‘One Day One Life is an incredibly raw and honest story of addiction, anxiety, loss, and love. David’s reflections on his own struggle with addiction provide a unique insight into some of his darkest times and will challenge perceptions of addiction, mental health, and the relentless drive for success. David writes with such humility and vulnerability. His love for his sons and partner is palpable, and his lived experience will resonate with many. This is a beautifully written book.’ Dr Emma George. Director, Centre for Male Health. Associate Professor, Health & Physical Education. School of Health Sciences. Translational Health Research Institute (THRI), EPIC Research Group. Western Sydney University. One Day, One Life The Propaganda of Success By David Stewart Balboa Press Copyright © 2016 David Stewart All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-5043-0276-0 CHAPTER 1 This is my life journey. The memory of my past. Not a separate life or an old life, but my life. My own imprint. My family DNA. The blood I spilled in order to change. The damage I choose to leave in the past by living in the present. The legacies of love I decided to open and claim. I offer this to you, my sons. Not a house or cars or careers, but a father's life gift. An open letter. His life. His mistakes. His lessons. The life he has walked. My gorgeous boys, I am flawed, and I took my flaws into fatherhood. Know that my intentions have always been true. I have never made a choice with an agenda other than love. My life journey commenced with hope and innocence, but naiveté is not an excuse. Ultimately, I hope it helps you understand me with a bit more clarity and kindness. Even in my recovery, I have made mistakes and acted in self-pity, grandiosity, and denial. I am sorry, and I will always continue to make right what I made wrong. What is wrong can't always be made right. Thank you for loving me. I feel humbled by your courage and forgiveness. What I have done is admit and own my vulnerability and humanity. I gave up making excuses and accepted that all we have is today. One day, one life. Somewhat ironically (for both the church and myself), I was born in Sydney on November 1, 1961. In Catholic speak, this is a holy day of obligation known as All Saints' Day. I am a man of good intentions (maybe), but a saint? Definitely not! I had a bad streak in me that ended up running its course until my thirty-sixth year on this wondrous, destructive planet. I have learned by error after error that the wonder of the earth never leaves us. Rather, we just choose to leave the wonder. Destruction Is a Negative Possibility Created by the Wrong Choices Life in the Sydney suburbs of the 1960s was basic but good. Milk was delivered in bottles, and garbage was collected twice a week in one steel, circular bin. Kids played on the street, and the front door was always open. Neighbours talked to each other over the back fences, and dog leashes didn't exist (we also didn't have dogs who mauled children). Simple blessings. We went to church on Sunday morning and the local Chinese restaurant on Friday night. When it was hot, we sat under a sprinkler. When it was cold, we put on a woollen jumper. Simple pleasures. As my father's political and business careers blossomed, I moved from Punchbowl to Cronulla to the harbour suburb of Vaucluse with my kind and beautiful mother and my two sisters. We followed Dad. He was head of the house; no questions were asked or answered. As a point-of-suburb reference, Punchbowl was a working-class, stinking-hot melting pot of cultures and cuisines; Cronulla was a rightwing, middle-class mecca filled with beaches, golf courses, strong cars, and even stronger opinions; and Vaucluse was awash with private schools, three-level corporate retreats, boats, and black BMWs — and wankers. I was full of all of the above, and I mean full of it! As our family homes and cars got bigger, so did my ego and sensitivity. In 1976, at the age of fourteen, I was lucky enough to be sent to Waverley College, the Christian brothers' leading educational light for schoolboys in Sydney. It was (and is) an amazing school. We competed against the elite boys of Sydney's private schools. We didn't really belong. Waverley boys had a brash aggression that other private school boys lacked. We had no time for airs, graces, and political correctness. Our fathers were lawyers, businessmen, criminals, publicans, tradesmen, shopkeepers, farmers, sportsmen, and surfers. We rejoiced in our differences, and each and every kid was accepted with rebuke followed by open arms. Waverley playgrounds and sporting fields were not for the faint-hearted; I had my share of conflicts. Good or bad, it was a rite of passage. We hung tight, and we stuck it up every other school that played sport against us. The elite of Sydney's eastern suburbs looked down on us with a plum and aplomb. That antiestablishment attitude stayed with me well into adulthood, and it fuelled a lot