Inspired by an evening of volunteering last week for Under One Sky, a charity which provides essentials, amongst other things, for those living on the street, I decided to write something…
Hackney, mid-week,
and it is a cold and wet evening there,
as night beckons and winter looms,
full of foreboding for those that must live on its streets.
Up ahead, under a bridge by the station,
I see a middle-aged woman squatting on the pavement,
singing and swearing,
then collapse,
suddenly howling and writhing like a wounded, delirious animal.
As I get closer, I notice how small, slight and frail she is.
She wears few clothes, scantily clad,
tight blue jeans,
a skimpy black crop top,
midriff bare,
which carries the tattoo of an angel around her navel.
How she needs one at this moment, a guardian angel.
I stand over her,
with two other volunteers,
both young women,
as she rolls onto her side,
turning away from us,
in particular from me,
the man,
the bastard, she mumbles,
to reveal a blue lace thong
peeking out from underneath her jeans.
She tries to clamber to her feet,
her black high-heeled PVC boots affording her no grip,
as she slips and tumbles again,
an intoxicated mess,
in a chaotic heap on the floor,
legs splayed like a fallen doe,
fearful and exhausted.
These sexualised clothes and shoes,
designed to entice and seduce men,
even though it is men who likely lie at the root of all her suffering,
every bone and sinew of her body carrying the marks of sexual abuse.
God only knows what happened to her, I wonder, as I look down at her.
Scars, blemishes and bruises adorn her face and torso,
these marks of pain,
inflicted by others but also by her,
such is her self-contempt,
as she takes a piece of glass
and slashes clumsily at her wrist and forearm.
Thankfully, the shard is thick and blunt,
and she struggles to hold it,
let alone cut herself,
such is her descent into crack and alcohol addiction.
In this blur and haze of forgetfulness, of nothingness,
there lies an excruciating emptiness,
her emaciated, starving body seeming to abandon, to cannibalise itself.
She longs to feel whole,
which perhaps she never can,
in view of the extent of abuse inflicted on her.
She looks up at me now,
from the dark, wet pavement,
and I see her clearly for the first time.
She has the face of a fifty-something,
though might well be younger,
her skin pale and features gaunt,
both ravaged by decades of substance abuse,
the addiction taking all of her,
wringing her dry,
merciless and unforgiving,
but for the faint whisper of her soul,
which is barely perceptible,
buried deep under all the pain.
People going to and from the station pass by her,
this half-naked woman sprawled on the floor,
grumbling and moaning incoherently,
but they do not stop.
Look at her, she’s pathetic, one woman seems to utter to her friend, as she scurries past.
How has it come to this?
That we are unable to treat
the marginalised,
the dispossessed,
the desperate,
with dignity and compassion.
I find myself needing to turn away and weep, as I continue to look at,
to be with her.
For in her,
let us give her a name now…
Mary, yes…
there is no moral failing,
in spite of what our righteous,
systemic conditioning might tell us,
and the fucking horrible tabloids might declare.
Yes, she is drunk, high, half-naked and barely comprehensible,
as she rolls and writhes on the floor.
But she is all these things
because she is in pain,
no more than this,
in agony,
as she seeks to escape and find respite in any way she can from her suffering.
She finally smiles at me,
in between tears,
as I gain from this moment of human connection as much as she does,
it clear that I am as fragile,
as messy as she is,
and that just like her,
need
attention and compassion,
not neglect and contempt;
connection,
not withdrawal and disregard;
love,
not hate.
Thank you, Mary. Good luck, Mary, I mutter to myself, as I finally leave her.