The Day I Caught The Train
Walking through the streets of London in 2011, I was wondering where the fuck it all went wrong.
I had a roof over my head, living with my cousin in a one-bedroom apartment in Earlsfield and life was good, for a while. I was sleeping on the couch but this was as secure a situation I could be in.
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The first significant domino to fall came when I asked him for yet another lend, this time £50 to go to the pub to meet a friend.
“Food in the fridge and a roof over your head rent-free son and you want another few quid is it? Anything else? Ferarri? What's it up to now then, £650? £700? Fuck me, alright, here’s another £100! You’re in London, you can't get far on £50. Who is she then?”
"Thanks, listen I'm going to get this all repaid. No, it's not like that, well I don't think it is!"
“Enjoy but if it’s going well and hitting midnight, you’re in or you’re out yeah? School night and all that!”
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Trying to tiptoe in at 4 in the morning and falling straight over the hoover in the hallway and crashing into the wall, was the beginning of the end. He forgave me for waking him up, not that I deserved it, but that disrespect and 'money' brought things to a head.
I had none and was making no inroads into changing that, while the loans were building up. My attitude towards this situation was utterly atrocious, bizarrely entitled and disrespectful, more than deserving of the dressing down I got for it.
I got off lightly, actually.
“You’re family, yeah, but how long do you realistically expect this to last? I work in a school, not a bank! I go in and have a few dozen teenagers to handle and I come home to another one. You’re 28, no dole, no job, no direction, no purpose. What are you doing to change this? Forget me, for yourself I'm talking here, you hardly want to live on my couch forever?”
“I know, I feel terrible about it. I am trying, I sent in a few CV's but I'm not having much joy.”
“Are you trying? You don’t even own a pair of shoes, did you think about that for interviews while you're down the bookies and pub? Come on, you're a smart lad, sort it out.”
“I'm sorry. Look can you give me enough for a ferry and I’ll go home? I’ll get you repaid when I get sorted. It'll be easier for me back home.”
“I didn’t mean you're not welcome and you know it, you div! I’m trying to get you to look in the mirror and see where you are at in your life is no good for you but if you want to go home, of course I'll get you there...”
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Every word he spoke was intended to help me but I wasn't in a place to hear the truth or accept the truth. I couldn’t tell him the truth either, even if I wanted to, which I didn't. He handed me £120 and politely-but-firmly said "that's the Bank closed" and not to come back for more, under any circumstances.
I packed my clothes within minutes and was out the door before lunch.
The truth was I slept my life away, anxiety attacks, depression, suicidal thoughts. When I had money I'd try drink and gamble those thoughts away and that worked for me. I couldn’t burden him with any of it and was happier for him to think I was lazy - which I was, objectively - but couldn't explain to him why.
I think I worried if he knew the truth of how dependent I was on these destructive things, that he would have helped me. I didn’t want help because that would be admitting out loud the scale of the problem and there was a comfort in denial.
I walked down towards Earlsfield Station and the next train was in 15 minutes. I walked back to the pub for one pint while I waited. 6 pints later it was knocking on for 5 in the afternoon and I thought ‘well I can’t go now during rush hour”.
Another pint please.
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Closer to 6 o’ clock I thought I better make a move.
"I won’t even make the ferry tonight but I better at least get into the city to find a hostel."
Passing by the bookies I popped in, might as well put a bet on the football, something for an interest on the train. I saw a horse race about to go off and impulse took over, I quickly wrote out a bet for £35 and put it on. The horse lost and I walked out.
As I was walking out it dawned on me I’d got the maths all wrong. Maths is something I am good at but many pints started to cloud things. I needed £60 and after the drinks and horse, I only had £54 left.
Back to the bookies.
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Alright I need 6 quid here, no problem. I put on a small bet of £6 on a greyhound, it lost. I’m down to £48 and now I need £12. I tried £12 on the next horse, it lost.
Alright no panic, I still have £36 and need £24, it can be done. I thought I need to calm down and properly assess the form of the horses, to give a better chance of success and finally settled on a ‘sure thing’.
More delusion. I put £24 down and it lost.
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I still had £12 and though this was going disastrously, I had 2 very good options remaining in my mind, neither of which was beg for forgiveness from my cousin:
I could use it for the hostel as I intended to do, I’d be warm for the night, have somewhere to charge my phone and could figure out a solution in the morning. Try get phone credit to ring my mam or another cousin.
I could sit in McDonalds for the night. Not ideal but the security can't kick me out if I have enough to buy a cheeseburger and coke every hour or two. I'd be warm, could get my phone charged there too if the security was nice about it, they have a toilet as well.
I chose the only conceivable bad option and placed my last remaining £12 on a horse. It lost.
I was now penniless, with no phone credit on either my Irish or English number and my phone battery was dying.
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Pride, fear and shame prevented me walking back, so I did the only reasonable thing in my drunken mind, I walked towards the city, ducking through back streets to get to Wandsworth Common, feeling I’d be ok from there. I knew Clapham Common and Battersea like the back of my hand, I’d be in familiar territory, pissed or sober.
“Someone you know will be in O’ Neills. They’ll help you.”
It was a quiet weeknight in the pub and I had no joy on seeing familiar faces, so I walked over to the Common and thought I better look for a good spot in the bushes, to avoid any aggravation from police moving me on.
I had a hoodie in my backpack but fell asleep in a flimsy t-shirt.
Crazy, just crazy, on a very cold night in October. I woke up in a heap the next morning to the sun shining. That I woke up at all was in the balance, though it never crossed my mind as I closed my eyes, pissed as usual.
Not much of what I did that night makes any sense, a decade removed, but that was Russian Roulette sleeping outdoors in a t-shirt, in that cold.
I wouldn't have been the first or last to not wake up.
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After days of this pattern repeating, begging, bookies, walking aimlessly around during the night, I thought I better try something different.
I managed to ring mam on a strangers phone and told her everything was still going well for me in London, desperate to avoid stressing her out over the complete mess I was making, yet again. She would have been extremely upset if I told her what was actually happening and not able to do anything to fix it for me, as she was broke, thanks to me.
The Irish Embassy might help me I thought, if I walked that far, but I had no idea if that was a good plan or a wasted journey. I walked through Battersea and over Chelsea Bridge; that's where my knowledge of London ended but my luck changed, in stopping a builder for directions.
He was from Cork and asked me why I was going to the Embassy, possibly seeing I looked very pale, I explained it and he instantly reached into his pocket for £20.
"Get a taxi and eat something for fucks sake, good man, safe home"
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I betrayed his kindness by going to the bookies.
I thought if I could just turn this £20 into £60, that I wouldn't need to go to the Embassy at all. I wasn't sure they could even help me if I got there, whereas if my luck changed, I was sure the £60 would help me.
My anxiety in talking to people would put me off the things people take for granted and it's an inexplicable anxiety. I would talk to the wall when I was younger, strangers on nights out, teachers, people in college.
Suddenly anxiety was at the root of my life, always at the bottom of those stacked Russian dolls of paranoia.
I lost his £20 and continued walking.
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I finally made it and stood outside the Embassy for over an hour, talking to myself, trying to rehearse what I was going to say. I can only imagine what people walking past were thinking.
"Hi I'm Daniel, I'm sort of homeless, can you help me?", no too vague and informal.
"Hi, could I talk to someone, I'm in a bit of a pickle!", no too casual.
I ran hundreds of sentences through my mind and out loud, before deciding they were all crap and walked in with no idea what to say. It was all irrelevant because the receptionist Kath took one look at me and said "Are you alright love?". I said 'not really' and that was all it took, she was wonderful to me.
She brought me in to talk to one of the Embassy staff, Bridget. I was worried they would have no way to help me but she instantly allayed those fears.
"We'll get you home don't worry about it."
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She phoned ahead to the London Irish Centre, explained my circumstances and hung up the phone, from the conversation I heard, I could tell she knew the person on the other end of the line and this wasn't the first time they had to do this for someone.
"Right that's you sorted, you need to get over to them, they're expecting you and you can collect the tickets home!"
I thanked her so much for the help but was too embarrassed to say I couldn't actually get a bus. I didn't want to push my luck and sheepishly walked out, mortified at the situation I was in.
Before I reached the door, Kath shouted after me and opened her purse.
"Daniel! Take this £20. Get some food now and try not to worry, it'll be alright love."
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The options to get to Camden Town were Tube or Buses, either option less than a tenner. I still had a quid left on my Oyster card too. I stopped around 2pm and sat against a wall, my heart was going mental.
It wasn't surprising that I was having so many anxiety attacks because I'd been strolling aimlessly around London on little sleep, from bookies to pubs, for over a week, wasting every penny strangers at bus stops gave me, on addiction.
"Breathe deeply, remember the techniques" I would keep repeating, reminding myself this is the new normal for me. As soon as it settled down, I walked towards the Tube and passed by a Ladbrokes bookies.
"Don't go in. You know what happens if you go in!!" I said to myself and walked straight past it 20 yards. Then something in my mind said "If I win the £60 I won't need to go to Camden, I can just go home!"
"Alright just one bet, I can spend a tenner and have enough left for the Tube, maybe I'll win for once."
I lost the tenner and about to leave when some lad told me he had a hot tip in the next race. It was a 7/1 horse and if it won, I'd have £80 and be able to get home. It lost.
Back to broke, 4 mile walk ahead and more directions to be asked for.
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I made it to the London Irish Centre a few hours later and was too tired to worry about how I looked or what I said.
I was taken from reception and helped by a most amazing person, a welfare worker originally from Limerick. I confided in Melanie that I am enduring a few problems with addiction and have been making a mess of everything in my life.
She spoke beautiful words of encouragement, delivered in a compassionate way. She told me things might feel desperate now but once I get home the future will look brighter. She got me something to eat, let me use her bathroom to shave, offered me warmer clothes from their storeroom, before handing me the train and ferry ticket.
She also gave me a tenner.
"No, you don't have to, honestly you've done too much for me already", I said.
"Buses in Dublin aren't free, Daniel, change the tenner on the boat. You have to get going to make the last train. Good luck and let me know you got home safely", she said.
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That thoughtful tenner was the difference between arriving to Dublin with enough for a bus home or be faced with having to walk to Busáras, to somehow make my way home from there. I was so tired, it didn't even occur to me that I'd need it.
As I got to the train station I had 10 minutes to spare and there was yet another Ladbrokes. When my dad was alive he used to tell me there's a key 5-letter word I should look for in 'Ladbrokes' and contemplate it, he liked anagrams.
"Ok the bus home is a fiver, I can risk £5, just make sure you keep the other five!", I rationalised, trying to win enough for a taxi and avoid the anxiety of a crowded bus in Dublin.
I lost the fiver and temptation took over, I put the remaining money on a race, money I absolutely had to keep for the bus - it lost.
I got on the train, penniless again, no thoughts of a sandwich or drink for a 5 hour train journey.
I spent the whole way up to Wales thinking "What the fuck am I gonna do when I get to Dublin? Why am I such a disaster! Every fucking time!!".
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As the train approached Chester, all this inner turmoil had me in a very bad way with anxiety. I was shaking for the last hour, counting my pulse and feeling it reach over 200 beats per minute, I felt like I was going to keel over and die.
Once again I chose the only bad option available to me.
I got off the train and asked a woman to call an ambulance for me.
She was so kind to me, she didn't have to but she sat holding my hand until they arrived and it really reassured me. They came and brought me in, ECG and did some blood tests before concluding it was a panic attack and discharging me at 3 in the morning.
I think I went to hospital with a racing heart and chest pain over a dozen times in 6 different cities, Chester, Birmingham, Cork, Dublin, London, Oxford, between 2011 and 2014.
You'd think I'd know it's not a heart attack the next time but when you have had heart issues in the past, it's not easy to avoid the fear that this time is different.
I always worried I'd ignore the one time it was a heart attack.
My walks of shame were the ones out of a hospital.
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All I had to do was stay on the train and I would have been home in Ireland but instead I'm now traipsing around Chester in the middle of the night.
I looked at my phone and saw I now had phone credit, a friend had topped me up as he hadn't heard from me. This was salvation for me, I thought. I sent a raft of 4am texts to people back home asking for help and a handful of them lodged me a tenner or twenty as the day progressed. With each one that came in, I was standing in the bookies and tried to win enough for the train.
In hindsight, all I had to do was be patient and I'd have had plenty for a train.
Tenner in, gone to the bookies. In my mind, I didn't know if another tenner would come in and I needed £35. Twenty in, gone to the bookies.
160 quid came into my account, enough to get 4 train tickets if I had just waited and stayed calm but instead I lost every penny, again with no thought of eating or buying a bottle of Lucosade. 2 days of this followed, begging for change and spending all my time in that bookies from morning to night, sleeping in the foyer of Chester train station.
I spent some of that time considering walking in front of one of the many passing trains, ones I could have easily been on, if I wasn't such a hopeless cause.
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What I discovered about Chester in those few days, is the same thing I discovered everywhere else I went.
People will help someone struggling, always.
Some prefer to buy you food, so you don't spend it on booze but they'll help. It has a gorgeous looking hotel opposite the train station but the rest of the streets and the people seemed humble.
It felt a lot like home, especially with the amount of bookies, but I knew it wasn't home and this wasn't sustainable.
I decided to risk hopping the train and telling the instructor I lost my ticket, in the knowledge there was no stops left for him to kick me off. I got fined but it worked.
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On the ferry home from Holyhead, a lad from Birmingham bought me a pint and talked about Aston Villa's mixed start to the season and it distracted me long enough from thoughts of launching myself into the Irish Sea.
"Too many bloody draws, mate, we are not taking our chances in front of goal!"
I got talking to another woman from Westport, who lived in Blanchardstown, she bought me a burger and chips and said she would give me a lift to Blanch, if it would help me.
That ferry from Holyhead to Dublin is full of the most wonderful people, of all backgrounds and walks of life. I've been on it penniless a few times, always after succumbing to addiction in London Euston train station bookies, and been helped by complete strangers.
People with not much money in their life yet wouldn't hesitate in giving you their last fiver.
It's humbling just how intrinsically good other people are.
And a source of enduring shame that I abused that.
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I thanked her so much for the lift from Dublin Port and stood outside Blanchardstown Shopping Center, looking around at the people going about their morning.
It was one of the most spiritual moments of my life, getting fucking drenched in driving rain, nervously laughing-to-avoid-crying, yet a clear calm washing over me.
"Home at least, maybe it'll be different this time."
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I got in a taxi and arrived at mams, who thought I was still in London.
"Mam, long story, I need 20 quid for the taxi?"
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A decade later, I often think about how I got home.
I think about just how many people tried to helped me and how often I tried to fuck it all up, through compulsion.
I got there via my loving cousin, via random people giving me change at bus stops in Battersea, Chester and Clapham, via walking a lot through London and sleeping in bushes in freezing weather, via a Cork builder, via 3 brilliant women in the Irish Embassy and London Irish Centre, via a woman holding my hand in a city on the Welsh border, via nurses and doctors in Chester hospital allaying my fears, via a lad from Birmingham buying me a drink on a boat, via dinner and a lift from a Mayo woman in Dublin and, finally, by my beautiful mam paying for a taxi she couldn't afford.
I got home via the kindness of dozens of strangers and still tried to throw it away, in every bookies I walked past.
I often think of how undeserving I was, for their help.
And how little I have done in my life to earn any of it.
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I wrote an email to the London Irish Centre when I got home, thanking them for what they did for me and vowed to change my life.
Despite that pledge, nothing changed for a long time, actually it worsened.
Pubs, off licenses, casinos, bookies, debts of thousands became tens of thousands, pain inflicted on the kindest people, homeless shelters, psychiatrists, suicide attempts, hospitals would continue to define the coming couple of years.
Dad died in 2014 and I haven't been homeless since then.
I reflect every minute of every day on the tremendous hurt I caused everyone I ever knew and loved.
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For years, I selfishly wished the journey home ended for me on a cold October night in London.
How better it might be for others, financially and emotionally, if I had quietly and ignominiously slipped away from this troubled existence, in a secluded bush on Clapham Common or at the bottom of the Irish Sea.
I don't have it all figured out today but I live cleanly, which is a start. One day at a time, like all addicts. Addiction recovery for me has been a long winding road, with relapses, mental illness, disappointment and self-loathing as roadblocks on the way.
Depression is ever present, I've got a mountain of debt to repay and I make only small progress on it. I feel like I did something good with my life over the last year and restored some self-confidence, in providing people with information and encouragement on the pandemic, it's something I feel proud of and it's a nice feeling.
It can still feel hopeless at times but any time I feel that way, I remind myself something:
I am alive because strangers didn't give up on me, when I tried to give up on myself.
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I'm a stranger to someone out there suffering.
If I can help, I will.
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I am trying to earn this now.
