Extract from Clarke Carlisle's autobiography: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/fo...ht-career-21-injury--I-tried-kill-myself.html Being fond of a drink has landed me in a scrape or two down the years, I have to confess. Growing up, I risked the wrath of my parents by meeting pals at the local park and swigging cheap cider until I passed out. I was 13. At my first club, Blackpool, manager Gary Megson put me through physical torture after being tipped off about a late session with a group of senior players. I was 17. At QPR, just a few months after my 21st birthday, it almost cost me my life. I had earned an England Under 21 call-up and felt like a millionaire. It didn’t last long. On a bitterly cold January night in 2001, we were trailing Fulham 1-0 when I went in for a seemingly innocuous challenge with Rufus Brevett. He got up, I didn’t. I had ruptured various ligaments, snapped something else and torn part of a muscle from the bone. My knee was well and truly shot. I was facing my career being over at 21, and it hit me like a train. Surgery was the first step, then it was in the lap of the gods. I sat opposite the physio in a daze until his hand came down on my shoulder, and he said: ‘Take a few days off. Get your head together. Might as well have a few pints'. And so the downward spiral began. Never mind the Co-proxamol the doctor prescribed, alcohol was the anaesthetic of choice for dealing with the most excruciating pain — and I wasn’t heeding any recommendations on dosage. I was smashed virtually every day. And when I was in too much pain to leave my flat, all it needed was a call to a company who would be round with a crate of Carling lager, two bottles of Chablis and 40 Marlboro Lights. Brilliant, another day sorted. When I wasn’t punching the Dial-a-Crate button, I was hobbling to the bookies. I was losing hundreds, if not thousands, of pounds. It couldn’t go on and it came to a head one weekend. I had polished off a crate of lager and a downbeat, post-alcohol haze began to descend. I had blown all my money and had little prospect of continuing a career that was my life. The injury was making no discernible progress and I couldn’t see any future. I wanted out. After gathering all the painkillers I could find, I went to the park and sat on a swing. I sat there a good 20 minutes, tablets in one hand, can of Carling in the other, wondering if anyone would miss me. My girlfriend Racheal might, but she’d get over it. We hadn’t been together long. My granddad would be upset, but he’d got lots of other grandchildren. He’d be OK. My mind made up, I popped the tablets out of their foil wrapper and washed them down, handful by handful, with gulps of lager. The last of them gone, my thoughts turned to what would happen next. How would I die? Would I start to convulse or just pass out in the park? I sat on the swing a few more minutes, draining the can, but felt nothing. Sleep would do the trick, so I returned to the flat to lie down. It would have done, but for Racheal coming round unexpectedly and sensing something was wrong. She kept asking me what it was, but I replied: ‘Nothing, let’s just go to sleep.’ I remember thinking if I could do that, I might never have to wake up. I could die in my sleep — what could be better? I don’t know what it was, but she wouldn’t let me lie down. After that, I have a vague recollection of being in a hospital bed and a tube being inserted down my throat. My stomach was being pumped and though it was hours after I’d taken the tablets, only a few had been partly digested. Incredibly, the majority were intact. There is no doubt Racheal and her dad John, who was also at the hospital, saved my life and I am eternally grateful. I feel guilty for putting them through such an ordeal and guilty about the way I virtually abandoned my 18-month old daughter and ran away from my responsibilities. Basically, I was a coward and I feel so much shame, as well as all that guilt. You might have thought I’d have learned my lesson, but no. Attempting suicide was the darkest moment of my life, but I only truly realised I had a drink problem after I returned from injury. For seven months I didn’t touch a drop, but that changed after the biggest game of my career, QPR’s play-off final against Cardiff in May 2003. Gemma, who was to become my wife, came to watch, but knew nothing about football and had no comprehension of my devastation after Cardiff scored a winner in extra time. I was on the floor in tears and could think of nothing other than drink for taking away the hurt and regret. I basically drank for the whole summer. I believe it would have killed me but for Ian Holloway intervening after realising I reeked of booze. I didn’t know at the time, but Olly was arranging to sack me when I phoned and told him I needed help and he was awesome. We talked for hours at his house and I cried and cried. He fixed me up with the Sporting Chance clinic, where my psyche and emotions were stripped bare. It was amazing: disgusting, shameful, hurtful and embarrassing, but also enlightening and liberating. The 28 days gave me a different approach to life. I have never been alcohol dependent; I am the type who loses control when the poison takes hold and, as I discovered after a Preston squad night out a couple of seasons ago, I can still get caught out. I got some sleep and had a decent breakfast, but was pulled over by the police for a ‘routine check’ and failed a breath test. By some margin. I called Gordon Taylor to tender my resignation as PFA chairman. He was bitterly disappointed but would not accept it, telling me he wanted to help, provided my remorse was sincere. It was sincere, all right. So much so, I feel shame, embarrassment and disgust at my actions to this day.
Having never seen the documentary about footballers suicides, most of this was new to me. Thanks for posting! I played a charity match in about 2001 or 2002 at Loftus, with players as the managers - I had Richard Langley coaching my side, and my 2 mates were coached by Clarke Carlisle. I've got the kit, with Charlton and number 3 on the back, signed by both proudly on the wall. Both guys were really enthusiastic and good blokes, it's just a shame I nearly ended up puking on the hallowed turf really...!
I'm going to sound like a real ogre for saying this but is anyone else getting a little bit tired of Carlisle's moaning? (As he braces himself for the artillery assault......)
I know what you mean. The documentary was actually very good. He retired from playing a couple of seasons ago, and obviously PFA chair doesn't pay as well as he'd want, hence the autobiography. At least he's got a dramatic story to tell, and although its hardly the most pressing of issues facing the world, the mental health challenges of footballers is a half decent issue to be raising awareness about. Usual caveats apply - no one's forcing you to read it etc etc. I won't be buying the book.
I would join in this Clarke is a nice bloke but has a real ego IMO ... Many people help others each and every day and say nowt nevermind a autobiography and a few photo shoots . The bloke has a face and does good work ... But this is all self promotion for the bigger job His points however are good but I prefer to focus on daily problems rather than football ... Any sad stories on the rebound of fame and fortune wear thin for me personally Dance with the devil for your dreams then there's always a price
