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 !