I put on a brave face every time I step into the light. It’s like suiting up in armour you’ve fashioned yourself, layer by layer, so no one sees the cracks. But behind that shield, I’m just a man who wakes up some mornings terrified that the world will come crashing in again. I’ve learned to shout louder than my doubts, to act steadier than my knees feel. Yet the truth is, I’m always listening for the moment someone finds a crack to exploit.
After Glasgow Wonka went sideways, I remember the shock of it all. One day I’m pitching ideas, the next I’m branded a scam artist, a public enemy. Old legal scraps we thought were forgotten reappeared in headlines, like ghosts demanding attention. I wrote once about the night I nearly gave up, how close I was to believing I had no fight left. That memory still comes back in waves—my heart pounding, hands shaking, wondering how to breathe under that weight.
They rarely ask how I’m doing. They only want the story. You become “the Billy they invented,” a caricature built from snippets that suit their narrative. Your name turns into a hashtag. You’re not a person anymore, you’re a cautionary tale, a footnote in someone else’s agenda. Trust feels like a luxury. Every friend or stranger could twist your words into the next headline.
Learning to look after my mind meant admitting I was in pieces. I found a therapist who doesn’t know me as a headline but as a man still trying to figure out why he’s here. I leaned on a handful of friends who didn’t care about clicks, just about whether I’d had breakfast. Boundaries became my lifeline—turning off the phone, closing the tabs that dredged up old stories, carving out pockets of silence where I could be just me.
Healing doesn’t look like a flashy comeback. It’s small things: a morning walk where I let my mind wander, writing out the shame in a notebook I hide away, saying out loud that I’m still scared. It’s gathering new moments—gentle ones that won’t make headlines but remind me who I am now. I’m learning that true strength isn’t about never bending. It’s about bending and finding the will to stand back up.
So if you see my name on your feed again, remember there’s more beneath the surface. I’m more than a scandal or a soundbite. I’m someone still here, still wounded, still trying to make sense of it all. And maybe, in that quiet struggle, there’s something worth understanding.