When I was 21, I moved from my hostel for the homeless into my very own flat in a rundown part of town. There was a Jewish community just round the corner and the local McDonalds was the towns biggest attraction.
I had been working with a local charity to get a script that I’d written made by a local film group and we went to the Jewish community to do some research as it was relevant to the script.
The flat was the first tenancy I’d had in my life so I had little experience in keeping a tenancy (other than making sure you pay the rent every week and being a decent neighbour). It wasn’t that daunting though, funnily enough.
It was around that time when I was offered the chance to have a support worker. Support workers, as you might guess, come to your home or meet you somewhere of your choosing to help you with tasks you need, but struggle to do. It would seem they are allocated to people as an incentive to follow the rules, rather than on the basis of who needs them the most.
I’ve had one ever since.
There have been times when I’ve been really struggling with my mental health to get things done and they’ve stepped in to help.
Sometimes they’re just there to keep me company (I have only three people I can call), and it’s been a great help.
It’s not the same as having friends, though.
You can’t talk about certain things and you can’t get drunk with them. Every conversation starts with “what did you do over the weekend?” And ends with “what do you think you’ll do for the rest of the day?” It sort of wears me down, it’s predictable and familiar, like being in a care home.
I’ve become accustomed, but what I really need right now is a friend. I want a social life but not sure how to start one (especially during lockdown). It’s on my mind so much that it’s made its way into my art. In 2012, I wrote a short story, I think I put it most eloquently there. Some of it sounds cliché now, but at the time it was new.
I’ve come to the conclusion I’ve spent my weird life in an artificial bubble. One that really needed to burst. And I don’t wanna go back. I really, really don’t. There isn’t much to say. All I can say is sometimes the people you know hold you back, sometimes it’s your own family even. But sometimes it’s you. But you never know what’s around the next corner until you’ve turned it. Could be your worst nightmare but it could be the best thing that ever happened to you. It’s what you make of it that counts. I can’t say exactly when the apple hit me on the head, but when I came to I realised that maybe you’ve gotta stop saying goodbye and turn around to say hello. It’s a lousy thing to stay in the same place your whole entire life.