An Everyday Warrior, A True Story of Betrayal and Comebacks

An Everyday Warrior is a true story of a man's fall from grace and his comeback.

Your weekend read!

 An Everyday Warrior is a true story, and below is the prologue to it. Please be aware that it contains upsetting scenes of alcohol withdrawal and violence, but every word written, and I mean every word, is true and happened to my family and I.

You can download the book in full at here

An Everyday Warrior, by Simon Morrell.

Prolouge

I had it all, I had the world at my feet. From a bullied, tormented, skinny kid who fell to agoraphobia, nervous breakdown and panic disorder, I had turned it all around to become a Black Belt, a Fighter who was quickly establishing a solid reputation. My first book was published, I was receiving fan mail from all around the world and my full-time gym was producing winners and attracting students from near and afar.

More importantly than that, I was married to a beautiful girl. Indeed, it was fair to say that Simon Morrell, the boy who no girl would look at twice as a kid, was married to the girl he had yearned after for so long and she had given him three of the sweetest kids in the world.

The car I drove? A brand new shiny 4 x 4 with two loyal German Shepherds in the back that made it look the part and who stood watch over my family at night.

I was coming off the back of not only gaining my third Black Belt, but beating down a gang of drug dealers who were tormenting the area’s peaceful community. Taking me on and losing, they lost all face and reputation. They had left town for good after a full-scale confrontation with me, one that they lost. The respect I had gained from people after that fateful afternoon was nice, but what was nicer was the self-respect I had found.

And then it all disappeared. Everything I had worked for, sweated over and created was gone. Looking back, I should have seen it coming, but at the time I would tell you it happened overnight. I later realised that nothing of the size of the catastrophe that lay waiting for me happens overnight…believe me.

It didn’t sneak up on me in the night but when the years of adversity I had endured announced its result and displayed itself so vividly, it did so with a venom that could end a man.

At first I thought it was funny. Well who wouldn’t? It isn’t every day that a TV company makes a film in your neighbour’s garden. The subject matter though, confused me, as I lay on my bed watching from the window. It would appear to involve lots of men and women dressed as chimneys, marching up and down the rooftops, stopping occasionally to salute one another as the director shouted his instructions.

Well, I say shouted, I couldn’t actually hear him but somehow, I instinctively knew what it was he was saying. It was like the words were in my head but not said out aloud. Still, I just had to show Julie, she would love it! I shouted downstairs to where she was working in her office.

“Ju, you have to come and see this!” I called, excitedly. What I didn’t realise was that this was about the fifth time I had called her to see the exact same thing...and that really there was nothing to see.

I heard her make her way up the stairs as I turned back to the window. To my delight, there was now a fairground carousel with children riding on it, some of them playing the banjo. My favorite instrument! How did they know?

As Julie came into our bedroom I excitedly pointed the whole scene out to her, as I saw it.

“Simon. What are you talking about, there is nothing there?” she said, exasperated.

“Look, I will prove it to you. Let’s go downstairs and see all the trucks parked up outside the house. There’s bound to be loads, what with all that equipment.”

Julie shook her head, half sad and half angry.

“I’ll go with you but then that’s it. You need rest. When we come back in I want you to get some sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah, I will. Come on, let’s go!” I made my way down the stairs and out of the door, convinced I would be able to get involved with all the festivities.

What greeted me however, what stopped me in my tracks was the sight of a completely empty road, and no one or thing at all in the garden that I had seen from our bedroom. No trucks, no wagons carrying fairground equipment, no people playing musical instruments. In fact all I saw was a completely empty street. The scene was made all the more eerie by the fact that there was a very cold wind blowing and dust from the nearby roadworks floating around. At least I think that is what it was.

I stood, barefooted, confused and a little scared as I realised on some kind of level that I was in trouble, deep trouble.

Julie tugged at my hand. “Come on love. Come back inside and have a sleep. You will feel better after it.”

Although I followed her inside, she could not have been more wrong about me feeling better.  What followed would be like a trip to hell itself.  The first thing I did was check from our bedroom window to see what had happened to all the rides. They too had gone, or rather they were never there at all. All I could see now were the rooftops of the houses below. Trying to escape what I thought was madness I lay down on the bed and tried to sleep.

For an hour or so I did indeed manage sleep, but woke to more visions. It was going to be a long night for everyone, and an even longer few days for me as hallucinations, caused by sudden withdrawal from a massive alcohol intake, would bring me to the brink of insanity.

Whilst not a ‘sit on a park bench knocking back vodka at nine in the morning’ drinker, the years of stress, particularly the previous four or so, had taken their toll and alcohol had been a way of release. I may be seen as weak confessing this, but you can’t fault me for my honesty and as they say ‘he without sin…’

Indeed, when my stress was becoming intolerable and I realised I was drinking on a daily basis, I had the courage to seek out help and not for the first time found myself on the shrink’s chair. Going there to get advice about my stress was my priority but I also wanted to address the issue of drink.

However, after hearing of the pressure I was under, the doctor half-heartedly commented, “It’s no wonder you are drinking too much.” She then kind of recoiled in horror, apologising and saying I shouldn't take her too seriously. I didn’t; I was already well on my way to knowing that the adversity I was under was going to get worse and therefore, in the back of my mind knew that more drink would follow.

However, all this was just a distant blur as I lay on my bed that day, musing about the chimneys and drifting in and out of consciousness.

Just two days earlier, I had again found myself in the doctor’s office, this time after a final row with Julie when she gave me the ultimatum; pack in the drinking or find somewhere else to live.

Having already spent many a night sleeping on the floor of our gym after yet another row, and realising how much my family meant to me and how much upset I was causing them, I had to take decisive action.

I sat in the doctor’s office and told him my situation. I had lost a lot of weight, had no appetite and had been drinking to forget my problems. However, these weren't my biggest worries. No the thing that frightened me most of all was something I had come to realise, yet not address, a long time ago; my feet were dying.

You see I had watched a few years earlier as an acquaintance succumbed to much heavier stuff than drink and I had seen him hobble up and down the local streets, limping like an old man. I didn’t know what caused this, nor did I ask, but I was fascinated as his legs seemed to struggle with his (not very much) weight. I only found out when he died that the coroner had reported he had killed all the nerve endings in his feet by drinking excessively.

So this had always been at the back of my mind when my feet started having agonizing tingles and shooting pains that would keep me awake at night. I would, from time to time, wobble over on them when walking. Indeed, to my absolute mortification, they had given way completely some days earlier when I sat in our local bar with my son. We were there to watch a big football match and the bar was packed with happy punters and friends.

As our team looked like scoring the people in the bar raised as one, only to let out a collective sigh as we saw the ball fly past the goal. Going to sit back down, my feet just gave out and I crashed into the table knocking drinks everywhere, smashing glasses and ending up in a heap on the floor.

A couple of the locals rushed to my aid but the damage was done. I had never been so embarrassed in all my life and felt dreadful for my son who watched horrified. People laughed and reassured me I had just lost my footing in the excitement but I knew this had to stop. I knew I couldn't keep getting seen like this in public.

So as I explained my symptoms to the doctor he confirmed my fears. I lay on his bench as he prodded my feet with very sharp needles. Some I could feel, some I couldn’t.

Julie looked on upset and commented how sad it was to see me like this as I had once been so fit. The doctor didn't reply but concluded his tests and sat down.

We then talked about the amount of drink I was consuming and when I gave him the answer he simply looked over my shoulder at Julie who told him the truth, which was much, much more than I cared to admit.

After he took all this in, he gave his opinion, “Well Simon, there is definitely nerve damage and you are definitely drinking too much. I hope we have caught it in time but we will have to run some blood tests. In the meantime, I don’t want you to just stop drinking immediately because that can be very dangerous. You will have to stop gradually.”

After making notes for me to see a nurse for blood tests and referring me to an alcohol counselor, he shook my hand as I left his office. He looked genuinely sad when he said, “I wish you all the best, Simon. I really hope we have got to this before it is too late.”

I felt like I had been hit by a train. What did he mean too late? Surely there wasn’t any danger. But it was obvious what he meant. If I didn’t stop drinking I was going to die. No ifs, buts or maybes. This forty four year old father of three once tipped as a potential World Class Karate man was going to die of drink.

If anybody doubted I had the strength to stop, they had me all wrong. I was strong enough to, I just had to draw upon every ounce of strength, determination and doggedness I could muster. I had to draw upon the strength that took me from a bullied, weak individual to a recognized, respected fighter. It was time to ask questions of myself again.

 I could, and would stop, let there be no mistake about that, but I had to start the process by cutting down. However, in my determination to beat this condition, my eagerness got the better of me and I went about the withdrawal in a completely wrong fashion.

Instead of taking my time, weaning off alcohol over a period of days and weeks, I would have one glass of wine that night and it was to be my last, I swore to myself. It was very nearly the last of anything I would ever have.

The following day I had no alcohol at all to drink and then I entered a twilight world, a world where I was first greeted by the dancing chimneys.  They were funny, something that I could laugh at but what followed them was not so good. What followed was a world so dark and frightening that some people thought I would never come back from it at all. Some thought I had lost my mind completely. It was not a world I would recommend anyone to visit. Not even the bastards who had been instrumental in putting me there.

Read An Everyday Warrior tonight by downloading it here