I was born on the 6th of March 1965, exactly 1 year, 1 month and 1 day after my brother, John who, interestingly, now looks like Ken Clarke’s twin brother.
I was dragged into the world in my parent’s bedroom under the gaze of my 16-year-old sister, Linda. She told me that she had expected me to spring Alien-style out of Mum’s belly-button.
She almost fainted when my head started to come out of the other place.
My Dad’s memory of it all was pretty sketchy. For a while he thought I was 2 months premature. Since the world of midwifery and gynaecology was still in black and white at that time it is likely that had this been the case I wouldn’t be tapping on the keyboard today.
I was the final offering of 4 from my mum, Christine - a factory worker, initially from Wick at the Northern tip of Scotland and my Dad, John - a steelworker from Paisley, a gristly growth on the side of Glasgow.
I grew up in a pleasant council estate on the outskirts of Corby, an industrial new town in Northamptonshire, England. The town had an interesting mix of folk - the locals whose ancestors could be traced back to the Magna Carta and the immigrants from Glasgow mainly, with a blend of eastern European folk to complete this particular melting pot. Since the very English accents of the indigenous population and the very Scottish accents of the incomers were somewhat incompatible, my generation of Corby - folk developed their own lingua franca. We all sound like a cross between newsreaders and the children of servicemen and women who don't have an accent to call their own.
I developed my love of the English language very early on in life. Once everyone had gone off to school and work, she would listen to my endless tales of rabbits and foxes and bears.
This skill was readily transferred to my early school years, where I would stand in front of my adoring masses making up stories for their delight. I was asked to speak in front of my class, my year and, at times the whole school. Thus, an egocentric was born. An egocentric with the single goal to write when he grew up.
My passion for reading and writing progressed into my secondary school life where, unfortunately, things took a bit of a turn in my personal life. Mum died after a long battle with cervical cancer. Dad, who'd been a solid individual up until this point, returned to his first love, alcohol as a result. Linda and David, the oldest of my siblings by 15 years had left home and now had their own families to care for.
John and I went from being relatively affluent to being the smelly kids at school. We were down, but not out, since we had been gifted with intelligence and a quick wit to see us through. Sadly, for me, worse was to follow. At 14, in a world where there were no grownups to help me - I visited my sister to ask for help. She groomed me and sexually abused me when I was 15.
It was at this point though that I changed my career aspirations. Since no-one was there for me growing up, I vowed that I would be there for others. I didn't want anyone else to go through what I went through alone. I decided to become a social worker.
Although I was initially thrown out of school, I realised my dream to become a social worker in 1993 when I got my masters degree in social work from Edinburgh University.
By 1995 I had a wife, 2 children and a lovely home. Unfortunately things were going wrong in my head. Following an admission to a psychiatric hospital in 1993 I developed an ongoing relationship with the mental health professions. I was initially diagnosed as having depression and was medicated to the hilt. Over the next few years I was seen by a number of psychologists and psychiatrists as we tried to work out what I had. I was finding the stress of social work work difficult. In 2006 I did a course in lifecoaching. It was like social work - only with wealthier folk. I ran the two things together. I was a middle manager in a social work department in Central Scotland and I was trying to get my business up and running. I failed.
By 2007 work was untenable. My childhood had fully come back to haunt me. I couldn't make sense of my place in the world. The stress of other peoples problems was too much. I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder and I was disabled out of the profession that I'd wanted to do since I was 12 in 2008.
Because of my erratic behaviour I left my family home. I've left my wife - I'd decided she'd had enough. I live in oxymoron accommodation in Edinburgh. Why oxymoron? They call it homeless housing. The children's way of life has been greatly effected since I am now on disability benefits instead of having 2 incomes.
I was on my arse as they say in these here parts.
Then some fine things started to happen. I met someone who had experienced a shitty childhood - the ghosts of which had come back to haunt her. We are learning to care for each other, and, although we've had a number of loopy ups and downs, I think we're getting there.
In amongst my recollections of my shitty childhood a memory stood out like a diamond. I could write. Simple really. It had never left me. I had always been asked to write poems and witty ditties for friends and colleagues and family. It never went away. Sure, it's a bit rusty and is in need of a bit of spit and polish here and there. But it's here. I know it is. I started out on a few pieces of fiction recently and was somewhat dismayed to find that everything I wrote came out autobiographical. So I wrote my autobiography. 85 thousand words of me, me, me, me, me. I feel this has really freed me up to write fiction again. I'm 30 thousand words into my latest project, Pilots, which I am aiming to have finished by mid December.
I am having group psychotherapy twice a week. As time goes by I am coming to realise that although there may not be a catch-all cure for my condition - there are certainly ways that I can learn to manage it better. I have been involved in peer groups - working with others with the same diagnosis as me. I've given talks to professionals, carers and service users alike to let them know what my condition means to me - and that it's not the end of the line like many professionals would have us think.
My son has recently come back into my life. Sure, there's nothing too deep going on just now - we play a bit of XBox and talk about his life. I still regularly write to my daughter - and I hope that one day, she'll come back too.
I have so many friends who came to me in my hours of need that I've had to beat them off with sticks. It has been fantastic to feel the support and love of so many people. Even my estranged wife is there in my times of need. This is all well and good - but I'm really looking forward to the day when I can start really giving again.
I'm not a social worker, I'm a writer. I'd just forgotten.
Chris Young