The "Post-Uni Blues"

I think the “post-uni blues” should be coined as a valid term. Graduates get the you’re-in-the-real-world-now talk, the no-more-partying-now-missy look, but an ending on such a scale deserves more than just snide remarks. It’s a common phrase that the three years of university are the best of your life, and they are, for more than just the social reasons. You’ve spent time building a home, friends, self-discipline. A degree is such a massive achievement, but apart from your day where you get to throw your funny hat in the air, the “what do I do now” can be quite engulfing. For three years you know what you’re doing, you have a routine and an aim, and when that’s gone it can be like having the rug pulled out from underneath your feet. What they don’t tell you at the ‘careers office’ is that it’s a completely valid feeling; It’s ok not to know what you’re doing, to not have the answer or a solid successful plan. They don’t tell you that other people’s opinions on your various wacky post-uni dreams don’t matter and that you can change your mind and do something unrelated to your degree- it definitely will never make those three years a waste of your time.

I kind of fell apart slightly when I finished uni- I’d suffered bad anxiety attacks before, but this spiraled into a depression that felt unjustified. You’re supposed to have the world at your feet when you finish university, and you really do. I just didn’t want it at all. I’ve always seen it as a weakness but someone said to me that so many people must feel similar sorts of things in various forms when they finish university and that I should write about it.

On a holiday to Bulgaria two years ago was the first time I experienced a full blown anxiety attack - it was a new and slightly scary place, I was on a coach exertion without air conditioning and began to panic and made my patient ex-boyfriend get off the coach. I physically couldn’t sit on the coach a second longer. I barely left the hotel room for the entire two weeks, I didn’t eat or drink and the only time I felt ok was when I was asleep. The minute I woke up and remembered where I was and how I felt the day before I plunged into the same anxious state and couldn’t shake it off. I thought it was because I was scared in a foreign country, that I’d be ok when I got home. I didn’t know what an anxiety attack was, I thought I was just being neurotic and going crazy. It didn’t get better when I got home- it got worse.

I’d stand under the shower and cry into the water every morning, every single minute of everyday was so hard I didn’t know how long I could keep it up for. University was the single most important thing in my life, I’ve never felt so sure about anything, I knew I was in the right course, the right place, had amazing friends and loved my life, so I just couldn’t understand why this was happening to me.

I could barely sit in a lecture theatre- I’d sit by the door ready to bolt if I needed to. I just couldn’t stand being anywhere I thought I couldn’t get out of. It kind of felt like claustrophobia that had escalated from being on a coach train, bus or a lift into every day. I was suffocated by everything, by every minute of everyday. The only relief was sleep.

I was desperate for someone to tell me a straight forward answer- that it was my sugar levels dropping that plunged me into cost sweats and dizzying panic, or that I was pregnant and so it was the hormones that were makig me feel crazy.

I’d go pale and my skin would burn it was so hot, I felt sick and dizzy, and it felt like an invisible hand was clutching around my throat. I could physically feel my windpipe being squashed. What made it so difficult was although I was aware that was all in my head, that it’s a physiological problem, its completely real to me. People saying- “what have u got to be nervous about?”makes me feel even worse because it highlights my loss of control. I felt completely out of control of myself and my life.

The holiday to Bulgaria was September, October is a blur of fear and tears, my mum meeting me at Waterloo station every week, me just crying and crying sitting in Costa coffee with her but refusing to come home. I knew that if I went home I’d never go back to university, and I saw myself as a failure if I gave up. I never missed a single lecture, I’d sit by the door, with water, banana and rescue remedy and complete focus on the class- blocking out everything else. If I could get my mind to switch off from the fear and relentless anxiety I felt in the background ,it would fade, and I’d realize that I had felt fine for 40 minutes. 40 whole minutes of feeling fine was heaven. I hated being in a crowd, being too hot, I barely went out, avoided house parties and spent a fortune on taxis to avoid trains and buses to work. I’d serve tables in my part-time job with blood shot eyes, customers probably thinking that I was crazy. People that know me would describe me as bubbly, outgoing, always up for a party. I felt I had completely lost myself. I told no more than a handful of people what I was feeling because I felt pathetic.

November I had a trip booked to Dublin. At the time leaving the house and going to uni took so much energy, a plane journey and a weekend away seemed a complete nightmare. But I didn’t want to cancel because then I felt “it” was winning. I remember the morning as we left the house; every time the thought of “oh god I can’t do this” came into my head I’d visualize holding a baseball bat and bat the negative thought away. The whole journey I blocked it out completely, I wouldn’t even think about thinking about it. I was on such a high when we arrived in Temple Bar I was grinning from ear to ear. I had only 2 bad episodes in the entire weekend- Temple Bar is a crowded place and I’d start to burn up in a packed bar. My ever-patient best friend always knows because I turn a shade of green but she wouldn’t make a fuss. I’d concentrate entirely on what she was saying, watching her mouth, her teeth, hearing the words- like a kind of tunnel vision so there was no space for anything else in my brain apart from listening to her.

On the plane journey home I remember think, "shit- If I can do this weekend, I can do anything." Then there began to be more space between each attack, it went from constant, down to every hour, to every day, down to every couple of days and eventually faded to nothing. By the following Easter I was on a trip skiing in Switzerland; getting in ski lifts and zooming down mountains. I’d still go green and my legs would turn to jelly, but I’d be doing it! I was in the Alps when a few months ago I could barely leave my house.

…

When it started happening again this year, I fell a lot harder, I think because I felt that last time it was something I went through and had overcome, where as now it felt like it was more of a possibility that this was who I was and it was always be a constant battle to hold it together.
I sunk in to a very black hole. I had gone from being in the library for 10 hours every single day, focusing all my energy on the final months of my degree to feeling completely lost when I handed all my work in. Someone else told me that they felt like they had lost something on their last day of uni and the emotion when you finish such a defining time of your life is definitely in the realm of loss. University was finished and I had nothing to hold onto, to focus on. I had lost my outlet for such an immense amount of energy.

I took a week long trip to Barcelona and had to most amazing week with a large group of my closest friends. It was the perfect way to celebrate such an immense ending. Our group was so mixed- from Brazil, Iran, Bulgaria, Norway and we were all going in very different directions. The last day we were all extremely hung-over and had long journey; an hour on the Metro, 30minutes on a bus and then the plane. Being dehydrated, tired and ill in a hot stuffy environment I had an anxiety attack. What made it worse was that I knew that once I got off the train, I had to get on the bus, and all of that was before the airplane. I felt anxiety wash over me in cold sweats, I kept touching my throat at the invisible hand that was clutching it and tried to keep talking to my friends to take my mind of it. I always finding singing or humming really helps, although that’s the last thing you feel like doing- it’s a way of controlling your mind and breathing.

I was so exhausted by the time I got back to my messy student room that night I slept fully clothed, my pillow soggy with tears of tiredness. From then on it spiraled out of control- I was living half the week at my university as I still had a job there and half the week back at home. It’s a very strange limbo between your last exam and your actual graduation. Third year students were drifting around town looking slightly lost (probably slightly pissed on the remainder of their loans). I didn’t want to move home quite yet, I wasn’t ready to say bye so I drifted between the two. Everyday consisted of ways to battle the anxiety and depression that was slowly engulfing me. I didn’t want to move back home because I felt I was giving in- something I didn’t allow myself to do last time and therefore attributed it to my recovery. Everything was done in 10minute blocks, I just concentrated on feeling okay for 10minutes at a time, anything more was completely impossible. The train journeys back and forth every week where ridiculous hard- I couldn’t get on the tube so would go a long way round and I’d have a pack of frozen peas because my skin would burn up. I felt I couldn’t talk to my friends because I felt I was failing- they’d watched me get better from being so bad before- getting sick again meant to me, that I had failed. It got to the point that I thought I was going to pass out at work, I just wanted to run out of the restaurant, I felt I wanted to scratch out the feeling inside me. I thought work would think I was pathetic- poor little student feeling sad that uni is over.

But they didn’t. I called in sick and went home for a week and did nothing but talk to my mum and go for walks and not really see anybody else. I’d said to my boss that I was just feeling under the weather and he said “I totally understand- I totally burnt myself out when I finished uni- you’ve burnt the candles at both ends.”

I felt suffocated- suddenly without the structure and focus of uni, I felt I had nothing- all the plans I had made to go travelling were completely overwhelming. I couldn’t even get round Tesco’s. I just wanted a plan, I couldn’t stand feeling I was wandering off into a horizon of nothing, the unknown. I couldn’t stand the thought of the anxiety and depression defining me, defining what I could and couldn’t do with my life.

You start small. The minute I thought past tomorrow I’d fall apart at thought of everything I couldn’t do, so I’d mentally block out anything apart from that one day. I’d think- “Right now there is no tomorrow, or next week, all I have to do is feel okay today. Nothing else.” I made “collage of positives”. The collage was a list of moments when I had felt really happy that I could pull up when I felt really bad- a conversation I’d had with one of my best friends about living in Virginia water with lots of kids one day, walking our dogs by Virginia Water lake. I’d remember how I felt the first night in Barcelona, completely in love with the culture and with such an amazing group of friends. I’d think of my mum, how I can ring her any time day or night and she always knows exactly what to say to make me feel better. I’d think of Mil Palmeras- where I am now- where only good things have happened to me, where I have only good people and sunshine in my life here. It sounds all a bit American happy-clappy, but to change what’s going on the outside you have to start with the inside. I didn’t touch alcohol cigarettes or coffee for months, partly because I didn’t like anything that made me feel out of control, but also because I thought being physically well would give me more strength to be mentally well.

I spent a lot of time with my lovely grandma, the most wonderful and wise person I know, who never ceases to inspire me. She reminded me that life was long and spacious; space to change your mind, to make mistakes, to change direction.
She took art and history at A-Level then decided to become a doctor. She did a foundation year and went on to qualify as a doctor from Kings college London. At the time few women were doctors- her family wanted her to go out to work. She plays the piano up the grade 8 and it takes my breath away when my 82 year old grandmother who is almost completely deaf sits down at the piano and plays with such ease and grace, everyone immediately has a lump in their throat.
She’s been an evacuee, been married and widowed, been a student, a mother a doctor, become a Buddhist, a councilor, and at the age of 65 travelled around India for 3 weeks. She now lives in France and her French is unbelievable (although she’ll tell you otherwise) and has two sheep and a donkey at the bottom of her garden. Life is long and that’s a good thing. It’s overwhelming in a good way not a suffocating way.

Martin Luther King said- “take the first step in faith- you don’t have to see the whole stair case, just take the first step.”

And I think that true- we can’t see the whole staircase because with every new thing we learn in this life, with every new person we meet, the staircase changes shape and direction because we change. I do believe in fate and paths but am growing to have a little more faith in that we are not out of control of our lives. There is nothing in this life I can’t do if I put my mind to it. We are of the Western World of education and opportunity where if tomorrow I decided to be a doctor, it’s not a physical impossibility that I won’t become one. It’s an empowering thought to realize you are restricted by nothing but yourself.

I also learnt that we can’t measure ourselves against others and their achievements. Bravery is only born through conquering fear. For me it was the bravest thing in the world to get on that plane here last week when all I wanted to do in that moment was run in the opposite direction. To all the other passengers it was just another flight. I was brave that day, and I think I’ll only get better if appreciate that every time I get my heart rate to go back to normal- that’s an achievement in itself. I’m not a failure if I don’t go travelling, it’s a failure if I go when I don’t want to. I have time to change my mind a hundred times about what I want to do with my life and there isn’t a wrong answer.

It’s so easy to feel boxed in by the post-uni question "so what are you going to do now?" So many graduates must feel pressured to come up with a suitable answer, a worthy direction that proves to the questioner that the last three years haven’t been a waste. I say sod the question. University can never be a waste. I learnt so so much there, not just in class but in the environment; living in a place where everyone wanted to better themselves for a variety of reasons- for a better life, broader mind, high paid job, a wider social network. I believe education is the most important thing we can give to ourselves- I don’t mean pieces of paper that tell you have a degree or a-levels or GCSEs, it’s the desire to expand the world you live in, expand your mind- and that thirst doesn’t end with your last exam.

It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks of your post-uni answer, because the reality is, whether you said you were going travelling, starting in office on Monday, or going on the dole, the person will have forgotten your answer 30 seconds later. It’s not their life.

I do think things happen for a reason- I’d be blundering off in the wrong direction unless I had been ill. It made me stop and really think about what I wanted to do and where I wanted to go. I was particularly lucky because with any type of anxiety or depression, the two most important things are to talk, and to exercise. I had a very strong support network of people around me, but the internet is an amazing tool for those who don’t feel they can voice how they feel. I thought I was crazy- that no one would understand how I felt and by looking on the internet makes you suddenly feel like you not a random crazy person- millions of people have felt like you do. It helps you stop feeling so hopeless because it was the thought that I’d feel that way forever that completely suffocated me. Acceptance is the key to understanding- the day I realised that I wrote this in my journal-

“This suffering Is not just cutting me, its opening me- opening avenues that bleed, yes, but they are avenues in new directions, new understandings, that hurt with every thought, but the less I resist, the less it drowns me.
I’m not shrinking back, I’m changing direction, it’s just taking time to be brave enough to open my eyes and see where I am now standing.”

One day doesn’t define the next- in fact one minute doesn’t define the next. If you fall over it doesn’t mean you’re going to be stuck down there forever- if you don’t have the energy to pull yourself back up immediately- don’t lose faith. You’ve not failed; just give yourself a little time. You’ve actually got more than you think.

Eight Smelly Boys and a Small Apartment

Eight smelly boys and a small apartment.


Eight smelly boys and a small apartment is definitely a recipe for many things; mess, hilarity, hangovers, and this first week out here has definitely has had all that and more, but it’s not quite so amusing when it’s your house (that you can't get into) that’s getting trashed.

I arrived in Spain on the 19th of July and it was only last night that I actually managed to sleep in my mum’s apartment, slightly defeating the object of coming to Spain for a rent-free summer… I booked my flight enthusiastically and then discovered that my twenty year-old brother was already going to be out there, with seven of his friends.

Now, I’m not blasting their personal hygiene, BUT this is a two bedroom apartment, and although it is fondly known to many as “Millers Villa” it is definitely not a villa. Having unpacked at the apartment I temporarily rented, I arrive at the patio door to find boys in various states of dishevelment on every soft surface; beds, sofas, airbeds. I think I even saw one having a siesta in a cupboard. My extremely tolerant mother has no qualms about the week, but the neighbours do. In a big way.

The police have been round most evenings, and arrive generally speaking to a scene consisting of a small patio with people squashed into every corner, with a plastic table in the front stacked high with empty beer cans. From what I can gather, by leaving them all on the table to stack up creates a mirage of a trophy cabinet, the achievement of male drinking on show for all the neighbours to see. The supermarket is selling crates of Dutch beer for 3 euros and so the boys bought as much as they could physically carry, building a beer tower in the middle of the kitchen.

The neighbours have not been big fans of ours for many years- we are the only English family in the street, and it shows. Me and my brother have enjoyed so many great summers here and the neighbours know us not by name but by the pikey-looking appearance the apartment takes on when we pile in all our friends. We BBQ on the street, park various Essex-boy racer style cars on it, play loud music, the washing line lives in the street, and there always seems to be at least one member of our little gang that is left to sleep outside…

To avoid the neighbours and police, several evenings are spent in the next town: “One euro night” is a growing legend in itself and deserves a separate post, in short- every drink in this particular bar is one euro, and they don’t skimp on pouring. The boys take on the challenge in style, ordering FOURTY vodka redbulls at a time- the bartender passing over a crate of energy drink and forty plastic glasses filled over the half-way mark with vodka.

Then comes the disaster of the male ego + shots. One of the boys start ordering himself shots that consist of half tequila, half vodka with salt and tabasco sauce. I look on pityingly as I have had the misfortune of drinking such a vile concoction a few years previously, and it reappeared momentarily in the bar toilets. It was the bar next door funny enough.

His performance is impressive- he takes four of these shots of death, each time his face screwing up in agony, mouth burning, stomach eroding. He roars and bangs his chest, genuinely shocked each time at the velocity of such a gross mixture and proud at his endurance levels. His pride drowns approximately 15minutes later. I watch his face change; it glasses over, he looks a slightly anxious shade of green and swiftly moves away, tequila vodka and red Tabasco sauce splashing all over the street. And his shoes.

God Save the Queen and all her subjects who represent her in foreign countries; British spew feeding the Spanish soil.

Right, I hear my brother say- let go to Pacha. Shot-boy is on all fours on the floor and I see him raise his hand into a thumbs up towards the rest of the boys, and to the coach that has just pulled up.

The coach arrives outside the bar at 4am to take all those who dare off to Pacha- a large club in Torrevieja with an infamous foam party. I have a vision of shot-boy falling unconscious in the corner of the club and drowning in endless foam, while other dance on unaware frolicking in the bubbles. An urban legend of a Sweedish man suffering the same fate many years ago comes to mind and I manage to stop them as they drag shot-boy towards the coach.

I get grateful pats on the back for freeing them of such burden and between me and my remaining group of friends, manage to carry shot-boy into a taxi. We take him back to my rented apartment as it’s probably unwise to leave him on his own in such a state and my mother would probably not appreciate sick-stained tiles. He writhes around on the floor for 30 minutes, the agony of his head and stomach already beginning, before passing out. We do the obligatory “mess-with-the-drunk-unconscious-friend” dressing him up in sunglasses, funny hat, beach towel and take various photos before we fall asleep.

I’m woken at 8am with crashes and bangs in the kitchen, and all I can hear is “that was immense. Yeh immense.” After 10 minutes of the ‘immense-parade’ not shutting up I stumble into the kitchen to find my brother and his remaining friends all sitting in my apartment, (some of them sitting on shot-boy) congratulating themselves on the immense night they’ve had.
It turns out I went home with their door keys, and by some miracle they remembered which apartment I was staying in- but by the time they came in and sat down they forgot what they were there for . I send them on their way swiftly, noting silently that there are still two of them missing.

The week continued in this fashion, the boys providing much entertainment, while at the same time I feel guilty for enjoying such loutish stereotypical British holiday-maker antics. I make a note to myself to enjoy more Spanish culture next week. The boys all inform me that none of them have brought cameras, not one between the eight of them, saving them from any trouble with various girlfriends and parents back home. My camera on the other hand, had a very busy week, and seems to be full of photos of their white bums jumping in the sea at 5am, a particularly crazy member of their group pretending to be a turtle and burying his head in the sand, and talking to himself. There is also the matter of the obsession with a bottle of ‘toning oil’ that one of them received free with their subscription of Men’s Health. The oil was distributed generously, stinging their stomachs and giving them an excuse to rub eachother’s belly’s in a peculiar fashion. It was like been a spectator at a zoo…

They all managed to book different flights home and so disappear in dribs and drabs towards the end of the week, my mother’s apartment looking slightly less like a refugee camp for smelly adolescents.

There’s finally space for me to move in when I see a huge van parked outside with the words “Dial-A-Rod” splashed across it. My brother is looking slightly sheepish on the sofa with his head in hands (due to a hangover, not guilt) and the man who has appeared from the van kindly informs me that my “pipes are fucked up”( the gentlemen is from Romford, I swear to God that town just follows me around.) Various hoses and pipes appear from inside the colossal vehicle as 'Mick' attempts to fix the problem, the neighbours are looking over their gates with what I can only describe as a smug look splashed across their tanned faces.

My brother meanwhile informs me he’s off to pack. He’s leaving for England that afternoon- i.e, leaving me with the shit. Literally.

Spanish pipes are not known for their endurance, and eight boys who bought ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTY toilet rolls on their first day here, had no chance against the Spanish sewage system. 140- That’s one toilet roll EACH per day. To me that sounds like insanity and the description of ‘number 2s’ coming out of the tiles makes me want to batter my brother and run a mile. But I stay and endure Mick’s huffing and puffing, the neighbours huffing and puffing (we needed access to their pipes too, to which the reply was, ‘well my toilet’s fine.’ My friend had to politely tell them in Spanish that it was fine, they could just call us back when they have excretement all over the floor, or just let us in a fix the problem now.)

With Mick paid, pipes clean and boys gone, I spent the afternoon cleaning and nesting. I think that was enough British hilarity for one week… My new job in a Spanish beach bar with 'Juan' should defiantly provide some enterntainment, starting with the ‘Melon fiesta.’ watch this space…..

Homelessness

I wrote this piece in January but wanted to post it here as Crisis had such an affect on me. Homelessness is an issue all year round; its not only unbearable in winter and at Christmas, but 365 days a year...

“Homelessness-

It’s not about not having a home. It’s about something being seriously fucking wrong.”

Stuart Shorter- A life backwards.

“I’m just going to get a cup of tea Miles.”

“Alright, I wait down here.”

I didn’t go back. That was my goodbye, a lousy lie about a cup of tea. I told myself I was doing the right thing for them, for Miles, Emile, Marcus, Miguel, Sean, Mickey; for all the friends I made at the shelter over the time I had volunteered at Crisis this year. But sitting back at home, in my warm house with my family, I realised it was more to do with the fact that it made it easier for me. That’s when the crying started. I could see that I was afraid of goodbye because it was a real one; not, lets swap numbers, or I’ll add you on ‘Facebook.’ It’s goodbye. I’m going back to my nice life and you’re going back outside. The platform that I met these people on crumbled as we turn the heating off on the last night so they could begin to get acclimatised to the cold again. The limbo our friendship balanced on was over, and I felt I was abandoning my friends. Over the Christmas period, crisis at Christmas run shelters all over London for eight days. Eight days of hot meals and hot showers. Doctors, dentists’ options, hairdressers, even masseuses are all available to the guests. There are people there from the council, housing system, benefits, solicitors, translators, immigration advice. Everything from the venue, food, to the professionals and helpers are all volunteers or donations.

Its not the first time I have worked with homeless people, I didn’t walk in naïve- I’ve make the same mistake before, making bonds and friendships that you can’t take outside of the shelter, for the good of everyone involved, I couldn’t do it any other way. But what still shocks me is the hopeless realisation that homelessness cannot be simply solved by putting a roof over these people’s heads. The fact these people have no address is not even half the problem. Spending time with them has made me see there’s so much more to it than that. Homelessness is a state of mind. There are numerous types of homeless people; there are those that have suffered a temporary set back; their wife has left them, they’ve gone bankrupt, loss of a loved one. These are the ‘reachables’; they are the most likely to get off the street, with a bit of help. Next are the youths, that have run away from home, or that have graduated from care and have no idea what to do next and where to go. There are the ex-convicts and ex-army persons that struggle with the sudden change, of their days not having routine and regime. The elderly; those with no children, grandchildren or pension. No one to pay for a care home and somehow they slip through the net and die quietly on the streets. Then it gets more complicated; next are those who simply don’t know how to function in society. They have learning disabilities, they can’t read or write and more often than not they have alarmingly serious mental health problems. They are socially inept and consequently suffer from chronic poverty, unable to rise above their circumstances without proper care and support. (Drugs and alcohol are laced within all these levels, sometimes being the reason for people’s homelessness, sometimes a by-product.)

The east-London shelter this year was run in an un-used office block in the docklands; three floors of open space, floor-to-ceiling glass windows looking out over the Thames. The cold, bright mornings were visually stunning; the sun rising over the river to the city gave the top floor with all the camp beds a healthy, hopeful glow. It’s a lot easier to appreciate the beauty in a cold sunrise when you’re sleeping on the right side of the glass.

The second floor had all the advice areas, showers, and activities. There was a mini cinema set up and boxes of games, chess, scrabble, monopoly. The arts and crafts area was at the opposite end next to a table serving endless cups of tea and coffee, then the bottom floor had the kitchen and large cafeteria. Something that people don’t always appreciate when thinking of the homeless, Is how boring it can be. Drugs enter the equation for some as a way to warm up, or a way to fill the endless hours of life on the pavement. These people never tired of games and simple entertainment in the days I spent with them, although its rather frustrating being beaten by at scrabble over and over again when your opponent is blatantly making up words and double word scores, but you can’t say anything, because- he’s homeless. Give him the double word score, make it a triple.

The small group of guests that spent two days dominating the painting area all live under Waterloo bridge; veterans with years of service under their belt. Dominic was in the army for twenty seven years, Ian, fourteen. They planned to hang the poster from the bridge where they live.

“CAMP HOPE.” I read.

I’m painfully embarrassed when a family member tells me that “they’re proud of my generosity, my generous donation of my time,” and it’s not due to modesty. I want to wash their pride off me because it makes me feel sticky, it feels fake- my supposed generosity. I’m left with an overwhelming sense that my time it not enough; it’s a hopeless situation and me spending a few days talking and playing scrabble with them and painting pictures feels like a bit of an insult.

It’s Miles I can’t seem to forget. We’re the same age but at polar opposite ends of the earth. He seemed to have fallen so far in such a short space of time, he doesn’t believe that he could ever dust himself off and start again. There is nothing he values in his life. Everyday is a pain in the arse he says.

“What am I supposed to do, I don‘t know how to do anything but burgle houses. Fuck, I can barely write my own name.” His dad had died when he was nine, his mother re-married and his new stepfather liked to hit him around the head with frying pans and other kitchen utensils when he thought no one was watching. Miles started playing up at school, causing trouble, then stopped going. Took drugs, smoked weed in the park and got drunk often; then came petty crime, stealing cars up to burglary, leading him to prison, and now he just spent Christmas in a homeless shelter. So fast a fall, so hard a climb.

Any advice I give ends up sounding condescending and he tells me to stop lecturing him, playfully punching me on the arm. I look through the small collection of photos he passes to me, photos that were stuck on his wall in prison. He was released four weeks ago. I pick off the lumps of blue-tack looking carefully but I don’t recognise the boy playing in the sand with his parents.

I don’t see how I can have both, be friends with them without being one of them; how I can care about a homeless person from the comfort of my own home? The contradiction surely poisons the intent. We’re separated by what side of the door we are on and the separation is the size of the grand canyon. As I’m writing this, it’s snowing, and I think of my friends and how cold it is. I feel a pull to be outside, to be sitting with them because being warmed by my central heating whilst I miss them and feel sorry for them feels too strange, but being a martyr sounds ridiculous. It’s insulting to give up what I have when they don’t have anything. I’m sick with contradiction.

I don’t know what side of the door to stand, and actually, whichever side I am, it doesn’t make a difference; it doesn’t solve the unfathomable tangle of these peoples lives, laced with misfortune, abuse, drugs. And there’s no in-between. Although Crisis could be seen as one; an in-between or a platform where two obscure sides of one coin meet. One of the lead volunteers of our particular shelter, Ben said that the main feedback that he got from the ‘guests’ every year was how nice it felt for them that for eight days, “they were talked to like human beings, not rubbish on the floor.” In my time there I gave smiles and hugs out like sweets and was never afraid or wary, although I’d be lying if I said I’d feel the same way giving away affection or a hug to a homeless person on the street. But really, what’s the difference? What a useless contradiction that is.

I thought helping others at Christmas would make me feel good, but actually I feel terrible. I change my mind a hundred times a second as to whether to call up and volunteer for an extra shift; the shift of closing day where we give them their last breakfast and gently get them to leave. I want to go back, suddenly these people are the only people I want to spend time with. How many times over the last few days have I laughed as Sean or Mickey said something funny because it was something true. They say exactly what they’re thinking, exactly what they mean, because if your not part of society, then there are not constraints of society; ways to behave, basic social etiquette. All of that goes out of the window when there’s no roof.

I’m sure I’m not the first person to abandon Miles, or to disappear on Miguel. And I bet I’m not the last. And I’m struggling to face that fact sitting with a box of Kleenex in my living room, let-a-lone abandoning them to their face. They don’t need a Hollywood goodbye. Me crying is a bit useless, and spending more time with these people serves to make me feel better, not them. So I don’t call, I don’t go back.

The phrase the tip of the iceberg springs to mind- I’m sitting on the tip, and I now can’t pretend that the little piece I can see, is all that there is, because by sitting here, I’ve acknowledged that there’s more, much more. I don’t know what to do with that, I’m marooned. I’m struggling with the sight of human suffering, but more because of the fact that it goes past suffering, they’re surviving. Or rather, it’s these people’s version of living. Its life, and hearts beat and lungs breathe no matter how lonely and lost you are. To me, that seems like a tragedy.

The tears flow and flow for hours. Men aren’t good with tears and my dad is no exception. I know how much he hates to see me cry and he would give the world to remedy it. He makes me cups of tea with lots of sugar. He pats me on the head and gives me some money, “There there,” he says to me stroking my hair.

I keep imaging Miles waiting at the bottom of the stairs for me to come back with my cup of tea, the money is crumpled tightly in my palm and I cry harder. Humans are contradictory creatures, and I am a useless mess of contradiction and tears.