Dr Alex George was born in Carmarthen in 1991 and is a former NHS doctor, writer and mental health campaigner. After studying medicine at the Peninsula College of Medicine and Dentistry, he worked as an emergency physician in London before joining the cast of Love Island 2018. In 2021, he was appointed as the UK Government's Ambassador for Young People's Mental Health. He is the author of five books; his latest album “Happy Habits” is out now along with “Am I Normal?” published January 15.
Mom loved to sew outfits for special occasions occasions, and Christmas was no exception. This was an important time of year for our family; she was determined to let us experience the magic of tradition. It would be a small, intimate day in Capel Dewey in Carmarthenshire – just me, my parents, my two brothers and my grandmother.
I was a happy, sensitive boy with a very vivid imagination. But a few years after this was done, I began to have friction with the school system. Rejection sensitivity dysphoria is not yet part of the ADHD diagnosis, but many of us find it the hardest part. This meant that criticism from teachers and friends—even if they didn't actually reject me—would hurt me. I constantly lived with the feeling that I wasn't good enough and didn't fit in in the class. It was difficult for me to concentrate in class. One day I absentmindedly asked if Santa was a man or a woman, and the teacher got so angry that the neighbor's teacher heard it and came to console me.
Eventually I was placed in a separate class designed for children with varying degrees of disabilities. Mom had to come in and say, “I know Alex is pretty smart, so what’s going on here?” In front of me, the teacher responded, “I just think we need to lower our expectations of Alex in life.”
Although I will never forget this moment, it gave me the determination to prove them wrong. All I needed was incentive. In fact, when it came to my GCSEs, Dad said he would give me £100 towards a car for every AI I got. Money was tight at the time, and his mother was angry with him for making such a promise. But it worked. I got a straight A.
I watched a lot 24 hours in the emergency room growing up. After graduating in 2015, I went to work at King's College London, the same hospital featured in the series. It was stressful, but it was my dream job and I was happy. One day I received a message from a TV producer via a dating app that said: “We’d like to talk to you about going on Love Island.” I refused and laughed about it. But they were persistent. Around the same time, my friend Freya Barlow, a medical student, became ill with acute myeloid leukemia. She underwent several courses of chemotherapy and a bone transplant. She didn't have long to live and said, “Alex, you're so capable. I want you to get involved more. I can't move on with my life, so please live yours.” I don't think she meant Love Island, but that's what came to mind. I went for an interview and was offered a position in 2018. I said yes. At least I thought it might be a vacation of a few weeks.
Being thrust into the spotlight was overwhelming. But that was nothing compared to the pandemic. At the time I was working in the Emergency Department at University Hospital Lewisham. Much of what I witnessed cannot be repeated; it's too terrible for most people. The number of people dying was huge and constant, but I also had to tell families: “You can’t come say goodbye to your dying wife of 30 years. Here’s the iPhone so you can talk to her instead.” I've had this conversation hundreds of times. This is not a normal way to care for grieving people. We couldn't provide the level of care we needed and it made me feel like the devil.
Because I've been working during the pandemic, I haven't seen my family for a long time, but I got to go to Wales in the summer to visit them. A week ago my father called me and my whole life changed. My 19 year old brother Llrcommitted suicide.
In those first days of shock, I had to catch our family in free fall. If I had not done this, my parents would have died or been separated. They were like children, unable to act. In terms of stability, I had minus 100, but I had to take the initiative. I spoke at the funeral. I drove my mother in the car for three hours a day so that she would not be at home. She needed time away from her father so they wouldn't make things worse for each other.
Two days after Llera died, I wrote to my manager and said, “I’m going to continue writing my book.” She replied: “You're crazy, you just lost your brother.” I didn't do it heartlessly; I was in a black hole and trying to cling to things that would make me feel normal. What I really need is to accept that nothing will ever be the same. Now I know that the only relief I will get from grief is death. It sounds crazy and I really want to live, but when I look at my parents I'm jealous that they are closer to this relief than I am.
Three years ago I got into my hairdresser and looked in the mirror. I realized that I had completely lost myself. I was 20 years old, but what shocked me the most were my eyes. I thought, “I don’t even know where Alex is anymore.” I was campaigning, working too much and drinking a lot more than usual. I tried to numb myself. So I needed to change something. I put the bottle down and went for a walk every day, just like my podcast. Tompcast started.
Besides getting sober, I realized I needed exercise and therapy. I've had my ups and downs since then – I was recently diagnosed with OCD and am being treated for it. I wouldn't say my mental health is perfect and it never will be, but I am much more functional.
Being in nature with my dog Rolo is the most rewarding thing. I also ride a motorcycle, take antidepressants, listen to classical music and watch who I spend time with. I don't watch the news too much because it can trigger me.
I realized that although I couldn't bring my brother back, I could try to help others. Mum too – she put her amazing costume skills to good use and raised a lot of money by knitting for charity.
The day after my brother died, my friend took me to Llansteffan beach. It was a busy summer day. As soon as I arrived, it seemed like the crowd parted. Everyone seemed silent; they all knew what happened. I passed through them, and when I turned back, life resumed. The children played, the waves came and went, the birds continued to chirp. And at that moment I realized that life goes on. The sun will always shine on Llansteffan beach, and we are all just grains of sand.
