Psalms

There is always a stange smell in the hospital chapel: a noxious, melting-plastic smell mixed with vomit, which is always there beneath the usual stagnant-sweet smell of dying flowers, but last night it almost made me leave. Sat out the rain there for a few hours reading The Piano Tuner, which the American guy in the secondhand bookshop had thrown in for free last week when I went in to sell another bag of books, and for some reason the smell, which is only ever quite faint, made me nauseous. Was so bad I almost chose to go back to the car and read parked under streetlamp somewhere. But in the end was too much of an effort so stayed, doing my hardest to only breathe in through my mouth.

Have found that more and more recently: my senses, one by one, becoming hypersensitive — started with sound, then taste and now smell, almost like layers of me are being peeled off. Not constant, comes and goes with tiredness and state of mind, but last night could have thrown up with the smell. There are lots of sockets in there though, and it's about the only place I can recharge my phone in peace, so in the end I stayed.

Have a rule that every time I use the chapel I say one of the prayers pinned to the prayer board before I leave. It's quid pro quo more than compassion, hoping that someone else does the same for me, but not sure that entirely cancels it out. Stood there reading them, chewing Chocolate Eclairs as I chose. Some of them would break your heart, it all seems so random, so senseless, especially the children's illnesses, all the babies dying...Can't allow myself to go there though...Prayed for a single dad with throat cancer and for the repose of the soul of a four-day old and quickly straighten a stack of bibles and prayer books on the table below. The end bible falls noisily open onto the floor. I pick it up and turn it over to see where it opened — Psalms: Psalm 56, which seems disappointingly irrelevant. But as I go to close it, I read the small printed note which begins the psalm: it says, 'Of David: To the tune of, "A Dove on Distant Oaks", which, given that I would be back in the car sleeping surrounded by oaks tonight was more apt. No doves out in the woods as far as I know, but symbolically it made me smile, took it as a sign. Who knows, maybe there will be a dove up there in one of the oaks in the woods tonight, stranger things have happened, there like one of Noah's, as a sign that all this will come to an end soon. Nothing means nothing, that book fell open at that page for a reason. Scibbled out my own prayer and pinned it to the board along with the others and left before I had time to think myself out of positive mood.

Stopped off for chips and tea on the way back and drove back quickly so that they would still be warm by the time I got to the lane. Go through the lights at the crossing just in time, but Middle Eastern man slowing to a stop in car waiting at the other side honks his horn dramatically and rolls down the window shouting into the rain. I try to mime an apology as I pass, even though I have nothing to apologise for, but man in passenger seat with the same thick black moustache makes the slit throat sign, his finger a knife across his neck. I feel my head spin, and, for a moment, staring at him, I loose control of the car and most of the tea spills over my lap in a long, screechy, skid. The weight of the car with all the stuff loaded up in it is almost lethal, and I just manage to straighten up before it hits the high wall of the big, white house on the corner. My neck fills like it has just snapped off. But continue driving straight on to the laneway, slowly, with my heart jumping all over the place. I've dreaded an accident all this time — not because of me, or even the cost really, insurance will cover it a few more months, but because of all the stuff loaded up in it. I'd have to unload it all somewhere if the car ever had to go into a garage for repair. And there is nowhere. Doesn't bear thinking about where I'd sleep either. I'm already half-blanking it out by the time I turn into the wet laneway, trying to convince myself that things are bad enough without dwelling on 'what if's'. Especially what if's you can't lessen the chance of. Pull scarf tighter around my neck and sit it in the steamed-up car eating cold, vinegary chips and grapes and drinking what was left of the tea, concentrating hard on jazz on the radio but shivering from head to foot, feeling energy trickling out of me like water.

Hate all this rain, impossible to keep it from getting in through the windows, but good thing about it is that it's almost certain that noone will be out walking near the laneway in it. It acts as curtains anyway so noone could see in easily even if they did pass. A few nights in the rain, been brave enough to light the candle in the jar to read by, but last night the wick kept falling against the side of the glass, which must have been damp, and fizzling out. Couldn't get it to stand up or light, very frustrating. Eventually gave up. Imposssible to spot doves in oak trees in the dark — but you can sense them.

Knees hurting too much to sleep, and splintery pains in my wrists and ankles. Kept waking soon as I had dropped off, having to heave myself over from side to side to relieve pressure points. Listened to the wind throw sheets of rain against the trees and car, trying not to think of my bladder and having to go out to pee. Try to do it and get back into the sleeping bag without fully waking, climbing back into sleep before fear has caught up with me. But impossible to get comfortable, sleeping bag too tight, breathing too loud and soon too hot! Lay there restlessly, the windows clouded with condensation, using useless keyring torch to search about for the foodbag, for something to nibble on. Scrummage about on floor for the Chocolate Eclairs. Pulled up a damp, very creased postcard from under pile of old newspapers under front seat: black and white image of a stone angel holding a large stone bowl. Must have fallen out of one of the bags. On the back I had scribbled: 'Remember to love yourself xxx', inside a big wonky heart. Squinted at it in the dark, flicking the torch over it to make out the words. Was definitely my handwriting, but can't for the life of me remember having written it. Must have been a long time ago, postcard is years old. And could only have been to myself too, my birthdate, with, for some reason, the year heavily scribbled out, is underlined up at the top right corner. obviously needed the reminder even then. Weird not remembering...happening more and more...worrying...as if memories are being snipped off at random.

Had to open the door again to be able to breathe at all in the end — the way I used to at the beginning, on hot September evenings, when heat somehow stayed in the trees and it was still warm in the laneway at eleven at night, and I'd lay awake some nights having to fling the door open and my legs hanging out — to relieve the cramp in them and for cool air. For the first time since then managed with just one sleeping bag in the end last night. Woke after 3, drenched in sweat, itchy toes, and thirsty, my heart jumping, trying to hear some order in the rain. Threw the other one, which I had over me as a blanket, off, and this morning didn't seem any colder, despite the damp, was the difference in weight that was noticeable. Stunning pain in my neck and down my left side.

Do crosswords in Student Bar in hospital all morning, with my back to everyone, trying to stay upright on their leather sofa, and invisible, eating doughnuts and drinking black tea, trying hard to stay awake and to think straight.

Red letter day

Haven't written in here for the past couple of days because have spent most of the time struggling to write letters. Personal letters which I had hoped to finish in time to post copies of here. Three of them, to three seperate people in my 'old' life, explaining some things — telling them how I am, and am not, and, without revealing the exact location, even how I am now living. Feel black and blue all over with the effort of pinning down the truth, squeezing it out onto the page. Might not send them, and haven't quite finished, but little energy left for much else, and have decided to come up for air.

Bit annoyed with myself too, because they shouldn't have been that difficult to write — they are letters I have spent most of the winter here in this laneway rewritting in my head, over and over, so I should have been prepared for the emotion. But was stunned and exhausted with it when it came. Just want to sleep.

What surprised me as much as the amount of emotion that came, was the thought of posting copies of them here. That's what I had intended to do, just because this is where I have been writing everything else, but in the end I couldn't do it. Couldn't, because I didn't want anyone here to worry about me any more than I know some of you already do. The emails and comments I get are so lovely, and so supportive, but in a way, recently, I have found myself being a bit inhibited here by them too.

Not sure I have said quite what I mean there, because I really do appreciate all the support I get here, really, really do, I think you know that. But when I first started writing in this blog I wanted to write everything, even about the times I have felt I couldn't go on too, all the darker things. But in the last couple of weeks I have been taking people's emails into consideration whenever I go to write in here and worrying too much about 'upsetting' any of you! A dilemma really, because it defeats the purpose of this blog if I can't be honest in it. I started this blog to 'admit' my homelessness because I spent the rest of the day trying so hard to cover it up outside, and to keep me sane, and in a way to start to reach out. I didn't know about blogs, didn't know that I'd have this instant community of people around me, who email advice and express their concern. Which is lovely, but as I said, difficult in someways, too.

So I just want to say that I am stronger than I seem. I wouldn't wish this situation on anybody, but now that it is here I need to talk about it openly and because I cannot admit any of this in the outside world I need to be able to continue to do that here. So I will. I need the catharsis of it, but don't worry about me, I will be alright — whatever happens, and whatever I end up revealing or saying here. I am showing all my vulnerabilities in this blog, am using it as an emotion dump, but in reality am far stronger than I seem — think about it, to have survived all this I must be. Also, my car has central locking, and my foot is never far from the pedal so at the first sign of trouble I'm driving off — and anyway those two angels with the huge white wings draped, night and day, either side of the car, are going nowhere. I'll be fine, they'll look after me. Always.

Mother's Day

A long, exhausting day of rain — and comfort food.

Mostly an ostrich

Sometimes I get winded by the truth. Suddenly, just out of the blue, every now and again, it hits me hard. It did last night, on the way back to the car. I walked into the carpark — almost empty by then, most of the hospital staff cars gone — caught a glimpse of mine over by the back wall under a bright light: dirty and dented and full to almost the roof with stuff, all covered over by that faded black sheet, and started to walk towards it, when it suddenly occurred to me what I was doing, how I was living — how completely insane it is to be living like this, in a car on an isolated lane — still, after all this time. And I almost just turned and ran. Couldn't bear it.

I don't know how to live like this and think about it at the same time. I don't think you can. Survival is just either/or. You shut down, switch off, and just do everything on automatic.

Almost everyday I want to write about it here, how I ended up in this laneway in my car, but haven't been able to bring myself to yet, my fingers just fly off to different keys, type something completely different. What I'm afraid of most is that I'll unravel completely once I start talking about it — about being so weakminded and weakspirited to just give up, and end up living in a car in a laneway — that, and that nobody will ever love me again once they know.

Out of my mind

This blog is probably all that's keeping me sane right now. This and my car. Without them, don’t know what I’d do. My life is complete chaos and they are the only constants. I might not have a home, in the real world, or much of a hope, but coming day after day to type this — to unroll my head like a carpet and share with total strangers the things that I spend the rest of the time trying not to let anybody else see — to have this 'place' to come to to 'talk' anonymously about my homelessness, really helps. Some mornings, it's the only thing that gets me up and out of the laneway. I know I need to do more than this, and I am still emailing for jobs and am thinking more seriously about going to a women’s shelter or going to live 'away' somewhere, but right now while I'm still here in my car, this blog is the thing that is keeping me anchored in reality.

I have to gather my thoughts together for it — which is sometimes an embarrassing struggle — but without it, without forcing myself to do that, I think my mind would just blow away like dust from the laneway in a storm. And that terrifies me — that one day, who knows when, my mind will just soar off on ‘the wings of madness’. So I come to tap thoughts out in this blog, one after the other after the other, day after day, precisely, orderly, to prove to myself each day that today is not the day that it happens — to make sure of it. And I’m proud of myself in a strange kind of way. Proud that although I have let my life slip away and have ended up living here in my car, knowing no one and with almost no possessions left, I can still think, still put one thought after another after another — that despite everything, I haven’t lost it completely.

I don’t know how other people cope with homelessness, without a car or somewhere to talk about it anonymously. It is totally beyond me. How, when life spirals out of control…when the mind has maybe detached itself from reality like a veneer peeling away from a box of old keepsakes — to protect against the worse horrors of it all — how they survive. How they survive, and still keep their dignity. A lot of them don’t, is probably the answer. Booze or drugs must help. I can understand that now. How it is almost essential to be 'out of your head' as much as possible. Most of the time, for me, homelessness is a kind of out of body experience. I don’t do drink or drugs, but I do the same — get 'out of my head' with books and, more and more these days, with this blog. Impossible to imagine how I’d be without them — and without at least a lockable car to sleep in.

Couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about the ones who don't have that — the ones who I am still frightened by — 'the homeless' — the ones who I try my hardest not to be visible to, but who at the end of the day are just like me: lost, helpless, wounded, without anywhere to go back to; all trying to out-scare each other, but probably out of their minds with as much fear and longing as me. Lay there, for once hardly cold at all, looking up through the windowscreen at a sky — full, at about 2 am, of a weird tangerine-grey light — thinking of all those people who must be out there sleeping in it, out like garbage heaped under their soggy cardboard and sleeping bags at the bottom of doorways and alleyways. Vulnerable and many of them harmless, the waste product of society's madness. My head got stuck, didn't know what to think about them, like most people didn't want to think...My fear is still taking over, even though my head is telling me something else. Most of them mightn’t be able to write it down, but they'd feel it just the same. And now I know why they are there instead of being in hostels. They are probably there, most of them, just like I am here in the no-man's land of this laneway, convinced I’ll get out of it in time — here, rather than being forced into an institution of one sort or another, and over the edge; forced onto medication somewhere when I don't need it, but just because that is the way, 'the solution', the convienient way society deals with people like me.

I am homeless, not mad!. But it seems you have to go mad before they help you. There isn't another way. So like me, all the others are still out there, on the streets and wherever they can find, trying to survive, and all of us trying, in our different ways, to get 'out of our minds' enough to numb some of the pain of it — whether it's with this blog, or with books or booze or barbiturites...All of us the same but different — much like everyone else.

Suddenly last night 'the Homeless' unravelled a bit to become lot of individuals, and less frightening. Still don't know how they do it. What I do know is that if I didn’t have my car to lock at night and sleep in, if I had to sleep out in doorways or wherever, I’d probably be waving goodbye to my sanity within a few weeks and possibly be dead shortly after — on my way to a better incarnation or not.
* * Today I am here writing the blog — until my money comes through tomorrow — to stop myself thinking about food. Hungry and Lightheaded, hullucinating the smells of food. Bacon is being fried, everywhere I go.

This place has a heartbeat

This laneway has a heartbeat, I swear it does. When I wake at night and lay here, restlessly, in the dark, waiting for my mind to shut down and my heart to slow, I can almost hear it — there somewhere deep in the trees, a pulse, a vibration. It feels like a presence, a benevolent one. Could be just my own heartbeat, or the fact that I've been living here in my car too long, because it's there, always, even through the loudest winds, the heaviest rains, the most violent shaking of branches; it's what makes me certain I couldn't come to harm out here in the woods. I'm not sure whether I sense it, or feel it or hear it, sometimes its more tangible than others, but it's always there. Maybe not everyone would be aware of it, maybe you have to be stripped of almost everything before you would be — go through and through your limits again and again; maybe it's only there at the edge, beyond lonlieness, something heard through a rip in sanity...

I know what the sadness I'm feeling is, now: it's Mother's Day — on Sunday — the deep gash that's there through everything. I knew all along, have just been trying to ignore it. That's probably what this huge, dragging tiredness is about too, trying to blot it all out. I just want to lay down and go to sleep — to stop feeling, and to stop running, and to put down roots.

Resisting life

I'm resisting life, aren't I? Frightened of moving on. Life is tough, and you just have to get on with it, don't you. But here I am still expecting there to be somewhere all shiny and uncracked, where people don't let you down, and nobody lies. Only there isn't anywhere is there? It's this or nothing.

Back to white skies again today, the year unfolding hesitantly, as if it can't decide whether to carry on into spring. All this change is tiring. Day split in two by long sleep this afternoon. Went back to the car after washing my hair in hospital shower, sat there listening to the radio, waiting for hair to dry and fell asleep. Deep, dreamless sleep, in amongst all that banging and slaming and beeping as people must have come and gone searching for spaces. Not used to sleeping during the day, almost feels like an extra day, but feel groggy, disorientated, too, hard to snap out of. Woman emailed me back about a womens' shelter today, may be a possibility.

For some reason feel enormous sadness this evening, not sure why. Maybe its good - relief maybe.

Money...

...I can't accept it...not even as a loan. Yes I can...no I can't...yes I can...no I can't...yes I can...no...I really, really, can't — night after night of it, arguing it out with myself. This is a tough situation to be in, but having to make decisions like that make it even tougher. But since I started this blog several people have emailed me to offer help of one kind or another. Mostly money to help me out. As they know I have had to refuse all of them. It's a real dilemma though, and I don't really want the temptation of it.

Yesterday (in comment left under yesterday's post) somebody else on the blog offered to lend me some money to help me. Like all the others, was really kind — lovely thought — and maybe I am being too tough on myself, but I can't accept it, it wouldn't be right. Hard to explain why that is, even to myself sometimes, but it just wouldn't. It's not the fact that I would have to meet them to get it, and take all those risks, it's just the principal of the thing.

Sometimes, laying there in the car in the cold, in need of so much, it seems crazy - more time in the car...? some help...? More time in the car...? some help...? More time in the car?...(Or even if I just think of those birds at the pond yesterday, how single-minded they were about survival, — about getting to the crumbs thrown out for them in the near-frozen water — the swans vicious, picking up some of the small black, red-legged birds by the scruff of the neck and just tossing them away from the food! All that mattered was that bread, survival - whatever it took. Didn't see any of the birds stop to consider the man's motives, or turn their beaks up at charity and swim off hungry.) Maybe I should be as ruthless as those swans — do whatever it takes — though if I was like that generally in life I wouldn't have ended up living in my car in the first place, but maybe that is lesson I need to learn. But borrowing money from people I have contacted through this blog is not the way out. I have almost nothing left in the world but a few bags in a car, but I still have my dignity, came into the laneway with it and intend to drive off again with it. Wouldn't be able to do that if I accepted money. So I can't. Never have, and never can.

Hard to turn it down: because of need, but also because of the kindness of people offering it. Never expected the response I have had to this blog, all the emails I get are amazing. Such kindness...from complete strangers....really has been almost staggering at times — the lengths people have gone to try to help. But really difficult to face that dilemma over and over, so even kinder not to offer.

What helps — the kind of help I can accept — is knowing that there are people there listening — and who care. That is what takes away some of this cold, and makes me realise that I have to get out of this and take first step to remake a life for myself — and that I will! Any help other than that I can't take, no matter how kind.

Saw a shooting star last night! The first one I have ever seen in my whole life! Still can't get over it. Was walking back to the carpark about 10.20pm, got to the car, about to drive off at the exit, and just happened to glance up at the sky the way you do, trawling for the night's forecast. Lingered over it a moment longer, struck by the shine of some of the stars, and there it came, long tail of brilliant white light darting down across the sky at great speed, and down behind the rooftops. Supposed to be enormously lucky seeing one — properly auspicious. Think you are supposed to make a wish — so as I drove back to the lane, did — though sure it's not difficult to guess what it was.

...Like there's no tomorrow

Feels like all this cold is coming to an end. Woke early this morning, with a clear head, and not so sore. No frost, or white breath or painful skin. Windowscreen was clear for a change, and lay staring up at a soft blue sky, full of soft white clouds and bright sunshine — birds flying high up through it looked like pieces of tin foil. Feels like the first day of spring. Was even warm at times sitting up in the car before I got dressed, green and gold light sparkling through the brambles and all the ivy coiled around the trees. The laneway felt like a different place. Easier to get out of sleeping bag and dress too, and suddenly easier to think beyond being here. Am determined that this won’t go on much longer, car tax is up soon anyway, will have to leave before then, have to — make a life for myself, get a home somewhere — radiators, curtains, big, soft bed…have decided — even if I have to go abroad. Might go off and work on the ships, get to cruise around the Carribean, all those islands, maybe fall in love with a place, never come back. Must be easier to be without family and totally alone in a foreign country. Almost expected of you there. Maybe that’s what I’ll do…save for a passport, just go.

You hear of that don’t you: ‘She arrived in this country with just twelve pounds in her pocket and a smile, worked like there was no tomorrow, pulled herself up by her bootstraps, got to where he/she is today – a millionaire — several times over — employing hundreds, changing things for the better…’ Fantasy most of it, but a few of those stories must be true, somewhere along the line, they don’t just come out of nowhere just to make it all seem possible. First chance I get that's what I'll do, work like there's no tomorrow, turn this all around.

Still cold, despite the bright sun, but ate breakfast almost smiling, sitting there thinking of that, of going somewhere warm, starting all over again. Watched family of magpies sipping from a puddle of old rainwater, that beautiful blue sheen, all glancing up tolerantly as a squirrel hurried across and up a tree. Suddenly everything felt right, in its place — even me. My cold has gone and everything suddenly feels a shade different. Would definitely be great to start again in a place where nobody would find it odd that I didn’t have a family or friends, where they’d be more willing to let you in to their lives — a place where they’d allow you to start over. No one will let me here, not even to get a job, dice have already been thrown. Ate tin of mackerel with rice cakes, and one of the huge, juicy, four-for-a-pound oranges. Ate it slowly, strolling along a dusty track alongside an orange grove somewhere in Spain.

Decided not to go for a shower, washed with bottle water instead, tidied myself and the car best I could, covered everything over and went in search of a cup of tea. Nearest place is over near the park. Felt as though I’d left my homelessness behind already as I walked up into all that dusty light at the top of the laneway, turned and strode off down the empty road. Feels like the slate is wiped clean in all this clear, bright light — anything feels possible.

Got large polysterene tea from the van at the entrance to the park, not daring to look up see the recognition in the man’s eyes as I tried to take the change from fat, hot fingers, without touching. Didn't know where to go, walked around a bit, then walked through the trees across to the pond. Thought I’d sit and drink it on one of the benches. Saw in New year there, watching green and pink and yellow flowers of light explode across the black water, drinking milk and eating buttered hot cross buns, trying not to wonder about the people I used to know as I made my resolutions.

Was still before nine, didn’t expect there to be anyone about, and there wasn't, but just as I came out through the trees, just at that exact moment a man at the opposite side of the pond, right down by the water's edge, made me jump. He shook a blue plastic bag of what must have been breadcrumbs and all the birds, dozens of them, all different colours and sizes and types, including swans, and all almost as one, came in a great noisy, gaggling, honking flight from across the other side of the water towards him. Stopped me in my tracks, was a tremendous sight, the air suddenly full of vicious clamour, birds intent on survival. I tried to be invisible, didn't even want to breathe incase I diverted their attention. The swans, four of them, half walking, half flying across the dark water, racing ahead of all the others, with this great powerful beating of their wings, skimming them across the water like oars as they almost ran the length of it. They reached the other bank ahead of the others, flapping their wings wildly as they skidded to a stop in a sudden burst of bright sunshine, and shaking off great beads and beads of silver water through the air as they did so. Fantastic sight, silver water, like liquid mercury, shaken from their huge white wings, filling the air. Hope I never forget. Felt just for me, coming out through the trees just at that moment to see it. Magical place that pond, must remember to sit there more often. Tea tasted best I've had in a long time.

My cold has gone, can breathe again...everything passes. Will go to Mass later, talk things out with St Jude, and St Christopher...

This time next week is Mother’s Day — again. Crossiing off the years like months now.

Quick, quick, slow

Time seems to have slowed right down. But then again, it's Tuesday already...seems to have speeded right up, too.

Today my head feels like a crate of ice, and my hands and legs are swollen almost numb. Have to clench and unclench mucles continually even typing this to get some circulation going.

Was a day of hope too though today, a day full of glimpses of angels.

'...Knowing how way leads on to way...'

Made myself walk past the homeless person's hostel, which I found the address of the other day. Long, beige, prison-like building set back from the main road. Dozens of small square windows on three ugly, soul-destroying floors, probably designed not to be high enough to jump from. No car park, no trees...couldn't breathe. Feel sick most of the afternoon, anxious and clammy, my head badly wired.

Manna

Money through today, making food a possibility again. Couldn't drive off from the laneway to get breakfast fast enough. Dressed quickly, mouth watering, tormented with thoughts of food: sausages and mushrooms and soft, runny eggs...black pudding...hot, buttered toast...Fridays I eat like a queen.

Feel, heavy and bloated after, but with plenty of food inside, the cold is suddenly not so cold. Money even takes the edge off lonlieness — spare pound in your purse and suddenly everybody's your friend. Anyway, too busy to notice loneliness today, walked from cafe to three different supermarkets stocking up on 'specials', then to Starbucks, then to laundrette, and to and fro to the carpark inbetween, putting or taking things in and out of the car. Washed sleeping bag and pillow case with the rest of the laundry late this afternoon. Back to the hospital to read in the library and a late hot shower there before I left.

Had brought my 'night' clothes in to change into (the ones I sleep in the car in) and the heat from the shower was blissfully trapped under the outer layers, which I wore ontop to run back out to the car park in. Don't know why I don't do that more often, before go back to the car at night, hot shower is good way to keep warm. And hospital is almost empty most evenings, can dip in and out almost unnoticed. Sometimes I do stay late, after the canteen is closed and if the chapel is being used. I walk up and down the empty corridors, long, shiny corridors like rivers of pale mud, past frustrating stacks of empty metal beds and machines that make your heart jump, just looking at all the artwork on the walls, trying not to think. Do it to tire myself mostly, to avoid myself and the cold a bit longer. Some evenings it's eerily quiet: don't know what it is, but there are corners of that hospital at night that are the creepiest places I have ever been.

Almost looking forward to going back to the car and sleeping tonight in fresh, clean-smelling sleeping bag for a change, waking up less red-eyed, with head on a clean pillow case. None of that cold drizzle. Another day wasted simply with getting dressed, eating and washing. But now that hunger is satisfied it feels like a good day. Found a half-empty jar of wash powder beside the bin in the laundrette today. Poured the powder into my own box, and rinsed the glass jar. There are still 2 thick church candles, that the priest in Brighton gave me, somewhere in the boot — not brave enough to do it tonight, still nervous about attracting attention to the laneway, but one evening hope to light one of them in the jar, so that I can read in the car by candelight. I miss night-reading - probably all those novels I read in bed as a girl — heavy blankets tented over my head after lights-out, reading by torchlight — falling in love with words as the coin of yellow light slid across the white pages.

A still, cold night, but chewed a big handful of soy nuts to keep me warm, and lay wrapped in tight, warm layers in the dark. A big, full belly. Content — almost. Listening out for one of the eery screams of what must be foxes deep in the woods; laying there afterwards waiting for my heart to slow and for a call goodnight from one of the owls. Lay there in the charcoal light sleepily counting the brightest stars you've ever seen. Felt tiny — just me and the tops of the tall, swaying trees and the bright stars and an egg-shaped moon, and poetry blowing through me like love. Impossible to imagine tonight that this is all there is.

Homeless

Sat in the car at my usual spot in the laneway this evening, fully dressed, including hat and black ski gloves, with the lighter of the two sleeping bags, the bright blue one, pulled up to my waist. But still shivering, whole body seems to be in spasm, can't seem to retain heat anymore — even though I know it's warmer than it has been. Must be the damp, all this rain.

Rain is down to a spit now, get the windowscreen wipers going and stare out at the top of the laneway, the tangle of grey branches from the skinny trees either side, against an ashey sky. Everything drab and monotone; I miss colour. Try to watch the light fade, dusk settling in dark, chiffony layers through the wood, and not to think about the clawing hungerpains in my stomach. There are still sardines and a small tin of rice pudding, but it's too early to eat them, want to save them for later, when I get back from the library and nighttime temperature's are here. Already freezing though, thought shivering was supposed to help, doesn't seem to. The later I eat the better; bank on late food producing enough bodyheat to get me through the night.

Try to think myself warm — let my mind drift off someplace warmer as I watch a long, black-and-white bird slalom through the empty sky. Seems so lost.

Whenever I come near to thinking that there is nowhere for me to go — no base, no point of reference for me in the whole universe, how utterly alone I am, I can't stay with it. It's like standing at the edge of a precipice, loosing your footing, a big wind at your back, you have to spin around, take a step back, you can't go on, your mind won't let you. I just shiver the thought out of me and step back into another state. Hum a tune, scribble a poem, go pick snowdrops. Unendurable thoughts.

Grace

Endless rain. Second night of it stampeding across car and through the woods. Sore head, sore throat, this can't last. Sometimes I wish I did drugs — had a habit to feed to break the back of the day, and to get me up in the mornings. Another two days before I get money. Only food left are 2 oranges, 3 apples, half-eaten tub of nuts, some cream crackers, and the emergency food in the boot: 2 tins of sardines, baked beans and rice pudding. Fill all four bottles with water from hospital taps and try not to think about it. Takes all I've got just to not think about getting through the next two days, without enough food to help me keep warm.

Keep dry in the library most of the day. Heavy stench of dirty, rain-damp clothes and distressed people. Sit in Literature section, at desk-full of people on passive-agressive search for love. Lots of sniffing and rustling and conscious, insistent tapping of feet. I'm becoming too visible there, must stop going for a while, use one of the other libraries.

Back to the car after, sat in the noisy, brightly-lit, indoor carpark at the hospital, eating last half-stick of French bread, thickly buttered, sprinkled over with sachets of brown sugar I found in glove box, doing my hardest to pretend it was slices of Brie. So hungry can hardly chew, just swallow it down, sugar scratching back of my throat and falling over my jacket with each mouthful. You'd think it was a crime, eating in your car. Big, Middle Eastern woman with three heavily overweight, sly looking children stop beside the car and just stare. Have no idea why, the car is as neat as I can get it, you wouldn't know I'm living in it, casually glance over my shoulder to check that the sleeping bags and all the boxes and bags heaped up on the back seat are properly covered over. They are. Try to carry on chewing with dignity. Spot toilet roll standing in front of the gear stick, and feel the first shifts of panic. But I could be using that for anything. Stare back, too tired to feel anything. But when I have finished and am tidying everything away and they are pulling off in their big, silver car, I sit there staring blankly around me. Out at all the dark, rain puddles from a leak in the carpark roof, and then at all the cars parked around me: clean, cared for cars, with empty seats you could lay down and sleep on, and a wave of sadness builds up. Before I know what I am doing I'm sitting there on my hands, swallowing tears. Afterwards it feels good, and I'm glad I allowed myself to — been weeks, or months even, since I gave in to tears. Sometimes it's the release that helps, but now and again, like now, it's the proof that I'm still alive.

Rip sheets off the loo roll without counting to dry my eyes, and replace the note: 'Midwife on call', back on dashboard. No-one ever seems to come into carpark to check, and it wouldn't stop me getting a ticket if they did, but always put it there anyway, and hurry back to the library, to make decisions. Stopped raining, but the world is soggy and monochrome again, dreary, heavy atmosphere. Walking loosens my back a bit, pain gets worse before it gets better I remind myself, and walk on trying not to see all the hard, flat, benches. There's something tragic about all those benches staggered each side of the path, wet and empty; something that makes me quicken my step and force my eyes away across the wet grass. There's nobody there to see me lay out on one, but I chicken out and hurry past, peering through bare trees to where I saw the ducks a few days ago, walking across the water. The pond is unfrozen again now, and through the low railings I get glimpses of a pair of swans gliding haughtily through the green-black water, undeterred by rain.

No replies to job application emails. Something's got to give... time for grace, surely. Had company in the church carpark last night, a ginger cat who looks like Answers, my old one. Would give anything to have him in here, curled on my lap, sit stroking away some of this pain.

Another night of sleeping cramped in my car in this cold, loud rain is hard. But every other option still terrifies me more. Unendurable pain. I'd get eaten alive by some people the way I am now. At least here among the trees I can get my mind stronger and well — think it all out, take the best path out.

Hard rain

It's raining hard, and I am not looking forward to being in the car tonight. Drove as slowly as possible back to the laneway this evening — even my car seems to dread the journey back there sometimes — but once there was restless and uncomfortable, half-demented by the sound of rain falling onto the car and spitting in at me through the tops of the windows, so drove off again. Spent evening in hospital library. Warm and quiet and, apart from two Sikh students whispering at a desk at the far end, empty. Sat in the corner under the big white clock, trying to be invisible. Heavy blue textbook of General Medicine open in front of me, incase anyone came over. Flicked through the pictures: glossy, colour photographs of cancers and viruses and deformities, some of them quite beautiful - striking pink and lime-green patterns, deadly viruses made visually innocuous by electron microscope. Sudden chills, goosebumps and shivers across my scalp. Shut book and read Simone Weil opened out discreetly on my lap, instead. Will park in the churchyard tonight, sleep there instead, see how things are tomorrow. Giving myself a hard time this evening, fact that I haven't managed to get out of this situation: with a job and a home, however temporary, by now. Everyday is just taken up with survival, grinding me down more and more. Even the simplest tasks take longer and longer to do. Pointless existence. Fed up of being such an outcast, an untouchable — of being so looked down upon because I am homeless. I have nowhere to live, not a contagious, fatal illness, what is wrong with everyone? Why can't they just leave me alone to get myself out of this with dignity, why kick me all the time when I'm down? Here, but for the grace of God, go you.

Pigeon post

Sit in the car until late, eating cream crackers and prunes and watching the wood pigeons huddled in the crooks of the branches above me. Think of catching them, one by one, their soft, warm bodies in one hand, as I tie little messages to their legs with the other. Then setting them free again, throwing them up into the pearl-grey sky, and watching them flapping off across the bare treetops in different directions, and away into the distance. Don't know what messages I'd scribble, probably something mindless like 'help me' or 'love me'. Don't know who I'd send them to either. In my head there's a place where every message finds the perfect recipient and answers come back exactly when they are needed most. My mind is still there sometimes, refusing to move on.

Cleaning out car today, found three pink vitamin tablets under the seat. Haven't replaced empty tub yet, and days since I've taken one so swallowed all three of them with swigs of icy water. Sure immune system could do with the boost. Held out half a hope that I was wrong about losing my St Christopher in the hospital and finding it tangled under one of the car seats, or down the back of it, instead. No luck. Windows don't close properly and discovered rubber window seals and inside doors are covered in mildew. Some of the plastic bags have it over them too. Don't know how didn't see that before. Loo-roll soaked in red, gloopy shower gel is the best I can come up with for getting rid of it. Not ideal, but scent of strawberries is better than the reek of mildew.

Car last night felt like a deep freeze. Not much better this morning. If you have ever dropped a sock from the washing line and found it still out there on the grass next morning, after it had been out in the freezing cold overnight, that semi-frozen, crunchy mass is how I felt this morning waking in the sleeping bag. Bone-cold, a physical pain, everything has to be done in slow motion, shivering. Dress, trying to think of mountaineers facing Everest, camping out in temperatures so low that teeth and toes could snap off; telling myself that this is a walk in the park, compared.

A fig is not an orange

Wasn't as cold as I expected last night. Got back to the laneway late and tired, but red Volvo parked there so had to drive off. That's happened quite a few times now: different cars, different times. Usually I sit there for a while with headlights on —but doors locked and my foot on the pedal just in case — waiting to see if they'll go. This car's been there before though and never moves. No passengers, just this one black guy wearing a tweed cap and big, plastic-framed glasses. Even in the dark, when I can't make out the colour so well, I always know his car by the large, hardback London A-Z up on the dashboard. He just sits there, doing nothing. I strain to listen out for sounds of a radio playing, but he just seems to be sitting there in the dark gazing out, like me. Don't blame him, the woods are a good place to come to do that, but at the same time I don't want him there, the lane almost feels like my lane now, feels intrusive others being there. Don't want to become too recognisable either — which is another reason don't want too many people to see me there. Last night, I didn't even bother to go to the end of the lane and turn, as I always do — so that I'm facing the road ready to drive off in an emergency — just saw him there and reversed straight back onto the road and drove to my other spot.

The back up place I have is not too far away. It is the carpark of a big closed-down church at the top of a nearby hill. I've slept in the carpark there maybe ten nights in all now, whenever I've had a bad feeling about staying in the lane. Last time I parked there was Christmas. I drove there after Midnight Mass at another church and woke up there Christmas morning watching two robins huddled up in the bushes infront of me. It is quite a special place, and I feel very protected there. There are houses on three sides, mostly big, elegant, Georgian houses without blinds or net curtains, so I can look out at the orange glow of their tall windows, into all the silent, rooms. On the other side it is surrounded by high walls that conceal me from the road, and holly bushes that never seem to lose their berries. Was so tired drove straight there last night.

I'm not supposed to be there. During the day it is used as a private carpark for local businesses, but as long as I drive off before all the spaces fill up in the morning then I'm fine. And after seven in the evening it is mostly empty, even though private security vans sometimes come to inspect it during the night. I oversleep there more than I do in the woods, and sometimes I am just getting dressed when cars start pulling up and people look in at me, disgusted. Watching this dishevelled woman scrabbling about getting dressed, with her layers draped all over the car and sleeping bags still lumped up on the passenger seat. A few times, one of the men, suited and carrying a breifcase strides importantly across the gravel towards me with a look of disgust on his face, about to tell me to move. I feel so ashamed, want the ground to open up and drag me in, but instead I turn my mad seagull eyes on him and just drive off half-dressed. God knows what they think of me.

Strangely though, away from the laneway last night I dreamt of it. Thought I woke up in my sleep and looked out at it. There was a mizzling rain and only a slither of moon in the sky — as there was in the real sky last night — and the laneway was very dark. I raised myself in the sleeping bag and wiping condensation from the windowscreen peered out at a unicorn that was trotting down towards me. A single unicorn with its spiral horn glowing with inner light, definitely not moonlight, clattering down the lane towards me. It had soft gold eyes and was getting whiter and whiter as it approached. That's all I remember. Woke in the church carpark, disorientated, with that fragment of dream still in my mind, wondering if I really had looked up at the moon but seen something else in the laneway last night, before I realised that I wasn't actually there at all.

Then I remembered the man there last night, the image of his tweed cap and those big Elton John glasses, the way he sits still like one of the owls in the trees, still and waiting. It's the third time I've seen him there now, in that same red Volvo. I try to not to think about it. Usually I just drive off and sit in a lit street somewhere, reading under the lamplight until I'm exhausted. Then I drive back, and by the time I'm there again he has gone. Terrified me the first time, but now nothing much does at all. Was angry more than anything last night, wanted to go straight to sleep, and also because the lane feels like my lane now, get that relieved feeling inside as I drive up, when I'm really tired it almost feels like home. Hope he doesn't spoil that for me. Because there isn't anywhere else to go really, not anywhere close enough to both the hospital and the shops, but which is isolated and safe, as well. Can't sleep in the churchyard too often, there are houses around, and neighbourhood watches, and nowhere easy to pee.

Drove to hospital to have my weekly 'luxury' shower. Daily one is functional, just in-out, bracing the cold, but sometime over the weekend I usually bring the other carrier bag of stuff in with me, and do everything from shaving legs, to nails to face pack, to exfoliating —the full works. Hospital is much quieter at the weekend, hardly anyone about and the shower is always empty. Stay in there for hours sometimes. Washing away my homelessness and trying to relax and ignore the cold in there. Have to force myself to do it, usually can't be bothered, but in the end pleased I have and it's hard to think of something to get out for. Hunger usually does it in the end.

Searched foodbag under seat for the last orange for breakfast this morning. Couldn't find it anywhere, must have rolled out. Was thristy all night, and really looking forward to that orange. Instead, I found one of the figs I'd bought from a stall just before closing time, a few days ago. Wrapped me a bag of them for almost nothing, winking at God knows what as she did it. Didn't even know I still had one left. Was mostly-squashed and over ripe, the purple and green of a fresh bruise, but ate it pretending it was an orange. Not the same though - figs are gorgeous but they are not oranges.

Got me thinking in the shower though about how impossible it is to be something your'e not. And made me realise that that is what I have been trying to do for years really — be something I was 'supposed' to be, instead of what I was. I wasn't a born lawyer, never fit into any of the boxes I tried to squeeze myself into really, not my whole life. Not really.

Ironic, that I stepped out of the shower in the hospital today, without even a towel to dry myself, feeling more me than I have ever done. Am homeless and jobless, and by the end of every fortnight penniless, without a thread of my old life left, often insanely lonely, and sometimes terrified of the empty, harsh reality facing me, but somehow, today, I felt suddenly right in myself. Suddenly felt ME. Not who I am meant to be, but who I am. In the miror was able to look myself in the eye and not look away. Don't know if it'll last, but it feels good. Feel right and free, and today anything feels possible. Hardly feel homeless at all today, some days everywhere feels like home. Feel lucky.

A fig is not an orange — must remember that.

Off for One Pound Food later, and I don't even care. In fact, looking forward to it. Why should I fear other people, think today is a day for throwing my shoulders back and just getting out there, saying back to the world, 'here I am — me this time — take me or leave me, but this is who I am. Yesterday I thought I'd failed at life, but maybe I only failed at being her — the one I always thought I had to be. Maybe it's not too late to start again...this time being me, not who I was supposed to be.

Still snowdrops around under the beech trees, but sure the bright shoots I saw this morning deeper in the wood are bluebells coming through. Hope so, love bluebells.

Snow

Bracing myself for snow. Keep waking up expecting the car to be surrounded by whiteness — half dreading it, half hoping for it.

Wind hurling through the trees all night. Only woke twice, dark, moonless, expected snow, but none. This morning the laneway was full of dull, khaki light. Couldn't face getting up, went back to sleep, even though promised myself never would. Slept through late alarm and most of the morning. Still a hard frost, and in a few places a light sprinking of powdered snow, which looks like gypsophila scattered over the ground and some of the branches. Enormous relief there isn't more. Turn ignition to check the car is still working. Another relief. Eat banana and sip icy water that has a tang of petrol and burns back of throat.

Too cold to go for a shower this morning or up into the bushes for a pee. Washed teeth and face in the car instead, get back into same clothes been wearing for last three days and go to thaw out in a cafe. Too much to worry about today to care what I look like.

Cafe's blissfully hot. Sit at warmest table at the back, nearest to the frying pans, trying to absorb heat but ignore all the smells. Heat doesn't penetrate anymore, despite extra socks and fleece. Workmen behind me in their luminous, rustling jackets, laughing loudly, gobbling up all the energy in the room as they wait noisily for fry-ups and mugs of tea, try to ignore their scraping of chairs and tapping of cutlery, but getting harder to do.

The ghost-taste of remembered frys fills my mouth, tongue feels twice the size in my mouth. But supposed to just have tea and toast, and the fruit from my bag, and have a hot meal somewhere tonight. Tall, eggyolk-yellow menus on the table, but don't even dare to look at the prices. I've spent too much already this week. May go back this evening though if can bear sitting in there on my own again — might have different staff on then, workmen will be gone, hopefully no one to remember me. Order my tea and toast and feel my eyes slide away as the waitress says, 'is that everything?' Try to keep my face blank, and nod forcing a strained smile. Can hear my stomach rumbling. As she rips the sheet from her pad I can still feel her eyes on me. I feel like screaming, 'Of course it is, that's what I said isn't it?' But of course don't. Just want her to go though, to be left alone, instead of towering over me at the table, scanning me for clues.

Feel too shabby even for cheap cafes these days. I rummage in my bag waiting for her to wipe her cloth over the table and go. Seeing people like her make me realise how much I have let myself go. Look at her glossy dark hair, with caramel highlights, held back loosely with a diamante bullclip that has a pen stuck through. As she wipes I watch the swing of her big, swanky, silver hoop earings. I try to smile, but I hate the way she is openly searching me for clues as she leans over and slams all the sauces in against the wall. Can't bear the way my clothes smell, the rough look of my hands. She wouldn't know the first thing about the cold or desperation and the speed it destroys, or even compassion come to that. But when I look up at her with all the clatter she is making arranging the bottles of sauce, she gives me a gentle smile and I see pity in her lit brown eyes, which makes me want to scream her away even more. Can't bear that. What does she think she is seeing in me.

I hate pity. Hate the way people wield it as a weapon. But just as much, I hate the way this life is taking my peace away, the way people won't leave me alone, not even for a minute, always there hounding me with their eyes. Everyone is waiting for me to crack, playing Shove-a-Penny with my nerves.

Getting more and more wobbly, jangled. Remember that I have to stay calm, and try to deepen short, shallow breathing. Suck in air that reeks of bacon fat and stare across vacantly at the blistered orange walls hung with signed, greasy, photographs of boxers and smiling soap stars. They all have their arms around a small moon-faced man in a stripey apron, who has a gold front tooth. In between there are black and white ones of Elvis and Bogart and Marilyn Monroe. All smiling down at me like a host of angels. I quickly look away and scan the table for napkins or sachets of things to take back to the car with me. Everything comes in useful these days. I try to work out how to get the jar of Marmite, to spread on my toast, out of my bag without anyone looking. Glance over my shoulder. The workmen still haven't got their food and get louder, and the radio's been turned up — a song about somebody predicting a riot worms itself into my head. I'm not getting any better at blanking out noise. My nerves today are raw.

I'm supposed to be having a think about it all today: making decisions, making plans. Emailed several women's organisations yesterday, hostels and safe houses, it's not really the thing I need, but anywhere is better than going to the council and ending up lost in a mental home somewhwere. That's my real dread, what I'm mostly running from. So sent off emails. Dreading them replying: want them to, don't want them to. Have to do something though. Fell asleep last night almost screaming at myself, determined that today would be the day I would pin myself down, do something to get out of this insane situation. But when I start to think about things, my mind spins and I can't do it. I can just about drag myself through the day, sort out things like food and washing and avoiding traffic wardens. When I try to think beyond that, there is an avalanche of feeling, and everything threatens to implode. Can't face it, not in public, feel too shakey. I'll wait until I'm back on my own in the car, then I'll think, sort it out. Everyone seems to be staring at me, and I break out in a cold sweat but don't dare look up. Look around for distractions — I'm not going to crack up for anyone. I carefully take a pen from my bag and try to concentrate on the Quick Crossword from a left-behind newspaper as I sip a second tea. Some days I can do them in no time, the whole thing, or almost, and the luck of rest of day seems to follow. Other days can't focus at all, especially when people are looking at me. Today is a bad crossword-day, read one clue after another after another without solving any. With people's eyes off me everything would be easier. Feel like a criminal, as if homelessness is a crime.

The workman on tables behind me have fallen silent, listen to the scraping of their plates and their loud chewing to the rythmn of the songs on the radio. One of them is tapping it out with his foot, but try not to look. Through the big mirror on the wall in front of me, I watch a small, sudden, snowstorm blow up in the street outside. The air is suddenly white, full of big, square flakes swirling down from cloudy blue skies. looking from this side of the window the street is suddenly like one of those Christmas globes, gently shaken. Everyone in the cafe turns to look. I watch the crowd waiting either side of the lights look at each other as if they are about to say something, but look quickly away again. The sun's out too, seems very incongrous. I watch the flakes settle prettily on collars and hats. and almost want it to continue it looks so nice. But then I snap to, knowing I won't feel like that later, when I'm struggling to keep warm in the car and willing myself to sleep.

I find myself wondering how much antifreeze costs, or whether I should wait and get my my shoes repaired instead, before I have another fall. The hill back is going to be slippery, but walking is the only thing that keeps me warm these days. I think of the soles that are worn slippery and wonder if it would help to score them underneath with a knife. How have I managed to come to a position in life where I only have one pair of shoes? Total failure, drifting alone through life, sitting in workman's cafes. Feel my eyes hot with tears, can't bear this much longer. Stare around the tables worried that I've said my thoughts out loud. Something I fear more and more these days, that people can suddenly read my mind. The snow stops as if someone has just turned a tap, and I leave for the supermarket to get supplies, still wondering about people being able to read my mind. Walk off telling myself to be rational, to think it through, how impossible that would be. Sometimes these days feel so certain of it though. Pull out my notebook and stare at the list on the back page for what food I need incase snow comes to stay.


Washed three empty plastic bottles I found in canteen yesterday, and filled them with fresh tapwater when I filled my own. Don't think snow will be heavy, but lots of water just in case and couple of tins of things still in bag under passenger seat.

Into the light...

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One day soon, this'll be me.
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