Euphoric Recall

Author’s Note

When this book was still a raw manuscript, I needed something to visualise. I needed a front cover. Just as I had finished writing the first draft I realised Mark was trying his hand at painting and drawing.

I’d always known his artistic side as a singer/songwriter. Acoustic songs that always sent me into deep crevices of sentimental thought. A safe little place in my mind for me to connect to a catalogue of moments lived. Whether those moments were joyous or torturous it was always an experience worth having.

I put the question to him about doing a sketch for me. Purely to help a mate out. Give me something to visualise before I started pitching this to publishers. Selfless as always, Mark was eager to help me. He wanted to read the manuscript so he could understand the tone. I knew in that moment that our life-long friendship was about to evolve once more. He was about to learn some brutal realities about my life. I put my trust in him. Something I have never regretted doing in all the years I’ve known him.

Much was discussed between us as he read the story. I will keep that between me and Mark to avoid spoilers. But he told me he had a ‘wee sketch’ for me to look at. When he sent it over I was in shock. I was numb. I was amazed. Now my book felt real. Now I had the final piece of my story. Mark didn’t just draw me a sketch. He drew my life. He drew my suffering. He drew my recovery. He drew my front cover. I knew from that moment that all my pitches to publishers would have a side story. That side story was ‘two lads fae the scheme wae a big fucking dream’. Working together on the most intimate project of my life.

Folks, please let me introduce you to my friend and illustrator. The talented, unassuming and bighearted man that we call Mark Deans. And I should tell you that he is not just my illustrator. Going on this journey has been very exposing and at times traumatic to re-live. Mark has had my back throughout everything. I couldn’t have done it without him.

For all my future work, Mark will be my illustrator. We will be like the ‘schemey’ Scottish version of Roald Dahl and Sir Quentin Blake. We dream of having our own studio. Which reminds me, keep your eyes peeled for our next collaboration currently in progress. A Scottish working-class mystery fiction called ‘Where the fuck is Phil?’ based on the trance culture of the early noughties.

Aidan Martin

Introduction

After the death of a family member, a furious urge came over me. An urge to write. I’d always known I had lived through enough trauma to last three lifetimes. People would say that throwaway phrase ‘you should write a book.’ But it was bigger than that. I had to face up to everything. And there was so much to tackle. I knew there was only one place to start. One brutal place I had to revisit in order to tell the rest of the story. Chapter One. Groomed.

For almost twenty years I’ve held onto the brutal past. Now it’s time to let it all out. All of it. The whole story. Not just Chapter One. You see men like me feel too afraid to talk. Terrified. Addiction is constantly stereotyped, stigmatised and shamed. I am now on a journey to speak out and smash through all of that. I want to open the conversation up. Real fucking talk. So I’ve written down my pain. My recovery. My life.

These events are told from my point of view. Nothing has been exaggerated. When you read the extremes, you might be tempted to think they have been. That’s what makes them extremes.

Some people have chosen to have their real names in this book. Others have pseudonyms. So if you grew up with me you might read a name and not know who it is. I have protected the identities of most. I want people to know that it is not my intention to hurt others by mentioning them in my story. But it would be impossible to leave out certain ‘characters’ from my life who had such an impact on me.

One example is drug dealers. I have not named or shamed anyone. And most of my dealers have been condensed into a handful of ‘characters’ in the book. But those involved in some of the brutal times will know it is them I am referring to. For example, when someone tries to take your life, you can’t leave it out. Sorry about that. Hopefully if such a person does read this, we can meet up for a coffee and a chat. Maybe even hug it out.

One unavoidable relationship discussed is with my dad. It was a tough relationship and it is impossible not to discuss it. But once you have read the whole book you will see this isn’t about blaming others and putting myself on a pedestal. The person I really point the finger at in this story is myself. This is about my life. My mistakes. My shame. My recovery.

Finally I feel like I can speak out. It is time to destroy stigma, stereotypes and shame.

This is just the beginning.

Aidan Martin

E u p h o r i c  R e c a l l

Chapter One:

Groomed

I stood outside of that McDonald’s with my heart racing. It was a dark winter evening and I could feel the cold air sharply stinging my cheeks. Lying to my Mum about who I was meeting didn’t feel great. What was I supposed to do though? I could hardly tell her I was actually here to meet a man I had been talking to on the Internet instead of the ‘friends’ I was allegedly meeting. I was only fifteen. Still in school. As she drove off, I felt a horrible sense of having betrayed her. Writing this now I feel it was an even greater betrayal to my younger self. I was already on the way to ending my childhood innocence and yet I had no idea of the impact those moments would have on my entire life.

Ruminating now as an addict in recovery from substance abuse and sexual addiction, I have the gift of hindsight. Through recovery, education, therapy and life experience I can better analyse exactly how I became a schoolboy waiting for this older man to drive all the way up to Livingston, Scotland, from England to meet me. At the time, however, I had no clue. I still thought shouting out the words ‘cheese and ham’ as the teachers read out pupils’ names from the class register was utterly hilarious, as did my group of friends. I was also suicidal and vulnerable, often thinking of ways to end my life or fantasising about being somewhere else, anywhere else, completely out of my own head.

Checking my pay-as-you-go mobile phone, which I had funded through my paper round, I knew he was on his way, almost near. My imagination ran wild wondering what he looked like and exactly what was going to happen once we met. We had never seen each other, never sent pictures or spoken on webcam. We had only chatted online or on the phone. Our conversations took place in chat rooms mostly. At that time all I knew was that he was supportive, and he understood me. He always sounded cheery on the phone and his Northern English accent made me trust him all the more. My mother, aunties and uncles all had Manchester or ‘Manc’ accents from growing up in Salford. So when Derek spoke in that Northern twang, I believed that he was warm and humorous too.

More than anything else, I was just happy to be in the world of fantasy, out of my reality as a struggling-to-cope, suicidal teenage boy. Already, at such a young age, my ever-growing addictions were taking hold of me and my mental health, but much like this rapidly approaching encounter with him, I had no grasp of the enormity of it. Nowhere near.

Pacing back and forward, teeth chattering, I kept my eyes peeled for a white van. That was all I had to go on. He told me he owned a textile company and that his work took him to West Lothian, where I lived. Livingston, West Lothian. Oddly enough, I recall this being one of the first conversations we ever had. Where we both lived. As an immature young boy, I had no reason to think any more of it or to question it.

With every passing van my heart smashed against my chest a little harder. Thoughts invaded my consciousness in frenetic fashion. Nerves truly had me now. What would he look like? I knew what I looked like. Skinny, blonde hair, blue eyes, freckles and tall with slightly protruding teeth that I hadn’t quite grown into. I wore black nylon tracksuit bottoms, trainers and a sports hoody, much like many other gangly teenage boys of my generation in the early ‘noughties’.

I wouldn’t have to wonder what he looked like for much longer. An ordinary looking white work van pulled slowly into the McDonald’s car park. Headlights blinded my eyes as the warmth of my accelerated breathing mixed with the ice-cold air. Once the lights dimmed, I got a glimpse of the man at the steering wheel peering back at me, and it took me by surprise.

Derek waved me over to the van, and now that this was a reality my adolescent mind raced and my body began to pulsate with a blend of adrenaline, fear and nerves. He looked old and chubby, like someone’s grandad. Those were the thoughts in my mind. I began to question everything. "What am I doing here? Should I run away? Can I run away? I’m not gay so why am I here meeting this older man? I kept thinking, He’s driven all this way so surely I have to meet him?" No longer was I in the safety of fantasy, sitting behind a computer screen in my dad’s study with a keyboard or in my bedroom on my brick-like mobile phone, where at any moment I could press the red ‘end call’ button and escape. Here I was, very much in a real situation, frozen on the spot and faced with danger. Then without thought, like an out-of-body experience as if watching myself from afar, I walked towards his van.

Falsely and naively I told myself that simply getting in the van wouldn’t mean anything and I could get out of this whenever I wanted. This warped thinking would contribute to many years of compulsive behaviour in my life still to come as I would be gripped in the brutal world of substance and sexual addiction. As for right there in that moment, this ruling thought of ‘act now, think later’ took me into Derek’s van where I got a better look at the man I had been speaking to since I was fourteen, almost a year leading up to this furtive meeting.

Hi Aidan! he said in a booming Northern accent as I sat down in the passenger seat, acutely aware that he centrally locked the doors. Waves of claustrophobia and panic engulfed me. What happens now? I thought. For the first time in my life that Northern accent, usually a nostalgic expression of love, humour and safety, was causing distress and alarm. And just like that, we drove off. My senses were in overdrive. The sound of the handbrake creaking, peddles being pressed and the ticking of the indicators roared in my brain. It didn’t just feel like we were driving away from McDonald’s. I felt like I was being driven away from safety. I was in a world of the unknown now. A terrifying place to be.

Derek didn’t look or behave like someone to be terrified of in any particular way. His glasses magnified his eyes. I was aware of his rogue eyebrow hairs sticking out in places. He smelled of coffee and had slightly olive skin tinged by age. His hands were small but thick. He had dark hair, greying in places, with a tanned bald spot at the back. I noticed he wore a hi-vis vest over his white shirt, which his stomach swelled from. He had black trousers on. What creeped me out instantly was his smile. It was crooked. As though half of his face didn’t want to conform.

Despite this no longer being fantasy, it wasn’t reality for me either. I didn’t feel like I was actually there. It was as though I was in a hypnotic trance, which may sound cliché, but it is the only way I can relay this truthfully. As we drove off, Derek spoke to me about how long the drive was and how busy he was with work. Everything felt so strange. So unreal. So numb. Seeing that I wasn’t saying very much, I remember Derek pointing out how shy I was compared to how outgoing I had been in conversation online. It was true. We had spoken of all sorts online.

Regularly I had told Derek how suicidal I was. He would listen. I would tell him how I was struggling at school and how hard my dad was on me. Derek would take my side. Being a young lad who never knew his biological father and struggled with a strict stepfather (who I call my dad), it felt amazing to have someone who understood me. One night, as I sat in my dad’s study talking to Derek online, I was at breaking point. Crying hysterically, I told him I wanted to end my life. With tears splashing down onto the keyboard, I confided in Derek that I was crying. He told me he was crying too. It made me feel like we were connected.

I shared some of my other serious problems with Derek too. Like the day my dad stormed into my bedroom and threw down a £500 phone bill in disgust. He was furious with me. In shock, I hadn’t realised I had run up such a massive bill. Oblivious at this stage in my life, my sexual addiction was already destroying my mind and soul. I had stolen porn magazines from our local shop in which I worked as a paper boy. It was easy to steal porn magazines and VHS pornography tapes as I gathered the papers needed for my round each morning before school. In these magazines were phone numbers. Unbeknown to me they were premium rate.

One day I phoned one of the numbers, which had been described as phoning a dominatrix. I was drawn to phoning this number to experience degradation. I felt like a drunk sitting on the pub steps before opening time. I couldn’t resist. Still far too young to understand why I sought out such self-harming treatment, that first phone call led to many, many more. Phoning those numbers gave me a rush I can only compare to a heroin addict’s first hit. Complete ecstasy, escapism and carnal pleasure in one easy phone call. I didn’t even need to do or say anything, it was all automated, like listening to a story. Easy for a teenager to get away with without any age verification needed.

Looking back now, the content of those automated messages was cheesy compared to the hardcore porn I had been accustomed to since I was ten years old. Get down on your knees you snivelling little worm… lick my boots clean or "I am wearing shiny, black, leather thigh-high boots