From my earliest memories, depression has been my constant companion. From my earliest childhood memories, depression has been my constant companion. At just four or five years old, standing in my school playground in my blue parka and corrective shoes for my club foot, I first felt that heavy, soggy “duvet of doom” settle over me. This wasn't mere sadness, but something deeper and physically painful that has followed me throughout my life. I existed on the periphery, never quite belonging to any group. As the eldest child, I lacked the natural advantage of an older sibling who could have eased my entry into social circles, vouching for my character and worth. My parents didn’t have friends with children who might have extended that crucial invitation: “He’s alright, let him join us.” I felt perpetually seen and judged for my distinctive gait from my club foot, which was fused and shorter than the other one, and this fed my catastrophic levels of clumsiness and social awkwardness. People's stares and whispers followed me, or at least I believed they did. In desperation for acceptance, I carved out a niche as the group clown, willing to hurt myself, subject myself to humiliation for the entertainment of peers I didn't particularly like or respect. The bargain seemed fair at the time: physical pain or embarrassment in exchange for inclusion. "As long as I'm part of something," I told myself, “The cost doesn't matter." Reflecting on this now creates a hollow ache in my chest. A recognition of what I was willing to sacrifice simply to avoid being alone. This struggle unfolded against the bleak backdrop of Ebbw Vale in the mid-1980s through the 1990s, a community drowning in economic devastation. The systematic dismantling of Welsh industry had hit our town with cruelty. The mine closures came first, followed by the slow death of the steelworks, the beating heart of our community for generations. With each shuttered facility, hope drained from the valley. Unemployment wasn't merely a statistic; it was the shadow that darkened every household. Men who had defined themselves through hard, honest labour now found themselves purposeless, their identity stripped away with their livelihoods. The pubs became community centres; alcohol was the cause and solution to wounded pride and uncertain futures. The air itself seemed heavy with despair, a communal grief that permeated everything. In this landscape of collective loss, fitting in became both more crucial and more complicated, another system where I found myself on the outside looking.

I wrote this as I wanted to give the help or advice I wish I had when I was struggling. Coming out the other side as a sober man who still struggles with mental health, but due to a new mindset does not struggle for as long or as badly, has inspired me to share the “hacks” that I hope can help you get there. It is purely lived experience, personal anecdotes, and tools I developed. I built it because staying sober and mentally prepared is more about perspective and nothing to do with willpower, and I want you to realise that. I want to make clear that this is not therapy. I’m not a clinician, and this isn’t medical advice. This is just me saying what worked for me, telling the truth about what kept me going. I’ve learned the hard way that pretending to be fine makes things worse. This space exists so people don’t have to do that. Over the last year, while out of work, I wrote a 30,000-word book about how I survived depression and stayed sober. My aim on this platform is to share: • One chapter each weekend from the book I wrote • One poem midweek that I have been writing since November 2024 Some of it might help you, some of it won’t. Take what works, leave the rest. There’s no pressure to post here or do anything you don't want. Be kind. Be respectful (basically don't be a dick) This community will always have a free option. If you’re struggling, you’re welcome here. No questions asked. I’ve added an optional Premium membership for anyone who finds this useful and wants to support the writing. Nothing essential is locked away. There’s no pressure. No special status. It simply helps me keep building this space and writing consistently. If you’d like to upgrade: 1. Click your profile picture (top right) 2. Go to Settings 3. Select “The Bipolar Bear” 4. Choose Premium If not, stay anyway. Matthew