I’d always thought alcohol helped me, but after crippling anxiety attacks I realised I had to learn how to cope without it. I am about to go on stage, where I’ll be playing Chopin’s Nocturne in C Minor to an audience of 1500. Most people in this situation would be nervous: this is a high-profile event, which has been advertised with posters of me on London’s Tube.
Instead, I drift on to the stage enveloped in a fluffy cloud. For this, I can thank the bottle of wine I had at lunchtime, followed by the second one I finished in my dressing room backstage. The Chopin goes perfectly, as does the subsequent Debussy: I’ve practised and performed these pieces so many times that the notes are ingrained into my soul.
Only after the performance do things begin to get messy, with the rum and cokes I’m sinking while signing programmes in the bar. I remember hugging two of my friends, then everything else is a blur. I drink until I pass out, knowing that – as always – I’ll be waking up with panic attacks and crippling anxiety , which I will deal with by opening another bottle.
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