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I learned later that he was never like that: so perky, friendly and bubbly. That day was the single anomaly in his stoic, silent life. A freak accident – if you will - I'm sure he would erase from my memory if he could. Unfortunately, that's my gift, not his.

Even now, trying to get him to talk about his emotions is like trying to separate a starving man from a buffet spread, a dog from its favourite bone.

Just two weeks ago, in a fit of pique at his inability to share his thoughts and feelings with me, too much Stoli and Bad Judgement caused me to throw the Giggly-Ran incident in his face. I don't even remember how or even why it was relevant, but boy did that couch kill my back for five days. Grovelling is bad for my knees, but stupidity is bad for my back. I may be many things; mostly unsavoury – but no one has ever accused me of being dim.

Of course, I could easily have extracted what I wanted from his thickheaded skull, but I never was a man to do things the easy way. Still, five days was more than enough. I had to promise to...

But I get ahead of myself. The real story is yet to be told eh?

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Going to bed hungry did not sit too well with me. The night passed in a flurry of nightmares of giant flying tofu ridden by gleeful ants while being egged on all the while by a red-haired amethyst-eyed demon wielding chopsticks and waving them about maniacally. I woke up with a start just as the giant tofu was about to crush me – or more specifically, my family jewels.

The signs were all there. I had seen each and every one before. It was not going to be a good day. More accurate, it would only be a good day if I could curl up in bed underneath my blankets and wish the world away. Maybe. But seeing as I had an appointment with Group Therapy today, and seeing that I did not wish to have Daddy Crawford breathing down my neck, I slowly got out of bed, still absently scratching the remnants of my encounter with The Ants.

My daily routine was simple really. It was devised to help me survive the horrors each day would bring. I'd just do whatever I had to, to get out. Until I had a clean bill of health, Daddio "I-have-a-giant-stick-up-my-arse" would never let me set foot back home. Basic and easy. Not much thought was necessary.

It was terrifying, though, to realise how easy it was not to have to make any decisions of my own. It was like the 'slippery slope' argument I had read in another life, in Philosophy class. Each subsequent time I compromised on previously staunch principles, I found it easier and easier to compromise on other things. And slowly but definitely, each first time became an every time.

It was really too easy - and terrifyingly comforting - not to have to decide what to eat, where to go, what to do. Breakfast at seven-thirty, lunch at noon, dinner at six. Supper at ten, lights-out at eleven then up again at six. It was all so simple, and I found myself becoming someone who enjoyed the routine – a person I never thought I'd be.

Occasionally, the fear of becoming one of them would grip me and I would jump into the day in a frenzy of doing anything I wished. I'd dig out my highly illegal bottle of whiskey and drink myself into a comfortable high to start my day, just a slight stupor to take the edge off my fear. It never took much, just a few shots, but it was an act that usually set my recovery schedule back by two weeks. Rational thought had never been my strength.

The desire to flee coupled with my desire to indulge in whatever the fuck I wanted created a very bad combination. Nevertheless, I'd be back to what passed as normal for me and the day would end with the standard lecture from my doctor and a maudlin hour spent moping for days gone by and contemplating either drinking myself silly once more or making a run for it.

Quite pathetic, really.

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