The price to keeping your bed

              

I miss Paula. Paula was the key worker I had a few months ago. She was one of the only female key workers, and she worked part time. It may have been all that time off that made her so joyous, and happy to be at work, or she could just be that kind of person. Every time she was in, she'd usher me into the key working room and we'd have a natter for a good half an hour. Sometimes we'd go over time, and a 10 minute catch up, would turn into an hour of Paula whaling with laughter as I brought a satirical spin to the randomness of my life. At the time I took the whole thing for granted, as far as I was concerned I finally 'clicked' with a key worker, and that's just the way it should be (I've literally sieved through all the key workers, dissatisfied with all of them). This, as far as I was concerned, was and should be normal. She never judged me for the situation I was in, and just took the time out to get to know me, over sticking to a strict set of objectives I had to tick off. In the time she was key working with me I managed to get a job, nail the interview, and go about my life with the reassurance in my mind that a familiar, kind face would be in that depressing place. She was like a diamond in a sea of shit. She'd whizz around the place like a silk scarf wearing sugar plum fairy, smiling, laughing and sprinkling her good vibes everywhere she went. Sadly, she's been gone now for several months, and I'm really feeling the loss. 

I thought my new key worker would be an extension of her, unfortunately, he's just another person who hates his job, and would rather be at home...or hiding behind the dustbin...anywhere but stuck in a room with me. I was talking to him the last day we had a key working session, and I spotted him grinding his teeth as I blathered on about something trivial Paula would've found hilarious. It was after the fifth or sixth week with this guy that my mood took a nosedive. My motivation went way down, and suddenly the prospect of being as productive as I was before went from climbing a hill, to climbing a mountain. This guy, like most key workers, sticks to the status quo, like barnacles stick to the underside of a boat, unmoving and unapologetic about his hard-hearted approach. I mean I can understand if I was strung out on heroine, and need a bit of an iron fist to keep me in order, but I'm clean, I'm not a threat to society, and I'm an intelligent sentient being. However, as hard as I try to explain this to some of these guys...the more I feel like I'm talking to a bunch of Walter Mittys. It's like they are there, and yet they are completely absent all at once. I genuinely don't think they understand the gravity of the situation all of us are in. They simply can't appreciate the suffering that is involved in living in one of these places, and instead of giving us much needed consideration and understanding, we are met with stone cold faces. Then, when I confront them about their off putting attitude, they throw about the word 'boundaries' like there's no tomorrow. I am sick of that excuse. Paula had to abide by the same rules, and yet she was still a joy to be around. You can set a boundary with a hedge not a fucking 5 ft high brick wall! Most of these key workers have a 'mightier than thou' attitude towards its residents. As I speak 'Dozy Dave' is sitting behind me, out of his head on pills and heroin watching the 'Prince of Bel Air'...and he's on the 'clean floor'...and if I were any weaker, I'd probably be in the same situation. After all the abuse I have endured over the years, I should be an addition to the suicide statistics number. I still can't believe I was kicked out on the streets for eight months after defending myself against someone who called me a 'stupid cunt', and then carried on insisting I was one for half an hour. In fact I would've lost my mind entirely a long time ago if it were not for bucket loads of inner strength, and mental exercises. 

                              

Being in these conditions really is survival of the fittest. You can only survive in these places, if you have somewhere else to go! God help you if you don't. When a funk hits, it tends to hit hard. Any form of depression is amplified. You may wonder why? And would it not just be the same if I were in a normal one bed apartment, as opposed to within a homeless unit? Well, the answer is simply no. Firstly, even the 'nicest' and 'cleanest' of hostels (this is one of them), are still only temporary...one has no idea when they'll be out on their arse again, it could be in a weeks time, or in a months or in a years. I've learnt from past experiences that once I start to get cosy, I'm hoisted up, and moved on. You learn and adjust to the fact that so long as you're in the homeless system you are not to get cosy. I've gotten cosy in the past, only to be thrown out days later for 'disruptive behaviour'. Regardless of all that this is a 'six month bed', and if you go over that time then you are living in the knowledge that you have overstayed your welcome, and are treated like a nuisance. The staff expect you to be gone within six months, and if you (like most) are not treated favorably by landlords when they find out you are homeless, you are met with a scowl and a real feeling of unwelcomeness by the people who run this place. The vast majority of hostels also have a curfew which usually is about 11pm, and if you are not in by then, you are on the streets for the night! That is a very heavy threat to be living under, and makes the place you are living in all the more transient. Secondly, the rooms themselves are hardly what you'd call 'welcoming'. I've lived in three different homeless hostels for several months at a time, over the years, and all have been a horror to live in. The first 'six month bed' I was flung into was in a basement, and they covered up the modicum of light and air I would've received, by boarding it off, and creating a corridor. So, I spent five arduous months in a room which received no ventilation whatsoever, and as if that wasn't bad enough, unless I kept my curtains closed, I'd often be met with a blue pill-popping face glaring in at me from the corridor. I was awoken one particular morning with someone whispering 'sup of tea, love?' into my ear as I slept. I woke up and realised I had left my window open, and said resident had leaned in and was more or less whispering into my ear. There was an appalling sense of intrusion. Also, considering you had to be in doors by eleven o'clock, and you were sharing the building with a bunch of  ex 'jailbirds', it was not at all dissimilar to a prison. One of the acquaintances I came to know was a prostitute, and I'd more often than I'd like to admit see her pushing her bra up bracing herself to hit the streets. Another was caught on camera being 'sandwiched' by two fatsos around the corner from the hostel. As someone who had only kissed two guys by the age of 20, these are not the kind of people I want to interact with day after day. The whole experience was sickening and draining. I still can't believe I lived through that. In fact, I ended up being kicked out of the place because my room was too messy after the room check on one or two occasions. I ended up spending three months on the streets, where I developed a chronic eye condition known as 'visual snow' (it was freezing). How can anyone have the audacity to sit there and tell me that I should treat these places like I would a normal rented property, where I have my own privacy, independence, and dignity. Months melt into years in these places, because everyday you spend in these conditions is a living hell, particularly if you have nowhere else to call home and retreat to (like me). I'm sick of living in these places and having my elastic band stretched until it snaps. My elastic band snapped a long time ago. However, I somehow have to try and manage my life, regardless.

That's all for today, I'm off to meditate for half an hour, to stop myself from losing the plot.

An frivolous update

Not unlike the 'lucozade' ad, I think I've 'found my rhythm'. Yes, that ad lulls me into an 'I can do anything' trance, but it also speaks truth in volumes. I work two days a week now, and yes, sometimes one of my employers cancels on me for one reason or another, but at least I have something to schedule my week around. When I was in my teens and early twenties, it was the weekly family meal, and now that I can't see my family (due to various barring orders), and they can't visit me (no one's allowed visit me in the hostel) I turn to my work as a pivotal point in my week. As I whizz around Tuesday's luxurious apartment, cleaning every available surface, sometimes I reward myself by parking my big arse on the sofa, lying down, and having a little snooze. I somehow manage to convince myself that this is my own apartment, I'm not sure how I do it, but it's a little mind game I play on myself. While I'm hoovering, I pull a bit of a Julie Andrews, hopping and skipping around the various rooms like a ballerina, humming and singing, swirling and gliding. For that few hours I'm not a starving homeless artist; I'm the wife of some high flying solicitor, who's borderline obsessed with cleaning. I resent the fact that once the bins have been flung into the dustbin, I have to drag my arse back to a tiny cubicle, with an orange speckled linoleum floor, a piss colored wall (covered with what looks like piss stains...making it doubely pissey) and a window which may as well have been scraped out of the wall with a desert spoon (it's so disproportionate in comparison to the room itself). Usually, it's time to eat once I arrive back home, and after scoping my room out (for the five billionth time, each time hoping it will have somehow changed) I usually decide against food, since my environment doesn't exactly excite my appetite (or proper digestion for that matter). I usually just make a beeline for my bed and sleep (for lack of a preference).

All's not lost however, yes I do opt for falling into a state of unconsciousness, over actually keeping my eyes open in my room, but my days do currently lend themselves to at least one 'out-of-pissey-room' experience. The extra income I make feeds itself into activities such as: going to the gym, attending a monthly art class, and y'know being able to afford anything in Dublin (it may aswell be an activity in and of itself). I've run out of money at the end of the week on more than one occasion due to buying eleven 1.25 chocolate chip dairy milks, so the extra income does come in handy one way or another. What with my extra income and the commencement of lent, my piggy bank is having a right feast.

isn't this picture glorious? That pig is almost as fat as my mom's boyfriend, also not entirely dissimilar in personality

In other news, it is Saturday night, and I spent the entire day doing the following: sleeping (until five), waking up with a rumbling tummy, realized it was lent and I couldn't wolf a dairy milk down my pelican gullet, so I poured boiling water over some ravioli, drained it, ate it with ketchup, almost threw up, went back to bed for a further hour, tenaciously asked my tarot cards questions and prayed for enlightenment (it only served to cement the fact in my mind that I have no friends, and need a life), I then called the reception area (instead of walking down stairs and talking face-to-face) telling them that I wanted a wake up call the following morning, I then attempted to watch the remainder of the great gatsby in the living area with 'Dozy Dave' nodding off in the corner. It's now 1am and I'm writing this blog. I'd like to post a mid-writing selfie, but I don't think I will, I'm telling you what I'm doing, and I'm sure imaging it is fairly easy. I took a break there, and started watching Coldplay's new video. That's probably one of the only perks of living here...there must be 512 channels on this telly, including MTV, MTV Classic, and VH1, which just play music 24/7. I used to abuse the fact that I had access to so much 'fresh, new music'...but then I'd start to dance...and eyebrows would raise. I think it's easier to play it on the safe side, and stick to documentaries and soaps. Ugh, I just got a flashback of that time I hiked my joggers up to that area right under my boobs, and shook my booty thinking I was so funny. I mean, people were laughing, but their laughter soon turned sour once they realised I was mad as a march hare, and probably needed psychiatric help.



That's all for now!

I'll keep you all posted!