Saturday nights on the High Street. Drunk people walking on roads, horny guys hitting on vulnerable girls and dodgy dancing to questionable music. We all know how it rolls on a bog standard weekend in the early hours. I usually frequent my local LGBT bar as I know friendly faces, but tonight, I decided to head into the beating heart of Bedford town to see what really goes down.
I arrived at about midnight, and already the Police were in action. Someone had peaked too soon, as I joined the back of the queue to the most popular club in Bedford, Hi Fi. In my mind, I was planning a social experiment; to see how far LGBT acceptance has really come. Equal laws are all well and good, but what about attitudes?
This is what happened.
I had planned to meet my friend in Hi Fi, who was already with a few of her friends as I found her at the bar. I told her what I had planned for the night and she raised an eyebrow, wondering why I was throwing myself into the bear pit. Throughout this experience, I remained sober, just in case it got a bit out of hand...
We headed outside, to people generally mingling and having fun. I have always wondered how girls deal with guys who see them as prey and already I noticed a few conversations around me where a man was clearly trying to hit on the lady. However, my focus was on trying to find a young man for myself. On paper, this should be completely acceptable. We've come so far, right? Hmm...
Guy Number One. He was stood leaning against the circular table, checking his phone and sipping from a bottle of beer. I simply started a conversation, and we got chatting. His name was Mike and he was waiting for his friend to come back from the bar, but I was more interested in his appearance. He had an open collar shirt on, showing a bit of chest and his hair was slicked back. I asked him if he was waiting for his girlfriend:
"No, no, I'm single", was the response. I continued the conversation.
"Well, we could easily change that". I then gave him a cheeky wink, and turned to my friend and began an idle conversation, keeping an eager eye on the reaction of my new friend. He looked decidedly uncomfortable. I then introduced Mike to my friend, and complimented him on how nice he looked. My friend agreed, knowing what I was up to, accompanied by a stifled smile.
Thanks", said Mike, looking towards the bar. He was clearly eager for his friend to save him, but the aggressive response I was expecting never came before he quickly disappeared.
Thirty minutes passed, with me looking around the crowds, looking for number two. This all sounds rather predatory, but I reminded myself I was giving guys a taste of their own medicine, so continued. A fight had broken out on the other side of the bar, with security rushing past to break it up. All in a Saturday night's work. I decided to crank up the pressure.
Man number two was called Brandon, a skinny, half-cast man with a fairly good-looking pair of glasses. He had been chatting to my friend of a friend, as I sidled up to him and introduced myself. He was friendly, if a bit too drunk, as I began to chat him up.
"So, a good looking guy like you must have girls all over him right?" I asked. The gravity of the question didn't really hit home as he shrugged and mumbled something inaudible. Attempting to purposefully push buttons, I then complimented him on his look and said he looked hot. The gravity of that certainly hit him, as he looked at me as if I'd punched his dog.
"What did you say?" he asked, staring at me as if I was some sort of alien. I was preparing to run away. At no point was my social experiment to land me in a fight.
"I just said you looked hot, that's all. No biggy." I haven't said "no biggy" in about six years, but maybe the heat of the situation led me to say random things. Bearing in mind guys all around me were telling girls the same thing, It's 2015, I should be able to say that to another guy, right?
Wrong.
Brandon started shouting at me, asking "Who I was" and whether I was, "having a laugh". In slight panic, I said, "Yeah I am having a laugh, chill chill, I'm only joking with you!" I then passed him a drink, a Jagerbomb, which he gladly accepted and things cooled down before I swiftly walked away. If I was being sensible, I should really have stopped the experiment there...
I settled down in a seat with my friend for a while, contemplating what I was doing and whether I should really have been doing this at all. I had a couple of drinks, my first drinks of the night, before deciding I would try one more guy. Rather bravely, (or stupidly, depending on how you look at it), I went for the jugular. The results were not pretty...
We were still sat outside, under cover from the rain, when a guy sat down on the seats opposite us. He was actually a really gorgeous guy, and if he'd have ended up being a raging homosexual, I probably would have taken it further!
As it happens, he wasn't.
"Hey, I'm Tom!" Using the same introduction as I had for the last two, the chap held out his hand. "I'm Tom too!" he said, cheerfully. Just like the previous guys, we chatted about this, that and the other before I plucked up the courage to dig deeper...
"So which gym do you go to? You must go to the gym with biceps like those!" Other Tom laughed and said he went to 'The Gym' - a place I had only learnt about a couple of days ago and is actually the name of a gym. I feigned deafness, choosing to slide over to his bench and sit next to him.
"Sorry, I didn't hear you?" I said, knowing full well that I had. He repeated his answer and I made a strange sound that showed that I was intrigued.
"And I bet you get all the girls with a chest that big!" He had his shirt slightly open, and Other Tom laughed again and said, "Well, work hard play hard." He stared back down at his phone. Then, for some unfathomable reason, buoyed on by the sense that I thought I was constructing valuable research, I leant across and put my arm around him suggestively and a hand on his thigh.
"What the fuck are you doing?!" Other Tom jumped up from his seat, sending my full drink flying to the ground and me skidding along the benches. The scene around us quickly focused on us, as I planned as escape route. "Are you trying to hit on me?!" shouted Other Tom as I quickly apologised and shuffled as quickly as I could past the crowds. Yeah, it's time to go home. Heading towards the exit, pairs of eyes staring at me as I did so, I got the impending feeling that I was about to be punched in the face. However, I did make it to the exit unscathed and took a deep breath as I reached the cold air outside.
In hindsight, it was a stupid experiment, and quite frankly dangerous. If I had chosen the wrong guy, events could have taken a turn for the worse. However, what it does highlight are the unacceptable attitudes that still exist and indeed, the invaluable need for LGBT bars. If the world was truly equal, these guys would simply have stated that they were straight and moved on. Taken it as a compliment and continued with their night. Instead, they felt intimidated and threatened, as if gay men are somehow diseased or wrong. The hypocrisy of guys, who easily use girls as prey but get aggressive when the same happens to them is astounding.
We live in a country where, legally, heterosexuality and homosexuality are seen as equal. In the cold light of day - or indeed the cold air of a Saturday night - the extraordinary difference in attitude and reaction is still a world apart. I could have been knocked out tonight. Luckily, the worst I got was shouted at, but companionship should not be as difficult as this in a bar, in a world that is supposedly accepting.
Wednesday 23 December 2015
Wednesday 9 December 2015
What Do I Expect from the NHS?
Ahh, Britain. The country where the people are equally complimentary and derogatory about the same thing. For many years, I have been through a vast number of NHS services from Accident & Emergency, GP's, mental health services and physiotherapy. For the past 10 months, I have been an employee of the National Health Service in Paediatrics.
From where I'm sitting, I'm quite a good person to offer an all-rounded view on one of our greatest assets, but let's begin with America. The Land of the Free, at least when it comes to healthcare, is very much not free, with an average stay in an American hospital costing upwards of $4,000 merely for a room. If you have the audacity to take home medication from your hospital stay, the average cost of that is around $2,500. Need a CT Scan? I hope you have $7,000 handy. What I'm trying to say is, however frustrating, arduous, long-winded, annoying and uncomfortable your stay in a British hospital may be, it won't cost you a penny. And the following issues that I will bring up just don't matter with that knowledge in the back of your mind.
In the UK at the moment, there are severe cuts taking place across every government department, and the NHS is not exempt. Naturally, this will impact on staff numbers, equipment and actual physical bed space. It is no secret that our health service is stretched to it's true limits. However, knowing this, the main complaint about our health service are the waiting times. And it drives me insane.
Bear in mind you are not paying for this. Because of that, people use Accident and Emergency for the most minor of minor things, yet complain that they are asked to wait hours for the privilege. It's a very British trait, to complain about something amazing, yet I see it every day. A&E is for saving lives and someone with a cut to their arm cannot prioritise over someone experiencing cardiac arrest. Accident & Emergency does not have a queuing system. Pick up a ticket and wait for your number. You will wait. Emergency doctors and nurses are not keeping you waiting to amuse them. They are dealing with more important people. If you are waiting in A&E for eight hours, that says a lot more about you than it does of the service.
From A&E then, personally, I expect nothing on waiting times. If I was on the verge of death, I'd expect to be seen to immediately. Otherwise, I will wait for as long as needed. All I expect are a bit of politeness and not to be completely forgotten about. Which I think is reasonable, given the strain that our NHS staff are under.
Government targets on GP waiting times are clear. Everyone should be seen by their GP within 48 hours of requesting one. However, this target was set before the cutbacks. My own personal GP practice has been cut to such a degree that they are now not a full time service. I walked along there to drop off a prescription one day to find that it was closed. Not at all ideal, yet not at all surprising. Five GP's were cut to three, (one of which is semi-retired) and with the same number of patients to see, it's naturally going to be stretched. The public have to bear this in mind and look towards other services.
In fact, the public have to take some burden of the responsibility on everything to do with the NHS. Self-help (try not to use Google) is adamant in ensuring that you get the right level of treatment. Don't go to Accident & Emergency is you have the flu. Equally, don't ring the 111 service if you're having severe chest pains. Do the right thing.
Looking past front line services, the NHS do remarkable things post-care. If it's needed, they will come to your home and cook you dinner. The community care is a vital part of the NHS cycle and needs to be looked after just as much as the services you read about in the papers. After I was released from hospital, I was referred on to specialist services to find me a place to live. I was effectively coming out of hospital and possibly on to the streets. NHS after care saved me from that hell. I find it surprising that this isn't lauded by people. But, being British, we tend not to.
It's everyone's responsibility to look after our National Health Service, not just the professionals and Jeremy Hunt. With the winters getting colder and hospitals getting busier, don't automatically presume your problems are the worst. Be sensible, be proactive and be mindful of the fact that our health service cannot take much more unneeded stresses and strains.
We all have a part to play.
From where I'm sitting, I'm quite a good person to offer an all-rounded view on one of our greatest assets, but let's begin with America. The Land of the Free, at least when it comes to healthcare, is very much not free, with an average stay in an American hospital costing upwards of $4,000 merely for a room. If you have the audacity to take home medication from your hospital stay, the average cost of that is around $2,500. Need a CT Scan? I hope you have $7,000 handy. What I'm trying to say is, however frustrating, arduous, long-winded, annoying and uncomfortable your stay in a British hospital may be, it won't cost you a penny. And the following issues that I will bring up just don't matter with that knowledge in the back of your mind.
In the UK at the moment, there are severe cuts taking place across every government department, and the NHS is not exempt. Naturally, this will impact on staff numbers, equipment and actual physical bed space. It is no secret that our health service is stretched to it's true limits. However, knowing this, the main complaint about our health service are the waiting times. And it drives me insane.
Bear in mind you are not paying for this. Because of that, people use Accident and Emergency for the most minor of minor things, yet complain that they are asked to wait hours for the privilege. It's a very British trait, to complain about something amazing, yet I see it every day. A&E is for saving lives and someone with a cut to their arm cannot prioritise over someone experiencing cardiac arrest. Accident & Emergency does not have a queuing system. Pick up a ticket and wait for your number. You will wait. Emergency doctors and nurses are not keeping you waiting to amuse them. They are dealing with more important people. If you are waiting in A&E for eight hours, that says a lot more about you than it does of the service.
From A&E then, personally, I expect nothing on waiting times. If I was on the verge of death, I'd expect to be seen to immediately. Otherwise, I will wait for as long as needed. All I expect are a bit of politeness and not to be completely forgotten about. Which I think is reasonable, given the strain that our NHS staff are under.
Government targets on GP waiting times are clear. Everyone should be seen by their GP within 48 hours of requesting one. However, this target was set before the cutbacks. My own personal GP practice has been cut to such a degree that they are now not a full time service. I walked along there to drop off a prescription one day to find that it was closed. Not at all ideal, yet not at all surprising. Five GP's were cut to three, (one of which is semi-retired) and with the same number of patients to see, it's naturally going to be stretched. The public have to bear this in mind and look towards other services.
In fact, the public have to take some burden of the responsibility on everything to do with the NHS. Self-help (try not to use Google) is adamant in ensuring that you get the right level of treatment. Don't go to Accident & Emergency is you have the flu. Equally, don't ring the 111 service if you're having severe chest pains. Do the right thing.
Looking past front line services, the NHS do remarkable things post-care. If it's needed, they will come to your home and cook you dinner. The community care is a vital part of the NHS cycle and needs to be looked after just as much as the services you read about in the papers. After I was released from hospital, I was referred on to specialist services to find me a place to live. I was effectively coming out of hospital and possibly on to the streets. NHS after care saved me from that hell. I find it surprising that this isn't lauded by people. But, being British, we tend not to.
It's everyone's responsibility to look after our National Health Service, not just the professionals and Jeremy Hunt. With the winters getting colder and hospitals getting busier, don't automatically presume your problems are the worst. Be sensible, be proactive and be mindful of the fact that our health service cannot take much more unneeded stresses and strains.
We all have a part to play.
Sunday 27 September 2015
A Brand New Feeling
In my adult life, I have experienced many negative events. Within these pages are stories of panic attacks, nervous breakdowns and, as my Mother calls them, "episodes". I have experienced it all, yet one thing I have never even considered feeling is social anxiety. I have always been able to socialise with anyone, regardless of the type of people they are or the social circles they stand in. I can socialise with "blokes", at football and cricket clubs, talking about beer and parties. I can socialise with nerd types and converse about poetry or novels. I can socialise with people older than me with respect at bus stops. I have never ever felt nervous about it.
Until last night.
Last night, after watching Wales deservedly beat England at the Rugby World Cup, I headed out to my usual haunt for a rare Saturday night out. I was pleasantly drunk and enjoying a good evening, but I reached the pub and all of a sudden, I felt introverted. I bought a drink and ended up drinking it so slowly that I found myself with the same drink three hours later. I walked from the garden outside, through the ever-increasingly busy dance floor and to the quieter lounge area on the other side of the bar. I made that journey about four or five times, choosing to sit on the sofas and peruse my phone. I hadn't gone out alone. I went out with one of my best friends, and met many more friends at the pub, all of whom I get on well with, but part of me just wanted to be on my own. Yet, the other part wanted to me to showing off some great* dance moves on the dance floor. But, I couldn't bring myself to do it.
*Of course, when you're drunk, all dance moves are great...
I've never been like that. Maybe when I've gone out sober, I've been quieter and more composed, but I was drunk. When I'm drunk, I'm happy, dancing away, joking with friends. Yesterday, I just couldn't do it. And it was kind of scary. It was a brand new emotion to feel and I didn't quite know how to cope with it. I didn't go home until about 2am, as I wanted to stay and see if these feelings would drift off, but they never did.
Since then, I've been thinking about why this happened. It happened to a degree last weekend as well, but I did go out specifically to try and chill out after a tough week at work. Last night, I wanted to party and dance and let out some energy, but it didn't happen.
Reason 1: I'm scared of getting too drunk. Knowing me, when I get hyped up on a night out, I buy drinks quicker than I can consume them, and all of a sudden I'm wasted and heading towards the disaster zone of previous "episodes". Last night, I took three hours to drink one small JD.
Reason 2: I've been living on my own for nearly a year now. I've gotten used to my own company, with my own thoughts and living inside my own four walls. This isn't a bad thing, but I am so much less sociable than when I was living with other people, be that family or flatmates. Is it possible to unlearn social skills?
Reason 3: Although many of you reading this will think, "don't be so ridiculous", maybe I'm just past the age of dancing and making a fool of myself when I'm drunk? Maybe I'm heading towards a time where I prefer a quiet pint in a beer garden instead of raving. But that doesn't explain why I didn't feel comfortable even sitting with friends outside last night...
I'm more inclined to go with reasons 1 and 2. Certainly, I am now so very wary of drinking too much nowadays, bearing in mind I'm not supposed to be drinking at all. I've come a long way from this time last year and going back to square one just isn't an option.
I've faced tougher challenges than this for sure, but it isn't one that sits very well with me. However, life goes on.
Until last night.
Last night, after watching Wales deservedly beat England at the Rugby World Cup, I headed out to my usual haunt for a rare Saturday night out. I was pleasantly drunk and enjoying a good evening, but I reached the pub and all of a sudden, I felt introverted. I bought a drink and ended up drinking it so slowly that I found myself with the same drink three hours later. I walked from the garden outside, through the ever-increasingly busy dance floor and to the quieter lounge area on the other side of the bar. I made that journey about four or five times, choosing to sit on the sofas and peruse my phone. I hadn't gone out alone. I went out with one of my best friends, and met many more friends at the pub, all of whom I get on well with, but part of me just wanted to be on my own. Yet, the other part wanted to me to showing off some great* dance moves on the dance floor. But, I couldn't bring myself to do it.
*Of course, when you're drunk, all dance moves are great...
I've never been like that. Maybe when I've gone out sober, I've been quieter and more composed, but I was drunk. When I'm drunk, I'm happy, dancing away, joking with friends. Yesterday, I just couldn't do it. And it was kind of scary. It was a brand new emotion to feel and I didn't quite know how to cope with it. I didn't go home until about 2am, as I wanted to stay and see if these feelings would drift off, but they never did.
Since then, I've been thinking about why this happened. It happened to a degree last weekend as well, but I did go out specifically to try and chill out after a tough week at work. Last night, I wanted to party and dance and let out some energy, but it didn't happen.
Reason 1: I'm scared of getting too drunk. Knowing me, when I get hyped up on a night out, I buy drinks quicker than I can consume them, and all of a sudden I'm wasted and heading towards the disaster zone of previous "episodes". Last night, I took three hours to drink one small JD.
Reason 2: I've been living on my own for nearly a year now. I've gotten used to my own company, with my own thoughts and living inside my own four walls. This isn't a bad thing, but I am so much less sociable than when I was living with other people, be that family or flatmates. Is it possible to unlearn social skills?
Reason 3: Although many of you reading this will think, "don't be so ridiculous", maybe I'm just past the age of dancing and making a fool of myself when I'm drunk? Maybe I'm heading towards a time where I prefer a quiet pint in a beer garden instead of raving. But that doesn't explain why I didn't feel comfortable even sitting with friends outside last night...
I'm more inclined to go with reasons 1 and 2. Certainly, I am now so very wary of drinking too much nowadays, bearing in mind I'm not supposed to be drinking at all. I've come a long way from this time last year and going back to square one just isn't an option.
I've faced tougher challenges than this for sure, but it isn't one that sits very well with me. However, life goes on.
Wednesday 23 September 2015
Life and Death
For the last couple of weeks, I've been thinking about the plight of a young man. He is the most delightful person you will ever meet, but he has a cloud hanging over him. Every cloud is different, yet I feel like I cannot reach this person's troubled mind until I tell him my story. My horrible, horrible story. This is not going to be easy reading for anyone that cares about me.
With World Suicide Prevention Day having just passed on 10th September, I suppose now is as good a time as any to show that one man can rise from rock bottom. This is my story.
.....
I won't publish this until I'm stone cold sober, although at the time of typing, I am absolutely demolished. The amount of Jack Daniels I have had tonight goes beyond the realms of possibility. I am amazed I made it back from that random house party in Flitwick at all. Yet, part of me is reflective, and incredibly so. And this is why I am about to open up entirely. When I say "entirely", I mean... Completely. 100%. This terrifies me beyond belief... However, I must do this to prove that things get better.
On December 31st 2012, I went to a house party. It was New Years Eve, and I was in unbelievably high spirits. Sure, I'd had a tough Christmas period, in which stages of my depression had almost become too much, but come this day, New Years Eve, I was certain it was all behind me. At 4pm on New Years Eve, I spent about an hour searching the web for a new cricket bat, simply because I felt like I deserved a present for getting through the toughest of Christmas periods. The start of a new year equals the start of a new state of mind, and I was certain this would be the case. New year, new cricket bat. I set out on this night - New Years Eve night - firm in my belief that everything was fine. I spent my night at a house party and everything was going great. Ok, I was pleasantly drunk after a touch of Jack Daniels, but certainly no more than I had had on nights out in the past. This was a place I was used to being in on a normal weekend, until something changed in my head. A random woman, who's name I cannot remember, had a go at me for not being ambitious enough and a switch in my brain had gone from "happy" to "the worst place ever".
That place... I cannot describe with the English language. Even leaving this party, saying I was walking home to save a few pennies, I was convinced I was OK. This woman's words had not affected me, and I knew it was simply the alcohol talking. The alcohol had said those words, and it was the alcohol making me think like I was. I was completely convinced I would be absolutely fine, but there was no clue as to what would happen next...
I was halfway down the road, Tyne Crescent. I could feel that I was stumbling slightly, but not sick or on the verge of chucking my guts up. I was nowhere near terribly drunk. I would make it home and then go to sleep, without waking up my parents. Everything would be fine in the morning.
I used to come home after a night out, at the age of 18 or 19, completely ruined and being sick all over the show, because I wanted to forget about being gay. I used alcohol as a get out clause - so much so, that I was verging on having a serious problem with it. I was sure I could vomit out my homosexuality. It sounds like nonsense now, but that was the way I thought. It was a regular occurrence when I was 18. I was that scared of my sexuality that I would go on nights out, not caring about the state I would get in. I say this with genuine feeling... I'd go on nights out with the mind set that if I killed myself through alcohol poisoning, it wouldn't be the worst result. At least I wouldn't have to feel like "this" anymore. At least I wouldn't have to go through those stages of absolute torture. Those stages of absolute dread of people's reactions to my sexuality, or of complete rejection.
Anyway. New Years Eve. I had made it halfway down Tyne Crescent, relatively okay but stumbling. There was no danger of me not making it home, until I just stopped. Halfway down the road, I simply came to a stand still. I was frozen. I could not walk another step. I must admit, things are a bit of a haze at this point. I remember ringing an ambulance, and this is the statement I told the operator:
"I'm drunk. I cannot go on any further. I fear I am about to kill myself. I am in the middle of Tyne Crescent, and I need major, major help. Please come and help me".
And I hung up. With that, I threw my BlackBerry against the brick wall in front of me. Upon seeing that it hadn't broken completely, I threw it against the wall again. And again. And once more. The case had been destroyed, but the SIM card was still intact. I took the SIM card out and snapped it in half, before throwing the phone over the wall and out of sight. At a later date, I told everyone I had simply lost it. This was a lie. I destroyed it because I wanted to be alone. I had destroyed it because I was apoplectically angry that I had reached this point, yet again, even if it wasn't entirely my fault. I had rang the ambulance as I feared I was about to kill myself, but deep down, I didn't want to die.
I was sprawled on the floor. On the cold, hard concrete, I simply lay there crying my eyes out in the middle of the road. One chap walked past me, without paying any attention to me, and this confirmed my belief that I was a goner. I was dead. I firmly believed there was no way back. At this point, I would have given anything to be swallowed up by the devil himself. Even if I somehow survived this, I was convinced I would spend the rest of my life under supervision or classed as insane. I saw blue flashing lights approaching, but this hardly mattered. My life was over. Dead or alive, it barely mattered. I was unresponsive to the paramedics as they tried to coax information out of me. The only info they acquired was that my name was Tom. I was silent. I wasn't moving. I was a dead man.
As we got to the hospital, I was placed in a wheelchair. This seemed inappropriate as I was not disabled, but then I wondered if I was already dead, so maybe I deserved to be placed on top of wheels. I was taken into the hospital, and taken into the waiting room. Upon walking in, I saw someone I recognised from my school days, and wailed. I was adamant I didn't want anyone to see me in this state. With this news, I was placed inside a cubicle instead, with a plastic cup of water, and I sat in there for about half an hour. Except after half an hour of nothing, I got frustrated. I was on the edge of sanity, the edge of reason and the edge of life itself, yet no one cared for me. No one was there for me whatsoever. Apparently, no one gave a damn...
I walked out. I literally planned an escape route, and eventually walked out the fire exit and out through someone's back garden next to the hospital. And I walked.
I walked, and walked, and walked... Almost round in circles...
By this time, the alcohol had worn off, and I was acting on pure sadness. It was roughly 4am, January 1st 2013. The promising start to the new year had evaporated and had been replaced by the demon. The blackness of life. Nothing was changing. I was faced with a lifetime of this cloud hanging over me, a lifetime of darkness and isolation. By this time, I had already been dead for a few hours. I genuinely thought I wouldn't see my family again, or any of my friends. This was it.
I made my way to The Barley Mow, the local LGBT bar, to see if I could talk to my friend, as a last ditch effort to see if anyone cared. It was closed. Confirmation to me at the time, that no one gave the slightest fuck. Sure, it was nearly 4.30am at this point, of course it was closed. But the mind had reached a stage of no return, so naturally, I thought the worst.
"He doesn't care either. Just like everyone else".
The multi-storey car park was just round the corner. The same car park I had been in just a week before as my Dad had parked there for a long stint of Christmas shopping. I jumped the barrier, and walked towards the top floor. This was it. I was whooping with joy, completely delighted at the fact that this nightmare was about to end. Upon reaching the top floor of the multi-storey, I looked up at the stars and imagined myself up there, in heaven, with my Grandparents, disconnected from the struggles of everyday life. I was completely void of human life or interaction. Completely free from judgement or decision. I was about to die. Who cares?
I walked towards the corner of the car park. The view of Bedford town, the town I had spent my whole life in, was spread across the landscape. I could see the hills of the surrounding countryside, and the tower blocks in the distance. The pylons that provided power to thousands of homes nearby and the owls hooting as daybreak drew ever nearer. None of this mattered. This was the moment I had dreamt of, before the alarm clock of the morning of reality wailed. This was it.
I was there for ever. Stood on the edge of literal life and death. The promised land seemed so near, yet so far away. The practical fear of jumping was the only thing stopping me from doing just that.
And as I looked down, I realised. The shit load of emergency services had gathered below. The policemen, the paramedics and the fire engines, all of them.
They all cared. They all cared for the plight of this one young man.
Stood on the rooftops....
"It's fucking scary up here isn't it."
I turned round to see a hi-visibility jacket with a head on top. It was a copper, who was sat on the edge of the railings.
"Why would you want to come up here, on a night like this?"
I cannot remember what I replied, although I remember saying something. I cannot remember a lot about that conversation in all honesty, but roughly 3 hours later I was being guided back down the staircase to the bottom of the multi-storey car park, and into the back of a police car. At that point, I felt terrible guilt, amongst terrible regret and sadness. I still thought my life was over. I was going to be put in a straight-jacket and sedated. My life was never going to be the same...
Sure, I spent a couple of nights in Weller Wing at Bedford Hospital, with the stereotypical types you hear of mental hospitals, amongst the screams and the wails. Those nights were the worst of my life, barring the story I've just told you. 1st January to 3rd January was horrific. I told my boss, most friends, and others that my drink had been spiked and I had been hospitalised because of that. These were lies. Merely cover ups for this story that I was so scared of telling. There is no other way to describe what depression can do.
Yes, there are still down moments, and challenges and times where I think, "Oh no, here we go again", but once you appreciate what you have and appreciate the people who love you, (of which there are many!), the world is a much better place. At the moment, if you're in this same place, you think no understands your plight, but rest assured, they do.
I do.
The sooner you know this, the sooner you can make things better. I was LITERALLY one step away from death. And I'm here, doing okay for myself. There is no reason at all why you can't do the same.
No reason whatsoever.
With World Suicide Prevention Day having just passed on 10th September, I suppose now is as good a time as any to show that one man can rise from rock bottom. This is my story.
.....
I won't publish this until I'm stone cold sober, although at the time of typing, I am absolutely demolished. The amount of Jack Daniels I have had tonight goes beyond the realms of possibility. I am amazed I made it back from that random house party in Flitwick at all. Yet, part of me is reflective, and incredibly so. And this is why I am about to open up entirely. When I say "entirely", I mean... Completely. 100%. This terrifies me beyond belief... However, I must do this to prove that things get better.
On December 31st 2012, I went to a house party. It was New Years Eve, and I was in unbelievably high spirits. Sure, I'd had a tough Christmas period, in which stages of my depression had almost become too much, but come this day, New Years Eve, I was certain it was all behind me. At 4pm on New Years Eve, I spent about an hour searching the web for a new cricket bat, simply because I felt like I deserved a present for getting through the toughest of Christmas periods. The start of a new year equals the start of a new state of mind, and I was certain this would be the case. New year, new cricket bat. I set out on this night - New Years Eve night - firm in my belief that everything was fine. I spent my night at a house party and everything was going great. Ok, I was pleasantly drunk after a touch of Jack Daniels, but certainly no more than I had had on nights out in the past. This was a place I was used to being in on a normal weekend, until something changed in my head. A random woman, who's name I cannot remember, had a go at me for not being ambitious enough and a switch in my brain had gone from "happy" to "the worst place ever".
That place... I cannot describe with the English language. Even leaving this party, saying I was walking home to save a few pennies, I was convinced I was OK. This woman's words had not affected me, and I knew it was simply the alcohol talking. The alcohol had said those words, and it was the alcohol making me think like I was. I was completely convinced I would be absolutely fine, but there was no clue as to what would happen next...
I was halfway down the road, Tyne Crescent. I could feel that I was stumbling slightly, but not sick or on the verge of chucking my guts up. I was nowhere near terribly drunk. I would make it home and then go to sleep, without waking up my parents. Everything would be fine in the morning.
I used to come home after a night out, at the age of 18 or 19, completely ruined and being sick all over the show, because I wanted to forget about being gay. I used alcohol as a get out clause - so much so, that I was verging on having a serious problem with it. I was sure I could vomit out my homosexuality. It sounds like nonsense now, but that was the way I thought. It was a regular occurrence when I was 18. I was that scared of my sexuality that I would go on nights out, not caring about the state I would get in. I say this with genuine feeling... I'd go on nights out with the mind set that if I killed myself through alcohol poisoning, it wouldn't be the worst result. At least I wouldn't have to feel like "this" anymore. At least I wouldn't have to go through those stages of absolute torture. Those stages of absolute dread of people's reactions to my sexuality, or of complete rejection.
Anyway. New Years Eve. I had made it halfway down Tyne Crescent, relatively okay but stumbling. There was no danger of me not making it home, until I just stopped. Halfway down the road, I simply came to a stand still. I was frozen. I could not walk another step. I must admit, things are a bit of a haze at this point. I remember ringing an ambulance, and this is the statement I told the operator:
"I'm drunk. I cannot go on any further. I fear I am about to kill myself. I am in the middle of Tyne Crescent, and I need major, major help. Please come and help me".
And I hung up. With that, I threw my BlackBerry against the brick wall in front of me. Upon seeing that it hadn't broken completely, I threw it against the wall again. And again. And once more. The case had been destroyed, but the SIM card was still intact. I took the SIM card out and snapped it in half, before throwing the phone over the wall and out of sight. At a later date, I told everyone I had simply lost it. This was a lie. I destroyed it because I wanted to be alone. I had destroyed it because I was apoplectically angry that I had reached this point, yet again, even if it wasn't entirely my fault. I had rang the ambulance as I feared I was about to kill myself, but deep down, I didn't want to die.
I was sprawled on the floor. On the cold, hard concrete, I simply lay there crying my eyes out in the middle of the road. One chap walked past me, without paying any attention to me, and this confirmed my belief that I was a goner. I was dead. I firmly believed there was no way back. At this point, I would have given anything to be swallowed up by the devil himself. Even if I somehow survived this, I was convinced I would spend the rest of my life under supervision or classed as insane. I saw blue flashing lights approaching, but this hardly mattered. My life was over. Dead or alive, it barely mattered. I was unresponsive to the paramedics as they tried to coax information out of me. The only info they acquired was that my name was Tom. I was silent. I wasn't moving. I was a dead man.
As we got to the hospital, I was placed in a wheelchair. This seemed inappropriate as I was not disabled, but then I wondered if I was already dead, so maybe I deserved to be placed on top of wheels. I was taken into the hospital, and taken into the waiting room. Upon walking in, I saw someone I recognised from my school days, and wailed. I was adamant I didn't want anyone to see me in this state. With this news, I was placed inside a cubicle instead, with a plastic cup of water, and I sat in there for about half an hour. Except after half an hour of nothing, I got frustrated. I was on the edge of sanity, the edge of reason and the edge of life itself, yet no one cared for me. No one was there for me whatsoever. Apparently, no one gave a damn...
I walked out. I literally planned an escape route, and eventually walked out the fire exit and out through someone's back garden next to the hospital. And I walked.
I walked, and walked, and walked... Almost round in circles...
By this time, the alcohol had worn off, and I was acting on pure sadness. It was roughly 4am, January 1st 2013. The promising start to the new year had evaporated and had been replaced by the demon. The blackness of life. Nothing was changing. I was faced with a lifetime of this cloud hanging over me, a lifetime of darkness and isolation. By this time, I had already been dead for a few hours. I genuinely thought I wouldn't see my family again, or any of my friends. This was it.
I made my way to The Barley Mow, the local LGBT bar, to see if I could talk to my friend, as a last ditch effort to see if anyone cared. It was closed. Confirmation to me at the time, that no one gave the slightest fuck. Sure, it was nearly 4.30am at this point, of course it was closed. But the mind had reached a stage of no return, so naturally, I thought the worst.
"He doesn't care either. Just like everyone else".
The multi-storey car park was just round the corner. The same car park I had been in just a week before as my Dad had parked there for a long stint of Christmas shopping. I jumped the barrier, and walked towards the top floor. This was it. I was whooping with joy, completely delighted at the fact that this nightmare was about to end. Upon reaching the top floor of the multi-storey, I looked up at the stars and imagined myself up there, in heaven, with my Grandparents, disconnected from the struggles of everyday life. I was completely void of human life or interaction. Completely free from judgement or decision. I was about to die. Who cares?
I walked towards the corner of the car park. The view of Bedford town, the town I had spent my whole life in, was spread across the landscape. I could see the hills of the surrounding countryside, and the tower blocks in the distance. The pylons that provided power to thousands of homes nearby and the owls hooting as daybreak drew ever nearer. None of this mattered. This was the moment I had dreamt of, before the alarm clock of the morning of reality wailed. This was it.
I was there for ever. Stood on the edge of literal life and death. The promised land seemed so near, yet so far away. The practical fear of jumping was the only thing stopping me from doing just that.
And as I looked down, I realised. The shit load of emergency services had gathered below. The policemen, the paramedics and the fire engines, all of them.
They all cared. They all cared for the plight of this one young man.
Stood on the rooftops....
"It's fucking scary up here isn't it."
I turned round to see a hi-visibility jacket with a head on top. It was a copper, who was sat on the edge of the railings.
"Why would you want to come up here, on a night like this?"
I cannot remember what I replied, although I remember saying something. I cannot remember a lot about that conversation in all honesty, but roughly 3 hours later I was being guided back down the staircase to the bottom of the multi-storey car park, and into the back of a police car. At that point, I felt terrible guilt, amongst terrible regret and sadness. I still thought my life was over. I was going to be put in a straight-jacket and sedated. My life was never going to be the same...
Sure, I spent a couple of nights in Weller Wing at Bedford Hospital, with the stereotypical types you hear of mental hospitals, amongst the screams and the wails. Those nights were the worst of my life, barring the story I've just told you. 1st January to 3rd January was horrific. I told my boss, most friends, and others that my drink had been spiked and I had been hospitalised because of that. These were lies. Merely cover ups for this story that I was so scared of telling. There is no other way to describe what depression can do.
Yes, there are still down moments, and challenges and times where I think, "Oh no, here we go again", but once you appreciate what you have and appreciate the people who love you, (of which there are many!), the world is a much better place. At the moment, if you're in this same place, you think no understands your plight, but rest assured, they do.
I do.
The sooner you know this, the sooner you can make things better. I was LITERALLY one step away from death. And I'm here, doing okay for myself. There is no reason at all why you can't do the same.
No reason whatsoever.
Thursday 27 August 2015
Intricacies
Intricacies. It's a word I plucked out of the air earlier in a tweet. It described our setting perfectly, as I watched on with my new colleagues at the World Youth Organisation, who set about filming the latest segment of their first ever advert. In a small side room in the gigantic building that is Euston Tower, Director Finn, along with seven of us others, set up the latest scene. It took about two and a half hours to set up, perfect and tinker with what is going to be a ten-second piece, and it got me thinking about how far people are willing to go for perfection.
I admired Finn's lust for his work to be faultless. He was a really nice guy to boot, but I admired how hard he'd worked to get where he is. Our entourage for the day, Ayath, asked where he got his degree from. He doesn't have a degree. Just pure hard work has got him to where he is today, doing what he obviously loves. If I'm being brutally honest, I was nervous about today. Meeting new people was something I used to be brilliant at, but that confidence I once possessed seems to have deserted me. It turned out everyone, from the CEO's to the actors were charming people, even if I didn't really do a lot but watch. And tinker. And watch, as Finn moved the whiteboard an inch backwards to get the right degree of light. Intricacies.
After the first scene was shot, we headed outside to film a two-second snippet of the team approaching the building, the public wondering what was happening among the calls of 'action' and 'cut'. I merely looked on, feelings of awkwardness drifting in and away, not really sure whether I was being a hindrance or a help. I always knew I wasn't planning to be doing anything, (unless something went very wrong!) only turning up on my day off from the day job to formally introduce myself face-to-face with my colleagues in my new role as Safeguarding Officer.
That part of the filming finished at roughly 2pm, as the gang headed back down south to Essex to continue another part of the film. I chose to give my adieus and walk into the midst of London town. Looking at the list of underground stations, I wondered where to go, seeing Oval Station not too far away. The Kia Oval. Surrey County Cricket Club. A quick check of my app showed Surrey were playing Kent in the one-day cup. So off I went.
Taking a seat in the half-full cricket stadium, I watched as batsmen showed their craft. On the train down to London, I began reading a book called 'Who Wants to be a Batsman' by a man called Simon Hughes. The isolating nature of batting, the concentration and technique and how to be the best.
The intricacies.
I have never been to a professional sporting event alone, but I enjoyed the few hours I was there immensely. Getting lost in my own thoughts of the sport of which I have loved for years now and imagining being Kumar Sangakkara, who was batting at the time I walked in. A legend for Sri Lanka and indeed the sport, Sangakkara is the epitome of what a human being should be. A successful sportsman, a hard-working charity man and believe it or not, a qualified lawyer. Kumar Sangakkara has achieved. Yet there was me, reflecting on another hit and miss season, knowing that I'm not mentally tough enough for the increasing level our team at BCC is reaching. Just a year ago, I was top of the tree, captain of the 1st XI and leading the team to victory. Now, I'm merely a fringe player. I'm not bitter saying that, as I know there are much better players than me at our club, but I do wonder where I would be if I just committed. If I was more passionate. If I dealt with my intricacies.
That's what batting is. It's film making. It's being immersed in that bubble of creativity, ignoring the world around you and concentrating on the here and now. Just like Finn and his film-making, one wrong decision could ruin the masterpiece. Yet Finn seemed to have this air of self-belief, a confidence I once had. I don't think I have that anymore. People praise my writing skills, saying I can make a career out of it, but with every week that passes, that dream fades. That self-belief is non-existent now. Who knows if I can ever regain it.
The events of the last three or four years have ground me down and now I am starting from scratch. Ultimately, I feel I'm just not good enough, however much people say differently. All of those (albeit very kind words) mean nothing if I don't believe them. All I've wanted from life is to make a difference, and I believe the World Youth Organisation have the potential to do just that, on a massive scale. Personally though, my own self doubt needs to be controlled. I need to find that confidence again. I need to deal with the issues that life doth bring.
It all hangs on the intricacies.
Monday 27 July 2015
Jacques Brel & The Lucid Dreamer
A lot of young people in this world of ours are hooked in by chart music. Less drip fed, more completely thrust upon them, the likes of Rihanna, Kanye West et al are seen plastered all over popular culture. I am partial to a bit of chart music from time to time, but if I was asked who my favourite artist or musician of all time was, I'm guessing most of you would look back at me blankly.
Jacques Brel, who died in October 1978, sold over 25 million records, making him the 3rd most successful Belgian artist of all time. Most of his songs were recorded in French, which probably doesn't put him at the top of many people's lists of top singers. However, his songs were so theatrical and performed so grandly that it is simply impossible to not like him. Furthermore, the list of artists that have covered his songs almost reach three figures. This list includes the likes of David Bowie. Dame Shirley Bassey. Nina Simone. Neil Diamond. Sting. Frank Sinatra. The list goes on and on. For such an influential musician, he is not widely known, especially to the ears of young people.
Earlier this year, I travelled to London to watch a show called, 'Jacques Brel is Alive and Well and Living in Paris'. A brilliant review of this can be read here: https://therealchrisparkle.wordpress.com/tag/jacques-brel/ , written by my friend Chris who accompanied me to the show. It confirmed my love of Jacques Brel with some of my favourite songs being showcased on the stage of the Charing Cross Theatre. Songs such as 'Madeleine', 'Amsterdam' and 'Next' a few of the stunning, spine-tingling musical offerings on show. 'Ne Me Quitte Pas', possibly Brel's most famous song must be up there as one of the most covered songs in musical history. Jacques Brel's death at the age of 49 was untimely.
I mention Jacques Brel as I had a dream that I was on stage singing 'Amsterdam' last night. Very recently, I have acquired the skill of lucid dreaming, that means I can control my own movements and actions in dreams. It is something you can learn, and something I discovered at the beginning of this year and have been trying to learn ever since. It's a mysterious skill and one can never really pinpoint when you definitely know how to do it. Only in the last few weeks have I known that I have this skill, mainly because I can remember pretty much every moment of every dream I have, every night. In the past week, I have been involved in a rugby match against Wales where we won 29-19, performed 'Amsterdam' on stage as I said and fulfilled some pretty cool sexual fantasies...
I said that out loud didn't I...?
I have mastered lucid dreaming to such a degree now that I realise I am in a dream as soon as the dream begins, knowing I am in no mortal danger and I can quite literally do what I want. The only thing I can't control is the specific situations I land in, but I'm not sure that's at all possible anyway. It seems an odd thing to learn, but once you have learnt, it is one of the coolest things in the world. I look forward to going to sleep now!
How to link a 1960's French musician and your sleeping pattern. Easy.
Saturday 25 July 2015
Perceptions & Labels - My Sexuality
In my time, I have written some pretty serious blog posts. I'm very open about who I am and what I've been through as I genuinely believe that my life experiences can help others. I'm not afraid about how people perceive me, whether that be inspiring or attention-seeking.
Until now.
I'm very scared to write this, because I thought I had established who I was. On 18th November 2012, I wrote in this very same blog and came out as gay. It was such a huge hurdle to jump but everyone was so supportive and magnificent about it all. It was such a huge, life-defining moment and a positive move in every aspect. Apart from one.
By coming out as gay, I positioned myself as one set thing through the eyes of society. I'm a guy who likes guys and society dictates that I have locked myself in that box. I've come out of the closet now and there's no route back to Narnia. I've fought that battle and came out the other side. Except I haven't. Not really. If I'm being brutally honest with you all, I don't know what "sexuality" I am. The social requirement to fit into a category seems such a laborious and energy-consuming exercise, and I quite frankly can't be bothered racking my brains for the answer anymore. At first I thought I was "straight" and then I thought I was "bisexual" and then I thought I was "gay". There was even a brief stage where I thought I was "asexual". Four very certain and very rigid descriptions of sexual orientation, except we all know that sexual orientation is a spectrum. I've felt compelled to fit into a box created by narrow-mindedness that I'd completely forgotten that I could just be Tom.
This has began to become more apparent in the last six months or so. I've seen girls and thought, "Wow she's beautiful and funny", but shut down those thoughts because I'm gay. I've realised that I fancy girls too. But I told the world I was gay, how ridiculous would it look if I backtracked? I've gone a complete loop, finding guys attractive but shutting out those thoughts because I "should" like girls. Now I realise that I ALSO find girls attractive, but I shut out those thoughts because I "should" like guys. I have a couple of female friends who I find attractive and I like, but everyone who knows me, identifies me as a gay man. If my friends and family were truly open-minded, this wouldn't matter to them, but this is harder than coming out as gay. Coming out as not gay. There's this sense of urgency, that I MUST identify as a sexual orientation otherwise there's something wrong with me. Society wants us all to pick a side and stay there, but I don't want to. I'm fed up of lying awake at night wondering what box I fit into, when I don't want to fit into a box at all. It's even more scary as I've gone from one side of the spectrum to the other. I'm scared people will just think I'm trying to be revolutionary or attention-seeking, like a rebellious teenager trying to be unique. I just want to be happy.
I'm guessing people will now identify me as bisexual, determined to stick to this Venn diagram of sexuality. I'm telling you now, I don't identify as any sexual orientation. Labels in society are so damn restricting and unnecessary. It's caused me a lot of mental pain and a few tears. I've asked myself why everyone is so certain about the definable limits of their sexuality, and I can't. When I came out as gay in 2012, I was 100% certain. But why can't these things change? It may fuel the argument from the homophobic section of our world that your sexuality is a "choice", but that's merely because everyone wants to complete the box-ticking exercise. I see no reason why our sexual desires can't evolve with the rest of our being.
So, there you have it. I'm losing no more sleep over this. Label me as whatever you like, but in my own head, I am Tom. That may sound a bit pretentious and up myself, but it is true. Two old friends of mine, who I rarely speak to these days, said two very, very perfect lines:
1) I am [Insert Name Here]. I am not a box. (At the time, I rolled my eyes but damn, it's true.)
2) "I think the whole world is bisexual".
That second line might not be far from the truth. Some people may be 99.99% "straight" yet find Zac Efron attractive. Some people the opposite. Some may be 50/50, some may be 64.6% "straight" and 35.4% "gay". There is no set parameter, and I wish people would start seeing it like this.
Some of you may think I'm trying to grab some headlines, but I had to write it down. I am going to continue my life, safe in the knowledge that I am not restricted. I may have a boyfriend in 6 months. I may have a girlfriend in a year. I may be single forever.
One thing I am not though, is a box.
Sunday 21 June 2015
The Drinking Game
Good evening dear readers. Once again, I delve into the written word to exfoliate some minor fears that have begun to creep into one's life. This blog, it's pages and pages of troubles and woes, of celebration and torment, receives another episode.
These fears aren't huge. Everything in my life at the moment is as good as I can expect. The job is good, although the Monday morning alarm usually tends to disagree and the cricket season is going well, despite not playing all that much personally. I've also just heard our team lost by the narrowest of margins which is a bit of a kick in the teeth. Despite this though, we sit pretty on top of both league tables. But you're not here to read about cricket are you?
Jack was a friend that I thought I had discarded roughly 9 months ago, off the back of a rather extreme, eye-opening ten days in an environment far, far away from the everyday world I live in now. Jack had provided me with nights of pleasure and nights of pain and mornings of feeling sick and dizzy, but he became a problem. I drank so much of Jack that he made my mind crack. So I gave him up.
Except, I thought I did. At first he was absent, the soft drinks taking precedence. However, the weeks seemed to merge into seven long days of work and boredom, the rush of the drunk feeling sorely missed. So, I decided to take a step back and reward myself with drinks on special occasions. The London Eurovision Party. My birthday. Two such occasions I used this rule, without drinking at all in between, seemed like the safest way to still enjoy and look forward to these nights, but without damaging this brain of mine. Recently though, we're drifting back into old habits. Friday nights of random drunkenness, with no reason to actually celebrate, but drinking just because it's available to do so. I've refrained from going out on Saturday nights after the Friday nights, like old times, but I do feel this pattern is heading in one direction, and one direction only. How the fuck do I stop it?
If you'll take the time to step back into the archives, you will see stories that are the result of my excessive binge drinking. Some of them are magical, yet some of them have to be read to be believed. The good stories are only matched by the horror of the moments my head caved in. Now my parents have moved to the south coast, they are no longer here as a physical safety net. They've moved away because they now believe that I can be trusted to not go there again, but if I'm being brutally honest with myself, I can never say that won't happen once more. These recent drinking episodes, of which there has been no reason attached, may be killing me. There is no way of knowing if I am giving my brain the break it deserves between each night, when I make the conscious decision to just do it. You may think why I'm even considering the risk, but I am still addicted to that lifestyle. I can't see the competition between a movie and a takeaway versus the potential of a night out. It's just me.
I am completely, 100% aware of what I'm doing. I'm taking a gamble. I am still finding it difficult to say no to a night out, although I did refuse more than a single JD last night. I suppose that shows I do have some will power, but after busy weeks at work, all I want to do is unwind and let loose. It is in my nature to do so. Without it, I'd feel like I would burn out. I'd feel sad.
Yet, as another working week looms large, I find myself in a predicament. I feel a little bit guilty that I'm pushing those boundaries again, when, if I was being sensible, I wouldn't even entertain the idea. Maybe that says a bit about who I am. A risk taker? A gambler? But who gambles with their own sanity? I'm not at the stage where I just want to get drunk every night of the week. I know I can't handle more than once per seven days, usually a Friday night, but how do I know if that's one Friday night too many? I could be sitting here right now, with my brain begging me to stop, and I wouldn't even know about it. That is the reality of the situation.
Yet when it comes to the next Friday, (incidentally my pay day), I will be walking home from work at 8pm, with an invitation to the pub on my doorstep. And just like the kid with the cookie jar, I might well say, "Just one more night won't hurt..."
These fears aren't huge. Everything in my life at the moment is as good as I can expect. The job is good, although the Monday morning alarm usually tends to disagree and the cricket season is going well, despite not playing all that much personally. I've also just heard our team lost by the narrowest of margins which is a bit of a kick in the teeth. Despite this though, we sit pretty on top of both league tables. But you're not here to read about cricket are you?
Jack was a friend that I thought I had discarded roughly 9 months ago, off the back of a rather extreme, eye-opening ten days in an environment far, far away from the everyday world I live in now. Jack had provided me with nights of pleasure and nights of pain and mornings of feeling sick and dizzy, but he became a problem. I drank so much of Jack that he made my mind crack. So I gave him up.
Except, I thought I did. At first he was absent, the soft drinks taking precedence. However, the weeks seemed to merge into seven long days of work and boredom, the rush of the drunk feeling sorely missed. So, I decided to take a step back and reward myself with drinks on special occasions. The London Eurovision Party. My birthday. Two such occasions I used this rule, without drinking at all in between, seemed like the safest way to still enjoy and look forward to these nights, but without damaging this brain of mine. Recently though, we're drifting back into old habits. Friday nights of random drunkenness, with no reason to actually celebrate, but drinking just because it's available to do so. I've refrained from going out on Saturday nights after the Friday nights, like old times, but I do feel this pattern is heading in one direction, and one direction only. How the fuck do I stop it?
If you'll take the time to step back into the archives, you will see stories that are the result of my excessive binge drinking. Some of them are magical, yet some of them have to be read to be believed. The good stories are only matched by the horror of the moments my head caved in. Now my parents have moved to the south coast, they are no longer here as a physical safety net. They've moved away because they now believe that I can be trusted to not go there again, but if I'm being brutally honest with myself, I can never say that won't happen once more. These recent drinking episodes, of which there has been no reason attached, may be killing me. There is no way of knowing if I am giving my brain the break it deserves between each night, when I make the conscious decision to just do it. You may think why I'm even considering the risk, but I am still addicted to that lifestyle. I can't see the competition between a movie and a takeaway versus the potential of a night out. It's just me.
I am completely, 100% aware of what I'm doing. I'm taking a gamble. I am still finding it difficult to say no to a night out, although I did refuse more than a single JD last night. I suppose that shows I do have some will power, but after busy weeks at work, all I want to do is unwind and let loose. It is in my nature to do so. Without it, I'd feel like I would burn out. I'd feel sad.
Yet, as another working week looms large, I find myself in a predicament. I feel a little bit guilty that I'm pushing those boundaries again, when, if I was being sensible, I wouldn't even entertain the idea. Maybe that says a bit about who I am. A risk taker? A gambler? But who gambles with their own sanity? I'm not at the stage where I just want to get drunk every night of the week. I know I can't handle more than once per seven days, usually a Friday night, but how do I know if that's one Friday night too many? I could be sitting here right now, with my brain begging me to stop, and I wouldn't even know about it. That is the reality of the situation.
Yet when it comes to the next Friday, (incidentally my pay day), I will be walking home from work at 8pm, with an invitation to the pub on my doorstep. And just like the kid with the cookie jar, I might well say, "Just one more night won't hurt..."
Saturday 6 June 2015
Why I'm Happy to be Single
"Uncertainly is the only certainty there is, and knowing how to live with insecurity is the only security". - John Allen Paulos.
I did have a boyfriend once, and we were happy. He moved away and we had our difficult moments, but what relationship doesn't have their challenges? I loved him and he loved me. But then he died. One moment of madness, where time stood still, and that was it. He was gone.
I will never get over the day I found out, but you have to move on at some point. I don't have to forget the great times we spent together, but ever since that horrible day, I have put myself under immense pressure to find that spark again. I miss it, so very much. At the same time though, I feel anxious about starting again. Not only do I feel the normal anxieties around dating, (maybe exacerbated by past health issues), but I also feel guilty about dating again so soon. It's very easy to look from outside in and comment that I can move on and to go for it. The phrase, "easier said than done" has never meant so much as it has now.
I've been on a couple of dates recently. None of them amounted to very much, and it's very easy to see why. I am not ready. All through what were pleasant enough evenings, I was thinking, "I shouldn't be here." The most silent of society's taboos, that everyone should always be looking for The One. It's only very, very recently that I have realised that I don't need to be.
Being alone has it's perks. It sounds depressing and many think that I only need a cat to complete the image of loneliness, but I know I'm not lonely. I have many friends and a loving family. A lot of people out there however are paramount that you cannot be truly happy alone. I want to dispel that myth.
It's only after you have lost everything when you can appreciate what you have. There was a time when I was in hospital, having lost my job, my flat, my love and friends. I can't really explain the mind set I was in as it's extremely difficult to return to that state, even for memories sake. However, since I have started to rebuild my life, I have begun to explore the dating game again. It is the last piece of the jigsaw, but is my jigsaw already complete? I now think it is. Although the option is open to make my puzzle bigger in the future.
Being single gives you time to be yourself, with yourself and answer those questions bouncing around your mind in the safety of your own four walls. No pressure. When something so fast happens, it takes time to process it. I have always been impatient, wanting things to happen faster, wanting me to be better, but now I appreciate I need to give this proper time. Even if it takes a year, five years or ten. I need to give myself a break. Not to look for that perfect life, but appreciate that I still have one. To see a rainbow, one has to pass a storm.
Time that would be spent on another half, is now being spent on me and my goals. I'm writing a book, that sometimes speeds ahead at roaring pace or slows to a grinding halt. I'm constantly writing poems. With a whole adult life of chaos to draw from, I feel my writing has real potential. I can eat when I want, sleep when I want and do what I want without wondering if I'm being a good boyfriend and giving enough of my time to someone else. From today, I am going to start using that freedom to the full. I can have flexible scheduling, have a relaxed attitude to shaving and quite frankly, who cares if the dishes are sitting there in the sink? I'll do it another day.
I don't have to impress anyone, I don't have to make sacrifices and compromises to appease someone else and I can have that one more biscuit. I'm 24. I am still young. I am still alive. I can continue to be selfish with my lifestyle and my space without feeling guilty about it. I shouldn't be tied down to something or someone that doesn't make me happy. Or even worse, a situation that makes me feel anxious. I should go where I want, when I want and do what I want.
And right now, all I want is to be single. And that shouldn't be frowned upon.
I did have a boyfriend once, and we were happy. He moved away and we had our difficult moments, but what relationship doesn't have their challenges? I loved him and he loved me. But then he died. One moment of madness, where time stood still, and that was it. He was gone.
I will never get over the day I found out, but you have to move on at some point. I don't have to forget the great times we spent together, but ever since that horrible day, I have put myself under immense pressure to find that spark again. I miss it, so very much. At the same time though, I feel anxious about starting again. Not only do I feel the normal anxieties around dating, (maybe exacerbated by past health issues), but I also feel guilty about dating again so soon. It's very easy to look from outside in and comment that I can move on and to go for it. The phrase, "easier said than done" has never meant so much as it has now.
I've been on a couple of dates recently. None of them amounted to very much, and it's very easy to see why. I am not ready. All through what were pleasant enough evenings, I was thinking, "I shouldn't be here." The most silent of society's taboos, that everyone should always be looking for The One. It's only very, very recently that I have realised that I don't need to be.
Being alone has it's perks. It sounds depressing and many think that I only need a cat to complete the image of loneliness, but I know I'm not lonely. I have many friends and a loving family. A lot of people out there however are paramount that you cannot be truly happy alone. I want to dispel that myth.
It's only after you have lost everything when you can appreciate what you have. There was a time when I was in hospital, having lost my job, my flat, my love and friends. I can't really explain the mind set I was in as it's extremely difficult to return to that state, even for memories sake. However, since I have started to rebuild my life, I have begun to explore the dating game again. It is the last piece of the jigsaw, but is my jigsaw already complete? I now think it is. Although the option is open to make my puzzle bigger in the future.
Being single gives you time to be yourself, with yourself and answer those questions bouncing around your mind in the safety of your own four walls. No pressure. When something so fast happens, it takes time to process it. I have always been impatient, wanting things to happen faster, wanting me to be better, but now I appreciate I need to give this proper time. Even if it takes a year, five years or ten. I need to give myself a break. Not to look for that perfect life, but appreciate that I still have one. To see a rainbow, one has to pass a storm.
Time that would be spent on another half, is now being spent on me and my goals. I'm writing a book, that sometimes speeds ahead at roaring pace or slows to a grinding halt. I'm constantly writing poems. With a whole adult life of chaos to draw from, I feel my writing has real potential. I can eat when I want, sleep when I want and do what I want without wondering if I'm being a good boyfriend and giving enough of my time to someone else. From today, I am going to start using that freedom to the full. I can have flexible scheduling, have a relaxed attitude to shaving and quite frankly, who cares if the dishes are sitting there in the sink? I'll do it another day.
I don't have to impress anyone, I don't have to make sacrifices and compromises to appease someone else and I can have that one more biscuit. I'm 24. I am still young. I am still alive. I can continue to be selfish with my lifestyle and my space without feeling guilty about it. I shouldn't be tied down to something or someone that doesn't make me happy. Or even worse, a situation that makes me feel anxious. I should go where I want, when I want and do what I want.
And right now, all I want is to be single. And that shouldn't be frowned upon.
Sunday 10 May 2015
General Election : The Fallout
Thursday night leading into Friday morning were possibly the most unpredictable 12 hours of a political generation. For months, the polls predicted a dead heat. For months, Cameron & Miliband could not be separated. For months, we were all thinking of coalitions and hung parliaments.
We were wrong.
Either the electorate decided very, very, very late or the polls were just plain wrong, but the Conservatives won the election with a slim majority, 99 seats ahead of Labour. David Cameron has five more years as the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom and Ed Miliband is toast. As are Clegg and Farage. More on them later...
This election was fought on jobs, the NHS and the economy (stupid). Cameron pointed to a strong economic recovery as the basis of his campaign, while Miliband chose to focus on the NHS. While the Tories can claim their austerity has helped a recovery, Labour could not politicise our National Health Service enough to convince the voters.
Politics is not the main reason for the NHS running on empty. It is the population, who use A&E for the sniffles and ward beds as hotel rooms. Human beings overreact based on Google searches and it is this lack of patience and education that is leading to "missed targets". Sure, Jeremy Hunt may be looking to privatise some parts, and that isn't cool, but unless the people start taking care of our greatest asset, it won't matter if we pump the promised £8bn in.
It still won't be enough.
I don't begrudge the Conservatives a victory. I don't agree with their reported £12bn worth of welfare cuts and their 'bedroom tax' is the stuff of nightmares. However, protesting on the streets against the result of a democratic election is plain nonsense, and that is what is happening right now in London.
So, what about the sub plots? The Liberal Democrats are almost no more when their expected wipeout became a reality. Vince Cable, Danny Alexander, Simon Hughes et al are all queuing at the job centre. (Ex) Leader Nick Clegg remains but his resignation as head of the party leaves him consigned to the back benches. The UKIP "political earthquake" resulted in a single seat, with Douglas Carswell retaining Clacton, whilst (ex) leader, Nigel Farage lost in South Thanet.
Other high profile casualties included Ed Balls and Douglas Alexander, who was beaten by a 20-year old SNP candidate by the name of Mhairi Black. Miss Black tweeted five years ago that, "Maths was shite", ruling her out of any potential job at the Treasury. The SNP steamrolled Scotland, claiming a huge 56 seats and the Greens held on to their 1 seat in Brighton Pavilion, where Caroline Lucas will attempt not to be dragged away by police.
Boris Johnson is now an MP although any potential cabinet position must surely wait until his time as Mayor of London is over. George Galloway was resplendent in defeat as ever as he lost his seat in Bradford and what's that? Oh, the Lib Dems have lost another marginal...
But the main shock of this election was the Tory majority. While the voting system is horrendously outdated*, the main reason behind using it is to create solid governments. We do now have that, but at what cost? Only time will tell...
* The First Past the Post voting system meant that the SNP got 1.5m votes resulting in 56 seats in Parliament. UKIP got 3.5m votes resulting in 1 seat.
I'm no UKIP fan but... That's not democracy.
Monday 9 February 2015
My Troubles With Alcohol
Continuing on with the series of deep blogs and vlogs I've been creating recently, this one is possibly the most difficult to talk about. Contributing to my mental health issues, education, careers, family, friendships and probably physical health. I am writing this, along with other pieces, to clear my conscience and start again. This is my fight against the drink.
I want to make it clear from the outset, I am not and never have been that stereotypical alcoholic. I never reached a stage where I'd wake up in the morning and need vodka for breakfast. I never went through a day needing to take a sneaky gulp from a hip flask without anyone noticing. I was never that TV soap alcoholic that drank all day every day. But I did have a problem.
My story begins three days before my 18th birthday. 17th May 2009 at Vesuvio's restaurant in a nice village called Sharnbrook was the scene of my first legal pint. More than that, it was my first ever pint. Even more than that, it was my first ever alcoholic drink. I am possibly one of the only people of my age to not have touched a drop of alcohol under the age of 18 (I'm sure you'll let me off 3 days!) Before that, the concept of being drunk was not one that interested me. The smell of lager was enough to put me off alcohol at all in all honesty. With that rooted deeply in the innermost workings of my brain, I genuinely believe that fact played a small part in what was to follow. I threw myself at the clubbing lifestyle when my body didn't know alcohol existed. Three days later, on my actual 18th birthday and coincedently slap bang in the middle of my A-Levels, my mates took me out for my first ever night on the town. I drank a lot, including the initiation shot of Wray and Nephews and proceeded to get absolutely wrecked. So much so, that I ended up arriving to the third day of a five-day IT exam the following morning still heavily intoxicated.
I was predicted a 'B' for that exam. I got an 'E'.
Three days later and I was on my first ever Saturday night out in Bedford town. I barely remember any of it, as it included me being banned from a fast food establishment for throwing up over the staff and ending in the back of an ambulance attached to a drip. My first week of drinking really should have been enough to put me off alcohol forever. It didn't.
I proceeded to screw up my exams to such a degree, (or not), that my predicted grades of BBB ended in DEE. Was I fussed? Honestly, I wasn't. My brain was already on a journey to hell and school exams were the last thing on my mind. My need to go out and party, to pull girls on a weekend, (I was still fighting that battle), and to get drunk and forget who I was was number one on the list. At that time, I used alcohol to escape my sexuality.
So, I'd left school. I was still going out three or four times a week and getting bladdered until the early hours, despite the new job. I would regularly turn up for work severely hungover. At the weekends, I would travel around the country visiting my friends at different universities. Manchester was a regular haunt of mine, although as I wasn't yet "out", Canal Street was off the radar. More about Manchester later...
I jumped from job to job, completely oblivious to the link between my excessive drinking and the medication I had started to take for depression. Citalopram, albeit a small dose, was completely cancelled out by vodka and JD. I know now that the link does exist, but my reluctance or stupidity in not allowing the medication to work led to deeper problems and the depression getting worse. It was getting to a stage where I was addicted to the party lifestyle. Playing up to the tag of 'Party Animal' that I had unsurprisingly received, leading to me being the joker in the pack and doing stupid things. My need to be popular amongst my peers, (as I feared they would soon hate me for being gay), was overriding and my priorities were completely out of sync. My job, (I was now working weekend night shifts in a petrol station - it didn't change my drinking habits) was just a necessity to fund the midweek jaunts into town for student nights and the occasional weekend blow-out in a different city around the country. I knew there was an issue with me - that I wasn't as happy as I should have been - but I put it down to the odd working pattern and ploughed on. The damage my drinking habits were doing barely crossed my mind.
I haven't mentioned my family yet. While I was out drinking with my friends, a completely normal thing for an 18/19 year old to be doing, I hardly even considered the effect on my parents. Rolling in at 6 in the morning, sometimes coming face-to-face with a very disgruntled father going to work, sometimes throwing up in the middle of the night due to over exertion and waking everyone up. For some people only throw up once or twice before they know their limits, I managed to get into my head that I could drink unlimited amounts. In my life, I must have thrown up about twenty times because of drinking too much. My mum has never been a drinker. She has a glass or two of fizz at Christmas and that's it. Her voice telling me to calm down still rings in my head to this day. If only I had listened to the old adage of 'your mother knows best'...
I carried on drinking. Occasionally spending over £100 on a single night as I tried to appease my friends, who were still none the wiser over my sexuality. I did eventually come out to them as bisexual, (I saw it as a stepping stone - but I want to stress it isn't usually and bisexuality does exist) and everyone carried on as usual. It was a confidence boost, but my drinking habits didn't change. The thought of coming out to my parents filled me with dread. I carried on in the same drinking vein, until I was out on another mega night in Manchester. I don't know what I was doing, but I thought it was a wise idea to down a pint of JD, vodka and coke. A third of each in one glass. From there, I remember nothing until I was once again lying in a hospital bed. It was 5am, with my friends sitting next to me, when I burst out crying and told Dan to text my Mum everything.
I came out to my parents and I didn't send the text telling them. That is one of my biggest regrets.
I didn't drink for a month after that. The longest time I had gone without any alcoholic drink since my first ever one, way back in that cosy restaurant. I think everyone presumed I'd stopped, but I hadn't. I started again in the Summer, wanting to be involved on those magical summer nights and went back to the same old routine. I thought the worst was behind me and I'd know when to stop. But things don't quite work out that way...
Over the next couple of years, I drank and drank and drank. I continued to do so, with the defence that I was only drinking at weekends, just like everyone else, so I'd be okay. In truth, everyone is unique and reacts to alcohol in different ways. It isn't for everyone. Some people can pack it away and be fine. Some, like me, could also pack it away, but without consciously knowing, each drink would nibble away at my sanity. I was 21 when I first attempted suicide. New Years Eve 2012, I found myself on the roof of the multi-storey car park next to the bus station. A shiver always goes down my spine every time I walk past it, remembering the scores of emergency services as my tears dropped on to them from above. I was very drunk. And very, very sad. I spent three days in Weller Wing. For those of you who aren't Bedfordians, Weller Wing is the mental health unit at Bedford Hospital.
Mum suggested I probably shouldn't drink anymore and she was definitely right. But I was 21 now, with history behind me and a new lease of life ahead. I didn't listen. I took another month off and it became the first of my Dry Januaries. On the first Friday of February though, I was back at it. Same old routine. "I'm old enough to know my limits now. I'll be fine." He said.
With each hangover came worse feelings of depression. Still, the connection between the two had not clicked. My need to feel included in friendships drowned the obvious truth. Alcohol was killing me. My depression got so bad that I pressed the 'Fuck it' button. I did things I just was not capable of before. I stole money. I went to London and spent £500 on a single night and did coke. I went to casinos and blew my wages, leading me to steal more money to pay the bills. I can't tell you how ashamed I am of those days. How I did not trigger what was happening to me, months before. Years before. I hope you don't think any less of me for knowing that, but I was out of control.
Alcohol is the explanation for everything. EVERYTHING. All that vodka and whiskey compressed my brain in such a way that I couldn't react properly to situations. Any sign of difficult times, my brain would shut down and severe thoughts took over. I lasted one week at university. I lasted one week on a trip of a lifetime in Australia. I lasted short amounts of time in jobs. Every single job I've ever had has ended because of the effects alcohol has had on my brain. My last stint in hospital, at The Priory in September of last year was the result of an ordinary nights drinking that led to a psychotic episode. I drank no more or less than usual, but that night, my brain went over the edge. It opened my eyes. The doctor showed me a scan of my brain and it was "dented" in numerous places. The usual circular(ish) shape of my brain looked more zig-zagged. Because of that, the nerves in my brain occasionally go mad, only made ten times worse by the depressant that is alcohol. I may well owe my sanity and my life to Dr. Gurusamy.
It sounds drastic. It sounds over the top and melodramatic, but that happened to me. People associate heavy drinking with the liver, but it affects the brain just as much, if not more. Alcohol and I do not go together. That is a fact. It's a fact for a lot of people. Ever since leaving hospital last year, I have fought against the urges that alcohol brings. I cannot tell you how much I miss the party lifestyle. I am the party animal that my friends labeled me with. I love to party. Very recently, I have given in a couple of times and have felt extremely guilty at taking the risk. Any night that includes alcohol has the risk to send my brain mad. It risks sending me literally insane and I cannot do it any more.
Reading this post again, I changed the first sentence of the second paragraph. I originally put, "I am not an alcoholic", but have changed it to "I am not your stereotypical alcoholic". Because I suppose, in a way, I was. I was an alcoholic. I was addicted. Not to the alcohol itself, but to the lifestyle.
You now know everything about me. I owe it to everyone around me to change and of course, I owe myself a chance at life. I owe myself a chance to be happy. Proper happy, not drunk happy. I've been given a second chance, a third chance and a fourth chance at life and I deserve no more. I've landed on my feet more times than the most daring of cats and I'm not sure I have another life left.
Which is why I want to make the most of this one.
I want to make it clear from the outset, I am not and never have been that stereotypical alcoholic. I never reached a stage where I'd wake up in the morning and need vodka for breakfast. I never went through a day needing to take a sneaky gulp from a hip flask without anyone noticing. I was never that TV soap alcoholic that drank all day every day. But I did have a problem.
My story begins three days before my 18th birthday. 17th May 2009 at Vesuvio's restaurant in a nice village called Sharnbrook was the scene of my first legal pint. More than that, it was my first ever pint. Even more than that, it was my first ever alcoholic drink. I am possibly one of the only people of my age to not have touched a drop of alcohol under the age of 18 (I'm sure you'll let me off 3 days!) Before that, the concept of being drunk was not one that interested me. The smell of lager was enough to put me off alcohol at all in all honesty. With that rooted deeply in the innermost workings of my brain, I genuinely believe that fact played a small part in what was to follow. I threw myself at the clubbing lifestyle when my body didn't know alcohol existed. Three days later, on my actual 18th birthday and coincedently slap bang in the middle of my A-Levels, my mates took me out for my first ever night on the town. I drank a lot, including the initiation shot of Wray and Nephews and proceeded to get absolutely wrecked. So much so, that I ended up arriving to the third day of a five-day IT exam the following morning still heavily intoxicated.
I was predicted a 'B' for that exam. I got an 'E'.
Three days later and I was on my first ever Saturday night out in Bedford town. I barely remember any of it, as it included me being banned from a fast food establishment for throwing up over the staff and ending in the back of an ambulance attached to a drip. My first week of drinking really should have been enough to put me off alcohol forever. It didn't.
I proceeded to screw up my exams to such a degree, (or not), that my predicted grades of BBB ended in DEE. Was I fussed? Honestly, I wasn't. My brain was already on a journey to hell and school exams were the last thing on my mind. My need to go out and party, to pull girls on a weekend, (I was still fighting that battle), and to get drunk and forget who I was was number one on the list. At that time, I used alcohol to escape my sexuality.
 |
| For those who know me at all, you'll know whiskey was my choice of drink. I even had my own personalised glass! |
I jumped from job to job, completely oblivious to the link between my excessive drinking and the medication I had started to take for depression. Citalopram, albeit a small dose, was completely cancelled out by vodka and JD. I know now that the link does exist, but my reluctance or stupidity in not allowing the medication to work led to deeper problems and the depression getting worse. It was getting to a stage where I was addicted to the party lifestyle. Playing up to the tag of 'Party Animal' that I had unsurprisingly received, leading to me being the joker in the pack and doing stupid things. My need to be popular amongst my peers, (as I feared they would soon hate me for being gay), was overriding and my priorities were completely out of sync. My job, (I was now working weekend night shifts in a petrol station - it didn't change my drinking habits) was just a necessity to fund the midweek jaunts into town for student nights and the occasional weekend blow-out in a different city around the country. I knew there was an issue with me - that I wasn't as happy as I should have been - but I put it down to the odd working pattern and ploughed on. The damage my drinking habits were doing barely crossed my mind.
I haven't mentioned my family yet. While I was out drinking with my friends, a completely normal thing for an 18/19 year old to be doing, I hardly even considered the effect on my parents. Rolling in at 6 in the morning, sometimes coming face-to-face with a very disgruntled father going to work, sometimes throwing up in the middle of the night due to over exertion and waking everyone up. For some people only throw up once or twice before they know their limits, I managed to get into my head that I could drink unlimited amounts. In my life, I must have thrown up about twenty times because of drinking too much. My mum has never been a drinker. She has a glass or two of fizz at Christmas and that's it. Her voice telling me to calm down still rings in my head to this day. If only I had listened to the old adage of 'your mother knows best'...
I carried on drinking. Occasionally spending over £100 on a single night as I tried to appease my friends, who were still none the wiser over my sexuality. I did eventually come out to them as bisexual, (I saw it as a stepping stone - but I want to stress it isn't usually and bisexuality does exist) and everyone carried on as usual. It was a confidence boost, but my drinking habits didn't change. The thought of coming out to my parents filled me with dread. I carried on in the same drinking vein, until I was out on another mega night in Manchester. I don't know what I was doing, but I thought it was a wise idea to down a pint of JD, vodka and coke. A third of each in one glass. From there, I remember nothing until I was once again lying in a hospital bed. It was 5am, with my friends sitting next to me, when I burst out crying and told Dan to text my Mum everything.
I came out to my parents and I didn't send the text telling them. That is one of my biggest regrets.
I didn't drink for a month after that. The longest time I had gone without any alcoholic drink since my first ever one, way back in that cosy restaurant. I think everyone presumed I'd stopped, but I hadn't. I started again in the Summer, wanting to be involved on those magical summer nights and went back to the same old routine. I thought the worst was behind me and I'd know when to stop. But things don't quite work out that way...
Over the next couple of years, I drank and drank and drank. I continued to do so, with the defence that I was only drinking at weekends, just like everyone else, so I'd be okay. In truth, everyone is unique and reacts to alcohol in different ways. It isn't for everyone. Some people can pack it away and be fine. Some, like me, could also pack it away, but without consciously knowing, each drink would nibble away at my sanity. I was 21 when I first attempted suicide. New Years Eve 2012, I found myself on the roof of the multi-storey car park next to the bus station. A shiver always goes down my spine every time I walk past it, remembering the scores of emergency services as my tears dropped on to them from above. I was very drunk. And very, very sad. I spent three days in Weller Wing. For those of you who aren't Bedfordians, Weller Wing is the mental health unit at Bedford Hospital.
Mum suggested I probably shouldn't drink anymore and she was definitely right. But I was 21 now, with history behind me and a new lease of life ahead. I didn't listen. I took another month off and it became the first of my Dry Januaries. On the first Friday of February though, I was back at it. Same old routine. "I'm old enough to know my limits now. I'll be fine." He said.
With each hangover came worse feelings of depression. Still, the connection between the two had not clicked. My need to feel included in friendships drowned the obvious truth. Alcohol was killing me. My depression got so bad that I pressed the 'Fuck it' button. I did things I just was not capable of before. I stole money. I went to London and spent £500 on a single night and did coke. I went to casinos and blew my wages, leading me to steal more money to pay the bills. I can't tell you how ashamed I am of those days. How I did not trigger what was happening to me, months before. Years before. I hope you don't think any less of me for knowing that, but I was out of control.
Alcohol is the explanation for everything. EVERYTHING. All that vodka and whiskey compressed my brain in such a way that I couldn't react properly to situations. Any sign of difficult times, my brain would shut down and severe thoughts took over. I lasted one week at university. I lasted one week on a trip of a lifetime in Australia. I lasted short amounts of time in jobs. Every single job I've ever had has ended because of the effects alcohol has had on my brain. My last stint in hospital, at The Priory in September of last year was the result of an ordinary nights drinking that led to a psychotic episode. I drank no more or less than usual, but that night, my brain went over the edge. It opened my eyes. The doctor showed me a scan of my brain and it was "dented" in numerous places. The usual circular(ish) shape of my brain looked more zig-zagged. Because of that, the nerves in my brain occasionally go mad, only made ten times worse by the depressant that is alcohol. I may well owe my sanity and my life to Dr. Gurusamy.
It sounds drastic. It sounds over the top and melodramatic, but that happened to me. People associate heavy drinking with the liver, but it affects the brain just as much, if not more. Alcohol and I do not go together. That is a fact. It's a fact for a lot of people. Ever since leaving hospital last year, I have fought against the urges that alcohol brings. I cannot tell you how much I miss the party lifestyle. I am the party animal that my friends labeled me with. I love to party. Very recently, I have given in a couple of times and have felt extremely guilty at taking the risk. Any night that includes alcohol has the risk to send my brain mad. It risks sending me literally insane and I cannot do it any more.
Reading this post again, I changed the first sentence of the second paragraph. I originally put, "I am not an alcoholic", but have changed it to "I am not your stereotypical alcoholic". Because I suppose, in a way, I was. I was an alcoholic. I was addicted. Not to the alcohol itself, but to the lifestyle.
You now know everything about me. I owe it to everyone around me to change and of course, I owe myself a chance at life. I owe myself a chance to be happy. Proper happy, not drunk happy. I've been given a second chance, a third chance and a fourth chance at life and I deserve no more. I've landed on my feet more times than the most daring of cats and I'm not sure I have another life left.
Which is why I want to make the most of this one.
Sunday 4 January 2015
Autobiographies
As a writer myself, I have always been fascinated with the written word. The feelings that language can evoke are feelings beaten only by the tingle of excitement as a ten year old at Christmas. In my time, I have read many books. I have read the fourth edition of the Harry Potter series a full 13 times. Quickly followed by the fifth edition, that was only read a measly 8 times. I think I only read the sixth instalment twice, but I do believe it is over 700 pages. Oh, I do love you J.K.
However, although fictional stories can be full of magic and wonder, pure love and sadness, there are fewer ways of entertaining a cold, dreary January day with a brutally honest autobiography. From the simple days of clowning around with Peter Kay to the resonation of the darkness of Marcus Trescothick. From Tony Blair's journey from the streets of Sedgefield to Number 10 all the way to the self-indulgance of his Royal Highness, Sir Kevin Pietersen. From drowning on pedalos with Andrew Flintoff to growing to be the only openly gay footballer with Robbie Rogers. So many sincere and brilliant accounts of lives, (maybe "sincere" isn't the best word to describe Pietersen's!), the autobiography reminds us that everyone started somewhere. Peter Kay went from packing loo rolls to being one of the most recognisable comedians. Just one example.
As well as this, the autobiography feeds the human need to be a little bit nosey. Not so nosey as to appear rude, but nosey enough to keep in the loop. At the moment, I am engrossed in the third part of Stephen Fry's memoirs, where I have learnt that he was jailed for credit card fraud and an avid cocaine user for 15 years.
There's hope for me yet.
Talking of which, I do wonder if I will ever be in such a position to write my own autobiography? Will I ever be well-known enough to write my own memoirs, eventually seeing my face in the discount bins of pound stores all over the country? Maybe, at a stretch, I could be found next to the '19' sign in WH Smiths behind 'The Life and Times of Alan Pardew' and 'Nigel Farage : Where Did it all go Wrong?' in the bestsellers list...
On New Years Day, I began my own private journal. Those thoughts not allowed on to the far reaches of Tim Berners-Lee's invention. Maybe one day, the words that lay in my brown leather diary will be used to entertain a budding young writer, unable to step outside due to the melting ice caps, on a dark and dank January night.
Or maybe I'm getting carried away... Maybe I took some of the arrogance of ... Kevin Bloody Pietersen...
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