In a large first floor sitting room above a busy high street in south Liverpool, something remarkable is happening.
17 men and one woman are packed into the room and are listening intently as one member of the group talks about the worst time of his life. He explains how he spent £60,000 in a single year on cocaine and nearly lost everything he loves.
The man speaking is a former resident of Damien John Kelly House, an abstinence based recovery centre on Wavertree High Street. Today he has returned to the centre to speak about his time living there and how it helped him to rebuild his life and bring him back from the brink of existence. "I dread to think of where I would be without this place," he tells the gathered residents, who are listening intently to his every word. You could hear a pin drop.
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After the guest speaker is finished, the centre's head of service Jacquie Johnston goes around the room, asking for those gathered, who come from all walks of life, to respond to the talk and discuss their own journeys. Some have been living at DJK House, as it is commonly referred to, for over a year. One man moved in just three days ago.
The word that comes up time and time again amongst those sitting on the sofas lining the room is 'connection'. All these men feel that they lost vital connections as addiction to drink, drugs or both took over their lives. Connections with friends, with family, with work - but most importantly with themselves.
A notice board in the corner of the room displays a week-long schedule of activities. They range from theatre nights to poetry readings, from cold water dips to a Brazilian jiu-jitsu session. Many of those sharing during the session speak about the positive impact the activities have had on their mental state during the past week.
One man who joins the session is not a resident, he has been brought here today by a family member to see the house and meet those involved for the first time. It's instantly clear he is not in a good place. He speaks only to explain that he has been drinking too much and needs help, he can't get many words out. This man is at the start of a difficult journey that most in this room can appreciate and they all welcome him with warm words and gentle applause.
Damien John Kelly House is not like most addiction service centres. Opened by Vitality Homes in 2019 - with some initial opposition from some in the local community - the centre looks to go beyond just helping its male residents recover from their alcohol and drug addictions. It works to help them to become active and contributing members of society.
At the heart of the operation is the mother and son team of Jacquie Johnston and PJ Smith. Jacquie, 60, has a long history of working in addiction facilities in Liverpool and founded the city's first ever non-alcoholic bar, The Brink, amongst other notable achievements in the sector.
Her son and recovery lead at DJK House, PJ, recently celebrated 15 years of sobriety. PJ is also well known around the city and beyond by his alter-ego Roy. A rising star of the written and spoken-word, his darkly comic tales of life, love, alcoholism and drug addiction in Liverpool have gained critical acclaim.
Jacquie and PJ's lives have been touched and changed irrevocably by addiction. In 1992 Jacquie's brother was killed when he was hit by a drunk driver. It started a devastating decline into addiction for her son, whose father had left the family amidst his own drink problems.
Jacquie explained how the tragedies they have faced together have pushed them forwards in their relentless joint mission to save and change lives, she said: "We've got three generations in our family who have been impacted by drugs, alcohol and domestic violence. My brother was probably the only one who wasn't and he was killed by an addict-alcoholic.
"When the guy got found guilty for it, they disclosed that he had previous for drinking and driving and I was like, 'why didn't you help him?' The police said that wasn't their job, their job was to punish him. That is what they do but I thought this needs to change, we should be doing something to support and love addicts and alcoholics to stop this and make them feel like they have a place in the world. Even though this man had killed my brother, I wanted to use this as a reason to say we need to love and help people."
Jacquie adds: "PJ was 12 and he just went downhill. His dad had drink problems and moved away so my brother had become his male role model. PJ then slipped into addiction, he was depressed, and started to exit the world. But when he was 27 he went into rehab and he got it. He's gone on to change thousands of people's lives through his recovery work as well as his writing, poetry and performing."
PJ's presence in the sitting room of men is felt instantly and everywhere. Sat on a reclining chair in the corner, with an infectious laugh and a strong Scouse accent, he helps to direct the conversation, cracks jokes and gently pushes some of the more nervous speakers to tell their truths and open up to the room. When it is his own turn to share he pumps his fists in the air as he recounts celebrating his recent 15-year celebration of sobriety. Cue wild cheers from the group. The love and respect on show is palpable.
Speaking about their partnership, Jacquie laughs, adding: "It's not always easy, can you imagine having your mum as a line manager? Bloody hell. But I've been told we make a pretty formidable team."
On their initial vision for DJK House, she explains: "We realised we had a blank canvas here. We realised we wouldn't be in the traditional treatment system, this was going to be something very new. We were outside the system, with no statutory funding (the house is funded through residents' housing benefits and fundraising), so we thought, why not just do what we always wanted to do, without six levels of red tape.
"So we have done that and we have built everything around arts, sports and culture. Of course there is therapeutic stuff in there as well, but we want this to be about living life."
She adds: "People often say this stuff should be a bridge to normal living, but we want this to be a bridge to extraordinary living. I think it is a political act to love people where they are at and to tell them that, but at the same time holding a standard for where they can be if they truly want that - and if they do, we will help them get there."
She points to the progress made by some who have 'graduated' DJK House and moved on. One is now running his own addiction service in Newcastle, another is working for BT as an engineer and another, Sam Batley, has just launched an exhibition of his own photographs in Yorkshire that is getting rave reviews.
Jacquie adds: "People have been through such deprivation and isolation and have had lives with no boundaries. We want to keep putting the love back in and are saying that with loving, healthy boundaries, so much change can happen."
Damien John Kelly, who gives the centre its name, was a recovering addict that Jacquie worked with in the past. Initially a client, he then worked with her at The Brink after getting clean and sober. Three years ago he died in his sleep. Jacquie wanted to name the centre after him because before he passed he had recovered to the point where he was truly living again - and that's what the ethos of the house is all about.
She added: "PJ said something the other day that stuck with me, he said you can't just not be arsed all the time, you need to be arsed about living. I think if we had a slogan it would be DJK House - being arsed every day."
Back in the upstairs living room and one of those keen to share with the group is 58-year-old Geoffrey West, a dad-of-six from Liverpool. He has been in the house for six weeks now having recently left a psychiatric ward following a turbulent period of mental illness.
Earlier this week Geoffrey had a major breakthrough as he spoke openly with his fellow residents about some painful, repressed memories from his childhood. A number of those in today's session spoke about the raw emotion that was on show as he confronted those demons. Jacquie shares a picture she took of the group gathered around Geoffrey, hugging him as he cries into their shoulders.
"It was the most emotional moment I have had in 58 years of life," Geoffrey explains, adding: "There was something from my childhood I hadn't dealt with. It was painful. It all came out. I have been all over for treatment and I have never been able to deal with that. But I felt I could take that leap of faith here and as painful as it was, I'm so glad it is out there and I can talk about it."
All the other residents point out the massive change they have already seen in Geoffrey in his six weeks in DJK House. Of course no one understands this more than the man himself.
He adds: "It's the community, feeling a part of that. I isolated myself a lot with my mental health and suffered terribly. I have just come out of a psychiatric ward, it was all through drink and drugs - that goes back 20 years.
"My life took a downward spiral and my mental health got so bad to the point I was sectioned. I wanted to commit suicide and harm others, I was incapable of reaching out for help. But coming into this community has fixed me. I still have a crisis team on speed dial but coming into this house I haven't needed to call them once."
As Geoffrey makes clear, while DJK House is of course geared towards keeping its residents off the alcohol and drugs that have pushed them to the brink of existing, it is just as focussed on pushing them to become participating and active members of society. He adds: "It's about becoming positive members of society and we all support each other to do that. Going in a treatment centre is good, but it's when you leave that centre, you still feel isolated and lonely, this place is about support as you find that bridge back to life. It's like a family.
"Here I'm cared for, I am no longer alone. You are guided to take risks, to open up, to be vulnerable - it used to be impossible to get two words out of me but now I don't shut up. I was lost but I've found myself again, I've found Geoffrey."
His voice creaking with emotion, he adds: "This is a place I would never have thought of coming, but I was guided here from a dark place. From being sectioned, to being homeless to now loving life. I didn't used to want to wake up in the morning, but now I can't wait to get up each day, I love waking up and thinking "bring it on."
Sitting next to Geoffrey as we chat is 44-year-old Wesley Burns, from Huyton. Three years ago he took a lethal cocktail of drink and drugs and technically ended his life. Fortunately his mum found him and got him to hospital where he was brought back to life.
Understandably emotional, he explains: "I didn't tell anyone I was doing that but my mum just had a feeling and a key to my flat, that's the only reason I'm still here. I remember waking up and thinking 'for fucks sake, I'm still here.'"
That suicide attempt came after what Wesley describes as a slow and painful descent into brutal alcoholism over a 25-year period. He adds: "It started quite subtly, you lose connections with friends and acquaintances, then it becomes more and more corrosive and eventually takes over every part of your life until you are lying there covered in your own urine every day."
Having tried other recovery services, just over a year ago Wesley was at breaking point again when someone put him in touch with PJ, another moment that he believes has saved his life again. He explains: "I was in a really bad way at that point, going through alcohol withdrawals, retching, hearing voices, I had pancreatitis. But I got in here and I met PJ, we had a talk, there were no rooms available at the time - but he told me if I engaged with them I could get a room. I started to become teachable. I was listening and showing some willingness."
He adds: "When I first started living there there was still a bit - well a lot - of resistance, but then the floodgates opened and the changes really started to come. I've been here 12 months now and I've just celebrated 12 months of sobriety. That would have been impossible if I hadn't moved in here. Jacquie and PJ do amazing things here and the sense of community is massive, we do this all as a team. We were up at the crack of dawn today, swimming in the sea at Crosby."
Wesley's mum died recently, he says just a year ago a loss that profound would have sent him spiralling into drink and chaos, but not now. He adds: "This is the woman who gave me life and saved my life and now she's not here anymore. It's a miracle that I have not drank alcohol after that. Not only did I not drink but I didn't even think of doing it - that's only happened because of this place and these people, miracles can happen and they are happening here."
The theme of suicide is a difficult but unavoidable one when speaking to the residents of DJK House. Many of them have attempted it, most of them have thought about it at some point.
Darren Connelly was at that point just before moving in three months ago. Originally from Southend in Essex, he had moved up north to try and banish his crippling decades-long drug addiction. The 40-year-old explained: "I came up north after I gave up my flat back home - I had no intention of going back. I went to a rehab centre but I rang up my family halfway through and said, this isn't working.
"I told them I might last a couple of weeks when I get out. I think I probably would have killed myself, I saw no way out. I had been on heroin and crack most of my adult life, in and out of jail, just a shitty existence really. If I wasn't hurting me or my family I was hurting other people. I nearly killed myself as a teenager and I was going to do it again, I just wanted out."
Like the other men we spoke to, the change when Darren moved in as a full-time resident of DJK House was rapid and all encompassing. Jacquie smiles as she tells him that she barely recognises him from the point he first arrived at her door.
Darren returns to that word 'connection'. He adds: "The connections I have made here are everything that I wanted deep down but that I thought I would never get. After years of giving up, you feel like a horrible person, that you don't deserve to live.
"Suicide was a thought on my mind all day, every day. I said to PJ yesterday, I haven't thought about it once since I have been here. I want to live, I want to see what I can get from life, what I can give in life - it's changed me completely.
"I was living a hopeless existence, now I'm living a hopeful one."
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