Sweet, Sweet Sugar

May is a month of Mental Health Awareness, I have struggled with aspects of my mind over the years. In 2021, I was in a bit of a bad place. I recorded my journey via Facebook. Not for sympathy or words of affirmation from others but for my own reminder, to say to myself every year.....don't let this happen again. If you are reading this and want to chat about anything, just drop me a line. Stay healthy, stay moving and be honest to yourselves. 

I have thought long and hard about even putting this out there. Those fears of judgement by others, that feeling of contempt and embarrassment are simmering away in my conscious. Yet, they are fleeting. I needed to get healthy, to get away from the environment that was making things worse. Words are a gift to yourself and to others. Interpret my words as you wish. 

My life had careened off the tracks, a chaotic symphony of bad decisions and self-neglect. I wasn’t steering anymore; I was just along for the ride, taking blow after blow, feeling the walls closing in. This wasn’t a sudden crash but a long, slow decline. It’s the kind of story you spill on a therapist’s couch, not splatter across the internet. A friend once told me I’d traded barstools for podcasts and blogs. He wasn’t wrong. But that’s another story. This one is about a slow, relentless decay that led me to the brink.

Picture this: a divorce that left me in a series of dingy, temporary refuges—a hammock in a brewery’s storage area, a sofa backstage at a music venue, a blacked out bedroom in a dysfunctional house. Each place felt like another rung down the ladder. The bright optimism of travel and adventure had been snuffed out, replaced by a crushing darkness. 

I found myself trapped in the Craft Beer industry, talking incessantly about rich stouts, Simcoe hops, and barrel aging. It was an endless, pretentious arms race of hazy IPAs, and boozy calorific stouts. An army of beer-bellied, trucker cap-wearing zealots gathered to share and debate the merits of the latest absurd concoction. Their beards grew longer, their bellies larger, their devotion deeper. I was smack in the middle of it all, hating every moment. 

I hated myself, what I had become, and the world I was trapped in. During the pandemic, I was an "essential worker," canning beer in a mindless, endless loop. The same three faces, the same stainless steel walls. Thousands of cans to keep the brewery afloat. Handwritten labels gave way to printed ones, manual labour to automation. I knew I was done.

My body was rebelling — numb fingers and toes, shortness of breath, failing eyesight. This wasn’t sudden; it was the result of years of consuming takeout and washing it down with beer. I was a bloated mess, my thoughts foggy, my memories fragmented. Conversations on repeat, bad decisions piling up. I owned those mistakes.

Working for two bucks an hour, scraping by on tips, I thought I had hit rock bottom. But life has a way of showing you new lows. Every time I thought I was at my worst; I found a new depth. It was like mountaineering in reverse — each false summit revealed a deeper abyss. I was descending into darkness, far from the safety of the ridgeline.

I needed to see a doctor, but in America, that’s easier said than done. Can’t pay? Die. Have insurance? Pay more. So, like millions, I ignored my health, let my body spiral out of control. I was massive, hiding my bulk under XXL shirts and baggy pants. My hair grew long and unkempt, my beard scruffy. I was not in a good place.

Then came the Texas winter storm, freezing the lone star state and trapping me in my one-bed duplex with my son. We made snow angels, walked through the silent, frozen city. But my body was failing —constant thirst, relentless need to urinate, headaches, and exhaustion. We walked less than a mile, and I was done.

When the snow melted, I swallowed my pride and called my ex-wife’s uncle, a doctor. Blood tests confirmed what I feared: my body was in revolt. My A1C was 13.8, triglycerides over 4000, blood pressure through the roof. I was a ticking time bomb, on the edge of a heart attack, stroke, or diabetic coma. Part of me welcomed it — a way out. But another part said fight.

Medications — Metformin, Ozempic and a bunch of statins, cholesterol tablets and more. A brutal diet overhaul. I cut out sugar, carbs, meat. Bought a punchbag, dumbbells, and a weight vest. The meds caused stomach pain, my bowels waged war, but I kept going. I started at 265 lbs. I was determined to change.

I hated myself, so I fought back. Late nights turned into long runs. I dropped weight, my knuckles bled from punching the bag. Sleepless nights, brain fog, irrational thoughts — an obsession took hold. I traded fries for salads, burgers for fish. I tested my blood sugar religiously; read every book I could find. I was becoming stronger, more honest with myself.

People treated me differently. I was no longer the fun, talk - bollocks guy. Relationships broke, chains I thought bound me fell away. I sold my flat in the UK, wanting to escape the trap I was in. I wanted to be free, to rediscover life beyond the brewery’s suffocating walls.

Weeks turned into months. I dropped to 185 lbs. XXL shirts replaced by Large, 38-inch waist to 32. My body was recovering. I wanted more from life. I ran in the rain, I ran in the heat, sweat became a welcome relief from the humidity.

I fought for control, clawed my way back from the edge. It wasn’t just about losing weight; it was about reclaiming my life. And I did. I wanted to live to see my son grow older, to see him fall in love, to see how he leads his life.