Inspired by someone I met, and would like to get to know more, on one of my weekly homeless walks through London…
I have not seen him for some time, and wonder where he is.
Autumn is setting in, foreshadowing winter with sudden gnarly gusts of wind and rain, which promise cold and tortuous nights to come sleeping under London’s callous, indifferent sky.
Will he make it through until next spring? The depth of winter is a threat, but the spiral of addiction and despair a greater one.
I remember when I first saw him. Late thirties or early forties, his energy ceaseless, hypnotic, the music from his headphones driving him forever forward. It was as if he were unable to stop and be still, even for a brief moment, the kinesis of his body but also the mania of his mind forbidding this.
This could be given a diagnostic name, ADHD or equivalent, but I’d rather not. Like the rest of us, he is too complex, messy and beautiful a human being to be reduced to a single disorder. The roots of his suffering, like an ancient yew tree, are old, sprawling and mystical. They can never be fully grasped, despite the allure and delusion of modern psychology, which seeks to understand and explain everything.
He was on his beloved skates, gliding, as if dancing on air like a sugar glider in search of his next sweet meal, barreling down Tottenham Court Road, darting between cars and buses, his skates fast and furious on the tarmac, whirring and humming like a band of katydids.
This meal he sought, he needed, might it have been crystal meth or some other route to lose himself. A dive, an escape into temporary abandon and oblivion, until the ghost is hungry once more and must be fed again. There is never enough of the sweet stuff to satiate the hollow soul. If it is not a substance, then it is a thing rooted in desire, be it food, sex, porn… anything to distract, comfort and take away the pain of emptiness.
Is it any wonder he needs to abandon himself? His mind won’t shut the fuck up, churning over and over, the same thoughts on repeat, a stuck vinyl, on a perpetual loop to nowhere. The sweet meth will at least bring some respite from the pain and monotony of self-hatred. Aarrgghh.
But there he is, suddenly, standing in front of me, appearing like an ephemeral ghost as if from nowhere. He does not wear his skates or headphones, and moves slower than usual, dressed in his distinctive uniform of black vest, denim shorts and black cap.
His small body is wiry and strong, a taut sculpture of muscle and sinew. Were he an animal, then might he also be a ferret as well as a sugar glider, when not on his skates? This man before me, he is playful, curious and mischievous, beneath his sadness.
A few scars and blemishes adorn his face and limbs, they tell his story. There is pain there, a lot of it. London Irish, I wonder. I have known a few, and dated one, with childhoods, including hers, defined by a loathsome brew of alcohol, abuse and violence.
Irish Catholicism engenders and emboldens family dysfunction and chaos like no other religious diaspora, such is the depth of negative pleasure in the awful guilt it espouses. So much for the “empire of the spirit”. The doctrine of original sin is odious bullshit, but devastatingly effective in the compliance it demands and exacts.
He looks at me with an exquisite sadness, his eyes big and lost like a wounded sugar gilder’s, but thank god he is here and feeling it, not numbing out alone with the help of meth or some other holy nectar. He needs to be witnessed, how we all do, to be fully seen and heard.
Dark brown almost black hair, strong features, he holds my stare. There’s no mask on this occasion, no pretence of being “ok”, but rather an immediate candour and frailty.
I do not ask, “How are you?” That question, which more often than not means nothing and is asked without expectation of an authentic reply. I do not need to ask, as he knows he already has my care and attention. “I’ve been all over the place, can’t settle, feel wired,” he utters. “I’ve lost access, and can’t function without her.”
He is referring to his young daughter, who he is unable to see in the midst of his broken relationship. How he misses her, she his lifeblood, his everything. Why is it that only the maternal bond and instinct has been made sacrosanct? Men love their children just as much as women do, and will do anything for them, care and provide for them until they’re exhausted and broken, and can do no more.
Staring into his eyes, I want to weep. There it is, the welling up, the heart murmuring, stirring in me. I want to hold him at this moment, let him fall into me. For like him, my relationship with my kids’ mother is broken, and like him, I would be utterly lost without my children.
Us men, how we hold on tight and find it so very hard to let go. No wonder, when we are brought up to show strength at all times. Never drop the armour, never surrender. The paradox being, much of the armour is an illusion, albeit a necessary one, which most of us cling onto for dear life, lest we fall apart and can no longer provide.
Shame pushes his shoulders down, as he looks at me after speaking, like he must hide now, the wounded ferret banished from his business, from me and the rest of the world, because he’s finally shown himself, illuminated that part of him, the lost and fearful little boy who wants to curl up and cry.
This most destructive of emotions, shame. It thrives and revels in the shadows, how I know it’s seductive and mercurial dance. And it despises the light of self-awareness, and in turn, the tender touch of self-acceptance.
There’s the glint of a smile now, out of the fear and deflation, his eyes flashing with aliveness, like the sugar glider who has spotted what could be his next meal, as he feels something stir in him, a hope that has always been there. How it is to be witnessed, to be held.
Might he finally give himself permission to obtain the help he deserves? Might he at last take off his armour, this suit he has grown so accustomed to and is a prisoner of. God, I hope so.
Is not the prospect of unconditional love and acceptance the most terrifying thing of all?