Homelessness

Christmas is fast on the approach- carols are on the radio, presents are under the tree and the preparation for family meals has begun.
Tonight, children will hang stockings by the fire or put clogs outside their houses, in the hope that Santa will behold them with gifts when they arise tomorrow morning. But on the other side of the world and in our neighbouring countries, even on our streets, men, women, boys and girls are starving. The greatest gift they will get this year is life and they will expect nothing more, but what if we could change that? If we home them and feed them, care for them and nourish them, they may begin to see life for the little pleasures, rather than the pain of the hunger and cold that braces them this year.
Whilst we hug our parents and joyously thank them, they will be being moved on by police officers or abused outside our windows. In our society that we have built to supposedly be equal.
Whilst we sit for that meal that many of us take for granted, they begin even for pennies; just enough for a hot drink or something small to eat so they might not feel so unloved.
Whilst we are ungrateful and callous, they are freezing. They are sleeping in boxes or under a few blankets whilst we sit by the fire.

It pains me to imagine what life must be like out there, but what hurts more is that we ignore this issue because we don’t want it to be true. You don’t know this mans story- he could be in the gutter from his parents evicting him. He’s not your usual drug abuser. He had a happy home and a bed to sleep in, a place to rest his head, but his world was turned upside down. Perhaps his new step mother didn’t approve of him so he just had to leave; I’ve seen it happen to a young man and he stayed in our house a while. He worked two jobs and was trying to stay in sixth form education, but he was crumbling in the real world. Eventually he moved on, and I’m yet to see him out on the street, but I’m also yet to hear from him.
Why do we wait on the world to change? We can start a revolution all by ourselves. A pledge to improve society, to eradicate such negative stigma around sensitive issues, to end poverty and suffering.

Please give generously this Christmas. You don’t know that old mans story or the old woman’s tale, so spare a few pounds and buy them a hot chocolate or a little time to talk. They appreciate it more than anything when you simply treat them like a human being, I know. We never know, next year, or in the next 10 years, that could be you and no one may be there to help you out of the gutter.

Christmas isn’t all joyous when you step outside the threshold; it’s a question of if you dare, and this year, I dare you to be the one to change.

The war to end all wars

I’m fighting this war- shells jump in the smoke of my mind and gunfire sounds long through the night. Children cry as I stand; a silhouette as the war rages on as the distant memories of loved ones fade. My thoughts are abandoned and fill the streets as homeless men and women that long to be found. Figures die before me as I lay in the hole among the dirt and the flames fill the buildings that once housed a happy soul.

The war rages endlessly, as if there will be no end and the dying fill another day with screams and howls that plague my mind and replay for hours, sometimes days. But the effects will never lift and a shattered soul will never be stitched without the cracks being seen.

Inside my head, I’m a woman and a soldier, but at times I see through this little girls eyes- the terror that overcomes her and the memories that taunt her. She lost a brother in the war- his wailing consumes her darkest nightmares and turns every sunny day into a whirling storm. His dying words and the expression that last etched his face hang in her mind, like the men in the trees. At night, she wakes, startled and alone. She sleeps once more, only to enter the vicious cycle again. Her mother puts on a loving expression when they’re together, as if this war outside their window doesn’t exist- she can’t cope.

She can’t cope with the fact that the brother her daughter lost was not only that, but a son and a dearly loved friend. She can’t cope with the fact that his body rests in a pit among thousands of other bodies and he’s nearly unrecognisable now.

Her husband is out there every day, fighting to end it. He wants to return to his little girl in a years time for her birthday to save her. He wants to take her away and show her the world when there isn’t an air strike or bomb hazard. He wants her to wear pretty dresses and play with the other girls, rather than being ill inside. He’s dreaming of that day.

Her friend knocks on her door every morning, and walks up the wooden, creaky stairs to see the same pale face in the same worn out bed. She sits on the bedside and tells stories and talks of the outside world, and how much she wants this girl to join her. How she wants to see her smile again at the flowers in the meadow or in reading the books she once loved, or simply to talk to their friends at the lunch table in school- to feel normal.

Her brother that she lost fought the hardest for her. He took himself into the frontline of the war to stand between her and the cold, harsh enemy. But on one fateful day, his bravery was to be no more, his heart no more to beat and his face no more to smile. However, his love endeavoured to show her the way; to lead her to the promised land in safety.

All the while, her mother never knew the battle he fought for her. How he would lay down his life for her; how he would make the ultimate sacrifice.

The people in this story represent people in my life today. And their significance is indescribable. They fight so hard for me in this seemingly unending struggle that only I can put an end to. One day, it will be lifted and one day, I will reach that promised land.

A normal life

People think life’s pretty normal on the outside looking in, don’t they? They believe all the fake smiles and the laugh that’s so hard to force out. They take your word for it and don’t enquire any further. They ignore the marks on your arms because they simply don’t want to see them. They convince themselves you’re doing just fine.

But even when we say it, it’s not easy to come out with “yeah I’m fine” or “everything’s great thanks”. The pain that wells in your heart as it weighs it down is phenomenal- like you’re helpless and caving. When you’re not looking, we’ll wipe away that creeping tear or pull down our sleeves as you haven’t looked there yet because we don’t want to do this; it’d be easier if we didn’t exist.

But then the world wouldn’t know battles, feats of courage, perseverance or strength. The strength to pass by those who mock you or the battle you fight every night as the razor presses on your skin; the battle not to scream as it draws blood and the battle as you fight the heat under your long sleeves for weeks. Perseverance to overcome, to strive for a better future. And courage to fight yourself and your innermost demons to save your soul and spare many tears from your loved ones.

They assume every day is the same- get up, get dressed, eat, brush your teeth, go home, do work, eat, go to bed. But what about when life throws an obstacle in your way? An emotion or a new situation or the drive to do the unthinkable. We all experience an odd event or two in our lifetime, however when we succumb to the darkness we become so susceptible to the arising of the defeated or the past and the emotions we try so hard to conceal. It’ll be in the most normal of places- the dining table with all your family staring you down, out for a walk with the dog, studying at your desk; it just hits. It just hits so hard…

And you’ll have to clench a fist as blood beats faster and faster and as things start to blur, you’ll refocus them. As things start to hurt, you’ll suppress them. What about when it gets too much? One day they’ll see it and they’ll experience what you’ve had for years in that moment- your eyes will provide that pathway to your soul that’s screaming and dying as it’s wounds bleed heavily and the fallen angel cries.

Body image

My body image is something I’ve worked on a lot over the years, attempting to mould it into a perfect shape with perfect proportion and a perfect outlook on life. Sadly, it’s not as easy as a potter remoulding clay or rebuilding a wall, it’s a battle. It’s a battle of wills and demoralisation that seems never ending.

When people stare at you in the gym and ask themselves ‘why is she here?’ Or when you hear them silently and sharply mocking you, you feel like you don’t belong, but the matter of it is that you’re the one beginning that struggle with the courage to fight knowing the consequences and when you reach that healthy ideal, you’ll be happier than they’ll ever be, because you strived for your goals and they weren’t so easily gained.

This teaches us determination and perseverance, to conquer and overcome pain and we can summon that strength from inside us when we need it most- us and no one else. We realise that all those things we never thought could be done are possible and within our reach. We know pain and suffering but we know that once put behind us, all we do is benefit.

Those who live on the shortcomings of their predecessors will fall short in the long term. You’ve crossed the stepping stones and yes you fell into the cold, bracing water more times than them and you hit your head a few times on the rock from which you fell, but you found the ledge and pulled yourself up and now you can look upon that pond you never thought you’d put behind you and you can revel in the fact that you’ve done it. And you’ve found true happiness and reward in doing so.

I can’t really talk about this or advise because I didn’t really go about it the right way- I kick started it with losing two stone to bulimia. This was a stupid choice that I stuck to over time and now all I do is regret it. I regret that taste in my mouth, the friends that cried outside the cubicle at school and all the hours over the basin. I regret telling my friend, as he hugged me so closely to him and I cried and he said ‘you’re beautiful, why can’t you see it?’ My heart broke that day and it’ll never mend because of an irrational decision and years of believing I wasn’t good enough. The truth of it is that each person is born beautiful, not perfect. If we were all perfect as we wanted it, we wouldn’t be unique.

We love those who are quirky, who dare to be different. Who have a few pounds that they can’t shake. Who have scars all over their bodies. Who have piercings. Who have tattoos. Who have funny coloured hair. Who society deem invalid or worthless.

From which you’ll develop a story, and to that I’m all ears.

Used and exploited

I feel so used, so exploited. Like people only see what they can get out of me and like it’s so easy that they just do it and leave.

And the worst part of it all is that it doesn’t bother me anymore; I’m okay with being hit and quit because it’s the closest I’ll ever come to being loved and feeling special. The only part that hurts is when you think you mean everything or even something to someone and then they break it to you that you’re merely part of a chain of others and you’re discarded.

You meant nothing to them; when they looked you in the eye and smiled, they didn’t mean it at all and when your heart raced because he picked you up and hugged you, he’s done it to so many other girls. When he kissed you and fireworks went off, those lips have blessed a hundred others and when that hand interlocked so comfortably with yours, it’s been the missing puzzle piece to so many hearts.

Then you know that inevitably, you’re heading for the trash. You’re going down and no matter how much you try to pull yourself to your feet or grab the ledge above you; you’re going to fall and it’s going to hurt, big time. You hit the bottom and it hurts. It hurts your heart and your bones to the point where you’re weak and your bones might as well be made of jelly. All that hope and happiness that once filled you with joy when you cuddled up to him is draining out of you as you lay in bed alone. You wish his arms were around you one more time and his breath warmed your neck like it used to. When you roll over in bed you won’t have to fight for the covers and you won’t have feelings to fight anymore. They’re gone and you’re empty.

Your heart will harden over the coming months and soon, you’ll be someone you weren’t. Love will seem more distant and sickly than ever. And even though he’s just down the road, he won’t ever cross your mind. No one will. At last, you’re protected and safe and you don’t need anyone.

That rejection that once hurt you? When he dropped you from his life like a baby bird from the nest before it’s learned to fly? It’s over. You’re over.

However, no one deserves to be hurt like that, no one deserves to hurt so bad they isolate their life and all they used to be. Staying true to who you are is what will enable you to become strong enough to be loved and to love again because there’s someone out there for everybody, we just have to wait for the right time.

Self worth

Who are the others to determine our worth? What even is a human worth- surely it can’t amount to any gold or silver, any sacrifice or offering.
And that’s what I try to tell myself. For all the times I was beaten down, forced into silence or oppressed, there is someone looking to be what I was, but they were afraid that if they didn’t scare me, they’d stand a chance. But equally, if someone gives me their time and effort, they’re probably ‘worth it’.
I delve deep into my soul looking for a quality, a trait that might define me- is it my unyielding kindness and compassion that I have built among the rocky ground? Or the courage and restraint that pulled me into and through every battle? Or even the resilience and will to carry on, to work for a purpose? I perhaps need not say it, but I don’t find my ‘attributes’ valuable.
I guess I just wish that someone would stare into my darkening, silver eyes and tell me that my soul carries on for a reason, and then be able to tell me exactly what that reason is and how it came about. Because so many people say ‘you’re worth it, come on’ these days and I don’t think they realise how empty the words sound. How we just know that they want us to stop dampening their mood, to shut up, or stop cramping their style.
But that shouldn’t define our worth; god put us on this planet as equal beings and some worked for money, some worked for experience. Some gained a fortune and some gained perseverance and then they handed this to their children and so it, but unfortunately in today’s society, it’s frequently the wealthy who will ultimately prevail, which saddens me. There are so many out there that have fought cancer, disease, loss, trauma and many other unimaginable feats, yet we choose to ignore them. Because they live in a slum and saw their parents die, they don’t matter. Or because they’re in poverty and living on the street because their family couldn’t care for them, we walk by. Or because they fight cancer and rising bills and they’re not famous, we don’t seem to care. This should never be the case; every life is unique and deserves a celebration in it’s name to mark greatness and achievement, be it worldwide or between a few.
But lest we not forget the fallen who fought admirably and their contributions to us. To the man who makes his son proud of him fighting a war, the daughter who learnt courage from her mother as she battled cancer, uncle who watched his nephew work his way to the top only to fall, and to all of those who enrich our lives so we may be grateful for all that we have and have lost.

Bipolarism

Being bipolar isn’t all the hype people big it up to be- it’s not that one minute you’re ridiculously happy and the next you want to murder someone, no.
To me, it means that I have the capability to be very happy but within minutes, my mood might deteriorate. I don’t know if it’s just being coupled with my depression, but that’s what it is to me.
It’s generally noticeable when I’m beginning to turn, as I’m sure my friends good tell you, but unfortunately there’s nothing I can to do prevent the certain unhappiness that is to follow. Occasionally tears form in my eyes, but the classic sign is that I go completely silent and just stare. I just stare at nothing or right through people and then it kicks in.
As I mentioned, it could just be that I’m chronically depressed and I do feel ecstatic from time to time, but it’s rare so the slip into that state often doesn’t have far to go. All I feel when it happens is, well, maybe simply a matter of not feeling- I go into this trance state, often unable to hear or see.
Initially, this worried people a lot. They thought I was about to pass out, or those who knew, thought depression had a hold of me and it was slowly suffocating me for the entire world to see. They thought this was what I felt at night and it was finally evident, but no, I feel a whole wave of things.
And still, it worries my close friends. However, they still ask the silly question: are you okay? I’m almost certain they know the answer, but they want to hear honesty for once, anything as long as it’s different.
There are so many pills they can now prescribe you, and some might prove effective for some, but for me, it’s a battle I have to face alone; my body just seems to think it’s some placebo that’s attempting to put me in a happy place. I’m not a firm believer in pills solving everything, as I’ve had almost every one on and off the record.
I don’t really understand myself and why I’m like it, but the only thing I’ve come to realise is that I rely on the strength of others; not an ideal attribute. But my friends are making this easier and harder- they’re trying to get me to talk and trying to involve me in normal ‘banter’, but emotionally I can’t take the joke.

Waking up

For most people, the morning hours are trialling; getting out of bed is never on the ideal agenda.
For most people, this is simply because they can’t be bothered or went on a night out.
But for people like me, it’s because we can’t find the motivation or had a long night awake. We can’t find that motivation because we feel like we have nothing to live for, like this day is going to be like every other, like we’re living in this never ending cycle of long days and longer nights. And we’ve had that long night awake because things don’t only cross our mind, but they plague us, they haunt us, they torment us.
Around 11 we might go to bed and pull the covers up to be warm and half an hour later we might kick them off because we’re too hot, because we had to wear a long sleeve top so our mothers wouldn’t find out. Around 1, sleep becomes hopeless. So we pick up our phones and take them off charge. We scroll through an endless Facebook feed for maybe another hour but then thinking becomes contemplating and contemplating becomes action.
That action might be to cut, to call a close friend, to cry, to panic or to breakdown. And it happens in the dead of night when the rest of the house is sleeping because that’s the time when our mind is most active- when it opens up to us the most. Whether it’s our thoughts or memories, this is the easiest time to access them but it’s somehow the hardest time to overcome them.
So when I say I’m lucky to get an hour or two of sleep and you say ‘what were you doing, talking to some boy?’ and I shrug it off, don’t persist.
But that ‘lucky’ isn’t always the case. Night terrors are something most people won’t acknowledge- to them it’s a childish thing and you’re often told it’ll pass. But when it’s so graphic and detailed and intricate, you can’t forget it and you can’t escape the fear that every time you sleep, it’ll just happen again.
You might see someone being hunted or dying, someone cutting, someone committing, someone crying, someone shattering… It’s horrible to see, but you can’t stop it.
So when you wake up in the morning, you’re half glad it’s over, but half let down by the fact that the nightmare is going to start all over again. You’re let down your alive and living this life; you’re wishing you just died peacefully in your sleep.
So for me, and people who live the same way, the morning hours are trialling, but so is every hour and every minute we’re breathing.
So this morning, I lay in bed, my alarm went off and I opened my eyes. My senses came into focused and I wearily switched off the alarm. I dreaded the light peeping through the curtains and the rest of the world outside. Then I said a prayer, I got up and I got dressed. All this time not forgetting that one lucky night, I will be consumed by darkness and won’t take another breath.
As to that prayer, I think we all know what it was for.

Imagine this

You’ve just got in from a long day at school. You open your front door having walked home, but the house is empty. All the lights are off and from the darkness, your dog, your childhood best friend, greets you happily. His tail is wagging so fast, beating from wall to wall and his expression is of pure delight, as if you’d been gone for weeks.
Slowly, you trudge up the stairs and past all of the baby photos that hang wearily on the cream coloured wall. You look so happy there, so full of life and there are pictures of you and your brothers playing joyfully and on family holidays abroad. Your eyes sparkle a bright, piercing blue and your brunette hair is long as it curls over your shoulders and down your back. Your brother is there, with his matching blue eyes and a beaming smile. He’s wearing his favourite pair of dungarees as you both standing gazing at a camel by the pyramids. Sand has swept across the picture and your mother, in a moment of haste, caught the hilarity of the moment.
You smile, and move on up the stairs. You doing your bag down on the floor by your bed as you hear the books inside thud upon the wood panel flooring and you tidy a few things from the floor- headphones, clothes, a pillow…
Your reflection stares you deeply in the eye as you finish picking up the last piece of stray underwear and place it on the chair. Looking only for a second, you then dismiss it.
Clothes hit the floor as you undress: your shorts, your socks and then your top. Now you’re stood there in your underwear. A single shiver traces your body as it embraces the cold and then you adjust, you’re warm again. Once again, you gather up your clothes and place them on the old armchair and you look up at the mirror.
At first, it’s dark and solemn; there’s nothing there. Then a light shines through the darkness and turns grey as it hits your eyes. All you can see are your own eyes looking back at you.
You stretch your arms out before you as if to check if they still exist, and they’re perfectly fine, the way they’ve always been, but when you look up, you see every scar and every nightmare surrounding the fragile, breaking figure before you. Each cut glows red on your skin. You feel the pain of every memory return.
In a moment of desperation, you grab the desk before you to support you while you howl helplessly under the weight and torture. You begin to shiver quickly now and you crave it. You crave it.
You pull up the chair and sit upright, rigid as it cradles your spine. You open the drawer and pull it out. You hurt yourself. You bleed. You cry. You pull on a hoodie and a blank expression.
You don’t text your friends tonight because you don’t want to hide it, but know they’ll hurt all the worse if they knew. You become isolated and numb.
The next day at school they ask where you were last night, why you didn’t talk and all you can say is ‘I’m busy’ and you can’t give the game away.
You’ll forget for a second and take off your jumper. And you’ll never forget the pain that filled their eyes as they saw the many scars and open wounds on your arm and you’ll feel how they bleed heavily inside, yet they keep a straight face. But they won’t tell you they’ve worked it out, because they don’t want you to feel exposed.
This might go on for weeks, or months but eventually they’ll have to let you know. They might not tell you in words or even through a text message because there’s only one gesture they can give you- to cry. And maybe they’ve cried every night since that day. Or maybe they’ve felt it like you.
You decide the only way out of the cycle is to pull up that old armchair and turn off the lights as that one, blinking red light flashes at you as you say ‘I’m sorry mum, I’m sorry dad. I’m sorry everyone, I let you down. It’s not your fault, it’s mine. I love you, but love doesn’t prevail this time’ and you’ll press the button to turn it off. You’ll attach the rope to the light in the ceiling and thread your head through the loop you measured months ago. One leg will step off, and then the other. Into the darkness forever.

Food

Food can be delicious, don’t get me wrong. But when it’s forced down you, it really starts to lack flavour and appeal.
My bulimia began 2 years ago after I became friends with a girl who had this eating disorder. She’d lost a phenomenal amount of weight and was such a beautiful little thing; I wanted to be just like her. This meant I could eat a little and it wouldn’t be suspicious to anyone else and they wouldn’t make the connection that I visited the bathroom after every meal. However I didn’t realise that I’d start to lack appetite and slowly I’d be able to eat less and less. Some days I just didn’t want to eat- I just couldn’t be hungry, even if I wanted to be. But in the end, I only lost two stone and I still want to lose another two.
One friend realised when we were out for a meal- I never used to go to the bathroom straight after eating and I let down my guard when I went just before we began to dine. He put two and two together and met me when I left the bathroom a few minutes later.
He said to me, so upset ‘why? You’re beautiful’ and it took me a minute to realise. Then, that barrier I had so boldly held, broke down before me and I fell quickly to my knees; I was rendered speechless. To that day, no one had ever told me I was beautiful or even doubted why I am what I am, I was just accepted as a freak.
He said he’d help me mend, and I knew I was broken. But until a few months later, it wasn’t reversible. It would take months to shatter.
I eat smaller meals now. It’s not half what I used to eat, but I simply can’t bear it. I get this sick feeling, sort of like butterflies but then it’s like someone’s shaking up my insides and that’s when the nausea kicks in. So for now, it’s best to just carry on going and one day, I’ll be that ideal weight and I’ll be happier than I’ve ever been.
People ask why I chose this eating disorder above others, and I can’t honestly tell you why. I wish I could. All I really know is that for now, having my head over the basin and pushing my fingers down my throat is my consolation. It’s in place of that arm round me and plays with my hair and sends me off to sleep warm and happy because I can sleep well knowing I’m doing everything I can to defeat that fat child that torments my past. Maybe one day I’ll sleep happy and thin, with his arms around my waist and I won’t lie there feeling fat and unwanted.