Defying the Enemy Within

by Joe Williams

  Me and Court at the Amie St Clair Melanoma Ball. I need heels!

  I was the first cab off the rank on the treadmills. But even when I wasn’t on the treadmill, I had to stick around to make sure everything ran smoothly. As it turned out, all the runners turned up on time and people dropped by to cheer on friends and

  We had volunteers ranging from family and friends to students from the school I was working at.

  make a donation. We had all types of people come in, from larrikins who’d been at the local drinking hole to police officers. Some girls even randomly popped in and ‘touched up’ their make-up while they waited for a couple of the local footy studs to hit the treadmill. Other girls paid extra money to see the boys run with no shirt on (all for charity, they said).

  We made it through the night with no major hiccups. As the afternoon approached, we were getting down to the final runners. I chose to start and finish the event and ended up doing seven hours in total on the treadmill. As I completed the final hour, my family were there to count me down to the finish.

  In the end, with all the money we counted from raffles, the auction and donations, we raised over $10,000. It was an awesome achievement by everyone and a great way to get the fundraising up and running.

  For me, it was the start of something that has made me stronger and taught me to be grateful for what I have and to feel compassion for others. Moving forward, I was finding that focusing on gratefulness and compassion helped keep my erratic moods under control.

  15

  MENTORS: WE ALL NEED THEM

  Working at the gym also gave me a chance to help out other people. One such person was a friend of mine, Steve ‘Slip’ Morris. Like me, Slip was born in Wiradjuri country, but his mother came from the Barkindji Nation around Wilcannia.

  I’d first heard his name mentioned when I was with Tegan, Rome’s mother. She’d mentioned how this guy, Steve, had been messaging her. From that point, without even knowing who he was, I didn’t trust him. Later, I heard he was a talented footballer and had played short stints of league in Sydney but had always come home to the country. I also heard he lived in Forbes, liked a party, and was a bit of a ladies’ man.

  I was playing a music gig in Parkes in New South Wales one night, when someone pointed out Steve. I looked over and saw him walking around the venue like he owned the place. Then I ran into him at the bar. We looked each other up and down, said hello then drifted off.

  Later that evening, a mutual friend introduced us. We got to talking about life, footy and other stuff, and ended up getting on well, losing the egotistical edge of two bulls arguing over who ruled the paddock.

  A week or so later, I received a message from Steve saying he was in Wagga and would love to catch up at the footy. We had a great time when we met up, and I introduced him to my dad. Steve mentioned he was moving to Wagga to play footy.

  After he arrived in town, he told me he wanted to start boxing to improve his fitness. I knew that, in Forbes, he’d gone from a kid who had enormous potential to play in the NRL, to someone who drank in a bar till closing time, then bought a carton of beer to take home to drink by himself. The next day he’d wake up, go to work and do it all over again.

  Without Steve saying anything to me, I could see he was reaching out to better his life. He was sick of living the party lifestyle, and saw limited purpose in what he was doing. I knew from my own experience that boxing had the potential to improve your physical, mental and emotional health, and make it easier to get through tough times. So my plan was for Slip to do some boxing cardio work to help him shed a few kilograms. But mostly I wanted to just have him hang around positive people like Dad and myself, people who didn’t drink alcohol or take drugs, rather than people who had a negative impact on him. I reasoned that with Steve hanging out and training with us at JWB, any negative friends would tend to stay away.

  Steve ‘Slip’ Morris and me.

  We got started, and a day at a time, week after week, Steve kept coming back. As I got to know him better, I realised how very similar we were in our thinking and our sense of humour. In fact, we became such good friends that Courtney and I ended up moving in with Steve and his partner at the time, only moving out just before our first child together, Ari, was born.

  After a while, Steve started running some of my classes for me while I was preparing for upcoming fights, allowing me the time and space to prepare and concentrate on the task at hand.

  So from starting off as enemies, Steve and I had moved on to becoming mates then unofficial mentor and mentee at JWB to living together. Soon Steve became a member of the JWB team and ended up helping prepare me for fights as well as helping with the logistics on the night.

  Before we knew it, he was approaching twelve months completely free of all alcohol and drugs — all by hanging out with good people and adopting a positive lifestyle.

  But life throws us curve balls from all directions. Steve went through a tough patch in his relationship and was travelling in a pretty dark place. Knowing his background, I had a gut feeling that something wasn’t right. I tried to ring him about five times, but all my calls went straight through to message bank. So I drove around to his apartment. I walked into his house and, to my shock and dismay, he was curled up on the lounge-room floor, covered in his own vomit, a couple of bottles of pills nearby.

  A vivid flashback of my own suicide attempt went through my mind. As I checked his pulse, he mumbled something. Knowing he was alive, I rang the emergency department of the local hospital to tell them what had happened, and then headed to the hospital with him.

  When we arrived, Steve was admitted into the emergency ward and started getting the right treatment. Knowing from my own experience that the next few days would be crucial to his recovery, I did everything I could think of to help. I knew he’d feel vulnerable and confused about what had gone on during the time prior to his suicide attempt, so I wanted to make sure he had as little as possible to think about so he could concentrate on getting well.

  Steve had many ups and downs during that initial hospital stay, but since then all in all he has maintained a stable life, and I couldn’t be more prouder of the guy I now call my best mate.

  Eventually he moved away from Wagga, and not long after he was faced with a new challenge when

  I knew from my own experience that boxing had the potential to improve your physical, mental and emotional health, and make it easier to get through tough times.

  he was diagnosed with lymphoma. Steve fought tooth and nail to beat it, undergoing several rounds of chemotherapy and then radiotherapy.

  One day we were in the car together when Steve said to me: ‘I’ll beat this, brother. I won’t let it win.’ It was the advice I used to give him at the gym, when we both trained to the point of exhaustion. Later that afternoon, our favourite song — ‘Whiskey Lullaby’ by Brad Paisley — came on. I drove away in tears, not knowing if I would see my best friend again.

  Several months later, Steve received the news he’d been hoping for — his blood tests had come back clear and he’d beaten his lymphoma.

  Steve now lives with his fiancée and two beautiful daughters on the Central Coast of New South Wales, where he operates a mental health recovery and mentoring program. He’s received numerous letters from young people he’s worked with and mentored, saying how they want to be just like him when they’re older. As well as this great achievement, Steve and two other Indigenous men run a recovery program called Brothers 4 Recovery (B4R). They travel across New South Wales, trying to tackle the country’s drug and alcohol epidemic.

  My journey with Steve had started with dislike, based on the reputation of a guy I knew nothing about. Over the years, through sweat, blood and tears, it grew into a brotherhood, and I’d like to think I played a part in his journey to recovery. Now Steve is a mate who has been my shoulder to cry on during many tough times through my mental health journey. He’s also the godfather of my youngest son, Ari. Good things can happ
en. Sometimes you just have to work at it.

  16

  THE ENEMY WITHIN

  Through my community work in Wagga, I got to know a business owner called Simone Dowding. Simone owns a coffee-roasting business and a string of cafes called The Blessed Bean, but she’s also studied Buddhism and is a trained psychologist. Simone was seriously concerned about the suffering caused by depression and mental illness in our area. We got talking and then, one day, Simone came to me with the idea of making a documentary about my journey — my battles with mental illness and suicide ideation, and how I’d survived and thrived. The film was scripted by Simone in consultation with various psychologists, and we teamed up with an outfit called Mayfly Media, who volunteered their time and equipment to manage the production of the film.

  The aim of The Enemy Within was to help others suffering from mental health problems. The vision was raw, the message was beautiful.

  When the film was shown as part of the Wagga Wagga Short Film Festival, I was just three days out from my WBF Junior Welterweight title defence. I hadn’t previously talked publicly about my depression or suicide attempt, and now here I was, baring my soul to the community, telling everyone about my struggles with my mental health and how I tried to take my own life. Watching the film with a huge crowd of people reduced me to tears.

  When it was over, I could hear the murmurs around the room. Here’s Joe Williams, professional sportsperson for several years, who’s struggled with depression most of his life, telling it how it is. Finally, the monkey was off my back.

  While the idea behind The Enemy Within had been to help others come through to the other side like I had done, it helped me, too. Having my past struggles brought up again really drove home how lucky I am to still be alive. It also meant I could no longer pretend everything was okay. I had to front up to my demons, look them dead in the eye and push through.

  So many people contacted me after they saw the documentary to share their stories of depression and suicide, and I realised how many of us suffer in silence or alone. It gave me the idea to take The Enemy Within on the road, to share with people everywhere

  Here’s Joe Williams, who’s struggled with depression most of his life, telling it how it is. Finally, the monkey was off my back.

  my battles with mental illness and my attempted suicide, and what I’d done to get through. So that’s what I did, reaching out via social media and visiting schools, workplaces and communities to talk about mental health and that taboo subject — suicide. And the thing is, I got at least as much out of it as the people I talked to. Sharing my story reminded me again how lucky I am.

  But when you’re sharing others’ pain, it can start to have an effect on you. I began to spiral down again and find myself at that dangerous crossroads of destruction, severe depression and suicidal thoughts, learning the hard way that I also needed to keep taking care of myself.

  The crisis came just after Christmas, when Brodi and Phoenix were in Wagga, enjoying chilling with their cousins at my sister’s house. The noise inside my head had reached its deafening worst, and I had plans of suicide screaming in my ear. When I’m talking to other people, I counsel them to reach out for help in times of darkness like this. But as much as I knew suicide should not be an option, the noise and mental pain was overwhelming.

  I raced out to the back shed in a screaming mess and began scratching around the shed for a rope

  When I’m talking to other people I counsel them to reach out for help in times of darkness.

  of some sort so I could take my life, this time by hanging. It’s not that I wanted to die; it’s just that I wanted the mental pain to end.

  Then, for some unknown reason, something told me to look to my right. I looked, thinking I’d find the rope I’d been searching for, but it was something very different, something that saved my life. Because when I turned to the right, I saw the microphone stand and amplifier my daughter Phoenix had been given for Christmas. Phoenix is a budding singer, and she’d been practising in the shed most of that morning and had left her music gear there. I’m thankful that a clear thought came to me, because if I’d taken my life right there and then, the first person through that garage door would have been Phoenix, looking to resume her music session.

  I knew the psychological and emotional impact that type of trauma would have on a young girl, and I wasn’t going to let that happen to any of my children, who I love very much. Instead, I walked back inside, grabbed my phone and made calls to get some help.

  That evening I was admitted into the local Wagga Wagga Mental Health Inpatient Unit to receive more treatment and have another medication review. That stay in the mental health unit was a harsh reminder that, although I was doing good work in the mental illness space helping others, I also had to make certain I paid attention to my own mental health. If I’m not well mentally myself, then I’m no use to anyone else in the struggle.

  From little things, big things grow, as brother Kev Carmody and Paul Kelly wrote. In 2015, I met an American guy called Kevin Hines. Kevin had reached out to Lauren Breen, an Australian mental health advocate who became involved in mental health and suicide prevention after her nineteen-year-old brother lost his life to suicide.

  Kevin had been talking to Lauren on social media about a trip to Australia where he was planning to film his documentary Suicide: The Ripple Effect, focusing on the devastating effects of suicide and the tremendous positive ripple effects of advocacy, inspiration and hope, which are helping millions to heal and stay alive. Kevin needed more advocates, and asked Lauren to gather together as many Australians doing positive work in suicide prevention as she could. Then he added that he’d be in Australia to start filming the very next day. We laugh now about how Kevin gave Lauren so little time to pull together a bunch of wonderful people, but that’s how a substantial proportion of Team Ripple Australia was born.

  Kevin Hines — this man showed me how to be a powerful speaker.

  As soon as I met Kevin we connected like brothers, and, since that day, my life has changed dramatically. My initial impression was that Kevin was a man with a deep connection to the hurt people go through when they’re experiencing pain because of mental illness. I later learned that he’d previously attempted suicide by jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. Since then, he’s devoted his life to working in suicide prevention across the globe. Now, whenever people

  From little things, big things grow, as brother Kev Carmody and Paul Kelly wrote.

  talk to Kevin about the pain and anguish they feel, he shows enormous empathy and hangs on their every word — he understands the physical and mental pain they are going through.

  When I told Kevin my story on the first day we met, he fought back tears. Once, when we were driving to a presentation together, I told him about a song I’d written about the day I attempted to take my life. Being a huge lover of music, I often take my guitar to schools and perform this song as part of my presentation. After listening to me sing the song about writing letters to my kids, and having so much emotional and mental pain engulf my body that all I wanted to do was end my life, Kevin started sobbing.

  I understand how he feels. When people like Kevin or I hear about someone dying by suicide, it takes us back to the day we attempted to take our own lives. On the day actor Robin Williams died by suicide, I was sitting in the carpark of a school I was giving a presentation to. I sat there and cried.

  Someone asked me what was wrong.

  ‘I just heard that Robin Williams had taken his own life.’

  ‘But how did you know Robin Williams?’ they asked.

  ‘I didn’t,’ I said, ‘but I know the pain he was going through, I know the exact moment he decided he’d had enough, and the exact moment he flipped that coin in his mind and decided to go through with it.’

  And I did, which is why I believe people could connect with me, something I still feel humble and grateful for.

  17

  SAYING NO TO A
USTRALIA DAY

  In 2016, I was nominated for the Wagga Wagga Australia Day Citizen of the Year. When I first found out, the Wagga Daily Advertiser called to ask me how I felt about it. It was a great honour, I said, but also a little bittersweet as the winner would be announced on Australia Day at the Wagga community’s Australia Day celebrations. And while I was extremely grateful to be recognised for the work I’d been doing around the community for mental health and suicide prevention, I felt I was caught between a rock and a hard place. Because, while 26 January is for many Australians a day to celebrate living in a free country filled with prosperity and opportunity, for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people, this day marks the beginning of the invasion of our country by Europeans, it being the day that Captain Arthur Phillip sailed into Sydney Harbour and claimed possession of the land in the name of King George III.

  For my people, that day was just the start of the murder and dispossession of thousands of innocent people, who were doing their best to protect their families, wives and children, in a genocide that went on for a good part of the next 200 years. All of which led to the destruction of our communities, families and our culture, and what we now call the stolen generation.

  If the killing of thousands upon thousands of innocent people wasn’t enough, there was the attempt to wipe out an entire race by not only killing off any people of colour, but also by stealing children with First Nations blood lines. Government men would drive into a community, collect all the children of colour and take them away from their families and place them into institutions, in order to ‘make them white’, which was seen as giving the natives ‘a chance in life’.