Assimilating back into normal society

I DESERVE THE VERY BEST!

So, I've been out of the homeless system for over three months now. However, I have had to move twice, and I am now moving for the third time. The first time I moved, I was living with a little Bangladeshi man who was manipulating me, so I left and went back to the hostel. By the way, I'd just like to mention that it took losing my aunt for me to pluck up the courage and stamina to actually get the fuck out of there. It was the final straw for me. It really did take me losing a close relative, and that's because my confidence was knocked so low by all the people who put me down (even if it wasn't meant) while I was on the streets, in various hostels, and by staff, that I felt like all I deserved was total shit. It actually took losing a loved one, for me to realize that I was actually waiting for that to happen, for me to actually move on. It would be the only way for me to feel like I deserved a roof over my head, and that is fucked up, and I am never doing that to myself again! I deserve a roof over my head, food in my belly and loved ones by default, simply for existing. However, when you are being called a 'stupid cunt' on a daily basis and you have no one to stick up for you or tick those people off, you begin to believe it. Eventually, I decided that I was worth nothing more than a sewer rat (I was literally sleeping in the gutters anyway at that stage, so it's no surprise). I am now moving for the third time since the guy I'm living with is a neurotic piece of crap who keeps insisting I cannot walk around at night since it 'wakes him up'. I am sticking my ground, and leaving, since at 29 years old I refuse to tip toe around a place I'm paying 550 euro per month for!

My self esteem is rising again, but it's annoying that it is only doing so because I lost a relative. I wish I would have gotten out of the homeless system before it started messing up my already low self esteem!!!!

The inner workings of a homeless girl

                                                    

I've been in this hole for a year and a half now, pathetically. I have no idea how my so-called 'loved ones' expect me to live like this for so long with no support? As I mentioned before, I have no access to any other residence apart from that dank room. I have now been technically 'homeless' for over three years, and I've had the stark realization that genuinely nobody really gives a shit about me, apart from my grandmother. She's the only one who has ever expressed genuine concern. Of course, if my grandfather could remember me, he wouldn't let me live like this for a second. And thanks to our symbiotic relationship, his presence alone would've been my cure. But that's not the reality, sadly. The reality is that I have a father who can't see anything wrong with getting an ugly fat man to kick his daughters back in and smash her face into the ground until she's crying, and a mother and extended family who have no qualms about me in this circumstance. I'd like to believe some of them care, but to be honest the fact that they haven't expressed any real concern for my well being all this time, really shows me their true colors. I've lost a lot of respect for them, that will be extremely difficult, if not entirely impossible to regain. I've had to endure punches to my head, ten nights sleeping on the streets, getting in numerous horrendous threats, waking up to a needle in my face. I have lost count of the amount of times I've seen someone stick a needle into their arm, and then fall into a heap on the bed. And my mother, sits back and doesn't reach into her pocket once. She is basically just an older more cankerous version of the bully mother she was when I was kid. As far as I'm concerned, she's never changed. She's still the same old bully, trying to manipulate and break me in every way possible if given the chance. I thought she'd ease off in my adulthood, so I started to trust her more to do the right thing. That was a massive mistake! Just as my energy to constantly stick up for myself begins to wane, she hits me with total negligence...and now look what I've had to endure, in my mid fucking twenties! If I don't blatantly scream at her, to the point where I have to give her a dig, she won't give a fuck. She'll laugh it off, sweep it under the rug, and blame me for all the bad things that has happened in my life, and takes absolutely no responsibility for me, as a parent. She's been brainwashing me with this shit since I was a kid as well. She'd always tell me that I 'loved' being beaten up, as I'd get a hug after wards. Then she'd tail that off (every time) by saying how I'd end up marrying a man who beats me. No surprises there, I did end up with such a charmer! She'd also continuously tell me that once I turn 21 she'd 'wash' her hands clean of me. According to her, raising a child and being a mother stops at 21. Her plan was always then to just 'live her own life', and let me fend for myself. What an ignorant belligerent attitude coming from a woman who lived with her own parents (with me) until the age of 41. However, she certainly stayed true to her word, blatantly dating, moving in with an now marrying, a man I have absolutely no concern for. In fact the only man she has decided to introduce to me is the only man I have ever met that I specifically told her I never want her to date. I suppose she thinks their being rebellious against me, and getting with him anyway, as if they are some kind of star crossed lovers or some shit like that? But the fact of the matter is, it is another way for her to bully me without hitting me, because yes I grew up, and learnt how to defend myself. I put a report into the police about her for child abuse. Because, everyone is a grown up child, and as far as I'm concerned, what she's putting me through now, is no different to what she did to me growing up, except it's gotten a lot more complex. I have no doubt that she is a clinical sociopath and sadist, and karma is going to bite her in the ass one day, and I'm not going to do a thing to stop it. The sad thing is that apart from my grandmother, she's the only one who acts loving towards me. She acts like she has all my best intentions at heart, and sends me text like 'I still love you, and always will'...as if I'm the one who's committed the heinous crime, by sleeping on the streets. Oh wow...a mother loves her daughter...does she want a bloody medal like? And anyway, the fact that she has to reiterate it, tells me that she clearly doesn't. Love is more what you do than what you say...that's common knowledge. And she is doing nothing but proving to me that she has very low regard for me, indeed. the minute I show weakness she pounces like a lion out of a cage. And now her sister and family have stopped speaking to me since I put in the report? I find that really weird...since they should be ignoring her if anything, on learning about the report. And not only that, but in the time since I put in the report, her deranged boyfriend proposed and married her. Again, at a time he should be running for the hills because it has been revealed that his girlfriend is a child beater, he decides to marry her. I have zero doubt that this was done by both of them to further invade my boundaries, and doubt my own intelligence. I've been seriously contemplating suicide, as I genuinely don't want to call these people 'family' any more. Because they are not, and they never will be again.

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!

Musings on being without a home at Christmas

So, this is the third Christmas I've spent in a homeless hostel. Now, this is not so much to do with the fact that my family have abandoned me, but more so with the fact that everyone has a barring order against me, for example; I'm not allowed visit my grandparents (it's a long story...and it has little to do with me...don't ask). So, the closest I've gotten to my two little cousins in the past three years is a phone call at Christmas. I suppose it gives them an excuse to talk to me. That is the wonderful thing about Christmas after all; people put their grudges aside and decide to be nice, just for that one day. I only wish it was kept up the remainder of the year. Love isn't restricted to one day after all. My mother booked me into a hotel for Christmas, and was planning to leave me there, eating up her money, while she spent Christmas eve and day with her boyfriend. I walked out of the hotel, and returned her gifts. That, as far as I'm concerned, is not the purpose of Christmas. Basically, it's a celebration of Jesus Christ's birth, and traditionally it's a time when family and loved ones correlate and get together, yet somewhere along the way, people like my mother think booking her daughter into a cold hotel on Christmas day, and then pissing off is 'more than enough'. Her company is all I want and need at this time of year. So, I went back to the hostel, got my free dinner, watched the TV in the empty communal area, chatted to the staff, rang my dad, and as the song goes had myself a 'merry little christmas', well, as merry as is could be.

Yes, it's a pity that I can't invite anyone into my room to spend a few hours with me, and that feeling is intensified at this time of year, I suppose, and it is that thirst for human interaction that riles you right up when muscly Pavel at reception starts flexing his biceps behind the desk. I'm not the first woman who's admitted to wanting to drag him into their room, arms flailing, to have their wicked way.

And, that's another trend I've noticed, unrelated to Christmas, being in this situation riles men and women up in all the most unmentionable ways possible. There is an undeniable trend that runs through the veins of my fellow homeless compadres (apart from heroine), and that is a high level of promiscuity. It's obvious, in many ways, why this would be the case, yet, so many people are kicked on their arses by their parents or spouses without a seconds thought given to the fact that this person is inevitably going to seek comfort in the arms of a creepy Pavel or Stefan (who'd be more than happy to fake affection in order to satisfy their need). I've been homeless for three years, and innumerous men have picked up on my feelings of isolation and desperation, and tried very hard to take advantage of that. Thankfully, I am not a stranger to using the word 'fuck off' and can put it to constructive use where necessary. However, not everyone is that strong. I know girls, who've had dozens of men since entering these places. It's a high threshold environment, and it makes for 'high threshold' girlfriends. I know a woman who, out of desperation, initiated a relationship with an ex convict from Latvia, who took advantage of her warm heart, and drained her of the little energy she had for herself. He would follow her to the social welfare office and steal her money, he also broke both of her legs and jaw at one stage, all because she gave him her time. She already struggled with alcoholism, and he came along, and just made sure to break her entirely. It's a bit like Irish college, where they're all sheep shaggers, but you're so desperate that even farmer Joe starts to look appealing. Only instead of farmers, you have zimo heads, and instead of 'specky four eyes', you have an ex convicts from Poland (with two phones held together with duct tape). I suspect that many girls are off spending their Christmas with these duds, as most people end up losing their friends once they catch wind of their situation. Most people don't want any kind of association with a homeless friend, as it brings to head what a mess this person's life is. My friend *Jen literally dropped me like a hot plate once she discovered where I was. So, it's no wonder long term homeless people find comfort in other homeless people (who are also in dire straits). It's really quite nonsensical; two stressed out and exhausted individuals, stressing each other out even further. It starts out with imposing what you need on a person, on this struggling (probable criminal), and it ends in an inevitable disappointment when you realise there is nothing to them, but pain and grief. It's almost as if you're not high on drugs, you're high on delusions.

So this brings me back to the current moment, it's 1.30am and Christmas is officially over. I spent it like any other day, but I had some peace of mind, and got a free meal from the restaurant around the corner, and a big ole hamper of clothes and food. Coming from the people who have been looking out for my welfare for the past three years, it means more to me than a cold empty hotel room that's costing my mother a bomb. I got to talk to my family, and that means a lot to me, and tomorrow I'll ring those I didn't get a chance to ring today.

A stoner's cheap thrills

Well, it's been a while since I've updated my blog, partially because every day life here is fairly mundane, and equally as intolerable as it was the last time I reported on anything. My bed sit has felt more like a prison cell for the past year now...and that feeling only mounts with time. The floor is a highlighter shade of orange, which has a tendency to overwhelm me at the best of times. My lamp broke, so my only option is to light the Christmas lights, as the glare from the ceiling light is enough to blind the strongest of men. Since I have an eye condition, when exposed to bright lights I start seeing a lot of floaters and orbs of light in my field of vision. Therefore, the light switch remains untouched. I've also really stopped finding this whole homeless ordeal 'funny' or 'educational' in any way. It is degrading and disgusting, there are no two ways about it. It is a breeding ground for stoners and substance abusers with a chip on their shoulder, to let off steam at unsuspecting people. An 'apparently' friendly girl in here slowly but surely took a dislike to me. It started when I hogged two washing machines to do my washing, then I asked her if she had food (never ask a heavy girl for food...lesson learnt the hard way), and that was the breaking point for her. It was all down hill from then on. She very rudely called me a 'drain' to my face, exclaiming I 'drain the energy out of a room'. She didn't take too kindly to being told to 'piss off' after that, and started spreading rumors about me. Some that have made their way back to me is that I watch porn on the computer and that I cut my hair myself. She also told another resident that his face looked 'orange' to his face, and that she felt like getting a baby wipe and wiping it off for him. She claims that she just 'says it as it is'. Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but I think there are some things better left unsaid, and being rude is never necessary. I'm sure that without a shadow of a doubt her irrational and rude behaviour is down to her drug use. She's stoned all day long, and openly admits to it, then she walks into the communal area, and takes over. It's the social equivalent of giving your car keys to a monkey. Yes, she's highly functioning, but in all the worst ways possible. If the only way she can get through her life, is by intoxicating her body, than she has my pity. My mind boggles when I think of how she is passing all her exams, and working part time...while stoned. Although, in retrospect, she does function very well...she's well able to speak her mind, and work hard...but there's a trade off...and that is her sanity. She's turned into a crazy artist...well able to create wonderful things and achieve great outcomes, but from a very sad and corrupt place. I'm sick of this, and I'm sick of people like her in my life. I want out. Thank God the HAP scheme have raised the budget to 960 euro per month plus two months deposit. The rent is depressingly high in Dublin at present though, but I'm sure this will secure me somewhere...anywhere...that's not related to homelessness.

The humour in being homeless

Now, I'm not saying being homeless is in anyway a nice experience. However, it certainly is a very sobering and maturing experience. Sometimes all you can actually do is laugh. It was literally so bad sometimes, that I would end up in a heap of laughter. Call it nerves...or call it the need to keep myself sane...but here are some of the things that made me lol.


                                      

The conversation about fannies

So, I was sitting in the kitchen in Cedar house talking to an ex-writer who fell on hard times. Despite this, he always maintains a very cheerful attitude (although I think he does have the odd sneaky alcoholic beverage every now and again). Out of nowhere, I decided to share the fact that I couldn't wait to buy wax strips 'to wax my gee'. This writer (let's call him John) asks 'what would you be waxin fuhr?', I told him 'I'd never shave'. John then goes on to say 'I don't mind if she has has hair on her arse'...I shot him an indignant gaze. He then pointed out that I could 'actually lead a good life' if I wasn't so 'OCD'. He was very right. Wisdom comes in the strangest forms. I only recently figured out that I do suffer with severe OCD.

Some greasy man strung out on 'the gear' hurtled towards us from the corner. We started talking to him about waxing ones gee...trying to coax a non-drug related conversation out of him. 'My burd is as smooth as a baby's bum' he said, stirring his styrofoam cup of tea, after adding six teaspoons of sugar. He then continued 'I don't like hairy bitches full stop...hairy bitches are knackers'. Despite the fact that his veins were so polluted with toxins that he could barely function, he still managed to clearly communicate his feelings of pure disgust on the matter. I told him that 'some men have a fetish for hairy women', 'Fuck that!' he spluttered and, disturbed by this information, walked away and drank his sugar-saturated tea elsewhere. Me and John were in a heap of laughter at the hilarity of it all.

The chat about the arch in my foot 

Two hours later, myself and John were still sitting in the downstairs watching the sea of junkies ebb and flow in and out of the kitchen...some bearing cups of coffee, others paper bowls of cereal. Finally the flow stopped. They were all (probably) in a drug induced slumber. The staff then left us alone in the building for an entire half hour. I decided to tell John about the arch I was trying to develop in my feet. I'd been wearing orthotics for a few months at that stage, and was convinced I was seeing an arch develop in my duck feet. 'I have to call my friend Comac' John proclaimed 'about a girl writing a blog, with an arch in her foot'. We continued to sip tea, while discussing all the intelligent people in homeless hostels. He went on to tell me about all his past jobs, and that he met 'yer man morris Nelegan' who got the first heart transplant in ireland. He then told me that a friend of his has her 'whole gee pierced' and that 'the airport scanner goes mad when she goes through'. This is classic 'homeless hostel' banter, you wouldn't find anywhere else. Finally John reached the conclusion that I was indeed insane. He then came up with an ingenious solution to all my woes. This is a direct quote from him: 'I'd get you a fire hose and spray you until you're very agitated, and then I'd give you a punch bag to kick the shit out of'. He then told me that if people ever ask me where I'm from I should just tell them: 'I come from the little house with the bars on the window...but I escaped'. Later on, a toothless man from Belfast came downstairs and insisted I had a 'bee in my bonnet' because of my attitude. I told him I didn't, and that I'm simply 'highly strung'. We collectively decided that yoga would be a good option for me. 

The conversation swiftly moved on to the furniture in the room. There were six square tables, six chairs, and a long seating area running around the room. It should also be noted, that there were three brown chairs, three purple chairs, and two red chairs (in an effort to mix things up a little). John pointed out that they 'only had the money to buy six square tables', and once Christmas day arrives 'it'll be like coming down, seeing santy, and looking under the table for presents'. The conversation was a bit nonsensical, but it was something to laugh about...and I'm glad we did. 

5 month update: Back in Peter's Place

I have been working part time as a cleaner now for about a month. I've already saved 600 euro, and have a goal of 6,000 euro in mind. I have lie ins 4 out of 5 days, and I'm sleeping pretty well. So, what has made all of this possible? Well, I'm back in Peter's Place. I am still in the homeless system though...which means things are still quite strenuous. I may be cleaning people's houses during the day, however upon returning back to 'the room' (I can't call it a home) my own bedsit is a mess. I am greeted with a blaring 'Hi! Key card?' at the door, and there is a very strong sense of ones privacy being encroached. I shall be discussing the good and the bad that comes along with being back in Peter's Place STA in this blog post.

I finally got this six month bed after spending eight months trawling the streets of Dublin, and after all that, I end up back in Peter's Place. They kicked me out for eight months for misbehaving, only to take me back in a few months later. Just to clarify, I was kicked out for throwing a bottle of water at someone who had been threatening me, and using abusive language towards me for weeks. Had I been living with him in private accommodation, I would have knocked him out. I can't even repeat the things he said to me...as it was so vile. One thing is for sure though, anyone with any amount of self respect would have done the same thing (if not a lot worse), and I was the one who got the boot? I think they knew they over reacted, and decided to take me back (after shamelessly traumatizing and humiliating me for 8 months). If you think about it, 8 months is the equivalent to one academic year. In fact, it's been over a year since I first moved into Peter's Place.

My scoliosis has gotten significantly worse after carrying a bag on my back every day for so long

I briefly described what I had to endure in my previous blog post. Looking back now, I still can't believe I went through that. Carrying a heavy bag around on my back every day for that length of time severely worsened my scoliosis and posture. I now suffer from constant back ache and strain, not to mention the absolute state of my posture. I find it very difficult to sleep, as waking up at 7am seven days a week really takes it's toll on ones sleep cycle. I still get panic attacks walking around town, as I associate it with all that trauma. I still bump into the drug addicts who would stalk me and shout at me while I was sitting on street corners, looking like a fucking street walker (yes, I cursed...but it's my blog, and I'll write what I like!). Just today, I was buying a packet of sanitary towels, and one of the ghosts of homeless days past emerged behind my shoulder. He's a Russian guy who verbally attacked me on several occasions because of how 'ugly' he insists I am. He seems to be genuinely offended by how I look, and has absolutely no qualms about letting me know. I'm angry, mainly at my mother for not even raising an eyebrow. She's an awful person, and didn't even offer me solace on Christmas day. I'll never forgive her for letting me go through that. This entire thing was far too dramatic for my liking. Having somewhere to live is the most basic of human rights...which no one should ever ever be void of (let alone for 2 and a half years!). I feel like the subject of a fucking sop-story Christmas carol! If you want to read about some of my time on the streets, see my previous blog post.

Anyway! Back to my current situation. I am so very glad all that crap is out of the way! I met so many appalling people in my time on the streets, from rapists and murderers, to American hillbilly xenophobes. I finally have a 24 hour bed where I can come and go as I please, all that is behind me...and it is, to an extent. However, I am still very much in the 'homeless system' which means I am still viewed as disposable to those in authority. I still very much feel patronized by the staff. They feel like they have an automatic reason to look down their noses at me...simply because I am homeless. In their eyes, there is always a criminal reason for my homelessness, and I really feel like I am being treated like a criminal. To them, being homeless and being a danger to society are synonymous. After all, I must be a danger to society for why else would I end up in this situation? There is one particular staff member in here who treats me like absolute dirt, and then denies it completely when confronted. He perpetually gives me dirty looks, and even straight up shouted 'stop asking me questions!' while I was mid sentence one day. I understand that they are stressed out, and have a lot on their plate, but it doesn't take a lot to take the emotional state of the people living here into consideration. There is a real feeling of walking on eggshells when around the staff. Every one is scared to speak up or defend themselves for fear of being kicked out. The rule is basically three strikes and your out. One can only hope not to be in a room with someone who is going to rile them up. You are basically forced, one way or another, to find a way to deal with some seriously horrendous human beings. There are a few characters (like myself) who have a quiver in their voice, terrified of a zombie who may jump down their throats out of nowhere. It's a disabling  feeling, which makes me (and others) feel sick to our stomachs. The same people who are there to help you with all your problems, are the same who will kick you out on your arse with the drop of a hat, for defending yourself against these pigs.

   The flooring in Peter's Place is similar to this (in the rooms)

The room itself is pretty dank. Yes, I have my own cooking facilities, but when you're as miserable as I am in here, you don't feel like cooking. The only thing I feel like shoving down my face hole these lonely days are Starbucks and greasy takeaways. I was just discussing the bright orange linoleum floors with a fellow mad-house dweller today. It is absolutely rank and gives the entire room a feeling of weightiness. I also took the curtains down because they were so disgusting, only to have them replaced with a pair of curtains with a great big blob of white paint on one side. They literally couldn't care less about the mental health of the people living in here. The fan in my toilet has been broken since I arrived, and the place stinks up after a shower, and there is absolutely no sign of it being fixed. The fire alarm was broken on my arrival, and it took them five weeks to fix it. Apparently my life isn't of much important to these people. The light is also far too bright, and as someone who suffers from ocular migraines, this is not appreciated at all. It is overbearing and sometimes feels like the light of a thousand suns is illuminating the room. The one good thing about this place is that you can come and go 24 hours a day. My room is also at the end of a corridor...on the top floor. This is great, because I do appreciate the peace. However, the entire building is shoddily located on the noisiest street in the entire world! I have been woken up on more than more occasion by someone just screaming their head off in the middle of the night for absolutely no reason. One of the biggest downfalls is the fact that you can't invite anyone over. I mean, I understand that to a degree...what with the drug use. However, it is pretty obvious the people who are users and who aren't...and it's going to happen anyway...whether its in the room or not. Why am I not allowed invite my granny over for a cup of tea? I get very very lonely, considering I am not allowed to visit my family due to various safety orders they have put against me (mainly caused by their abuse towards me...not visa versa).

Luckily, in the past few months they have introduced something called the 'HAP scheme'. This is something I just wish they had introduced 2 and a half years ago when I first became homeless. It basically means that if you have been homeless for over two months, your rent and deposit will be paid for you by the government, once you find somewhere to live. This is making the move on infinitely faster then before. I am still in the process of looking for somewhere...but once I do...I'll be out of here faster than you can say 'HAP'.

I'll let you all know how I get on!

A quick update on the horror that is my life

I have been staying in a roll on bed for the past few months. It is called Mount Brown, and is located about a mile away from the city centre...where there are no amenities. It is actually not too far away from where I used to live at home. It is run by DePaul, and although it has plenty of staff, none are key workers that work with you as an individual. The move on is relatively fast here...but only for people looking to share a room (probably with a drug addict). I however have specified that I want a single room. The move on is tiresome! Most of the people who have been going through the process with me have been moved on already. I am still being kicked out at 8.45am every morning to wander the streets aimlessly until half five. You'd think Christmas day and New Year's day would be an exception? But no. On Christmas day I spent 2 hours drying my coat under a hand drier in apache pizza, as this was the only place that was open. It was a depressing ordeal...there were only a handful of places open and it was pissing rain. Mount Brown's excuse is that they have to close the building during the day...as the staff need to go home. I think it is a question of finance, and they are not bothered to spend the money on hiring more staff...even for the mental health of real human beings like myself. It has become so depressing at this point that I am numb to it. The staff on a whole are okay, but only because I have gotten in to the habit of putting them in their place. I never leave on time...because I have been wandering the streets for seven fucking months now! And there is no sign of a single room STA (for someone who is not on drugs???). It makes no sense at all.

Anyway, while I am here I would like to briefly summarise the various trauma I have gone through.

The first thing to note is the condition of the place. Mt Brown is in fact notorious for ODs. Many many people have taken an over dose and died in this place...and I can see why! Sleeping in the place is a depressing experience of the highest order. The bed sheets are ancient, and are covered with cigarette holes, and I am constantly pulling long blond hairs from them (I have short brown hair). The duvets are covered with dried in blood and tea stains, and stink. In fact, I have thrown up on more than one occasion because of the smell. I can't imagine the skirting boards have ever been cleaned as the dust seems to mount ever more every week. The crevices in the shower are also filled with dust. They have a cleaner...but I don't really know what she is good for. All she does is replace a shitty smelly duvet with another shitty smelly duvet. And she always fucks all my clothes under my bed if they are lying on the floor..does she think she is doing me a favor? Now all my clothes are covered in 'under the bed dust', and they smell.
When whoever is in charge decided to finally paint the depressing walls...all the residents were forced to sleep in the room with the astonishingly toxic smell...the smell lingered on for weeks. And guess which color the 'experts' decided on? Green. Yes, that is the same color as sick, hospital rooms, and diarrhea. As a trained interior designer I want to cringe. They put absolutely no thought in to this and did not take the advice of any expert. They then went on to paint the walls in the hallway...wait for it...dark blue and bright yellow....two completely contrasting colors. Idiots. I finally decided to step in and offer my advice before they made any more dunderheaded decor decisions...so I suggested a light blue color for the office. Then, before I made any other decisions it was settled that the rest of the rooms would be painted light blue as well...to save money on paint. Unbelievable. Interior decor could literally save someone's life as it has a palpable impact on how one feels about oneself...but do they care? Nope. Not at all. They don't have to sleep in these rooms and live in this environment when they are groggy after walking around fucking town all day. They cling to each other in the safe haven that is their office...where there are no toxic smells or blaring travelers.
They put a traveler couple in the room next to me by the way. They never stop arguing...and the smell of their weed travels through the walls.

What next? A carpet on the toilet seat? Hire an interior designer Mt Brown!

Someone threw a cup of coffee in my face a few days ago, and the staff still suggested it was a good idea to go down and socialise with 'people'. Their advice is bizarre at the best of times. Then, this morning, when i was getting dressed I asked for a pair of underwear (as there is no laundry facility) and a male staff member suggested I 'go commando' and then sniggered. Very professional. I do wonder about the people they hire to deal with homeless people.
Finally, I would like to describe the morning 'routine'...as it is written on paper that you are to be gone at 8.45...which is a fucking ordeal. However, the wake up calls begin at 7.15am...and I don't know about you, but when a big burly man enters your room and shouts 'IT'S 7.30'...that's gonna keep me awake...shaking...for the remainder of the morning. They continue to get people to invade my room every 15 minutes after that. So, they may as well say...you are out by 8.45...but you will be awake and buzzing by 7.30am. That's why everyone in there is ready to kill every evening.

That's all for now! I am really tired. 

Internet cafe maddness

Two nights ago was not the first night I've slept in an internet cafe. And I am not alone...that's for sure!

Just read this article for a less personal depiction of what goes on

If you are from Dublin chances are you recognize this dingy graffiti adorned cafe as a slightly enigmatic, reliable internet cafe full of eccentric characters.You also probably know that you can enter at ungodly hours of the night.

I remember as a kid walking past it when I would get lost in town...its presence is like an old familiar character. Its name is the 'Five Star Internet Cafe' and it is run by a bunch of very rowdy, and difficult to intimidate Chinese men. That is not a dig at their culture...but these guys are tough as nails. Every night the floors are lined with sleeping bags, where strange men snore. Others simply fall asleep at the table pretending to watch something on Youtube. It's comical really how these men allow all this to go on for a mere tenner. They know me well at this stage, and give me a look of 'you again' whenever I walk in. I am one of their regulars now. It's really cool though, you can either sleep there all night for a tenner, or watch videos and photoshop all your pictures all night!...That's an upside anyway. So back to the other night...I handed them the tenner and took my seat at computer 5. Not quite as reliable and hidden away as computer 7...but someone was there already...I think he works there too...why was he asleep in there? So I changed in to my pajamas, whipped out my sleeping bag and covered myself up. All the while the staff just sat there and pretended that they saw nothing. I think I pity them on some level. I decided to watch Justin Beibers new song on replay simply because I needed a lift...don't judge me. However, luck would have it that my computer was facing the rest of the cafe, and the 'dodgers' smoking weed and exchanging drugs in the corner would spot it, and surely judge me harshly. So I covered the computer and myself with my sleeping bag...essentially turning myself into a massive blue turtle.

So I was all oblivious to my hardships watching the girl in the green crop top dance away like a mad yoke, and no body knew but me. I was happy I tell you! That is until I emerged from my blue turtle world of Beiber...and realized my handbag was gone. I flipped because I knew someone stole it...there was a bunch of dodgers eyeing it up for about two hours. Then when I confronted the man I knew was the thief he goes '''snot me' and then ran the hell out of there. Thankfully, I didn't have much in the bag...just all my cards, five euro, a phone charger, and my brain scan mri on a disk...which was pretty random. That reminds me! That very same day I had an mri scan, and I was completely drained. I spent an hour in a very loud tube...and felt very dizzy! There should be a rule that if you have just had an mri scan you should be entitled to a room that night. 

Miraculously, the staff there actually caught the theft on camera. The culprit..let's call him scummy...reached down under my legs, robbed my bag, and then shoved it down his boxers *shudders*. I was given the cd rom and headed to the police station...so that was two significant cd roms in one day! I slept for a while on a ledge then proceeded to the police. I was waiting an hour and there was no show. This is not the first time the police have let me down. So, next time the staff see this guy they'll ring the police. The staff at five star are certainly no strangers to this kind of mischief, and they are constantly barring people. I think Five Star should have its own little police force if I'm being perfectly honest. 

Till next time Five Star, stay safe!

A(nother) disgrace

You may as well have gagged me and tied me in a corner last night. I was booked in to Richmond street (my favorite homeless hostel), and I was ecstatic that I would have a room to myself! So far, I've had no real run ins with the staff here, and (bar having to sit around criminals) I've had no real gripes with the place...until last night. I witnessed something absolutely horrendous and, frankly, quite sickening. One of the many characters of my homeless experience is a slightly eccentric elderly lady. I've spoken to her a few times and found her to be quite fraught, nervous and wary. Now I know why.

So, I was sitting in the kitchen, consciously keeping my cool, and pretending to actually like this bunch of scumbags (to avoid any aggro). Then this absolute gobshite walks in...I've been messing with his tiny head for the past few weeks. Every time I come in he claims I'm a reporter...which I suppose I am...whaddup blog yo!...joke...I certainly wouldn't consider this blog something a significant amount of people will read...although I hope so. He always eyes me up and down suspiciously and asks me the same question 'what newspaper do you work for?'. Predictably, he asked me the same question last night...'The Sun' I replied 'and the Irish Times'...doped out of his head, a moment later he had forgotten...maybe he saw a fleck of dust or something? Then *Mary walked in back from a long hard day trudging the streets of Dublin...Mary is the woman aforementioned. She is no younger than fifty five. Winking she said 'I'll give you that interview later', clearly trying to wind up the retard sitting beside her 'oooohhhh' I say 'great I'll talk to you later'. Then within a matter of minutes, the gobshite (we'll call him John) erupted. Firstly he knocked Mary's flask over, and when she confronted him he began a disgraceful onslaught of abuse. I can't remember most of it...but seeing this huge man in his early twenties shouting and intimidating  a frail elderly woman, with missing teeth was both horrifying and nauseating. I actually felt physically ill after a while...as the abuse continued. She tried to stand up for herself but the drugged up male continued to spit bile into her face calling her a 'geebag' and 'an old witch'...she retorted by calling him a 'knacker' and a 'scumbag' (she was not wrong). The staff finally intervened, and by intervened I mean they stood there watching the drama unfold, completely 'non judgmentally'. They basically let this man continue to bully and intimidate this old woman for a further ten minutes...and refused to step in unless he began to approach her looking for a physical fight. They literally stood there, waiting to stop him from hitting her...but otherwise, totally tolerating the blitz of venom targeted at this poor woman. So, I interposed, backing her up...she was having a go at the staff at this stage (understandably) 'you do nothing!!!' she screamed in desperation, food was flying out of her mouth, because she was taking a bite of food when John decided to torment her. She was visibly shook up, and utterly defenseless. You could hardly call me a defense, because they would have easily started at me if given half a chance. I told her to leave, but I have been in that situation before, and when you spend time cultivating a rapport with someone and they throw it back in your face so aggressively, retaliation is a natural response. As I watched the drama unfold, I realized that no one was defending her. It was a classic example of 'bully' and 'victim'...and no sides were being taken. The movie 'A Bronx Tale' resonates well here. Everyone was scared of this man, so no one said anything, for fear of being his next target. However, if any one is going to intervene, you'd think it would be the staff...but nothing happened. The staff have shunned this old woman, presumably thinking if she's not hard enough to defend herself, she's not hard enough for these places. They probably think of her as an insane posh lady, who is probably of her rocker, hence the reason she is in these places. But I have been in her situation, more times than I'd care to reflect on, and that is a crock of shit! She is simply traumatized. Apparently, this is a daily occurrence, and what I witnessed last night is 'nothing' compared to what she has experienced in the past. Apparently, she was beaten up by a gang of women in the past in these places, and she has been enduring a surge of abuse from these spaced out scumbags for the past seven months, every night when she comes in to eat her dinner and watch a bit of t.v. She also had numerous cups of tea thrown at her in the past. And all because...she doesn't take drugs, and has a posh accent. Charming. 

Later, I asked her why she didn't make a report and she said 'because they do nothing! The staff love all this and it is what keeps them relevant'. I spent two hours following the incident sitting beside her, while the staff walked around the building. One member of staff even started cleaning the filthy kitchen, in a vain attempt to make it marginally better. All the while Mary was in a heap, shaking, and having a visible panic attack in the corner. Not one member of staff tried to console her. It was left to me, because pretty much everyone else in the room were more than happy to see her face get eaten off. None of them like 'sobers' like me and her. The staff don't like us either, they probably assume we have somewhere else to go, and are taking up the bed of someone in real need...someone...say, on drugs. It is a clear prejudice in these places and I am beyond sick of it. They don't even hire a cleaner any more in Richmond street, I suppose they assume the place is just going to get filthy again, anyway...what's the point, like? Later on I confronted the staff, and when I asked to write a report they said they had 'no report sheet'...because 'people generally don't make reports'...weird. Then when I asked them if they could give me the name of the man who visibly verbally attacked this elderly woman, they said 'we can't give out names...it's our policy'...it's like every homeless hostel has a different policy. I was staying in an STA several months ago, and if an incident happened...you would fill out a report, names would be provided, and it would be dealt with the following morning. Seemingly, that rule does not apply here. Mary later told me, that Richmond house is primarily for elderly men who are on drugs...well that makes sense. Although, after trawling through google I have found nothing online about Richmond street. For all I know, it could be a frigging family run homeless hostel...

The staff in Richmond street have really let me down, with both their lack of action, and attitude. 

I feel sick. 

The desperation of being without a roof (and tolerating abuse)

As I sit here in a heap of tears...I think it is about time I write a blog on this while it is still fresh on my memory and the feelings are still raw. Time seems to block out those sad memories and make traumatizing events smaller...but that does not take away from their significance. This morning a man I have been casually 'dating' ripped the bed sheets off me (for the second morning in a row), aggressively grabbed my arm, and thrust me out the door, flinging my belongings after me. 'I'm sick of this every morning!' he hisses loudly 'I have to be somewhere, and you make me late every day!'. Shook up and distressed, I sat on the step outside his apartment, gathering my disordered belongings. He snapped his head around the corner and approached me aggressively, making me flinch automatically. He then grabbed my arm and bags and shoved me out the door, extremely forcefully, making sure I felt every jolt. He has been "helping" and abusing me simultaneously...thus is the life of the homeless person. On the one hand, anyone willing to sit them up for the night is thoughtful and humanitarian, yet, by the same token since it is on a charity basis...abuse is far more readily tolerated. For instance, it was this guy that convinced me to start this very blog; his mother is a writer and he lavished me with compliments, telling me my writing is second to none. He helped me with my C.V and even invited me to one of the courses he is teaching on how to find work. He also held me up on numerous occasions when I was stuck for somewhere to sleep, and my only option was a sleeping bag, or merchants Quay (a hall full of drug addicts and drunks, sleeping on mattresses together). Last night was one of those nights. I arrived late (about 1:20am) and to say he was unimpressed is an understatement. He rang me when I was about ten minutes from the house calling the plan off. Clearly, caring about whether or not I slept rough wasn't of any significant importance to him. After hanging up on me numerous times (for some reason) he eventually picked up, and resumed his offer. Desperation got the better of me, and even though I knew I was walking in to a potentially disparaging situation, I proceeded...I was gripped with the fear of having to tolerate drunkards and drug users. The smell of beer breath and sweat was really not something I was in the mood to sleep through. My confidence has been eroded so badly by abuse from druggies and drunks that any potentially abusive situation seems commonplace to me now. Abuse has become a familiarity. My mother and father abused me as a kid, friends abused me in school, peers racially and emotionally abused me in college, my ex boyfriend abused me, and now I've run in to another person more than happy to corrupt me even further. And why? Because I am desperate for some where nice and quiet to lay my head down. I swear this guy is ten times stricter than the homeless hostel staff in the mornings. He ripped the covers off me, and then started ranting on about how lazy, unmotivated and stupid I am. I snapped back, as any one at the tail end of abuse would, and he made me feel guilty for safe guarding myself against his jabs at my personality. The crux of the matter is that I am in his house. There is no denying it, I am on his property.  However, I am not his property, this is something he doesn't understand. As the saying goes, if you can't handle the fire - get out of the kitchen. However, he has totally taken my desperate sittuation as an excuse to abuse me. He is the typical abuser at that, and he knows it. I think he has always secretly resented me, and this was waiting to happen. He is infernally telling me how he gets 'really weird vibes' off me, and that I am constantly 'crossing his boundaries'. I won't even get in to how he continually gives me a patronizing quizzical look which leaves me confounded. It is something like Hillary Duff's face in Lizzy Maguire when she talks to Gordo.
He is so abominably rude...but then again, I am made feel bad, as it is his house.
It's like non stop Britney 'shade face' with him. It's as if he is saying 'I'm offering you somewhere to stay...but why in God's name are you taking me up on it?'

 

Because I am desperate can't you tell!?!

He is definitely the bitchiest man I've ever known, and I have no idea why he thinks he has that authority over me. A wallop in his snide little mug is what he deserves. However, I thwart that thought automatically...why? Because I have a soft spot for Colombians; and that is where he is from. He is both cursed and blessed; blessed with being super cute and kind at times, and cursed with a nasty spiteful attitude. He is also adopted, so he has a big long sob story, and I just can't stay mad at someone like that. So, without fail, the arguments are forgotten (on his part). However, each dig lingers in my mind and soul. He hurts me, each time, yet he is determined to continue his barrage of abuse. He is intent on taking me down peg-by-peg. 

The worst part is, I told him my life story. He knows all my deepest darkest secrets (as I know his). At the moment he feels closer to me than family; not completely dissimilar to a cult. Reel you in and make you comfortable...then use all the information gathered when you were "friends" to take advantage of you.

I have put my well being and self worth in the hands of a dictionary-definition sadist

sadism (ˈseɪdɪzəm ; ˈsæ-) 

Definitions

noun

the gaining of pleasure or sexual gratification from the infliction of pain and mental suffering on another person . See also algolagnia . Compare masochism

This is the desperation of homelessness. This is the pay off. This is the state of mind. This is the hopelessness, anguish and rashness one feels when no one near and dear is willing to help.

No doubt I'll get a phone call off him this evening to sort it all out over 'black coffee' (he can't afford milk because he gambled away his week's dole)

1.   

My homeless anthem: BBHMM

I decided to write about my 'homeless attitude' today. Everyone's attitude changes when faced with the elements on a daily basis, and when they are more or less forced to contend with seriously exasperating people regularly. The end point of my patience was when my health began to suffer. For some reason this is always the cut off point for me, although I know it should be a lot sooner. Stress always manifests itself physically with me. My skin will become inflamed and irritable, I'll get chronic stomach pain, or in this case; when I shut my eyes, I will be blinded by flashing lights. The only way I can describe it is a constant flux of colours and flashes of light in my entire field of vision. I am not blinded by it, it's like a transparent light filled film in front of my eyes. It is very much akin to the visual phantasmagoria that is created when one rubs their eyes. It happened suddenly, and sleeping has been a nuisance ever since. I would wake up dazed and off balance, worn out by the previous night's symphony of colour. My befuddlement, soon turned into frustration, and eventually, in to fury. I was walking around the streets of Dublin, cold, dizzy, and tired. Eventually I got a more 'permanent' bed. By 'permanent' I mean, I had my own room  (in a building full of drug users) and  I could come and go as I pleased. However, my inhabitancy was completely dependant on how 'well I behaved myself'. The strictest house rule was no physical violence. With an aura filled head, and a building full of verbally abusive house mates, it's fair to say that I was on my arse again within a few months.

Okay, let's cut to the chase...walking around all day would make me cranky, especially when the only thing I would have to look forward to would be a damp, uninspiring room. I'd have no where to 'make my own'. I didn't have a sanctuary. So, my resentment to the people I was meant to consider friends and family grew. As far as I was concerned, if anyone loved me in any way, I would not be in this situation. So I decided to 'give up' being the 'good girl'. When someone would be rude to me, I'd tell them where to stick it, when my mother would refuse to help me financially I'd go in to a frenzy, and when I was hungry and had no money, I would shop lift. I felt like the world owed me something. My 'street trudging' anthem became 'Bitch Better Have My Money' by Rihanna. I wasn't quite sure who the 'bitch' was? It could have been my mother? It could have been the Irish government? Who knows? But, damn she owed me money! I felt like such a rebel. Generally, I tend to have an apologetic disposition, I hunch my back and avoid eye contact at these times. I am not sure where this tendency evolved from, but it seems to have gotten worse over the years. However, when I'd play BBHMM in my head my self consciousness would evaporate. Anger would become my motivator. I'd sling the rucksack over my back contentiously, narrow my eyes, and heatedly tackle the crowd. I wouldn't care if I bruised a few people, or knocked some babies out of their mother's arms. I'd lean on the pedestrian-light-button-pole and eye up my fellow halted man. They'd anxiously try to make eye contact, and then pull away before the connection would happen. I may have been homeless, I may have been mangy, my hair may have looked like a birds nest, and my shoes may have been a corrective pair of asics, but I'll be damned if I hadn't intimidated those pedestrians. My aim would be simple; to manoeuvre my way to Marks and Spencers... there, I would pop a few salads in my bag, and walk out. The choleric ambiance that'd surround me at these times would be enough to make any security guard avert his eyes.
The Homeless world - is an angry world

The Real world - is a sober world

When one is homeless they forget what life is like in the 'real' world, being 'normal' becomes an unimaginable fantasy. However, it is amazing how quickly we slip out of this state of mind once we click in with reality again. Sometimes, I would give myself a little break. I would book myself in to a tourist hostel, just for a few days. Being around tourists, eager to learn all about Ireland and all it has to offer, is pretty much the antithesis to wasting my life away hanging out with zombies who appreciate nothing. I would be placid and soothed as I would lay my head down to rest on a clean pillow case. There would usually be a a small amount of rummaging, but nothing too imposing. A female tourist would sneak in to the room, as quiet as a church mouse. The only annoyance would be the glare from her phone flash light, and even that would not be too bothersome. She would usually smell of dewy flowers or watermelon, her hair would always be clean and shiny, and she would have a soft, misty Spanish accent. There would usually be two of them, 'best friends' more than likely. My nights sleep would be sweetened by the company. I'd wonder why I was ever so angry? Instead of being constantly appalled by swollen faces, raspy voices and curse words, I'd be greeted with smiles and genuine attentiveness. I'd be at ease, and realise that this is what I deserve. And then... I'd mentally start mocking my previous feelings of murderous anger. ''Superwoman''s mockery of BBHMM is a good example of how I would treat my old feelings

...but then...

I run out of money...and the fear, stress, and frustration returns...

What I do during the day: Example one

Bustling bodies push past me as I struggle to make my way down O Connell street, with two heavy bags. I've exhausted the phrase (or should I say word?) 'sorry'. It is as if I am apologizing for my existence...I may as well say 'sorry for being alive...I know it's a nuisance to have to look at me hobbling down the biggest street in Ireland with two heavy bags, messy hair, and shabby clothes'. Either way, being homeless brings with it the constraint of being ten times more humble than the lay person. Hardening your accent and wearing ratty clothes is almost a right of passage to not getting extensively verbally abused. This is a lesson I learnt the hard way, unfortunately. 'Sorry' 'Sorry' Sorry'. My bags are heavy. I am worsening my already sore back, and I am going no where. Somewhere to sit would be nice. O Connell street becomes an eternal roadway. I wade through the human traffic and glaring eyes. People sense my despair. I get the odd half smile, but I mainly get repulsed gestures of indignation. Women clutching on to their handbags for dear life while talking on the phone, kids asking me why I have so many bags, and young working men scrutinizing my tatty outfit, as if to say 'someone's never gonna get laid'. I'm finally here...the casino. The bouncer knows me well, he's eastern European, they all are. What is it with eastern Europeans working as casino bouncers? I'll never know. 'Hoody' he grumbles as he mimes pulling down a hood. I do as I am told and drudge in to the casino. I look around in search for melancholy Mauritian faces. Strangely, Mauritians are the only minority of homeless people who don't do drugs. They are enthroned with incredible resilience. There's Mohammed...'heya' I mutter as I take a seat beside him, 'hillo' he says accompanied with a slight head bobble. We prater on for a few minutes before realizing the language and cultural barrier is too significant. The only thing we have in common is our homelessness and our sobriety. Another eastern European bouncer does his rounds, ensuring everyone is gambling away all their money. He reaches us and nods, we are off the hook.                

 

Half ten is crunch hour, the phones come out and the dialing begins. 1800707707. Unless you ring at 10.30pm on the dot you'll be sleeping on the streets, it is as simple as that. The homeless system works on a first come first served basis. While you are waiting for somewhere to stay full time, you pace the streets of Dublin until half ten. At half ten the world stands still and all that matters is getting a bed. I dial, and redial until I get through...and even then, I'm number 47 in line. I am being deafened by a very loud and very patronizing tune...I contemplate whether it is a piano or some kind of synth machine? Either way, it needs to be changed. I am number three; and half the casino know I am homeless at this stage, because the tune is blaring. A very intimidating Dub roars 'FREEPHONE' down the phone. I bashfully try to initiate a conversation...but he is having none of it...'DATE OF BIRTH' he booms. I am half deaf at this stage. I give my date of birth, and he trawls through the list of vacant beds. The pause goes on forever as I am terrified of both my expendabilty and the man on the other end. He opens with a 'right' and then transmits the good news; 'we have a bed'. 

The next half an hour consists of me running to wherever I am placed.