Mental state

I always look forward to the Cannes Lions Festival, even after the incident.

I love the sun, the heat, looking out at the sea – the humidity is almost like Jamaica.

Being a mum, having some time away, a little me holiday, is always a good thing, and I’m sure the family would agree.

Everyone warned me before I first attended the festival that it was work plus debauchery. But as I’m not into taking cocaine, getting pissed in the sun or swimming naked in front of people, I didn’t let it bother me and made my own Cannes.

I would usually head back to my place and have naps between meetings and after dinner, as being away what I longed for more than ever is sleep.

In Cannes one year, upon arriving at the place I booked, not far from the Palais, in the Old Town, I realised that although the room looked good in the photos, it smelled of cat pee through and through. Solid. Stiff. Nose twisty.

Every day the cat would come by and scratch at the door and, after I opened it, would look at me with eyes saying, “A why you a lock my door for?!” But in French.

And I would look at it as it climbed out of the window to go and add to the collection of urine out the side of the dank yard, with no sunlight.

On arrival I instantly thought of leaving and was about to turn around and say “Keep the money. I’m off back to the airport to stay at a hotel there.” Then I thought of industry colleague who was also staying in the same place. I had recommended the other room to her when she emailed last minute searching for a place. But I said to myself, “If one of us is going to be leaving this horrid place, then the other would be leaving too.”

After meeting up with her, I hinted that we should find new accommodation, as the place wasn’t ready, not even for Cannes. She hinted back that she didn’t have any money to spend on another place and so couldn’t move from her room upstairs – even though she also hated it.

So, I decided to bear it. If I walked out, it would mean leaving industry colleague in the situation on her own and I couldn’t do that. Also, she would have the story that I left her there and that wouldn’t be good either. And I’m not like that.

But on the second or third day the smell of cat pee, and just the vibe of Cannes, sent me into the most depressive state. The kind I’ve never felt before or since.

I could get out of bed (I had to leave the place) and I got dressed, so on the surface I looked fine, but the clue that something wasn’t quite right started with my hair.

I couldn’t bring myself to wash or comb it. And in the hot sun, it dried to a crisp and looked unkept – what people in Jamaica would call, “mad head.”

I also couldn’t face looking in the mirror.

I felt something was happening to me.

We all get depressed. It’s inevitable. But I can usually shake out of the funk by sitting in the sun, watching property programmes or flicking through interior magazines. I knew the signs and how to box them down, after years of practice.

But this funk in Cannes I couldn’t shake so easily, and it was sunny.

Then an idea came to me. How about embracing it and using it as a study? My last cry to own what was happening to me. Embrace my mental state and see how the industry people I’m meeting with react around me.

Who would help me?

Who would say something?

Everyone who I met with came up and spoke to me, and they could tell something was wrong, but they said nothing to me.

Instead, it was used as an opportunity.

I went to lunch with a CEO and a D&I champion – they tried to pick my brain about my new Sky gig, and kept looking, but nope. Nothing.

I stood for a trio press photo at an industry colleague’s event I attended, as I thought I would like this moment recorded.

The photo was taken, but still no one said anything.

Throughout the week I kept thinking, “Isn’t this the industry who speaks about how we should all help each other. What of those mental health training?”

Because here I was having a mental moment, and no one says anything.

Even though it was quite obvious to those who I met that something was quite wrong with me by the way they avoided my eyes.

When I got to the airport, I decided enough was enough, let’s sort this shit out – I had seen enough. And I willed myself to walk into the cubicle and wet my hair, a trick I remembered my mum telling me about years ago, but I still couldn’t face the mirror. Then I combed, and combed, and combed my wet hair until it was decent enough for me to look at it.

And then when I looked at it, it wasn’t that bad. So, I was able to look in the mirror again and sort the rest.

As I walked out feeling better, enough to fool everybody, a guy walked past and winked at me.

I thought, “Ha! If only you’d seen me 30 minutes ago love.” As I smiled to myself.

And I thought of the many dominoes matches with my cousins during our Summers in May Pen and the wise words they told me, “A good friend will never let you walk out and about looking shitty.”

Life lesson no 11.

Thanks cousins.

Best wishes,

Sherry Collins