The Lost Boy - Chapter 1 - part one - Left Behind With Nowhere To

I must’ve been about three or four. It’s hazy in places, but this one memory still sits in me like it happened last week. My first day at play school.

We lived near an army camp back then, in a small village. Our street was right next to the army quarters. The play school was set up in one of the army houses — tucked behind a brick wall, through a gate and a back door. I can still picture it clearly: the garages we passed, the cold pavement beneath our feet, the shape of the building around the corner.

And I remember crying. Not inside, not after being dropped off — I was already crying on the way there. Like somewhere deep in me, I already knew. I knew I was about to be left.

I remember watching my mum walk away — like she was being peeled off me. Like I had no say in it. And in that moment, without even thinking, I clung to the nearest adult. Whoever was going to be looking after me that day — I latched on. Not out of trust, but survival. I just couldn’t be alone.

And then came the moment I now see clearly: the adult reassuring the mother. “He’ll be okay. Just leave him, he’ll settle.” And then — that was it. She was gone. No one looked down at me to say you’ll be alright. No comfort, no explanation. Just distraction. “Come on then, let’s go and play.” Like that fear in me was something to be redirected, not seen.

That’s my earliest memory. And when I look back now, I realise… it wasn’t just a play school drop-off. It was the beginning of a pattern. Of being left, of feeling unseen, of holding pain I didn’t have words for yet.

I became quiet in some ways — withdrawn, observant, often in my own company. I’d sit on the curb, hands tucked between my legs, playing with pebbles. Just still. Just watching. But that was only part of me.

Because I was wild too. Full of energy I didn’t understand, often overwhelmed by it. I was loud. I could be aggressive. I was seen as naughty. Looking back, it was likely undiagnosed ADHD, but more than that, it was all the emotions I had no language for — spilling out of me in the only way they could.

And in a house with six children, that didn’t go down well. My parents were stretched beyond their limits. My loudness added to the pressure. My silence disappeared into the background. Either way, I didn’t feel seen. Not truly.

That confusion and chaos followed me into school. I was suspended multiple times from my first primary school. Eventually, I was kicked out — permanently excluded for violent behaviour. One day, I tied a rope around my neck in the school toilets. I don’t think I wanted to die. I just wanted something to stop. I wanted someone to see me.

My behaviour noticeably changed and I really started acting out around the age of seven or eight, when my dad left. He’d left before, plenty of times. Usually with some excuse — going to get a packet of cigarettes or just slipping out without a word. But this time felt different. We all seemed to know it. He wasn’t coming back.

But it wasn’t just that he left. It was how. That morning, we’d  gone and woken him up in the midst of a sibling argument, and what I got in return was violence. Brutal. I won’t go into the full details here — not yet — but it was one of the first times I felt real fear. Not emotional hurt. Fear. My body still remembers it.

And then he was gone. Just like that. And as strange as it sounds, even after what he did, there was a part of me that still needed him. Still wanted something steady. Something to hold onto. When he left, it didn’t just create a gap in the house — it left a silence inside me that echoed louder than anything.

I want to say this, too — because it matters. I have a relationship with both my parents now. A good one. We’ve all lived through our share of pain, and we’ve all grown. This isn’t about blame. This is just about truth — my truth, as it was for that little boy at the time.

After finding a new school that would accept me — as some refused to — surprisingly, something shifted. The teachers there spoke to me differently — not as a problem, but as a person. I was still wild at home, but in school, I found space. I found calm. And I did well. Really well. I stayed there until it was time for secondary school.

That school didn’t fix everything. But it gave me something I hadn’t had before — space. Space to be a kid. Space to feel safe, even just for a little while. It didn’t erase the past, but it softened the edges of it.

Toward the end of my time there, though, things started to shift again. I think that’s when I first discovered smoking. It wasn’t just a rebellious act — it was a moment of control. A way to calm something inside me, or maybe just numb it. I didn’t realise it at the time, but that was the beginning of a new kind of escape. One that would grow legs later on.

And for a while, I held onto that feeling — the quiet, the space, the sense that maybe things could be okay.

But life has a way of revealing more layers, and as more memories come to the surface, it’s clear that there’s still more of this chapter that deserves its own space to be told. Be sure to come back for part two, where we dive even deeper into the journey.