Raye’s I Know You’re Hurting urged me to confront a lifetime of depression

Six months ago, I was driving past John Lewis on the M40 with my wife and stepdaughter, Raye’s I Know You’re Hurting playing on the stereo, when I realised I was crying. It was the third time I’d listened to the song, but it was the first time I’d really heard it. It was as though the lyrics were speaking directly to me: “I can see you standing on the edge … You give when you have little left to give.”

Music had made me emotional before, but only ever because of the melody or the arrangement or the orchestration. I have worked in music since I was 21, and as a recording and mix engineer, I’ll listen to a song all day, taking it apart to work out how to make it better. After listening to a song 200 times, it inevitably loses its meaning, and over the years, I’ve become desensitised to the power music can have. But this time, for the first time, it was the lyrics that brought me to tears.

I had been struggling with my mental health for two decades – almost half a lifetime. But I hid it, scared to admit it to my family, even to myself. As Raye sings: “And you hide it so well, you do.” The last few years had been especially difficult with Covid, a divorce, becoming a stepfather to teenagers and turning 50. I’d invested so much time into my career – working 80-100-hour weeks at its peak – but I questioned what my legacy would be when I look back on my life. I’d sit in silence, a face of thunder, wallowing in self-pity. My family would ask: “What’s wrong with you?” And I’d bite my tongue, not knowing what to say, just knowing I needed to do better.

I had tried cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT) many times, but I found I’d just talk without acting on the steps. Still, when my wife suggested speaking to the GP about antidepressants a couple of years ago, I was reluctant, thinking it would kill my creativity. I Know You’re Hurting unlocked something in me, though. Hearing my pain articulated by Raye finally allowed me to accept that I was struggling. It gave me permission to admit it. Two months later, I made an appointment with the GP, who prescribed antidepressants. After Raye’s music spoke to me that day, I also decided to start music therapy. Exploring my thoughts through music, something I instinctively connect with, has been much more effective for me than CBT ever was.

In her lyrics, Raye urges the listener to “stop trying to be so strong all alone”, and “If you need two more arms to hold these burdens, I’m here”. I realised I didn’t have to continue struggling on my own. Help was available and I had people who could support me.

A couple of weeks ago, I got a tattoo to commemorate the impact the song has had on my life. The line “close your eyes and let this music get to working” summed that up for me – the way that music can be medicine. I messaged the producer, who sent me the score, and I got the musical notes of that line tattooed on my forearm. It’s a reminder that I’m not alone, a reminder of where I am now compared with where I was. I just look at it and it makes me feel good.

Around that time, my music therapist suggested I write a song. The lyrics just poured out of me – I wrote it in an hour. I’ve got an urge like never before to make music. I feared that antidepressants would kill my creativity; instead, they opened up the space for me to access it.

Raye’s song told me it was going to be OK, and I still return to her perfect album This Music May Contain Hope in moments when I need to be reminded that hope can be found. One of the final tracks on the album is called Joy, which feels fitting because that’s also where I’ve ended up.

Four months into taking antidepressants and starting music therapy, I argue less, I let things go more. I’m a better husband and a better father to my son and stepdaughters. My family have noticed the change in me, often saying how much happier I seem.

In the UK, the charity Mind is available on 0300 123 3393 and Childline on 0800 1111. In the US, call or text Mental Health America at 988 or chat 988lifeline.org. In Australia, support is available at Beyond Blue on 1300 22 4636, Lifeline on 13 11 14, and at MensLine on 1300 789 978.