This is going to be quite difficult for me to write about. In the main, because there are many things I am not, but one thing I am; is proud. This isn’t the pride you take in your achievements or your family, this is the type of pride you have when you don’t show the world how much you are hurting. I’ll try and explain.

I grew up in the north of England, the middle child of three brothers and from a distinctly working class background. My father was a roofer by trade, a trade that suffered greatly during my youth with the recession and lack of work in his chosen profession. My mother was for much of my life a stay at home mum, then when necessity dictated it, she was a cleaner.

My life wasn’t one of wealth or any real privilege and though my parents did what they could to provide for all of our childish wants and needs, the reality was that we got by. I’m not going to speak of the mocking over cheap trainers or hand me down clothes, that’s not what I want to focus on and truly I care little about that but I want to set in your mind that my origins and subsequent expectations of life were fairly humble.

Due in part to the horrendous school life I had and the differences between my peers and me, I left school at sixteen without a clue of what to do. The one thing I did know was that I was done with learning institutions and people my own age. My mother pushed me to enroll in art college since that was one of the subjects I showed some early skill in but due to my experiences over my school years, I didn’t go.

In desperation my mother took charge and signed me up for an apprenticeship. I had little choice in what it was in and truth be told, little real idea of what I wanted to do anyway. I ended up doing a part time graphic design and printing course while working at a ceramics factory. This was as exciting as you could imagine it to be.

That was the start of my mundane work life. I lasted five years, no doubt because I had zero ambitions or focus and was happy to just exist. I still had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up. I finished there and signed up with a temp agency working as a labourer in a warehouse. Five years later I was in the midst of a darker than usual depression with a partner, toddler and new baby. I quit my job.

Two more years of various agency work with the police in the evidence stores, contactor where I worked chasing payments, gas supplier where I worked for one day in sales before quitting – nowhere near enough of a people person for that job and finally at the place where I currently work, in an office. I still didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up.

Throughout all of these jobs that were distinctly low paid, the birth of my children, the relationships that ended poorly, I was poor. I could get by, in the borrow some money towards the end of each month and pay it back when I got paid sort of getting by. Life wasn’t great but like my parents before me, I tried to ensure my daughters had everything they could desire.

In 2008 the recession hit the world. In my local government job we were told we would have no pay raises in the near future (5 years in total then 1% totalling in maybe 20% cut in pay relatively.) A year later in 2009, my relationship ended and I had shared custody of my children. In 2011 my eldest moved to Ireland with her mother and my youngest lived with me full time.

Money was tight but we got by. As my income stayed the same and everything rose in price I cut back. First went the social nights out. Not a major loss as I had a child to care for and zero child minders. After that I cut out the TV package, went to Freeview for awhile and then cut out the TV altogether. Neither me nor my daughter missed it and the £144 a year for a licence was better in my pocket that the BBC’s.

I cut back all I could, where I could. I didn’t smoke and alcohol was a luxury so that went. Internet remained because it was my one way of keeping up with the world and keeping in touch with friends. My daughter got the clothes she needed but not as much as she likely wanted, I bought little clothing for myself. I made do.

Often I would patch and sew our clothes to get as much life from them as I could. I was amazed when I saw people donating clothing to charity, ours were essentially rags when finally discarded.

Occasionally I would receive some t-shirts as gifts but many of the ones I have now, I had when I was still with my partner back in 2009 and they were old then. I had one pair of trainers and one set of trousers for work. For six months last year when all else failed, I used a twisted piece of metal that had started life as a paperclip to keep my trousers up.

We didn’t buy electrical devices of any kind. The TV I had was donated and when I finally got rid of it a month ago it was perhaps a couple of years younger than my thirteen year old daughter. I did have a mobile phone, one of my brothers old ones. The contract was paid for by my mother. This was because I couldn’t afford it and would do without; so for her to be able to contact me, to allow me to be reached in emergencies, she paid for it.

Money was growing tighter. I cut back where I could but it wasn’t enough. I borrowed more frequently and after paying back, I would end up needing to borrow again. Something I hated to do because it hurt my pride, to have to need to rely on others, to not be able to provide fully for my family, small though it was.

That pride was whittled away every time I had to phone my mother or brother and ask to borrow money, every time I asked for help, every time I couldn’t give my child what she needed, let alone what she wanted.

My health was not great and that dark depression grew worse and lasted a number of years. I went to the doctor for help only when my manager at work insisted on it. I was prescribed anti-depressents and that helped numb me.

At this point in my life, I looked forward to the future and saw nothing. I was surviving and certainly not living. Suicide much to my shame was often in my thoughts but that would never happen because the one thing I did have was my children. I planned to wait until the youngest was at least sixteen, when she would have her own life and be better able to move on, before giving in to that.

Then came along the time when my youngest was of an age where she didn’t need me so much. Her friends and own pursuits came before dear old dad – as they should do at that age – and I found myself with a great deal of free time that I hadn’t had before. I was also in the midst of a zombie apocalypse reading frenzy where I read every free one going. When I couldn’t find any more to read, a thought occurred to me. Why not write one of my own.

Killing the Dead was released a couple of months later. I’d spent a great many hours writing it, then proofreading and editing. When it was released I’d missed a great deal and updated editions were released frequently. It may not be the best writing out there and still needs editing but it was mine and I was so proud of it.

From there I continued the series, finally ending a year later with book six. I tried a couple of other books that haven’t done especially great but the zombie one… well it sold a few. Not many, not as much as others, but more than I expected. Enough to actually slowly earn a little extra money for my family.

Now for many people out there, the amount earned is small. For my family and me… it’s the difference between having to borrow money or not. The difference between buying the cheapest food I could or buying something a little better quality for my daughter to eat. The difference between squeezing another six months out of my oft repaired trousers that were held together with an old paperclip or replacing them.

More than that, it gave me something else. It gave me some pride back. Pride in myself. That means a great deal and is a great part of why I am no longer taking antidepressants and can see beyond my daughter’s sixteenth year.

I have a lot to learn with writing, I would be a fool to think I didn’t. I do know one thing though, I love it. It brings me pleasure and somewhere deep inside myself I find the stirrings of ambition. I no longer want to just get by, I want to improve my skill, I want to be better, to write stories that people will love. Somewhere, deep inside is a little boy who has finally realised what he wants to be when he grows up.

For anyone who reads this, for anyone who has bought one of my books and enjoyed it, or taken the time to leave a review and say why. I want to offer my thanks. Without you I would be a dark place right now and while I may occasionally find myself back there as times get tough, I can find my way back because of you.

Pride is not something I ever really thought about but over the years I have learnt just how important it is. Not just to be proud of your children and your family, but to be proud of yourself. To accomplish something no matter how small and say “I did that.” It really can make a difference.