Defying the Enemy Within

by Joe Williams

  Looking back to that grand final, there is one thing I’m thankful for, though it’s a little selfish. But because we lost I got to stay sober.

  Dave Peachey (centre left) after North Sydney’s loss to Paramatta in the 2007 reserve-grade grand final. That’s me crouching on the right.

  I distinctly remember saying to myself when I saw Weller crash over, ‘You didn’t win, so there’s no excuse now to get on the drink over the next couple of days. Losers don’t celebrate.’

  I managed to keep myself away from the team after the game and through the grand final evening, going to the leagues club with family members aware of my struggle with alcohol and drugs. We only stayed there for an hour or so; I had a couple of soft drinks and was home before 11pm.

  When ‘Mad Monday’ came around, I turned my phone off so I wouldn’t receive any calls from my teammates. And when Suzie and our kids, Brodi and Phoenix, had to go somewhere that day, I asked her to deadlock the doors and take the keys so I couldn’t get out of the house. However, as soon as Suzie and the kids left, I was overcome by an immediate urge to get hold of as much alcohol as I could lay my hands on. It was during those hours while my family was gone from the house that I experienced my worst-ever alcohol and drug cravings. I remember walking around the house to the point of almost pulling my hair out, saying to myself, ‘If I can make it through this tough time, I can make it through anything.’ And I made a vow to myself that if I got through it I would get the Serenity Prayer tattooed onto my torso.

  The AA motto is to live one day at a time, but in order to get through that day I had to break the time down into tiny pieces, from every hour into every minute. At times I even found myself staring at a clock on the wall while I counted the seconds.

  Having survived that Monday, I felt I could get through the toughest of tests. The following day I got the Serenity Prayer tattooed onto my torso, as a reminder that if I could get through that day, I can get through any day.

  9

  TURNING TO PRESCRIPTION DRUGS

  I was clean and sober for over a year, but fighting my addictions to party drugs and alcohol was a major battle. I was haunted by the constant barrage of negative conversations in my head, which took a heavy toll. Drinking alcohol and taking drugs quietened down the noise. Giving them away turned the noise back up — right up! It was during this time I experienced my first serious bout of depression.

  I was doing my best to hold my position in an NRL team, and I couldn’t understand why I was down all the time. I began looking for something to fill the void, and unfortunately I turned to prescription drugs. These gave me a feeling of being out of it or ‘high’ in a similar way to illicit drugs. As well, they weren’t detected by drug tests.

  It was easy to access prescription drugs by lying to doctors or getting prescriptions from injured players. Soon my addiction to the prescription drug high was so strong I couldn’t wait to go home after training and get completely out of it by taking extreme amounts of sleeping pills, painkillers and antipsychotic pills. You name it, I had a crack at it.

  Eventually, I realised I was hooked. The only difference was that taking prescription drugs wouldn’t land me in prison. During the worst times, when the voices in my head were really loud, I’d take as many pills as I could, testing my tolerance and even chancing the thought I wouldn’t wake up. It was like I was addicted to the thrill — I was walking the fine line between life and death, and I was loving it.

  Of course, my behaviour was putting a strain on my relationship at home. There were days when I would come home from training, my kids would be jumping all over me, wanting to play, and I was too high to even register they were there.

  It got to the point that the voices in my head were telling me constantly I was no longer worthy to be alive, and the world would be a better place without me. The louder and more constant the voices became, the more drugs I took. The only way that I could deal with the negative voices telling me to kill myself was to get completely shit-faced.

  I began taking prescription pills at any time of the day. Then, at the end of the 2007 season, I left

  The head noise was out of control again, and I was using prescription drugs to silence it.

  Souths and signed with Penrith. But after we were beaten by the Brisbane Broncos in the first game, I was dropped to reserve grade.

  In all honesty, this was when I began to lose interest in the game I’d loved for so long. The head noise was out of control again, and I was using prescription drugs to silence it.

  Once, when I was playing in Penrith’s reserve-grade team, we were travelling to New Zealand for a game. I felt so low on the flight to Auckland I took a full tray of prescription sleeping pills, not caring whether or not I woke up. The only thing I remember from that trip was my roommate saying: ‘Joey, this isn’t good, man. You really shouldn’t take that many pills.’ But I didn’t care. It was like his words went in one ear and out the other. And when I was taking pills, I also didn’t care if we won or lost, or whether I played well or badly.

  Finally I realised that, yet again, I was addicted and would have to try to break my addiction. Fearing I’d be banished from the NRL if I tried to get professional help and was found out, I decided to go cold turkey.

  That detox was one of the worst experiences I’ve ever had. During the height of my prescription pill addiction, I hadn’t been able to fall asleep by myself without the aid of far too many pills. I was so used to using pills to get to sleep, I barely got any sleep at all during the first 36 hours of detoxing. Then there were the hot and cold sweats and hallucinations. I got so paranoid at one point, I was afraid to leave my bedroom and believed the world was against me. When I wasn’t at football training, I’d stay at home, doors locked and the blinds closed.

  Once more I’d hit rock bottom, but somehow I’d again crawled out of the hole. Now, somehow, I needed to stay clean and get my life together.

  10

  FINDING MY LIFELINE

  Midway through the 2008 season, I walked into the Redfern PCYC to see champion boxing trainer Johnny Lewis. Johnny and I had run into each other a year or so earlier, and he’d mentioned his connection to Cowra and how he’d met my dad when he was playing football in Sydney. ‘Give me a buzz,’ he’d said, ‘if you ever need any extra fitness work.’

  Around the same time, bitter that I was still playing reserve-grade, I asked my manager to look for an opportunity for me to get back in the top grade, maybe with another club. I was kicking stones and not enjoying playing footy at all, but, looking back, I would have been better off if I’d ripped in at training to get back into first grade. Hindsight …

  Eventually, I got a release and signed on to play with the Canterbury Bulldogs. But I’d learned in AA that the one thing you take with you everywhere is yourself. So even though I’d moved clubs, my problems were still with me. Now, I’d also lost all interest in the game. Playing in the NRL felt like just a job. So, at the end of that 2008 season, I walked away from rugby league.

  This time, when I met with Johnny at Redfern PCYC, I wasn’t looking to get back on the rugby league field. Instead, I wanted to see if I could make it as a boxer. And that’s what we did.

  Johnny Lewis — a great man whom I love and respect dearly.

  I hadn’t been the most aggressive rugby league player, and my form had always been up and down, particularly during the worst of my addiction problems. As a result, a lot of people didn’t think I could make it as a boxer. And for sure, boxing training is much harder than playing league. But in addition to improving my physical fitness, boxing gave me something I had never gotten from the game. Boxing increased my mental toughness.

  In the weeks that followed, I also realised that the harder I worked in the boxing gym, the quieter the noise in my head. In working my physical fitness, I began to build a resilience to the negative talk that was happening between my ears.

  When I walked into that boxing gym, I felt like a weight had been lifted from my
shoulders, and my demons and mental health battles were diminished. During the time I spent inside those four walls my mind was free, and I came to love the discipline and hard work involved.

  Johnny had a lot to do with it. He’s the best motivator I’ve ever known. He has a calming effect that makes you feel safe. Even when my heart was beating through my chest and anxiety was causing my thoughts to spiral out of control, Johnny’s soft whispers of ‘C’mon, Joey, pick up the pace a bit, son,’ would calm me. And even when I was hitting the pads, not an ounce of energy left in my body, Johnny’s words could convince me to find that little bit more.

  Dad would say: ‘Joe, if you think you’re fit enough to box, keep training harder.’ Boxing taught me

  When I walked into that boxing gym I felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

  discipline and to work right to the final bell of each round.

  Soon I found I was applying the same discipline beyond the gym. I was getting up every morning at 6 am to run, and keeping to a strict diet, because I had to get my weight down from a footy player’s 82 kilos to the weight I eventually fought my first fight at — 69 kilos.

  Eventually, after I’d been training tirelessly with Johnny for a few months, he said to me: ‘Do you want a fight?’

  I didn’t know what to say — training was very different to the real thing — but I thought, why not?

  Usually in boxing, you fight as an amateur, then, if you go okay, you move into the professional ranks. Johnny thought I would be all right moving straight

  Boxing taught me discipline, and to work right to the final bell of each round.

  to the pros. So I began to get ready for my first professional boxing fight.

  On the night of my first fight, at Punchbowl Croatian Club, I was the most nervous I’ve ever been in my life. I began to question everything about my preparation: had I done enough?

  Luckily, I had Johnny Lewis in my corner, a man who always has a calm head. Johnny doesn’t say much, but when he does, you listen.

  I ended up winning my first fight with a second-round knockout. And under Johnny’s coaching, I went on to win the next two fights. Thanks to boxing, and Johnny Lewis, I felt like I might be getting my life back on track.

  11

  LOSING MY GRIP

  Living in Sydney is expensive, so Suzie, Brodi, Phoenix and I moved back to Wagga. I’d never been a big fan of city life, despite living there for many years, and it was great to have family around to help with the kids.

  Back home in Wagga, I teamed up with Dad and a great man in the boxing circles, Jeff Malcolm. Dad had known Jeff from his time playing football in Sydney with Wests Magpies. Jeff was a world-rated boxer and had also been trained by Johnny Lewis, so it was a great fit.

  But in early 2010, my marriage to Suzie broke down. It was destructive and very painful for both of us. For fifteen months after our separation, I didn’t get to see or speak to Brodi or Phoenix, which sent my mood even lower. Going from living and interacting with my children every single day to not seeing or speaking to them for over a year took a heavy toll. It got to the point where, some days, I couldn’t physically get out of bed. I’d lose hours in the day, passing time by self-medicating with prescription drugs. But, I didn’t pick up a drink or a party drug. This was a step in the right direction.

  The fifteen months apart from my kids took a heavy toll on my relationship with them. I don’t blame them — I believe Brodi and Phoenix truly do love me, but without doubt they are closer to

  I’d lose hours in the day, passing time by self-medicating with prescription drugs.

  their mother. I can only try to continue to build on the relationship we have, by showing them I love them every day.

  Finally, I decided to seek professional help for my low mood, because surviving from day to day had become too hard. That’s when I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and learned that it caused my mood to swing from terrible lows to manic highs (mania). At last I understood why there were times when I felt infallible. During those manic highs, I might go on spending sprees, when I’d be going through a great deal of money, sometimes resorting to borrowing to keep the spending spree going.

  When I was first diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I didn’t know anything about the illness, but I’d heard all kinds of things, many of them wrong. As time passed, though, I did some research and eventually met other people with the same thing. The more people I met with bipolar, the more similarities I would recognise, and the more I realised I wasn’t alone and I wasn’t so unusual after all. But it was daunting to be diagnosed with a mental illness, and there was still a stigma around it, so it wasn’t a tag I wore proudly.

  I was still boxing and had continued undefeated. Then an offer came through to play rugby league for a French team, Sporting Olympique Avignon XIII, based in Avignon, a beautiful city in the south of France. Rugby league wasn’t a huge game in France back then, and the competition was still very much in development. But the money was good, so I decided to play a season there and see whether I liked it. I’d started a relationship with a girl from Dubbo named Tegan, so we agreed to move to France together.

  It was quite tough playing halfback in a team where only a few people understood English. As a halfback, your job is to push the team around the park and be the number-one communicator, telling everyone where to go. On the field, things were going okay. We won a few games, and when you’re winning in France, you’re treated like royalty. When you’re losing, not so much.

  Off the field, though, things weren’t so great. Both of us were homesick, and I was missing my kids terribly. We were excited when Tegan fell pregnant, and decided to move back to Australia, to Tegan’s home town of Dubbo. I’d keep playing footy, this time with country rugby league powerhouse Dubbo CYMS.

  I had great times playing with CYMS. We won the premiership, and the following season I captain-coached and we were runners-up.

  During our first year in Dubbo, our son Rome was born. But not long after, Tegan and I separated. It was a rough time. There was name-calling, anger and bitterness, which took their toll, not only physically, but mentally. For my entire life, all I wanted to be was a good dad. And now I had three children from two relationships, but I wasn’t living with any of them.

  After hearing you’re a worthless, good-for-nothing, terrible father from not just one but two different mothers of your kids, you start to believe

  Finally I decided to seek professional help for my low mood.

  it. And for the most part they were correct. I wasn’t being the best father, but I think a lot of that was because I was severely mentally unwell.

  It was during this time I stopped taking my medication for my bipolar disorder for six months, thinking I could get by without it. I was wrong — I went through a very tough mental battle with the negative voices returning, telling me I didn’t deserve to be alive, the world would be better off without me, I was a burden to my kids. I was in such a dark space that I started to believe the voices. No matter what I did or how much I tried to get my mind away from that space, the only thing I could think of was that I just wanted it all to go away.

  I began to think killing myself was the only way to make the pain go away. I also began to believe my three children — Brodi, Phoenix and Rome — would be better off without me in their life, that my family didn’t love me and I was a burden to everyone.

  I was in such a dark space that I started to believe the voices.

  I remember the day I decided to end my life as if it were yesterday. The noise inside my head was so loud I couldn’t think of anything else but to make it all disappear. And it felt like the only way to do this was to end my life. The voices and screams to end my life became so loud and vivid in my head it was terrifying. At one stage, I lay on the floor of the shower in the foetal position, shaking and rocking back and forth, fighting with the voices screaming at me to kill myself.

  In that critical moment, I made up my mind tha
t the only way to make the shrieking in my head disappear was to end my life. Many people have asked, did I think about my family or my kids? I can honestly say that my kids mean the absolute world to me but, on that day, in that dire moment, I couldn’t think of anything else but making the noise stop by ending my life. So no, I did not think of my kids. That doesn’t mean that I didn’t love them; it just means I was in horrendous mental pain and the only way I could make it all go away was to not be on this earth any longer.

  In all my years of playing rugby league and being in fights in and out of the boxing ring, I had never been as scared as I was right then. I didn’t want to die, I just wanted the mental pain to stop, and the only way I believed it would stop was to end my life.

  Eventually I dragged myself out of the shower and wrote letters to each of my kids, apologising that I wouldn’t be around to be their dad, apologising that

  I didn’t want to die, I just wanted the mental pain to stop.

  I wouldn’t get to see my daughter Phoenix walk down the aisle or watch the boys play footy, and that I wouldn’t be around to see them graduate from school. I told them that I’d never ever be far and if they ever needed me to just look up. I placed the letters directly next to my phone beside my bed, but I couldn’t pick up the phone to make a call for help. In that moment, I didn’t want help − I wanted the pain to end.

  After I’d finished writing letters to my kids, I swallowed as many sleeping pills, antidepressants, antipsychotics and other pills as I could find in my house. I was content that the world, my kids and everyone else would be better off without me in their life. I lay down on the bed and slowly began to drift off. I hoped I would never wake up.

  12

  ALIVE

  The following day I woke, extremely dazed and confused — but alive. I didn’t know whether to be angry that I hadn’t succeeded in killing myself, or thankful that I’d survived. I just tried to end my life, I thought to myself, but something much more powerful than me has kept me here. I’ve been given a second chance.