My Year of Learning: 2015 From Homelessness to Finding Peace



My Year of Learning: 2015 From Homelessness to Finding A Place of Peace Part 2My true story of overcoming obstacles, learning important life lessons and finding out important truths about myself and my mental illness. This is also featured on my personal blog, where I do updates on life, tour, books

Part 2
I found myself aching for London. missing it in ways that I never had before. This was supposed to be a
new chapter of my life, a more rewarding one and all I’d done so far is fucking it up beyond all logical
reasoning. I wanted to experience those wet, city nights playing chicken with the double decker buses once
again, and riding the Tube until it closed for the night in a vain attempt to run away from myself. Sickly sweet
thoughts of fantasy subdued me and I took to laying in the cool dark with the duvet pulled over me. Whilst high,
I believed that I was immune to gravity, only to realise too late each time and crash dramatically.
I’d been in Los Angeles and only made one mate, my Uber driver. I’d spend money that I didn’t really have
riding through the cities surrounding LA, wanting to spend time with someone other than my thoughts. I wracked
up thousands in Uber bills, simply because I was alone. I never told him this, I just told him I didn’t feel like going
home that I just wanted to explore Southern California. And explore I did. I took the bus down to Mexico and spent
a few days there. It was nothing like I’d experienced before. It was third worldly really in Tijuana, though Mexico
city was as beautiful as any European city I’d been to. I returned back to LA, energised, but still craving something.
My depression was worsening, especially after crashing from the highs of the tablets I’d been popping like sweets.
In either April or March, I used to remember the date, but now its fleeting and fuzzy, I realised the depth of my emptiness.
I wasn’t working, despite applying to a few places, I was broke and I couldn’t handle my existence without the help
of a chemical pick me up. I’d thought of suicide many times before and had attempted it half-heartedly and whole heartedly
in the past; I didn’t want the familiar fear of, „Will I go to Hell when I die?“ to overwhelm me as it had before, so I ate 4-5
hash cookies and waited for serenity to overtake me.
Once I was completely fearless, I reached for my trusted companion, who also happen to be my only true friend, my razorblades.
I dug it into my flesh with a relish I’d not felt in the longest time. At first it was one deep line. I watched, mesmerised as the deep
scarlet blood dribbled out of my wrist. Then another. And another. With each stroke of the blade, I went deeper and deeper. I’d heard that it was a peaceful way to go out; that it was comparable to slipping into a warm bath. I texted and messaged my „friends“ goodbye and not to expect anything from me anymore. It felt as if I was falling asleep. Slowly the room around me faded into the darkness…
I awoke hours later in the early hours of the morning to the sounds of Hollywood blvd. The red dial on the alarm clock read 3.35. My arm and clothing felt like I was caked in some sort of clay and I felt light headed. Illuminated by my iPhone I saw the damage I’d caused. I sure as hell wasn’t dead, but I was soaked to the skin with blood. It had dried a perverse red, rich orange and deep mauve. A shiver ran down my spine. I didn’t know what to do. I curled under the blood stained duvet and listed to the sounds of the city for what felt like an eternity. At 5 in the morning, I told a few people that I was still here, in the physical form anyway, and that they didn’t have to panic. I stumbled into the bathroom and slid into the bath after turning the water to ice to stifle the burning feeling inside. I gently cleaned the wounds in the pale light of the city lights. I didn’t bother turning on any of the lights in my flat; I wanted to remain invisible, lost inside myself. I didn’t want anyone to see me in this state. I was not only ashamed, but scared. I’d had encounters with mental health facilities before and not one of them was pleasant. I stuffed my clothing and the duvet into the washing machine and sat on the floor, pressed up against it. Early morning light was peeking underneath the curtains by this time and I examined my wounds in the natural light. They were an odd purplish red and ached just as much as I did inside. My Uber driver/ friend had received my messages and wanted to come over and see how I was doing. I was frozen inside as I replied to him and let him know the I was okay, but I didn’t want to spend the day alone. He came over to collect me as I pulled on fresh clothes. We spent the day around LA and Venice Beach, not talking about what happened. I’m forever grateful to him and what he did that day. I’d never had that level of support before and it was something that I deeply needed.
I met his step father and his boyfriend, who I absolutely adore and still keep in contact with. I formed those two amazing friendships
all because I needed an uber ride one day. The kindness of these three people still amaze me to this day and I fondly look back on
the time that we spent together as some of the happiest moments of my life. I don’t know if it was fate or a lucky coincidence or what it was, but I’m beyond blessed to have had this happen. My mood improved spending time with them. They were the first people I’d met in the longest time who wanted nothing from me buy company and friendship. It was a refreshing and recharging
experience that I desperately needed.

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