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.