If you had a time machine and could send just one message to your past self, what would it say?
If I could send just one message back to the person I was, it would be this:
No matter how dark life becomes, you’re going to get through it.
There will be times when you genuinely believe the pain will never end. You’ll carry anger, fear, grief and questions you don’t yet have answers for. You’ll have moments when giving up seems easier than taking another step.
But keep going.
You don’t know it yet, but the hardest chapters of your life aren’t the end of your story. They’re the chapters that will teach you just how strong you are, and eventually, how to let go of the things that were never yours to carry forever.
You will find peace.
Not because life suddenly becomes perfect—it doesn’t. But because you’ll learn that peace isn’t about changing the past or controlling everything around you. It’s about accepting what you cannot change, letting go of what weighs you down, and choosing to keep moving forward.
So breathe.
Stay.
Keep going.
There is a life waiting for you that you cannot imagine from where you’re standing now.
What’s something you used to worry about but don’t anymore?
There are two answers to this.
The obvious one is death.
Most people worry about it, even if they don’t admit it to themselves. It’s the one certainty we all spend our lives trying not to think about.
The difference for me is that I’ve been clinically dead.
That experience didn’t make me fearless or convince me I’m invincible. I still value my life. I still wear a seatbelt. I still look both ways before crossing the road. But it did change my relationship with death.
(Read Hello old Friend)
I no longer see it as something lurking around every corner, waiting to steal today’s happiness.
It’ll come when it comes.
Until then, I’d rather spend my energy living than worrying about the inevitable.
The second answer took much longer to conquer.
Other people’s opinions.
Again, I think most of us care far more than we’re willing to admit. We worry about saying the wrong thing, looking foolish, being judged or misunderstood. We edit ourselves before we’ve even opened our mouths.
I certainly did.
Then, about ten years ago, I started writing honestly on this blog.
Not the polished version of life.
The real one.
The struggles with mental health. Autism. PTSD. Family life. The victories, the failures, and all the wonderfully messy bits in between.
When you spend a decade opening your heart to complete strangers on the internet, something unexpected happens.
You realise the world doesn’t end.
Some people won’t like you.
Some will misunderstand you.
A few will judge you without ever really knowing you.
And that’s perfectly alright.
Because just as you’re free to have an opinion about them, they’re free to have one about you.
Turning fifty probably helped as well.
There’s something wonderfully liberating about reaching an age where you finally understand that you were never going to be everyone’s cup of tea—and you don’t actually need to be.
The people who matter already know who you are.
The people who don’t… probably never will.
Life is far too short to spend it performing for an audience you’ll never satisfy.
So these days I worry less about death.
I worry less about what strangers think.
Instead, I try to focus on something far more worthwhile.
Living a life that feels honest.
If I manage that, the rest tends to take care of itself.
If you had to give one life-changing tip, what would it be?
If I had to give just one life-changing tip, it would be this:
Look after your mental health just as much as your physical health.
We spend hours thinking about our bodies. We count our steps, join gyms, watch what we eat, and book check-ups when something doesn’t feel right. Yet when it comes to our minds, many of us simply hope we’ll be okay.
Hope isn’t a strategy.
The truth is, your mind is involved in every decision you make, every relationship you build, every challenge you face, and every dream you pursue. If your mental wellbeing is neglected, everything else eventually feels harder. Stress becomes overwhelming. Small problems become mountains. Joy becomes difficult to recognise.
For far too long, we’ve been taught to “keep going,” “man up,” or “just get on with it.” Those phrases have probably caused more harm than they’ll ever receive credit for. Strength isn’t found in suffering silently. Real strength is recognising when you’re struggling and having the courage to speak up.
Looking after your mental health doesn’t always mean counselling or medication, although both can be life-changing for many people. Sometimes it means getting enough sleep. Sometimes it means putting your phone down and taking a walk. Sometimes it’s saying “no” without feeling guilty. Sometimes it’s talking honestly with a friend over a cup of tea.
And sometimes it’s simply admitting, “I’m not okay today.”
There’s no shame in that.
We service our cars before they break down. We charge our phones before the battery reaches zero. Yet so many of us wait until we’re completely exhausted before giving ourselves permission to rest.
Imagine if we treated our minds with the same care we treat our bodies.
The world would be a kinder place.
So, if there’s one thing I’d encourage you to do today, it’s this: check in with yourself. Not the automatic “I’m fine” we all give, but a genuine moment of honesty. Ask yourself how you’re really doing.
Because your mental health isn’t a luxury.
It’s the foundation everything else is built upon.
Ten years ago, I sat down and started building something from scratch. At the time, it was simply a place to put my thoughts, feelings and experiences into words — a way of making sense of the world around me after being diagnosed as Autistic. (Looking back it makes sense)
I don’t think, even in my wildest dreams, I could have imagined where that small beginning would lead me.
Ten years later, this little corner of the internet has become so much more than a website. It has become a place for connection, understanding and shared experiences. It has allowed me to tell my story, to open conversations, and to hopefully help others feel a little less alone on their own journeys.
When I first started writing, I had no idea who would read my words or where they would take me. I certainly never imagined that so many people would come along for the ride, follow my journey and offer their support along the way.
For that, I am truly grateful.
To everyone who has read a blog post, shared a story, sent a message, offered encouragement or simply taken the time to understand — thank you. Your support has meant more than you probably realise. Every interaction has been a reminder that sharing our experiences can create connections that we never expected.
Of course, there is one person who deserves a very special thank you: Mrs Bob.
Behind the scenes, she has been my constant support throughout this entire journey. She has written, proofread, made phone calls, helped shape my thoughts and, most importantly, been my neurotypical whisperer when I’ve needed someone to help translate my way of seeing the world.
She has worked tirelessly alongside me, often without recognition, and I honestly couldn’t have reached this point without her.
Looking back over these ten years, I realise this website has been a record of growth, discovery and acceptance. It has captured moments of frustration, joy, learning and everything in between.
The journey hasn’t always been straightforward, but it has always been mine.
So, on this tenth birthday, I’m not just celebrating a website. I’m celebrating the conversations started, the friendships made, the lessons learned and the incredible community that has grown around it.
What’s a chapter of your life you’d title “The Hard Years” — and what got you through it?
If you’ve read my books or been following this blog for a while, you’ll probably know the answer before you’ve finished the question.
Roughly twenty years ago.
That was the chapter.
It was the point where it honestly felt like life had looked at me and thought, “Go on then… let’s see how much this bloke can actually take.”
I was on the verge of homelessness.
I was fighting to have a relationship with my daughters.
My PTSD was running riot.
I was autistic but had absolutely no idea at the time.
And my mental health?
Well… “shot to shit” is probably the most accurate medical diagnosis I can give you.
Let’s unpack that.
After a relationship ended, I found myself with nowhere to live. My family couldn’t help, so I ended up sleeping on the sofa of an old wrestling mate. It wasn’t glamorous, but it beat sleeping rough again.
Eventually she moved in with her boyfriend and we came up with what seemed, at the time, like a sensible solution.
I’d stay in her little council house and carry on paying the rent.
Yes.
I know.
Subletting.
Not exactly legal.
But when your choices are breaking the rules or sleeping rough, morality suddenly becomes a luxury.
While all that was going on, my daughters’ mum had started making contact as difficult as humanly possible.
I’d turn up to collect the girls.
“Oh… we’ve gone out.”
“They’re not here.”
“They don’t want to come.”
The excuses changed.
The result didn’t.
Letters from my solicitor about parental responsibility went unanswered.
Phone calls rarely got through.
And when they did, the girls were apparently never available.
It was only last year that I found out some of the things they’d been told about me growing up.
One of them was that I’d wanted my youngest aborted before she was born.
I hadn’t.
But lies have a habit of hanging around long after the people telling them have moved on.
Looking back now, I understand why I was falling apart.
Back then I just thought I was broken.
Everything piled on top of everything else.
The housing.
The court stuff.
Missing my girls.
The PTSD.
Trying to make sense of a brain that worked differently without knowing why.
So I did what a lot of blokes do when they’re drowning.
I reached for anything that promised five minutes of peace.
Drink.
Drugs.
Self-harm.
None of it fixed anything.
It just delayed having to feel it.
Then came the moment that genuinely broke me.
The council discovered I was living in the house.
I was told that if I cleared about £400 of rent arrears I could take over the tenancy.
I worked every bit of overtime I could.
Paid every penny.
Walked into the meeting convinced I’d finally caught a break.
Instead, I was told I had four weeks to move out.
When I reminded them about what I’d been promised, I was told I’d have to bid on the property along with everyone else.
I’d basically paid someone else’s rent arrears for nothing.
That one hurt.
For the next month I bid on every property I could.
Nothing.
That’s when I hit rock bottom.
I tried (for the first time) to end my life.
I woke up in hospital the following day to two police officers asking why I’d done it and telling me how selfish I’d been for upsetting everyone.
Different times.
Thankfully we’ve moved on a bit since then.
Recovery wasn’t some magical Disney montage.
It took years.
Hospital admissions.
Medication.
Counselling.
Learning how to exist without constantly wanting to disappear.
Then, during one of my final stays in hospital, a member of staff suggested I start writing down how I felt.
I nearly laughed.
Writing a diary?
Really?
I’d grown up believing men dealt with problems by getting on with them.
You certainly didn’t write about your feelings.
Still…
I’d tried almost everything else.
What was one more roll of the dice?
Those first pages weren’t poetry.
They were just chaos.
Anger.
Fear.
Grief.
Questions I didn’t know how to answer.
Slowly, without me really noticing, those pages started changing.
Sentences became verses.
Verses became poems.
Poems became something that made sense of everything that didn’t.
People often ask me what saved my life.
It wasn’t poetry.
Not at first.
Poetry came later.
What saved me was finally giving myself permission to be honest.
The poetry simply gave that honesty somewhere to live.
Without those notebooks there probably wouldn’t have been books.
There wouldn’t have been performances.
There wouldn’t have been conversations with complete strangers who’ve quietly said, “I thought I was the only one.”
There probably wouldn’t be this blog.
So what got me through The Hard Years?
My daughters.
Even when I couldn’t see them, they gave me something to keep fighting for.
Pure bloody-minded stubbornness.
I’ve never liked being told I can’t do something.
And somewhere deep down, underneath everything else, there was still a tiny voice saying,
“Don’t let this be how your story ends.”
Turns out that little voice was right.
Life isn’t perfect now.
It never will be.
But I’ve learned that the hardest chapters aren’t always the end of the book.
Sometimes they’re just the part that explains why the rest of the story matters.
Sure, I love comic books. I love photography. And I’m definitely passionate about Mrs Bob—but that’s a story for another day.
The thing that truly sets my soul on fire is poetry and mental health awareness.
At first glance, they might seem like two completely different worlds. One is art. The other is survival.
But for me, they’re inseparable.
Because poetry helped save my life.
More than twenty years ago, I wasn’t the happy, well-adjusted bloke many people know today. In truth, I was a mess. My mental health was spiralling dangerously out of control. I was drinking heavily, drowning emotions I didn’t understand, and convincing myself that I had to carry every burden alone.
Like many men of my generation, I believed I had to “man up.”
Keep quiet.
Stay strong.
Don’t talk about it.
But silence can be a dangerous thing.
There were times when the darkness became so overwhelming that I tried to end my life. More than once.
Eventually, after waking up in the resuscitation room of my local hospital following one particularly close call, something shifted inside me. Looking back now, I realise it was a crossroads.
I could continue pretending everything was fine until it killed me.
Or I could ask for help.
I chose help.
Not because I was brave.
Not because I suddenly had all the answers.
But because I looked at my two young children and realised I couldn’t leave them growing up without a father.
For the first time in my life, I stopped trying to fight alone.
One of the professionals helping me suggested I start writing down my thoughts and emotions. The idea was simple: get the chaos out of my head and onto paper so I could begin to understand it.
At first, I filled notebook after notebook with late-night scribbles. Thoughts. Fears. Anger. Pain. Hope. Anything that was bouncing around inside my head.
Then something unexpected happened.
As I read back through those pages, I started arranging some of the words into verses. The emotions were still raw and chaotic, but now they had rhythm and shape.
It wasn’t poetry as I know it today.
It was closer to rap lyrics.
But it was the beginning.
The real turning point came when I wrote a piece for a family member’s naming ceremony. Afterwards, people kept asking me where I’d found the poem.
When I told them I’d written it myself, they seemed genuinely surprised.
And so was I.
For the first time, I allowed myself to think:
Maybe I’m a poet.
Over the following two decades, I spent countless hours learning, practising, refining and developing my craft. Every poem taught me something new—not just about writing, but about myself.
In the early days, poetry was my pressure valve.
A way of releasing everything that threatened to consume me.
My work was dark.
Unflinching.
Sometimes uncomfortable.
I wrote about depression, self-harm, suicide and the realities of living with poor mental health. Topics many people preferred not to talk about.
But those conversations mattered.
They still do.
Today, my writing covers a wider range of subjects. There’s more light alongside the darkness. More hope alongside the pain.
Yet mental health remains close to my heart.
Particularly men’s mental health.
I’ve been inspired by some incredible slam poets and advocates who have used their voices to challenge the outdated belief that men should suffer in silence. The idea that being strong means never showing vulnerability. The lie that asking for help is weakness.
Because it isn’t.
Real strength is speaking up.
Real strength is reaching out.
Real strength is staying.
The truth is that there are countless blokes out there who are fighting battles nobody else can see. Men who smile on the outside while struggling desperately on the inside. Men who believe they’re alone.
They’re not.
And that’s why I keep writing.
Because somewhere, someone might be reading these words and recognising a piece of themselves.
Someone who feels exhausted.
Someone who feels trapped.
Someone who is standing closer to the edge than anyone realises.
If my poetry, my story, or my words can make just one person pause for a moment and choose to talk to someone—anyone—instead of suffering alone, then every difficult chapter of my journey has been worthwhile.
Because poetry didn’t just give me a voice.
It gave me a future.
And if sharing that future helps someone else find theirs, then I’ll keep writing for as long as I have words left to write.
What place in the world do you never want to visit? Why?
There are plenty of places in this world I haven’t seen yet.
White sandy beaches, bustling cities, and quiet forests where the only sound is your own thoughts echoing back at you.
But if you asked me
“What place do you never want to visit?”
There’s only one answer that comes to mind.
And you can’t find it on any map.
It’s that dark place.
You know the one.
The place where the lights are on, but everything still feels dim. Where you can be surrounded by people, yet feel like the only person left on earth. Where your own mind becomes the loudest, cruellest voice in the room.
I’ve been there.
And I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.
I remember what it felt like…
Like being swallowed whole by something you couldn’t explain. Like trying to scream underwater – all noise, no sound. Like your own thoughts turning against you, convincing you that the world might be better off without you in it.
That’s the thing about it.
It doesn’t look dramatic from the outside. No thunder. No lightning. No warning signs flashing in neon.
Just… quiet.
Dangerously quiet.
There’s a line from one of my older scribbles, Gone, that still sticks with me:
“Swallowed by a darkness they can’t escape.”
And that’s exactly it.
It’s not a place you walk into.
It’s a place that closes in around you.
What makes it worse is how convincing it is.
It tells you things that feel like truth:
That you’re alone
That you’re a burden
That this feeling will never end
And when you’re in that headspace, those lies don’t sound like lies anymore.
They sound like facts.
But here’s the part that doesn’t get talked about enough.
That place lies.
It always lies.
Because I got out.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned since then, it’s this:
Feelings aren’t permanent, even the worst ones.
As much as that darkness insists it’s forever… it isn’t.
Do I ever want to go back there?
Not a fucking chance.
No return ticket. No sightseeing. No “just popping in for a visit.”
That place can stay exactly where it belongs
In the past.
But I will say this.
If you’re reading this, and you recognise that place…
If you’re there right now, or hovering somewhere close by…
You’re not the only one who’s been there.
Not even close.
And more importantly
You don’t have to stay there.
I’m still here.
Still scribbling, still fighting, still feeling.
And that, in itself, is proof that even the darkest places in the world…
The Ramblings of Bob Christian 