Homeless.

Do you ever just sit and think that maybe you are all alone and that people make false promises all the time? I think I have a habit of pushing people away to test their limits and then suddenly they decide to go. I want someone to fight for me, you know? To want me for me and not for the fake smiles and pretty dresses. I want someone to love me when my hair is a mess and I haven’t changed out of my old tatty pyjamas all day because they are just so damn comfy. I always feel like I need to improve myself in one way or another. Be smarter or thinner or simply less of a mess. I can’t seem to settle on being simply myself because I can’t fathom a single person liking me for who I am. I know this is deeply rooted in my childhood and therapy might help eventually. I have to be okay. I can’t be anything less and that’s a high standard for someone with mental health problems. Because how can someone act okay when their whole life is swirling in front of their very eyes? How can someone be okay when they stare at a plate of food and feel their hands tremble? Or when a blade is within reach and the voices inside say to cut just one last time? It’s hard to act okay when you’ve got so many reasons to not be. And this, yes this, is my downfall.

I’m scared of losing people. It’s something I struggle with minute to minute. I doubt everyone’s intentions and I try to tell myself not to get attached because the pattern is that people will leave. As a child I felt so unwanted all the time. It’s like no matter what I did, one of my sisters was always better. I was unimportant, unneeded, and incredibly annoying. I apologised over and over to my parents for my existence because really I shouldn’t be alive. They wanted two children and I was the accidental third child. I now tend to keep quiet in the background because I know there is someone out there more precious than me. I can guarantee it. I’m nothing special and I can’t even drastically alter that either. I always know when people are starting to forget me. They become busy and then the messages and the phone calls start to decline. I become a last thought. I become easily replaced by someone better and more interesting. People become too busy for me because I come with so much baggage that it’s too difficult to handle. I don’t blame people who leave me because I would leave me too if I could. But please try to imagine the loneliness I now feel. Because you might think you are one person stepping away when actually you don’t know that you are one of many. You might disappear but other people do too and it all happens almost at once. Timed wrong yet perfectly. Usually after another assault or another failing on my part.

I find it hard to sleep most nights. Between 1am and 4am to be specific. I just can’t seem to switch off. It’s my time to sit in silence and pray I won’t think at all. But of course I think and think and think until I can’t seem to stop the racing thoughts. The night wakes up the things I’ve been trying to shut out all day. It’s silent and thoughts become louder. The ticking clock just pounds through my ears reminding me just how alone I am. In the day it’s easier to forget just how lonely my life is. There’s noise everywhere and more people to pass me by. As darkness draws in and I am left sat alone in my hospital bed, all I think of is them. And my lungs collapse inwards when I think of them together sat in the living room. Without me. And I know I never belonged and I was always the outsider and never ever included, but I can’t help be want to keep trying. I want to understand what makes me so different. I tried to pretend I was fine but that drained the life out of me. I became a shell of being okay and my face became a mask which convinced them I was. My body however started to shrink from the pressure to pretend. The red scars laced my arms and legs. My imperfections grew and grew because I couldn’t use my mouth to express how I was feeling so I took it out on my body. I would scream at my reflection because I couldn’t let my weakness show. I covered myself in baggy clothes and long sleeves. I wasn’t a person anymore and they twigged that. They saw me as a problem. A failure because Anorexia was now a visible problem to the outside world. My ‘okay’ shell had cracked straight through. And instead of helping me they ignored me. They chose to wait until I sorted myself out. No one offered me a hand. I was on my own.

They decided to hide the truth. The abuse. The Eating Disorder. The scars. They wanted to cover me up and silence my voice from those who could whisper. Me being unwell reflected badly upon themselves. And they went as far as to lie about my illness and the lies rolled off their tongue’s so easily. And instead of speaking up and telling people that this was a reaction to my upbringing, I stuck to the lies. I hid myself away from anyone who knew me. I became so hidden I didn’t even recognise myself. I was trying to hold myself together but everything seemed to be slipping out of my grasp. But I was holding on so very hard, fists clenched, legs planted, feet sinking into the ground. I was holding on but I couldn’t understand why. What for? I felt like everyone had stopped loving me. I will never forget the moment I realised I couldn’t live without them and I will never forget the moment I knew I had to. Because loving people who don’t love you back is a sure way to kill yourself on the inside. I lost my home because a home is where somebody notices when you are no longer there. But I was there and I wasn’t noticed and therefore did I ever actually have a home? Have I been homeless for more than half of my life? A horrible late night and early morning thought which lingers most of the time. Because to be without a home you feel even more alone. You don’t belong anywhere or to anyone. You simply float around existing but not having a safe place to land upon. Nowhere to set up camp and be a part of something. A home isn’t just a physical building, it’s the feeling of being accepted for who you are. You have somewhere to turn to when you can’t manage alone. But without a home I have just myself. And I can’t make myself at home here. It feels too cold and hollow. The walls are dark black and filled with hate and screaming. I don’t feel safe, I feel trapped. I feel like I am banging my fists against metal to make loud noises to reach anyone. I need connections. I need to feel a sense of belonging. I am desperate to leave. I am desperate to run away from the only home I have. I’m certain that if I stay here, pitch a tent here, make myself at home here, I will cease to exist. My home will collapse upon me and there is no rebuilding after that. The flames will rage and I will vanish into the smoke. Gone.

So, like tonight, I sometimes pretend they still love me and I live with them because it’s the only way to make it stop for a while. Imagination can be a powerful tool and I spend a lot of hours stuck utilising it. Maybe this is what continues to make me insane. This time spent within dreamland. The not facing the truth that they are never coming back. That I can’t get the last 15 years back and alter any second of them. And that I will never get a chance to go home. To get a safe place to land. And this is where the nightmares begin and never end.