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Family matters

April 01 2025
A cubist artwork by an unnamed artist at the St Mungo’s Recovery Art College, titled Secluded Beach. © St Mungo’s Recovery Art College A cubist artwork by an unnamed artist at the St Mungo’s Recovery Art College, titled Secluded Beach. © St Mungo’s Recovery Art College

With life spiralling out of control amidst addiction, a father is grabbing his second chance at nurturing and supporting his young family. By Leon Eckford

I always wanted a family – maybe not at 24, but I dreamt of an opportunity to have kids, hold the house together and be the father I’d pieced together from fragments of a childhood without one. As an only child, I longed for siblings, for a duo, a second presence to share the weight of imagination. I built fantasy worlds at home, seeking an escape pod from an ever-changing reality, a home life slowly deteriorating with time.

Imagine this: I recall pretending that a character from Coronation Street was that fatherly figure. At least he showed up every Wednesday night, dependable, unlike my biological father from Lancashire, who faded in and out like static on an old television set. A child will always look for a model, an archetype – something solid to stack their own foundation upon. But what if that foundation is borrowed from a patchwork of other people’s issues, primary caregiver commands and a psychosocial sprinkling of goodwill?

I absorbed traits from a collection of role models – my grandfather, my uncle, the lost boys at school, even my mother’s partners. A secondhand identity, stitched together in survival mode. And while I held on in my developmental years, by my 20s, I was a fucking mess. Some say no one really knows what tomorrow brings in that first decade of adulthood, but I wasn’t just unaware – I was reckless. A habitual line-stepper. I took the piss and rode my luck to the very edge.

By the time my first son was born in 2004, I was approaching my mid-20s, but I wasn’t a father – I was a car crash of a man. All impulse, no foresight. A self-proclaimed swashbuckling creative who was an emotionally redundant and useless parent.

Now, the opportunity to recalibrate has presented itself. A second chance at defining family. A second chance at shaping the archetype of the father I wish to be for my two sons and daughter. But what is a second chance if you haven’t learned from the first?

Begrudgingly, I’ve had to face my failings, my ignorance, my misgivings. I’ve spent the last decade staring into the mirror, asking: Have I forgiven myself yet? And perhaps the real question is: do we ever?

Experience tells me that without support, and in the state of mind I landed at in 2015, there were only two options: death or prison. Polarities in action. A crisis point that offers no third escape hatch.

In 2016, I met a key worker who helped me face these realisations. Her setting clear boundaries helped. I made choices: I have never done heroin again.  I admitted defeat to her, powerless as everyone else who has ever been in the clutches of an addiction. 

Always remember, even broken things can be mended. Even lost men can find their way home. And maybe, just maybe, the second time around, I’ll get it right as I re-build my second opportunity to be Dad. 

Thankfully, I’ve wrestled the internal power and strength to give it my best shot.

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April – May 2025 : Second Chances

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