ABC News Correspondent James Longman Releases Memories (Exclusive)

ABC News correspondent James Longman he was only nine years old when his father, a schizophrenic, committed suicide. Several dozen years later, he published a memoir entitled Inherited mind, which touches on the history of mental illness in his family – most of which he only learned about later in life.

The British journalist, 39, spoke to PEOPLE about his decision to write the book, how genetics contributed to his bouts of depression and how he realized his late father’s struggles weren’t the same as his own.

“I have been able to separate my father’s illness from the sadness I feel,” he tells PEOPLE. “Understanding the genetics of mental illness allowed me to really understand what was happening to me and understand it as something separate from what happened to him. In a way, it lessened the feeling of inevitability that I always felt when faced with sadness.”

Longman explains that although his mental problems have a genetic component, he is constantly “reminded that humans actually have an amazing ability to heal.” Seeing how “healthy” his husband is Alex Brannanhis family gave him hope to create a similar future for himself.

“No matter what your genetic legacy is, you have the ability to change the outcome at the genetic level,” he says. “So yes, you will probably inherit a predisposition to depression, bipolar disorder or schizophrenia, but you will also inherit the ability to heal and you can pass that ability on to your children. I really want people to know that this is the main takeaway from this book: that your genes are not your destiny.

Longman says he always knew he would write this book. However, it took him years to complete because he tried to ensure that it would be instructive to others.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of if you have depressive thoughts and you have a family that may not feel as whole as other people’s families.” he tells PEOPLE. “No matter how damaged you feel or how damaged your background may be, there is always hope for the future.”

Read PEOPLE’s exclusive excerpt below Inherited mind.

I have few more vivid memories. I was nine years old and it was a cold autumn evening at school. The living room was empty except for me and my friend rolling on the floor. I wasn’t a fat kid, but I always liked eating and I was definitely bigger than other kids my age. I had blonde hair parted in the middle, a round face, and my cheeks were red from the excitement of our fun. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my house manager appear, looking rather serious.

– James, can you come here please?

My heart sank. I hated getting into trouble and I was sure I would be dragged into it. I remember we immediately pretended we hadn’t done anything wrong. I quickly got up and followed Mr. Owers to his office so I could explain myself.

He sat down in his swivel chair, and as it lowered under his weight with a soft hissing sound, he looked at me with his large, gray eyes. “There was an accident,” he said.

Immediate confusion. I realized he wasn’t talking about me.

Mr. Owers was a large man and moved slowly. I thought of him as some kind of friendly giant. He exuded kindness, and when I think back to my early days at school, I imagine my friends and I as little forest creatures, while he was some sort of giant magical bear sworn to protect us. With his big, workmanlike hands, he reached across the 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 as quiet as the sound of a distant train. – There was nothing they could do.

I looked at him, not knowing what he meant. He gave me a tissue, but I didn’t need it. “What do you mean?”

There was silence. And then: “He died, James.”

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I don’t know if I said it out loud or just felt it, but I remember complete disbelief. I saw my father just last weekend. How was this possible? How can someone be here one day and then be gone forever the next? This was completely incomprehensible to my young mind.

“Mom’s here,” Mr. Owers said, trying to sound cheerful. -He’s with the Matron. Come with me?”

He stood up and led me out of his office. The living room felt strangely busy now, bright and hot in a way it hadn’t been before. My winter sweater felt too thick. I felt tears in my eyes. As I followed 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 bright. I avoided eye contact with everyone we passed. I didn’t want them to see me cry.

The superior’s apartment was located right next to the main wing of the dormitory. My mother was waiting there in the dimly lit living room, on a cream sofa. She cried. She immediately drew me to her. I smelled alcohol on her breath. There are things you will never forget. I think my mother’s drinking the night I was told my father had died is one of my strongest memories. She started crying hysterically, asking if I was okay, hugging me tightly. I sat on her lap without my feet touching the floor. “It’s okay,” I repeated, more worried about her than myself. I felt simultaneously confused, ashamed, and desperate for this moment to pass quickly.

I don’t remember the rest of that evening. It was decided that I would stay at school. Everyone I’ve told this to says it sounds cruel to leave your only son at school after hearing the news. But I think it was the right decision. I wanted to stay, if only to not have to deal with my mother. It must have hurt her to leave me that night, but I think she also knew it was the best place for me at the moment. Life at home was unpredictable at best – and the only reason I ended up at boarding school was to provide me with some stability. So at this most destabilizing moment, this was the obvious place to be. And I loved school. I always felt good there. Nobody told me how my father died, only that there was 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, so I was to be picked up from class and taken to the countryside, to my grandmother’s house, where the vigil was to be held. That morning I put on my jacket and went down to breakfast.

Children are funny – they forget some things almost immediately. Throughout the morning, friends were running up to me and asking, “Why are you at your Sunday best, James?” Anything remotely unusual in a school like ours was of deep interest to everyone, and wearing a jacket on a weekday made headlines. “Today is my father’s funeral,” I replied quietly. Silence.

I made it through the first few periods, trying to avoid difficult looks. And then there was a double trick that I had to get out of earlier. Mr. Owers entered, trying to look cheerful in his black suit and tie. He was talking quietly to my art teacher, and she politely motioned for me to come over. The room fell silent as I took off my overalls and replaced them with my jacket. I felt my colleagues’ eyes on me as I signaled that I was ready to leave.

The car was parked across the street and when we were halfway there, Mr. Owers grabbed my arm. I stopped to look at him; – he pointed back to the art block. I remember it was a bright, sunny day and I had to squint to see through the two large windows. I saw the entire class waving at me. “Good luck, James!” I heard them screaming, climbing on top of each other to make sure I could see them all. Understandably, my classmates individually could not find words to comfort me. But as a group they could. I will always remember their smiling faces in that window.

Extract from 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 James Longman is now available wherever books are sold.