Societies Ills


 

Sitting with a cup in me hand,rattling my pennies. The wind cuts through my salvation army coat – I feel bare.

Half an hour until the big brother brigade does their rounds, to come  clear off the debris of me, offending society, with my appearance of failure. Glasses fixed on nose bridges to hide poverty’s despicable,  shining glare.

It wasn’t meant to get to this point. I had a home, a family. Believe me, I was a carer. That was many years ago.

I let my parents down. They was ill. They fought a lot. Dyspraxia and Alzheimers is a blinding, rallied up bull  shit way  to steer 30 years of love straight out the front door with a forceful blow.

Pa was getting violent he couldn’t help it – it was the  frustration. The illness works that way . Too much protein in the brain ,the doctor says.

I don’t care much for protein. I just wanted him to get the right meds,  to make him the  man who he used to be

I came home from school one day and the living room had been touched by pa’s hard  handed caress.

‘Put ya fecking glasses on – you thick cow. Turn them around. ‘ere give them to me I’ll show you how.’

Ma was crying. Her perception was off the wire – crazy. Dad went to put on me ma’s glasses and stopped dead in his tracks.

 He had forgotten why he was standing next to Ma- and lashed out – his moves were not shady but he  was hazy.

I couldn’t watch them do this any longer. I had to get out. I wished to start a new life. 16 – find a home I could call me own, addle, get a job and be Miss independent. carefree,sipping on splendour.

I found me a job – I was smart not like them other lasses, herded in like cattle, branded with the letter P. Marked,dotted, scarred, scared, drugged – too skinny to be called slender.

I started washing up pots,owt I could do. I needed a step to reach them. They were that big. I was that short.  The gaffer  he was a bit of twocker- A Tyke.

 He should have been wooing his guests instead of fondling me tits ,grabbing me ass and jerking off with the hand he vowed to his wife to stay faithful with.

I couldn’t take that shit no more. I was no whore. I suppose I could have called me Ma and Pa

I said No. Loud and clear.

Decibels reverberating – Tin Tin like.  I was barking mad.

 Hotel  guests, eating their warm croissants, couldn’t ignore  the tone – it was him that had set that bar.

Didn’t even get me wages. Couldn’t pay me rent. I only had a room but it was my home. A place none could bother me. I could come home kickoff me shoes and read and chill.

 Be at peace.

That were  a few years now. Things change. Time never stops. Drugs, alcohol, overdoses, hospital beds.

None of it worked. I just got older, street smart, I was now living amongst  wild, underfed , hope-starved geese.

No place to shower, they say it takes 3 seconds to make an impression on someone. No jobs – the only job I could get was the hardest graft I ever did.

 Squatting on the cobbles and begging for scraps of bread.

Bread,

dough,

blast me to oblivion ,

 fresh like a baguette- warm ,baked.

 I was safer in  the streets than I was in a seedy local pub.

The pervading scent emanating from these places was  the end of hope and that was my biggest dread. I’d rather  be underground dead.

I got in with some  Christian volunteers – at first, I was in tears. I had Hope, but I had lost faith.

 Pa, he had gone into a state care home and Ma?  well, she had a stroke and I don’t know. It just got harder to think of going back. Mind,  it was me guilt.

At first, it felt like they were recruiting me for their cult. I knew there is no God.  I had seen what mercy truly looked like. Bleak. a dying art.

 I got attacked one night,got meself in a right snicket. I know I wasn’t to blame. Wrong place, wrong time, could have happened to anyone.

 It was me.

Weeks went by , started feeling nauseous, went to A&E – they confirmed what I knew.I was up the duff.

 I knew I had to reach out – me and my child  depart ?   never crossed my mind -not even  from the start.

9 months  passed . The SS got involved – my baby was honey coloured hair and blue eyed. A prize catch ,a  tick off the adoption incentive  target list.

I didn’t stand a chance. They convinced me she’d be better off in another one’s arms.

That toppled me, I came down like a house of cards. Not original but tell it like it is, Bards.

I started living in shared accommodation.Nice people, life been shit. We all make choices – doesn’t make us bad people,right?

I lost the plot, forgot my goals- to become a suited and booted member of society. I had my mobile phone I got  given to me by the charity.

I whip it out. I got a text.

what’s app – it’s free.

Overweening  Lady, with the fine, make up on and pretty, salon styled hair and the sparkly engagement ring. Don’t look at me like that and stare.

Is it so wrong to have a phone and live on the street off and on ? I ain’t got no one to marry me.

”  I’m starting to get ideas for what I want to write about in my first script for my MA. What prompted this stream of consciousness is obviously the content.  One of the themes of the play is centred around  Homeless people. I saw a man – I presume was homeless the  other day begging for my some money and he was texting with his phone. My first reaction was rather judgemental -so I started asking myself questions and this is the result. The register/style  of speaking and writing  I use is inspired by how some  people in Yorkshire speak. “

Daisy Willows

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57 thoughts on “Societies Ills

  1. Love your writing. My life’s had a similar trajectory. Anorexia to near death in adolescence & early adulthood. Nearly had my baby taken from me by forced abortion which I managed to resist. Am trying to write a fictional memoir but don’t know where to start. Great to meet you dear Daisy

    Like

    • Hi, Anne. I’m going to have a look at your voice posts. No, it is not me. lol. Thankfully- yeah ,I don’t mind you quoting some of my work as long as you use my real name and pseudonym – daisy Willows/ Natasha Sonia Bodley. 🙂 I hope that is okay. x

      Like

  2. The very reason why I live in the room I call home today was because of checking into a homeless shelter. I got lucky as a veteran; most here only get a bed and a few hours a night to use the shelter. And I wonder about those people laid out in front of the Salvation Army at 14th and 7, wonder how similar their stories are..

    A compelling read, needless to say. ☺

    Liked by 1 person

    • WOW! I want to challenge societies misconceptions of why people become and stay homeless. It isn’t just oh get a job , get a house’.

      Thanks for sharing something- so personal with me. I’m in the rough stages of writing stage script. You are obviously under no obligation to say yes but I want to find out some of the challenges/ obstacles people have encountered whilst being classed as homeless / part homeless. I’d like to first personal accounts. If you interested in sharing a bit about your experience you can email me on daisyinthewillows@yahoo.co.uk. or I could come up with some questions and you can answer what you feel comfortable. I am passionate about subjects that deal with social change and social consciousness. Have a great day. Sorry, I’ve only just read this post . Everything you discuss would be anonymous. I’m just looking for a bit of insight.. Take care

      Liked by 1 person

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