Why realising that I was a broken man helped me gain control over my life.

(This was actually going to go somewhere else - but they haven't replied, so, their loss!)

I’m a broken man. There’s no doubt about it there.

My friends at school would recant loving stories of their Mums singing them to sleep, and their Dads taking them out for a good game of football. All I can recall is my Dad swaggering in, drunk, and shouting at me.

My Mum, bless her, she did all that she could. She ran away with me in the end. I was 5. Fatherless. And a bit of an Oddball at school. 

“You have no Father?” my friends would ask. 

“Did he die or something?” I’d often be ploughed for answers.

Single parent families were rare back then. Or at least in my area. It always seemed painful for me to tell my friends and the people that I loved that my Mum split up with my Dad because he wasn’t a good person. That’s all I understood back then. That’s all I really needed to understand. But I always seemed to invent the story about him being this awesome person that travelled the world, and we rarely saw him. Mum had to give up in the end. 

That wasn’t the truth at all. 

And it was from there that I became a compulsive liar. I saw how easy it was for people to believe what they wanted to believe. I had first-hand experience of inventing stories about my father, and the glow in others eyes when they learned what a fantastic person this man was. 

So I started to invent more fairy tales. Lying for me came naturally. It eased off my tongue like a slippery snake. But deep down I knew the whole truth and nothing but the truth. That’s why eventually in my teens I became a mask of myself. Whilst at the core I was sleeping. The real me was asleep, and the invention of Raymond was what you could see. 

An awesomely astute young man that was great at school, sports and was lovely to know. His life was great. His family was great. Everything was great. You’d love to be Raymond. But what no-one knew was that Raymond was dead inside. 

And during my late teens the dead feeling at the core began to hurt, too much. Not a little, a lot. But luckily by then I had found alcohol. And I had plummeted head first into emotional suppression at the bottom of a beer barrel. Oh yes, I was no stranger to drunk parties and crazy nights out. All because I couldn’t face what was me. 

And in my very early twenties I managed to land myself in a Psychiatric hospital. It wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences. I hated it. Every damn minute of it. There was therapy and work sessions and lots of really cool stuff to help with progression. But why would I need any of that? I wasn’t unwell. I was fine. 

The diagnosis I was given came as a shock too. Paranoid Schizophrenia. Which I later realised that no-one would ever believe anything I said for a long time. If I questioned anything out of the ordinary I was frequently asked,

“Have you been taking your meds, Raymond”

It seemed a cop out to me. A way of dismissing me as a valid authority on myself.

But all that aside, it was one fateful day in 2006 where I sat on my bed, crying, big bubbly man sobs. I had realised that I couldn’t live like this any longer. That my electricity and gas had ran out yet I was more interested in buying a bottle of vodka from the local store to see me through the day. 

I needed to change. 

This was no way to live life. 

I had just lost my job because I had hit the bottle again. They knew. They knew I was taking days off and going to the pub to get wrecked. Perhaps if management was better I wouldn’t have, but I know the choice to get mashed was entirely mine. And only mine. 

The day I was signing on for unemployment benefit my disability advisor approached me. 

“Raymond, you’re obviously having a hard time of it. I have just the place for you” she told me as she took me aside. 

And she actually did. My determination to give up the drink was fuelled by the charity that I went to. The opportunities that I was given constantly. I learned, I thrived, I inspired. And through my determination to succeed financially and through a career, I managed to kick the drinking habit. 

It wasn’t easy, oh no. 

Because I had realised that if I had just one drop it would be all over. That helped too. That loomed over my head like a solid weight, and a noted threat that going back to my old ways would mean slinking back to doom. Because beforehand I was a waiter, and a kitchen porter and a low paid worker. I never wanted that for myself. Some people are happy doing that. And that’s awesome. I wasn’t, though. It was a means to an end for me. 

Here they were teaching me to be anything that I wanted to be. I wanted to be a teacher so I was given the knowledge to train and be better. I was given the skills to learn. I was also given the life skills to introspect and realise the parts of my life that needed more love. 

I went to University 

And from there it just became a whirlwind of success. I married, had a son, became a Manager, facilitated my own Projects, won awards, helped others win awards, and now I’m a Mental Health activist and blogger. I’ve came to realise that life boils down to a matter of perspective. 

Some can look in on me now and think,  

“Wow, your life is hard, Raymond” 

But I don’t see that. 

I see a life full of challenges and opportunities. And that there. That is what helps me survive. I think life is beautiful. So much to see and do. 

Our possibilities are endless. 

Drinking, drugs and emotional unhappiness seems long gone now. A distant memory that seems so far away I’ve practically forgotten how it feels. But I know all too well that if I hadn’t gone through those extreme challenges early on in life I wouldn’t have pushed myself to be the person I am today.

Yes, my life is still full of challenges now. But I deal with them in an efficient manner. I don’t shout at them. Or hide from them. Or get drunk and scream at them. I deal with them, calmly and responsibly. And I’m much happier for that now. 

Life is awesome.