Adrian’s Story

Before my Mum died, I didn’t drink, I didn’t smoke. I cycled all around the country, even to other countries. I hiked a lot, boxed a lot. I was very spiritual, but not self-righteous either. I was a normal bloke with flaws, certainly not living a hedonistic life. After she died, I fell under the influence of alcohol and cocaine. I wasn’t taking it every day, just pleasure seeking and trying to cover up the pain of losing my Mum. I was very angry with God, the world, with myself.

One day I was attacked and went beyond the premise of self-defence. I was convicted of Section 18 GBH. During my sentence, I demonstrated through good behaviour that I could be trusted in a lower category setting. Five months before I left, I got a job with a company who worked closely with the prison, working a normal 9-5, commuting to and from each day. I’d been trying to get accommodation for around six months prior to leaving prison. I’d contacted the local Council, and was under the impression that they were going to help me find something. But months passed by and my situation was becoming critical, so my probation officer suggested that I was provided with emergency accommodation.

Once I left prison, I had ten days before starting in a new workplace and I got a car. My brother dropped me at my temporary accommodation, a very nice flat in Worthing. But the first three days there I found myself unable to leave it. I was an emotional wreck, completely overwhelmed and very anxious. I only had seven days to get myself in gear before I started work again, and by the time I did, I was okay but I wasn’t right. I had this temporary place to live for 84 days before I needed to find secure accommodation. My manager and probation officer were very supportive and looked for somewhere for me to live, but between the three of us, we couldn’t find anything. One property came up but it fell through, and there was just nothing else about. I tried to go private, but the trouble is a lot of these websites eventually ask you if you have a criminal record. And once I said my criminal record is violence, no one wanted to know. If I was to stay in an Airbnb, you wouldn’t call up Airbnb and provide them with details of my conviction. Same with a hotel. Why a landlord? There’s no difference. They’re putting obstacles between me and providing myself with the base level of security that we all require as indicated in Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.

Anyway, the job was going well but two weeks into it, my grandmother died. My uncle called me, crying, and I went up to be with him and my grandma. I went back to work after that and was still needing to search for accommodation. When my time ran out, I hadn’t found anything. Fortunately, I had a car I could live in but I was constantly being moved on by the police. It was cold, I was grieving, I was homeless. But I had a job, and I was desperately trying to hang on to that with everything I had. After a few months, management knew that I was having my washes in the work bathroom and was coming in tired. I was in a safety-critical job fabricating bricks – your fingers could be an inch away from the blade. I was coming in really, really tired and making silly mistakes. Management was supportive but it wasn’t enough – I just needed secure accommodation. In the end, my manager had to reluctantly ask me to leave.

I had a friend from Bible College with an empty house in Braintree and he assured me there was a nearby agency that could find me work. So, I drove there, signed up to the agency on the Wednesday and was in work by the Monday. I was paying him to live there but I was able to save a bit. He put me in touch with one of his mates who owned a takeaway. I’d work 9-5, then do deliveries there. I saved quite a bit of money.

Everything was going well for three months, then my auntie called me to inform me that my eldest brother had died. Prior to prison, my brother had come to live with me. He had Asperger’s and gelastic epilepsy – he wasn’t built for this world. I couldn’t manage his behaviours, so I had to ask him to leave. He’d since been living in supported living accommodation and seemingly had all the support he needed.

When he died, I had to uproot to London to tend to his affairs. My younger brother flew back from Australia to help and together we went to the house where my brother had been found dead. That was a very devastating experience for me. All the money I’d saved obviously had to go towards his funeral. I tried to stay with a family member in London and I paid them rent from a job delivering meat for a butcher. But it was strained and for the sake of preserving our relationship, I had to leave.

At that point, I was at my wits’ end and contacted Turning Tides. My friend from Bible College was a pastor of Kingdom Faith Church and had told me about Roffey Place. I called up and was given an interview with Ty and Hari. They offered me a position on the spot, and I burst out into tears. They didn’t know it but they were saving me.

When I arrived at Roffey, I had every mind and ambition to do this and do that – it was the fresh start I needed. But it was the first time I’d stopped since I’d left prison, and I mean that literally. I couldn’t afford not to do something to improve my situation every single day, seven days a week. No exaggeration. Obviously, aside the time out for grieving with family, funerals and such – but besides that, I was out of work maybe one week. It took me four months of – sorry to characterise it like this – of being loved, really, by all that is Turning Tides. It was like my soul was malnourished. My mind, my body, malnourished. Four months of being just nurtured. Everything taken care of. Supported by key workers. Food in my belly. Country walks beside me. Four months of that was enough to heal me.

I was in a depressive state. I don’t know if you’ve ever been too embarrassed to dance and your feet just feel heavy. Well, I felt like my whole body was too heavy to move. To do anything. My mind was too heavy to think. My tongue was too heavy to talk. My eyes were too heavy to open. I just crashed. It wasn’t something that I was prepared to go to the doctor’s for though, because I think I should have been depressive given all that had transpired. These experiences are hard not just on the body, but on the mind and the spirit, on the will of a man.

So Roffey was a real safety net for me. I didn’t have to worry about where my food was going to come from. I didn’t have to worry about the heating, the water bill, or electricity. I was safe – the most secure type of accommodation I’d experienced. I spent a lot of time just trying to process everything. Wanting to give up but still carrying on. There was no fight anymore. I remember my key worker at the time, Ruby – she was good at listening, Ruby – would ask where I saw myself. And for a long time, I wasn’t able to give her an answer. But I did assure her when I’m ready, I’m going to get up, get moving and things will start moving fast from that point.

I had to get used to the idea that I needed to accept help from the Government. I wasn’t happy at all; it felt embarrassing and like a massive step back for me. But it was the requirement for being at Roffey and I needed to be there.

I was introduced to a few people at the Job Centre who were very supportive. One lady listened to me carefully, could see my ambition from my CV, and suggested a rail engineering course provided for free by the Job Centre. And on the spot, I said: “You know what, I’ll do it.” I didn’t want to, in the sense that I’d never had a mind to do it, but I thought I should and I felt ready to. I liked what the course offered and the opportunity for employment afterwards. It took about four months and I went to college every day from Roffey. I qualified and was matched up with a company. I’m still with that company now.

The Council says I can’t register for housing because I’m in supported living accommodation so I’m not technically homeless. Essentially, I’m back to square one: find private rented accommodation.

I don’t have an attitude of entitlement. I don’t believe I have a right to access a home. I’m self-flagellating. I’m owning the consequences of my actions. I had everything I needed before I went to prison. After committing a crime, personally I don’t feel I’ve got a right to demand that I’m supported. However, I would love to advocate for the normalisation, not of crime, but of the potential for ex-offenders to be good and positive role models. They can genuinely become members of society who affect change in the right direction.