Yesterday, I needed to buy some small things for our holidays, such as sun block. When I returned to the car, I came across some homeless. They asked me for money and I gave them what I had handy. I always try to give them, but I almost can’t bear how they remind me of myself. But I always ask myself whether that is still me? It seems like running away from my father and rather living among the homeless took place in another lifetime. When I think about how easy it would have been to get lost, to become an alcoholic and to die in the cold, I feel sick. I was lucky, because my brother went to search for me after our father had committed suicide. If he had not been there for me, where would I be today?
Homeless always have so much to tell and their stories don’t really vary a lot. It’s always about abuse, about loss of profession or family and of finally losing one’s self-respect. Drinking or taking drugs doesn’t sort the problems out, and some have massive issues with their mental health.
When I returned home, with that smell of dirty clothes, sweat, urine and cigarettes still in my nose, I didn’t feel good because of all I have now. It was just a reminder of where I come from. I just hope I will never get there again. It makes me grateful and dare I say, I little bit proud of myself. I have a job, I earn my own money, even if it’s not much. I do my chores, I don’t drink or smoke or take drugs, I am clean and take care for me. I go to see my therapist, I eat regularly, I don’t sell myself anymore. I take care for my husband, I wash my clothes, I try to be a good person.
I feel sorry for them and I wish I could do something about it, but I know that some of them have even lost their sight of another lifestyle. Some just give in. It’s the shame and that you lose hope. You lose yourself.
I guess today’s entry is a bit odd, but I just want to write this down as a reminder for myself that I have really survived what he did and that I have a life worth living now.