space and in turn, caring for themselves as they grow.