Heston Blumenthal was diagnosed with type I bipolar disorder at the age of 57. Photo / AFP
WARNING: This story deals with mental health and suicide. Helpline information is provided at the end of the story.
The father-of-four chef, 58, was diagnosed with type I bipolar disorder in 2023. He divides his time between Berkshire and France with his wife Melanie, 38.
Fifteen months have passed since my surprise bipolar diagnosis at the age of 57. Although saying that, I mean I was surprised, but my wife wasn’t. In fact, Melanie – seeing the signs in my erratic behaviour long before me – had been worried enough to privately read up on the mental health condition.
During what I now recognise as episodes of mania, silly things like my mobile phone would drive me mad. When I was a kid you rang someone and they either picked up, were out or there was the engaged tone. You couldn’t screen calls or see messages had been read and ignored. Two years ago, I became so impatient thinking about this that I physically bit off an entire chunk of the handset, crunching my teeth to smash the screen, believing this was entirely reasonable behaviour.
I’ve never been aggressive towards another human, thank God, but I’ve smashed up my own chair in the past. I have to laugh about it now (despite curling my toes in embarrassment) – humour helps break stigma.
I also thought the television was talking to me, watching The Big Bang Theory believing I was part of the conversations on screen. I became fixated on physics and the scientific concepts of Newton and Einstein, scrawling intricate pictures of how trees grow.
But in 2023, I’d got to the point of being a danger to myself and it was hurting everyone close to me. During a hallucination (these are common in extreme mania) I was so convinced there was a gun on the table that I drew a picture of it and showed Melanie, saying I was thinking of using it on myself. It wasn’t that I wanted to die exactly, but more a curiosity about death.
At which point, just eight months after our wedding in Melanie’s native France, she made the brave, painful decision to have me sectioned. One November evening at our home in Provence, after I’d cooked myself a barbecue and was alone (with Melanie unbeknownst to me watching on a security camera), a couple of policemen arrived at the door, then five firemen and two medics. I was restrained and they sedated me and when I woke up I was in a psychiatric hospital.
I wasn’t allowed my phone or to see even Melanie for the first few days, and I was so heavily sedated I was too lost to feel frightened. I just didn’t know why I was now sleeping in a cell with just a bed, table and sink.
Within that first week a psychiatrist diagnosed bipolar disorder. I was also told I had something called “high potential intellectual” (HPI), which I suppose translates here into being some kind of “troubled genius”, but in France it’s more recognised as a “thing” and having it entitles you to a kind of visa because they recognise you’d bring value to universities and workplaces.
For someone who left school with just one A-level in art, that was a surprise. I’d already been diagnosed with ADHD in 2017, so I wondered what else was lurking. I googled autism and narcissism, though as a doctor joked – anyone who fears they’re a narcissist probably isn’t.
While I was surprised I was bipolar, once I started reading up on types I, II and III, I knew I ticked all the boxes. Once Melanie was allowed to visit, bringing books about the condition, she explained how I’d come to be there. She was worried I’d forever resent her for calling the hospital to have me taken away, but it saved my life. The doctors said I was about three days away from death, essentially my endocrine system was breaking down; I was a mess physically and mentally.
We’ve talked a lot about everything, we are a great team and in this together. After two weeks in the first hospital, Melanie fought for me to be transferred to a private clinic to begin getting well.
Looking back over my life, things made more sense after the diagnosis.
All the highs that felt so wonderful, with exciting ideas spilling from my head. I could get hyper-sensitive, so aromas could transport me to places, my sniffer-dog nose could even pick up hormones on people. These are the best things, being able to experience the world around me in such a rich, multi-sensory way.
I sometimes went three days without sleep as I was buzzing and spent the first decade of my career working 120-hour weeks.
But everything that goes up must come down and there have always been extreme lows, the bouts of depression listening to Joy Division in a dark room.
On average it takes nine and half years for most diagnoses – that’s a lot of dark moments to endure, as the tragically high bipolar suicide rates prove.
Bipolar is linked to genetics, and before my sister passed away a few years ago, my parents had her diagnosed with bipolar, but she refused to accept it. Such is the stigma surrounding mental health, I now think my late mum also lived with it, but people don’t want to admit they’re struggling. That’s why I want to speak openly about mine now.
Overspending is a common problem with the condition and I’d blow all my cash ordering elaborate scientific equipment – gigantic distillation jar, coils and tubes to dream up the most fantastic new creations, such as a beetroot appetiser requiring three days to lovingly make. It results in the most mouth-watering foam designed to trigger our trigeminal nerve.
People assume anyone who’s been on TV is wealthy, but I remember my unimpressed accountant coming to see me, drily announcing “Congratulations Heston, you’ve made £500 this week.” I had 70 members of staff for over 30 covers. Then – embarrassingly – the delivery man arrived wheeling in my latest purchase, of one of the first mobile induction hobs. The accountant inquired how much it cost and the delivery man cheerfully told him £550. So I’d earned nothing despite working insane hours.
Hypersexual episodes can also be common with bipolar, but not for me, probably as all my energy was contained in the kitchen for six days a week …
In total I was hospitalised for two months, which was vital to my recovery. I had lots of psychotherapy, but getting the medications right is a work in progress that can take two years. Initially, I was given very high doses, which made me zombified. My senses, motivation and movement were all dulled.
Gradually, the meds have been reduced so now, 13 months after leaving hospital, I take 10% of what I was originally on. I’m getting back to “normal” or my baseline at least. Of course there are side effects, which for me included weight gain and a change in my speech. But I’m getting more lucid and there have been no episodes of mania.
I’m calmer. I went to angrily throw a pen at a wall last week, but actually caught my raised hand and stopped myself. “This is progress,” I realised. There’s brain fog too, so I’ll be looking for my glasses when they’re on my head. If I’ve lost my phone it’s generally found in the fridge.
One of my biggest fears of going on the meds was losing my imagination. Lithium comes with that reputation, though that’s not the drug I take. Aside from family, my imagination is the most important thing in the world to me. But I knew I had to try the pills for my own sake and people close to me. It wasn’t fair on them not to. Though I knew that if this part of me was gone I might have opted to come off the pills.
Thankfully, I am stabilising and my taste buds and sense of smell feel honed again, which has made me fall back in love with cooking again. I’m so lucky to have this passion and I’ve worked out I’ve spent 100,000 hours doing it.
We have a lot still to learn about bipolar and more is being discovered about the strong link to gut health, as well as being more susceptible to getting Alzheimer’s in later life. That scares me.
I’ve lost friends along the way and realised since my diagnosis who really cares; those who sent messages and not the ones that walked away. The very best thing since going public about all this, and becoming an ambassador for the charity, are the letters I’ve received from people telling me about their own bipolar situation, or their mum’s, brother’s or best friend’s.
If there were a button to press to stop being bipolar, I genuinely wouldn’t change myself, this is who I am. I’m so grateful to Melanie for what she did for me. As mad as it sounds, being sectioned was one of the best things to happen to me.
A live cook-off featured ox heart, wapiti, wild boar and plenty of edible wildlife.