As I sit here in my office in Ireland a 42-year-old overweight male reminiscing about my roller coaster life. And contemplating where it all went wrong. I find myself smiling. That's right not crying but actually smiling. I am a strong believer in an old saying, what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.

Let me give you some background about myself.
I won't go back to my earliest memory of me walking around in a onesie. Let's jump forward about 15 years. As a 15-year-old kid growing up I was far more streetwise than your average Irish teen. My father had a small business in a very rough part of Dublin Ireland. Which I loved to work in. And I thank god for the knowledge that I gained from working there as I use it every day of my life. I even used it on my dark days.

In 1998 I moved to NYC and started to work in an Irish bar in Manhatten. There were way better barmen than me in this pub, but few of them were making the money I was making. You see, I have the Irish gift of the gab, and people seemed to like it. So before long, I started to make more money than I did working in my family business in Dublin. They were crazy times. It wasn't long till my old friend started to knock on the door.

My old friend is drink.

I say is and not was, because you really never shake it.

I knew I was drinking too much before I moved to America. I had just buried my father, a 47-year-old alcoholic. So drink is nothing new to me at that stage in my life.
It wasn't long before it started to dictate my life. What time I got up what time I went to bed, how much I spent. I would love to say I remember very little of it, but that would be a lie, I remember every second of every day.

So let's jump forward a few months, the job is gone, the apartment is gone and I am living on the streets of Manhatten, without as much as a pot to piss in.
It was sometime around now that I made friends with a hard talking, ass-kicking, tough guy called Father Mychal Judge. That's right a priest. I owe a lot to this man, more than I could ever say.
Unfortunately, I never made it back to NYC in time, to thank him, as he was murdered in the World Trade Center in 9/11.

He got me right in the head, long enough to get myself back to my loving family in Ireland. Now this story is not a miracle story, it took me years to get straight. I am not clean and sober, but I physically cannot drink what I once did.

After a few years home, bouncing from one menial job to the next, my brother said why not go back to school.
Say what? School?
Now you have to understand I left school when I was 15 years old so that was 25 years prior to this. So he kept at me for a long time, and then I decided ok, I will do it.

I studied for 2 years and earned my Leaving Cert which I believe is called the SAT in America? From there I applied for numerous universities and was lucky enough to be excepted onto a 4-year BA honor degree course.

I think I will leave the rest of my story for another day. I hope I didn't bore you, I just hope once you get to know me, you might let some of my life experience guide you on your journey.

I would like to finish by sharing a poem I wrote.

• Farewell