Supported housing...

  • By girly-d
  • On 11/07/2018
  • 0 comments

"So...what do you think?"...

She's beaming - and she's got that hopeful, expectant expression on her face which means that I'm going to have to lie...

Because it smells of dog piss, is what I think; but it's too late now, because I signed the contract half an hour ago, which means that this top floor flat that smells like a urinal on the outskirts of one of the roughest estates in town is now my new pad.

"Home" I think she called it...somewhere where I can rebuild and start to get my head together.

I already have my doubts...

But beggars can't be choosers...and I was pretty much out of 'Any Other Options' and so I agree that it's lovely and I take my new keys and I pretend not to notice that at some point the door has been kicked in...

And I clean all the carpets and I dispose of the hairs in the shower and the discarded razors in the bathroom that belonged to the dead guy who used to live there before me that the staff must have missed, and I try not to scratch too much at the bites on my ankles courtesy of the fleas from his dogs that are clearly now hanging out here in the carpet.

He drowned. 

The guy.

He was drunk with some friends and they went for a swim...only he didn't come back...and the dogs that nobody knew that he had were left locked in the bathroom where they tried to chew through the door before anyone came to check on him...

So the staff came round and kicked the door in.

At least that's what my neighbours said...

Until I stopped talking to them because over time every drug taker in town used to go to their house and I decided that it was probably best if I just kept myself to myself locked behind closed doors.

For the rest of my life...

Their door got kicked down too. Well axed I think - but they did it themselves when one of their mates went home with the key and they couldnt get in to feed their own secret dogs...So that's alright then...No need to cower next door shitting myself or anything until I found out what was actually happening...

Anyway, the story of the dead guy, the fleas and the constant smell of dog piss in my flat wore me down a bit...especially now that it was seeping into my clothes and my hair... and then there was more trouble with the neighbours that culminated in me, wrapped in a duvet for protection, contemplating jumping from the top floor bathroom window in order to get the fuck out of dodge before they broke my door down as well...

Plus the fact that, except for when I did actually need them...(like the time that I was wrapped in the duvet for example ) the staff had obviously decided to check on us more often now that "lessons had been learned"... which meant that basically my support worker was one step away from moving in with me...I just couldn't breathe without her turning up on my doorstep.

And I owed money to people.

Bailiffs and stuff.

So the slightest knock at my door sent me into a tailspin...and sent my adrenaline levels through the roof...and I asked her please not to keep turning up unannounced, but she kept knocking anyway.

Which kind of made me want to kill her a little bit...

I remember one morning she was gushing about how colourful my eyeshadow was...and how it's good to experiment...and I was tired and hungover and pointed out my black eye...explaining that purple and yellow were the only colours that would make the other eye match...and then she didn't really know what else to say...She pretty much just finished her biscuit and scarpered.

I felt quite sorry for her if I'm honest.

Because complex, complicated people like me at that time need support from people who "get it"...not nosey do-gooders who just want to sit around drinking tea and eating biscuits for hours...

Because no amount of hob-nobs can fix broken bones and black eyes...they just give you indigestion after a while...

Anyway, my head was in bits.

 I was trying to be what is officially known as " A. Grown. Up" and manage my miniscule income, pay my bills and try and keep a lid on an ever-increasing addiction...and I just couldn't breathe.

My flat was a flea-ridden prison that smelt of piss and the walls closed in on me more and more with every day that passed.

Then I met an absolute arsehole who saw me as a meal ticket, moved himself  in and busied himself spending the teeny tiny bit of my money that I'd managed to save...then nicked all my stuff.

That was it.

Head blown...

No more being A. Grown. Up

I tried...it was shit.

I just couldn't do it...

So I got rid of the guy...the keys went back to the housing association, and I went back to being the littlest hobo again...

At least I didn't have to worry about moving my stuff out this time seeing as I had nothing left again...

Wanker.