The Book - Mental Hellth

Introduction - Nothing Was Ever What It Seemed

Note from Author

This book contains humour, sarcasm, and bluntness around subjects that are anything but amusing. Suicide, addiction, mental illness, and the kind of pain that both ruins and takes lives. If you find that upsetting, offensive, or inappropriate, then this book is not for you.

I started this in 2014 and surprise surprise... never finished it. ADHD doesn’t do “finishing,” especially if there’s another multi-million pound “Never Going Anywhere” business venture to obsess over. So... like everything always does, it landed on the “Unlikely to Ever See Again” list.

It was a full capitulation... and with nothing left I imposed a brutal sentence on myself: “This year I change my life, or this year I end it.” It had to be drastic because I only swing extreme. This was my last chance. And it was “deadly serious.”

A year of solitude. Just me and my everything, Millie. A malnourished stray cat who appeared days into exile. With one eye, recently shot out, destroyed, we were in the same place; she was meant to find me. Sounds mental, but she saved my life - and for added craziness: not once, but twice.

I’ve lived years off grid. Done more solitary than a supermax inmate, but this was the strictest. After a decade of cocaine, alcohol, and gambling, all glossed over by a lame suicide attempt, I moved home with nothing but £100k debt and a destroyed septum, which just like me, was hanging on by a thread.

One year turned into five, as I slowly found myself and worked on becoming someone I want to be. Recovery was dark. Quitting was easy compared to change. A fuck off difference. I didn’t think throwing my last wrap down the toilet for the 897th time (remarkable coincidence – always nothing in it) that habits, lies, and deception masks flushed away too... but fuck!... did I ever truly crack it?

I cautiously re-engaged and years later the best came. Nothing sums me up better; Decades of struggle and years of self-imposed lockdowns. I’d finally cracked the mental health shit. Eager to go, and the worlds on fire with fucking Covid. And everyone’s imprisoned by enforced lockdowns. Very poetic.

Still... my blueprint worked. A genuine success. Age 40, for the first time in my adult life, I was finally happy. I had served my sentence. Worked hard on myself. It was my time now.

Mental health ruled me like a dictator: ADHD, trauma, anxiety, depression, phobias, self-harm, addiction... to name a few. It was like I had won the “fully diverse experience” in the world’s worst raffle. Yet amidst it all, a Law degree, a Professional finance degree, Psychology, higher-level Health & Social care diplomas... And where did it all lead me to in the end? ... Personal Training … And that’s ... “ADHD in a paragraph.”

“You don’t see other kids doing that” was a daily theme. ADHD was raging inside me but still decades away from invention. High octane energy, funny quirks, and insomnia were ever-present. And everything always reached the same inevitable conclusion …. boredom.

Evident from early primary school when before a race I’d repeat in my head, “If I don’t win, Mum will die.” Winning was no longer exciting. Done that. Boring. Yeah, dark for a kid, but it’s the way it was. When playing computer games with my hands reached peak boredom, I played with my feet.

And this was all “absent” of trauma. Two years of it was the perfect storm. But there’s no... “Here’s What It Might Have Been” B-side to life’s album, so who knows the true extent of it. At the very least it was enough for me to start taking my first toy to bed.

My first full breakdown came in my teens, when mental health was exclusively only for “Looneys in straitjackets.” For me that meant “Man up. Get up. Shut up.” There was no internet, no awareness, no discussion. Just silence and shame. On your own, in the dark, trying to find any way you could.

Society set the goal: “Keep It Hidden.” So... I ran, avoided, lied, hid, didn’t go, didn’t do, and escaped. Life was never the same as I desperately tried to control my world - leading to utter disaster. Nothing was ever what it seemed. Everything had a hidden purpose. Exams weren’t about results. Gambling wasn’t about winning. Even watching the news served an intentional but different purpose.

At one stage I was like a Panini sticker album, but instead of collecting footballers, I collected disorders. Every appointment I left with a new one. And without any further explanation, I would look at it, and casually conclude, “Well ... at least this one’s nothing serious … I’m only borderline.”

Even the catalyst for everything wasn’t plain boring old ADHD, but the deluxe edition: “ADHD with autistic traits.” In 2008, a male adult with two degrees and an official diagnosis was the rarest of rarities. ADHD was something that belonged to young boys with ASBO’s. Not to adults. And certainly not ones with university qualifications.

Racing brain, limited focus, electric body; surely hypnotherapy is a terrible choice. Yet, my first. “Be still, calm, and relax” he says ... Is he fucking serious?... If I could do that, I wouldn’t be lying on this fucking leather recliner being tortured by the soothing sounds of singing dolphins. Well... apparently anyway - because it’s possible he’d mixed that CD up with the “unnerving sounds of creaking floorboards.”

My first prescribed drug, taken for two years, had serious detrimental effects. Years later, investigations uncovered that it was defective for children. Information the pharmaceutical company knew years before and didn’t disclose. Thousands joined group litigation that lasted over a decade. But it turned into a farce. Total sham.

By my twenties the floodgates had opened... peaking at eleven pills a day. Mostly for disorders that I didn’t even have. At the time people like me were mental health’s ... “Let’s see what this one does” experiment. A cocktail of anxiolytics, antidepressants, antipsychotics, and “anti-effectives.” I was riding the chemical rollercoaster: uppers, downers, stabilisers, blockers.

But clearly with something still missing, ADHD bored and anxiety needing more of a challenge, to shake things up the gambler in me threw cocaine and alcohol into the mix.

I’ve spent 45 days in Rehab. The full shebang... Traditional, contemporary, group, and individual sessions. You name it, I’ve done it. Inpatient, outpatient, meetings, one-to-one, and group. Talked about it. Read about it. Even fucking drew it. I’ve sat in a dark room for hours watching coloured lights randomly flash across a metal bar. And that wasn’t even a period of psychosis.

I’ve tried. Not tried. Hoped. Lost hope. Failed. Failed again. And failed 500 times more. And then... I stopped fighting. Surrendered. And watched everything go until there was nothing left to take.

By the time anxiety and ADHD became trendy, rabbits were diagnosed with PTSD, and people were selling merch online for the modern versions of disorders, I was so far out of the loop, I assumed that my versions must have been discontinued with the Nokia 33 10.

Depression had become journaling in beige loungewear, drinking coconut water, and posting frowning selfies. And ADHD had transformed into a superpower. It’s about as much a superpower as “Athletes Foot” is a guarantee for Olympic gold.

I’ve seen the full swing. From mental health being for “loonies” to everyone being “neurodivergent.” From qualified professionals to a tsunami of online self-appointed “experts” and authorities.

ADHD now multiplies like gremlins, narcissists rise faster than crypto, and everyone is overwhelmed... but strangely comfortable a walking diagnosis.

We needed less stigma and greater understanding. We got a pandemic of confusion and self-diagnosis. People don’t know the difference between ADHD and quirks, sadness and depression, nerves and anxiety disorder. And behind most attention-seeking social media is someone confusing personality with pathology.

My life’s not shiny. I’ve done very little. Seen even less. But it’s had wacky episodes, extreme behaviours, and strange self-preservation tactics.

It’s raw, sad, ugly, bizarre, and occasionally funny.

But importantly... it proves you can always come back. Not perfectly. Not with all the answers. But enough to get up and give it another go.

My story is for anyone. When drafting a book it’s crucial to have a target audience. But... I don’t. If we want a world where people understand mental health, and the reality of living with it, then being selective runs counter to that aim. Because... black/white, rich/poor, male/female, young/old... there is no immunity. Mental health doesn’t have a target market. It doesn’t discriminate. It’s for anyone and everyone. And for any and every reason... and sometimes... no reason at all.

It’s also necessary to get “comfortable with the uncomfortable.” Society leans towards addiction and mental health stories for hope and inspiration. Feel-good fixes and fairytale endings. Those matter. And do happen. But nothing like the Instagram version. Real recovery is turbulent for everyone. No exceptions. If it were that reductive and facile... the problems wouldn’t even exist in the first place.

Although my story doesn’t specifically target anyone, it will have the most impact on...

Those living it: The Affected: who are out of humour and energy. Because despite the darkness, underlying everything, is hope. And not the fairytale kind. The gritty and stubborn kind. The kind that makes recovery a genuine possibility for everyone.

Those living around it: The Forgotten Collateral: it will provide vastly different viewpoints, especially around addiction, to what you think you know. It will be a difficult and uncomfortable read because it will challenge those positions and the status quo.

And finally...

Those trying to understand it: The Student: it will bring the textbook to life, take complex terms like neuroplasticity, and show exactly what it means, and does, in practice.

I’m no reformed messiah or guru.

And I certainly don’t have all the answers.

I’m just a guy with ADHD (and more) who used to be an addict, with too many words in my head, and not enough sense to keep them there.

Maybe that’s why you’ll keep reading.

Let me guess... Same shit? ... Different person? ...

Yeah … that’s exactly what I would be thinking as well.

But this? … might just be a “little” different.