Rock Bottom, then up a bit

Towards the end of 2018, I hit rock bottom.
I lost my fancypants job at Mercedes, that I had so lovingly bragged about to friends and family back home.
This left me cast adrift in the city of Maastricht, tied to a house contract until the following summer with no way of paying for it. Virtually all of my friends in the city I knew from work, and with only a single exception they ruthlessly abandoned me. I don’t really blame them, but I thought at least a couple more people might ask if I was alright.
At first I retained some hope, that I could find a new job and continue my sordid little European adventure.
The truth of that wish was that I was just terrified of having to tell my mother I’d lost another job.
So for two months I sat around my flat, drinking and smoking. Rarely venturing outside for more than the five minute walk to the Albert Hein supermarket for supplies, usually junk food of some variety.
I awoke around 10am most days and stayed in bed until my phone battery died and forced me up. There was no other real reason to get out of bed. There was barely anything to live for.
Throughout all of this I smoked. Each evening after dinner I plonked myself down on my sofa, and fired up YouTube on my PS4. With junk food and cheap fizzy orange drink close to hand, I rolled, I smoked, I ate, and I watched.
Every few days I trudged the barely one hundred yards to the nearest coffeeshop, the subtly named Mary Jane, and bought a couple more baggies of sweet oblivion. I didn’t feel good when I smoked, but I didn’t feel as terrible as the rest of the time.
On it went, a cycle of misery and Netflix binges. Occasionally I went out, for drinks and smokes with a lovely Irish Mercedes pal, the only one who ever messaged to see if I was ok. Other times a sweet American girl would distract me for a blissful evening of revelry and stimulation, intellectually and otherwise. Once a week at most.
The rest of the time I was alone.
My housemates didn’t know, or didn’t care, or both. Sometimes I could hear them in the rooms below, talking about me. I didn’t speak any Dutch, but the walls were thin and I knew that ‘Engels’ meant English. Their laughter curled me into a ball. I sobbed and cursed them, then smiled politely or otherwise ignored them in the hallways.
As Christmas approached, and my pre-booked flight home to Devon loomed, I had achieved nothing. Through buying precious little other than food, booze and drugs, and ignoring my rent, I had survived financially. But it would soon run out.
I had to go home.
More than that, I had to change. You see, I’d been smoking more or less every night for the past four years.
I’d become a shell of myself.
When I started smoking regularly it was a crutch. I used it to sleep, as sleep has never come easily. Not alone anyway. And it did seem to help ease the panic attacks that wracked me through 2014-15,
But it so very quickly became a crutch. It slowly ratcheted up my anxiety.
Before all that long I was living a life with no long term goals. My anxiety was barely bearable, but I powered through each day knowing I could roll a joint or two at the end of it and have at least a couple of hours of relaxation.
I ignored the fact that soon I could hardly enjoy watching anything without it.
I ignored the fact that I could hardly seem to sleep without it, those rare nights I had to.
I ignored the fact that each day began in a sluggish haze, that my once sharp thoughts were dull and blunted.
I lost several jobs. Simple jobs, jobs that should have been beneath me. I was once the smart one of the family, the one who used to ace exams and get all A’s. To be twenty-six years old and be unable to hold down a simple office job… To have never held down any job for a full year…
I was pathetic.
I was a drug addict.
I knew it. And I hated myself for it.
So there I was, in an attic room in the Netherlands. No job and a rapidly dwindling bank balance.
Even so, I couldn’t stop smoking. It was the thing destroying me, yet it was still my primary source of comfort.
In that time, through frankly far too many tears, much self-flagellation and an almost overwhelming well of suicidal thoughts, I finally came to the only conclusion that mattered.
I had hit rock bottom.
The slightly galling thing is, that I know plenty of people who do smoke every single day, but who seem perfectly functional. There may even be people reading this who scoff or smirk, and say “is that really an addiction?”
Sure, it’s not like I was on crack or heroin. Thank fuck.
But it was enough to more or less annihilate my mental health and emotional stability. I came close once or twice to doing something profoundly, stupidly permanent about the situation.
Fortunately I had an adorable American girl with a wellspring of common sense and affection to keep me grounded. I was not utterly alone, and that counted for a great deal.
Anyway. I was at rock bottom. More than anything I desperately wanted to get better. To be better. To try and actually live up to the potential I had been told I had but had never followed through on.
I had to leave Maastricht.
That much should be obvious. Anyone with a problem with weed should not be living in a city with a dozen shops within walking distance. Not a sketchy stranger or friend-of-a-friend dealer. Shops with menus and selections. I was a kid in a candy shop, who quickly rotted his teeth to the gums.
Fortunately, Christmas was approaching. I still hadn’t told anyone back home what had happened, and quite frankly I was terrified of the prospect. However I knew I had to do it in person. If for no other reason that I knew I’d break down and cry, and that would be far easier to deal with if I could have a hug right after.
That final day I packed as much as I could into my bags. I prioritised, and once again bemoaned bringing two games consoles to the Netherlands with me. I had to leave a fair smattering of belongings, but nothing I couldn’t live without. The rest my wonderful American girl has sent after me.
That final night, with a grim sense of foreboding, I smoked every last scrap I had. Part of me knew the following day would be easier to deal with with less in my system, but the overriding part knew it was my last opportunity.
At 1am I finished my final joint and rolled into bed.
At 6am I crawled out, gathered my things, and like the proverbial thief in the night, fled the scene.
I didn’t tell my housemates I was leaving. They could go fuck themselves.
The train and plane ride was a nervy mess of reciting what I’d say to my mother, over and over again.
But when I finally did see her, she looked so damn happy at my arrival that I couldn’t break that. Through the drive home she nattered and grinned and I smiled sickly along. She commented on how much stuff I had brought (two bursting bags were a little obvious I thought), but we excused it as Christmas presents.
It wasn’t until and hour or two later, safely ensconced in our new flat, having been shown my new room, that she asked me with a smile, “are you happy?”
And I burst.
From there, everything got easier. Telling the family wasn’t easy, but with each telling and each outpouring of love and support, the stress of the secret fell away.
I told my best friend Liam everything. Within two days of my return I had an interview at his company. I came in and spoke to the boss before they shut up shop for Christmas.
By the weekend before Christmas I had a job lined up for January. I owe him a great deal.
As ever, Mum would provide a place to live and food, and whatever I needed to recover. To her I owe everything.
As of time of writing, it’s been a month and a half without smoking. Well, I’ve had a few ciggies on nights out, but that’s not what I mean. And to be perfectly honest I’ve probably been drinking a little too much. But these are minimal issues compared to what I left behind in Maastricht.
My head feels clear. I feel more emotionally stable than I ever have done before. I can fall asleep with minimal assistance, a minor miracle in it’s own right.
From barely listening to music I’ve been seeing bands every week, and playing my old open mic night. Reading as voraciously as the teenager who took an English Literature degree.
Talking with a confidence I didn’t know I had. The anxiety that was ratcheted up so far has dropped away to lows I hardly thought possible.
More than anything, I feel like me again. The me I left behind long ago. The me I always thought I could be, but never tried hard enough to be.
For the first time in far, far too long, I actually like myself.
It really is true, what they say about being at rock bottom. There’s nowhere to go but up.
P.S. For anyone (if there is anyone) who checks this site, or merely pays attention to timestamps, this should go some way to explaining the lack of posts over the last six months. Hopefully many more will follow, though probably few if any like this. Now my brain seems to be finding it’s way back to working properly, I want to write more poetry, experiment with short stories, blog regularly. That sort of thing. So here’s to the future.
Onwards and upwards.

#4 New Roots

It’s been a month and a half since I moved to Maastricht.

What a month. A hot, lethargic, sweaty, heart-rending, life-affirming few weeks.

This is, it seems, where I belong. In a medieval cobblestoned city, getting merry with folks from all over the world. It reminds me in so many ways of that glorious year in Prague. But then, that’s sort of what I was trying to recreate. So… success?

Maybe. Probably. I don’t know.

Part of coming here meant giving up an incredibly loving, if hideously unstable, relationship. A necessity, but one that still aches.

And suddenly being so far from family is not the best feeling, after being so close by  to them the past few years.

I guess that’s the main thing I ignored when I saddled up all my belongings and fled for the border. That it would, almost inevitably, be really fucking lonely for a while. Not that that’s anything to do with Maastricht. I’ve made some fantastic friends here so far. And spent an absurd amount of time in bars watching football. But they don’t really fill the hole I dug. There’s a fair bit of downtime in this hotel room, which feels like a luxuriously hipster prison cell. And I killed my cellmate.

Metaphorically speaking.

That should soon change though! As of time of writing I’ve put the deposit down on a place to live. It’s a huge attic room perched atop a student house, the kind of place that has that delightful veneer of grime that still doesn’t dampen the energy within. Not that I’ve actually met any of my 6 new (masters students, one and all) housemates, but judging purely by the amount of beer bottles in the garden, I think we’ll get along.

Hopefully I will be in there by the weekend. It had better be soon anyway, I’ve only got 9 days until the hotel gives me the boot.

Let’s see, we’ve covered housing, friends, my emotional state… what else…

The job! For any who are curious, or aren’t in the mood for overly emotional exposition, here’s how it’s gone so far.

Week 1-2: Mostly training in ‘classrooms’ learning about the company. Honestly that was one month ago and I can hardly remember a thing from it. It wasn’t a bad time, we got to know our colleagues and get used to the company. But MAN do they ease you in. Slower than naked genitals into a boiling bath.

That was a weird simile. I like it though, it’s staying in.

(I don’t edit. This is all stream-of-consciousness shit. I just go back and correct typo’s when people point them out.)

Weeks 3-4: More training, but gradually working our way onto computers and starting to figure out all the different system we needed to learn. Ultimately quite useless as the version of Compass (main system used at work) we got in training was aaaaaall fucked up.

I could describe exactly what was wrong with it, but you wouldn’t understand, I’d be bored, and ‘aaaaall fucked up’ is more dramatic. So there.


Weeks 4-5: (there was some overlap. this is hardly accurate timekeeping). Then we moved into the AMG room, a sunny little corner where 4 newbies would be sat with 1-2 trainers, gradually figuring out how to do the job. To be honest we could have skipped straight to this step. In a week and a half using the proper systems and making/taking calls from actual customers and suddenly I’m there. I can do the job. Quite well too. Sorted.

Which brings us up to last week, starting proper shifts. Easy. That’s the best word for it. Sure confusing shit pops up quite regularly, but most of the time the job is a doddle. Making what they pay me to do it slightly absurd. But there you.


I guess that’s everything then. Jobs going well, should move into a permanent address by the end of the week, keeping fit and having fun. For the most part

Toodles x

Blog#2 A brief note on context.

“Il n’y a pas de hors-texte” – Jacques Derrida.

There is nothing outside the text.

I must have used that quote a good half-dozen times in various essays, back in my halcyon days as an English literature undergrad. Put simply, the context matters not, only the text matters.

Personally, I tend to disagree. Whilst it can be far to easy to attach meanings to a piece of writing based on some conceived notion of what one thinks the author will have meant, there can be some value in attempting to understand the where’s and why’s surrounding writing.

The reason I bring this up, is that as I go through my disturbingly bare folders, or even dare to flip back through countless scraps of faded notepaper, cherry-picking the best examples of my writing to post up here, I will often include a note on context at the end.

Generally just a few line on the date it was initially written, and what few details I can still recall on the events inspiring and surrounding it.

Whether or not anyone has any interest in that, I honestly don’t know. It is entirely possible that some people will think this is a bad thing, that poetry should be delivered alone, and the reader left alone to come to their own conclusions. A perfectly valid opinion, though not my own. If that is the case, feel free to ignore the contextual notes.

But for any of you few (though much appreciated) readers of mine who are at all interested in the snippets of biography that will go along with some of my posts, I hope they add something to the experience.

That’s all for now, go about your business.

blog#1 New Beginnings

That title seems somewhat ironic, seeing as I purchased the domain for this site over six months ago, but that’s procrastination for you.

So here we are. I have just finished setting up this site more or less the way I want it, ready to spew my jumbled collations of words all over the internet. Or those few unfortunate souls who stumble across it.

I thought it right, therefore, to talk about what I actually want to achieve with this website.

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a writer. I was the best writer in primary school, and practically lived with my head in a book. To be honest, I feel like I’ve spent most of my life with my head in a book, or with my eyes being slowly dried out by whichever videogame I’m currently obsessing over.

Authors have always held a certain mystique. Those wiley crafters of tales, the mysterious shadowy figures lurking in the ink that has enraptured me since childhood. How I longed to be one of them. To while away my hours in a cosy den, each tap of the keyboard unveiling, like a sculptors chisel, a new world hidden within.

Plus, it sounds like a great way to avoid having a real job. I’m 25 now and I’ve done quite a few different jobs, and none of them have really interested me. I just wanted to write.

The problem is, all too often I don’t. After graduating with a degree in English Literature, and having become the very stereotype of a heavy drinking, drugged up layabout student, I was thrust into teaching, and more or less forgot about writing as a possibility.

There always seemed to be so many other people who were better than me. Younger, smarter people who were already having articles and novels published. I recognise this thinking now as a symptom of the anxiety that has plagued me for many years now.

So much easier to never try, than to put in the effort and risk failure.

After failing teacher training I spent the best part of two years in a smokey haze, drifting through life in no direction. But always with the idea that maybe, somehow, somewhen, I would write again. I even bought this domain, but then did nothing with it for months.

Everything finally fell apart to the point where I got myself cleaned up, and discovered to my delight that I did have a functional brain. Poems started to whizz around my synapses, I’d scribble story synopses on ragged notepaper at work. I could write. I would write. It’s been the only constant in my life, the thing I love, and want to do. Hell I don’t even know if I’m all that good, but I certainly won’t get any better by not doing it.

Which brings us back here. I want to keep writing regularly, it doesn’t matter what. And to get it out there in the public, where people can see it. And maybe, just maybe, if I am excruciatingly lucky, I’ll be able to make something out of it.

But we’ll see. For now I’ll be posting a selection of old writings from the last few years, trying to blog regularly, and just get into the rhythm of being a writer.

It’s been my dream for so long that perhaps I forgot that I’m the only one with the power to take those dreams and make them real.

As the great Albus Dumbledore said,

“It does not do dwell on dreams and forget to live.”

I’m tired of dwelling in my daydreams. Time to live.