Hello. I am currently writing a book about my life experiences and this below is part of it. It still is nowhere near completion and some parts have not been completed yet due to me trying to order my thoughts and recollect memories. I have no idea where my book is going, or when I will finish it. I wanted to share it with the world, to pass on inspiration to anyone struggling with demons. i believe our life experiences make us into the people we are today and the people we will be tomorrow.
I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have writing it.
Much love as always.
Paul x
I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have writing it.
Much love as always.
Paul x
Coming from a broken home is tough. The arguments. The trying to fit in. The problematic of having a new man in the house, who was to be my new 'dad'
At around the age of 13, sick and tired of living at home, facing the onslaught I and other teenagers like me - we used to meet up in town most Friday and Saturday nights in town -in the town gardens. We used to drink and smoke, waiting outside Lidl in town for a passerby who would kindly buy us three bottles of cheap cider.
Our social group consisted of around 50-60 people, who were mainly into Punk music, ska and metal. Back in the day, (you probably wouldn't believe) I used to wear my Marilyn Manson Hoody, with tears up the sleeves, painting my fingernails black. Sick and tired of the bullshit that was going in in my home, finding these people were a new lease of life for me, my new so called family.
We smoked and drank each and every weekend. Each weekend would never be the same. Dog poo bins would be set alight, We jumped off flyovers onto trees, and even once one of my 'friends' at the time; was dared to eat a bit of pigeon that was dead on the floor. Bets were placed, which he was offered X amount of cigarettes. He did. He gobbled it up.
Looking back on these days, they were great times. Everyone knew each other, and in a strange way, we looked after each other. People were sleeping with other people, and then the next week they would split up and then someone else would hook up. These times went on for about two years.
We were known as the Goths/skaters. The outsiders. We liked it that way, Well at least I can say I did. We were the rebellious youth, and we didn't give a fuck. WE screamed we shouted we did what we wanted. On many occasions, the 'chavs' or 'townies' used to come down and ongoing street chases and battles occured. sometimes knives were pulled out, sticks and on one occasion a sniper rifle BB gun.
Once in the town centre, I saw some townies picking on one of my friends at the time and decided to say 'leave him alone- he's done nothing wrong!' And I mean these street fights never had a purpose to them. They just happened. Sometimes it got really nasty. After saying this to the guy, I was then jumped and got punched in the face with a special type of ring which cuts you at the same time. I still have the scar on my face, from that.
But like I said, times were good. Still at school but spending a lot of time in 'the unit' (which basically was a isolation room) for all the people the mainstream school couldn't deal with. We were allowed to do what we wanted, as long as we didn't 'kick off' or throw anything. We even had access to the Internet, which a lot of the other parts of my school didn't have at the time.
A lot of my time at school was spent hanging around outside my head of years office Mr Reed. He died a few years ago, from cancer. He was a legend. He was from the generation of the old school teachers, who people naturally respected as he entered any room. My job standing outside Reedy's office was to make him a coffee whenever he needed one. This was supposed to be my punishment for getting kicked out of IT for throwing an orange at the board, or questioning my history teacher on 'hiow do you know that the textbook is telling the truth?'' ( I did worst things than this though, which I regret now of course)
After leaving school, I ended up working at a bowling alley, which was just up the road from my mums house. I smoked weed throughout my school 'career' and continued to do so to get me through working at Bowlplex. I had quite a few friends, and couldn't wait until I was 18 so that I could go out clubbing with the rest of the bowlplex staff. My job was doing the kids parties and cleaning, and during my last year working there, I was the 'Grill Bitch', cooking food, serving the league bowlers teas and coffees etc. It wasn't a bad job, however; it was mind numbing really.
After getting sacked from this job I found another quite quickly, working in a pub not so far from the bowling centre. I was the kitchen porter in which It was my job to keep the illusion running of a nice, clean, tidy restaurant. It was Me VS the waiters and the waitresses, they brought in dirty plates and I had to get rid of them. That was the game.
After this job and still smoking a lot of ganja, I drifted from one job to the next working in hotels, kitchens, shops.
I had moved out of my mums house at around the age of 16, seeking my Independence and also due to the fact that My mum and I have very different opinions on a range of things, as many teenagers and there parents do. I had my own flat, Which comprised of a bed, a desk and a small bathroom. It was great, my friends and I did what we wanted and smoke we did, endlessly staying up playing the PlayStation listening to Cypress Hill and others and then ordering the essential takeaway. This part of life went on for around a year, and I was still managing to hold down a job. I was working at a chain hotel (which I wont name) which was really tough. Long hours and bad pay, to boot. At his point I was smoking more than ever, just to get me through the long arduous days Which meant I started the day walking to work in the dark, And finishing when it was dark again.
To make this situation worse, The kitchen that we worked in was underground, So we saw very little daylight. Cigarette breaks were a godsend allowing a brief glimpse of the passing traffic.
After working here for about 4 months the heavy workload and the abusive chefs led me to the point of madness. There was me with so many dreams and aspirations, stood washing up and picking off the pieces of meat from guests plates. Once we had cleared breakfast, the lunch quickly came upon us. Our only saving grace was the fact that we could talk to each other and talk about how our lives could and would change.
I left this Hotel, on my own accord. I had had enough of the abuse and felt OK just to leave. Happiness was much more important for then Money or paying my rent to the dodgy guys back in the place I was living. I was dealing enough to support myself, pay the rent and get a smoke for myself and my friends.
I lived this way for a few months and ended up getting a 'lay-on' in which we ended up smoking half of - in a weekend. And then I couldn't pay back. Luckily, My 'friend' and I were on good terms and he gave me time to pay back. After two weeks of not paying him back, I was succumbed to selling my possessions. So off went the PlayStation the Cd's, anything and everything. The flat was stripped of all things which kept me sane. Stupidly being in a stoned daze, I ended up getting another 'lay-on' which AGAIN, I stupidly smoked and could pay back. I was right on the edge now. I was still doing agency work form time to time, but nothing that kept a constant flow of money coming in. I had a debt to pay, but nothing to sell and no possessions to shift. This was the end.
The block of flats was basically a crack den. It was full of drugs, prostitution and sometimes even violence. In my current state of mind, this situation only led to more and more paranoia. With no possessions to sell no weed to sell and with rent to pay, I truly now was on shit street. My mum didn't live far from where I was living and was often helping pay the rent, even getting herself into debt to support me. She brought fruit and vegetables around for me, as I was not eating properly, sometimes not eating at all for days.
I cannot explain enough the feeling of going to bed hungry. Its painful. Every time you try to drift off to sleep the images of food appeared in my mind. Times were tough. The 'boys' that ran the hotel/block of flats gave me a week to find the money for the rent, which at this point was around £400 and I had no way of getting any money. I was extremely anxious and paranoid and found it hard to look anyone in the eyes. Once I even stayed in my flat for around 6 days, because the people who had moved into the room next to mine used to let their German Alsatian just wander the corridors. Once when I went to leave the flat to go and buy my weekly tobacco, weed and pot noodles, the dog just ran at me and I quickly slammed the door shut and stood with my back to the door. I started to cry and felt trapped in a life, in which had very little control of. My mind was slipping away from me and I was losing my faith.
then, a few days later, I returned home slid my key into the lock and found that the key would not turn. I went down to the reception area to ask what was the problem.
''Why won't my door unlock?'' ''what room are you?'' barked the woman. ''301'' I answered. ''Well you haven't paid the rent in three weeks according to the book...''
''Yeah I know but...'' I had no answers. No escape. Nowhere to turn.
''Your stuff has been taken out of the room and bagged up'' Oh right OK, not so bad I thought. ''OK, well I need to get a few things if that's OK?'' 'No it isn't. Until you pay rent, you are not getting your stuff back.
So there was me. Nowhere to live, no money, nowhere to go and no clothes or possessions. My life had spiralled out of control. Where should I go? So that night, I wandered the streets bumping into people I knew. I felt free. No possessions, just me and the world. This feeling quickly subsided after a few days of couch surfing at various peoples houses. One night I stayed at a friends house (name omitted) who had been diagnosed with schizophrenia.
Don't get me wrong he was a really nice guy, but sometimes, he would flip. I was really on edge generally speaking anyway, and tired from walking. I settled down for the night on his bedroom floor after drinking cheap cider and listening to old school jungle and drum and bass. Then just as I was about to fall asleep He jumped off his bed and wrapped his duvet sheet around me. The duvet sheet was tight around my neck and I couldn't breathe. I panicked and thought he was going to kill me. His friend who lived down the corridor was also in the flat, and was sat by the window smoking. ''LEAVE him alone!'' he screamed, ''he's just a lad'' trying to calm him down. ''leave him alone your going to kill him..!''
He didn't get off straight away, and after around 30 secs of being choked he got off my back and jumped back into bed.
That night I didn't sleep at all, I kept one eye open looking upon on his sleeping body. I was scared he may try something again. The following morning, I asked him why he did that, and said: ''Why did you try to kill me?''
He denied it at first and did not believe he had done it. Then after explaining how scared I was, his memory seemed to recollect the event of the previous night. He apologised, but I knew it was time to move on again. For a while I slept on the beach, often waking up half soaked by the seashore. I had recently acquired by tent from my mums house and slept three or four nights next to a small stream. I was happy again feeling a little safer. My mind was playing tricks on me though and I started to become slightly religious.
I needed saving and the person I needed saving from- was myself. I often went up to tescos and simply walked in picked up a disposable BBQ a pack of sausages and whatever else I fancied, and walked out without paying. I did this for a few days, until I was so paranoid going in there - I was sure the security guard knew. I was also convinced that the security guard knew of my situation and had been ordered to allow me to steal so that I could sustain myself. The first time ~ I was homeless for around 4 months. The second time not so long, around 2 months.
I was going down and down, deeper and deeper, spiralling out of control and losing sense of myself and my mind.
I was scared and I did not feel very well.
At this point, I find it hard recollect just what happened to me. At one point I was living in a bed a breakfast the next I was going to a mental health day centre - Monday to Friday. I still didn't like looking people in the eye and was told that I had to participate in the meetings. ''I wasn't mad!'' I adamantly reminded my self. I was just desperate. The world was the mad one, not me!
I sat in the day centre for a whole week, in a corridor on a small, rickety yet comfortable chair. Head looking down, looking at passersby shoes. After being in this state of delirium and anxiety for a week, I was called into a doctors office to do a 'routine assessment' I was told. As I entered the room, I sat down nervously, and for the first time in months, someone sat there listening to me. ''Whats wrong?'' she asked.
Fighting back tears, I said: ''I am lost. I don't know WHO I am or what I'm doing here.'' She listened to everything I had to say, and then made a phone call and sent me back out again. I returned to my rickety chair and looked down at the ground..
Thoughts raced around my brain. What have I done? what have I said? I shouldn't have been honest with her! what will happen now? I pondered. a few hours later, an ambulance came to pick me up from the day centre and took me to 'St Ann's hospital'
I was still smoking weed at this point, but no longer could sustain my habit. I would have smoked more to ease the pain, but I relied on others generosity for a smoke.
The first night I was on 'alumhurst ward' Which was a mixed ward. I was shown around briefly by a nurse, and then taken to a dorm and shown to my bed. I had been given two pills to take, and sat down on the bed with a feeling of nervousness surrounding me. I got up pulled my curtain cross and sat back down..
Shit. Here I am. I have declared myself as 'mad' there is no going back now. I had an evening meal and then was offered crackers with butter and marmite to take to bed with me, I hid under the covers scoffing my face with the crackers so voraciously hungry that most of the crackers fell out of my mouth. I hadn't had a smoke this day and was feeling the itch for a smoke, just to take the edge of a little.
Then I heard the curtain pull back and I shot up out of bed. ''Hello'' the guy said. ''New here?'' ''Yeah'' I answered nervously. What did he want? then he walked towards me and a bolt of paranoia shocked my brain. He then lifted his hand and opened his palm to reveal three Small bits of hash. ''You smoke?'' ''Yes'' I answered. he gave me the three small grains of hash and offered me the advice that if I was to smoke on the ward, to
''use the toilet down the end of the corridor because they never check that one - but make sure you open the window''
I went to the toilet and made a small, 'one skin' smoke. I smoked it really quickly, for two reasons, mainly because I didn't want to get caught, secondly I hadn't had a smoke all day. I finished it chucked it down the toilet, and then shuffled down the corridor feeling a little more at ease with surroundings. This being said I also felt paranoid, and everyone on the corridor knew I had smoke, I was sure. They all looked at me with protruding eyes, all their eyes said, WE KNOW you have just had a smoke.
I got back to the dorm room and jumped into my bed.
The next thing it was morning. I went to see the nurses in the morning as I had been requested to the night before and they had to take some details from me ,weight height, etc.
At this point I was weighing in just under 6 stone. I had lost a lot of weight from not eating for so long and felt very weak. Then after breakfast, which was delicious, Jam on toast, weetabix and as much fruit as I could muster ( I stole loads and stashed it in my beside cabinet!)
I was so thankful, and had the first proper breakfast in about a year. Normally my breakfast consisted of choc chip cookies washed down with a cup of tea.
After breakfast I was taken to see a doctor, and they decided to move me to another ward - 'Branksome ward'
In comparison to ''Alumhurst ward'' life here seemed a lot slower and I quickly settled in. I was now being prescribed olanzapine (an anti psychotic) which made me feel like a zombie after taking it. Most of the people on the ward were on this drug and we all sat in the smoking room in our vegetated states staring into nothingness, dosed up on 'meds.'
A few days later, I was due to see my psychiatrist Dr John Stephens. He was a tall man, and resembled what one would say a doctor looked like. I remember thinking ''jeez he looks like the mad one'', with his hair all messed up. Again he took the time to listen to me and I cried so much. I had no idea of where I was. I think I have made a mistake. I don't need to be here!
The meeting with Dr Stephen's consisted of me and him and around four other staff members all looking at me, nodding their heads whenever I uttered a word. My nurse whose role it was to look after me was a nurse called Phil Jones. Phil was a softly spoken man whose large bunch of keys jangled and swung when he walked. He was the gatekeeper and I was the prisoner. I had to escape from here. After being on the ward for a couple of weeks, I had not smoked any weed, but the paranoia still lingered.
By this point, I had worked out the ward, who worked where and at what time. I planned my escape, when it was shift change at around 5 o clock just before dinner. My plan as to slowly take my stuff downstairs and hide it in a cleaning cupboard I had seen by the main entrance which was unlocked all the time. I would stash my belongings one by one in there, and then go down for dinner. Pick up some food and then walk a free man.
For the life of me, I cannot remember why I did not simply walk. (Hmm.. that's a lost memory)
Anyway, I remained and quickly became accustomed to life in the hospital the food the drugs and the way of life. I met some really interesting characters in there (which I won't mention their names) One, was a large man who had been in a gunner in the Falklands war. He was a gentle soul and troubled no one. Often, he would burst into tears for no apparent reason. Once he cried so much, he weed himself and all over the chair he was sitting in. (poor soul.)
Another woman - who quickly appeared to me as the centre of attention on the ward. she was quite tall and had long blonde hair. All the guys paid attention to her, following her with their eyes whilst heavily dosed up on drugs.for a number of weeks I was encouraged to take part in 'OT' (occupational therapy) which included woodwork, art, cooking. There was also a gym but I refused to go to it for a while. The woman who ran the OT side of things was so lovely. She was so pretty and I fancied her so much. she was the picture of complete rationality and sanity for me and this I loved. she bought a sense of reason to the ward and always was smiling when she came into work and the smoking lounge at 1o o clock in the morning.
She put up the different activities that we could do on the wall, but not many people made an effort. She asked me one day what I would like to do, and I stood there looking deep into her eyes. I fancied her and I wanted to prove to her that I was on 'her level', not psychotic like I had been diagnosed.
Psycho and Psychotic have bad connatations largely due to the media construction of what a 'psychotic' & 'psycho' is. Axe weilding, serial killing madmen. I was not this and nor were the rest of the 'psychotics' as far as I could muster anyway.
I started to get involved in the artwork which I really enjoyed. I started cutting out newspapers about stories of big brother. (Not the dumbass tv 'reality' show, the surveillance state in the UK)
I cut and pasted 'we are being watched, glued it to the centre of the paper and then drew images surrounding the dystopian future that my 'mental illness' had given me.
I personally think from reading Foucault's works on madness, how do we define what is mad and what is sane? I still believe to this day that what I foresaw was not me being ill, but seeing a snapshot of what the future holds for society. Admittedly, a lot of these visions were surrounded with hysteria and confusion, but it still makes a lot of sense to me now.
After a bit of a bust up with a senior charge nurse on the ward in the corridor (in which I cannot recollect what about) I ended up getting 'sectioned' level 2 - for 28 days. This meant I could not leave the ward without supervision, effectivly turning me into a prisoner. This made me even more angry and more desperate to run and never look back. I got so mad one day that I got taken to a secure unit, in which I was put in a small room with soft play things to take my anger out on. I needed to escape.
I had also been introduced to my CPN (community psychiatric nurse) Ali Cinavas. She was a 'Brummie', who used to come and visit me each week. She had golden blonde hair and spoke in a way which I could not help but smile to. She made me feel comfortable and I felt I could tell her anything. She was my friend (albeit a notetaking friend) in which I quizzed her on, one week.
Phil Jones arranged benefits to be setup for me, and after a couple of weeks they came through, in which I had full control of the money given to me by the state. I had to ask for a permission slip stating how much I wanted to withdraw from the cash office downstairs, but other than that I had noone telling me what I could and couldnt do.
I was given £260 the first payment, which meant I could buy some cigarettes, and go down to the little shop by the reception.
My life was starting to make sense and as I said, I became quite accustomed to life here. I was allowed the space I needed to get myself back together. 'A new me' was being born.
One day in the smoking lounge, the guy who used to pace the corridor (stopping each 20 mins for a cigarette break) came in and stood in the centre of the room with both arms reaching out (like a jesus being crucified would be the way I would describe it)
And then he started being violently thrown around the room. This I can only describe as not physically possible without some outside force controlling him. After around half a minute of this happening, nurses rushed in, Pinned him to floor and then dragged him away screaming.
During my stay at St. Anns, I was constantly worried about being given ECT therapy (electro therapy) This kept me in fear and in a strange way, kept me on the straight and narrow.
After a week of 'good behavour' my section was taken away, meaning I could go out and go to the canford cliffs shops, wander the beautiful garden, and go down to the beach which was literally a few minutes walk throug the large garden. Life started to make a little more sense for by this point and I was still deeply influenced by the Hip Hop beats I was listening to. This was, as I mentioned already me, but being rebuilt.
I must at this point thank all the staff who aided my recovery and in effect made me into the person I am today. I was lost and they helped me find myself.
I stayed at St anns for around 2 and a half months and my mum visited me most days. She told me that she used to cry all the way home and felt so guilty to leave me there. she knew it was for the best. She used to cry often to against all odds by westlife, and she said it reminded her of me.
So Here I am, just standing there in the middle of a mental health ward, being rebuilt. I was realeased 2 and a half months later a different person, but still lacking those social skills and haunted by paranoia and anxiety. I moved to a place in Southbourne which was on the other side of town. It was very far from everything I knew, including my family and the few friends I had left. Most of the friends I had back in the day werent real friends though, they were just aquientences or, if you like - customers. I used to sell to them, but I used to hang around for a smoke with them as well.
The house in Southbourne, was a four bedroom house and my room was next to the kitchen. We shared a kitchen a bathroom which was always filthy. The bath plug hole was jammed up with hairs and had a stain around it which couldnt be removed, even if you scrubbed it really hard. I spent most of days and nights watching 'only fools and horses' on DVD and watching the snooker on the television. In the evenings I would go across the road to the chinese, which this in itself was a challenge. Even going across the road I thought someone was going to jump me. They didn't of course, but I was fearing everything around me. I would quickly walk back across the road to the house and panicked whilst I tried to unlock the front door. I quickly went back in to my room, and devoured the two spring rolls: which quickly became my regular meal whilst living here. Apart from the dvd and the snooker, I spent a lot of time listening to the noises of the house.
The guys that lived there I did not trust at all. They often smoked hash in the front room, and I was becoming increasingly tempted to have a smoke with them. They offered me on many occasions but I politely refused saying something along the lines of ';not reall in the mood' but thanks for asking' They respected me and did not push it on me. After a few weeks of staying in my room I felt so lonely. Del boys jokes and the snooker commentary wasnt enough for me. One night I went into the lounge where the guy was smoking a big hash spiff. ''fuck it'' I thought, it'll be ok. I just wanted to fit in and desperatly reached out for friendship. I smoked with the two of them that night and after a few tokes I was absolutely stoned. The mix of olanzapine and hash did me no good whatsoever.
This brought on a severe bout of paranoia and I made my excuses and left the lounge retiring to my room.I laid on the bed and saw the ceiling and the walls closing in on me. I rang my mum and confessed to what I had done.
I felt so guilty to my mum. I'm not sure why I did and just kept saying that I was so sorry. She consoled me and said that it was ok. I imagined that she would have been angry with me, but she wasnt she was simply just dissapointed I think.
I continued to live here, fighting my demons and watching the television day and night. I made a couple of brave trips on the bus into town where I bought hip hop albums and dvds to watch.
It was really difficult to live here, with the constant smell of hash in the air. I had to go. I said this to my CPN Ali and my mum and soon after this, they looked into moving me elsewhere nearer my mum and nearer the places I knew.
After applying for a few places, I got a room in a place called millennium house. It was much more friendly then the house in southbourne. It was staffed in the day, enabling me to speak to someone if I needed to. This was imperative to my struggle against my demons. I moved in millennium house - room 6. Soon after I moved in, I got a knock on the door from a man called Darren.
Darren was a peaceful guy and we quickly began to build a friendship. We found out that we both liked only fools and horses and we traded the ones we had between each other.
People came and left in millenium house. There was always new characters moving in. I also became close friends with a guy called Joe, who was a little older than me. Still to this day, we are still friends and he also like all of us continues to fight his demons. Joe was a real inspiration for me and he played the double bass. He really was into Jazz music, and often lent us cds that he really liked. For Christmas one year he bought me a video cassette of BILL HICKS. Joe was very much so at the forefront of my enlightenment I think. He opened the door to a world I KNEW existed during my period of illness. BILL HICKS was my hero and still is today. He was talking about things that I had previously thought was mad!
I continued to get benefits and was quickly rebuilding my life. the support workers at Millenium house helped me get a college course arranged, and I started studying nursing at Bournemouth and poole college. When I started this course, it was just simply something to do. It was really difficult to drag myself to college first of all and again was constantly fighting my demons.
One of my main inspirations during this time was my new girlfriend - Lisa, from Sweden. She was the reason for me to go to college each day. In a strange way she was my reward at the end of a difficult and long day.
The nursing course consisted of a few components: Anatomy and physiology, Psychology and Sociology. I found myself often smiling my way through the lectures and felt content having this knowledge and understanding of what was being taught. Towards the end of the course, I was told I could go to University after completion of the course.
Me? university? Never would of believed it if someone would have told me this 4 years previously. The staff at the colege were brilliant and helped us all fill out our ucas forms. I applied to go to 5 different universites: Bath, University of the west of England, Coventry, Plymouth and one in london that I can't remember the name of. I got accepted by 4 out of the 5 universities offered to me and ended up pouncing on the chance to go to Bristol UWE.
My life was beginning once again. I was going through another transition. For the first time in a long time, I was happy. The journey I had been on for the past five years had made me into the person I am today. I lived for many months with nothing.
I truly believe I revealed to myself the true nature of life. No material posessions mattered. Friends mattered. My health mattered. Life was to short to waste.
I was on a mission, and Bristol was soon to be in my sights. Nothing could stop me now.
End of part one. Thanks for reading this far. Part two to come shortly, 'Bristol and the revolution of my mind, ideas, beliefs and struggles'
At around the age of 13, sick and tired of living at home, facing the onslaught I and other teenagers like me - we used to meet up in town most Friday and Saturday nights in town -in the town gardens. We used to drink and smoke, waiting outside Lidl in town for a passerby who would kindly buy us three bottles of cheap cider.
Our social group consisted of around 50-60 people, who were mainly into Punk music, ska and metal. Back in the day, (you probably wouldn't believe) I used to wear my Marilyn Manson Hoody, with tears up the sleeves, painting my fingernails black. Sick and tired of the bullshit that was going in in my home, finding these people were a new lease of life for me, my new so called family.
We smoked and drank each and every weekend. Each weekend would never be the same. Dog poo bins would be set alight, We jumped off flyovers onto trees, and even once one of my 'friends' at the time; was dared to eat a bit of pigeon that was dead on the floor. Bets were placed, which he was offered X amount of cigarettes. He did. He gobbled it up.
Looking back on these days, they were great times. Everyone knew each other, and in a strange way, we looked after each other. People were sleeping with other people, and then the next week they would split up and then someone else would hook up. These times went on for about two years.
We were known as the Goths/skaters. The outsiders. We liked it that way, Well at least I can say I did. We were the rebellious youth, and we didn't give a fuck. WE screamed we shouted we did what we wanted. On many occasions, the 'chavs' or 'townies' used to come down and ongoing street chases and battles occured. sometimes knives were pulled out, sticks and on one occasion a sniper rifle BB gun.
Once in the town centre, I saw some townies picking on one of my friends at the time and decided to say 'leave him alone- he's done nothing wrong!' And I mean these street fights never had a purpose to them. They just happened. Sometimes it got really nasty. After saying this to the guy, I was then jumped and got punched in the face with a special type of ring which cuts you at the same time. I still have the scar on my face, from that.
But like I said, times were good. Still at school but spending a lot of time in 'the unit' (which basically was a isolation room) for all the people the mainstream school couldn't deal with. We were allowed to do what we wanted, as long as we didn't 'kick off' or throw anything. We even had access to the Internet, which a lot of the other parts of my school didn't have at the time.
A lot of my time at school was spent hanging around outside my head of years office Mr Reed. He died a few years ago, from cancer. He was a legend. He was from the generation of the old school teachers, who people naturally respected as he entered any room. My job standing outside Reedy's office was to make him a coffee whenever he needed one. This was supposed to be my punishment for getting kicked out of IT for throwing an orange at the board, or questioning my history teacher on 'hiow do you know that the textbook is telling the truth?'' ( I did worst things than this though, which I regret now of course)
After leaving school, I ended up working at a bowling alley, which was just up the road from my mums house. I smoked weed throughout my school 'career' and continued to do so to get me through working at Bowlplex. I had quite a few friends, and couldn't wait until I was 18 so that I could go out clubbing with the rest of the bowlplex staff. My job was doing the kids parties and cleaning, and during my last year working there, I was the 'Grill Bitch', cooking food, serving the league bowlers teas and coffees etc. It wasn't a bad job, however; it was mind numbing really.
After getting sacked from this job I found another quite quickly, working in a pub not so far from the bowling centre. I was the kitchen porter in which It was my job to keep the illusion running of a nice, clean, tidy restaurant. It was Me VS the waiters and the waitresses, they brought in dirty plates and I had to get rid of them. That was the game.
After this job and still smoking a lot of ganja, I drifted from one job to the next working in hotels, kitchens, shops.
I had moved out of my mums house at around the age of 16, seeking my Independence and also due to the fact that My mum and I have very different opinions on a range of things, as many teenagers and there parents do. I had my own flat, Which comprised of a bed, a desk and a small bathroom. It was great, my friends and I did what we wanted and smoke we did, endlessly staying up playing the PlayStation listening to Cypress Hill and others and then ordering the essential takeaway. This part of life went on for around a year, and I was still managing to hold down a job. I was working at a chain hotel (which I wont name) which was really tough. Long hours and bad pay, to boot. At his point I was smoking more than ever, just to get me through the long arduous days Which meant I started the day walking to work in the dark, And finishing when it was dark again.
To make this situation worse, The kitchen that we worked in was underground, So we saw very little daylight. Cigarette breaks were a godsend allowing a brief glimpse of the passing traffic.
After working here for about 4 months the heavy workload and the abusive chefs led me to the point of madness. There was me with so many dreams and aspirations, stood washing up and picking off the pieces of meat from guests plates. Once we had cleared breakfast, the lunch quickly came upon us. Our only saving grace was the fact that we could talk to each other and talk about how our lives could and would change.
I left this Hotel, on my own accord. I had had enough of the abuse and felt OK just to leave. Happiness was much more important for then Money or paying my rent to the dodgy guys back in the place I was living. I was dealing enough to support myself, pay the rent and get a smoke for myself and my friends.
I lived this way for a few months and ended up getting a 'lay-on' in which we ended up smoking half of - in a weekend. And then I couldn't pay back. Luckily, My 'friend' and I were on good terms and he gave me time to pay back. After two weeks of not paying him back, I was succumbed to selling my possessions. So off went the PlayStation the Cd's, anything and everything. The flat was stripped of all things which kept me sane. Stupidly being in a stoned daze, I ended up getting another 'lay-on' which AGAIN, I stupidly smoked and could pay back. I was right on the edge now. I was still doing agency work form time to time, but nothing that kept a constant flow of money coming in. I had a debt to pay, but nothing to sell and no possessions to shift. This was the end.
The block of flats was basically a crack den. It was full of drugs, prostitution and sometimes even violence. In my current state of mind, this situation only led to more and more paranoia. With no possessions to sell no weed to sell and with rent to pay, I truly now was on shit street. My mum didn't live far from where I was living and was often helping pay the rent, even getting herself into debt to support me. She brought fruit and vegetables around for me, as I was not eating properly, sometimes not eating at all for days.
I cannot explain enough the feeling of going to bed hungry. Its painful. Every time you try to drift off to sleep the images of food appeared in my mind. Times were tough. The 'boys' that ran the hotel/block of flats gave me a week to find the money for the rent, which at this point was around £400 and I had no way of getting any money. I was extremely anxious and paranoid and found it hard to look anyone in the eyes. Once I even stayed in my flat for around 6 days, because the people who had moved into the room next to mine used to let their German Alsatian just wander the corridors. Once when I went to leave the flat to go and buy my weekly tobacco, weed and pot noodles, the dog just ran at me and I quickly slammed the door shut and stood with my back to the door. I started to cry and felt trapped in a life, in which had very little control of. My mind was slipping away from me and I was losing my faith.
then, a few days later, I returned home slid my key into the lock and found that the key would not turn. I went down to the reception area to ask what was the problem.
''Why won't my door unlock?'' ''what room are you?'' barked the woman. ''301'' I answered. ''Well you haven't paid the rent in three weeks according to the book...''
''Yeah I know but...'' I had no answers. No escape. Nowhere to turn.
''Your stuff has been taken out of the room and bagged up'' Oh right OK, not so bad I thought. ''OK, well I need to get a few things if that's OK?'' 'No it isn't. Until you pay rent, you are not getting your stuff back.
So there was me. Nowhere to live, no money, nowhere to go and no clothes or possessions. My life had spiralled out of control. Where should I go? So that night, I wandered the streets bumping into people I knew. I felt free. No possessions, just me and the world. This feeling quickly subsided after a few days of couch surfing at various peoples houses. One night I stayed at a friends house (name omitted) who had been diagnosed with schizophrenia.
Don't get me wrong he was a really nice guy, but sometimes, he would flip. I was really on edge generally speaking anyway, and tired from walking. I settled down for the night on his bedroom floor after drinking cheap cider and listening to old school jungle and drum and bass. Then just as I was about to fall asleep He jumped off his bed and wrapped his duvet sheet around me. The duvet sheet was tight around my neck and I couldn't breathe. I panicked and thought he was going to kill me. His friend who lived down the corridor was also in the flat, and was sat by the window smoking. ''LEAVE him alone!'' he screamed, ''he's just a lad'' trying to calm him down. ''leave him alone your going to kill him..!''
He didn't get off straight away, and after around 30 secs of being choked he got off my back and jumped back into bed.
That night I didn't sleep at all, I kept one eye open looking upon on his sleeping body. I was scared he may try something again. The following morning, I asked him why he did that, and said: ''Why did you try to kill me?''
He denied it at first and did not believe he had done it. Then after explaining how scared I was, his memory seemed to recollect the event of the previous night. He apologised, but I knew it was time to move on again. For a while I slept on the beach, often waking up half soaked by the seashore. I had recently acquired by tent from my mums house and slept three or four nights next to a small stream. I was happy again feeling a little safer. My mind was playing tricks on me though and I started to become slightly religious.
I needed saving and the person I needed saving from- was myself. I often went up to tescos and simply walked in picked up a disposable BBQ a pack of sausages and whatever else I fancied, and walked out without paying. I did this for a few days, until I was so paranoid going in there - I was sure the security guard knew. I was also convinced that the security guard knew of my situation and had been ordered to allow me to steal so that I could sustain myself. The first time ~ I was homeless for around 4 months. The second time not so long, around 2 months.
I was going down and down, deeper and deeper, spiralling out of control and losing sense of myself and my mind.
I was scared and I did not feel very well.
At this point, I find it hard recollect just what happened to me. At one point I was living in a bed a breakfast the next I was going to a mental health day centre - Monday to Friday. I still didn't like looking people in the eye and was told that I had to participate in the meetings. ''I wasn't mad!'' I adamantly reminded my self. I was just desperate. The world was the mad one, not me!
I sat in the day centre for a whole week, in a corridor on a small, rickety yet comfortable chair. Head looking down, looking at passersby shoes. After being in this state of delirium and anxiety for a week, I was called into a doctors office to do a 'routine assessment' I was told. As I entered the room, I sat down nervously, and for the first time in months, someone sat there listening to me. ''Whats wrong?'' she asked.
Fighting back tears, I said: ''I am lost. I don't know WHO I am or what I'm doing here.'' She listened to everything I had to say, and then made a phone call and sent me back out again. I returned to my rickety chair and looked down at the ground..
Thoughts raced around my brain. What have I done? what have I said? I shouldn't have been honest with her! what will happen now? I pondered. a few hours later, an ambulance came to pick me up from the day centre and took me to 'St Ann's hospital'
I was still smoking weed at this point, but no longer could sustain my habit. I would have smoked more to ease the pain, but I relied on others generosity for a smoke.
The first night I was on 'alumhurst ward' Which was a mixed ward. I was shown around briefly by a nurse, and then taken to a dorm and shown to my bed. I had been given two pills to take, and sat down on the bed with a feeling of nervousness surrounding me. I got up pulled my curtain cross and sat back down..
Shit. Here I am. I have declared myself as 'mad' there is no going back now. I had an evening meal and then was offered crackers with butter and marmite to take to bed with me, I hid under the covers scoffing my face with the crackers so voraciously hungry that most of the crackers fell out of my mouth. I hadn't had a smoke this day and was feeling the itch for a smoke, just to take the edge of a little.
Then I heard the curtain pull back and I shot up out of bed. ''Hello'' the guy said. ''New here?'' ''Yeah'' I answered nervously. What did he want? then he walked towards me and a bolt of paranoia shocked my brain. He then lifted his hand and opened his palm to reveal three Small bits of hash. ''You smoke?'' ''Yes'' I answered. he gave me the three small grains of hash and offered me the advice that if I was to smoke on the ward, to
''use the toilet down the end of the corridor because they never check that one - but make sure you open the window''
I went to the toilet and made a small, 'one skin' smoke. I smoked it really quickly, for two reasons, mainly because I didn't want to get caught, secondly I hadn't had a smoke all day. I finished it chucked it down the toilet, and then shuffled down the corridor feeling a little more at ease with surroundings. This being said I also felt paranoid, and everyone on the corridor knew I had smoke, I was sure. They all looked at me with protruding eyes, all their eyes said, WE KNOW you have just had a smoke.
I got back to the dorm room and jumped into my bed.
The next thing it was morning. I went to see the nurses in the morning as I had been requested to the night before and they had to take some details from me ,weight height, etc.
At this point I was weighing in just under 6 stone. I had lost a lot of weight from not eating for so long and felt very weak. Then after breakfast, which was delicious, Jam on toast, weetabix and as much fruit as I could muster ( I stole loads and stashed it in my beside cabinet!)
I was so thankful, and had the first proper breakfast in about a year. Normally my breakfast consisted of choc chip cookies washed down with a cup of tea.
After breakfast I was taken to see a doctor, and they decided to move me to another ward - 'Branksome ward'
In comparison to ''Alumhurst ward'' life here seemed a lot slower and I quickly settled in. I was now being prescribed olanzapine (an anti psychotic) which made me feel like a zombie after taking it. Most of the people on the ward were on this drug and we all sat in the smoking room in our vegetated states staring into nothingness, dosed up on 'meds.'
A few days later, I was due to see my psychiatrist Dr John Stephens. He was a tall man, and resembled what one would say a doctor looked like. I remember thinking ''jeez he looks like the mad one'', with his hair all messed up. Again he took the time to listen to me and I cried so much. I had no idea of where I was. I think I have made a mistake. I don't need to be here!
The meeting with Dr Stephen's consisted of me and him and around four other staff members all looking at me, nodding their heads whenever I uttered a word. My nurse whose role it was to look after me was a nurse called Phil Jones. Phil was a softly spoken man whose large bunch of keys jangled and swung when he walked. He was the gatekeeper and I was the prisoner. I had to escape from here. After being on the ward for a couple of weeks, I had not smoked any weed, but the paranoia still lingered.
By this point, I had worked out the ward, who worked where and at what time. I planned my escape, when it was shift change at around 5 o clock just before dinner. My plan as to slowly take my stuff downstairs and hide it in a cleaning cupboard I had seen by the main entrance which was unlocked all the time. I would stash my belongings one by one in there, and then go down for dinner. Pick up some food and then walk a free man.
For the life of me, I cannot remember why I did not simply walk. (Hmm.. that's a lost memory)
Anyway, I remained and quickly became accustomed to life in the hospital the food the drugs and the way of life. I met some really interesting characters in there (which I won't mention their names) One, was a large man who had been in a gunner in the Falklands war. He was a gentle soul and troubled no one. Often, he would burst into tears for no apparent reason. Once he cried so much, he weed himself and all over the chair he was sitting in. (poor soul.)
Another woman - who quickly appeared to me as the centre of attention on the ward. she was quite tall and had long blonde hair. All the guys paid attention to her, following her with their eyes whilst heavily dosed up on drugs.for a number of weeks I was encouraged to take part in 'OT' (occupational therapy) which included woodwork, art, cooking. There was also a gym but I refused to go to it for a while. The woman who ran the OT side of things was so lovely. She was so pretty and I fancied her so much. she was the picture of complete rationality and sanity for me and this I loved. she bought a sense of reason to the ward and always was smiling when she came into work and the smoking lounge at 1o o clock in the morning.
She put up the different activities that we could do on the wall, but not many people made an effort. She asked me one day what I would like to do, and I stood there looking deep into her eyes. I fancied her and I wanted to prove to her that I was on 'her level', not psychotic like I had been diagnosed.
Psycho and Psychotic have bad connatations largely due to the media construction of what a 'psychotic' & 'psycho' is. Axe weilding, serial killing madmen. I was not this and nor were the rest of the 'psychotics' as far as I could muster anyway.
I started to get involved in the artwork which I really enjoyed. I started cutting out newspapers about stories of big brother. (Not the dumbass tv 'reality' show, the surveillance state in the UK)
I cut and pasted 'we are being watched, glued it to the centre of the paper and then drew images surrounding the dystopian future that my 'mental illness' had given me.
I personally think from reading Foucault's works on madness, how do we define what is mad and what is sane? I still believe to this day that what I foresaw was not me being ill, but seeing a snapshot of what the future holds for society. Admittedly, a lot of these visions were surrounded with hysteria and confusion, but it still makes a lot of sense to me now.
After a bit of a bust up with a senior charge nurse on the ward in the corridor (in which I cannot recollect what about) I ended up getting 'sectioned' level 2 - for 28 days. This meant I could not leave the ward without supervision, effectivly turning me into a prisoner. This made me even more angry and more desperate to run and never look back. I got so mad one day that I got taken to a secure unit, in which I was put in a small room with soft play things to take my anger out on. I needed to escape.
I had also been introduced to my CPN (community psychiatric nurse) Ali Cinavas. She was a 'Brummie', who used to come and visit me each week. She had golden blonde hair and spoke in a way which I could not help but smile to. She made me feel comfortable and I felt I could tell her anything. She was my friend (albeit a notetaking friend) in which I quizzed her on, one week.
Phil Jones arranged benefits to be setup for me, and after a couple of weeks they came through, in which I had full control of the money given to me by the state. I had to ask for a permission slip stating how much I wanted to withdraw from the cash office downstairs, but other than that I had noone telling me what I could and couldnt do.
I was given £260 the first payment, which meant I could buy some cigarettes, and go down to the little shop by the reception.
My life was starting to make sense and as I said, I became quite accustomed to life here. I was allowed the space I needed to get myself back together. 'A new me' was being born.
One day in the smoking lounge, the guy who used to pace the corridor (stopping each 20 mins for a cigarette break) came in and stood in the centre of the room with both arms reaching out (like a jesus being crucified would be the way I would describe it)
And then he started being violently thrown around the room. This I can only describe as not physically possible without some outside force controlling him. After around half a minute of this happening, nurses rushed in, Pinned him to floor and then dragged him away screaming.
During my stay at St. Anns, I was constantly worried about being given ECT therapy (electro therapy) This kept me in fear and in a strange way, kept me on the straight and narrow.
After a week of 'good behavour' my section was taken away, meaning I could go out and go to the canford cliffs shops, wander the beautiful garden, and go down to the beach which was literally a few minutes walk throug the large garden. Life started to make a little more sense for by this point and I was still deeply influenced by the Hip Hop beats I was listening to. This was, as I mentioned already me, but being rebuilt.
I must at this point thank all the staff who aided my recovery and in effect made me into the person I am today. I was lost and they helped me find myself.
I stayed at St anns for around 2 and a half months and my mum visited me most days. She told me that she used to cry all the way home and felt so guilty to leave me there. she knew it was for the best. She used to cry often to against all odds by westlife, and she said it reminded her of me.
So Here I am, just standing there in the middle of a mental health ward, being rebuilt. I was realeased 2 and a half months later a different person, but still lacking those social skills and haunted by paranoia and anxiety. I moved to a place in Southbourne which was on the other side of town. It was very far from everything I knew, including my family and the few friends I had left. Most of the friends I had back in the day werent real friends though, they were just aquientences or, if you like - customers. I used to sell to them, but I used to hang around for a smoke with them as well.
The house in Southbourne, was a four bedroom house and my room was next to the kitchen. We shared a kitchen a bathroom which was always filthy. The bath plug hole was jammed up with hairs and had a stain around it which couldnt be removed, even if you scrubbed it really hard. I spent most of days and nights watching 'only fools and horses' on DVD and watching the snooker on the television. In the evenings I would go across the road to the chinese, which this in itself was a challenge. Even going across the road I thought someone was going to jump me. They didn't of course, but I was fearing everything around me. I would quickly walk back across the road to the house and panicked whilst I tried to unlock the front door. I quickly went back in to my room, and devoured the two spring rolls: which quickly became my regular meal whilst living here. Apart from the dvd and the snooker, I spent a lot of time listening to the noises of the house.
The guys that lived there I did not trust at all. They often smoked hash in the front room, and I was becoming increasingly tempted to have a smoke with them. They offered me on many occasions but I politely refused saying something along the lines of ';not reall in the mood' but thanks for asking' They respected me and did not push it on me. After a few weeks of staying in my room I felt so lonely. Del boys jokes and the snooker commentary wasnt enough for me. One night I went into the lounge where the guy was smoking a big hash spiff. ''fuck it'' I thought, it'll be ok. I just wanted to fit in and desperatly reached out for friendship. I smoked with the two of them that night and after a few tokes I was absolutely stoned. The mix of olanzapine and hash did me no good whatsoever.
This brought on a severe bout of paranoia and I made my excuses and left the lounge retiring to my room.I laid on the bed and saw the ceiling and the walls closing in on me. I rang my mum and confessed to what I had done.
I felt so guilty to my mum. I'm not sure why I did and just kept saying that I was so sorry. She consoled me and said that it was ok. I imagined that she would have been angry with me, but she wasnt she was simply just dissapointed I think.
I continued to live here, fighting my demons and watching the television day and night. I made a couple of brave trips on the bus into town where I bought hip hop albums and dvds to watch.
It was really difficult to live here, with the constant smell of hash in the air. I had to go. I said this to my CPN Ali and my mum and soon after this, they looked into moving me elsewhere nearer my mum and nearer the places I knew.
After applying for a few places, I got a room in a place called millennium house. It was much more friendly then the house in southbourne. It was staffed in the day, enabling me to speak to someone if I needed to. This was imperative to my struggle against my demons. I moved in millennium house - room 6. Soon after I moved in, I got a knock on the door from a man called Darren.
Darren was a peaceful guy and we quickly began to build a friendship. We found out that we both liked only fools and horses and we traded the ones we had between each other.
People came and left in millenium house. There was always new characters moving in. I also became close friends with a guy called Joe, who was a little older than me. Still to this day, we are still friends and he also like all of us continues to fight his demons. Joe was a real inspiration for me and he played the double bass. He really was into Jazz music, and often lent us cds that he really liked. For Christmas one year he bought me a video cassette of BILL HICKS. Joe was very much so at the forefront of my enlightenment I think. He opened the door to a world I KNEW existed during my period of illness. BILL HICKS was my hero and still is today. He was talking about things that I had previously thought was mad!
I continued to get benefits and was quickly rebuilding my life. the support workers at Millenium house helped me get a college course arranged, and I started studying nursing at Bournemouth and poole college. When I started this course, it was just simply something to do. It was really difficult to drag myself to college first of all and again was constantly fighting my demons.
One of my main inspirations during this time was my new girlfriend - Lisa, from Sweden. She was the reason for me to go to college each day. In a strange way she was my reward at the end of a difficult and long day.
The nursing course consisted of a few components: Anatomy and physiology, Psychology and Sociology. I found myself often smiling my way through the lectures and felt content having this knowledge and understanding of what was being taught. Towards the end of the course, I was told I could go to University after completion of the course.
Me? university? Never would of believed it if someone would have told me this 4 years previously. The staff at the colege were brilliant and helped us all fill out our ucas forms. I applied to go to 5 different universites: Bath, University of the west of England, Coventry, Plymouth and one in london that I can't remember the name of. I got accepted by 4 out of the 5 universities offered to me and ended up pouncing on the chance to go to Bristol UWE.
My life was beginning once again. I was going through another transition. For the first time in a long time, I was happy. The journey I had been on for the past five years had made me into the person I am today. I lived for many months with nothing.
I truly believe I revealed to myself the true nature of life. No material posessions mattered. Friends mattered. My health mattered. Life was to short to waste.
I was on a mission, and Bristol was soon to be in my sights. Nothing could stop me now.
End of part one. Thanks for reading this far. Part two to come shortly, 'Bristol and the revolution of my mind, ideas, beliefs and struggles'
