Defying the Enemy Within

by Joe Williams

  As it turned out, while I was in a completely out-of-it state I’d rung and told one of my closest friends, Leigh Burns, about what I’d done. Leigh and I had grown up together in Cowra, and even though we were heading in different directions in our lives, we’d always remained extremely close. I often called Leigh to talk my problems out. After she spoke to me that night, Leigh called a family member, and that family member told my dad, who happened to be in Cowra.

  Dad found out the following morning, and rang me straight away, concerned. He didn’t want to believe it was true until he heard the words come from my mouth.

  ‘Yes, Dad, last night I tried to kill myself.’

  Without hesitation, Dad drove straight to Dubbo. Leigh was worried I’d be upset with her that my parents had found out, but in all honesty it was a relief. I could finally talk to my family about how suicidal I’d been feeling. I didn’t have to carry that burden alone any longer. It’s a tough situation − you want to be able to speak to someone, but you’re afraid they’ll judge you so you keep it all in.

  After Dad told Mum what had happened, she rang me in tears. She told me she loved me and that I needed to talk to someone when I was feeling low. I tried to explain to her that, while I knew the right thing to do was talk to another person, for many reasons it was the last thing I’d wanted to do. I didn’t want to be a burden. I thought people wouldn’t understand what I was going through.

  Spending the weekend with my father was great and I was feeling a bit better by the time he left, but a week later, things hadn’t improved, and I realised that the illness was too strong for me, I couldn’t deal with it alone any longer. I needed professional help. In hindsight, it would have been better for my dad to take me straight to the hospital, but this was a first for anyone in our family.

  It was Tegan who took me to the hospital for a mental health assessment. After I told the doctor about the way I’d been feeling, the constant voices

  A week later, things hadn’t improved, and I realised that the illness was too strong for me.

  in my head and the type and number of drugs I had taken in my suicide attempt, he said I was extremely lucky to be alive. For my own safety he said I needed to be admitted to the local mental health ward.

  Hearing those words come out of a doctor’s mouth made me feel a great deal of shame and guilt, but I knew deep down that the best thing for me to do was to follow his advice. I agreed to be admitted and spent the next three nights in the mental health ward.

  On the first day I was heavily sedated, but I was thankful to be in a place where I was able to get help, remain completely anonymous and not be judged. I’d always felt there was a stigma about mental illness, so I’d never been in a rush to make my battles public, for fear of being ridiculed or made fun of. This was the most vulnerable I’d ever felt, so it was an extremely scary time.

  I was forced to do an inventory of myself: how I was feeling and what I’d been going through and doing in the weeks leading up to my suicide attempt. And with support, I also did some soul searching. I came to the realisation that I’d been given a second chance at life. After I was better, I decided, I would help other people suffering from similar issues.

  The idea was sparked when a lady who was in the psych unit for similar reasons approached me. ‘Joe Williams,’ she said, ‘whoever would have thought you were like us?’

  At first I was embarrassed, but her words got me thinking. As a prominent sportsperson living with bipolar disorder, I could help other people suffering from a mental illness with their recovery. But in order to do that, I had to start managing my own life. That was the challenge.

  One afternoon not long after I’d been released from the Dubbo psych unit, Dad and I were sitting on the front step of my home. ‘I want to tell you the story of the little boy inside us all,’ he said. ‘There’s a little boy (or girl) who lives in us all. He’s either guided by you, or he controls you. Every now and then, that little boy encounters a situation that frightens him to the point that he wants to go deep inside and hide, to not show his face. In each situation, he’s faced with a door that he can either walk through, or go back and hide from. You’re with this little boy. You come to the door — what do you do?’

  ‘Kick the door down so he can walk through,’ I quickly replied.

  My father’s reply implanted a seed in my mind that has since helped me conquer my inner fears. ‘Take that little boy by the hand,’ he said, ‘and say to him, “I’m here with you. Let’s do this together.” Lead that little boy, be his guiding light, together as one. Together you can conquer any obstacle you face.’

  I still carry this advice with me. I still have fears and insecurities in my life, just like everyone, when the little boy in here wants to hide — but now I know to guide him through rather than let him control me.

  During those days, Dad and I would sit and talk for hours. There was laughter, pain and many tears. At one point he told me how he and his brothers and sisters had felt, growing up without a father. For me, that was the moment we finally bonded as men.

  It was in Dubbo that I met a girl called Courtney Merritt. I still didn’t know many people in the town, but I knew Courtney’s cousin Morgan through Tegan, and through Morgan I met Courtney.

  Courtney was, and to some degree still is, an extremely shy person, so when I saw her around town after we met I’d say hello, but we never had any real conversations and there were lots of awkward silences. But over time, Courtney and I started hanging out a lot more, though I always had to initiate any conversations between us.

  After knowing her for a while, we organised for her to come over to my place to watch a movie and hang out. On the night she was supposed to come over it was raining heavily, and she was absolutely drenched when she arrived. I asked how she got so wet, because even though it was raining she looked like she’d been standing in a shower. She told me she’d been too embarrassed to tell her grandmother she was going to a boy’s house, so she’d got her nan to

  After I was better, I decided, I wanted to help other people suffering from similar issues.

  drop her around the corner from my house. Little did she realise that her nan would wait to see if she got in the house okay — awkward when you’re standing in the rain, outside a house belonging to people you don’t know. After waiting for several minutes, her nan finally drove off, and Courtney walked around the corner in the pouring rain to my house.

  I didn’t know a great deal about Courtney in the beginning, but as we became closer and she started opening up about her journey, I realised that she was quite the caring soul. But despite how much I liked her, I didn’t want to scare her away by telling her about my suicide attempt because of all the stigma surrounding mental illness and suicide.

  It was after Courtney told me more about her childhood and upbringing that I got an appreciation for the toughness that isn’t obvious in this shy, quiet woman. When she was three years old, she’d been diagnosed with leukaemia. She was treated with chemotherapy and radiotherapy, but the doctors gave her very little chance of survival.

  Despite this, three-year-old Courtney fought on and began to slowly get better. In a terrible twist of fate, as Courtney started to improve, her mother, Ann Maree, was diagnosed with leukaemia and she passed away.

  The first time Courtney told me this story, tears welled in her eyes but she never cried. It was after hearing Courtney’s story that I decided to tell her more about my past, including my suicide attempt. From top to bottom, she was inquisitive and genuinely caring, which made me realise she was different. Courtney was someone I could trust, someone I could lean on when times got tough. And she could do the same with me. It made all the difference. With Courtney by my side, I had a chance of taking charge of my own life, and helping other people do the same.

  13

  BACK INTO BOXING

  It was during my stay in the Dubbo psych unit that Mum found out she had a large aneurysm on her brain. The day she got the result
s, the doctor told her she should go straight to Sydney the next day for further tests. Knowing Dad would be an emotional mess in Sydney, I decided to drive to Sydney the next morning without telling them, so I could be there. As soon as the elevator doors opened and Dad saw me, tears trickled down his face. Not usually one to show his emotions, it was clear he was thankful to have the support.

  The scans in Sydney revealed that Mum had not one but nine separate brain aneurysms. In the end, Mum had to have two separate brain surgeries, and she spent over five weeks in intensive care. It was a massive scare for the whole family, as Mum is our rock and we didn’t know whether she’d make it through and make a full recovery.

  Of course, with time, and true to Mum’s character, she did. Apart from some memory problems at times, she’s back to her best, giving orders and caring for us all. People say and think the boys in our family are the tough ones, but without a doubt, Mum has just as much credibility in that corner.

  The Bosses — Mum and Dad.

  Courtney and I decided to move back to Wagga. Since my suicide attempt, Dubbo had had a negative vibe for me, and I needed to get away. A huge part of returning home to Wagga was to be closer to family, especially Mum, who was still recovering from her surgery.

  There I was lucky enough to score a job working at a local Catholic high school as the Aboriginal Education Worker, helping to look after students’ welfare and helping out with their school work. At the same time, my relationship with Dad continued to build. Dad became my boxing coach, and we spent hours together in the gym. He’d also ride a bike alongside me when I was road running, and we spent long stretches of time together in the car, preparing my fight plan and going over any mistakes I’d made in the gym.

  I’d also travel to Sydney to train under world-class boxing coach Billy Hussein, someone I now greatly admire and consider a brother. Billy has had huge success as a coach, and I believe the reason is not only due to his boxers’ talent, work ethic and ability but also to the attitude towards life he instils in them outside the boxing ring. Billy talked about how he sets his fighters up mentally for a lifestyle they can be proud of — a life of humility, poise and value. Billy provides his fighters with a culture to be better people. It was just what I needed at that time in my life, and it has stayed with me ever since.

  For example, something that struck me the first few times I trained under Billy was that whenever his boxers came into the gym, they walked around to every single person, shook hands and asked them how they were doing. Now, that might not seem like much, but to me it spoke of the value and humility of every fighter that Billy Hussein trained. Billy didn’t just train us to be boxers, he trained us to be humble young men. There were rules in Billy’s gym, no matter who you were or where you sat, and everyone followed the values, not just because they were the rules but because they were good values to have in life.

  In 2013, I started training for my first-ever World Boxing Foundation (WBF) world title fight, against Brett William Smith. The fight was for the lightweight title — 61.2 kilograms. I’d never fought at that weight before — previously I’d been fighting at the division above, Junior Welterweight, which was 63.5 kilograms. But I wasn’t going to back away from the fight because I couldn’t make the weight.

  Billy Hussein — I learnt so much from this man, more than boxing, about creating your own positive life culture.

  I worked incredibly hard to get my weight down. But when I got to Brisbane for the weigh-in, I was still 2 kilos above the weight limit. I’d already stopped drinking water and consuming food thirty-six hours earlier, to get my weight down as much as possible. Now I sat in a hot bath with Epsom salts, to drain the water out of my body.

  I spent the entire day in and out of the sauna — in for ten minutes, out for ten minutes. After every ten minutes, I’d check my weight on some scales they had at the gym. Slowly it came down. I’ll never forget the mental toughness I had to draw on that day.

  It was a huge relief when I finally made weight. By the time I got to the weigh-in, I had no energy

  Billy didn’t just train us to be boxers, he trained us to be humble young men.

  but was stoked to be able to have a meal and some water once it was done.

  But when I got to the weigh-in, the scales said I was 61.8 kilograms — over the limit by 600 grams. It doesn’t sound like much, but given I hadn’t eaten for two days or had a drink of water, I had no idea how I’d be able to lose the extra weight in time.

  I was struggling mentally and physically. But in boxing, you can’t show any vulnerability. I had to get the weight off, and I had only two hours to do it.

  So we headed for the closest sauna. Inside the sauna, I started running back and forth, trying to make my body sweat (sweat equals fluid, which equals weight). I finally made weight.

  With a short time to spare, we rushed back to the weigh-in venue and weighed in. I’d done it — I’d made weight. With a sigh of relief and a hug from Dad, I could relax a little and refuel with as much food and fluid as possible.

  Then it was fight time. Unfortunately, the fight didn’t go to plan. I was completely zapped and had no power. The gruelling weight cut had proved too much. Not that I’m taking anything away from Brett William Smith, my opponent. He did everything he needed to get me out of there that night, and I was eventually sent to the canvas with a beautifully timed right hand to the temple.

  After the fight, people asked whether I was disappointed. Of course I was, no-one likes to lose — but I found comfort in the fact that I’d been to a place I had never been before with the

  I was alive to tell the tale, and had just fought for a WBF title. Things could be a lot worse …

  weight challenge. I could also feel proud that, less than twelve months prior, I’d tried to take my life by suicide. I was alive to tell the tale, and had just fought for a WBF title. Things could be a lot worse …

  In the end, I had two more shots at the WBF title in the junior welterweight division that I’d fought in for most of my career, and I won those fights. When I finally retired, I was two time WBF Junior Welterweight Champion, and WBC Asia Continental Champion. I ended up with twelve wins from sixteen fights, but it’s not the numbers that count, in my eyes, because boxing taught me how to win at life.

  When in doubt, stick the jab out.

  After my last win against Kie Raha — belt collecting.

  14

  MAKING A DIFFERENCE

  I’d been doing my boxing training out of Mum and Dad’s back shed in Wagga, or sometimes, on the odd occasion, at the Wagga PCYC. Neither was perfect — sometimes the PCYC would be closed, and Mum and Dad’s shed had the barest of essentials. I was also helping to train my friend, Dave Letele, who was having some issues with his weigh. Dave was running a supermarket not far from Wagga and would travel across twice a week to train with me.

  Dave’s supermarket was a private sponsor of mine to help with my boxing, and one day we got into a conversation about starting a gym, a place where not only I could train but I could also train others. So that’s what we did. A year or so later, Joe Williams Boxing (JWB) Gym was born. The gym attracted everyone from school-aged kids to people over the age of fifty, and it helped many get their fitness journey on track. It was also a fantastic place for conversation, smiles, laughter and, of course, hard work.

  I loved the sense of community at the gym, and it inspired me to get involved with more community fundraising. One charity I still hold dear to my heart is the Amie St Clair Melanoma Trust. I’d grown up next door to Pete and Annette St Clair and their kids Amie and Tim. But just a day after her twenty-first birthday, Amie, a loving, caring, outgoing girl who lived life to the full, tragically lost her life due to melanoma. These days, as a result, I always jump at any opportunity to raise funds and awareness around melanoma and skin cancer.

  I also became involved in Wagga Wagga Takes 2, a singing competition that pairs up local Wagga singers with each other or with people of note within
the community. Having grown up with music and always loved the feeling of being on stage in front of a band, I jumped at the opportunity to perform on Wagga Wagga Takes 2. Each singer chose a local charity to support. The competition was not only about singing but also about raising money for charity.

  When I first participated in Wagga Wagga Takes 2 in 2013 with Shelley McCormack, one of the other contestants had already chosen the Amie St Clair Melanoma Trust as their charity, so I opted for The Cancer Council — Wagga Relay for Life. Raising money for a cancer charity was important to me because I had lost many family and friends to cancer.

  Each contestant had to organise a fundraiser for their local charity. As I was running my own boxing and cardio-fitness gym, I decided to do something outside the square and host a twenty-four hours charity treadmill run. This involved setting up two treadmills, and having someone running on at least one treadmill for the entire twenty-four hours. The idea was to make it a community event, breaking the twenty-four hours down to fifteen-minute timeslots and filling as many timeslots as I could with people from the Wagga community.

  I put the call out for people to participate. The response was great, with Wagga people showing true community spirit. We had volunteers ranging from family and friends to students from the school I was working at, ladies aged sixty-plus, local sporting identities and entire families of mothers, fathers and kids. This was typical of Wagga — everyone jumped behind a local charity event to raise funds.

  The Cancer Council staff put on a barbecue, as well as tea and coffee for the entire twenty-four hours. As well as committing time, various local sponsors donated treadmills, clothing and water. People had the choice to donate online, come in and donate cash, or purchase raffle tickets. There was also a twenty-four hour live auction for an Aboriginal hand-painted AFL Sydney Swans jersey signed by Australian of the Year Adam Goodes.