Imagine starting afresh, embarking on a brand new journey in unfamiliar grounds. I am doing just that as I reside at Catherine Close, East Hanningfield, Chelmsford. Establishing a foothold within an independent and securely settled residence, I pave my own way, shaping the life indoors to suit my needs. It's a new chapter, a new beginning, and it's all up to me. 

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But like a moth to a flame, I veer towards my old habits, breaching my restraining order yet again. Despite already being on a suspended sentence, I find myself in the same predicament at Chelmsford Crown Court, walking away with another suspended sentence of 2 years for a period of 2 years. An occurrence as rare as a black swan. Yet, it serves as a stark reminder that I must make a clean break with my past, specifically my connection to Gatehouse Arts. 

 

"I might have a turbulent past, but evolution is inevitable. The experience of facing a challenge and overcoming it mirrors the lifelong lessons that shape us."

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Pursuing a fresh avenue, I welcome a Beagle puppy into my life, bestowing upon her the name, Zarah. At first, the challenges of being a dog owner seem insurmountable, yet the rewards that follow are priceless. There is now an unspoken completeness in my life, accompanied by a lingering question - why didn't I get a dog earlier?

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In the late summer of 2015, I found myself in the humble abode of 5 Catherine Close in East Hanningfield, Chelmsford. A reasonably sized flat, yet desolate and in desperate need of love and care. Looking back, I could have made better choices instead of squandering my previous funds on weed and takeaways while in temporary lodgings. Thankfully, a grant came to my aid, providing the bare essentials such as an extremely uncomfortable bed, an oven, a fridge and freezer combo, a sofa, and a wardrobe. Yet, there was still a void in the flat space. This is where Deborah's family stepped in, generously offering unused bits and pieces from their garage, breathing life into my kitchen. In principle, handouts may not be favorable, but in the face of absolute need, the gratitude for such help knows no bounds. During all this, my dependency on weed loomed over me, a habit that had become an everyday ritual. Despite it all, I found some semblance of peace in planning and envisioning how to fill and bring comfort to my first real home. Nevertheless, the sheer enormity of it all felt slightly daunting.

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Shortly after assuming residence in this rather secluded hamlet, I began to perceive the practical challenges it presented. Lack of personal transportation proved to be a significant hurdle, considering the paltry number of daily bus services and their early final run around 4 p.m. This might be suitable for an elder needing to visit local shops, but it evidently complicated my job-seeking pursuits. The nearest doctor was nearly an hour's stroll away, with the journey being along a perilous 60 mph road devoid of walkways. A local convenience store, which also served as a post office, exploited its monopoly by charging exorbitantly high prices. Contrary to my initial idyllic vision of residing amidst nature, I found myself marooned in farmland. Adding to my woes, the farmers began to fertilize their fields soon after my arrival, leaving the air filled with an incredibly unpleasant odor.

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The summer had been scorching, providing a thriving environment for the wasps. They incessantly infiltrated my flat, transforming every departure into a battle with these buzzing invaders. When Catherine Close came onto my housing radar, I was only about the twentieth prospective tenant. So, thinking I had significant time left in my temporary living situation, I eagerly put research on the backburner. Once the property was within arm's reach, the excitement overtook, and I didn't kick-start my research until I had already moved in.

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Not long after settling into my new dwelling, I started exploring a quicker route to the local GP, traipsing through fields - a task proving much tougher than you could imagine. It was soon pointed out that my path cut across Willis Farm, a detail that felt like a relapse waiting to happen. I started to develop a nagging feeling that my placement in East Hanningfield was a deliberate psychological test - a sensation amplified by the mere mention of 'Willis'. Undeniably, my judgement could have been clouded by the significant amounts of marijuana I was consuming at the time. Convinced of a set-up, I fell into old patterns and breached my restraining order again. Perhaps I was subconsciously seeking a way out of my living circumstances, but it is challenging to decipher my thought process during these impulsive episodes. I found myself in handcuffs once more, unquestionably guilty this time even having used a known phone number to breach the restraining order. With an existing suspended sentence over my head, I readied myself for the inevitable consequences, mentally preparing for a stint of prison life.

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The choice to refrain from investing any money in my apartment was driven by the fear of an impending prison sentence. It was a situation that deeply upset Deborah. I must admit, I have a long track record of making incorrect decisions. Sometimes, it feels like the multiple mistakes I make are merely self-inflicted wounds. These seemingly impulsive reactions, for which I feel I have little power over, are often consciously contemplated. While I do manage to rein in my thoughts at times, there are instances when I lose all restraint. This usually happens when my inner demons gain an upper hand.

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On receiving an invitation, I reluctantly returned to my position at Subway, which in retrospect, may not have been the wisest decision. The younger cohorts there developed a certain condescending demeanor that caused me to lose my cool. Despite my attempts at restraint, I succumbed to the moment's volatility, hurled a few unpleasantries, and then chose to part ways with my job. My thought process often feels like a tad bit of a hurdle – obstructing my progress and shaking my trust each time I crumble. It’s even more challenging to recompose myself after every meltdown. Maybe, just maybe, the universe never intended for me to be part of Subway, but it happened, and I must acknowledge that. Although I should have acknowledged the role my weed habit played in igniting my anger, by then, I was thoroughly entrapped in its psychological addiction, indulging in the mind-altering herb without a second thought.

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For a time, my living conditions resembled that of a homeless person. I erected sheets as makeshift curtains, giving my home an air of dilapidated anonymity. Although an initial spark of optimism led me to start decorating, this was extinguished when I was once again arrested for breaching my restraining order. I'm sure you can understand why I questioned the investments of my time and finances into a place that felt so transient. Despite finally having a home, I was constantly on edge, expecting it to be taken away imminently. Ironically, this anxious wait for the ax to fall did nothing but consume months of my life. 

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In this challenging phase, I had the support of Deborah. We were rock solid during this tumultuous period. Yet, the struggle I faced was so immense that I often found myself shielding her from it, fearing it might drive her away. Despite her being a beacon of kindness, honesty and trust, I couldn't lean on her as much as I should have. Perhaps, this speaks volumes about the trust issues that have haunted me throughout my adulthood. 

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My sibling, Jason, generously lent me an old reliable Fiat Punto, opening up a new avenue of freedom for me. Unexpectedly, East Hanningfield didn't feel as isolated as I had initially perceived. With the formidable challenge of bidding goodbye to weed looming over me, the impending threat of imprisonment had convinced me to consider smuggling a parcel inside.

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It's a hard truth to swallow, but my dependency on cannabis still lingered, albeit significantly reduced. Despite attempting to stow it away for the inevitable prison stretch, I'd often find myself dipping into the stash in times of need, seeking the temporary highs. It's not a part of myself that I'm proud of, but after being entwined in my life for so long, I start to question my ability to overcome these persistent struggles. 

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It's widely recognized that individuals with mental health struggles often self-medicate through drugs, seeking refuge from their psychological pains. The troubling part is that it's often the ones who can scarcely afford to, who seek escape in these substances. Gone are the days when narcotics were taken for leisure, now they serve as life rafts to oblivion for those wrestling with the harsh realities of this modern world.

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Anticipating another breach of my restraining order, I braced myself for the impending referral to Crown Court. Convinced that a lengthy incarceration was inevitable, my mind immediately slipped into prison survival mode. From games and fire-resistant bedding to art supplies, I began stockpiling everything I could, ready to face the cold and harsh reality of the prison cells. Anything that wasn't essential became, in my estimation, a potential form of tradeable currency within those confined walls. Simultaneously, I was devising intricate schemes to smuggle in contraband items. Whether we're talking about prescription drugs, cannabis, large-sized rolling papers, or even a mobile device, I was considering every detail. From hiding things within a stereo or sneakers to contemplating more internal concealment methods, I was ruthlessly resourceful. In my fervor to prepare for the highly improbable, I, unknowingly, was on the verge of complicating matters for myself. Too many items - that could have easily attracted unwanted attention - might have even put me in harm's way.

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Prior to facing the honourable Judge Ball at the Crown Court, I underwent an assessment conducted by probation. This experience served as a lifeline, resulting in an unexpected outcome: I was awarded a suspended sentence upon an existing suspended sentence. Such a circumstance is virtually unheard of. I had been candid with probation regarding my struggles with mental health, particularly in relation to my move to East Hanningfield, provoking thoughts of Willis. Perhaps this suggested connection to possible child abuse deterred Judge Ball from immediately sending me to prison. The suspended sentence was as surprising to me as anyone else; I had not been scheming to bypass jail time. Life unfolded unpredictably, leading me to impulsively breach my restraining order. My clouded judgment and a diminished understanding of the ramifications of my decisions that day clearly signalled my mental illness.

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In light of the entire court proceedings, I experienced quite the grilling. By dodging an actual prison time, my solicitor was somewhat apprehensive to stir up waters, thereby accepting all other prosecution requisitions. An array of mandates was bestowed upon me: community service, a thinking skills program, probation, a mental health treatment order, a compulsory fine, an elongated restraining order, and a prohibition from stepping foot near Harlow town center. All this, stacked on top of a two-year suspended sentence. In simpler terms, even a minor slip-up like creating an unpleasant smell in an elevator would have the system charging at me, potentially leading me back through a meticulous setting like Runwell. Here I was, a man with his freedom, but a stern demand to avoid any form of trouble for twenty-four long months. But, I would often reassure myself, "You can handle this, and then get on with the rest of your life".

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After the legal proceedings, my focus shifted towards sobriety. I'd managed to put together a tidy sum of about a thousand pounds, primarily to reserve my flat should prison become a reality - thankfully, this money now became available for other needs. I embarked on a series of home improvements that had been long overdue - mounting window nets and curtains, installing lampshades, and breaking out the paint for some fresh decor. Even the odd jobs here and there were tackled with newfound energy - all in preparation for a new carpet. With these changes, life started to fall into place. I felt a renewed purpose, a drive to pursue what many would call a 'normal' life. Though I was fully aware, given my distinctive past, ‘normalcy’ could well be a figment of my imagination.

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Eliminating cannabis from my life turned out to be far more straightforward than I initially anticipated. In fact, I found that its absence made me significantly more placid and less prone to bouts of anger – a rather unexpected consequence, considering the commonly held belief of cannabis' calming properties. However, it seemed imperative to prove to the Judge, and to myself, that his faith in me had not been unfounded.

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It was around that same time when I resolved to permanently cease any and all contact with Gatehouse Arts, disregarding the treatment I perceived from them. I fully accepted and empathized with the individuals whom I had troubled - they were innocent parties who deserved peace henceforth. Therefore, never again did I initiate connection with them, barring occasional interactions with Jim Brown which I admit were not always pleasant. I am genuinely not proud of these incidents. 

 

Looking back, I harbor deep-seated regrets for the harm I inflicted upon those individuals, but it's key to understand that I wasn't in a balanced mental state when I acted the way I did. Various circumstances propelled me into a storm of anger, and sadly, they were caught in the crossfire. They didn't deserve the brunt of my ire, a realization that gnaws at me, but it's also crucial to recognize that people in my shoes act out these ways because of the deep-rooted scars from our childhood trauma. The battles with my personal issues are ongoing and sometimes, reigning in my runaway thoughts proves challenging. Yet, during that phase of my life, I touched a sliver of hope, a sense that maybe help was within reach, and perhaps a fulfilling life wasn't just a dream. That bubble of hope ignited a craving for a stable life, a desire that unfortunately, like most good things, was ephemeral despite my earnest attempts to hold onto it.

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Just a few weeks had passed, and my world was starting to fall apart again, a situation largely due to the actions of the DVLA Medical Department. They reached out to mental health services and, upon discovering I had used cannabis at some point within the last six months, unjustly made the decision to invalidate my driving license. Consequently, I lost my source of income and found myself once more trapped in the same village from which I yearned to escape, wrestling with violent thoughts about others and myself, standing precariously on the brink of losing touch with reality. Despite the chaos ensuing around me, I stayed committed to my thinking skills program. It proved to be somewhat of a lifesaver, but the challenge was to weather this storm of legal injustice.

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The approach taken by the DVLA, in my view, was not just excessive, but also unjust, particularly since it wasn't grounded in any evidence of drug use while driving. Moreover, their unwillingness to administer an immediate drug test, even though I had been clean for over a month, added to my frustration. This perceived attack stoked a fiery resentment within me, feeding into my belief that I was being dealt with on a skewed scale. 

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I've always found mistreatment to be a catalyst for unrestrained reactions, and this situation was no exception. The struggle to regain my driving license spanned across a grueling period of over six months, leaving me entirely drained, both emotionally and financially, in its wake. I was unable to work during the interim, which led to my financial instability.

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After enduring unwarranted harassment from the DVLA, which led me to distance myself from necessary mental health services, I emerged as a survivor. I firmly held my ground, asserting that the DVLA's treatment towards me, a person with disability, was unjust. In their haste to rescind my license, they completely disregarded the fact that there was no proof of me resorting to substance abuse. As a matter of fact, a drug test was already scheduled at that time which I could have easily aced, but it was cancelled upon the abrupt revocation of my license. The DVLA, holding an exorbitant amount of power as part of the state machine, used that power to oppress me in an unacceptable manner. Despite all of this, there was absolutely nothing I could do to retaliate against their actions.

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Securing a stable job was a pivotal step in achieving financial stability, necessary for making desired improvements to my residence in Catherine Close. Initially, I rejoined the workforce at Domino's - still, I found it tricky to adjust. The pace at the bustling Chelmsford store was overwhelming, leading to minor oversights such as forgetting to hand out drinks. Eventually, I found my stride with the team at Papa Johns. The conducive work environment was seldom chaotic, ultimately giving me a sense of control. A significant advantage was the adequate parking available, making it stress-free to commute. The Chelmsford branch of Papa Johns was a family enterprise, full of dedication and looked upon as their collective labour of love. Being part of such a close-knit setup was genuinely rewarding.

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Craving for purpose, I found myself at crossroads where I wished to turn my passion for art into a thriving venture, and with a steadfast resolve, Curvy Portraits Ltd sprang into existence. The determination to thrive, to break free from the societal norms of taking benefits was high, yet of course, the road wasn't as simple. I had to juggle multiple hats, being an entrepreneur meant equipping myself with knowledge about every little detail about running a business. From understanding when to generate reports to learning about my legal duties, it was a whirlwind. The pressure almost turned me more into an administrator than an artist, and there were moments I questioned whether a simple self-employment route would've been better. However, the burning desire to succeed kept me walking on this challenging path. 

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As the festive season of 2016 came, I made the life-altering decision to become a pet parent. A lot of contemplation and deliberation went into deciding the perfect addition to my life, and I settled on a Beagle. With determination and excitement, I reached out to The Kennel Club to find a reliable breeder. My search led me to Africandawns in Cambridge. As luck would have it, they had one puppy left from their recent litter, and I decided to meet this potential new family member. Stepping into the breeder's space, I instantly formed a bond with Africandawns Memory, who I affectionately named Zarah soon after. Holding her for the first time, wrapped in my leather jacket, she was drawn to the unfamiliar taste and began to affectionately lick the leather. That moment sealed the deal for me. With no further delay, I placed my deposit down for my very own puppy. Little did I know, this journey wasn't going to be an easy one as Beagles are known to be tricky to train. But the joy Zarah added to my life made me affirm that this was, indeed, one of the best decisions I had ever made.

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Being an owner to a Beagle pup, especially to my little Zarah, proved to be no simple task. Yet, it was unconditionally fulfilling. An adventurer at heart, Zarah had shown me she could outsmart the bedroom gate I set up. To understand her escapes, I armed myself with a treat and watched from the other side. Eventually, I uncovered her trick - she was simply squeezing between the bars like I once did. That discovery gave me an inexplicable sense of joy that told me she was the perfect companion. However, Zarah's mischievous streak brought about chaos. Any time spent alone in the apartment would result in her gnawing on any object she could get her paws on, causing a dent in my wallet. Even my training technique of isolating her in the bathroom had failed when she chewed through the spanking new, and expensive, flooring. But I discovered Zarah's salvation in the form of Antler’s and a myriad of toys that kept her content. Although she eventually outgrew these distractions, I held on to them, for reasons even I couldn't fathom.

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In the not-so-distant past, my venture, Curvy Portraits Ltd, found itself floundering amidst an unforeseen problem - the sudden withdrawal of my Personal Independence Payment by the Department for Work and Pensions (DWP). Consequently, my Employment Support Allowance was also impacted. Suddenly, I found myself not breaking even, forced to reel in my spending and scrutinize my expenses. Straightaway, I raised an appeal but was shocked to find out that it might take a year due to the overwhelming number of rejections, a reflection of the DWP's unreasonable rules. The Government isn't solely to blame for this predicament - I also pinpoint those discouraging benefit programs that have been aired on prime time TV, portraying benefit claimants in a negative light. Unfortunately, the current perception of disabled people is alarmingly low, making us seem like a burden on the State. Personally, I'd rather be viewed as a burden than be perceived as a liability when I'm in dire straits.

 

While immersing myself in this alluring situation, certain areas of my life inevitably took a step back, one of them being Curvy Portraits Ltd. The company kept running with my supervision, yet lacked my creative input. My days were filled with the anxiety of managing finances and curtailing debts, a process that took a heavy toll on me. Several times, I stood on the threshold of a hospital section, but somehow managed to soldier on, a fact that fills me with a sense of accomplishment. Each passing month plunged me deeper into a financial abyss as I constantly tried to mitigate the damage.

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I found myself plunged into an escalating nightmare, with complications brought on by a new resident— a con artist I call 'Skank'. She conjured up heart-related health problems to gain financial advantage through the benefit system, offering a potential reason why some folks harbor disdain for those relying on such assistance. 'Skank' and I got along fine, yet when she moved in her boyfriend, the circumstances altered dramatically. This man had a past marred by sexual violence against a child, blaming the innocent victim for his repulsive acts. His web of lies ensnared him; one tale insisted that the girl claimed she was 16, another that they shared a mutual relationship which soured when he ended it. This man's reality seemed blurred at the edges, perhaps because truth and falsehood had become so twisted in his mind.

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Interacting with Skank and Nonce was hardly an enjoyable endeavor, as it was glaringly obvious that both were insincere. Skank was allegedly suffering from a heart disease that resuscitated not from standard revival methods, but through resounding slap on her face, as per Nonce's bizarre suggestion. This unconventional remedy reportedly astonished medical experts, drawing parallels to a medical miracle. Her dog, intriguingly, was trained to bark every time Skank would lay down and close her eyes, transforming it into a deceptively certified Assistance Dog. Deceiving Chelmsford Housing with tales of her canine's valuable services, Skank circumvented conventional emergency housing rules and was granted a house to accommodate her "assistance" dog. The charade didn't stop there, as Skank would feign seizures and ridicule them later. In the precarious position I found myself in, due to my benefits scenario, a prompt to falsify things at my appeal wasn't beneficial. I have consistently been candid about my health status, and the sheer idea of manipulation makes my stomach churn. Skank may have been more ill than what met the eye, but her overall guise was that of a rogue to me.

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While it wasn't my intention initially to engage with Skank and Nonce, the boundaries were irrevocably shattered when they intentionally fooled me. They drew me in with an enticing offer - a bag of cannabis. But what I ended up with was nothing more than a bag of perfume - a total sham. I found myself needing to verify if their intentions were as deceitful as they seemed, or whether they were unwitting victims themselves. So, I developed an exercise of sorts - a test. I sat down, praising the quality of the 'hash', expressing how much money I allegedly squander every day on it, falsely inflating the figure to £50. No sooner had I mentioned the amount, I sensed their eagerness. Skank's eyes sparkled, quite evidently with greed. She could barely conceal her anticipation. It was utterly clear. She had fooled me, and with complete intent. From that moment on, I decided I would no longer entertain either of them. 

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Poised on the precipice of personal turmoil, I felt that I'd finally made a substantial stride towards improvement by securing employment at the local village shop. Gone were the days I'd spend money commuting or doling out for a company my vehicle maintenance. The excitement was palpable - and having a post office integrated in my workplace only sweetened the deal. In my mind, progress was afoot. But as this new chapter in life unfolded, my interactions with Skank and Nonce came to a grinding halt. Following his arrest at their residence and the subsequent attempts by her to convince me of his violent behaviour towards her - if true, it painted her as rather foolish to allow him to continue living there - our communication ceased. However, straight from the starting blocks of my new assignment, harassment reared its nasty head. What began as rather tame soon escalated into an unhealthy obsession when they realized their efforts bore no fruit. 

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You'd find it far-fetched, the debacle around the post office accounts. Balancing those books was akin to taming a wild yo-yo, with figures dancing upwards one moment and spiraling downwards the next. Yet, the owner shrugged it off, assuring that it all fell into place eventually, thanks to automatic system updates. It's quite a thought, this whole ordeal of the post office scandal. Doesn't it make you wonder why our governance errs so frequently, their negligence landing as blame at the steps of those victimized?

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The seasoned troublemaker had roped in the notorious gossip of the town to aid in her campaign of harassment, and even managed to secure backing from the local drug peddler. Their goal was clear - to exploit my mental health struggles and induce a state of paranoia within me. I managed to turn a blind eye for the most part, yet their efforts were ceaseless and reached a crescendo when life in my hometown no longer brought me any joy.

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I found myself driven to respond to the fraudster by sending him messages that provoked him. I wanted to have the last word, at least in my mind. I soon made it quite clear that I was aware of his deceit related to the perfume deal. Ironically, I expressed amusement at his actions, claiming that I had been consistently short-changing him and his companions at the shop. I ensured that every penny, along with interest for his swindling, was returned to me. Curiously, less than a fortnight later, the shop was robbed one night. It was clear to me who was responsible, though such a notion could never be proved in a judicial setting.

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For about a few months, I toiled under Ashraf Rahman in his shop. Subsequently, it was as if the universe began orchestrating a swap through a contact I knew. This person desired to switch their two-bedroom house in East London with my flat - a move designed to bring them closer to their family ties. The specter of intimidation that haunted me was at last prepared to dissipate, readying me to once again taste freedom.

             

There was a moment, one sunny Sunday afternoon, when I felt a sense of ground reality. The usual serenity of my block was shattered by a sudden uproar, followed swiftly by the piercing siren of an oncoming ambulance. Moira Channing, one of my neighbors, was facing a serious health crisis. She'd nearly succumbed to a physical collapse in the safety of her own home. Quickly, her son-in-law whisked away the gathering children as Moira was transferred onto the ambulance. Despite her ill state, Moira didn't seem particularly pale or show any visible signs of distress. She did not appear to me as had Glover and Baxter in my younger years with palid complexions. Tragically, a few days later on April 24th 2018, Moira passed away in the hospital, surrounded by loves ones. This news, although saddening, brought about a strange sense of relief, a comforting calm. It had been false all along and Glover and Baxter could not have happened but why do I go grey when I bask in the sun?

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Unexpectedly, Ashraf's honesty proved to be a facade. He had been subtly manipulating my tax code for several months, effectively committing corporate theft. My paycheck didn't include any payslips, a strategy that not only impeded my benefit entitlements but also involuntarily pushed me into a fraudulent position with the state. I was erroneously told I wasn't eligible for holiday pay when, in fact, I was. Now, the only way to rectify this and clear my name is by resorting to an employment tribunal.

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Africandawns Memory by Michael Ezare Barrett

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 In quiet whispers, they understand,
With gentle paws and a loving hand.
Faithful companions through thick and thin,
Loyal hearts that never give in.

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 Eyes that speak a thousand words,
Tails that wag like joyous birds.
Their presence a balm to the soul,
A cherished bond, making us whole.

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 Through every challenge, every storm,
They keep us safe and warm.
A Beagle's bark, a Shepherd's gaze,
In their eyes, you always find praise.

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 Unconditional love, a gift they've got,
Teaching humans what we forgot.
Their humble hearts, always pure,
In their company, we endure.

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 So here's to dogs, our faithful friends,
With endless love that never ends.
In their loyalty, we find trust,
In their joy, we find just.