Finding myself unable to cope with the effects of traumatic events in my life, I began to break down, losing work, friends, control over my life.
I made a pressurised decision to walk away from ‘home’, as other decisions seemed too hard.
I had moved over 30 times in as many years and this was the longest I’d lived anywhere. I’d grown roots. I’d loved and cherished my ‘home’, surrounded by nature, friends, family and a great community.
In a whirlwind of deconstruction of the ‘successful’ life I’d built, I collected some pieces that I couldn’t part with, and took them with me into a van, where I travelled with my ‘things’ from my other life.
My last minute decisions of what to keep, made in the messy muddy dark winter as I literally dismantled, and limped away from my only safe place, became ‘home’ for me. They were my clues, my comforts, my company and my connection to who I had been, and represented also who cared about me enough to keep a home fire burning for me in their hearts.
Out of all my ‘stuff’ there was very little, but what I chose became significant to my understanding what home and homelessness meant, to me.