Victim

There's a damn good chance that I shouldn't be writing this blog post. If I decide that's the case, you'll never read this, and I've just wasted my time writing it. Anyway, here we go, let's see how we get on.

For 52 years of my life, I was a fucking tough guy. Even as an infant, my old man's practice of smashing my head into my younger brother's when we were naughty taught me to be tough. It taught me a fair bit about poor parenting too, so there was positivity in violence. Every cloud...

At the age of nine, I was a pain in the arse during the summer holidays. I did outrageous things like kick footballs, play a game called 'fighting in the dark' with my brother (you basically shut the curtains and fought in the dark), and got caught looking at the womens’ underwear section of my mum's Grattan catalogue. So my old man dropped me off at the Brixton and District Amateur Boxing Club with the instruction: 'Tire the little fucker out, will you?' I stayed for several years and enjoyed the skills and fitness bestowed upon me in that sweaty, dusty house of pain.

A few years later, I joined the army, boxed for my regiment, fired guns and stuff and generally became a life-taking, heartbreaking, steely-eyed dealer of death. Then I joined the London Fire Brigade. My efforts shifted and were centred on saving lives rather than obliterating them. I served for 27.5 years, loved the job and rose to the rank of Station Officer.

My reason for this whistle-stop historical tour is to illustrate that, as the Practice Nurse from the Community Mental Health Team told me: 'You, Mr Waterman, are a victim of your own success. You've spent your life pursuing masculine endeavours, and now you're existing quietly in a small town in Scotland. Did you really think becoming a mature student would replace all that gung-ho stuff?'

'Yes, Sir, I did.' I replied.

Deploying a wicked sense of humour, he responded: 'Yep, you really are mad!'

If the past two years have taught me anything, it's that you can be as much of a tough guy as you like, but mental health impairment is tougher. It's like a Ninja; it sneaks up on you quietly, lurking in the shadows, strikes hard, creating confusion and suffering, and leaves a long-lasting effect. 

So if I can claim another lesson from the recent past, it's that I was never as tough as I made out. I could fight skilled boxers in the ring, I could deadlift 180kg, I could run 100 miles, but I was still the infant, sitting on the pram, fearing getting his head smashed into his brother's.

Attacks on your physical self are one thing. Generally, the attacker needs to be bigger and harder than you. But attacks on your mental health can come from all sources. I know massive, roided up bodybuilders in the gym who could pull your arms from their sockets and batter you about the head with the stumps. But the ones in my gym are like teddy bears and would be aghast if they upset you. Then you can get a 4-foot nine-inch woman child who will insidiously and stealthily break you down with unwelcoming behaviours, rudeness, ignorance and laziness. They might claim they're doing nothing wrong, smile sweetly and play on their apparent innocence, but the damage is being done. Chipping away at your well-being, denying you any peace, making you feel worthless.

Where's the tough guy now? The 87kg gym attendee that rack-pulls a quarter of a tonne? He's tearing skin from his thumbs; he's mumbling to himself, looking for help and support but finding none. He's a monster, you know; he's scary, he knows how to fight, and he's strong as fuck.Unfortunately, he's also a victim of his own success.