We continued to be together, though cracks were very much visible to the outside world. But in true lovesick teenager form, I didn’t see them. Maybe I was in too deep? Totally.
I noticed that a new thing seemed to rise up in me now and then. Firey Rage.
We started to argue, to fight. I discovered anger inside that I couldn’t release in any way but to be destructive.
Smashing windows, wrecking doors, taking out banisters, furniture — it was like nothing was safe. It was especially worse on the days when I couldn’t access the crutch I used to keep everything suppressed.
Then I noticed that drinking even more kind of numbed things for a while, but it was an unpredictable addition to an already turbulent situation.
I was arrested several times. Mostly for being drunk and disorderly. My name is easily mispronounced, and when they would call me by a slightly different variation of my name, it just made me see red. I’d shout and scream and be wild, they would just handcuff me, put me in a car, take me to the station, and put me in a holding cell to calm down till the morning.
Then came the day I dreaded. The day he was moved out to a shared house on the other side of the city.
It was a small room. He had a leaving care grant of £100 to cover the cost of basic things he would need. Which really only covered some kitchen items and some basic bedding.
It wasn’t long before my time came.
I was moved to a small flat. Fifth floor of the house, only stairs, no lift, my main living area in the attic, and down two flights of stairs to pee. I didn’t think this would be a problem until I needed to pee at 2 a.m, dashing down in the wee small hours hoping I didn’t wake anyone else up.
But I had a place that I could call mine. It was a bit nicer than his place. As I understand it, we had slightly different provision because he was classed as “accommodated” and I was a Ward of Court. I didn’t really understand how the two were different, but apparently, it meant I got slightly longer under their wings, and as I wasn’t able to sign for benefits, I’d get a cheque I could cash for around £35 a week to cover anything I might need — my rent etc was covered by Social Services.
He would often stay at mine. There was a strict no-smoking policy which we tried to get around by putting a sock over the fire alarm. It seemed to work and meant no one knew we were smoking up there — until the day my landlord did an unannounced visit while I was out. He found the cannabis smoking paraphernalia and the covered fire alarm and terminated my tenancy immediately.
So I stayed with him for a few nights, then was told my stuff had been bagged up and moved to a room in a shared house. The keys were dropped to me, and I was told I’d have to go and collect my money each week — a good 7 miles walking round trip. But I didn’t have a choice.
He didn’t seem to have an income at the time. I can’t recall why, but later understood that he simply couldn’t be bothered to sign on to get a giro. But then why would he, when he had me and my regular supply of funds?
I foolishly chose to support the two of us, but he had stolen something off a housemate where he lived. He arrived home one day to a threatening letter pinned to his door, telling him in no uncertain terms if he returned, there would be consequences.
It turns out he was funding his habit any way he could, stealing from housemates and selling what he could to make sure he always had access to the drug that seemed to be the only thing that kept him sedated enough day to day not to be aggressive or abusive.
Only with the letter pinned to the door, and me being really quite worried about it, the only option left was to go to the place where all my stuff had been moved to. I had the keys. It was super late at night, but we arrived quietly. I tried the lock on my door with the key I was given.
To my utter horror, there was a stranger asleep in the bed that was supposed to be mine. Which meant we had nowhere to go. Officially homeless, we stayed overnight in the local train station waiting room. It was the only place that felt safe. But just one night of that, and it was clear we couldn’t do this for very long, so I contacted the one person who might help.
My mother.
We arrived at hers and she was welcoming enough. She had a spare room in her flat and was happy to let me use it on one condition: Social Services paid her £20 a week to contribute to rent. This was taken from the money they provided me with. So I’d gone from having £35 a week to £15. £15 a week to find food, supply his habit a tiny bit, and there was nothing left. It wasn’t even a choice as to whether I gave him half of the remaining money I had — if I didn’t, he would become violent and abusive. I’d believe it was my fault, and my mind just went for the easiest option that kept me somehow safe-ish.
But it wasn’t enough to live on. Trying to feed two people on £7.50 a week meant getting creative or starving. My mother didn’t provide anything to eat, and the freezer was bare except for bags of frozen peas and sweetcorn. I went hungry a great deal of the time.
There was also no point buying anything to last because any food I bought, my mother felt was her right to eat. So many days I’d drink water to fill my stomach, tricks I’d learned from being younger. And just like when I was younger, there was usually only pet food, coffee granules, and occasionally milk — but my mother made it very clear this was hers. Though in desperation, I’d sneak a black cup of coffee so there was some different taste in my system.
I’d scour for anything, pennies, anything to try and add something to the amount I was to live on. But there still remained more days than not where I didn’t eat.
We had been there for a few months, not really having a plan past the next day, when something changed everything.
I discovered I was pregnant. With our son.
Missed a bit?
←Part Nine – Her Name Is India
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Unwearing the Mercury 