March 28

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As you may know if you’ve been following my work for a while, a few years ago my youngest daughter went into a secure unit. She was severely depressed and had attempted suicide once…

… and she was still at risk.

She was over in the UK and I was here in Ireland, and for reasons I won’t go into right now, the usual protocol of working to get the child returned to the home she came from was the shittiest of all shitty ideas.

Ever had a really shit idea?

Well, that one was worse.

And I was stuck.

Why?

Because the protocol is clear, the law is ridiculously skewed in favour of women in this kind of thing, and to get her home with me would be a massive departure from the way things are normally done (not only am I obviously a risk because I have a penis, but the unit would be releasing her into a different jurisdiction). 

In short… if things went wrong, heads would roll.

And then my bestie, Dev, gave me the best advice I’ve ever received from anyone about anything.

See, Dev’s a surgeon and his Mrs is a paediatric psychiatrist (I think I’ve got that right), and with his massive knowledge and experience of the NHS he knew the way shit goes.

He said: “You have to take control. Even though the consultant psychiatrist has notional responsibility for her case, she’ll know nothing about it beyond the bare details. And no one else will stick their neck out to take responsibility or control… so you have to.”

And it was quite literally a matter of life and death.

To give you some context: we’d sat outside the Blue Boar pub in Lowestoft, Rosie and I, and she’d said to me, “Dad, why won’t you just let me die? I don’t want to be here any more”.

Yeah, it was that bad.

They had to be constantly on watch in the Unit because given any opportunity, she’d self-harm. Even when I got her home we had to go through the whole house and lock away all the pills and potions, and anything she could use to cut herself.

So I did what Dev suggested: I took control.

I’m not quite sure the Unit knew what hit them. 

I was like a pit bull on speed. With haemorrhoids, hangover, and a sore dick. 

A force of fucking nature.

I flew over to the UK every couple of weeks and drove for a couple of hours to attend dumbfuck meetings where they seemed to be more interested in being PC and non-confrontational to ensure they ticked all the fucking bureaucratic boxes than they were in helping Rosie fix herself.

And as you can imagine, my somewhat… forthright and blunt manner and personality went down a fucking treat. I don’t think they’d ever met someone like me before. 

I don’t think anyone’s met someone like me before.

But… long story short, and at immense personal cost (one I’m still paying)… I fucking won.

See, it became obvious even to the most hardcore SJW, sending Rosie back to her mum was the worst idea anyone has ever had in the history of bad ideas. 

As bad ideas go, this was right up there with the best. 

King of Bad Ideas, no less.

And much as they hated me — all except the senior Psych who “got” me (I now suspect she picked up on my Asperger’s and saw everything in that light) — they knew I was decent and loving, and Rosie’s best chance.

So, when my ex admitted she was unable to look after Rosie and it came down to a choice of me or foster care (yeah, like that was ever gonna fucking happen), it was a done deal, and over to Ireland she came.

The moral of the story?

You’re in the shit…?

Then YOU have to take both responsibility and control.

What was true for me and Rosie is also true for you and your business.

And let’s not pretend it’s easy. 

I fondly recall sitting in those interminable and largely pointless meetings with everyone turned against me, including Rosie herself, and I’d stick to my guns and call them all out on their bullshit and ineffectual attempts at solving the problem (every meeting ended with a date for Yet Another Fucking Meeting where we’d really get to make some decisions, honest).

So, yeah. It’s hard. It’s fucking miserable at times.

But you’ve got to do it, because the consequences of failure are too fucking awful to contemplate.

And if I can pull that off, then I’m sure you can do the necessary shit to fix your biz.

Not only is your problem almost certainly exponentially less fraught with peril — mine was literally life or death, remember? — but you’ve got me and Connor to help you. All I had was my Aspie brain. Mrs EBG supported me way beyond the call of duty, as did my close friends, but ultimately no one could help. I was on my own.

So don’t give me your bullshit excuses, because that’s exactly what they are: bullshit and excuses.

Bubba… do you really want to be put to shame by a short, bald, middle-aged autistic hermit with anxiety issues?

“No, EBG, I don’t” is the only non-cringeworthy answer to that.

Join us for Ground Zero and see what this cantankerous old fuck can do for you and your business. 

Click here for Ground Zero details

Witheringly,

P.S. And now?

Rosie’s back in the UK, working hard, and ready to start Uni in The Netherlands in September.

A happy and beautiful young woman enjoying life as beautiful young women should.

Job done, EBG, job done. 

And well worth the heavy price I paid (more about this tomorrow).

Ready to take control of your own shit?

Then you know what to do.

Click here for Ground Zero details


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