Chapter One: Council Estate Beginnings
From *The Redemption Journey* by William “Bill” Doody
“I wasn’t bad — I was broken. This is the beginning of how I became whole.”
Born into Chaos
I was born in 1967 in Farnborough, Hampshire. We lived on a council estate — not the worst in Britain, but rough enough. Alcohol, arguments, and fear shaped life at home. Both my parents drank heavily. My mother was an alcoholic like I later became, and while my father may not have been one, he drank a lot too. Discipline in our house was often harsh — he would regularly take his belt to me.
The atmosphere was tense and unpredictable. I saw my mum with black eyes and broken teeth. I remember slammed doors, broken furniture, and silences that lasted for days. Yet even in the middle of it, there was love. My mum was a constant source of comfort, and years later, my relationship with my dad grew into something much better.
Early life was tough, but it was mine. That was what home felt like.
Trying to Be Seen
I started stealing at the age of five. Not because we were starving — though we didn’t have much — but because I craved attention and approval. Stealing made me feel seen, even if it was for the wrong reasons. By the age of 11, I was out of control. Angry, defiant, and too much for my parents to manage. The local authority intervened, and I was placed in care. I went into children’s homes — institutions full of other kids like me: disruptive, abandoned, difficult, hurting.
Bright, But Broken
I was bright. I had a high IQ and a quick mind, but that wasn’t celebrated. I asked too many questions, challenged authority, pushed boundaries. Teachers didn’t know what to do with that. They saw me as disruptive, surly, and disagreeable. No one seemed to understand I was in pain. No one looked at what was happening at home or what I was trying to cope with. I wasn’t bad — I was broken.
Hardened by the System
As I got older, I hardened. Survival on the estate meant you couldn’t show weakness. I learned to act like I didn’t care. But I cared more than anyone realised. I wanted love, stability, belonging — but I didn’t know how to ask for it. So I stole, I lied, I acted out. And the system responded the only way it knew how: more control, more punishment.
The Trouble Deepens
In my teens, I moved between care homes and detention, picking up charges for theft, burglary, deception, criminal damage, and assault. I was also caught in volatile relationships that brought out the worst in me. They reflected the chaos and brokenness I was carrying inside — and at times, I saw myself becoming my dad, the very person I’d always feared I might turn into. Those moments left me with deep regret, but they also became part of the turning point that pushed me to change.
Courtrooms and a Crossroads
I found myself in and out of courtrooms — sometimes for cases that were dropped before they went anywhere. It was all part of the world I was living in at the time: volatile, reckless, and dangerous.
By my early 20s, I was homeless and utterly alone. I’d burned bridges with most of my family. I had no qualifications, no job, no direction. I was sleeping rough or sofa-surfing.
The Turning Point
Then came the moment that changed everything. One night in a squat, I sat on the floor and realised something crystal clear: No one was coming to rescue me. Not my parents. Not social services. Not the courts. No one. If anything was going to change, I would have to change it. That realisation didn’t fix me.
But it cracked open the door.
It was the beginning of something new...
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