ABC News chief international correspondent James Longman was just nine years old when his schizophrenic father died by suicide. Decades later, he’s released a memoir, The Inherited Mind, which touches on his family’s history of mental illness — most of which he learned about only later in life.
The British journalist, 38, spoke to PEOPLE about his decision to write the book, how genetics have contributed to his own bouts of depression, and coming to understand that his late father’s struggles are not the same as his own.
“I’ve been able to disconnect my father’s illness from the sadness that I’ve had,” he tells PEOPLE. “Understanding the genetics of mental illness has made me really understand what’s happening to me and understand it as a separate thing from what happened to him. It kind of lessened those feelings of inevitability that I’ve always had about me getting sad.”
Longman explains that although there is a genetic component to his mental health problems, he’s constantly “reminded that human beings do have this amazing ability to heal.” Seeing how “healthy” his husband Alex Brannan’s family is, gave him hope to create a similar future for himself.
“Whatever genetic legacy you are left with, you have the capacity to change the outcome on a genetic level,” he says. “So yes, you will inherit possibly a predisposition to depression or bipolar disorder or schizophrenia, but you also inherit the ability to heal and you can give your children the ability to heal. I really want people to know that’s the main takeaway from the book, that genes are not your destiny.”
Longman says he always knew he was going to write this book. However, it’s taken him years to complete it as he tried to ensure that it would be informative to others.
“There is nothing to be ashamed of in having depressive thoughts and in having a family which might not feel like it’s as whole as other people’s.” he tells PEOPLE. “No matter how damaged you feel you might be or how damaged you feel your background might be, there is always hope in the future.”
Below, read PEOPLE’s exclusive excerpt from The Inherited Mind.
I have few memories that are more vivid. I was nine years old, and it was a cold autumn evening at school. The dayroom was deserted aside from me and a friend, rolling around on the floor. I wasn’t a fat child, but I’ve always liked to eat, and I was definitely bigger than the other kids my age. I had blond hair parted down the middle and a round little face, cheeks red from the excitement of our play-fight. From the corner of my eye, I saw my housemaster appear, looking rather solemn-faced.
“James, can you come here, please?”
My heart sank. I hated getting into trouble and thought for sure I was in for it. I remember immediately pretending we hadn’t been doing anything wrong. I got up quickly and followed Mr. Owers to his office so I could explain myself.
He sat on his swivel chair, and as it sank beneath his weight with a soft hissing sound, he looked at me with his big gray eyes. “There’s been an accident,” he said.
Instant confusion. I realized he wasn’t talking about me.
Mr. Owers was a large man who moved slowly. I regarded him as a kind of friendly giant. He radiated kindness, and when I think of my early school days, I picture my friends and me as small woodland creatures, while he was a kind of large magical bear who’d vowed to protect us. With his big worker’s hands, he reached across his desk for a tissue for the tears he thought would come.
“I’m afraid it’s your dad, son. I’m so sorry.” His voice was a soft rumble, like a distant train. “There was nothing they could do.”
I stared at him, unsure of what he meant. He proffered the tissue, but I didn’t need it. “What do you mean?”
There was a silence. And then: “He’s died, James.”
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I don’t know if I voiced it or just felt it, but I remember utter disbelief. I’d seen my father only the weekend before. How was that possible? How could a person be here one day and gone forever the next? It was completely inconceivable to my young mind.
“Mum’s here,” Mr. Owers said, trying to sound cheerful. “She’s with Matron. Come with me?”
He got up and ushered me out of his office. The dayroom felt strangely busy now, bright and hot in a way it hadn’t been before. My winter sweater felt way too thick. I could feel tears in my eyes. As I walked behind Mr. Owers, I concentrated on his feet. His brown shoes against the blue carpet. Stopping at a door, a corridor. Another corridor. The fluorescent lights were too vivid. I avoided eye contact with anyone we passed. I didn’t want them to see me cry.
Matron’s flat was just off the main dormitory wing. My mother was waiting there in a dimly lit sitting room, on a cream sofa. She’d been crying. She pulled me toward her instantly. I could smell alcohol on her breath. There are some things you will never forget—I think my mother being drunk the night I was told my father had died is among my most powerful memories. She started crying hysterically, asking if I was okay, hugging me tight. I sat on her lap, my feet not quite touching the floor. “I’m okay,” I kept repeating, more worried about her than myself. I was all at once confused and embarrassed and desperate for the moment to pass quickly.
I don’t remember the rest of that evening. It was decided that I would stay at school. Anyone I’ve told that to since says it sounds cruel—to leave your only son at school after he’s been given news like this. But I think it was the right decision. I wanted to stay, if only so I wouldn’t have to deal with my mother. It must have been heartbreaking for her to leave me behind that evening, but I think she also knew it was the best place for me in that moment. Life at home had been unpredictable at best—the whole reason I was at boarding school was to give me some stability. So, in this most destabilizing moment, it was the obvious place to be. And I loved school. I’d always felt comfortable there. No one told me how my father had died, just that there’d been a fire. And again, that “there was nothing they could do.”
. . .
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I remember the morning of the funeral most clearly. It was to be held on a weekday, and so I was to be taken out of lessons and to the country, to my grandmother’s house, where the wake would be. That morning, I put on my blazer and went down to breakfast.
Children are funny—they forget some things almost instantly. All through the morning, friends bounded up to me asking, “Why are you in Sunday best, James?” Anything remotely out of the ordinary at a school like ours was of deep interest to everyone, and wearing a blazer on a weekday was headline stuff. “It’s my father’s funeral today,” I quietly replied. Silence.
I shuffled through my first few periods, trying to avoid any difficult stares. And then it was double art, from which I would have to leave early. In came Mr. Owers, trying to look cheerful in his black suit and tie. He spoke quietly to my art teacher, and they gestured kindly for me to come forward. The room was silent as I took off my overall and replaced it with the blazer. I could feel my classmates’ eyes on me as I signaled that I was ready to go.
The car was parked across the road, and when we were halfway to it, Mr. Owers’s hand gripped my shoulder. I stopped to look up at him; he pointed back to the art block. I remember it being a bright sunny day, and I had to squint to see through its two large windows. I could see the whole class waving at me. “Good luck, James!” I heard them shout, climbing over one another to make sure I could see them all. Individually, my classmates had been understandably unable to find the words to comfort me. But as a group, they could. I’ll always remember their smiling faces in that window.
Excerpted from The Inherited Mind by James Longman, available now wherever books are sold.
The Inherited Mind: A Story of Family, Hope, and the Genetics of Mental Illness by James Longman is available now, wherever books are sold.
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