Noted and written during my times dwelling at the Coastline Night shelter – Camborne
Various times and dates between May and July 2019
This is all my own work. I was invited into a meeting last month with someone from Stozzys.com, and during that get-together and the provision of light refreshments, it was strongly suggested that I write down some things important to me; to document my story and of what brings me to be here today i.e. a homeless heroin addict come alcoholic seeking respite and shelter. I am sat in the Coastline Camborne Day Centre and I am very lucky to be allowed to use their computers, installed with the latest edition of word processing software to make this effort generally easier. I am not talented when it comes to literature, reading or writing; I scraped a CSE grade 2 in English as a teenager (which equates to a GCSE grade E?) and in all honesty I find language difficult. I have tried very hard to put down in words an account of my life’s journey thus far and I know that there are many gaps, here, there and indeed everywhere. Some more valuable events, happenings and private affairs I wish to keep reserved, deep inside my own head where no one can see or reach them. I have always cherished my privacy; it is the one factor of my life that I can control just enough, for myself. However, that is not to say that a few people who come into my life, like ships in the night perhaps, may discover what skeletons and wrecks rest deeper in the Davy Jones’ Locker of my mind. A great deal of time I spend on my writing is under the influence of my prescribed medication, mainly Methadone and Diazepam, and occasionally I may have residual traces of opiates in my system. I do not write on the same day as having used heroin, and I never write if I’ve taken a drink. I’m under no negative effect whilst I write and therefore these are not some insane ramblings of a lunatic. I believe that the soporific sways and feelings I get allow me for short periods of time to descend, to drift down into my sea of memories and remember particular matters clear as if they happened only yesterday; I revisit and I resurrect past events and I see them once again, but in a softer and more subtle focus. The effect allows me the time and peace to document my experiences calmly and without antipathy or upset. I hope you enjoy my account, or at least appreciate my labours in compiling this. If it bores you and you would rather send the file straight to the recycle bin in your email editor and carry on your day with better and more useful activities, that’s your choice. But please, if there is one thing, one piece of advice that anyone could take with them after reading just this introduction, and I’m not going to stand on my soap-box and preach to you, I am no saint… please don’t ever try heroin.
ALCOHOL, HEROIN AND A TOUCH OF UNREQUITED LOVE!
UNREQUITED LOVE! Who’d have thought it? I’d never even heard the term until I was 47 years old and wonderfully in her grip. I’d known her for just over one year at that dawning point, having fell for her the instant we met. I’m the guy who wears his heart on his sleeve; I’ve nothing to hide and nothing to be ashamed of, and I have no hesitation telling the feelings I have towards anyone, this woman included. I adored her. I’m not a stupid guy, I knew my sentiments were always mine and mine alone, emotions between us were never shared and she was always honest with me about that. I loved her, she didn’t love me, and that hurt like crazy. Maybe one day she’ll get to read this writing, who knows, but I certainly hope not because I’ve moved on, I had to. What I found to be a very painful experience wasn’t anyone’s fault and I don’t embrace any blame; it’s just the way things were! We hadn’t done anything wrong; we were just two very different loose wires and that’s how things were obviously meant to be.
I’ve had other relationships in the past; I’ve been married and divorced twice and had a few other lovers in-between. I have a six year old son born ; I’ve never once set eyes upon my boy, or even been allowed to under supervision. I do however have permission to write to the youngster four-times yearly, which I do not; that is my choice and mine alone. I will meet my son one day, I look forward to that happening and it will be happy. Other than that, I am aware that he has a safe home and a good upbringing, he is surrounded by family, and is blessed with a fulfilling and active lifestyle for an infant boy. I know his mother wants the best upbringing for all her children, and in doing so she will keep my son protected. So long as I am pleased with the good things I hear about him, it brings me enough satisfaction to outweigh any resentments I may have for being excluded from his life. I have very little to offer my son other than love from the bottom of my heart. I have a picture of his two elder brothers, then aged two and three years old taken six-months before my son was conceived; I carry this with me almost every day as a reminder of my boy and a happy spring morning. The two boys are smiling and rocking on a seesaw which was one of them’s second-birthday presents. One very important and most wonderful event in my life took place when I was lucky enough to be at the birth of a very special baby girl, holding a beautiful newborn child, all 5lb and 3oz of pure innocence, fresh into our chaotic plastic world was just so utterly humbling and I don’t think I’ve ever been so frightened in my entire life, her so tiny, fragile and precious and in my giant arms; I had to ask one of the nurses there at the time to help bolster me in case I were to drop her! I don’t ever wish to mention details of her mother, but I ashamedly and still today full of complete regret, walked away from hera when she was little over thirty-months old. Whilst there is no court in this land that could convict me of emotional hurt that I may have caused this little girl, I punished myself instead for the crime of abandonment, and in the Spring of 2005 whilst working in London’s Canning Town and under the influence of a gallon of fizzy lager, I sentenced myself to slow and painful death by alcoholism; I was going to drink my tragic life away! Poor me, poor me… pour me another drink!
Most of my adult life has been blackened by alcohol misuse, a problem entirely of my own making that I tackle constantly. I’m not going to lie and say that today I’m abstinent because I’m certainly not; I might take a drink once or twice a month, somehow I gravitate towards it, but it certainly doesn’t come first anymore, whether that be first thing in the morning, or first thing before anyone or anything else! What a waste of money! Alcohol abuse began as a late-teenager when it was considered nothing more than a big joke; even the times when I’d be at the point of overdose, respiratory failure and coma, I’d slowly come back to life the following morning laid out on the kitchen floor after having been photographed for the family album, covered head-to-toe in vomit. Heaven forbid someone call the boy an ambulance! And of course without any intervention, things only became progressively worse. Over the course of years, slowly but surely the drink has taken almost everything from me; and I’m not just talking about those material belongings and everyday tit-tat we take for granted like slotted spaghetti spoons and candlestick holders, but those dear things, my family and my friends, my homes and my sanity. It has led me to live in squalor and ultimately out on the streets; I’ve tramped around wearing filthy stinking clothes unfit for rags, and shoes without soles that barely pass as acceptable just so long as you’re stood upright. As darkness descends I’ve found myself seeking refuge wherever I can, generally passing out drunk among everyday litter, broken glass and all that other refuse discarded over piss-stinking ground. I’ve been abused physically, emotionally, financially, culturally and sexually. I have prostituted myself and I have been raped. I used to self-harm by razorblade cutting and I honestly believed I deserved it; when I was being beaten and hurt by everyone else, even by those closest to me and members of my own family, it doesn’t take much reason or cause to begin attacking yourself. The last episode of hurting myself by cutting occurred just the once this time last year, before then little over four years ago and that was the only other time since 2012 when I was with Becky. Not drinking alcohol to excess makes a great deal of difference. As one of my previous GP’s used to tell me, “ the best anti-depressant is to stop drinking depressants!” Thank you so kindly Dr. L.
It is essential that I mention two organisations, ‘Coastline Housing Ltd’ and ‘Cornwall Health for Homeless’. Coastline Housing Ltd are a company based in Cornwall that provide and maintain social housing across the Cornwall county, and amongst their many other services, they operate a night shelter crisis accommodation coupled together with a day activity centre. With the unwavering support of their team of staff and volunteers, each bringing with them their own suite of experiences and skills, they have provided me a safe environment, the necessary time and non-judgmental support so that I may regather my strength and mental well-being, confront my substance misuse issues, consider and evaluate my housing options, and at the same time nurture my dreams and ambitions whilst waiting to move on. Their hard work is supplemented by the provision of a range of various materials and equipment, for example musical instruments, art supplies, computers, literature, light refreshments and hygiene facilities to make that valuable difference to a person experiencing homelessness. Cornwall Health for Homeless are an NHS service operating from three sites across Cornwall; St Petroc’s (Truro clinic), Coastline (Camborne clinic) and Breadline (Penzance clinic). If you are homeless and you need to see a doctor or nurse, there are generally clinics available every working day of the week on a drop-in basis, first come-first seen. Whenever I have been a patient registered with Cornwall Health for Homeless, I have been treated with the utmost dignity and respect with regard to my physical and mental health, and complete understanding of my housing predicament. I have been given medical attention and medication that actually works for me and benefits me throughout the day and night. I have a personal ethic whereby I am always open, truthful and wholly honest with their staff, and in turn they are sincere with me. Having a breakdown in one’s life doesn’t get remedied by sudden and immediate changes in circumstances, like placing a roof over your head and thinking ‘that’ll make everything fine, he’s fixed now’; it takes patience, a great deal of understanding, and taking things slowly. In the last twelve-months or so, I think I’ve had three, maybe four significant breakdowns; taking things one day at a time still often feels fast when your life seems like an out-of-control rollercoaster.
I kind of deviate from the point. Back in the Spring of 2016, Coastline Housing Ltd helped me into some (albeit rather dirty) supported housing that I tolerated through gritted teeth, and taking things slowly, by the Autumn of that same year I was handed the keys to my own privately rented flat, (the first home of ‘my own’ for almost nearly sixteen years) . I had made the transition from being street homeless to occupying a single-bedroom flat within 207 long, hard, and often traumatic days and I was delighted. It sounds dreadful having endured living in a house defiled by other adult’s faeces, urine and vomit but that was now well and truly behind me. My cynicisms (today) of supported housing is that the Support Workers dedicate their time and resources to harbour those residents with anti-social behavior issues in preference over anyone on a course of recovery, ensuring their own survival with a continuous and steady caseload of work, whilst also receiving full-pay absenteeism due to sickness caused by the stresses and strains of the workload itself. Saying that, it can’t be much fun watching grown (mainly) men with alcoholism slowly poisoning themselves to a liver failure death; maybe I was jealous that for those others, my dream had become their nightmare. I was finally away from that world now and though times remained tough, the kind-heartedness of others and the generosity of a new society slowly began to take advantage, and within twelve months I’d furnished my living space into a home that I was proud of!
On the 22nd September 2017 I had a fantastic heart-to-heart with a very attractive young lady I knew; there was never a secret that I fancied her, and during our conversation it became evidently clear, all rather quickly, that this would be the last time we would see each other again. Me being me, turning to my oldest and forever reliable coping strategy, I self-medicated with cheap white cider and drank. On returning , I happened to bump into a woman who I already knew casually; she was a heroin user, was prescribed Methadone and Valium, and smoked cannabis like it was going out of fashion. We quickly started seeing more of each other, and with so many exciting, dangerous and moving experiences to tell me, I very quickly became besotted by her; she was very attractive, fun to be around, and I was jealous of her, envious through and through! I wanted to be like her, I wanted to be in her and I wanted to be her. Within the first few weeks shea had taught me to smoke heroin; from rolling a tube, preparing the foil, running the beetle, inhale, exhale, everything! Everything I needed to know to begin with. And I loved it! And I loved her for introducing me to this new way of life! I hadn’t been remotely close to a woman’s affection for quite a few years, and it wasn’t just about the sex between us, but more the intimacy, holding each other, being with her face-to-face, cuddling up together, laying my head in her lap and speaking out loud my innermost and private thoughts it was better than great; it was magical and it was beautiful and it was perfect and I was in love! Immediately She had become my supplier of heroin and I sometimes hate to think that’s all she wanted me for; I hadn’t much cash but every benefit payment I received was spent immediately Tuesday midnight, every belonging that had value and could be pawned, I sold for cash. Pretty soon my flat began to empty, became dirty and resembled more like a squat than a home. At a similar time with the help of YouTube and the local library, I tried to teach myself how to take a hit, bang the gear up instead, and boy did I make a bloody mess of my arms! The woman to the rescue; I watched, I listened and I learnt. I watched her cook and prepare the works, and the aroma, the smell of boiling that mix just thrills me like nothing else in this world; I held out my arm and she pushed in the pin. As she drew back, seeing that plume of scarlet blood flowing into the syringe knowing she had found a vein, the slow movement as the mixture was pushed back into my arm, and then for the first time ever, I went over. Of course seeing me laying there blue-lipped, unconscious, unresponsive and not breathing must have terrified her; I sometimes wish she had left me there to die! Because the consequence was far worse; the dynamic between us changed forever. Imagine an insurmountable barrier unexpectedly appearing between us? I tried everything I could to scale this obstacle. I self-referred to a local drug outreach agency and my GP surgery and all too easily got myself onto a methadone script. I begged and pleaded with my GP for Diazepam though I was refused, but all this meant is that I’d buy them off the streets instead. I tried everything I could to be like her, and make her love me as much as I loved her. I’d copy the way she spoke and her mannerisms, the way she walked, for fuck sake I wanted my shoes to have matching laces like hers and I cried when the shop assistant couldn’t sell me them. I wanted heroin and I wanted Julia and I didn’t care for anything or anyone else. At some point I bought Alfie, a Bulgarian-rescued Jack Russell terrier for us to share together and love in common; I have looked after him by myself ever since. For the next fourteen months, we spent occasional time together, but mostly we’d be apart. I was never once welcome in her home; I’d have to sit, wait and pray that maybe she’d turn up at mine. I could not bear to live feeling like this, the continuous, very powerful agony of missing her. Never before had anyone made me experience this immense feeling of worthlessness, being unwanted, rejected and hurt, for being nothing more than in love with you. Every moment of my life with or without her was spent gazing through a window of tears. From the moment I’d wake and open my eyes I’d burst into uncontrollable tears, throughout the course of the day, and lying there at night waiting to fall asleep, just the same. I felt that I had to escape from you. My anxieties told me to run away, anywhere, somewhere you can no longer find me, and somehow cease my unrequited love for you. All I wanted was for you to love me back; I’d have done anything for you, anything at all, anything you asked. I use heroin for you.
I started attending the local town church. Whilst I’m not religious at all, there was something in particular I was seeking and this made the perfect hunting ground. I preferred to sit at the back during services; I found the hymns quite emotional and so being at the rear of the congregation, less people would see the shame in my damp eyes. I heard a sermon one morning telling me not to wait to die go to heaven; heaven is today. Open your eyes and heart and see the beauty of the world, TODAY! The world is a glorious place; I wish you could have shared in its wonder, magic and magnificence with me. There is so much to be happy about despite us not seeing our sons.. They could have grown up to be incredibly good friends with each other, step-brothers if you’d wanted!
Throughout the year and living in a continuous cycle of poverty, my weight had fallen well below twelve stone; I weighed less than I had when I was twelve years of age, and I looked ill. Late August 2018 brought with it another emotional breakdown, and with the aid of Isopropanol, I tried to set myself on fire. Luckily I only managed to burn my left hand fingers and lower arm. I know when I’m having a breakdown; I feel the pressure (often rapidly) building up inside me, and I always seek medical assistance as soon as I can. Enough had become enough with how and where I was living and so I offered my landlord my notice to cancel my tenancy agreement; this however would have made me intentionally homeless and without recourse to any help or support from other outside agencies so I eventually retracted it. Towards the end of 2018 and in yet another flood of tears, I begged my landlord to provide me with the notice to regain possession of his flat, and in doing so I was once again about to become street homeless; living in the town I was in had become almost impossible for me, at times too frightened to leave my front door and very close to ending my own life. I reduced by belongings gathered from over two years of being in that flat to those few essential items to fill one small backpack and a few personal trinkets decorating my wrists, neck and earlobes. In doing this, I had to either sell, give away, smash or otherwise dispose of the majority of my possessions; clothing was easy as the bulk of it no longer fitted anyway, but for the most of my belongings it was very difficult indeed. I was at the limit of what I could endure, my breaking point. I was refused a face-to-face meeting with any doctor at my local surgery, and the last contact I had with my then GP was sending her an email via my Addaction worker, explaining my situation very clearly and desperately pleading for some medication, anything to calm me down or help me to sleep; I was straightaway refused. It was suggested to me that I suffer the upset and that I deserved the hurt that I was experiencing; prescribing me anything other than cheap SSRIs (anti-depressants) so-say posed a risk of ‘overdose’ and damage to the GP’s personal reputation. Heaven forbid! The final so-many weeks I lived in that flat, I spent alone, and my tiny heart was completely shattered. Writing this today over half-a-year later, the hurt and her neglect still causes me to openly weep and cry.
I had the wisdom to make some contingency arrangements to enter Cosgarne Hall (a supported house in St Austell) temporarily whilst one of their staff members’ assisted me in finding other more suitable accommodation elsewhere in the county, or in fact in the country as a whole, once out of the flat. I wasn’t fussy, I just wanted to be out of St Austell. Within two weeks of entering Cosgarne Hall, my assigned support worker resigned from her position and I then had no other support or meeting with any member of staff for the remainder of my stay there; that was the whole of March and April 2019. My private life continued in turmoil and by the Easter weekend I had unknown to anyone else saved myself three 80ml bottles of methadone; I had been given another three doses to take away to see me through the Easter bank holiday weekend and my Saturday dose had to be consumed under supervision of the lead pharmacist. On the walk back to my room I purchased a dozen tins of strong white cider. I don’t remember much about drinking the cheap alcohol, but the total seven doses of Physeptone I calculated as 560ml, almost one pint, I prayed taken together would have been ample to stop my breathing and cease my heartbeat. Obviously it isn’t enough to overdose. I hadn’t made a genuine attempt at ending my own life in over ten years and here I was, back at square one. Why couldn’t I have just slipped away, fallen asleep peacefully and put my tired mind to rest? How much more do I have to consume and what’s it going to take?
With the purchase of a one-way rail ticket and a kind donation of a junior-sized sleeping bag, I very soon fled St Austell and returned to rough sleeping; this time on the outskirts of Truro city in a well maintained country park. I had found a tourist shelter-come-viewing platform by the riverside, and despite nights of uncomfortableness, cold and a complete lack of personal safety, I would at least wake to beautiful sunrises and the cacophony of the wading birds chirping as they feast on their morning catches. It generally takes me an hour or so to stop shivering, regain my physical composure and mental awareness; plenty long enough to retie my bags across my shoulders and around my waist and make the hike to morning breakfast club at one of the local church halls. With my hands clasped around a hot coffee, the spoils of the meal would be shared with me having the beans and tomatoes on toast, and my dog would delight in the bacon and fried eggs. Perfect !
I used my time in and around Truro wisely and attended the St Petroc’s facility on City Road to re-engage with Cornwall Health for Homeless. My health could best have been described as delicate, and this was obviously apparent to the doctor, and since then all of her colleagues. I also linked in with St Petroc’s own support staff to help my dog and I get off the streets as soon as possible. I asked if they would contact Coastline on my behalf, and after a short call I was offered a place back in the night shelter, though I’d have to spend just a couple more nights outside. This was improved by being given an adult-sized sleeping bag.
I currently reside in the night shelter and I wait. I think about things all day everyday, and to remind me of you I have myself a heroin addiction. You taught me to prepare my works in the privacy of my own home and inject in a clean environment. I now find myself having to cook up in public lavatories and outdoor spaces, and have to adapt routines accordingly to minimize risks of infection. I can normally find somewhere quiet enough to take the hit, though I’m often missing the veins and making a proper mess of things. It is dirty and disgusting world I currently use in, but once that heroin is running around my system attaching to as many receptors as it can, it makes everything so much better.
I consider myself to be one very dangerous person to be around; not because I’m violent or abusive, heaven forbid. All I’ve ever wanted is to love and be loved, but who would want to love a heroin addict? I don’t want anyone to catch my disease, my addiction, my curse. I’m not even sure if I love myself anymore! I know I used to because there were those times when I was proud and smart and a happy man. Heroin took from me something that the alcohol never could; it quickly began to erode my ethics, my morals and my principles. I had been warned of this consequence, but I couldn’t ever envisage that happening, I honestly thought I was stronger than that. I now find myself struggling through every part of every day, seven days of the week. Without begging, which I have resorted to once or twice with my dog and a guitar, I seek every bit of help and charity from everywhere I can, and every little makes a big difference. I have little faith or confidence in those around me, including support workers, and my spirit remains completely destroyed. Everywhere I look I see heroin’s reflection, its image always gazing back at me and calling my name. I’ve had enough. I don’t want to die. I just sometimes have these stupid thoughts that I don’t want to live either. If I could take enough of all those things nice and fall asleep. I’ve lived my dreams and nightmares too. Just close my eyes and drift away. The hands of time may come to rest and softly release my soul from these weary bones, and I’d never have to cry again. I am not looking for pity. I just need some help.