I thought,
if they can cope with the trauma they have experienced, then I’ve got to find the
strength myself
‘Bizarrely, one
day, a friend asked if I’d ever thought about adopting ex-battery hens.’
overdose at 11, my
second at 18 and my third just after my 21st birthday. It was a cry for
help. I had lovely parents, but I was desperately unhappy.
I was sexually abused
at the age of eight, in the 1960s. I was afraid I’d get the cane if I told a
teacher, so I didn’t tell anyone. When my parents found out, all hell
broke loose. The abuser went to jail, but I never spoke about it. I couldn’t
face it.
I left school at 15
and worked for Royal Mail, first as a telegram boy and then as a postman. We’d
finish at 12.30pm and go straight down the boozer. I’d have three or four
pints, five, sometimes. Alcohol masked my depression, and by my early 30s
I had become dependent. If I got bladdered, I could kick the demons out.
One Christmas, I drank 48 cans of Carling in two days. I ended up in hospital.
The doctor said, “You either pack in the drinking or you’ll die.”
That’s when, aged 34,
I went to rehab and there followed six years without a drink. I lost six stone
in weight and started cycling 15 miles to work and back. I’d never felt so fit.
Then, in 1997, I fell
in love. It was a beautiful sunny day, we’d been to the Cotswolds and I had a
beer. One became two, two became three… It was the ladder to oblivion.
In 2006, nine years
later, I had a full psychotic breakdown. I was out with my dad and he said,
“You don’t look well, son.” I remember feeling nauseous, my whole body
trembling. Next thing I knew, I woke up in a psychiatric unit. I spent two
months in hospital, then had treatment with support in the community.
I retired from Royal
Mail on medical grounds, after 33 years, and filled my time volunteering
for various charities. Then, in 2011, I suffered PTSD after I was
beaten up in broad daylight. It was an unprovoked attack and I became
paranoid, couldn’t sleep and began to self-harm – it was a way of coping.
I became a virtual
recluse, and would let only a handful of trusted people into my home. Then,
bizarrely, one day, a friend asked if I’d ever thought about adopting
ex-battery hens. I looked at him as if he was stupid. He said, “They
have a horrendous life, and you’ve suffered a horrible life.” He
thought I would benefit from looking after them.
I had always felt good
around animals, and I’ve got a huge garden, so I
contacted the local rescue centre and went down for a
look. It was like something from a horror story. The hens were in such a
state: they had no feathers and the bottom of their beaks had been cut off. It
shocked me to tears.
I took in four hens to
start with, and they changed my life. I quickly realised that
these hens depended on me, and that gave me a purpose. I thought, if
they can cope with the trauma they have experienced, then I’ve got to find the
strength myself.
They were terrified at
first, but the first time they ran out of that coop, flapping their wings, was
one of the most pleasurable moments of my life. I’ve now got three coops,
a 12ft run, a brand new fence, 13 hens – and counting. I’ve got space for
30. I have spent a fortune on lettuce, porridge and corn on the cob. Live meal
worms cost £11 a kilo, but they love them. I’ve probably spent about £3,500 so
far, but the joy the hens give me is immense. They jump on my trousers, sit on
my shoulders, they make me smile. I hadn’t properly smiled in 40
years. Even my psychiatrist said, “Paul, this is the best I’ve seen you.”
I’d never spoken about
the abuse, locking it away in the back of my mind, but one day last August
I broke down and told my psychiatrist everything. The hens had made
me feel I could be more open. When I heard them clucking, I thought, if
they can still speak after what they’ve been through, so can I.
One of the most
crippling aspects of mental health is the desperate loneliness
and discrimination from some members of society. The hens accept me. They calm me down
and I feel that, through the horrors in both their lives and mine, we connect.
As ridiculous as it sounds, they give me what I need.
https://www.theguardian.com
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