A Guardian in the Rough

I walked in the door with two strange women that would soon become family, carrying all my worldly possessions. They amounted to one suitcase and a shoulder bag. I was broken. I’d been granted entry to the refuge after a long debate with myself about whether I should ask to go or not. It should have felt like progress, but it felt like a huge step backwards. I was starting from scratch, building upon the rubble of my recent life. I didn’t know where to put myself. The old building was warm, but it felt vast. I didn’t know where I was going, and I felt like a child following the principal of a school on my first tour of the buildings. I couldn’t think beyond that moment. If I did, I wouldn’t survive.

The staff were pleasant, but there were lots of formalities to see to, and I didn’t have the mental capacity for them. I’d used it all in navigating my way through my excruciatingly painful marriage. Every minute had been like a tortuous game I never stood a chance of winning. I’d kept trying anyway. I was worn out. I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror when I washed the tears from my face. I was ashamed of the person looking back at me.

I had a baby in tow. That just complicated things. Not only did I have to figure out a new path in this strange hostel, but I was solely responsible for the survival of another vulnerable human being. It was too much to bear. I got a chat, a hug and a pack of tissues and then I had to handle all the problematic administration that came with moving out. It was more than I could handle, but that didn’t give me a free pass to get out of doing it. I was expected to keep everything in order when everything in my life was so disordered. I could barely remember my own identity.

After the phone calls were placed and my small amount of unpacking was done, I was asked if I needed a food parcel. No - I said. I couldn’t take one. My pride wouldn’t let me, and I had a little money stashed away. I’d been squirreling it away in anticipation of my newfound homelessness. Maybe on some level, I wasn’t entirely in denial about the state of affairs that existed before I’d fled my home. My heart ached for home, even though I knew it was the least safe place I could possibly be. All I could think about was him – my supposed life partner, the enemy of my existence. He’d break into a psychotic rage whenever he found out I’d left. I wouldn’t be there to witness it, but I’d feel it all the same. I was still attached to him, like a child connected to its mother before they cut the cord, and I had no idea how to sever that dangerous bond. It was as strong as steel.

After killing some time, sitting in my room, wallowing in my misery, I knew it was time to get up, for the baby’s sake. She was deathly quiet. She always was, but I’d never noticed just how silent she was until that moment. She needed to do something, she needed to get out of the locked room that had been our life up until that point.

I left my room and went downstairs, tentatively. I didn’t want to offend anyone with my presence. It felt like I was the intruder amidst all the regulars. I wasn’t established there. Maybe I never would be. I felt perilously close to signing myself out and going home. But where was home? It was just a figment of my imagination. It’s a word that conjures up feelings of warmth and safety, but mine made me feel like I was fighting for my life with every ounce of remaining energy I had.

I went downstairs with the baby in my arms. She was looking around her with curiosity, like she knew we were in a strange environment, but she just couldn’t articulate it yet. We went into the communal area, and I strapped her into a highchair. Everyone was hanging around, looking as comfortable as they could within that setting.

“Hi honey,” beamed a lady with bleached blonde hair. She was full of smiles and goodness. It was like standing in the equatorial sun after years of living in the arctic. She helped me to figure out the highchair straps. They were fiddly and they didn’t resemble the ones we had at home at all. My emotions crippled me, so I couldn’t do the most basic of tasks. I was so relieved, I just wanted to fall into her arms and thank her. She padded around the kitchen in her slippers, giving me the grand tour. We had separate kitchens, but she showed me hers. She talked me through the way it all functioned – the small space we had to work with, the food parcels, the extra items that people left on the end table, for whoever wanted or needed them. She told me whom to steer clear of, and her warnings turned out to be right. She gave me a heads up on how to survive in that strange setting. I knew who was supportive and whom I needed to give a wide birth.

She told me they were having a cookery class in a few minutes and invited me to join in. I hadn’t known they did things like that there. We were baking buns, she said, with one of the workers. She was hilarious, the lady told me, it’d be great craic. I won’t share my guardian angel’s name with you.  I’m not meant to say anything that might identify her to the outside world.

Suddenly, she turned to me and gave me a huge, unending hug. She was a big lady, and her hugs were pillow soft. I felt like I was home again, whenever she hugged me. It felt like I could feel something – something that wasn’t unpleasant. The place might have been inhospitable in so many ways, but it felt like I was where I was meant to be, right in the comforting arms of the lady that had already faced the fear that enveloped me. I knew then that I would overcome it too.