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As I sit here contemplating how best to start todays entry, (which is supposed to feature my son Gary), something has just dawned on me. Claire, my wife, is literally running around like a blue arsed fly. Clearing tables, emptying bins, running baths, hanging washing, filling dishwashers, making coffee, feeding cats, dogs and so on. To me, it takes a very special person, a selfless person, to not only sacrifice her weekend for a man like me, but to sacrifice it for a child who can't call her Mum. A child who will never be able to fully understand her sacrifice, and commitment to him. A child, whom had it not been for Claire, would be living with his Mum, god knows where, not having a clue who or where his Father is.
I met Gary's mother when I was 13 years of age, whilst living in one of Edinburgh's notorious childrens homes. I had been there for maybe 18 months when Julie arrived. For the first year or so, we argued like cat and dog, and I really wished she had never arrived. She seemed fixated on me, and I wanted to run as far away as possible. She was a hyperactive, and mischevious girl, constantly looking for a fight or argument, no matter who got hurt. Being in the same room as her was a real struggle for me, and nothing would change that.
Except, something did. It was a Friday midsummer night, and boredom was in the air. Our unit housed 10 of us, aged 11 to 18. Earlier in the day, a queue of 10 well behaved kids, queued in single file, with anticipation in their eyes. I was close to the back of the queue, full of excitement. My excitement only grew each and every time one of my fellow residents left the small office, each carrying a crisp brown envelope in hand, wearing the same cheeky, cocky grin. It was as if they had just swindled some poor b*****d out of his last tenner. My turn. As I sat down, I already knew I had done well. I didn't smoke, £1.50. I went to bed every night on time, £2.00. I had not been abusive or cheeky to staff, £3.00. And I had not been under the influence of Alcohol or Drugs, £3.00. With my base allowance of £12.50, I knew my brown envelope would feature a hand written number, somewhere in the region of £20. The addional weight and thickness suggested coins - always a good sign. God almighty, how I miss the feeling of that envelope. £22 on the nose, 'Ya Dancer' I proclaimed as I left the office, the same cheeky cocky grin on my face, as if it were a mirror image of the faces I witnessed earlier. £22 was a lot of money for a 14 year old. Little did I know, that £22 would change my life, forever. The Butterfly effect was about to be kicked into action, on a major scale, and I was going to be at it's epicentre.
As the 10 of us left for the shops, feeling like we had just won a tonne of lolly, we made the decision that this Friday, we were going to enjoy ourselves. Instead of hiring a video and buying a shedload of chocolates, juice and magazines as agreed with Staff, we decided it was time to let our hair down. We decided that Juice and Sweets were long past their sell by date, and we wanted something Fresh. We decided, quite simply, to get completely and utturly rat arsed.
Never before had alcohol passed my lips. As I took the first sip from my 3 litre bottle of White Lightning, I was confident in the knowledge that I could control myself. I had seen my stepdad drink every day of his life, without ever falling over. I had seen my mum destory a bottle of Bicardi to herself, and still be standing at the end of it. A bottle of Cider was nothing to me, I was a man, and I was going to stand tall and proud, participating in the adult act of getting p*shed. I, the bigshot, was indestructable.
Except I wasn't. It wasn't long before the world was spinning, and I loved everyone. We sang and we danced through the streets of Southouse, and if anyone dared complain, collectivly we would hurl an entire world of abuse at them. We were running the show, and we loved it.
As the sky darkened, we approached the school playground. I was already on my second 3 litre bottle and I was sh*tfaced. Kansas was miles away, and the Wicked Witch was about to pounce on me, whether I like it or not.
I arrived 'home' around 10am saturday morning. I was immediatly requested in the Staff Room and interviewed on record. As I described the previous evening events I was given the biggest bollocking of my life. I was told about how my actions could result in my removal from the unit, and a suspension of all allowances. Staff expressed their shock and dissapointment at my new found fondess of alchol, and I was severly warned that a repeat performance would NOT be tolerated.
If only I had taken the warnings on board. Over the course of a year, my time at Southouse slowly came to an end. Julie and I became 'group leaders' and we ran the place into the ground, after an almighty riot involving Police, The Fire Brigade, and I suspect every social worker in Scotland, I was shipped to Ferniehill Open Unit (via 24 hours in a police cell), and Julie was locked up in Secure Accomodation. Our time together had come to an end, or so I thought. More on the riot another day.
3 years later...
I left Ferniehill with a more or less flawless record, ignoring one or two biggies when things kicked off. I had behaved myself for the most part, got my head down, and looked forward to the very big and very bad world. At 17, I moved into my very own 4th floor flat in City Centre EDI, courtesy of you, the tax payers. 2 years old, the flat was flawless - a modern and immaculate example of city centre living. Me and Mum decorated it over a month or two. I held down a job as a chef, and managed to furnish it with a big telly, loud hi fi system, and the best collection of pots and pans you could imagine. I was in love with my new place, and I was amazed at how life had changed for the better. Things were going to be amazing.
And thats when fate dealt me a double whammy of good and bad. As I sat at my mums enjoying a plate of Spaghetti Bolognese, the phone rang. My Mum answered, and instantly I could tell something was up. 'Gary, its Julie'. My heart raced, and I dreaded speaking to her. I had moved on, and I did not want anything to get in the way of my new found love of life.
As I spoke to her on the phone, against my better judgement, I agreed to let her meet me at home. She was always very determined, and seemed an expert at getting her own way. She arrived around 6pm with a friend, and tapped at my door. I answered and invited both of them in. As we sat and caught up, argued a little and discussed what life in the respective homes had been like, we agree to give things another go. Both of us young adults, we stupidly thought it could work. Very stupidly.
Julie was pregnant a fortnight after I met her for the 2nd time. I was going to be a Dad, and she a Mum. If only. The arugments started instantly, night and day we would fight about everything. And when I say fight, I mean it. Plates and cups would fly across rooms, chairs would go through windows, doors would be kicked down, walls destroyed. My place was trashed from the off. A bomb had gone off in every room, and it was disgusting, depressing and I felt completely hopeless. Whiskey and unemployment became my best friend, and Julies fists my worst enemy. The combination was volitile, and it wasn't long before the police and social services were at my door every other day. Things continued this way throughout her pregnency, and my son was about to be born into the hell I was born into 18 years earlier.
We got Gary home and almost instantly the fuse was lit. The fireworks display flew skywards again. Day after day, fight after fight, our world descending lower and lower towards the pits of hell, and life got more unbearable every day. I found myself trapped between the love for my son, and the hatred for his Mother. Again I started with the whiskey, and I descended into a world of darkness and despair, I wanted to end it all.
Outside the 4th floor window, late night sky above me, with a bottle of whiskey in one hand, and cordless phone glued to my ear, I cried like a baby to my Mum. I explained that I wanted to jump, had to. I couldn't face the guilt of leaving my son, not like my dad had left me. I was better than that, and I would rather die that give in. The alcohol was clearly warping my mind, and the ground looked like an easy way out.
My mum and the police arrived almost immediatly. As they climbed the stairs and entered my flat, I sat balling my eyes out, rocking my bottle of whiskey as if it were a baby needing my comfort. Ironic, that it was in fact the other way round. My Mum approached, got a hold of me, and pulled me back inside. I was never serious, I could never do something like that. My cry for help had worked, and Mum was cradling me and taking care of me. It didn't take much though, to light the spark one last time.
To the shock of the police and my Mum, Julie started on me. I can't recall what was said, but it got to me. I launched myself towards the kitchen door, screaming like a mad man and I was instantly set upon by two police officers. My arm twisted high behind my back, pinned in place by their knees, I screamed in Agony. I twisted, turned, and kicked to break free, but nothing was going to shift them. I was trapped, and before I could blink, the hand cuffs were tight around my wrists, within seconds I was being carted down the stairs head first.
I was taken to Police Cells to sober up, and then shipped to the local loony bin for an Interview with two Doctors. Over the course of an hour or so, they worked out what I already knew. I had to leave home, and without delay. If I didn't, one of us would end up in a body bag.
Welcome to the hardest day of my life. Packing my bags, I watched my 3 month old son smiling in his Bouncer. Eyes you could loose yourself in, and a mile wide smile, my heart was shattered. That little guy had given me so much happyness, and he was the first thing in my life I could be proud of, and I was giving hum up, CHOOSING to walk away. What kind of b*****d Dad does that? I had just swallowed the red pill, and my new reality was going to be impossible to adapt to. My life as I had come to accept it, gone.
Over the next 6 months to a year, I more or less lost contact with my boy. Visiting was difficult, as most of the time, a massive fight would result in even more pain. I eventually gave up, and all contact was lost.
I will keep the specifics of meeting Claire for another entry, however, one of the first things she did for me? Dragged my sorry ass to the solicitors, and got me contact with my son. The slow trickle of contact every other week, soon became weekly overnights every weekend, and Claire, my wonderful wife, started her weekly sacrifice. To this day, she continues to look after her two Garys and I just know, when the time comes, she will be the best mother in the world, bar none.
I am so forever grateful to her for everything she has done for me, and continues to do for me, even if I can't always show it. I know one day, my Son will be too.
Claire, you are one in a million.
Today, I feel in awe of my wonderful wife.
Gary.
PS - Spelling and Grammar will be checked later! I am KNACKERED after that.
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but all sorts of things go through my head. 
:nuts: