Like millions others, I stared at Prime Minister on the TV with disbelief.
When Boris Johnson announced that the country was being closed down, my first thought was the effect it would have upon my children. Foolishly I didn’t consider the impact it might have on me.
My mental health was in serious danger in March 2013. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, let alone anyone else, but I was feeling worse with every passing day.
Everyone knows that I struggled with mental health after my boxing career ended. My marriage also ended.
In 2003, I was sectioned – sent to a mental health hospital under the Mental Health Act. I was sectioned three more times after that – twice in 2012 and then again in 2015.
In 2017, I’d gone public with the fact that I’d been diagnosed as bipolar.
By the start of the pandemic, I’d been medication-free for a year and I was very proud of the way I’d turned my life around. I suddenly felt uneasy. It was like I sensed a storm approaching and I didn’t have any protection.
Like millions, I stared at Boris Johnson on the TV screen in disbelief. When Boris Johnson announced that the country was being closed down, my first thought was the effect it would have upon my children. Foolishly I didn’t consider the impact it might have on me, writes Frank Bruno
It was extremely traumatizing to think of my mental illness relapsing. I felt fear, disbelief, and anxiety.
I would think: How could this be happening again? What chance would I have of beating this disease?
The same question would haunt me at night: Why?
I felt like the walls were closing on me. All the order and routine in my life had disappeared and I began to feel anxious. As the Covid death rate grew, I began to get calls from friends about their deaths. Each call hurt me deeply and I was sad that I couldn’t go to their funerals.
Like other difficult times in my life, I found the only way to escape my thoughts was by living in the gym in my backyard. Some days I’d be in there three or four times a day.
My body clock went haywire. My behavior began to change. I couldn’t sleep or eat and was unable to eat. I’d be calling people at all hours of the day, often leaving rambling, agitated messages.
I didn’t realise it, but I was becoming just as erratic as before I was first sectioned in 2003. I was ringing my mother up to 20x a day, starting at 6am, and continuing through the night.
I’m sure everyone knows that I struggled to maintain my mental health after my career in boxing ended and my marriage ended. In 2003, I was sectioned – sent to a mental health hospital under the Mental Health Act. I was sectioned three more times after that – twice in 2012 and then again in 2015. Pictured: Bruno wearing his WBC Heavyweight champion belt in 1995
I slept in the woods nearby my home for a couple of nights for no apparent reason. I blew money on things I didn’t need. When I went to the shops, I’d buy three or four times more stuff than I needed. Despite only needing to eat, I had plenty of meat, vegetables, and bread in my kitchen.
My behavior was out of control and chaotic. I was literally kicked and screamed when it came time to have my section done.
Like now, I refused accept that anything was wrong.
During lockdown, I wasn’t looking after myself. In the morning I’d chuck on whatever clothes I could find. I was existing on a few hours’ sleep and often skipping meals. Some mornings I didn’t recognise the person staring back at me from the mirror.
I tried not to stand still for too long, because I knew that if I did, I’d go to pieces. Instead I carried on living at 100mph – like a runaway train heading for a crash.
It wasn’t until lockdown restrictions began to lift that other people began to notice I didn’t look well.
Some mornings I didn’t recognise the person staring back at me from the mirror
There was another big problem – I had become obsessed with returning to boxing. I can filter out the idea if I am healthy and fit. When I’m ill, my brain works in an unlogical way, all sense seems to vanish.
During lockdown – aged 58 – I was doing more than just thinking about lacing up my gloves, I was actively trying to arrange fights, bothering friends to try to fix me up.
I tried calling Frank Warren, boxing promoter. I was making Dave Davies’ life difficult. He was trying to defend me from leeches that knew I was sick and wanted to make money. He stated clearly that I was ill and needed to be treated. But I didn’t listen.
And I was doing other things, which were just plain silly.
One afternoon I rocked up at a travellers’ camp and tried to buy a car for £60,000. Dave refused to wire the money.
People who loved me begged me to seek help. Dave demanded that I see a NHS mental health crisis team. I reluctantly agreed. But during the assessment I was on my best behaviour – I’ve learned over the years how to hide my condition – and they gave me a clean bill of health.
It was difficult not to have Mum, who had died in 2016. She had pretty much raised me single-handedly, and I couldn’t have wished for a more loving mother (pictured together in 1983)
I was able to get through the breaking point in June when Champneys, the health farm for disabled people, reopened. I was shocked to learn that the owner of Champneys has been a good friend for 30+ years.
Seeing I’d lost a lot of weight and was unstable and edgy, he suggested a doctor, Tim Rogers, who worked with a lot of sportsmen and women at a clinic run by Tony Adams, the former England and Arsenal footballer.
I agreed to a Zoom consultation. I remember little, but later learned I’d become highly agitated, angry and was a rambling, incoherent mess.
Anyone who has a serious mental disorder will experience a tipping point. When my illness has a hold of me, I don’t always see the car crash coming – the point at which you become a danger to yourself and others.
I’d clearly reached that point.
Dr Rogers said I needed urgent medical intervention – medical-speak for being sectioned.
Dave, who has power-of- attorney over my affairs, my family and close friends all agreed that it was the right decision.
The next day was a nightmare. It began after a sleepless night that saw darkness, silence and then the sound of birds singing. I looked at my alarm clock. It was 3am. I was covered in sweat, my mind was racing, and my heart was pounding.
I carried myself down to the gym. I was exhausted, so I walked down to the gym. I plugged in my headphones and turned up the music. I ran for 60 mins: for my health and my problems.
The pandemic made it more difficult to live in the unit. Usually you’d be allowed a bit of space and recreation. But Covid meant that we spent pretty much all day in our rooms – an endless cycle of monotony and boredom
Then I lifted heavier and heavier weights and pounded a punch bag hanging from a tree until I didn’t have an ounce of strength left.
A few hours later, I woke up on my sofa to see Paul, my PA, opening the front door. I noticed he wasn’t making eye contact with me… and that an ambulance was pulling up. I stopped. I was about being sectioned for the fifth and final time.
I thought about running. It felt like the walls were closing.
I could hear voices from the driveway, and my feet were slipping on the gravel. ‘Please don’t do this,’ I said as I walked out to meet them. ‘I’m OK, I don’t need to be in a hospital.’
I could tell by their expressions that they had already made the decision. Two police cars pulled up next to a police minibus. ‘Why do they need to be here?’ I shouted. ‘I’ve not broken any laws. I am not going to hurt anyone.’
‘They’re just doing their job, Frank,’ one of the female nurses replied calmly. ‘You need to come with us now.’
I wasn’t ready. I walked upstairs and went into my bedroom to pull the curtains closed. I sat on the bed edge trying to make sense. I had no answers.
I went to my wardrobe and selected a clean suit, a crisp white shirt, and a smart tie. I put on a pair black polished shoes, got dressed up and checked myself in the mirror. I was content with looking smart.
As I walked along the hall, my eyes fell upon the photo of me that was hanging on the walls. I was there, arms held high, the world title belt around me.
It was my greatest night. Twenty-five years after I won the biggest fight of all time, I was suddenly faced with a new one. I’ll never forget the date: June 28, 2020.
FROM the outside, the mental health unit at Luton & Dunstable Hospital wasn’t as imposing as some of the others I’d been in.
I saw two male nurses, and the sun bounced off the keys that were fastened to their belts. I knew that the doors would be closed behind me.
I felt my chest tighten as I stepped into the room. It was difficult to think straight, and I felt an uneasy tension as the staff looked at me like a threat. But they needn’t have worried.
‘All right, Frank,’ one guy in reception said, giving me a thumbs-up. He assumed that I was there to cut a ribbon or open an wing because I was wearing a suit.
I was taken to the senior doctor for the formalities. Two male nurses stood by in case I kicked off.
‘Chill out, fellas,’ I said. ‘Calm yourselves down.’
But I was calm. I was humiliated.
The doctor stated that I would be there at least for four weeks. He also asked me if I had any other questions.
There were many. Why am I here, you ask? Who made this decision? What made doctors believe they were the best? How many drugs would they inject into me this time around? How was I going through this?
‘No, sir,’ I said wearily. ‘I just want to go to my room.’
I passed through a lounge with a dozen patients. They were all wearing masks, and they were at least two meters apart, increasing isolation and despair.
I felt their eyes fix on the boy. Some were terrified, some were clearly manic and others were completely emotionless. It was heartbreaking.
Forget being a celebrity, a ‘national treasure’ or a retired world champion – I was in the same place as them.
In my room I changed into a tracksuit, hung up my suit and put my Bible – the same one I’d taken into hospital on the past four occasions – under my pillow. Then I sank on the bed and struggled to make sense of how I’d wound up back at square one.
My thoughts were disturbed by the appearance of a nurse, along with the sight I’d been dreading – a trolley stacked high with the same tablets that had turned out the lights on my world so many times in the past.
She placed tranquillisers, and lithium, on a corner table. Once, I’d have flushed them down the toilet, but I’d learned there was only so long you could get away with that. Your blood tests always caught you off guard.
I grabbed the pills, shaking my hands. I’d been medication-free for a long time so this felt like failure. I saw the nurse ticking a checkbox. It was a job well done for her.
The staff were very concerned that I would destroy the place and were very edgy.
I was back in my system.
It was difficult to describe the terror that I felt in those first few days. I felt like a caged animal stripped of all dignity. I’m not sure what to say, because the medication was really knocking me out. I was tired and sometimes slept for as much as 14 to 15 hours per night.
When I finally woke up, my speech was slurred. It was also slow. It was difficult to think straight.
Night was the worst. I’d have crazy dreams. I’d see myself as a kid sprinting through the streets of South London in the dark, desperately trying to get away from a gang. Or I’d be back in the boxing ring, taking punch after punch, and wake up cowering in my bed.
There were many tears. There were many tears.
The hardest thing was not having Mum. She had died in 2016. She had pretty much raised me single-handedly, and I couldn’t have wished for a more loving mother.
After I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, she’d been incredibly supportive. She was a nurse, and always had the right words. On the previous occasions I’d been sectioned, Mum had been my first call from hospital. Now she wasn’t there, and I found that hard.
The medication left me with little or no energy. My life was governed by doctors, which made me anxious and paranoid. ‘Why am I here?’ I’d scream. ‘What have I done? Why won’t you let me go?’
Later, Dave, my manager told me that I had called him asking him to rescue me. He said it sounded as if I was crying and he’d got tearful himself. Another time I shouted at him: ‘You are meant to look after me, so get me out of here!’
Staff were very concerned about me smashing up the place.
I borrowed other patients’ mobiles to ring my mates. ‘You’ve got to get me out of here,’ I’d say frantically, in call after call. Soon the word got out and lots of people knew I’d been sectioned.
Dave was the one who bore the brunt if my anger. ‘How can you do this to me?’ I’d scream at him.
I was angry and confused.
I was being treated with alcoholics, gambling addicts, and gamblers. It was so sad.
After months of working out in the gym, doctors were concerned about my blood pressure and heart rate. I was transferred from the main hospital to undergo tests. There a nurse asked for a picture, but he put the selfie of us on his Twitter page and it wasn’t long before the newspapers got wind of it.
After Dave explained that it was essential for my recovery that I was left alone after Dave’s explanation, the press agreed to back down. I was grateful. You need privacy and privacy to heal in hospital.
The pandemic made it more difficult to live in the unit. Usually you’d be allowed a bit of space and recreation. But Covid meant that we spent pretty much all day in our rooms – an endless cycle of monotony and boredom.
To get rid of the bleach stench that permeated the air, I would spray myself with deodorant. I also missed the gym. I’d work out on the floor of my room, where there was barely enough space to do sit-ups, press-ups and stomach crunches. I still did hundreds per day and felt much better for it.
It was so heartbreaking to be surrounded with so much sadness. I was treated alongside addicts, gamblers, alcoholics, and others who had suffered severe trauma. There were businessmen who had once had it all and now fight for their sanity.
It was shocking to see how quickly things can collapse. It made me realize how mental illness can affect anyone, and how quickly the fog can descend.
Everybody was evaluated daily. Regular reviews had an impact upon how long you stayed on the unit. Even if you were cleared for discharge, there was an extensive interview and exit process. You had to prove that you were healthy enough to return home.
Many times I saw patients break down after they’d been refused permission to leave. The staff were always on alert because of the high tension.
They confiscated belts, hoodies with strings, shoelaces – anything that might pose a safety risk. You had to request a razor if you wanted to shave.
For me, accepting that I needed hospitalization was the turning point was to use lockdown to get better.
Everything changed when I stopped fighting the system, and allowed my mind and body to heal.
The visits I received were a great lift in my spirits. My children came to visit me and expressed their excitement about seeing me. Friends told me everyone was rooting for me and I wasn’t seen as a mug or a failure. People were happy for me to be getting the help I needed, and they were willing to wait with open arms for me on the other end.
Everything changed when I stopped fighting the system, and allowed my mind and body to heal.
Once I saw that, I didn’t intend to let them down.
During counselling sessions we tried to understand why things had gone so badly wrong and, most importantly, how I could ensure I didn’t fall into the same traps again. We discussed the factors that led to my illness and how we could avoid them.
I began to realize that my doctors and nurses were always on my side.
During my boxing days, I’d relied on my trainers to send me into battle with all the skills I needed to win. Now, the medical staff were devising a plan to make me comfortable outside. I felt ready to face whatever was ahead.
I ended up staying in hospital for six weeks.
When the moment came for me to leave, I was in a totally different frame of mind from how I’d been on the four previous occasions I was sectioned.
Paul, my personal assistant, was to move in and keep an ear on me for a while. It was a good plan.
I glanced over my shoulder at the mental health unit as he drove us home. I made a promise to God that I would never be in that same place again.
© Frank Bruno, 2021 Frank Bruno’s 60-year-old book Frank Bruno: A Fighter is available for pre-order at frankbruno.co.uk.