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I write and I write and I write. About nothing, about everything...because once that pen is in my hand and I start to really focus, I don't stop writing until the noise in my head goes away and my soul is laid bare on the pages before me.

It's therapy.

 It saves me. 

Because, although detox got me sober, writing  keeps me sober.

 At 3.00am in the hostel when the guy in the room next to me is losing his mind and shouting at no-one in particular through the walls, I write. At 5.00am when finally he sleeps, but there isn't a hope in hells chance that I can, because his outbursts have gone on for most of the night and I'm hiding in my room not daring to use the bathroom in case I run into him on the landing, I write.

When I too, start bouncing off the walls and getting cabin fever in here, or I'm particularly hard on myself for making such a mess of things and depression starts to  threaten me again, I write.

I write as if my life depends on it; because to be fair, right now it really does. It's the only thing I have that stands between me and the nearest pub or off-licence and  a complimentary one-way ticket to hell, and so I cling to this outlet like a life-raft.

Sobriety and my sanity are pretty much all that I have left at the minute and I'm not giving them up for anything.

I live in a hostel in a town where addiction and homelessness are rife. 

It's on every street corner, down every alleyway and in every subway here. I am confronted  with it on a daily basis.

Two more people that I was friends with in detox die.  Several more of my friends from rehab sit begging or drinking on pavements. It kills me to see them ending up this way and I am reminded again just how lucky I have been, and how fortunate I am to have not become a statistic. 

I have good friends and a healthy way to deal with my shit. These guys have nothing...unless you count cardboard flooring and cheap cider.

There is nothing I can do for them right now except to be kind and to write more. 

Maybe, this way I think, I can start to change things...if nothing else, maybe one persons perspective.

I create an account on twitter and start to bare my soul on social media to an audience that I can't see. I pour my heart out about homelessness and addiction and how it feels to have poor mental health. How it feels to know that you are alive but at the same time, alone and invisible once the shit hits the fan and no-one wants to know you.

 People start to follow me, to like and share my work, and their support and  encouragement spurs me on and gives me purpose.

I realise that there are people out there looking for answers... who actually want to understand how that feels, told in a way that's honest and open, not sugar-coated or dressed up to fit expectations. 

I write more. My work is hitting home.

I'm offered a magazine column, write for tabloids, other magazines, non-profits and for causes I believe in. 

I find my voice and in turn ignite a passion in myself for education that I didn't know existed.

I start to talk.

I do radio shows and make podcasts. I talk about my battles with my head and about trying to fight an addiction that nearly killed me, my horrible, horrible journey  and the strength and determination that  I needed to find to enable me claw my way back from the brink of death and detox, to some kind of normality. I talk about nights on borrowed sofas and curled up on floors, nights running from horrible men who just wanted to hurt me and I talk about those days and nights where I was so lost and alone and  terrified of what my future held that I just didn't want one anymore. That I wanted to end my own life just to make the madness stop.

I realise that people are listening.

And then I wrote a piece about my journey called “This is Depression”

A piece that becomes a film.

A piece that changes everything...

It's 3.00am and I'm struggling to sleep.

So I lie here in bed and toss and turn for a bit before deciding just to roll with it, heading downstairs and flicking the kettle on. I'll make a cup of tea I think... a good cup of tea solves everything.

I decide against some biscuits - I can probably do without the added sugar rush I'm guessing, and then I head into the living room where he's sat watching TV. He has a cup of tea in front of him...great minds and all that.

"I can't sleep" he says, giving me a sheepish grin, as I slide in next to him on the sofa.

I resist the urge to say to him that maybe the two bottles of wine that he drank before bed have got something to do with his insomnia, but I bite my tongue instead, and the words are left unsaid.

He has a drink problem, my boyfriend, in case you were wondering. Two bottles of wine before bed is not out of the ordinary...there are two bottles of wine before bed most evenings, as well as the pints and the brandys he drinks while he sits in the bar after work. "Unwinding".

Still, the New Year is coming he tells me. He'll stop in the New Year...

I just smile and I nod and I squeeze his hand, and I try not to worry about how old and ill he is looking, and then we both sit there in silence staring at the TV, because, well, really there is nothing left to say after that if I'm honest.

Nothing that I haven't heard before, anyway...

He's a painter, my boyfriend. He paints peoples houses.

He gets out his brushes and lays down some dust sheets and he glosses over stuff...

And then he comes back home to me, opens the obligatory bottle of wine, sidesteps the massive elephant in the room that has recently come to stay with us, and then we both do the same in our own house...

#Otherpeoplesproblems