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)

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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...