Snap Shots Of My Story : Anthony

One day, while in the kitchen of our house on Lancelot Road, Downham, south London  my  mother heard the piano in our living room. The piece was played well. “Thank goodness” she said to herself, “David has finally got it.”  She came into the lounge to congratulate me. There, sitting at the piano, was Anthony, my brother,  4 years younger  than  me. He would have been no more  than  7. It was then we realized we had a musical prodigy in  the  family.

I  had  been  trying  to  learn  the  piano  for a  couple of years, had  passed grade  two,  but had  lost  interest  in  grade  three,  struggling  to  perform  the  pieces  required  for  the  grade  three  exam.  My  brother,  entirely  by  ear  had  somehow been  able  to  translate  what he  heard  without  music  onto  the  keys.

My  father must have  been  thrilled. He  loved music. Dad invested  in a  better  piano, and  took a  very  keen  interest in Anthony’s  progress. I  suspect  Dad  had  always  wanted to  be a  musician.  There was  an  old  violin that had  been  in the attic  for years,  which  he  never  played. He  had a  very  distinctive “honky  tonk”  style  of playing  the  piano  with  the  left  hand   hitting  the  same  two notes   repetitively  as a  sort  of  baseline!

Soon, Anthony was having  piano  lessons,   going to a  private  teacher  in  Bromley , Kent on Saturday  mornings. I  quickly  gave  up,  knowing  I  could   never be  as  accomplished  as  my  younger  brother.

Anthony  sailed  through  the  grades, it  was quite  astonishing to see it. By  the  age of  12,  his teacher  informed  my  father  that there was  nothing  more  he  could  teach  him, and he  recommended  Anthony  apply  to  go  to  the  Guildhall School  of  music  in Pimlico,  London,  on  Saturdays.

As I  described in a   previous post, our  house  was   chaotic, and  after  we moved  to a bigger home  on  Shroffold  Road, the  family  became  more  tense. Four years  is a frustrating gap between  siblings.  It is  perhaps  one  year too  many  to  have  meaningful  connection,   being  at  different  stages  of  life. While I  was  negotiating senior  school, the  twins  were  still 7 ,  when  I  left  school  at  16,  they  were  just  starting  senior  school. It  meant  we  were  never  that  close.

When  I  was  19 , it  was clear   Anthony was  struggling. We shared a  bedroom  with   a large  wardrobe  dividing  the  room  to  give  us a  semblance of privacy. One  night I hear Anthony  groaning, and  grinding  his  teeth. He  appeared   extremely  anxious,  and was   thin. I  discovered  he  was s being  bullied  at  school. The  twins  went  to a  south  London  comprehensive school. He  was  shy,  sensitive,  and was  pushed  to  devote  his  time  to  music. I  can imagine how  hard it  must  have  been  going  to  school  with  peers  who  listened  to pop  music,  when  Anthony  was playing  classical  music  and loved  Joni  Mitchell.

Rosemary,  his  twin,  and  I  introduced  him  to Pink  Floyd, Bob  Dylan  and  Neil  Young  which  he  liked.

One  day  I  was  told  that  Anthony had  been  drinking  in a park with  someone,  and  had  been  skipping his  Saturday  class at  the  Guildhall School of  Music. Something  happened  , the  details  of  which have  always  been  unclear  to  me ( more  family  secrets). Anthony  was  admitted  to  the  Bethlem  hospital  adolescent  unit, even  though  youth  his  age  would  normally  have gone  to the Maudsley  adult hospital. Bethlem  was   part of  the  world  famous Maudsley psychiatric  hospital. 

We were asked to  attend  family  therapy  at  the  Bethlem. It was  torture.  Anthony  was  clearly  embarrassed  and  self conscious. Rosemary  stopped  going after  just a  few  sessions. We were  totally  confused   in these  sessions, nothing  made  sense. Worse,  the  family  therapists  kept changing, until  finally a  social  worker,  Mrs. Hughes  became more  consistent. It was  clear  the  hospital  saw  the  problem as  the  family, which I  understand. However, when  they  went  down  the  road of suggesting Anthony’s issues  were  the   result  of us all  worrying  about my  father’s   health  they  totally  lost  us. I do  distinctly remember  telling Anthony  I  loved  him, he said  “ I  know”,  but  he  was  not convinced  and I knew there was a  gulf  between us.

I  realize  Anthony  had  been trying  to  please  the  family,  particularly Dad through his  music. However   despite  his  extraordinary  musical ability  he had  not a  shred  of  self  belief  or confidence. He could  now pick up literally  any instrument  and  within hours  could play  it confidently. He   played  guitar,  and  clarinet in  addition  to the  piano. I  think  he  may  also  have  learnt he  violin by  this  time.

 By  now I  had  been  thrown  out  by my  mother, and  was  living  in a  town a  few miles  away. I came over  weekly  for Sunday  lunch.

Early  in  1983  it  was  announced   Joni  Mitchell was  playing at Wembley Arena in April. By  now Anthony listened to   her music  daily.  I managed to get  tickets for  all three of  us. I was  so  hopeful  for  us. By now, with  the  twins  approaching 18,  with  me  at  22,  the  gap  between  us  was  reducing. I envisaged going to  more gigs,   we  all loved  music. I looked forward  to  this  concert, our first “adult”  social  activity  we had  ever  done.

"All That I Have Of You"

Anthony  came out  of  hospital in  March.  By  now  I knew  that  he  had  been suicidal, which  was  why  he  went  into  hospital. My  hope  was  that  we could  all  begin to  get  along as siblings,  and  enjoy  going out  together. I  suggested  we  go  for a  drink  before  the  gig, which  was a  couple  of  weeks  away. I  was sure Anthony  would  be  looking  forward  to  it- he  worshipped  Joni. Of  all times  Anthony  should   be feeling a  bit  happier  it  was  now. Joni in a  few  weeks!

 One  night  in  early  April  I  go  to bed in  my  bedsit in  Sydenham South  London. I  feel inexplicably uneasy. I feel  like  something  is  wrong. A  few  moments  later  the  phone  rings,  I  go downstairs  and  answer  it. My  mother is on  the line. “You need to  come home”  she  says “something has  happened”. I  quickly  dress  and  get  on  my  bicycle.

 As I  arrive  outside   the  family  home  I  see an  ambulance. “ It’s  Dad” I  say  to  myself. My  father  had  been  experiencing  medical issues for some  time. I  go into  the  house. The  first  thing I  see is  my  father  siting  on  the edge of the   sofa  with  his head  in his  hands.  “He is  about to go into  the  ambulance “ I  think  to  myself. Before   either he  or  I  speak my mother  looks at me. “Anthony has killed himself  upstairs” she  says. I  don’t really take  it  in. My mind  is  confused. It  should  be  about Dad,  not  Anthony  my  brain is telling  me. Then I  notice  the  police  officer.

I  ask  to  see Anthony. I  go upstairs into his  small  bedroom, where  he  now is after  I  left home. A police officer sits  on a  chair  near him. I had  not  expected  that. He  lies there and  immediately  I  see the  bright  red  wheals on his  neck from  the  rope. He had hung  himself  by  using  a  coat belt  tied  around a  water  pipe. I  say  nothing. I look  around  the  room. A Bob Dylan record  is on the  turntable. No note. Then, just  behind  the  police officers  shoulder  I  see writing  in small  red letters ‘God bless Mum and  Dad’. Not David. Not  Rosemary.

Mother  says  he had  become extremely  upset on the  phone that night ,  and  had  said  “how of  all  people  could  you  do  that to  me?”  “It  was  someone  from  the  hospital”  she  had  said. This  becomes unquestioned  for  decades.

I  walk out  of  the  room. I stay the  night. We have decided  not  to tell Rosemary  tonight,  who  by  now   is  also  no  longer  living at home.

The  next morning my  half sister  Betty   drives  over. We have  no  vehicle,  so  she  drives  me over  to Rushey Green  near Lewisham  where Rosemary lives. I  said I  would  tell her. How  do you  tell a  sibling her  twin brother  has  ended  his  life? We  go  upstairs  and  she comes  out  of  her room. I  have  decided to keep  it  simple, and  direct. “Anthony  took  his life  last night  Rosemary.”  Her  reaction  surprises  me. ” Oh no” she says. However it is how  she  said  it,  as if  resigned,  not  surprised. This  was  something  I  came  to think  about often in the  years  ahead.

The  funeral  takes  place a  week  later at Hither  Green. Not  many  people,  I  think  possibly a  friend  from  the  hospital, and  the social  worker Mrs. Hughes. She  is clearly  distressed “if  there is  anything”  she  says.

The  inquest   at Southwark  Magistrates  court. Brief, bureaucratic, until  at the end the  magistrate  says kindly “ I want  you  to  know  his  death  would have  been  very  swift”. He  means  well.

Life , for us of  us  individually, and as a family , was never  the  same  again. There is  life  before  Anthony,  and a  different  life  afterwards.  Looking  back  I  can  see we  were  all  wrapped up in collective and  individual  feelings of  guilt, which  and  created a  cloak of  silence.  This  guilt  served to prevent us from talking  about  him. To my eternal  regret and  shame, I  realize  even in  death he  was  not  validated.

Within less than  a year  I  became a Samaritan  volunteer. My  relationship  with my peers  changed. One night  in  the pub  we  were talking about  what  we  would  really  like. I  said “ I would like  my  brother  to  be alive.” They  rounded  on me, accusing me  of being negative. I   knew in that moment  I  could  not  be around  them.

The  following year I  got  accepted  in to Registered Psychiatric  Nurse training  at  Bexley  Hospital,  Kent. I  made  no  mention  of my  brother at the interview,  and  to  non one  until the  very  end of the  three  year  training.

A  few  years  later,  having  worked  on  the  Samaritans  for  3 years, I   had   some  counselling  from a  psychologist. Jim  Drewery  was  a kind,  very  experienced  man. I  was  still  consumed with  guilt,  realizing  I had not  been  the brother  I  could  be.  It  was  he that opened  my eyes  to the  reality that  each  of  us  would  be  carrying our own  guilt, that in  reality  none of  us  was  wholly  to  blame. This was  so important  for  me  to  hear. It  taught  me  the  value  of  having an unbiased lens looking  at  the  events, that it  was  not  just me  experiencing this.

I have  worked  in mental health  for over  40 years  now. I  realize  I have been  trying  to  make  some meaning from my  brothers life, that in  some  way his  death  would not  be in  vain. I  hope  I was able to use  my  own  grief experience to help others.

His  death left it  mark,  as  all  deaths  do. In  2014 I  realized  I  was profoundly  depressed,  and  that through  my  work in mental health, like so  many  before  me, I  had  ignored  my  own  needs to  help others. I took the  hardest  decision of my life  and  went to a  doctor  to seek  help.  He  prescribed  medication, and referred  me  to a psychiatrist. The  meds  began to  work. Having  had life long  insomnia  I was  finally able  to experience a  full night  sleep, and  my  mood  lifted. A  further  life  changing moment. The  psychiatrist offered  me  that  rare  and  beautiful  experience- unconditional positive  regard. She  diagnosed  me  with  anxiety, depression with episodic major   depressive  disorder ,  and  multiple  trauma. It all made  sense,  the  jigsaw  was  complete. I  remain  on my  medication,  and  will  do so for the  rest  of my life. Having come off them once,  I  realize the  need  and  benefit.

One  day, a  few  years  ago, without  warning,  and  without a  conscious  cause,  a knowing,  clear as anything I have  ever  experienced  came  crashing  into  my  mind. “It wasn’t  someone  from  the hospital was it,” I  said  to  myself. The  phone  call  before  he died. It wasn’t  to someone  at the  hospital  at  all. The  person  he  spoke  to  was obvious, much  much  closer  to home. Another  family  secret, another  distortion of  truth. I  say nothing,  nothing  to  be  gained.

Wednesday   September  10 2025. The  AGM  of  Mental  Health  Recovery Partners  a  wonderful mental health  not  for profit in  Victoria BC. Also World  Suicide  Awareness Day. I am  speaking  at  the  meeting  to  launch a new publication,  a  guide  to  help families with a  family  member  with psychosis. I  feel  the  universe  has  brought  me  to  this  moment. I  talk  about  how  the  guide  was developed and  created. Then  I  talk  from  the  heart, how  I had  wished a  guide  like  this  had  been available  for my  family. How  we  had  struggled,  and  lastly  how   Anthony  died. As I  finish my  speech, I  dedicate  this  guide, this  day,  these  words  to him.

I  have  been  grieving for  40 years. I  may  always  grieve,  but  now  feel a  sense  that the  burden  is  lighter. My  memory of  Anthony has  never  faded  with  time. I  realize now  at  the  time  of  his  death  I  was still relatively  young, but  wish  I had  been  more able then to  recognize  the  rare,  extraordinary  human being  Anthony  was.