The Lost Boy - Chapter 8 – part one - The Return To Southampton

As always, this seems to be the case — I don’t remember the move. The packing, the travel, the settling back in… all of that is gone.

What I do remember is my mum. That sound. Her crying. I could never forget it. It’s carved into me in a way nothing else is. A mother’s grief doesn’t just fill a room — it takes hold of everyone in it.

I don’t remember long talks or deep conversations. There weren’t many. Maybe a couple of times I tried to encourage her — “come on, Mum, get up, keep yourself busy.” But even then, I don’t think it helped. What words could?

What has stayed with me is the heaviness of the house, the way that sound of her sobbing seemed to soak into the walls. I knew I couldn’t fix it. I knew I couldn’t take her pain away. But I went back because I couldn’t stay away.

I thought maybe just being there might be something.

I was out of work for a while, and with that came the grind of job hunting. At first I put effort into it, but it didn’t take long for it to feel monotonous. Day after day, applying for anything and everything that came up. Half the time I wasn’t even sure what I was applying for — I just wanted something. A reason to get up, a bit of money coming in, a way forward.

I don’t think I ever got a rejection letter, or even an email. Nothing. Just silence. Like throwing applications into a black hole and waiting for an echo that never came.

The job centre became a kind of punishment. Printing off job sheets that came out like receipts from those dreaded machines, scrolling through vacancies that all blurred together. I must have picked up the odd bit of agency work here and there, though maybe I’m merging memories from other times.

What I do remember clearly is one interview.

Domino’s Pizza was opening a new branch in the local town, and I actually got a call to come in. I barely remember the interview itself, but I do remember how I prepared for it. I was always quite good in the lead-up. I’d research the company, learn its history, try to understand how it started — anything that might give me an edge if they asked the right question.

But none of that mattered. The man interviewing me wasn’t some corporate figure from Domino’s, or an area manager with a passion for the brand. He was just a franchisee looking to staff the shop so he could make money. That was it.

Still — it wasn’t flat. Not completely. Because not long after, I got the call.

I’d got the job.

I wasn’t told in the interview itself, but the phone rang a little while later and they said training would be starting soon. After weeks of applying for anything and everything, after all those silent rejections that never even came, just hearing the words “you’ve got the job” felt like a small victory.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t a dream. But it was something. And in that moment, something was enough.

Because the shop wasn’t open yet, it wasn’t a straight walk-in-and-start situation. We had to wait while it was being finished, kitted out, made ready. All of us — the ones chosen to fill the different positions — were left in this odd limbo.

When the doors were finally ready to open, we were brought in as a group and trained up together. A brand-new team for a brand-new store.

The training time at Domino’s was actually so much fun. A real mix of personalities thrown together — different ages, different backgrounds — but for the most part, we all got on well. It was a laugh.

What surprised me most was how quickly it turned competitive. Making pizzas wasn’t just about getting it right; it became a race to see who could do it fastest while keeping the quality. We’d be laughing, joking, but also really trying to beat each other. And weirdly, that made it better. It gave us something to care about.

That was one thing the franchise owner got right. Whatever his reasons for running the place, he understood the importance of quality. And that passed on to us. For the most part, everyone took pride in what they were doing. We weren’t just throwing toppings on dough — we were making pizzas that people would actually want to eat.

It wasn’t long before I stepped up into more responsibility. A few of us were chosen to be shift runners — sorting rotas, handling food orders, and running shifts when the manager wasn’t there.

I was actually really proud of myself. It probably only meant an extra ten pence an hour, but it wasn’t about the money. It was the feeling of achieving something. Of being trusted. Of having people look to me to keep things running smoothly.

I know — it was only Domino’s. But at the time, it mattered. I even started to imagine one day running my own store, becoming a store manager. I liked the sound of that. Manager.

The irony wasn’t lost on me, of course. I couldn’t manage my own life very well — not really — but somehow I was managing a pizza shop. And in its own small way, that gave me a sense of pride I hadn’t felt in a long time.

I couldn’t tell you how long I worked there for, but I enjoyed it for the most part. One memory that still makes me laugh is from the store opening. For whatever reason, they decided someone should dress as a gorilla and hand out flyers. Why a gorilla? I have no idea. But I didn’t care. I’ve always liked fancy dress, even now, so I just jumped into the costume for shits and giggles. Sweating buckets, but laughing the whole time.

Another perk I remember well was the free food. And I love pizza — still do. Add in the Domino’s cookies and it was a dangerous combination. One time the walk-in fridge packed up, meaning all the stock couldn’t be kept. I did not complain about being handed a whole box of cookies to take home. In fact, that might have been one of the best nights of the job.

I also managed to train myself to eat a whole large and a whole medium pizza in one sitting. Looking back, I’m not sure if that’s a talent or a warning sign — but at the time, it felt like a fucking achievement.

Above all, during this time — as sad as it might sound — when I was at work, I felt important.

I knew how to do most things in the shop. I could jump in anywhere and keep things running. I learned to do things I never imagined myself doing: putting together rotas, placing food orders, even training new people in some roles.

For a while, that gave me a sense of pride. Like I mattered. Like I was capable.

I’m sure most people probably looked at me and thought I was a bit of a dickhead. And I know some didn’t. But honestly, that didn’t matter. Because for that while, I mattered to myself. I had a sense of pride. I felt capable.

The last job I’d had back in Northampton was good enough, but it didn’t take much hustle. Domino’s was different. This was probably the first job I really applied myself to with the hope of progression. And looking back now, I think that’s where my work ethic — the one I’ve carried with me right up until today, the one that thrives on progression — was first born and really developed.

I don’t think I was sacked from there. I’m pretty sure I left. Why, I can’t exactly remember. Maybe I’d just had enough. Maybe life outside the shop was pulling me in other directions. im pretty sure it was due to moving again! my feet probably got itchy after a while.

Domino’s had given me something when I needed it — a laugh, a bit of pride, a sense of capability, and the beginnings of a work ethic I never knew I had. And then, like so many things in my life, it became another chapter I closed and moved on from.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 7 – part four - The Last Call, The Last Goodbye

The final phone call with my brother was the evening before life was about to change in ways I couldn’t imagine and had never thought about.

He was on his way back from the shop with his haul of alcohol for a party at a friend’s house. We had irregular but often phone calls, checking in with each other. Same with most of the family at that point — we were certainly all closer then.

That’s not to say we aren’t close now, but life gets busy. And this turn of events didn’t pull us in closer. If anything, it created more distance. I think we all had our own ways of dealing with grief, and with those differences came a little space between us that never really closed.

I remember him saying he’d got two crates of beer for him and a mate. Back then there were always deals on crates of either 20 or 24 cans. I don’t remember the exact price, but I know it wasn’t much.

The lads he was meeting up with were the same group I’d fallen into when I moved back from Ireland, so I knew most of them. He sounded excited to let his hair down.

Munch — that was my brother’s nickname — had his shit together for the most part. He always smoked a bit of weed, but it didn’t make him lazy or unmotivated from what I saw. I’m pretty sure he had a job in care at the time, though I can’t say for sure. I vaguely remember him talking once about wanting to be an architect. Another time he joked about something easy, like being a hospital orderly — one of the guys who pushes patients around from ward to ward. It probably was a joke, but to be honest, he would have made a good one. Munch was a friendly young man. Relatively happy, chilled, easy-going. Sure, he could be a cranky shit like the rest of us, but mostly he was laid-back.

In that phone call I remember asking if the crates were for the weekend. He laughed, “No, they’re just for tonight!” I should’ve known without asking. I’m pretty sure his best mate was there too, chiming in just to say hi and bye.

And that was it. That was the last time we ever spoke.

You’d think I’d remember every detail of it, but I don’t. Just scraps. What I do remember, clear as day, is the call the following morning.

My eldest brother. His voice. Just three words.

“Munch is dead!”

I remember not believing it, saying, “What?”

And then again, the same three words:

“Munch is dead!”

Those must have been the hardest words he ever had to say. And to think, he had to repeat them. Not just for me, so it could sink in, but again and again as he rang around the family.

My legs gave way. I remember that. I was in my bedroom and I just folded, collapsed into a heap on the floor. Crying but not really able to grasp what had been said.

And yet, at the same time, I knew.

That’s the strange part. I knew he was gone, but the gravity of it didn’t run through my head. It wasn’t thoughts. It wasn’t analysis. It was just the knowing.

Munch was dead.

From there it’s blurry.

I remember that segment of the phone call crystal clear — but after that, it’s only flashes. Snapshots.

Being with my brother, maybe at his in-laws’ place, though I can’t say for sure. It’s hazy.

I remember a shot or two of vodka. Just something to take the edge off whatever the fuck was happening. To take the edge off the fact that one of my brothers was dead.

Even now, writing those words still cuts like it’s happening all over again. It still hurts like he’s just been taken. The only difference now is that I can remind myself: I’ve grieved. It was fifteen years ago. The pain still comes — sharp, deep — but it doesn’t hold on as long anymore.

I don’t even know how I got to my eldest brother.

Before writing this, I always thought it was him who came to get me. But now, as I sit here trying to put it into words, I think maybe it was my friend — the one I lived with at the time.

I’m pretty sure the phone call came early in the morning, just as my friend was leaving for work. And now I want to say he came straight back and took me to my brother and his wife. But honestly… I can’t be sure.

It’s like a jigsaw puzzle I’m piecing together with broken edges and missing parts. Some pieces look like they might fit, but then I look again and they don’t. And I feel like I’ll never really know.

The next clear memory is being in the back of a car. My brother and his wife in the front. And the feeling. The pain in my chest. The sound coming out of me — a wailing, there’s no other word for it. I was crying so hard I couldn’t bear what I was feeling.

It was in that moment the gravity of it hit me. and it seemed to do that in waves from this point on!

I’d never see him again.

Never hear him.

Never laugh with him.

Never party together.

Never kick a ball.

Never watch TV together.

Never sit side by side taking the piss out of something.

I’d never laugh with him again.

I’d never laugh with him again.

I’ve been dreading writing this part — and now I know why.

I’d have done anything in that moment to change what was happening.

Anything to bring him back.

And even now… even now a part of me still would.

Time has softened the edge, but it’s never taken it away. The pain doesn’t crush me like it did that day in the car, but the longing is still there — tucked into the corners of my heart.

It doesn’t take much to bring it back. A memory. A photo. Someone saying his name. Sometimes even nothing at all. Just silence, and suddenly he’s there — and gone — all over again.

Grief is like that. It doesn’t leave. It changes shape, it changes weight, but it never disappears.

I’ve learned to live alongside it. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t still give anything to hear his laugh just once more.

The next section of memory — the next random slice of this very surreal but also very real event — was being outside my mum’s house. The house where my brother lived. The place where, apparently, my brother had died.

I’m pretty sure some of his friends were there. But again, who knows? Everything is so blurry.

And now what comes to mind is what actually happened to him. I wasn’t there, so all of this comes from the stories I’ve been told. But this is what was supposed to have happened.

They were all at a friend’s house, drinking, of course. At some point, one of the friend’s girlfriends made an accusation — that Munch had tried it on with her.

That friend confronted him. Words were exchanged. Munch was upset that it was even happening. He went to leave, but he’d forgotten his phone and his tobacco, so he went back to get them.

That’s when everything escalated.

There was an altercation. One punch thrown. His friend hit him. Munch went down, hit his head on a parked car, and was knocked unconscious.

Instead of calling for help, a decision was made. They put him in a car, assuming he was just drunk, and decided to take him home.

But from all accounts, he died on that journey. People have spoken about hearing his last breath. The death rattle.

When they pulled up outside my mum’s, they took him from the car and tried CPR. But he was already gone.

And my mum was woken in the early hours of the morning to that scene outside her own home.

It was four months before we would bury him.

This all happened on December 20th. The day before my mum’s birthday. Just before Christmas.

I remember thinking how cruel that was. I still think so now.

Because of how everything happened — the drunken haze of that night, the confusion, the lies told to try to protect his friend — nobody really knew what was what. And because of the injury, his brain had to be removed so they could work out exactly how he died.

That one punch, and the blow of his head hitting the car, had severed a vein in his brain, or something like that. Either way, there was never going to be any coming back from it, no matter when or where help might have come. From the moment it happened, it was already too late.

I’ve never really blamed anyone. In my mind, it was one of those things that could have happened to anyone in that situation. I hold no anger towards the lad that hit him. Never have, never will.

There was anger, yes, at the lies that were told. But even then, I tried to hold some understanding. One of the lads admitted later, at the inquest, that his version of events hadn’t been true. But by then it was too late for any outcome to change. Too many lies had been told, too much drink had been involved. Nobody’s word could be trusted from that night.

And so the case was never reopened.

And I’m glad.

I don’t think Munch would have wanted to see someone locked up for years over a drunken incident between friends. Not that I’ll ever really know — but I choose to believe that.

This next segment of memory haunted me for years. I couldn’t think about it in detail. I wouldn’t allow myself to — the feeling was too painful.

But now I’ve revisited it. It’s hard, but I can go back there knowing I’m still here.

Saying goodbye.

I don’t know where exactly. I just remember going into a room and seeing him. It was cold in there. He was lying on a bed with a white sheet pulled up to his shoulders. There was a towel, I think, wrapped around his head in some attempt to cover the cuts running from behind each ear. The cuts made when they’d removed his brain.

I can’t remember who I was in there with. But I do remember that I was there — and so was his body.

People always say “it doesn’t look like them.”

For you maybe. Not for me.

For me it did.

He looked like he might just wake up and say hi.

I went over, crying of course, and said my goodbyes. I put my arm around him and held him one last time. He was so cold. And colder still was the kiss I gave him on his forehead.

That was the moment of realisation, I think. The final knowing. He was definitely gone.

And that’s as much as I have to share about that.

And that is where this part draws to a close.

This was my first real experience of loss through death.

I’d known loss before, but never anything this close to home. And it changed me. It shaped me in ways I still don’t fully understand.

I can’t tell you exactly how, but I know this: I was never the same after losing Munch.

I don’t know when or how, but this led to me moving back to Southampton.

I don’t know the order of things. It’s all mixed up in my head. No real clear memories of moving. There’s even a chance I ended up back with my ex in Northampton and some of the memories I’ve written might be muddled with that. Maybe. Maybe not. I just don’t know.

What I do know is my mum was in pieces. I remember hearing her sobbing, broken apart, and feeling that pain just from the sound of it.

And I knew I had to go back and be there for her as best as I could.

And that’s what happened.

In the early days after Munch passed, several of his friends — and maybe some family too — all had the same kind of dream.

Munch was there, screaming to be seen and heard, but no one could see him.

I dreamt it more than once myself. In those dreams he was so upset — desperate, in fact — desperate for someone to notice him, to reach him, to see him. It was horrible to experience, over and over.

Looking back now, I believe it was because of the way he was taken. So sudden, so brutal, so unexpected. Like he hadn’t realised himself that he had slipped away. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t pass over easily at first — caught between here and there, still fighting to be seen.

But over time, the dreams changed. They shifted from the desperation of him screaming to be seen, to something gentler.

I’ve had a few dreams since where Munch has visited me, and my sister has told me of hers too — of him coming back to see her. In those dreams he isn’t frantic or lost. He’s calm, at peace.There’s a quiet comfort in those dreams, even if it always comes mixed with the sting of waking up and remembering he’s still gone.

And then there was the funeral.

It was a good turnout, a nice send-off for him, even if it came four months late. We could have buried him sooner, but it would have been without his brain, and the family made the decision to wait.

I remember him coming to Mum’s one last time — his casket placed in the living room. I remember carrying that casket, and I remember watching it lowered into the ground. He was huge by the way — 6 foot 5, give or take — so even the box that held him carried that presence.

One of his best friends played Swing Life Away on his acoustic guitar, and we all sang the words to one of Munch’s favourite songs, from one of his favourite bands. After that came the wake — a few beers, and a ceremonial spliff or two.

And that was goodbye to Munch.

But it wasn’t the only goodbye. The same friend who played the guitar also organised a music event in his memory — Munchfest. He did it to help raise money for the cost of the funeral. Bless him for that. It was a good turnout too, and it wasn’t the only one. There were a couple of those events under the same name, each one a gathering of people who loved him, keeping his memory alive with music.

And that’s where this chapter ends.

Next, we revisit the return to Southampton and all that it held — another move, another chapter.

Some people say things get worse before they get better. But for me, looking back, it feels very much the other way around.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 7 – part three - Blurry Nights in Amsterdam

My friend offered to take us on a city break. He knew I was partial to a spliff, and I’m not sure if that played a part in the decision on where to go — probably a small part at least — but also the culture, I’d imagine. Not for me, but for him. For me it was enough that he suggested it, and I was looking forward to it the moment it was planned.

I was excited to go to Amsterdam. Of course I was — drugs! The thought of sitting in a café, smoking weed openly, was the most exciting part for me. But it wasn’t the only thing I enjoyed.

I remember the waiting — the anticipation of the flight, though only through a photograph now. I remember getting a train from the airport into the city. In my memory the train feels really high up, almost like it could have been double-decker — maybe it was. I can picture myself in the station, then stepping out into the city itself.

Amsterdam was beautiful. Bicycles everywhere, weaving through streets and bridges that arched over the canals. The tall, narrow buildings leaning together as if they needed each other to stay upright. The weather wasn’t great, but that didn’t matter. The place itself was alive.

And then there was the café. My first real experience of sitting abroad with a coffee and a pastry, just watching the world go by. It was simple, but it stuck with me. I’ve never fallen out of love with that feeling, and to this day, whenever I travel, I make sure to find a café, sit outside, and just watch life happen around me. It never fails. Pure bliss.

I remember walking into the first coffee shop. We planned to try a few different ones as there were different styles, but the first one stands out. I bought my first pre-rolled joint. It felt bizarre — buying drugs over the counter and then sitting right there in the same building to smoke it. I lapped up every second. It wasn’t long before I was stoned as fuck.

I also remember the beer. They had a different glass for each one, and I tried a few — darks, blondes, some short and round, some taller. And yes, I’m still talking about the lagers and beers. They were mostly stronger than back home, served in smaller glasses instead of the pints I was used to. You could still get pints, I’m sure, and the standard lagers, but I wanted to try new drinks. It reminded me of when I’d developed a taste for ales in Northampton — this felt like another tasting session. I loved it.

At some point I walked through the Red Light District. The atmosphere was surreal — neon lights, women in windows, groups of tourists wandering as if it were some kind of attraction. I never went into a peep show or paid for a sex worker. That’s never been my idea of fun, and it hasn’t changed since. I passed through, curious, but it wasn’t for me.

But of course, this was Amsterdam, and for me at that age, that meant weed and more. One night we decided to take mushrooms. At first it was fun — trippy, giggly, strange. We got a tray each with a handful of mushrooms in each. I just smashed the whole tray without a second thought. I don’t know why. Maybe because I thought more meant better, maybe because I was showing off. Or perhaps I was just an idiot. I’d have to opt for all of the above at a guess this far after the event.

It hit me hard eventually. The intensity steadily evolved until reality certainly changed! It was So intense that at one point I thought I was dead. My friend was telling me it would be okay. In my head I twisted that into something else — that he was telling me it was okay that I was dead, that I should just accept it and go with it.

The trip didn’t calm down. It got worse and worse. I couldn’t handle it. I made him call an ambulance. I remember flashes — the panic, the lights, feeling like my life was over. And the paramedics seeming completely unfazed by it all!

And then, in the middle of it, something else. A memory I still can’t quite place. He was in his underwear. He was a bit too close for comfort and I remember either pushing him away or moving away from him. I don’t remember anything happening beyond that — but something about it has never sat right with me.

The next morning I broke down. I cried. I told him what I remembered, what I felt. He cried too. He left the hotel room with a plastic bag and dropped it into a bin on the street. At the time, my mind spun with suspicion — what was in that bag? But later I told myself it was probably just the rubbish from the mushrooms, the remnants and packaging.

Even so, that night has stayed with me. I’ve tried to write it off as just a very strange, mushroom-fuelled experience. Im quite sure the underwear detail was simply him getting ready for bed — we were sharing a twin room after all. Maybe when he got close it was to try and comfort me while I was panicking, and I pushed him away or moved away in fear. I’ve never been able to explain it clearly, not even to myself.

But what I do know is the confusion, the fear, and the sense that something wasn’t right. I cried telling him, and he cried too. And somehow, despite all of that, we stayed friends for years after. I told myself it was the drugs, that my mind had filled in the gaps, and I just carried on.

This whole experience — that night, and the following morning in Amsterdam — has never sat right with me. And I know even writing this now, years later, probably risks that friendship. Not because I want to accuse, but because I need to be honest about the confusion and the mess that came with the way I was living.

So yes, this is a shorter part of the story. But I needed to share it because the confusion and the lack of clarity are just as much a part of my journey as anything else. This part does that perfectly — it shows how far I had fallen into a way of living where even the good times were stained with doubt, fear, and uncertainty but never enough to stop repeating them over the years!

The Lost Boy - Chapter 7 – part two - Beneath the Cracks: The Chaos

As I said in the last part, the drinking was sociable — I think, in the beginning at least. But even in the middle of all that care, The Lost Boy lingered. Never too far away, lurking in the shadows, waiting for an excuse to hit self-destruct and fuck everything up.

But here, with this friend, that was never going to be an easy feat.

As always, I’m piecing this together as I go — so bear with me, and excuse the lack of flow in the story at points. Just try to enjoy the mismatched memories and the rawness of how it unfolds.

I’m not sure how long it took before things got worse for me here, or how well I was hiding the depths of it. I can’t imagine I hid it very well, but maybe better than I believe.

My friend had a full-time job. No — a career. I won’t say what, for reasons I won’t explain, but just know this: anything I leave out isn’t to mislead. It’s either because I’ve forgotten, or because I’m protecting someone else.

Anyway — he worked. A lot. He’d be home evenings and weekends, but during the day, the house was mine. And he trusted me with that.

I took care of his home. I think. I’ve never been dirty or messy, and even within the appalling young man I was in many ways, I still carried some level of respect. And this man certainly received that respect and appreciation, on most levels.

I don’t remember looking for work at all when I was here, or having any income of my own apart from my friend’s provisions. In my head, I can’t imagine he wouldn’t have encouraged me to seek some kind of support — jobseekers, benefits, or even just pushing me to work. And I know it wouldn’t have been because he didn’t want to provide for me. If he did encourage me, it would have been because he wanted to see me move forward, to build something I didn’t believe I could. It wouldn’t have been completely selfless, but it would have been more about me than him.

But if that encouragement ever happened — I don’t remember.

What I do remember is lots of doing nothing while he was at work.

He had an Xbox. And Call of Duty. And a nice telly to play it on. And a comfy sofa to sit at.

And I sat. And I played. And I played. And I played. For hours. Most of the day.

I actually got pretty bloody good. But who wouldn’t, right?

I built a group of friends that I played with regularly. The DoNks. That was our clan tag. Haha — they were actually a great bunch of lads. And honestly? I loved the social aspect more than the gaming.

My friend I lived with would get up — I think we probably had breakfast together most mornings — and then once he left, I’d duck straight into the lounge. I’d drag the TV off from where it sat, pull it as close to the sofa as possible, headset over my head, controller in hand, power on.

Some of the people I gamed with were “normal” — working men with steady jobs. I don’t remember any women in our clan. But some were like me, either out of work, between jobs, or just drifting. I’m pretty sure a couple were signed off permanently — disabled, or at least pretending to be.

Didn’t matter to me. They were still a great group at the time.

They were my friends. I may not have met them in person, but that didn’t matter. We laughed so hard together, and the excitement I felt playing that game was awesome. Honestly — it became my full-time job, I can’t lie.

One of the guys I met online, I still speak to now. There used to be more, but over time we just sort of lost contact. One of them got locked up for armed robbery, and I later heard he had taken his own life. He was a nice guy. I was so surprised when I found out what he had done.

And yes, he may have committed armed robbery — but it didn’t change the person I knew. Polite, well-mannered, respectful. He even went out of his way to meet up with my younger brother once. I’m pretty sure I met him too, briefly, but that’s one of those hazy memories that might have been imagined.

The guy I still speak to is an American bloke from Illinois, who I honestly consider a brother at this point. Like a few of my closest friends, we don’t talk very often at all — but most years, at least once, we’ll touch base and share how we’re doing and what our journeys have held.

I’ve not always told him everything, of course, but enough that he knew who I really was. Our lives have mirrored one another’s at times, though not with the addiction side of things. He is a great father, who works so hard and has fought tooth and nail for his children — both around the same ages as my two youngest.

I’ve really admired him and his strength, and it has given me something to look up to, even if only through messages and the occasional phone call.

If you’re reading this — thank you, brother. You’ve done more than you will ever know, just by sharing your story and by being you.

⸻

Well, the niceties — now to the shit that was “hidden” beneath it. The drinking.

Looking back now, this is where the drinking started to become a little more serious. Don’t get me wrong, I’d drank heavily before, as I’ve already shared, but here it turned from heavy drinking into an attempt to hide it.

I don’t know how often, but I remember it being regular enough that now I can see it wasn’t good. At the time you could get 6 cans for £5 — cans of Stella. Not the strong Stella, but some other version, the 4% stuff if I remember rightly.

I must have had some money from somewhere, which is why I think I must have been signing on, because there’s no way my friends would have funded that. It probably started on dole day, and then maybe a couple of days after, before a break until more money came in.

The routine was the same: my friend would leave, I’d head into the lounge, TV pulled close, headset on, controller in hand, power on. Then sometime in the morning, I’d take a quick trip to the off-licence less than a five-minute walk up the road. Six cans, and back home.

I’d make sure the cans were gone by the time he got home — rubbish hidden, everything cleaned up, as if it hadn’t happened. What a fucking idiot. Me, I mean. How wouldn’t he know? I must have stunk. There’s no way he couldn’t have noticed. But I don’t remember him ever challenging me.

There were even a couple of times I broke his trust. He had a coin jar, mostly £1 coins with others mixed in. He’d given me coins from it before, but there were times when I didn’t have money and I was going to drink anyway. So I helped myself.

Another one of those shame-filled moments that might not sound like much to some, but to me it’s monumental. So much so that I’ve never forgotten it. And so much so that I’ve carried the shame and sorrow inside me ever since — but not enough that I’ve ever told him.

If you’re reading this, I’m sorry.

⸻

There are a couple of incidents I remember from this time around my drinking.

One time, he had a friend visiting and took us out for lunch — a nice place just around the corner. I remember eating salmon. And I remember drinking wine. I remember the seating area, the atmosphere. And that’s it. The next thing I remember is stumbling home, pissed as fuck. Later, when sober, I was very apologetic.

It’s still an odd memory because I don’t recall drinking that much. Just a few glasses of wine. And if I was getting drunk, I don’t understand why he would have kept bringing me more. But I’ll just put that down to poor memory and me being persuasive. If I wanted something enough back then, I wouldn’t let up until I got it.

All the same, I felt like I had shown him up in front of his friend. And maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. Maybe they were pissed too and just laughed it off.

The other memory I have is less of my own and more of what he told me later. We had both been drinking, I think. Me heavily. He said we passed out, and he woke up to find me stood at the end of the sofa, dick in hand, pissing on the arm of his sofa — and giving him a golden shower in the process.

At the time we laughed. But looking back now, I feel what I should have felt then. Shame. Disgust. The truth is, it was out of hand. My drinking was beyond unhealthy. And in reality, it always had been — at least whenever the means allowed.

⸻

It wasn’t always messy — but the times it was, were too much. And as much as the drinking wasn’t constant, it was still an issue. I preferred being drunk to being sober, and if the money had allowed, I’m sure there would have been a lot more of it.

Well that closes this part as the next section deserves is one part even if it’s one small weekend on the whole chapter of Birmingham !

The Lost Boy - Chapter 7 – part one - When Care Meets Chaos

I vaguely remember being collected. It’s hazy — so hazy I’m not even sure if it’s a memory or just my mind stitching the pieces together. But I know there was a phone call. And I know that when I needed someone, he was the one who showed up.

This friend was someone I could rely on. Always there to support me if he could. And truthfully, I don’t think that would be any different if I picked up the phone and called him now — even though, for reasons I can’t quite explain, we haven’t spoken much these past couple of years.

I met him when I was young. He’d been there when I was locked up in young offenders, helping me through some heavy things, teaching me how to sit with my anger instead of just exploding. He helped me start to understand where it came from. That wasn’t a small thing — it was the beginning of me seeing myself differently. Over the years we stayed friends. Sometimes we’d talk loads, sometimes not at all, but whenever we did it always felt like picking up where we left off. No judgment, no awkwardness.

After supporting me through my breakdown — whatever that was really about — he came to collect me. I think I remember grabbing a few belongings before the drive to his place.

He lived alone in a three-bed terrace in Birmingham. A bit of a Tardis, to be fair. From the outside it looked like nothing special, but inside it opened up into something more. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was solid. Comfortable. This man had his shit together — a good career, a lovely home, and a way of making anyone who knew him feel lucky to call him a friend. He was the sort of person who’d go above and beyond without ever making it feel like a big deal.

The house had three bedrooms: one for him, a box room he used as an office, and the guest room — which instantly became mine. Downstairs was a cosy living room, dining room, kitchen, and then out back, a huge overgrown garden.

He did everything he could to make me feel comfortable, to make me feel at home. And I did. I’ll never forget one thing in particular — it told me everything about how he saw me being there. Early on, he took me out to buy a brand-new mattress for the room. Not a cheap one, either. He spent what, to me, felt like a small fortune. And fuck, was it comfortable. That small act told me straight away this wasn’t just “crash here until you sort yourself out.” It was: this is your room now. This is home.

And that wasn’t all.

Not long after, he took me to the dentist. At that point I had this horrible little denture — one lonely tooth on a pink plate that sat against the roof of my mouth and made me gag every time I wore it. It had even broken somewhere along the way. I hated it.

He reassured me how good his dentist was and said, “Come on, we’ll get this sorted. It’ll look good, you’ll see.” And so we went. The first visit was moulds and a few fillings, then came the fitting. He paid the bill — just like that. I think at the time there was some vague agreement I’d pay him back one day, and I always promised myself I would, but the truth is, I never have. It’s never been spoken about since. He never asked, I never dodged — it just wasn’t who he was.

The tooth was a bridge, not an implant. Basically, the gap was filled by a tooth held in place with a pair of tiny wings cemented to the back of the teeth either side. It looked good, but it didn’t last. The dentist seemed surprised, but I knew why: I sucked my thumb.

Yep. A grown man, still sucking his thumb. Even now, every once in a while I’ll wake up and find it in my mouth — though at least these days it’s not something I choose to put there. Back then, though, that was just me: living in a friend’s guest room with a brand-new mattress, a freshly fitted bridge, and still sucking my thumb.

And he didn’t stop there. With the generosity.

He signed me up to the gym round the corner — and of course, he paid for that too. On the surface it probably looked like I was just taking him for a ride, letting him bankroll me. But it wasn’t like that. He was just that generous, that kind. I did enjoy being taken care of, I won’t lie. It felt good to have someone putting things in place for me when I didn’t have the energy or the means to do it myself. But at the same time, there was guilt there too. Not enough to say no, though — and not that he would have let me. Once he’d made his mind up to help, there was no arguing with him.

It wasn’t just the big things either. Life with him also had a rhythm to it — simple, grounding, and good. We’d go to the local cinema now and then, have meals out, order the odd takeaway. But one thing I’ll never forget — something I still smile about now — was cooking together.

We made it a ritual. We’d decide on a meal, im pretty sure we did some gordon Ramsey recipes, but they could be anything and once we had decided we would head to the shop for the ingredients, then come back and put some music on. Jack Johnson was our go-to. I’ve always loved a bit of acoustic, and his songs just set the tone perfectly.

We’d split the tasks without even needing to say much — one of us chopping, the other stirring — chatting all the while. A beer or a glass of wine in hand as the food came together. And then we’d sit down and share it, talking about how it turned out like we were our own little food critics.

They were small moments, but they were special. Safe. Human. Looking back, I realise how much they meant — and how much they showed me about what friendship really is.

This friend helped me grow, calm, and shape into a kinder version of Gareth over the years. He always showed me there was something different inside me — something I couldn’t see, or maybe didn’t want to believe in. It was like he held up a mirror, reflecting back the parts of me I didn’t even know existed, or at least never thought could exist in me. The care, the guidance, the way he never judged me — and the space he gave me to be myself, to say what I needed without fear of being condemned. That is something I’ll never forget. I carry thanks for that man in my heart, always, for what he taught me just by being who he was.

This friend was gay. Nothing ever happened between us — we were simply friends — but spending time with him did make me question my sexuality at times. And it wasn’t because I fancied him. It was more about the level of love and care he showed me, a kind of presence I wasn’t used to. I think I was attracted to that, to being seen and valued in a way I hadn’t often felt before. But with what my life had been like, it was easy to confuse feelings like that.

I never explored the idea, and I know now — as I did then — that I’m straight. Looking back, I can see it wasn’t about sexuality at all. It was about confusion, about learning to receive love in ways I hadn’t before. What I mistook for attraction was really just me learning how it feels to be cared for without judgment, and realising that it was okay to let that in.

The drink was there, yes, but in those early days it was sociable, easy. Nothing I’d call dangerous at the time. Acceptable, even.

But the truth is, even in the middle of all that love, kindness, and care — lost young Gareth was still there too. Hiding where he could, showing up where he couldn’t. That’s the part I couldn’t escape, no matter how comfortable or cared for I was. And that’s what the next chapter will touch on: how he lingered, what I managed to keep out of sight, and what I couldn’t hide at all..

The Lost Boy - Chapter 6 – part four - Barefoot in the Park

As I’ve said before, my memory from these years is hazy — and this part is one of the haziest. I don’t remember everything, and what I do remember comes in fragments. What I’ve written here are the most important pieces, and the clearest memories I still hold.

If anyone reading this was part of these times and remembers things differently, please believe me when I say: I am not lying. I am simply telling it as my memory serves me now.

⸻

As you can imagine, this became another catalyst.

By this point the drinking had started to escalate. I had money coming in with the job, and with money came freedom — and that freedom I gave to drink. One night there was a gathering with some neighbours we’d become friendly with. They were a couple with a young son, about the same age as my girlfriend’s son, and now and then we’d share drinks at their place. That evening there were five of us: me and my partner, the couple whose house it was, and a female friend of theirs.

I don’t remember much of the night — just laughter, words being thrown around, too much alcohol. The details are gone. What I do remember more clearly is that my partner went home, and I stayed behind. I ended up upstairs in an unfinished room they’d built onto the house. It had a high vaulted ceiling, an en-suite, and a bare mattress on the floor. I wasn’t in that room alone. I was there with their friend, and we were making out. We didn’t sleep together, but it went further than kissing.

The rest is hazy, but the next day — hungover and guilty — I learned my girlfriend had been told something had happened. Worse, the story relayed to her was that I had forced myself on this woman.

There was exaggeration in what was said about me. That much I know. The way it reached my girlfriend made it sound like I had violently forced myself on this woman — and that wasn’t what happened. What did happen was two people making choices they shouldn’t have, blurred by drink, and me not stopping when I should have.

I can say that now without needing to defend or deny. At the time, though, I grabbed hold of the exaggeration as if it was the whole problem. I told myself the story was unfair, that I was the victim of lies. And while yes, the story was twisted, the truth was still enough to condemn me. I had betrayed my partner. I had crossed a line.

I don’t remember the details clearly enough to tell you exactly what happened afterwards. What I do know is that I wasn’t welcome in that house anymore. And I remember the anger that rose in me toward the girl. In my mind, she had fabricated the whole story — even though she had walked into that room with me, even though her friend knew we had gone upstairs together. I felt betrayed, exposed, and humiliated.

What I didn’t give a second thought to at the time was my girlfriend’s feelings. My focus was on defending myself, blaming others, and resenting the fact that the story had come out at all.

From here, the memories blur even more. I don’t remember whether I stayed living with her straight away or not. What I think happened is that I managed to persuade her into some version of events that made it just about acceptable for her to move forward with me, to try and work through it together. But it’s also possible that the next set of events came directly out of this incident. I can’t be sure.

What I do know is that somewhere along the line, I started spending time with the next-door neighbour. She was a young woman living in her mum’s house — her mum had met someone new and was barely around. There was another lad who used to be around there too, maybe her brother or a friend. I remember him having a white German shepherd, and at that time he was seeing an escort. Strange company, strange energy. I remember the drinking, the weed, and a bit of cocaine if I’m right.

It wasn’t long before Gareth showed up again. I wasn’t there often, but the time I was there was enough. I ended up sleeping with that girl. From what I can piece together, that was the nail in the coffin for my relationship.

My memory is vague around the details — blurred like much of that time — but the few things I do remember are clear enough.

One thing I know: my girlfriend hated that neighbour. They never spoke. I don’t know what had caused the tension between them before, but it was there, and it was strong. Almost hatred. So for me to sleep with her and then go and tell my girlfriend… there’s no dressing that up. That was deliberate. That was me choosing to cause her pain.

But that was me. Not always horrible — I could be loving, funny, even gentle at times — but right at my core I carried the capability to be a cunt. And when I felt wounded or cornered, that side came out sharp and deliberate. Sleeping with the neighbour and telling my girlfriend wasn’t just weakness or drunken stupidity. It was calculated. It was me choosing to hurt her, to punish her, because I could.

The next memory I have is of standing in a park. No shoes on. Waiting for the police to arrive after a massive row with my ex-girlfriend.

I don’t remember what led up to it, no details of the argument, nothing before — just the park, bare feet on the ground, and the waiting. The police arrived, but I wasn’t arrested. Instead, a friend came to collect me. A friend from Birmingham.

That would be the next place I’d call home. The next chapter of my life. Not a long one, but a chapter all the same.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 6 – part three - Buffets, Bottles, and Breaking Points

Living with my girlfriend in Northampton… a lot of it is blurred. The timelines don’t quite match, and I have no memory of the actual moving-in day. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t one. I can’t imagine young Gareth sitting down for a proper, grown-up conversation about the situation.

I’ll tell you how I imagine it happened: I was probably there a lot already, spending days together, staying over occasionally. Then, as soon as it was even vaguely possible, I would have got my feet firmly under the table. Before anyone knew what was happening, I just… didn’t go anywhere.

Like I said, I can’t remember the details — but that’s how I picture it. And it’s not to say it was an intentional master plan. If that is how it played out, I’d have had some idea of what I was doing, sure. But mostly I’d have been floating through it, enjoying our company. There would have been a seed of “what this could become” in my mind — and I liked the idea enough to quietly manipulate it into being, rather than manifest it with any real clarity or intention.

This whole section of time is just snippets of memories — no real timeline apart from a mixed-up middle and a fucked-up end.

So let’s start with the middle.

And let’s start with the fond memories… well, sort of. The first fond one leads straight into a shitter. How about that? I have to laugh now, although at the time there was nothing funny about it.

We used to go out occasionally. I don’t think she was a big drinker, but me? I’d take any opportunity to drink and lap it up — literally. The one night that stands out, we walked into a bar/club in Northampton. It wasn’t very busy, and we hadn’t had much to drink yet, but I was definitely not sober. Well on my way.

I don’t think we stayed long, but long enough to get a drink. I was standing with her, pint in hand, when she bumped into someone she knew — a lad, smaller than me, that’s about all I remember.

“This is my boyfriend, Gareth,” she told him, nodding towards me. I did the polite thing — offered him my hand. He took it. Quick handshake… and then everything went sideways.

Before I even knew what had happened, my face met his head. Quick as you like — bang! Sharp pain, and the realisation that the little fucker had headbutted me.

He still had my hand, my other hand still holding a half-full pint glass. Headbutting him back wasn’t an option, walking away definitely wasn’t. So before even I knew what I was doing, I smashed the glass into the side of his head — ear and temple, I think. I didn’t see any blood, didn’t have time to look.

Next thing, she had me by the arm and was dragging me out before anyone knew I was involved. At 5ft nothing, she hauled me out quicker than any bouncer could, and sure enough, as we left, the bouncers were heading the other way towards the scene.

We were practically running up the road, and she’s shouting at me. Shouting. At. Me.

“What the fuck was I supposed to do? He fucking headbutted me!” I remember saying, genuinely shocked I had to explain this.

“You don’t know what you’ve done! They don’t just leave that!” she warned.

Fast forward a bit — there’s a phone call. Either the guy himself or his mates. She’s on the phone smoothing things over, apologising, telling them I was sorry. Pft. Was I fuck. In my head, I wanted him and his mates — round two, please.

Looking back, maybe she was right to be worried. Maybe they were dirty fighters. Maybe I could have been stabbed. I don’t know. What I do know is she managed to de-escalate it, nothing more came of it, and somehow we didn’t even fall out over it.

I also remember breakfast buffets. I loved a breakfast buffet. Always told myself they helped me recover — probably did help the hangover a bit, soaking up the booze and sending me into a food coma. Either way, it was a fond memory. Food always was.

We’d sometimes go to a world buffet too. Just as lush, just as coma-inducing. Thinking back, the food was probably shit, but it was all-you-can-eat for one price — and I’ve never been one to do things by halves, especially when it comes to indulgences.

There was a holiday in there somewhere as well — Sharm el Sheikh. A full week in the sun. And it was so damn hot. We’d gone in the height of their summer and even the Egyptians were struggling.

We met another family out there and got on really well with them. Me and the bloke managed to score some hash — we were chuffed with that. Smoking weed, drinking, and puffing away on shisha pipes in the evening. I’m sure I remember a water park, and we definitely swam with dolphins. There’s a picture somewhere of me getting a smooch from one — proper cheesy grin on my face.

And then there was the proposal. It wasn’t a surprise — we’d already looked at jewellery together and chosen the ring. But I remember the moment feeling really awkward. Not because I didn’t mean it, but because I felt nervous and almost silly. That probably said more than I realised at the time. I didn’t get down on one knee. Instead, I slid the ring onto her finger in some kind of ritualistic way, rather than romantically.

She had a two-year-old son. He was funny for the most part, and a right little terror for the rest. I wanted to rule a toddler with discipline — that’s what I thought was right. She preferred a calmer approach, but would sometimes let me take the lead.

Bedtimes were a nightmare. Drove me nuts. That was adult time, and he was ruining it. Selfish, insolent little shit. I never coped well with toddlers — mine or anyone else’s. I thought kids should do as they were told, no questions asked. I know where I got that from — Dad was ex-military, and even though he left when I was young, I guess some of that stayed lodged in me.

I was probably a bit rough with him at times. I’d manhandle him to where I thought he needed to be — and not gently. I did smack his bum once or twice. Not a hiding, but still not okay. Not because I’m saying smacking a child is always wrong — though it wouldn’t be my choice now — but because I did it when his mum didn’t know. She wouldn’t have been okay with that.

I’m not proud of how my parenting style has been over the years in some ways, though I did soften with each one of my own children.

He was mixed race — which didn’t and doesn’t matter — but I remember one night when I was drunk, I ended up in a conversation with his dad. I’m not racist, I can assure you… but that night, I was. I made racial slurs towards him and tore him down as a father. Another one of my lowest points — something I’ll never forget and never repeat.

The next day he got a call with an apology, but you can’t undo that sort of thing. He wasn’t confrontational at all. If he’s reading this — know that I was, and still am, truly sorry. I had no right to badmouth you the way I did. It was disgusting.

And there it is — what was supposed to be a section of fond memories turns out to be a catalogue of fond moments leading straight into shit ones. I don’t think that’s a fair reflection of the whole relationship, but it’s a fair reflection of me, and who I was at that point.

Not every bad memory came from a fond one. Some were just shit from the start — raw, real, and horrible.

There’s one that stands out because, for the most part, I didn’t see myself as abusive in this relationship. I may have shouted and screamed at times, but I never got physical and I wasn’t controlling, at least from what I remember. She was fiery herself and difficult at times, and I’m sure she’d own that now — we’ve spoken occasionally over the years, so I can say that with confidence.

I don’t remember the trigger or even the subject of this one argument, but I do remember her sitting on the sofa and me, in a fit of rage, throwing a cushion at her. She jumped back and cowered slightly before giving me a smirk. It might not sound like much, but it stuck with me. Because I really did love her, and I didn’t want to mistreat her like that — not that I ever wanted to mistreat anyone. But the fact it stayed in my memory tells me it mattered.

Another moment that’s stuck with me is me sitting with my head in my hands — I’m pretty sure I’d even hit myself in the head a couple of times in frustration. She was standing nearby, looking down at me, and mocking me:

“Look at you, you fucking weirdo!”

And she was right. It probably was a bit weird — a young man completely unable to channel his emotions into anything intelligent, trapped in the confusion of knowing what I wanted to say but not being able to express it in a way anyone else could understand. That frustration built into rage, and the head-in-hands was my way of trying to contain it.

Those moments — the cushion throw, the head in my hands, the heavy breathing that almost turned into frothing at the mouth, or breaking down into tears — they weren’t one-offs. They were relived in multiple relationships over the years. It was the same struggle every time: the inability to communicate what I felt in a way that could be understood, in a way that didn’t come across as anger and trigger an angry or defensive response, and the emotional overload that came when I failed.

I did manage to get and hold a job down whilst living with her. I started with an agency, and the company I worked for were so impressed they took me on directly. I worked in the stores department for a company that made machines to measure pollution — in a nutshell. My job was to pick parts for the engineers, check the quality of items we machined, and keep the storeroom well organised.

I loved it there. I loved the team. I felt like I belonged. I felt valued. I still carry that feeling with me now. I mattered there, for some reason — or at least I felt like I did. The job came with healthcare, a reduced-price gym membership, and a decent salary. I even got myself a nice bike through the cycle-to-work scheme.

Some days I’d cycle to work and then to the gym after; other days I’d run to work and run home. I don’t know how long I kept that routine up, but it felt like a while. I enjoyed running too — I got quite quick. My best time for 3 miles was 21 minutes, and I’ve never forgotten that.

But somewhere along the line, there was a decline. With money came freedom, and for me, freedom back then meant drinking more. I’d get a bottle of Southern Comfort and four bottles of ale, and sometimes go back out for another four in the same night. I think it was just weekends, but maybe more — I’m not sure. I am sure, though, that this was the start of the decline.

And in the same style, trend, and pattern I was threading into every section of my life — running into the next thing as I ran away from the very thing in the previous part — I started the cycle again.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 6 – part two - A Rare Kind of Normal

After not having Dad around for most of my life that I can remember, I somehow found myself living with him. I don’t remember any conversation about it, no plans being made, not even the actual move itself. One minute I’m living in Southampton, going to meet the girl from Northampton, and the next I’m in Wellingborough with my dad.

It’s strange how the mind works — how it chooses certain pieces to hold onto and locks others away entirely. But I’m learning through this process of telling my story that the mind doesn’t always keep those doors shut forever. Sometimes, just when you’re not looking for them, those “forgotten” moments come flooding back as if you’re living them again. Maybe more of the lead-up to this new living arrangement will return one day, but for now, it’s just a blank space.

What I do remember clearly is the flat. A modern two-bed, fresh and minimal, like something out of an IKEA catalogue. I liked it immediately. Dad’s a lot like me — or rather, I’m a lot like him — in the way we get drawn to new hobbies or ideas. We gather what’s needed, dream about it, and sometimes it never moves much further than that. In this flat, it was the guitars. Two of them, perfectly placed, blending into the feel of the home.

The place was clean and crisp, with a new bathroom and an open-plan kitchen and living area. Up until that point — apart from my time in foster care — I hadn’t lived anywhere that felt that nice. I was excited about this new chapter. I can’t say for sure if it was because I was away from the drugs, away from feeling lost, or because of the new love interest in my life. Maybe that part isn’t mine to remember yet. But I know I was happy. That much I remember.

One of my first clear memories there was opening a new bank account. Dad took me into town and walked me through the process. I don’t remember the specifics of what was needed, but the moment mattered. It felt like bonding — like finally getting the help from my dad I’d always wanted. And it didn’t matter that I was an adult by then. That small act meant more to me than I could put into words at the time. It’s only now, with this new view of things, that I can see just how much it meant.

Whilst living here, I got a job. I’d had a few by then, but this one sticks in my mind because it was nights — and I vowed, right there and then, to never work nights again. Fuck that. I don’t sleep well during the day at the best of times, so the whole thing just left me permanently tired.

I can’t tell you how long I lasted in that role, but I do remember the details: 12-hour night shifts, four per week, working as a CNC operative. It was mostly button-pressing and quality control — load the machine, wait, unload the machine, repeat. The nights were long, slow, and sleep-inducing. I remember having to fight to stay awake between cycles, doing whatever I could to keep my eyes open. A bit of speed would’ve helped that, I’m sure.

That’s the only job I can clearly recall from this time, but I know there were others.

The next big thing that stands out was the holiday. From what I remember, Dad had already booked it before I moved in, and then told me he’d take me along and cover the cost. Maybe there was an agreement I’d pay him back, but if there was, it never happened.

Canary Islands. Fuerteventura.

It was my first proper holiday. Up to that point, I’d only been to Ireland and Belgium — and Belgium was just for a backy run. Maybe there was somewhere else, but I don’t think so.

This one was all-inclusive, which meant I ate well… but fuck, did I drink better — or worse, depending on your point of view. I drank a lot. Woke up in the morning, ate some breakfast, and washed it down with beer. No questions asked — we were on holiday. I was in my element.

One day I went to a nude beach. I thought, I’ll give it a go. Got naked, climbed into the water… and instantly felt way more uncomfortable than I expected. Got out, got dressed, moved on swiftly. Still makes me laugh now, and honestly, I don’t think I’d feel much different if I tried it today. But at least I gave it a shot — never one to miss trying something new.

I remember having paella with Dad on the quay. And I remember something else — a bar called 7 Pints.

The deal was simple: drink seven pints in one session, get a free T-shirt. I got two. I also drank a hell of a lot more than that that night. At some point I had my face painted like Spider-Man, just for shits and giggles, and was jumping from table to table in full superhero mode. We eventually made our way to the bar — Dad probably hit his limit and went back to the hotel. Not me.

I woke up in the early hours outside the bar with nothing on my bottom half. That was… an interesting feeling. I scrambled to put my shorts back on and stumbled back to the hotel. I had my own room there. The next thing I remember is waking up and finding Dad. He told me he’d been knocking on my door for ages that morning, worried because he didn’t know where I was. We laughed about it later, but at the time… well, I wasn’t exactly in great shape.

Pretty sure I had alcohol poisoning. I eased off the drink for the rest of the trip — not so much by choice as necessity.

Later we went back to that same bar and found out what had actually happened. After my Spider-Man stunt, I’d gone to the toilet, taken my shorts off, sat down, and passed out. They had a video. When they couldn’t wake me, they dragged me out of the cubicle, left me outside the bar after closing, and that’s exactly how I woke up.

What a mess. And yet, somehow, I was almost proud of myself — even through the embarrassment. I remember calling my new partner a couple of times, saying I couldn’t wait to get back… not just to see her, but for the normality after that drinking session

Back home, there was still drinking — but it was reasonable. Fair, even. Weekends, or nights when work didn’t follow the next day — that seemed to be Dad’s rule. I only really drank socially at home when living with him, from what I remember.

Sometimes we’d go out to town, other times we’d gather with family or neighbours. We lived in a fairly new block of flats — nice apartments, not some high-rise shithole. The neighbours were great, and everyone seemed to get on well. We’d congregate on the communal car park, which was never rammed with cars. There was a table I remember my uncle making, and I’m pretty sure there was a barbecue we used from time to time, though I can’t say for certain.

Alongside these nights out and neighbour get-togethers, we’d also meet up with Dad’s side of the family — and those gatherings always meant food and a good knees-up. Most often it was at Aunty Maddy’s. They were a great bunch, and despite not knowing them for years, I felt part of the family straight away. They were, and still are, a welcoming lot.

I hold a lot of fond memories from that time, and I’ll always look back on those evenings with warmth. This period of living with Dad was actually a relatively normal time for me. I’m not really sure what else to say about it — but it felt… normal.

And then, as always, it changed.

I don’t remember the move — I never do. One chapter seems to dissolve and the next begins without a clear handover. One minute I was settled in Dad’s flat, the next I was somewhere else entirely… living with my girlfriend.

A new home together — well, new for me — as I moved in with her.

Part 3 picks up there, with a different rhythm, a different setting, and a whole new set of lessons waiting to be learned.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 6 – part one - Greyfriars

As I mentioned at the end of Chapter 5, I’d met a girl. And somehow, somewhen, I ended up living in Northampton.

We’d spent so much time chatting online that it became its own little world. Back then, MSN Messenger was our meeting place — and the excitement it gave me was electric. I don’t recall the notification that would show when a new message came through, but I do remember the names of people online and the ones offline being underneath and separate, and I do remember the excitement of logging in and seeing her name in the list above!!

There was a strange comfort to it — that little rectangle on a screen becoming the doorway to connection. I’d wait for her to type back, and I’m not sure, but I think MSN would show “so-and-so is typing” at the bottom of the chat window. Sometimes it was light, flirty back-and-forth. Sometimes it was deeper, about where we’d been in life, what we wanted next. The fact she had a job and a two-year-old son meant her time was limited, but I’d take whatever I could get. Every conversation felt like a thread being pulled tighter between us, one late-night message at a time.

Eventually, the talk turned into plans, and the plans turned into me booking a coach to Northampton.

I can still remember that journey: the low hum of the engine, my legs bouncing, and my reflection in the window — not because I was vain, but because I was nervous. At the time, I was missing one of my front teeth from that fight I spoke about earlier — the one where my brother got arrested.

And as I write this now, I’ve just remembered the day after it happened. I went out looking for my tooth — or any clue at all about what had gone on. I’d told myself I’d probably fallen and hit my mouth on a curb, knocking the tooth clean through my lip and ripping it out root and all. I went searching along the street, scanning the ground like I might just spot it lying there, but of course I never found it. The truth of how it came out was as missing as the tooth itself.

Smiling had since become an art form, my top lip curling over just enough to hide the gap, or my hand casually covering my mouth when I laughed.

Aside from that, I felt alright about my appearance. I’d dropped a lot of weight from my heaviest days — some of it thanks to that last speed binge, which left me slim but not exactly healthy.

And writing this now, another speed binge comes to mind — not that one, but one all the way back to after prison. I won’t go into the full details, but there was a whole part of that chapter with its own speed-fuelled side story. I was sponging off whoever I could, and when I could, I’d fund it myself. Speed was cheap and had real bang-for-buck value, and some people were more than happy to share. It was a blur of wired nights, buzzing conversations, and the gnawing edge of come-downs, all stitched into that period of my life like its own messy subplot. Still, by the time I got on that coach to Northampton, I’d left that one behind.

When the coach rolled into Northampton, the first thing I noticed was this massive, ugly brick building — Greyfriars. I didn’t remember the name at the time, but I had to look it up, and when I saw the name and the picture of the building online, the memory became even clearer. I hung back while the pushy ones got their stuff from the undercarriage first, watching them yank at bags and drag cases onto the pavement. The smell of exhaust fumes mixed with cigarette smoke hung in the air, sharp and heavy, clinging to the back of my throat.

I stood there for a moment, bag finally in hand, not quite sure which way to turn. People hurried past with the kind of focus that makes you feel like the only one without a destination. I remember scanning the faces, my mind flicking between excitement and a gnawing self-consciousness about my missing tooth. And then — as if someone had skipped a scene — I was sat in her car.

The plan was to spend a couple of days with her, then head to my dad’s for a bit, and then back to hers before returning home to Southampton. But even in those first hours, I sensed a shift. She was polite, friendly — but distant. At some point, she suggested I either head to my dad’s earlier or stay there longer. Whether it was nerves, second thoughts, or just not feeling the spark, I couldn’t say at the time. But it felt off. She’d later confess that she thought I looked weird. Not ugly, not physically unattractive — at least I don’t think — but I got the gist she meant the nerves I carried made me look off, awkward, and that in turn had put her off.

That feeling must have been worked through somehow, because this Northampton chapter would end up lasting around two years. I did spend some time with my dad that trip — or at least, I know I must have.

It’s strange though, because I can’t pull that visit back at all. I know I ended up living with Dad for a bit before living with this girl, so that discussion must have happened — or at least been approached — somewhere around here. I remember little bits and bobs from that time, but not seeing him on that particular visit. It’s an odd feeling, almost like the absence in my memory is heavier than the presence would have been.

The last clear memory I have of speaking to Dad before all this was years earlier, maybe when I was about sixteen. I’d been drinking, and I was on the phone — my brother might have been there, or my sister-in-law, my eldest brother’s wife. I’m pretty sure I was at my brother’s in-laws’ house when it happened. Dad was trying to tell me what I shouldn’t do, and I gave him a short, sharp “fuck off,” something about him not getting that privilege after being absent for years. I remember him going quiet — shutting up, or maybe shutting down. And I’ve noticed he’s never really tried to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do since. Instead, he makes suggestions, and I respect him for that.

I’m not sure how this led to me living there fully. I don’t know how long I went to Southampton for before returning — or even if I did. I don’t remember the conversations around me deciding to stay, and for some reason there’s a real pattern to that. Rarely a clear memory of those huge moments that shaped my life, as if they were just another day for a lost boy running from one place to another.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 5 – part four- Internet Addiction!

Now, it may be a bit extreme to call this an addiction, but in terms of escape — it served the same purpose. The moment I sat in front of that screen, I was away. Mentally gone. Somewhere else entirely. And in that world, I was able to present a version of myself I liked.

I’m not saying I wasn’t myself — but I could certainly hide the bits I didn’t like so much from the ones I chatted to online.

It started with chat rooms. Endless ones. Different platforms, usernames, conversations. The attention felt good. The disconnection from real life felt even better. I became someone else — or rather, a filtered version of myself. Sharper. Wittier. More confident. The kind of person I wished I could be face-to-face.

And then came online porn. That, too, took hold. The more time I spent scrolling and scouring, the more absurd the searches became. It’s not the biggest part of this chapter, but it deserves mention. It was part of the spiral. A different kind of hit. A private escape.

Maybe someone reading this will relate. Maybe it’s just something I need to get off my chest. Probably both.

But either way — this was another phase of escape. Another attempt to lose myself.

As with the speed, this ran parallel with that whole section. I’d spend time online, time getting high, time socialising. As one would decrease, the other would take over. And that happened in a particular order — first the friends and partying, then the speed days, and then merging into internet life.

And it wouldn’t be long before the online world led to something more real… or at least something that felt like it. Connections with real people. Or people I thought were real. They weren’t always.

I hadn’t heard the term "catfish" until years later — but that definitely happened to me. Maybe more than once.

There were a few online relationships I formed that meant something to me. One was with this girl, Claire. Looking back, that wasn’t her name. Chances are she wasn’t even a woman — but I don’t know. What I do know is I spent hours chatting to her.

We met in a chat room but moved to MSN. Ha — MSN! That’s funny thinking back.

She told me she lived in London, had two kids, and relationship issues with her mum. She smoked weed. That was an instant connection that I liked. I would get so excited about speaking with her — sharing our days, experiences, what shit was going on, and of course getting to know one another. It never seemed to end.

I really liked her. So much.

But one day she just disappeared. I’d tried to speak to her on webcam, but she always hid — even if she did put the camera on. I think the most I ever saw was a poor-quality image of a hand holding a joint — that would disappear and reappear, burning a bit brighter each time.

I was so hurt when she left. Devastated. I searched and scoured for her all over the place — every chat room I thought I might find her in. It took me so long to accept that loss.

Crazy, isn’t it?

But it was so real to me.

There was another one I met, and we got on well. She stood me up the first time we were supposed to meet. I was so fucked off — but not enough to stop chatting and try again. We met the second time. I travelled to her, she met me, and I went and stayed at hers for a couple of days.

I remember going to Asda, and her buying some bits for me to cook us dinner. Nothing special — pasta with some jar sauce. I thought that was great though. How embarrassing looking back. She seemed happy enough. She had two kids.

I’m not sure how many times we met, but we were seeing each other for a bit. I don’t even know how that ended — but it did. She ended up with one of my friends, which I found strange but didn’t really think too deeply about.

And then there was the one I moved away to live with.

It didn’t quite go like that, mind you!

This one was lush. The chats we had were like the ones with Claire — that same excitement. I remember meeting this one in a chat room. I’m pretty sure she spoke to me first, which was so rare for chat rooms — it was normally the lads chasing hard!

She commented on my username: drunkenmonkey06. She said it was funny. I don’t remember the rest of the conversation, but I do remember receiving the first picture from her. I can still see that picture vividly. And how self-conscious she was about sending it.

We chatted for some time, and eventually I arranged to go and meet her. I got the coach up to the Midlands, and she happened to live near where my dad lived. On this visit, I managed to tie in a visit with my dad. We’d arranged that before I went — I’d spend a day or two with her, then with Dad, before either going back to hers or heading back down south. I’m sure it was the former, but I can’t be 100% sure.

That is actually the end of this chapter. Somewhere around here — and as is common in this story — the details around the change are very blurry. In fact, I don’t remember.

I’m not sure if I returned down south this time or not. I just know that my next strong memory — and certainly my next chapter — begins in my head directly after here.

So for now, I’ll leave it here.

The end of Southampton — and how that end came about.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 5 – part three - Speed Addiction!

This is where it began to spiral again — but in a new direction, with an old friend. Speed. Bass. Amphetamine.

I’d befriended a woman. Older than me. She had her own speed habit — full-blown — and with her came a supply. That was all it took.

From then on, things got wired. Fast.

She was seeing a friend — well, more of a friend’s brother at the time. She was in her late 30s, I think, but I’m not sure. Definitely an older woman. Much older than I was at the time.  We did get on well, and when I saw the access to drugs, we certainly got on better. There wasn’t anything romantic or sexual. Well, except for one incident — that was really just an incident. Something small happened, but it wasn’t for me. I didn’t like older women, and made that clear.

Bomb after bomb of bass. that’s how we took it, that’s stinky paste, wrapped in a rizla and swallowed with a drink. This was an odd time for me, with new behaviours stepping deeper into old ones. A bit less attractive — not that any of the behaviours were attractive.

Charity bin raiding became a regular thing. Looking for anything — clothes, forgotten treasures. I don’t know what we were doing, but it was quite fun, I’m not going to lie. As wrong as it might have been. We’d get back with our hoard, high as fuck, going through it like we’d struck gold! One man’s rubbish is another man’s treasure — certainly held some truth.

We found a desk and chair once. I remember stripping that back — taking it all apart, sanding it down and painting it. Reupholstering the chair and painting my daughter's name on it. That would be one of her gifts for Christmas that year. I know it sounds fucked up, but I was trying — and even in that mess, there were still some good intentions.

We would also sit up making dreamcatchers. I think quite a few people got one off me that year! Haha — it’s quite funny looking back. I really enjoyed it. I was high as fuck, in the zone, creating shit from junk. We would use lampshades — well, the metal ring from the top or bottom of the shade — and then wrap material around it. Using string or thread of some sort, we’d make the web, adding beads here and there. Then finishing it with various bits depending on the colour and the drug-induced ideas! They actually looked pretty good.

I met some interesting people around this time. Some wild characters. I remember one woman eating speed off a spoon like cereal. It shocked me at first, but soon — nothing really did. That was just life.

I didn’t sleep for days. Days turned into nights and back again, with no rest in between. I started hallucinating from the sleep deprivation — seeing shadows that weren’t there, feeling things crawl on my skin. I can’t remember it all, but they were very real at the time. I wasn’t scared though. I almost waited for them to start with excitement and anticipation. Like when that happened, I’d hit the real high! And being around like-minded people — or at least a like-minded person — there was no fear in sharing whatever crazy shit was being felt, seen or experienced. It was pretty wild. And definitely insane.

I wasn’t eating properly, so the weight stayed off. Ironically, this made me feel good about myself. As twisted as that is, I liked being lighter. I liked how running had started me off — but speed kept it going.

I’d binge for a few days — more if I could stretch it — then crash back at Mum’s to recover. Then once I’d rested just enough, I was off again.

This all ran alongside some of the time I was still hanging with my brother and his friends. It overlapped. Some weekends I was playing football with them. Other days I was sat in the dark, hiding the craziness from the world — but more to keep it to myself like it was a treat I didn’t want to share, than to protect the world or me. Jaw swinging. Mind racing. Trying to remember when I last ate or showered.

The rest at Mum’s after days of that was great. Getting cleaned up and sleeping for however long it took to feel normal again. I’d try to convince myself I would stay away from there as it wasn’t good for me, but I knew I was lying to myself. I’d rest, recover, chill with normal people, then go back after a few days. It was a very strange place I chose — but it was the escape I was choosing. I don’t really know now what from. Myself, maybe. Whenever I was completely off my nut, I didn’t worry about fixing myself at all. I guess that was partly behind every time I was in the height of addiction — no matter the substance. It was about relief from that constant feeling of not being as good as I should or could be.

I met some great people and some fucking weirdos along the way. And I was also probably viewed in the same light — sometimes great, other times a weirdo, I mean. Even at my worst, I still had real friendships in every group I moved through. I still speak to some of them now. But those friendships were woven into chaos — wrapped up in addiction, escape, and blurred boundaries. I think some of those connections pitied me a bit. Looked on and felt sorry for me — and probably were worried for me in some ways.

This was the speed chapter. A fast and fraying thread in the wider mess. And I was about to find a way out for a period of time. Another up-sticks-and-run moment that Gareth’s life already bore the pattern of.

Next was internet chat rooms, being drawn into online relationships — and then finding the one I chose to cling onto next. I guess we could call it the discovery of the internet… and how that led to the next chapter...

The Lost Boy - Chapter 5 – part two- Where There’s a Will There’s a Way

Spending time with my younger brother and his mates became the norm. I was 21, maybe 22. They were all 16 to 18. A strange dynamic on paper, but it worked. Maybe it was because we were all just looking for connection — a sense of belonging that didn’t care much for age or stage of life. I didn’t carry myself like an older, wiser role model — far from it. I slotted in more like one of them than someone above them. We laughed at the same things, smoked the same weed, listened to the same music. In many ways, I was looking to escape adulthood, and they were still clinging to the last moments of youth. Somewhere in the middle, we met — and for a time, it made perfect sense.

I never really saw the age difference as an issue — but why would I? It’s not like I was a very mature young adult, and their young, free lifestyles suited what I wanted for sure. It was just time with them.

My brother’s best friend’s mum had been close with my mum for years. We used to spend a lot of time round there, and I’d bum smokes off his mum. But again, it was more than that. We were all friends. Family friends. I’m still very close with some of that family now and will be for as long as I can see ahead. They’re certainly part of my extended family now.

Back to the group of friends though — we would have regular gatherings, sometimes drink-fuelled and a lot of the time not. We were a good social group and all got on really well. I have a lot of time for them all now as I did then, but life has just led us all in our own directions. However, when we meet or talk, there is still a heartfelt connection — on my part at least.

We partied. Drank when we could. Smoked weed or hash when it was around. Mostly just bummed about off friends and friends of friends — wherever the opportunity was.

There were themed nights — I remember a toga party, a "pimps and hoes" party, and being caught with one of our friends somewhere I shouldn’t have been, doing something we shouldn't have been. Especially being as she was with someone!

It wasn’t all madness though. There were quiet moments too — dossing about, playing football. I remember the long walks. Usually to a field for a kickabout or off to try and score some weed.

Computer games. Blazing. Laughing. Killing time.

Nothing too productive, but nothing too destructive either. Not yet.

But all through this point I realise now — where there's a will, there's a way. As much as the addiction wasn't massively evident in this part of the journey, it was never gone…

These memories are definitely blurred across different timelines and ages, but I add them where they sit in my mind. So if you’re reading this and you were there and I’m off — forgive me. I’m doing my best after years of drug abuse and memory battering, and also trying to block out sections I’d rather forget. Somehow my memory stepped in and took over — choosing which parts it would keep, where and why. I don’t know. Like I said earlier, it’s not that important. Just getting this out there as I remember it is what matters. Writing it down helps me make sense of it — like I’m piecing together a puzzle I didn’t realise was still in bits. Maybe someone will read this and see their own story reflected back. Maybe it helps someone feel less alone in their own chaos. But even if it doesn’t, it helps me — and that has to count for something.

During this time, I have a memory that stands out and definitely deserves a mention — one of those vivid memories that needs sharing.

I woke up and was more than fuzzy. I wasn’t even sure where I was. After a short time, I realised I was at Mum’s. This is where I realise the memories are mixed and hazy — because all throughout sharing this chapter, I’m between two houses Mum lived in, and that must be through the confusion of timelines.

Anyway — I managed to peel myself from the bed and felt more than rough. I was in pain. My face felt sore, as did my hand, and everything in between. I got up and looked in the mirror and what looked back took my breath away — but made me laugh hard.

I wasn’t laughing for long.

I looked in the mirror and saw these eyes looking back through a face that looked more than odd. My face was covered almost completely in dry blood — all cracked and crazed like an old painting up close. You know what I mean? Well, I laughed out loud. It wasn’t even fucking funny — or shouldn’t have been — but I was still half-cut.

As soon as I laughed, I saw it. The missing tooth! I covered my mouth with my hand quicker than I could think. And after repeating taking it away and putting it back up, I finally left it down long enough to actually take a proper look.

I cried. Not ashamed to admit it.

My tooth was fucking gone. And my lip was fat. On closer inspection, I could see the tooth had gone through my lip — entrance and exit hole — and the tooth all gone. I didn’t know it at this point, but the whole root had been ripped out. And my hand? Turned out to be broken too.

And that’s not where this memory stops…

I went through to Mum and showed her the aftermath of whatever the fuck had happened the night before. I remember seeing her shock at what she was looking at, and her asking again and again what the fuck had happened.

I couldn’t answer. I had no idea.

I think this conversation and attempt at remembering went on for a while. Within that, I was asked where Munch was — that’s my younger brother. I didn’t know initially. Then I had flashes of the night before.

We had been at a friend’s, drinking heavily. Started off fun, but then we left — and the air hit us, and so did all the vodka.

I — in typical drunk Gareth mode — started on some people we passed, for no reason whatsoever. I remember that much.

Then the police arrived.

I wasn’t so drunk that I didn’t know what that could mean. And in turn, it meant I had to shut the fuck up and behave — so I did. But then my brother took off with a madness. Whilst the police were there.

I tried to warn him. I tried to calm him down. The police gave ample warning before arresting him. It was too late for him, but not for me. I just kept quiet now. Watched them cart him off, and went on my way. That is my last memory of that night.

I have since spoken to someone years later who is pretty sure — when we discussed that event — he stumbled across some guy kicking me in just round the corner from where my brother was arrested. So, no real clarity… but everything pointing towards the obvious: that I’d gotten myself into some sort of fight or altercation after my brother was arrested — and likely took a heavy kicking not long after. That would explain the missing tooth, the busted hand, and the bloody mess I woke up to. It all added up, even if the memory itself never fully returned.

Resulting in a broken hand, loss of tooth, and knowing for sure — my brother was arrested. what happened after im not sure. I don't remember but we did laugh about this after that's for sure!

I’ve got loads of other memories from this time, but they’re all scattered — fragments, really. Snippets of moments, blurred scenes that all carry the same feeling. The same mess. The same Gareth — chaos either following me, or being created by me. Maybe both.

Whichever way it happened, it was real.

The next part of the story runs closely alongside this one — overlapping timelines, familiar faces — but it marks the final decline before, once again, I packed up and moved away.

I’ll save that for then…

The Lost Boy - Chapter 5 – part one- Returning to the UK

I don’t remember much about the journey itself. Again!

I just know I came back heavier than I’d ever been — about 18 stone.

I hated being heavy.

I didn’t realise how bad it had got until the weight started falling off.

It crept up on me, one pub session, one takeout, one late-night binge at a time.

I’d convinced myself it didn’t matter — that because I worked hard, I’d earned it.

Hard graft, hard life, hard body — that was the trade-off, right?

But the scales didn’t lie.

I still remember stepping on them not long before leaving Ireland.

The number staring back at me like it was screaming: Wake the fuck up.

Eighteen stone.

I looked at that screen — felt the shame flush through me — and then just… walked away.

Did nothing with it.

Because by then, I didn’t have the strength to face the truth.

And maybe that was part of it too.

When everything else is spiralling — your relationship, your money, your self-respect —

what’s one more thing out of control?

Life in Ireland had stripped me of so much, and now here I was, back in Southampton.

At first, it felt like I was trying to find my footing again — and for a short time, I did.

There was a routine that began to form: breakfast, a run, a nap, lunch, another rest, and eventually dinner.

I'd occasionally socialise with some of my younger brother's friends — all a few years younger than me, but who welcomed me in as one of them.

But the truth is, even that structure wasn’t really chosen.

I had no job. No income besides dole money, which didn’t go far.

And while I paid Mum what she asked towards living costs, it wasn’t much — but even that left me with hardly anything. I was backed into a corner.

I couldn’t be eating Mum out of house and home, and I had no way of buying much for myself.

So I cut back on food, out of necessity. And I ran, not from some great desire to get fit — but because it was free. It filled time.

I had nothing else to do.

Everyone else seemed to have somewhere to be. Jobs. School. College.

I didn’t even know many of the other jobless people.

And as for work — I didn’t go back to plastering or rendering for years.

That life was behind me, for now.

The lack of food, the movement, and the absence of alcohol or drugs — which I simply couldn’t afford — meant I began to shed weight. Slowly at first, but it came off.

I got down to about 13 and a half stone.

Mentally, I started to feel a little clearer too.

When I lost the weight, I felt great.

For the first time in a long time, I actually liked what I saw in the mirror.

Not loved — not yet — but liked.

And that was a start.

I didn’t feel invisible anymore.

Didn’t feel like the fat failure everyone expected me to be.

I felt sharp. Cleaner. Leaner. In some ways, stronger.

And I loved running.

At first, it was fucking brutal — try throwing an extra fuck-knows-how-many-kilos on your back and running three miles a day. At least.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t even smart.

But it was all I had.

My knees screamed at me to stop. Every impact sent jolts through my legs. My lungs felt like they were folding in on themselves.

I even nearly threw up a couple of times.

But I kept going.

There was something in that pain that felt right.

Like it was burning something off — not just fat, but regret. Shame. Anger.

I think a part of me hoped the punishment would count for something.

That maybe if I ran hard enough, far enough, long enough… I'd outrun the past.

Of course, it doesn’t work like that.

But for a while, it felt like it might.

But it didn’t last long.

I don’t remember much of my daughter around this time.

But I do remember the phone calls.

Coins clutched in my palm, queuing for a public phone box.

Waiting for that brief window to hear her voice.

And the call coming to an end due to the omen running out!

Mobile phones weren’t what they are now.

Internet calling wasn’t really a thing yet.

And I had no stable income.

Visits were rare — once or twice a year if that.

All I could offer her then was my voice through a phone line,

and a longing I tried not to let break me.

I remember a couple of heated conversations with her mum in that phone box. Something about money, I’m sure. But not as a means of control on her part, or want — but of need. Need for our daughter.

And all I could ever say was, "When I’ve got a job!"

Even when I did have one, nothing really changed.

It was either I gave her money, or I came to see Alisha. I couldn’t do both and live — or so I said.

Looking back, if I didn’t drink or use — whichever or both — I could have sent something.

But I wasn’t ever willing to make that sacrifice, was I?

There was grounding in some ways — Mum’s home, the familiarity of my brothers, and the early quiet mornings where I felt like I was putting myself back together.

Mum never asked too many questions.

Maybe she didn’t want to know, or maybe she already did.

We had this silent agreement — she gave me space, I gave her the bare minimum.

There was love, but it was tired love. Love that had carried me one too many times.

We got on well, but I was a proper little twat — would shout and scream if I didn’t get my own way.

I guess Mum was a victim of mine now as much as I was of hers when I was a child.

I’ve never really looked at it like that until now, writing this.

A bit of balance maybe.

Still never right!

I was a bully in many ways and I see that now.

And Mum — I am sorry.

The truth is, the stillness was only temporary.

That brief chapter of structure, however well-intentioned or accidental, couldn’t hold back the storm that was already brewing.

The drinking and drug use — the chaos of addiction, which I didn’t even recognise as addiction at the time — began creeping back in.

It wasn’t immediate, but it built.

First the socialising, then the slipping.

Soon, I’d find myself right back in it.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 4 – part four - The Breaking of The Illusion

Well… it ended.

The relationship.

The living together.

The illusion of being a family.

It was never real — not really.

More like a patchwork of duty, guilt, and survival.

A pretend family unit playing make-believe,

trying to act out a script we never believed in.

My daughter’s mum…

she must have known.

Maybe our daughter was two.

Maybe three or four.

I could try to figure it out, sit down and work it all out on a timeline —

but honestly, it doesn’t matter.

Because the when doesn’t change the why.

And it doesn’t soften the what.

Like so much of my life back then,

dates blur, details slip.

But the weight of it?

That remains sharp.

This was the part where the seams finally split.

Where we could no longer pretend.

Where the cracks became chasms and the silence… unbearable.

I don’t remember exactly what led to the end.

The final moment when “us” as a family —

living under one roof — just… ended.

But if I had to guess?

If I go by the patterns I’ve repeated since,

the way I’ve pulled back when closeness felt too close,

or sabotaged things when they felt steady…

Then yeah — I probably left. I might not have though!

But if i did it was not because I’d outgrown it.

Not because it was unbearable.

But because I thought the grass might be greener.

Or maybe because if I ended it first,

I wouldn’t have to face being the one left behind.

Control.

Or at least the illusion of it.

That’s what I was grasping for.

That tug-of-war inside me —

between “stay and make it work” and “run before it breaks” —

it had been going on a long time.

And I think back then, I didn’t know how else to live.

Even in love — or what I thought was love —

there was this constant push-pull.

I’m in, I’m out.

I want you, I don’t.

I’m leaving. No wait… I can’t.

Games, maybe.

Cat and mouse, definitely.

But they weren’t designed to hurt — not consciously.

They were just the byproduct of a broken internal compass.

Of a boy trying to become a man

without the tools, without the map,

without a bloody clue.

I wasn’t trying to manipulate.

Not in the way people think of when they hear that word.

It wasn’t cunning.

It was chaos.

I didn’t know what I was doing.

Didn’t know how to make decisions and stand in them.

Didn’t know how to love without losing myself —

or how to be alone without falling apart.

So I danced between both.

And the damage that did…

well, that’s something I still carry.

And maybe she does too.

After I left, I moved in with an electrician.

We weren’t close, not really — but we got on.

He had a room going in his apartment, and I needed space.

Space from her.

Space from being a dad.

Space from the guilt I hadn’t yet named, but was already sinking me.

Living there didn’t last long.

Not because of him.

But because of me.

Because of what I was running from… and toward.

I remember that first week —

I arrived with bags full of shit I didn’t need.

Literal stuff.

Old clothes, broken things, bits and pieces of a life I didn’t want anymore.

So we did something wild.

We loaded it all into his van,

drove to the top of a hill —

and set fire to it.

Of all places… a hill.

As if I was trying to offer my past to the wind and watch it disappear.

He had a jerry can of petrol.

We soaked the pile.

My belongings.

My history.

My mess.

Then I hesitated.

Just for a second —

a breath —

before lighting the match.

That second?

I regretted it.

Because the fumes had gathered.

And the moment the flame dropped —

boom.

A fireball.

A cinematic, full-body ignition.

I felt the heat slam into me like a warning.

It roared.

And for a second, I was inside it.

Engulfed.

It could’ve gone so wrong.

Burned me alive.

Taken more than just the pile.

But it didn’t.

It just left me… singed.

Shaken.

And marked by something I didn’t yet understand.

Looking back now, I see the symbolism.

I thought I was letting go.

Burning away what wasn’t mine to carry anymore.

But that fire didn’t release it.

It fused it to me.

Like scar tissue.

Like smoke in my lungs I couldn’t cough out.

Like some part of my past watched the flames rise and thought:

“We’re not done with you yet.”

And it followed me.

Through every move.

Every relationship.

Every night I told myself I was changing — and wasn’t.

Because fire can’t cleanse what shame refuses to let go of.

And I was still carrying it all —

ash and all.

But that fire didn’t end it.

Not the guilt.

Not the pull.

Not the madness.

Because just like that pile of shit I tried to burn away,

I wasn’t done with her either.

And the truth?

She wasn’t mine to be “done with.”

But I didn’t see it that way.

She’d started letting her hair down again —

literally.

After years of being under my control,

years of surviving the Gareth tornado,

she was finally going out again.

Being herself again.

And I couldn’t handle it.

I wasn’t with her anymore.

Didn’t want to be with her, either —

not really.

But fuck me, if someone else touched her?

No chance.

It was twisted.

Possessive.

Rage-filled.

She was finally finding some freedom,

and I was trying to chase it down like a hunter stalking prey.

The stories started surfacing.

She’d been seen out.

Laughing.

With other guys.

One name came up more than once.

And just like that —

I was on a mission.

A manhunt.

Asking around.

Trying to find him.

Trying to figure out who he was, what he looked like.

What would I have done if I found him?

I honestly don’t know.

I tell myself I wouldn’t have hurt him —

but truthfully?

I don’t know.

Because in those days,

my rage had no map.

No plan.

Just a spark and a direction.

And I was drunk most of the time —

high half the time —

angry all of the time.

And I didn’t know how to sit with loss without trying to dominate it.

Later, she told me the full story.

I had found him once.

Walked right up to him.

And he’d denied being who he was.

Flat-out denied it.

She said he laughed telling her about it afterwards.

Took the piss.

She laughed too —

but not at me.

At him.

Because she knew what I was capable of,

and he didn’t.

She told him he was lucky.

Lucky he lied.

Lucky I didn’t see through it.

And I guess he was.

Because even if I wasn’t looking for a fight…

I was still fire with legs.

And when I drank?

I was dangerous.

To others.

To myself.

To everything in my orbit.

That chapter with her should’ve been closed —

but there I was,

still trying to write footnotes in the margins.

Still acting like I had a say in who she smiled at,

after all the times I’d made her cry.

That wasn’t love.

That was control.

Jealousy.

Unhealed rage and a wounded ego dressed up as righteousness.

And I see it now.

The story wasn’t over.

Not because there was more love to give —

but because there was more truth to face.

And I still hadn’t looked in the mirror long enough to see it.

The night before I left Ireland, another catastrophic catalyst.

I don’t remember how it began —

just that it ended in a way I’ll never forget.

I’d found her, my daughter’s mum, at her friend’s house.

I knocked. She came out — reluctantly.

I don’t remember what was said.

But I remember what I did.

I threatened her.

And the threat didn’t end with words.

I slapped her.

An open hand. Round the face. Hard.

And I meant it.

It was like time stopped. Then snapped back.

Next thing I remember — I was running.

Running home, drunk, terrified I’d be arrested.

Terrified of myself, really.

What I’d done.

What I’d become.

The memory jumps again —

to the next morning.

I woke with that sick, hollow dread in my chest.

A hazy mind. A shame-filled heart.

Bit by bit, it came back to me.

I’d crossed a line I swore I never would.

I’d never laid a hand on her before —

not like that.

I’d been controlling, abusive, angry — yes.

But not actually hit her.

Until that night.

And I knew — right there and then —

I couldn’t come back from this.

Not as I was.

Not in her life.

Not in my daughter’s.

I called her.

Maybe we met. I’m not sure now.

But I remember the conversation.

And I remember the decision.

“I’m leaving.”

Not as a punishment.

Not as a way out.

But because it was the only right thing to do.

I had to go.

For her.

For our daughter.

For whatever hope I had left of becoming something else.

And I did.

That’s where this part of the story fades.

Everything after that — the move, the return to England — is another chapter.

But what came after still lives in me.

Because even after I left,

she never stopped me from being a dad.

She never held it against me.

Never made it about money.

Never stood in the way.

Despite everything I’d done.

I have nothing but respect for her.

For the mother she was.

For the woman she became.

I may have had a part in our daughter’s life,

but her mother was the one who showed up every single day.

She’s the one who deserves the credit.

I’d visit once or twice a year,

and even after all I’d done —

she put me up.

She opened her door.

Whether that was forced or chosen, I don’t know.

But I know it was grace.

And I’ll never forget it.

That’s where this chapter ends.

Not with resolution.

Not with redemption.

But with the beginning of a reckoning.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 4 – part three - Where The Damage Was Done

This is where it gets harder.

To write.

To share.

To own.

Not because I don’t remember —

but because I do.

Enough of it.

And what I do remember…

hurts.

It hurts me.

But more importantly —

it could hurt others.

I’ve shared about other people in this story —

my parents, my past, people who’ve shaped me —

but this feels different.

Because this isn’t just about being shaped.

This is about where I did the shaping.

Where my actions left marks.

Where my behaviour became someone else’s burden.

And I can’t tell that lightly.

Not now.

Not ever.

This is where my behaviour shifted.

Where I went from a confused boy

to an abusive young man.

It didn’t happen in a flash.

There was no single moment where the switch flipped.

It built.

Slowly.

Quietly.

Until it wasn’t quiet anymore.

As I began to lose control in some parts of my life,

I think I tried to take control wherever I could.

No matter what that meant.

No matter who it hurt.

And there’s another reason this part is harder to write.

It’s not just about me anymore.

It directly involves other people —

people who were affected by me,

who were hurt by my behaviour,

who didn’t ask to be part of this chaos,

but were pulled into it all the same.

Some of those wounds were deep.

Some may still be open.

And as I write, I don’t just carry my memories —

I carry a responsibility to approach this with care,

with respect,

and with gentleness.

This part will be slower.

Because before I speak some of it,

I’ll be reaching out.

Checking in.

Making sure that what I share doesn’t re-open what they’re still trying to close.

Because yes — this is my story.

But it’s also theirs.

And I won’t bulldoze through it just to get to the next page.

That consideration —

the impact on others —

is going to shape how I tell the rest of this story for a while.

And rightly so.

I’m not holding back because I’m scared to face myself.

That part I’ve already done —

and I’ll keep doing it.

But I am holding back to protect others.

To respect their privacy.

To honour their healing.

Because that’s something I didn’t do at the time.

Back then, I bulldozed through feelings,

boundaries,

people.

But now — I want to do this differently.

So this part might be slower.

More careful.

More considered.

Not because the truth isn’t coming…

but because it’s coming with love.

As with so much of this story, there are gaps.

Big ones. Small ones.

Memories that blur or stretch across years —

moments that feel stitched together from different times.

And this is no different.

I don’t remember the moment we moved out of her parents’ house.

Not clearly, anyway.

There’s no vivid memory of packing, or signing a form, or even talking about it.

Just the knowing that somehow, we were somewhere else now.

What I do remember from that time is this:

we were both going out more.

But not together.

Not that I remember.

I don’t know if she was avoiding me —

avoiding the mess I brought when I drank too much,

the arguments, the drama,

the weight of being around someone who still hadn’t grown up.

Maybe her friends didn’t like me.

Maybe they saw something she was still trying to ignore.

Or maybe we were just two people drifting,

trying to live parallel lives under the illusion of one.

I only remember fragments now.

Blurry scenes.

Nights out.

Maybe fights.

A lot of silence.

And maybe that silence is what’s left in my mind —

not because I don’t remember,

but because I’m ashamed to.

I was a teenage boy full of hormones and confusion.

She was a young mother, likely exhausted, trying to hold it all together.

I wanted sex.

She wanted peace.

It’s not that either of us were wrong for how we felt —

but the imbalance between us became another quiet wound.

One neither of us knew how to name.

I hated being rejected.

That’s how I saw it —

every cold shoulder, every turned back, every “not tonight.”

It didn’t matter what she was feeling.

To me, it was rejection.

And the truth is…

it probably was, at least partly.

She probably despised me to some extent.

Felt stuck. Trapped.

Because she was.

And I knew it.

I felt it from her — the resentment, the heaviness,

the way her eyes didn’t light up anymore when I walked in the room.

But here’s the part that hurts to admit:

I didn’t care.

Not really.

Not in the way I should have.

Not enough to stop.

Not enough to ask why.

Not enough to see her pain before I saw my own need.

Back then, it was all about what I felt.

What I wanted.

What I thought I was owed.

And that’s where the damage started.

Not in fists or fights —

but in the selfishness.

The blindness.

The choosing of my own discomfort over her right to just breathe.

I wouldn’t give up at the first no.

I’d try again.

And again.

Pushing my luck past the point of what was acceptable.

I see that now.

Back then, I dressed it up as persistence.

Told myself it was just passion, or desire, or love even.

But it wasn’t.

It was pressure.

It was a refusal to respect boundaries.

To take someone’s no and honour it, instead of twisting it

into a maybe, or a not yet, or a prove you love me.

And this wasn’t a one-off.

This wasn’t something that happened in just that relationship.

It was a pattern.

Something I carried —

into almost every relationship that followed.

I didn’t know how to handle rejection.

So I’d push.

Manipulate.

Try to make them feel guilty.

Try to make myself feel wanted again.

And underneath it all…

was fear.

Fear of not being enough.

Fear of being unwanted.

Fear of abandonment.

But fear isn’t an excuse.

And I need to say that clearly now —

so that no one reading this gets confused:

It wasn’t okay.

Not then.

Not ever.

And I’m not telling it to justify anything.

I’m telling it because it’s true.

Because naming it is part of making sure it ends with me.

But the truth is, that was just part of it.

The pushing, the pressure —

it lived alongside something else.

Anger.

Real, venomous anger.

And not the kind that flares and fizzles.

The kind that simmers.

I’d become controlling.

Accusing.

Suspicious.

Shouting.

Name-calling.

Throwing around labels and insults that didn’t fit —

didn’t belong to her —

but came flying from my own pain, my own shame, my own broken edges.

I belittled her.

I know I did.

Even if I can’t recall every word, I know that energy.

The look on her face.

The way the room felt when I raised my voice.

And it hurts that I can’t remember it all clearly.

Part of me feels like I should.

Like I owe it to her — to all of them —

to remember it all in perfect detail.

To line it up and name every blow, every bruise, every word.

But I can’t.

Some of it is blank.

Merged. Blurred.

Lost in the haze of alcohol, and immaturity, and whatever else I was using to numb myself.

Still… I know this much:

I was angry.

I was controlling.

I was demeaning.

I’m sure I made digs about the house, the mess, the lack of cleaning —

as if that ever mattered more than kindness.

And I know this escalated.

That part I feel in my bones.

Even if I can’t remember every detail,

I know how the slope felt beneath my feet —

slippery, dark, and only going one way.

And all the while…

she was forgotten.

By me.

Maybe by everyone around us.

My daughter’s mum.

Still just a teenager.

Still trying to hold it together.

The mother of my child.

The victim of Gareth’s first truly abusive relationship.

And that’s what it was.

Abuse.

Not just pain.

Not just dysfunction.

Abuse.

And I was the cause.

I don’t know how long we lived there.

A year, maybe. Give or take.

It’s blurry — like a lot of this chapter.

By this point, I was working for someone new.

Still on the tools, but this time it was rendering more than plastering.

Hard work. Dirty work.

But it paid well, and I wanted good money.

Felt like I needed it — for us, for her, for our daughter. But also for me, enough o lay what I had to and have enough for myself. Not extra for them.

My boss owned a few properties.

And when one became vacant — a nice three-bed with two living areas,

a kitchen-diner, a decent garden —

I jumped at it.

I don’t remember how it all played out.

Just that we moved in.

And somewhere in the fog, I’ve got a funny feeling

there was another house in between.

Another stop along the way.

But that one doesn’t feel important to the story —

at least not from where I stand now.

And if that feels wrong to someone else involved —

if that house meant more to them than I remember —

then I’m sorry.

Truly.

This isn’t me erasing anything on purpose.

It’s just me telling the truth as I know it.

As I remember it.

This whole journey — this story I’m sharing —

it’s not about perfect recollection.

It’s about owning what I do remember.

And honouring the weight of that,

even when the details go missing.

Because memory’s like that, especially when it’s wrapped in trauma.

So if parts are missing,

if something gets left out that shouldn’t have been —

please know it’s not out of disrespect.

I’m not skipping over your truth.

I’m just trying to stay grounded in mine.

That house should’ve been a fresh start.

But it wasn’t.

Not really.

By the time we moved in, things between us were already strained.

I was angry — always angry.

And she was tired.

Tired of me.

Tired of trying.

Tired of being the one who had to hold it all together.

I didn’t see it then — not clearly —

but now I know:

She was surviving me.

I thought I was building a life.

But I was building a cage.

For all of us.

And no matter how many bedrooms we had,

how nice the kitchen was,

or how well the garden caught the sun…

It wasn’t home.

Not for her.

Not for me.

Not even for our daughter, really.

Because the walls carried our tension.

The floors held our fights.

And the silence… that said more than words ever could.

Around this time, the drugs were back.

Maybe they never really left —

not since I’d walked away from the church.

The hash, at least, had always lingered in the background.

But now?

It was more than that.

Almost every week, I’d buy an ounce of hash —

and a bag of coke to go with it.

It became routine.

I’d sit up in the spare room,

snorting lines and playing computer games,

sometimes with mates, sometimes alone.

Either way, I was locked in my own little world —

and nobody else really existed there.

She didn’t know about the coke.

Only the hash.

And even that?

She never really said much.

Looking back, I wonder if she felt there was even any point.

What could she say to someone like me back then?

I wouldn’t have fucking listened.

Not really.

That’s what hurts now.

Because I can’t remember ever being asked to stop.

And I can’t remember ever offering to.

Not for her.

Not for my daughter.

Not even for myself.

It was just part of who I’d become —

this storm of addiction, anger, and control.

And she lived with it.

Silently, mostly.

Because speaking up would’ve meant conflict.

And conflict with me wasn’t something you wanted.

That’s the truth I’m sitting with now.

I wasn’t just using.

I was using people up, too.

I remember one night we went out together —

her, me, and the family she worked for.

An Italian family.

Warm, loud, generous.

But I was a mess.

I got so drunk,

flirting openly with one of the new girls they’d just hired —

right in front of her.

She saw it.

She knew.

And I knew she knew.

But still, that night —

when we got home —

I went back out.

And I cheated on her.

That wasn’t the first time.

By then, we were barely even pretending.

I didn’t want to be there anymore.

Not really.

And I know now she didn’t either.

We were done —

but dragging ourselves along anyway,

because somewhere deep down

we both thought we had to.

For the child.

For the image.

For the lie that staying together meant we were doing the right thing.

But it wasn’t noble.

It wasn’t brave.

It wasn’t love.

It was fear.

It was shame.

It was control, dressed up as loyalty.

I wasn’t doing it for her.

I wasn’t doing it for our daughter.

I was doing it for me —

for the mask,

for the illusion that I was a good man doing the good thing.

But I wasn’t.

I was a boy in a man’s role,

hurting people while trying to look like I had it together.

And that’s where this part ends.

Because what came next —

the break-up, the unraveling,

and the fallout that followed —

That needs its own space.

That’s Part Four.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 4 – part two - The Call That Changed Everything

Social services were involved now —

not to take me away, but to help me grow.

I’d moved again.

A different place this time — supported living for teenagers.

I was just 18.

I assume the door to the Christian house had officially closed after I refused to leave my daughter’s mum.

But I didn’t choose love.

Not really.

I chose duty.

A duty born from pain —

from the heavy silence of abandonment.

From the promise I must have made, even if I didn’t say it aloud:

“I won’t be like them. I won’t walk away.”

I didn’t know how to be a dad.

I barely knew how to be a person.

But I knew what it felt like to be left.

And I wasn’t going to do that to her —

not my daughter. Not if I had any say in it.

There’s more coming back to me now.

I had given her an ultimatum, too. My daughter’s mum.

Either she joined me at church…

or we had to end it.

I didn’t follow through with that.

I couldn’t.

Even then, I knew that love built on fear wasn’t really love at all.

This new place — the supported living home —

I loved it.

For the first time in a long time, I was being taught how to live.

Really live.

I was given a food voucher,

did my own shopping,

cooked my own meals.

I was responsible for myself again —

but this time, someone was showing me how.

It shaped me.

Grounded me.

Began stitching something stable into me that faith alone hadn’t touched.

And I remember that place clearly —

because that’s where I got the phone call.

The one that said:

“She’s coming. Your daughter is about to be born.”

I made my way to the bus stop.

Next bus to that small town.

I don’t remember the journey — not really.

It’s just blank space.

Well mostly a blank space.

Maybe some feelings —

a wave of panic,

a rush of eagerness,

just wanting to be there already.

Not for her.

For me.

Because something inside me knew —

this was about to change everything.

The next thing I remember… I’m in a car.

I don’t know if I was beside her, or behind her.

I just remember being there.

Then the hospital.

A bath was run.

She climbed in.

Contractions were coming regular now.

And then — suddenly, no warning —

she was coming.

No waiting.

No slow build.

Out the bath, into a wheelchair, down the corridor.

Straight into the labour ward.

I was doing the best I could.

Holding her hand.

Trying to stay calm.

Saying whatever words I thought might help.

And then I looked down…

What the fuck.

Her head.

I could see her head.

I cried.

Not from fear — not really.

From love.

From something bigger.

My baby was coming.

And she was nearly here.

It’s a girl!”

I broke.

But in the most beautiful way.

I had a daughter.

My own little girl.

I was actually a dad.

I was so happy.

There was this lightness, this swelling inside me.

But the truth is —

the reality didn’t land for a while.

Everything after that was a bit of a blur.

We were in the hospital for a few days.

I remember some feeds.

Late-night visits.

Being kicked out when visiting hours ended.

Bus rides back and forth.

And that’s it.

That’s what I remember.

Not the full shape of those days —

just fragments.

Feelings.

And the weight of something new settling into my life,

even if I couldn’t yet name it.

Every time I closed my eyes… her face was there.

Not just a memory —

like a vision.

Like she’d imprinted herself on the inside of my eyelids.

I was living in some kind of dream world.

It’s so hard to describe.

Impossible, really.

But if you know…

you know.

That feeling of something bigger than you —

smaller than you —

and yet somehow… made from you.

It didn’t feel real.

And yet it was the only thing that felt real.

was 18.

And her mum was still 17.

She felt the reality of it more than I did — bless her.

She carried the weight, the fear, the responsibility…

Me?

I didn’t have a fucking clue.

I was just a proud dad.

Buzzing. Grinning. Telling anyone who’d listen.

But deep down… I was still just a boy.

A naive 18-year-old lad

who didn’t know how to look after himself properly,

let alone a child.

But I was there.

And I was proud.

And at the time — I thought that was enough.

My mum lived just a stone’s throw away

from where my girlfriend lived with her family.

On paper, it should’ve worked.

But nothing about that time was simple.

There was so much going on —

tension with her family,

tension with mine,

and then us — two kids trying to figure out

how to be parents

and a “family” ourselves, in some way at least.

I don’t remember all of it.

Not even close.

But what I do remember…

was the friction.

Arguments.

Tears.

Misunderstandings.

Power struggles.

Clashes over religion.

Over christenings.

Over whose name went where on the birth certificate.

Everyone had an opinion.

Everyone had a belief.

Everyone wanted a say.

And in the middle of it all —

two teenagers with a newborn

trying to hold it together

while the walls shook around them.

Looking back now…

I feel sorry for them both.

For my daughter.

And for her mum.

What the hell had they fallen into?

Gareth and his chaos —

striking again.

But this time…

it wasn’t just me that got caught in the fallout.

Two more lives were now tangled in it.

Two more hearts.

Two more stories.

And neither of them had asked for this.

I was just going through the motions of my life.

Existing.

Surviving.

Not really thinking. Not really coping.

And I know — I know — I didn’t always cope as a dad.

I remember my daughter crying.

Screaming.

And me?

I followed suit.

I begged her to stop.

Shouted.

Cried.

Collapsed into something that felt more like a child than a parent.

I didn’t know what the fuck to do.

She just wouldn’t stop.

Wouldn’t shut up.

Wouldn’t give me a break.

And I wanted to love her through it — I really did.

But I broke.

And I shouted.

And I cried.

That wasn’t the only time.

Sometimes I was alone.

Sometimes I wasn’t.

But every time, the helplessness felt the same.

There’s a mixture, looking back.

Some really beautiful memories.

Showing her off to friends.

Pushing the pram like I was someone proud — because I was.

My little girl.

My daughter.

I loved sharing her.

Letting people see what I’d helped bring into the world.

Letting them see me as a dad —

because some part of me needed that, needed to feel like maybe I was doing okay.

But then there were the other moments.

The ones I don’t talk about much.

The ones where I was falling apart.

Where I couldn’t cope.

Where everything felt too much.

Where I was crying just as hard as she was —

and screaming at her,

not because I hated her,

but because I didn’t know what else to do.

Both are true.

Both lived side by side.

And that’s what made it so hard to understand — even for me.

We went through the motions.

Both of us, probably hiding as best as we could,

doing what we thought we should,

not because it was working —

but because we didn’t know what else to do.

I can only truly speak for myself,

even if we were both living through it.

But it felt like survival.

Not connection.

Not peace.

The issues between our families made it harder.

More than difficult, actually.

But somehow, we trudged through the shit —

until, eventually… more shit.

There was a party at my mum’s.

My brother’s birthday.

And then — hell broke loose.

A fight kicked off down the end of the road.

Some family. Some drama.

I don’t know how it started — and honestly, I didn’t care.

All I remember is the sound.

The shouting.

The chaos.

And my body already moving.

I ran into it, fists flying,

no second thought —

just instinct.

Someone was standing there, waving a bat —

a Hurley stick, maybe.

Threatening. Barking.

I went for him first.

Cracked him a good one.

Stepped onto a low wall,

launched myself toward him —

arm cocked back,

shoulder following,

all my weight driving through that one wild punch.

It was rage.

But it was also release.

That fight came with a cost.

My family suffered for it.

As we’d already learned —

an English family kicking off in a small southern Irish town,

fighting like we mattered,

was a huge fucking mistake.

They gathered.

And they retaliated.

Not against us.

Against the house.

Windows smashed through.

The front door kicked in.

Maybe graffiti — I’m not sure. That part’s blurry.

But I wasn’t there.

And apparently…

my younger siblings and my mum were terrified.

Scared for their lives.

Soon after, they left.

Got away from it all to let things settle —

and they never came back.

And honestly?

Who could blame them?

It was mental.

But me?

I wasn’t going anywhere.

Fuck that.

I wasn’t going to be bullied.

Not from the church.

Not from the town.

Not from anyone.

Even with her family hating me —

or what probably looked like hate,

but was more likely care for their daughter and sister —

they found it in themselves to take me in.

They gave me a fold-up bed in their living room.

Let me stay.

And that’s something I’ll never forget.

Ever.

That was family.

Not perfect. Not easy.

But real.

In time, we got our own place.

But looking back, I don’t think I was supposed to be there —

not officially, anyway.

I think that’s why they didn’t want my name on the birth certificate.

And looking back, I get it.

They were trying to make sure she’d get the support she needed —

especially with housing.

It wasn’t personal, even if it felt that way at the time.

But I couldn’t let it go.

I had to be on there.

Not because of ego —

but because I was her dad.

And I wasn’t going anywhere.

So I stood my ground.

Pushed for my name to be included —

and we compromised.

We gave her a double-barrelled surname.

It was a small win.

But to me, it meant everything.

It meant I was in this,

no matter how messy things were.

Things settled down eventually.

I learned to walk around without looking over my shoulder.

We lived there for a while — and that wasn’t pretty.

But that’s for the next chapter.

For now, I need to sit with this one.

To give it the respect it deserves.

And let it settle inside.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 4 – part one - The God Who Wouldn’t Speak

I was so angry.

I’d lost complete control. Rage-filled and anger-fuelled.

Spit flew from my mouth as I screamed at my brother —

“OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!”

He was on the other side, laughing at me. Mocking me.

Now, I’m sure I’d done something to lead to it.

I was probably, at the very least, partially responsible.

But I don’t remember what.

And if I’m honest, this could even be a memory from a different time entirely…

but something tells me this is where it belongs.

I don’t remember leaving England.

That whole stretch is blank.

The last clear memory is getting that bedsit — that temporary accommodation.

I was working at McDonald’s… then not working at all…

and the next thing I know —

I’m here. Screaming. Ready to kill.

That’s not an exaggeration.

I wasn’t just shouting.

I was kicking the door — full force, over and over again.

The hinges rattled. This was a solid wood front door,

and I was trying with all my 17-year-old might to burst through it —

without even touching the handle.

I can still see my brother’s face.

At first, he was laughing.

And then — that look.

The change from smugness to oh fuck.

As if he wasn’t looking at Gareth anymore,

but something else entirely.

Something demonic. Something feral.

Something ready to destroy.

And then — blank again.

I don’t remember leaving.

I don’t remember it calming down.

The next thing I recall, I’m with a Christian family.

Evangelical. Evangelistic. All-in for God.

I must’ve been to church a few times by then.

Because soon after that, I was living in a shared house

with some of the fellowship.

Ah hang on!! A memory that fits!!

I remember the ferry back.

Sixteen — maybe just turned seventeen.

I don’t know exactly. It all blurs together.

What I do remember is the buzz.

I had a couple of quid to my name. That was it.

So I did what any teenage boy with nothing and too much adrenaline would do —

I stuck it in the fruit machine.

Jackpot. £250.

Boom. Just like that — it was all mine.

I still remember the thrill.

The sound of the coins dropping — clink, clink, clink —

echoing like music.

The rush of it. The grin I couldn’t wipe off my face.

I looked around, expecting someone — anyone — to celebrate it with me.

But there was no one there.

Maybe a few looks.

Probably more at the fact a clearly not-18-year-old had just smashed the machine.

No one stopped me. No one cared.

I walked up to the counter, changed it for notes,

and then hit the ferry shop like I was a king.

Perfumes. Teddies. Gifts.

No idea who they were for, but I just wanted to give.

To have something. To be someone.

That crossing was rough.

The sea, my stomach, the high crashing down — all of it.

I ended up sick in the toilet,

falling asleep wrapped around the bowl.

My “loot” must’ve spilled into the next cubicle,

because someone got a free bottle of aftershave at least.

But I didn’t care.

It didn’t feel like I’d earned it,

so it didn’t feel like I’d lost it either.

That moment — that ferry ride —

it was one of the last times I remember feeling free before religion wrapped itself around me.

I don’t remember how I met them.

This Christian family.

But I remember them.

I remember their names. Their faces.

I remember the feeling — safe.

They gave me somewhere to land when I was lost.

Somewhere I didn’t have to fight to survive.

Somewhere warm.

They had two kids of their own — a daughter and a son.

The son… I don’t think he turned out how they’d hoped.

He was a bit of a tearaway.

Didn’t want to know what they knew.

Pushed back. Rebelled.

Maybe that’s where I fit in.

I was the one who listened.

Hung on their words.

Drank in their faith like it might fill something inside me.

And I want to be clear — I’m not knocking them.

They were a beautiful family.

They hold a sacred place in my heart even now.

Their intentions were pure. Their love was real.

And for them, maybe their beliefs were right.

I have a lot of fond memories with that family.

Moments that softened something in me.

Moments that reminded me I wasn’t just the kid who raged and ran and broke things.

One of those moments still makes me smile —

we were baking together.

Me. Baking.

In a warm kitchen with my new Christian family, apron on, hands covered in flour.

It was light. Fun.

A moment of calm I hadn’t felt in years.

They laughed with me, not at me.

And after hearing more of my story, the mum — kind eyes and a gentle spirit — said,

“You know, one day you should write your story…”

Then they joked about the title:

“From GBH to Fairy Cakes.”

And honestly? They weren’t wrong.

It is a story worth sharing.

Church became part of my every day.

No more drugs.

I’d stopped smoking hash. I wasn’t chasing chaos anymore.

I was living what they called a pure life now.

Bible studies. Prayer meetings.

Sunday morning worship — hands in the air, voices raised, bodies swaying with joy and tears.

I sang. I danced.

I held my arms to the sky and welcomed God in with everything I had.

And I felt something.

I really did.

There was magic in that place — or what felt like magic.

Spirit. Power. Peace.

I laughed. I cried.

I hung on every word, as if my salvation depended on it.

And with that came a creeping belief —

“I’m right… and everyone else is wrong.”

I didn’t see it at first.

That shift into righteousness. Into spiritual pride.

But it came.

As naturally as breathing in a room where everyone’s already exhaling the same story.

Eventually, I was baptised.

It was one of the proudest moments of my life back then.

A symbol that I was no longer who I used to be —

no longer the angry, violent, drug-smoking runaway.

I was new.

Born again.

For the next two years, this faith wasn’t just part of my life —

it was the very core of my being.

I walked everywhere with a Bible in a zipped-up leather case.

I read it on buses, on park benches, on my lunch break.

I underlined verses that cut through me,

as if God Himself was speaking directly into my mess.

Revelation 7:14 —

“These are they who have come out of great tribulation…”

That verse grabbed me by the throat the first time I read it.

I felt seen.

Like my pain had a purpose.

Like I wasn’t too far gone.

That belief kept me upright for a long time.

Some of my family even joined the church for a while.

Some hated it — hated the idea of it and everything it stood for.

I didn’t really understand that at the time.

I was proud of the ones who came.

Proud they’d chosen the right path.

And as for the ones who didn’t?

Well… I just accepted they were going to hell.

It wasn’t personal.

It was just what I’d been taught.

There was no middle ground. No grey. No maybe.

You were either saved — or lost.

Redeemed — or damned.

And I carried that belief with confidence.

Not cruelty. Just conviction.

Because back then, I truly believed I’d found the only way to God —

and that anyone who didn’t follow it was walking in darkness.

Within all of this, I learned to accept one core truth:

I was a sinner.

We all were.

Born into it. Drenched in it.

There was only one way out — one way in — and that was Jesus.

To repent. To turn away from sin. To live pure. To be washed clean.

But I never really understood it.

If we were supposed to turn from sin — to walk away from it completely —

then how could we still be sinners?

How could we be washed clean… and still be dirty?

It was a contradiction I never got my head around.

Still haven’t, if I’m honest.

But back then, I just accepted it.

“It is what it is.”

That’s what they said. That’s what I believed.

As long as I made the right choices —

as long as I repented,

knelt down,

begged for forgiveness,

and accepted Jesus as my Saviour —

I was saved.

Even if I messed up.

Even if I didn’t fully understand.

That was the deal.

And I clung to it like a lifeline.

This was the beginning of it all:

conviction and confusion, in one breath.

The start of something splitting beneath the surface —

and whether I recognised it or closed my eyes in fear of going to hell,

the cracks had begun to show.

Church.

Living in the shared house with the evangelists.

Meetings almost daily —

prayer, study, then more study, then more prayer.

“Sinner! Sinner! Sinner!”

That was the rhythm of my inner world.

That was the song they sang over my soul.

And all the while, the rest of my life was still there —

messy, confused, tangled up in this new identity I was trying to live up to.

I had parts of myself I didn’t know how to shut off —

thoughts, feelings, memories, desires —

that didn’t line up with what I was being told was holy.

I didn’t know what was wrong with me.

I just knew I had to keep repenting.

The message was clear:

“You are broken. But if you repent hard enough, often enough, Jesus will fix you.”

So I tried.

And when I couldn’t fix myself,

I called it a test of faith.

I remember one time meeting up with an old friend.

He had some hash.

And I gave in to temptation.

We found a quiet spot by the river —

my Bible open beside me,

a Rizla, some tobacco,

and a lump of hash about to be crumbled into the mix.

Disgraceful, I know.

A walking contradiction —

Scripture in one hand, sin in the other.

I think a part of me was testing something that day.

Seeing if God really was watching.

Turns out… He was.

Or at least, the Guardai were.

They appeared out of nowhere,

confiscated the hash,

gave us a telling off and a kick up the arse,

then sent us on our way.

And in my head, I heard it loud and clear:

God has spoken.

He saw me.

He intervened.

He was reminding me who I was meant to be.

But now, looking back?

There was a camera on the wall.

We’d been fucking stupid.

Not divine judgement.

Just a CCTV feed and two idiots getting caught.

But at the time…

I believed it was holy.

But deep down… something wasn’t sitting right

I slipped up once or twice — smoked some hash.

Hated myself for it.

Felt like I’d betrayed everything I’d been trying to build.

Everything they told me I should be.

And this is where I met my eldest daughter’s mother.

A real connection.

A human one.

Not one built on doctrine, but feeling.

And this is also where the church closed its door on me.

No sex before marriage.

That was the line.

The rule.

The ultimatum.

End the relationship or leave the church.

I wasn’t willing to be bullied.

Not by people who preached unconditional love —

then handed out conditions like God needed protection.

So I left.

And just like that,

the “family” I’d given everything to was gone.

I slipped back into the life I knew.

And, in a strange way, felt more comfortable in.

⸻

But that’s not the whole story.

Because there were things in that time that did serve me —

lessons, experiences, even opportunities that planted new seeds.

I enrolled on a course at the YMCA in Cork —

computer literacy, numeracy… something like that.

I don’t remember every detail,

but it felt like a second chance at school.

And this time, I belonged there.

I also got a job through one of the church members —

learning to plaster.

That was big.

It was the first time I’d picked up a trowel and thought,

Maybe I could actually do something with my hands. Something that lasts.

I started a training course to get the proper qualifications.

Apprentice-level stuff.

And before long, I was working full time.

Plastering.

Building.

Focusing.

That whole period — the course, the job, the new rhythm of life —

it calmed me.

It grounded me in a way faith never quite had.

It taught me to think more deeply,

not just about God…

but about myself.

Even if only for a while

The Lost Boy - Chapter 3 – part four - A Place of My Own

The place they gave me wasn’t truly my own.

It was a room — one of three — in a shared temporary accommodation setup. A box with a bed, thin walls, and just enough space to lie down and breathe. We shared a kitchen, bathroom, and a living room, but those spaces didn’t offer much comfort. Just strangers, occasionally.

Still, I was happy.

Not because it was anything special — but because it was mine, sort of. A proper base. Somewhere I could come back to. After bouncing between chaos and nothingness, having a key in my hand felt like something. Not freedom, maybe, but at least a door I could close behind me.

My things were scattered on the floor — not that there were many.

A few clothes, maybe a bag or two. That’s all I really remember having at first. No furniture of my own, no decorations, no sense of building a home. Just me, my emptiness, and eventually a TV. I’m not even sure where I got it from — probably some deal, a hand-me-down, or a favour. I don’t even remember watching the bloody thing. But I do remember listening to music. I don’t know how or on what though!

They told me this was a stepping stone — a chance to prove I could manage, keep myself together, and move on to a place of my own. That idea should’ve excited me. But the truth is, I didn’t think like that back then. I was impulsive, reactive. Living for whatever today would bring. I didn’t know how to build a future — only how to escape the present.

The only time I ever really looked ahead was when I was locked up.

Funny that.

When you’re caged, you dream about the world outside.

About walking free, doing better, becoming something new.

But out here, when the gates were open and the world was mine…

I still felt trapped.

Still lost.

Still using something to escape.

So there I was: not behind bars, but still not free — but freer than I’d felt for a long time.

Unsettled. High. Floating through the days, just trying not to feel too much.

I don’t remember moving-in day — not the moment the key touched my hand, not what I was wearing, or even what the weather was like. But I do remember trying to make that little box feel like mine. Like something more than just a place to exist.

I’d reconnected with my Irish mate again by then. He was around for most of this part of the journey — and not at all after it — and this memory is one of the few that stuck. I’d had the idea to decorate — not properly, but just to add a bit of something, you know? Make it feel less like a temporary bed and more like a space of my own.

We didn’t think much about it. I just said the words out loud — let’s go get a few bits — and we were off. No plan, no budget. Just two lads on a mission to B&Q or Homebase or wherever it was, walking a few minutes up the road like we had a clue what we were doing. This home wasn’t in the village I knew — it was in the town. Bigger, busier, and with it came this strange sense of stepping into a wider world. More responsibility. More eyes on me. More ways to go wrong — and unknowingly on the search for them all.

We got to the shop and started looking around. I remember being weirdly focused — like, actually looking for things that matched. I found this self-adhesive border with Chinese symbols on it. Proper early-2000s vibe. I loved it. It felt deep, even though I didn’t know what any of the symbols meant. I found a net curtain too — and maybe even some actual curtains to match. A few other bits as well, though I couldn’t tell you what they were now. But at the time, I was buzzing. I felt like I was doing something good. Something normal.

We browsed a bit longer before making our way to the exit — arms full of stuff, heads full of some half-formed idea of a better space, a cleaner life. It was a small thing, but in that moment, it felt like hope. A little flicker of it.

And then... well. That’s where this bit’s a little less innocent.

I did say we didn’t have a budget, didn’t I?
Well, no budget means no money.

We hadn’t really discussed it from what I remember, but we just walked out the shop, alarm going off behind us, and made our way home. I vaguely remember getting caught in some way, but I honestly don’t know what happened around it — because I got home with some of the stuff, if not all of it.

I only know that because I can picture myself back in that room, looking at it all up and about — the curtains hung, the border stuck around the walls. I could be wrong, but my memory says I’m not.

And there I was, in my room and alone in that memory.
High, smoking baccy mix bongs. Feeling proud of my space.
Fuck, those backy mixes hit different. I can still see the cloud of thick, yellowy smoke hanging in front of my face like a curtain. My lungs felt like they’d taken a punch. I guess they had.

That home was full of good memories, in its own messed up way. Much of the same sameness. Drug sessions with mates. Getting stoned. Swallowing pills. Laughing. Forgetting.

The bass seemed to have faded by then, thankfully. That stuff was something else — you could go for days nonstop on it. At least with pills, your serotonin ran dry eventually and sleep would finally come.

One time we were so off our heads, we stood outside as daylight broke, chucking stones at a block of flats across the canal. Seeing who could hit the windows.
Yes, people lived there.
They didn’t get a thought either.

I also remember midnight bumbles — climbing and jumping over the canal locks, peering down into the near-empty drop below as we leapt over them like kids chasing a thrill. It made our highs feel more intense. Fuck knows why. Just drug-taking idiots being drug-taking idiots, I suppose.

Not gonna lie — it was great fun at the time.

Somewhere around that time, I got a job at McDonald’s.
Don’t ask me why, but I remember it lasted six weeks. No idea how I remember the length — I just do. A number that stuck. Maybe because it felt like I was trying to do something normal. Stable. But I wasn’t ready. Not really.

I had family visit from Ireland during this time — my mum and my sister.
I don’t remember it happening at all, but my sister reminded me of it the other day.
It’s strange how memory works — what it holds, what it lets go of.
The only reason I mention it now is because I think their visit might’ve planted the first seed that eventually led me to leave. To pack up and go back to Ireland. Something shifted. Quietly. But it mattered.

I’d also gone to visit Ireland while I was living here.
Again, I don’t remember much of the trip — not what we did or where I went.
But I remember coming back.

And being told someone had overdosed in the house while I was away.

That’s when it hit me — really hit me — where I’d been living all along.
That house wasn’t just temporary accommodation.
It was a place for addicts, alcoholics, broken systems.
I was sixteen or seventeen years old, surrounded by people twice my age who were using hard.
I forgot to say that earlier. But yeah — that’s where I lived. That’s where I grew.

It wasn’t pretty.

I got my room robbed once.
By a friend. Or at least someone I thought was a friend.
That’s when I remembered I had a PlayStation up there — maybe that’s why I don’t remember watching telly. It was there more for the console than anything else. That must be how I listened to music too! Anyway.
He nicked it and sold it for a bag of smack.

I didn’t even blame him.
I did punch him, though.
Not out of rage — more out of what felt like routine. Like that’s just what you did.

And then there was the smackhead from next door who robbed my food.
I came home, opened the cupboard, saw it was bare — and caught the smell of my dinner cooking through the wall.
No way they’d spent money on food.
I knew it was mine.
So I went next door. Me and my mate both.
Found my stuff and gave them a proper beating.

Him and his missus.

He got it worst — but she got hit too, trying to defend him.
A smack in the face.
I don’t say it with pride.
I say it because it happened.
Because this is the sheer, brutal honesty of it all.

That was the life I was in.
One foot in chaos. The other already stepping out of it.
But still, I stood in that doorway a while longer.

Not every memory from that house was chaotic or wild.
Some were just dark. Not visually — but inside.

There’s one in particular I’d almost forgotten. A moment so quiet on the outside it would’ve looked like nothing to anyone else. But inside, it was violent.

I’d run myself a bath.
And I forgot I was running it.

The house had a water tank, not one of those new combi boilers, so when the tank emptied, that was it — no more hot water until it refilled and warmed up. And by the time I remembered, the bath was stone cold. And so was the tank.

I stank. I needed to wash.
But now, there was no choice — it was cold water or nothing.

I got into that freezing bath.
And something snapped inside me.

I hated myself for it. Not just the cold. Not just the mistake. But what it meant.
You can’t even run a bath properly.
What a fucking idiot.
You’re so stupid.
Who ends up having a cold bath in their own place? You absolute joke.
You can’t even look after yourself.

The voice in my head wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t let up.
It just kept going, ripping into me, over and over.
Until I broke.

I must’ve been trying to wash myself, because I remember squeezing the bar of soap so hard it bent out of shape in my hands. Then I threw it. Then picked it up and did it again. Over and over, like something inside needed to break. Or maybe I already had.

And then came the real punishment.
I started hitting myself.
Not lightly. Not a slap. But real punches.
To the head. To the face. Grabbing at my skin, pulling at my eyes, scratching and clawing and dragging the hate out of myself by force. I wanted that voice to shut the fuck up. I wanted to punish the idiot who ran the cold bath. The twat who couldn’t even get that right.

There was no one else there.
No one to stop it.
No one to see it.

Just me. And the cold. And the echo of my own rage

I know this wasn’t the only time.

The voice, the rage, the beating myself — it happened more than once. I can feel it.
But this is the only time I fully remember.
The rest… it’s there, somewhere in the fog. Half-seen, half-felt.
But that’s okay.

I only need to see it once.
Because that one time was all the times.

By looking at that moment — that cold bath, that bar of soap, those fists —
I’m looking at all of it.
All the pain. All the shame. All the forgotten versions of me that suffered in silence.

And now, when I revisit that memory…
I don’t turn away.
I don’t flinch.

I sit beside him — that boy in the cold water.
And I hold him.

I wrap my arms around him and whisper what no one ever did back then:
You’re not a joke.
You’re not broken.
You didn’t deserve that.
It’s okay.
I see you.
And I love you.

————————

I can’t remember leaving.
I don’t remember the catalyst, the decision-making, the goodbye, or even packing my things — if I even packed at all.
I just know that part of my journey ended, and I went back to Ireland.

I never made it into my own flat.
Never reached the next step they said this place was leading toward.

I just left.
Back to Ireland. Back to something — or maybe back to nothing.
But that’s for the next chapter.

And as I sit here now, recalling it,
I can already feel that chapter holding a lot.
A lot.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 3 – part three - Released But Not Free

The day I got out —
I skipped.

Honestly, I bounced out of that place like my feet were made of springs.
After everything, it was finally over.
And somehow… I managed to stay out too.
Beggars belief — but it’s true.

And waiting for me outside… was my brother.

I hadn’t seen much of him while I was inside — and I get it now.
He’d had his own shit going on. His own spot of bother.
As I was getting locked up, he was coming to the end of his own sentence.
He was trying to stay out, keep quiet, and forget that part of his own story.

I was probably the last thing he needed now.
But he still came.

And when I saw him, standing there outside the gates —
He handed me a big fat spliff.

Welcome back, little bro.

I don’t know what I was thinking.
What I had planned.
How I thought life would unfold from here.

I draw a blank when I try to remember.
And maybe that’s because… I wasn’t thinking.
I was just living again.
Back out in the world. Out of the cage. That was enough.

While I was inside, I’d reached out to an old foster family — people who’d said they’d help me when I got out.
I didn’t want to go back into the care system.
And I think they were happy to help. Maybe.
Maybe it was through the system — I’m not even sure anymore.
At nearly sixteen, I wouldn’t have been with them long through social services anyway.

All I know is, I had somewhere to land.
And at that point, that felt like everything.

And all I really remember of that time… is the collapse of it.

I was maybe two weeks into being there — if that.

Every time they went out, I’d jump straight on the phone and ring a girl in Ireland.
I’d run up the bill, thinking they wouldn’t notice.
Or maybe not caring either way.

One day, the foster dad pulled a sneaky.
He crept back into the house without me realising.
Turned out he’d been trying to call and the line was engaged — for what must’ve been over an hour.

He walked in, hung up the phone, and lost it.

I left.
That was that.

They tried to get me back — social workers, calls, probably more than I know.
But I was having none of it.

There was no way I was answering to that fuck-up I made.
And truthfully?
I didn’t want to be there anyway.

From this point on, everything gets a bit messy.

I’ve done my best to piece it together — to keep some kind of order to the timeline —
but I can’t promise it’s all in the right place.

I know I’ve said this before, but it matters to me:
the timeline might be out,
some of the stories might be misordered —
but everything I’m telling you is real.
And it’s true to my memory.

This is how I lived it.
And this is how I remember it.

That lad who first introduced me to heroin —
it was his mum who took me in next, I think.

He wasn’t around — I don’t know where he was — but I remember living there.
And I’ll never forget her help.

As much as some of our parents struggled, they all loved us.
They were doing their best at any given moment — and she was no exception.

I don’t know how long I stayed, but I was there for a little while.
And what stands out from that time —
Speed.

Amphetamine.

I’d been given a fat lump of “pink champagne” — a dry, chalky lump that had once been paste, I’d later learn.
But this was my first time.
And of course — I fucking loved it.

The high was intense. Sharp. Clean. Pure adrenaline.
I don’t think I slept for a couple of days.

I remember sitting up, wired, playing some skateboarding game until I had blisters on my thumbs.
True story.

I spent hours drawing — just scribbles, thinking I was some budding artist.
And when I did try to sleep, I’d turn the lights off…
Only to start tripping, panicking in the dark, and leaping back up to turn them on.

Fuck, that was scary.

One day, for whatever reason, I decided to go back to my old school.
I walked in like I belonged there. Somehow managed to hide the state I was in — or so I thought.
Mingled with old teachers, chatted with students I’d once sat in lessons with.

Looking back now, I don’t know how I wasn’t removed from the building.
But I wasn’t.

I don’t even remember leaving.
Don’t remember going “home.”

But I’m pretty sure that was the day the speed finally wore off.
And I finally — finally — slept.

There’s one more memory from that time.
Valium.
And alcohol.

And then — blackout.

I don’t remember much. Just snippets.
Nothing clear.
Just flashes, like half-dreams stitched together with fear.

The next day, I remember a knock at the door.
It was the police.

They said they’d been told about a break-in — and that I had something to do with it.
I didn’t remember anything clearly. I denied it.
I wasn’t lying — not exactly.
I just… didn’t know.

Looking back now, if I’m honest…
I think I did it.

But it didn’t come back to me until much later —
little flashbacks, broken fragments of a night.
Not that day. Not then.
But sometime later, when the high had long worn off and the silence had room to speak.

nothing came of it anyway.

From there, I fell in with a group of people I started taking a lot more with — more speed, more pills, more of everything really. I was getting half ounces of bass — pure amphetamine paste — and fifty pills at a time. I’d sell a few bits here and there, just enough to fund the rest. And then I’d neck the rest.

I ended up staying at one particular house most nights — maybe even living there. It was just a blur of weed, bass, pills, and chaos. We stayed stoned and high almost constantly. The highs were wild. Full-on hallucinations. Days without sleep. It was madness — and it became routine. High for days, crash, recover, repeat.

I don’t know how long that went on for. But it was long enough.

And that’s where heroin almost got me.

Over the course of about a week, I dabbled. Not once. Not twice. I think it was every day — sniffing it, smoking it. Smack. I was messing with it like it was nothing. Like it wouldn’t grab hold.

Then one day, I caught my reflection.

Just one look in the mirror — and it hit me.

I saw a version of myself I didn’t recognise. Or rather… one I did. One from a future I didn’t want to live. Something in me snapped. It was like my soul stood up and said, No. Not this road. Not now.

And that was it. That was the last time.

I never touched heroin again.

I’ve always counted my blessings when I look back at that moment.

Since then, I’ve lost people. Loved ones. Close, dear friends — including the very one who first introduced me to it.

All gone. Taken in the name of addiction. Taken by heroin.

I had more than a lucky escape — I was spared. And without that moment of clarity, that glimpse in the mirror, that nofrom deep within my soul… I honestly don’t think I’d be here now. I wouldn’t be telling this story. Wouldn’t be sharing any of this with you.

So let’s take a minute.

Let that soak in.

I know I will.

Somehow… somewhen… I found myself turning to the council, looking for social housing.

It wasn’t easy. I remember feeling like I was shouting into a void — like no one really gave a shit. But I kept pushing. Kept chasing. And eventually… something gave.

They offered me a place. Somewhere to call home.

And that marked something new.

For the first time, I felt fully responsible — for myself, for the space I lived in, for how I held it all together.

It should have been a fresh start.

But instead… it became something I ran from.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 3 – part two - Caught, Court and Caged

I don’t remember the journey to the cells.
I don’t remember the interview.
But I do remember being told I was being held overnight — that I’d be seen in court the next day.

Even then, I didn’t grasp the gravity of the situation. I still thought maybe I’d walk out, maybe get a slap on the wrist. But the next thing I remember... was court.

I was stood there, in front of the judge, thinking: How the fuck did this happen?
I must’ve had a solicitor. I must’ve had a social worker there too — I was only fifteen. But I don’t remember them. None of them stand out.

What I do remember — word for word — is what the judge said:

“You are a danger to yourself and a danger to society right now.
You have no fixed abode —”

(Abode? What the fuck does that even mean?)

“—and therefore I have no choice but to remand you in custody.
You’ll be held at Glen Parva Young Offenders Institute until your next hearing.”

That was it.
I knew now.
I was being locked up — for at least four weeks until my next court date.

They led me back down to the holding cells beneath the court. I was given food and water and left to wait for transport. I’m not sure how long I waited — maybe hours, maybe forever. But I remember when they came for me.

I hadn’t quite lost my sense of humour.

The two security officers cuffed me and began escorting me out to the van. Just as we stepped outside the courthouse, I faked a sudden lunge — like I was going to make a run for it. They jumped out of their skin. One of them swore. The other one nearly laughed.
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Even now, it still tickles me.

But the laughing stopped the moment I was locked in that sweatbox — a little cubicle in the back of the prison van, barely big enough to move. No door handle. No way out. Just one little window, just big enough to see the world slipping away behind me.
And that’s when the fear crept in.
That’s when the anxiety really set in.

It was a long, long drive to Glen Parva.

Most of my memories from Glen Parva come in snippets — just flashes —
but there are a few moments I remember with absolute clarity.

I can recall the cells.
The shared metal toilet in the corner.
The barred windows that looked out onto another wing to the left.
Shouts and banter between lads, one cell to the next, echoing across the yard.
I remember the smell of freshly cut grass drifting through the welded metal bars that reminded me, even in that moment of calm,
I wasn’t free.
It was warm — must’ve been July.

Once again, I decided to keep my head down.
And for a couple of weeks, I did.

At that age, education was mandatory. The classrooms were housed on the wing itself — second floor I think, I can’t quite remember. I was placed in maths. My cellmate was in there too.
He’d been running his mouth, telling people I was a fraggle — someone who sings or performs for others aka a victim of bullying! - and that he had me “singing out the window.”
He hadn’t.
I’m not saying I wasn’t scared in there — of course I was. But I’d have taken a kicking before singing for someone.

We sat in class. He antagonised. I ignored.
My face burned. Anger welled up inside.
The lesson ended. We had English next — same classroom.

This time, his co-D was there.
That’s what we called co-accused — someone he got locked up with.

Now it was two of them. The big fat one laughing. Egging him on.
Then my cellmate swore on his gran’s life that I’d sung for him.

That was it.
I couldn’t let that slide.

“Fuck you — your nan’s dead, you cunt.”

He lost it. Picked up his chair and launched it at me.
Before anything else could happen, I grabbed the chair by its legs and cracked it over him. Once. Twice.
Then the chair was gone.
And we were fighting.

Him in front of me.
His fat mate behind, punching me in the back of the head.
They were trying to drop me, but I wasn’t going down.
And I gave better than I got.

The teacher must’ve hit the emergency bar — it wrapped around the classroom about a metre off the floor.
A warning to the whole wing.
Seconds later, the screws came rushing in.

I knew what was coming.

I remember being dragged out the room and thrown down a set of stairs.
Then twisted up like a fucking pretzel — arms cranked so far up my back I thought they’d snap.
The pain was unreal.

I knew what the punishment was.
Two weeks on basic.

I only had three weeks left before court. If I wasn’t released, I’d be moved.
But still — I felt such injustice.
Ironic, maybe, considering where I was.

I hadn’t done anything wrong in my eyes.
I’d just stuck up for and defended myself.

Basic didn’t bother me too much though.
It just meant I had to sit and eat in my cell for two weeks.
I didn’t have any luxuries to take away.

I do remember coming off basic.

By that point, things had settled. I got pulled in to help paint some of the cells — they said Unit 15 was going to be shut down as a juvenile wing. No one that young would be housed there anymore.
Something to do with the suicide rate, I think — though I’m not sure.

For the last week before court, I had a TV in my cell.
That felt like luxury.

And I remember this one Kosovan lad — in for attempted murder.
I liked him. He looked out for me. Taught me some basic Kosovan through the pipes.
We’d talk through the heating system — one of those old setups where the pipes ran between the walls. He’d pass me the occasional smoke, slid through the small gap around the heated pipe, wrapped in paper or part of a leaflet.

Strange how a prison wall can separate you from the world —
but not from kindness.

After a few weeks, I went back to court.
This time, I wasn’t walking free.

I was sentenced to a six-month Detention and Training Order.
I didn’t know why they called it that.
All I knew was that it meant three more months inside.
No more, no less.

And weirdly — that brought relief.
After sitting on remand, wondering what would happen… not knowing how long you’ll be locked up —
that’s torture.
Worse than being locked up, even.

But still — three months felt like a lifetime away.

I was moved again.
Same name. Same number.
Duffey. DM7560 9.

Different prison: Huntercombe.

And it felt different.

I had my own cell.
It was better structured.
There were reward systems — clean cells meant jobs, and jobs meant extra spends.
Canteen day was king. We could buy little luxuries. I wasn’t old enough to smoke, so I’d order what someone else wanted and trade it for tobacco.

I remember getting muesli and UHT milk.
That was my little treat to myself.
We all had our thing.

But my favourite part of the day?
When they brought round the hot water — for tea or coffee.
We had a stash of tea bags and coffee sachets in our cells, and I’d have a roll-up ready.
That cup of tea… and that first drag of a fag…

That was the fucking highlight of my life at that point.

I had a couple of scraps while I was in there — nothing major.

A fight would kick off, the screws would come rushing in, I’d be dragged off to the block or banged up in my cell. Punishment. Then back to “normal.”
That was just the rhythm of things.

We had association and mealtimes same as in Parva. But here, every now and then, we’d get to watcha movie on a projector and screen.

There’s one I remember — I can’t tell you why it stuck with me, but it did.
A movie about clever sharks.
Deep Blue Sea — that was it!
Some sat watching genetically modified sharks outsmarting humans, whilst other played pool or just dossed about.
It was ridiculous. And brilliant.

And for a moment, we weren’t inmates.
We were just lads watching a movie.

There were still moments of violence, though.
I remember one lad filling a cup with hot water and sugar — ready to go get a bully back who’d just beaten him in the showers.
I don’t remember exactly how, but I had something to do with stopping him.

It wasn’t about saving the bully.
It was about saving association.

Everyone knew — if that happened, we were all getting locked down.
And association was already becoming less than daily.
The prison had staffing issues, and when there weren’t enough screws on shift, we’d be banged up.
Sometimes the only time out of your cell was for a quick shower and to collect a tray of food — one or two at a time, back to your cell to eat alone.

At times it was 23-hour lockup.
Just long enough to shit, shower, and survive.

And I remember being suicidal in there.

I was alone.
I knew no one.
And I felt it.

I acted out a couple of times.
Smashed my cell up — kicked the sink off the wall, the toilet from the floor.
The whole cell was in tatters. The toilet and sink were ceramic — heavy, sharp when broken.

I tried to cut myself with the bits.
Then I’d try to hide what I’d done.

They’d move me into segregation for a while after each incident.
Which helped me hide it even easier.

At one point, I remember targeting another lad.

He was a proper scared boy — you could see it on him.
And I don’t even know why I did it.
Power. Control.
Just because I felt like being a prick.

I started calling him out through the window —
the start of trying to bully someone.

But it didn’t last.

One of the older lads — he had a bit of freedom around the place, the kind of respect you earn for good behaviour —
he just shouted over to me:

“Duffey, shut the fuck up! That isn’t you!”

I didn’t know what he meant.
But I do now.

I wasn’t a bully.
Not because I was nice.
But because I wasn’t hard, and I had nothing to back it up.
It didn’t suit me.
It wasn’t me.

I can’t finish this part without mentioning the visits.

Not for pity — but for the truth of what it was like.
In all the time I was inside, I had maybe two visits. Three at most.
While others had family coming in weekly or fortnightly, I sat with nothing.

No one.
And that alienation…
It was unbearable.

Watching other lads walk off to the visits room with a spring in their step — knowing someone cared, knowing they mattered to someone — while I sat behind, pretending I didn’t care,
that did something to me.

That isolation. That feeling of being forgotten.
That’s what fuelled the frustration.
That’s what led to the smashing, the hurting, the hiding.

Not because I wanted attention.
Because I felt like I didn’t matter to anyone.

I was just a boy.
And in honesty — I was scared.
Alone.
And sometimes… I just wanted out.

And eventually — that day came.

The day I got out.

I can still remember the happiness. The relief. The way my chest felt lighter just thinking about it.
I’d been counting the days down religiously.

I had this little diary — not really a diary, more like a cheap date planner. Each page had a tiny space beneath the date, just enough to scribble something. I went through the whole thing and wrote how many days I had left under each one.
That countdown meant everything.

I got out in November, just before my 16th!

And finally —
the final day came.
And not a moment too soon.

and that leads onto part 3 - freedom