The Southern Years

If you read yesterdays blog, you may already have an opinion in mind. Maybe you think I'm lazy, maybe everything I've done is my own fault. If you think that's the case, please keep reading and hopefully you'll learn a thing or two. I don't want you to feel sorry for me, not even a little bit. What I want is to highlight the issues people with mental health problems suffer, no matter how trivial they may seem to you. Perhaps reading my blog will point to a friend, or a member of your family who has shown similar symptoms recently.

That's precisely what I want. If I can help just a single person, then I could have changed a life, possibly even saved a life. The death of Gary Speed yesterday kick started me into this. I started a blog here about 16 months ago, when I thought I may have cancer of the Tsurav Gangulys (more on that later). Sadly, someone who I thought was a very good friend, someone I thought actually loved me as a friend, accused me of only writing it to get attention. Her words were “pity party”. Needless to say, I haven't spoken to her since that moment and have no intention of ever doing so again.

But shall we get back to where I left off yesterday?

When my older brother was 16, he couldn't wait to escape the clutches of my “strict” father. He wanted his own place, he wanted independence. But like most 16 year olds, he didn't actually realise just how easy he had it. There was always plenty of food and drink in the house, he did damn well for birthdays and Xmas, but mostly, he had two parents who gave a damn about him. It was quite ironic really, as when I was 11, Dad had offered us both the choice to stay where we were or move down to Northampton with him. My brother saw dollar signs. Mum lived on benefits, shopped at Wynsors and Kwik Save and saved hard to give us £20 for our birthdays. Dad had a car, a lot more money, a nicer house, all of it. He thought he was made, he thought he'd get everything he wanted. He was wrong. I stayed with the mother, thankful for what I did get, instead of wanting more.

Independence was forced on me at 16 years old. I moved in with the brother, who had a cracking two bedroomed flat above a car garage in a lovely little village just outside Northampton. He didn't know anyone in the village, but had been living there for quite a while at that stage. Within 6 weeks, I had a large spattering of friends. Being different attracts friendships, and relationships. I was a Northerner in a Southern village. I was in my prime. Working was an issue though. I did a bit on the phones, giving people free dog food, then I worked in a warehouse in the village. It all unravelled on my 17^th birthday though. I lost my job and my party, although really quite fun, ended up in a trashed flat and me walking out of the flat with my bags before I was pushed out.

I ended up sleeping in a wendy house in the village school that night. Those who know me quite well will know about my insomnia issues. So to get a decent nights kip, in a wooden box, with no covers, was one hell of a feat for me.

The insomnia started around the same time as my story started, when I was 11. The Mother would go to bed and I'd sneak downstairs and watch TV on the sofa until the wee small hours. If you're ever offered help for insomnia, take it, take it quick and take it hard. You never get used to it. It's frustrating and saps your energy, both physically and mentally. Now imagine having that 17 years, without a break. No wonder I'm in the situation I am. It's a wonder I'm still alive.

After leaving the flat, I went to live with the old man. A few weeks later, I was working for him down in Wycombe. That meant commuting. Getting up at 5am, leave the house half an hour later so we were at work before 7. After the first month or so, I was basically given a contract to run....at 17 years old. I even had my own warehouse, just up the road. The entire manual system was thought up and carried out by me. I was working 7 days a week, 15 hours a day. Oh I had lots of money, but no time to spend it. At one point, I worked for 30 days straight without a day off. Somewhere within that, I had a very bad cold for a week. One morning I was particularly bad, I was allowed to take off half a day. That meant going back to the hotel we were staying in at the time. 5 hours later I was sat in a plush Marlow restaurant with American business clients, trying to impress them and help get their custom.

So you can picture the scene now and how much pressure and stress I was under. Staying in another hotel a few weeks later while Dad was away on a business trip to Germany, I awoke to find I couldn't move, literally. My muscles just weren't wanting to come out and play. I'd reached my cliff and fallen off the edge. I quickly informed my gaffer that I wouldn't be in and explained why. He then rang my Dad in Germany, who was his boss and told him I was sacked. You can imagine what that did for my motivation and confidence. I never really recovered from that.

The reason I'd been able to keep on going was because I didn't have time to think. When that came to an end, my mind started working overtime and I went downhill very quickly.

At one point I ended up living on the streets of Wellingborough. A guards hut in a park, a country park and countless mattresses and sofas aswell. I was in a right mess. All day I'd be sat in the bar of the Hind Hotel in the town centre, playing pool, watching the TV, drinking. I eventually moved into a house that was shared by 9 people, 10 with me. After the first week, I started a relationship with the woman who actually lived there. She had 3 kids, all of which loved me and all of which I loved. At this point I was still wanting the family life, still wanting kids. After less than 3 weeks, the 2 eldest girls had asked their real Dad if they could call me Dad. I loved that, I really did. It was less than a week before she ended it. Accused me of cheating on her with my best friend. My best friend being a fully fledged lesbian.

I moved back to Dad's shortly after that, with a short term stay back in Warrington, then moving back in with my brother in a new flat in Northampton. I started working for Dad again at his new job in Milton Keynes. It was basically setting up a logistics company, then helping run the warehouse. Well I set up the warehouse alright, from the racking, to the fork lift trucks to even the system used for the locations within the racking. I started pushing for a permanent contract. The bosses weren't so keen and my motivation started slipping again.

I came up to Warrington for a weekend and stayed with a friend. This friend had given a girl in Warrington my number and we had been talking quite a bit. We spent that weekend pretty much inseparable and just before I was due to get my train home to Northampton, I decided to stay, so I could be with her. I was smitten. Basically that was my cue to quit my job. I had figured out by then that the company had basically used me to get the place set up and train their staff and they were going to turf me out once I had done that. This was proven when a few weeks later, they had turfed Dad out too. It wasn't fair on him. He was a good worker, a good leader and most of all, was a good man.

My relationship with the girl ended after my housemate (the one who had introduced us) told her I was cheating on her over the phone. Bloody daft or what. I'd been drowning my sorrows and after a fit, spent a nice in hospital aswell. A very good friend of mine, a young lass, only 16, had attempted suicide that same weekend, so I was a bit of a mess all over. Luckily, in a moment of wisdom, I told her that I'd called an ambulance to her house. I hadn't of course, but she then had to tell her parents what she had done. She thanked me for it afterwards. Her parents were more concerned about the non-existent ambulance though. No wonder she'd suffered from depression.

After the fit, I had been ordered to have a CT scan on my brain. Here's me, thinking it might be anything from a brain tumour to epilepsy, it wasn't fun. The mother came with me to the scan, I was hoping for a bit of emotional support. I didn't get it. After the scan, walking to the bus stop she said, and I quote; “So how are you going to pay your phone bill?” 3 days later I was back living with Dad.

Relationships were plentiful in the five years I was in Northampton. The sexual conquests even more. I'm not boasting there, I'm not even proud. I wish I could pick 4 or 5 of the girls and wipe the rest from memory. Some were ok, some were terrible, most were short lived. One was my first true love, one included a massive argument in a dining room and the threat of me slicing my own wrists with a carving knife. One told me she had a brain tumour, when in fact, she was just cheating on me. One was with a lass whose name I didn't know, so I called her Dave (not to her face of course) and it still lasted 6 weeks. She didn't speak any English, so 6 weeks is quite a feat. I always “fell in love” far too quickly. I wanted the marriage and the kids. Ironically, this got me laid more often than not, yet my brother, who wanted the sex, barely got any. He admitted his jealousy of my high sex count during one conversation. I'd have happily swapped with him at the time.

People have always called me a charmer. I always take that as an insult, as though they're saying I'm talking my way into women's beds on purpose. That wasn't the case, not for me anyway. Most of the time, I was more into the relationship than they were, which ended up in a lot of hurt for me when it went wrong.

One relationship I went into, I will never regret. It lasted just 3 weeks, but it ended, eventually in having a family and support network of people who actually cared. This woman is now my sister, her sister is my little sister, her mum is my mum (which may answer the question, why have I been referring to my mother as mother and not mum). I'll be doing an entire blog later on this family and just what they mean to me.

I never went back to get my results from the CT scan. The fear was too great. Looking back, the whole thing was almost certainly caused by mental health issues. Mixed with alcohol, I'd have said a panic attack was the most likely cause. I've not had anything since.

Things actually got slightly better for a while. I found a night shift job back in Northampton and the team I was working for was great. The supervisors didn't care too much, aslong as the job got done. I'd wag the odd day. They made it easy. All we had to do is leave a message on an answer phone telling them we weren't going in. But when I did go in, it was enjoyable and the hours suited me nicely. There was some great comic relief from that job. There was the 7am walk through the drive thru of McDonalds, pretending we were in a car (windows, radio and everything). There was being drunk at 7am on the Saturday morning after the Friday night shift (this was before the 24 hour drinking days). There was a pool club in town that would serve us alcohol in the morning. Lot's of fun.

I spent that Xmas up here in Warrington getting well and truly plastered with the likes of Franko and Tom Mather. It was at that time I earned the nickname Cockney. That was given to me by Franko, who some of you may know. I got so drunk on boxing day, I embarrassed myself in front of Kerry Katona, trying to bribe her to go to the rugby and I didn't find out about the 2004 tsunami until 2 days later once the alcohol had started to clear. Now the mother had told me when I walked (fell) in that night, but it had gone in seconds, as had I.

Back to Northampton I went though, I remember the journey as it had taken 18 hours from door to door, instead of the normal 3. This was caused by very low temperatures, snow and 2 broken down trains.

While in Kettering one afternoon with a friend, I was getting a little bit tipsy and was charming the pants of a girl that I fancied. She actually kissed me on the bus. I was well happy. It turned sour though and I was thoroughly dejected. I had really liked her and it was the final straw, I thought I had hit rock bottom. After the great time I had had in Warrington, I wanted to come back home.

What a mistake that was