At the end of life's arduous journey, each one of us has our own unique story to share, a story that defines us and gives us an identity, a story that is filled with ups and downs, joys and sorrows, success and failure. Indulge me for a moment, as I share a profound and riveting journey of personal struggle and triumph; the journey of an individual who, upon release from prison, dealt with multiple challenges, from being sectioned to facing homelessness. 

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"Life is not a bed of roses, and it certainly wasn't for me. Just a week after stepping out of prison, I found myself sectioned at the Lindon Centre in Broomfield Hospital. These were trying times indeed, but this is also where I met Deborah Syrett, and our hearts intertwined. While confronting my trials, I also lodged my homelessness application with the Chelmsford County Council."

 

My saga unfurls in various locations, meeting numerous people, some trying to lead me astray, others giving a helping hand. Moving from place to place, from the Lampwick in Southend-on-Sea to The Oasis in Harlow, to Gibraltar House in Wickford High Street, my life takes turns and twists that may seem unimaginable to most. 

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• I divulge into my tumultuous life, from dealing with addictive substances, to breaching restraining orders and dealing with the emotional turmoil of losing a loved one.

• I recount my time at Lampwick, where the temptation for an easy escape through drugs was always around the corner.

• Finally, I reflect on the seraptionendipity of love as it blooms amidst the gloom at Lindon Centre in Broomfield Hospital.

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Stay with me as I take you on this roller coaster ride of life, from a point of bleak desperation to finding rays of hope. As you read through my tumultuous journey, may you find echoes of your own struggles and, most importantly, the courage and will to overcome them.

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You'd anticipate that after a long prison term, I'd relish the taste of freedom. But ironically, I felt like an artist stripped of his studio and thus, his reason for living. Looking back, I discovered myself in the punitive position of an unemployed, middle-aged man still sharing a roof with his mother. This situation, coupled with my lack of a plan for independent living, made me feel like an outcast. I felt bereft of purpose, in both personal and professional domains. Maybe if it weren't for the recent events, I would have coped better, but let's be frank here, the alarm bells had been ringing for a while. You can imagine my dismay when, barely a week out of the prison cell, I found myself sectioned under the Mental Health Act at the Harlow Police Station. Attempts were made to transfer me to the Princess Alexandra Hospital in Harlow, but to no avail. Eventually, I found myself in an ambulance, headed for Chelmsford and the Lindon Centre at Broomfield Hospital.

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As dawn broke on my first day at the Lindon Centre, I found myself alone in a single room, something of a rarity in a place mostly filled with twin rooms. That day, I interacted with some of the other patients and as fate would have it, I ran into Dave Wall, an acquaintance from my time in Runwell. The soothing familiarity of a known face in an unknown place was comforting. There was also another girl present who knew someone else I had met during my stint in Runwell, Michael Nightingale. Unfortunately, Michael had taken his own life after his grandfather, who he deeply loved and addressed as 'Dad', passed away. Given their close bond, it wasn't surprising to me that Michael had a tough time coping with the loss. When Katie shared news of his tragic end, my immediate response was to inquire whether his 'Dad' had died. While I wished I could have been of some help to him, I had to recognize the reality - I was also grappling with my circumstances and finding it hard to help myself, let alone anyone else.

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Within the confines of the Linden Centre, I found solace in an activity room. My initial intent was to immerse myself in art during the majority of my stay, utilizing the resources at hand. By evening, this serene space transformed into an area for visitations, nonetheless, it promised to be a sanctuary for my creativity. My first full day brought an unexpected presence to the ward, Deborah Syrett. Swirling in, she initially struck me as a professional associated with the ward; she didn't present as someone tackling their mental health demons - how mistaken I was. Deborah was dealing with the dual burden of recovering from cancer and crippling depression that had situated her at rock bottom, nudging her to harbor suicidal thoughts. I learnt soon that she was a voluntary patient, a status that granted her the liberty to depart at her will. 

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Not long after Deborah and I began to engage in conversation, we found ourselves drawn into deep, meaningful exchanges. Before I knew it, my heart was entwined with hers, a sentiment that was stirring within her as well. It was my first embarkation on the journey of romance since my adolescence, and I was stepping into an unknown future. Yet, the sincerity of my feelings for this incredible woman was undeniable, and my days were brighter when shared with her. Some might interpret this as love - perhaps it was, but it felt like uncharted territory to me. Surprisingly, a scarce few days or possibly a week into her stay at the Lindon Centre, they were pressing her toward the exit - they needed the bed. However, the bond we had shaped persisted beyond her departure from the Centre. Our meetings continued, and our relationship took a deeper turn from there.

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During this period, I transitioned from my private quarters to a communal area. Although this shift was initially challenging, the lingering thought of my pending appeal and the promise of legal representation kept me grounded. I found comfort in a fellow inmate, Dean, who was quite a character with a long rap sheet, his crimes primarily centered around theft. However, Dean's life had taken a very dark turn and he ended up hospitalized due to an apparent suicide attempt by medication overdose. Despite the stark differences in our paths, I found common ground with Dean. His luck, however, seemed perpetually stained with misfortune. One day, much to our surprise, the police came knocking on our door, citing a missed probation appointment and whisked him away, sending him back to the very place we both dreaded, the prison. Despite the reassurances he had received, he still ended up on the wrong side of the law. My memories of Dean are somewhat grim, recounting his time as a vagabond, drifting between the hard streets and the cold bars of a prison cell. One thing I remember quite clearly was his desperate desire to have a place he could call home, his very own flat. My sincere hope is that someday, he found a way to make it happen and was able to hold onto it.

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Following Dean, I found myself with a series of roommates, each presenting their own unique set of challenges. One rather unsettling fellow had a habit of engaging in solo intimate activities, late at night, standing starkly in front of his closet. Yet another roommate, initially giving off an impression of being nice and even presenting himself as gay to us all, shattered this image when a young unwell woman, who was new to the facility and rather openly flirtatious, lured him into her room past curfew. He didn't hesitate. Not even half an hour later, as staff performed their routine head count, his absence from his bed was glaringly obvious, as was his rather indiscreet location.

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My roommate was abruptly whisked away following a tumultuous incident involving a barricaded door and a frantic female patient, ostensibly craving for male attention. I never saw him again. As part of her disturbing coping mechanisms, this young lady would pen provocative notes and extend explicit invitations to other patients, a clear crying out for help amidst her personal turmoil. Thankfully, she was put on an effective medication plan and was able to secure her own residential space. Surprisingly enough, it appears independent living often acts as a significant relief for many individuals grappling with mental illnesses. However, it's crucial to keep in mind that the current housing crisis can also trigger mental health issues among the otherwise healthy population.

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The appointed date for my tribunal swiftly arrived, and justice was on my side. I was wrongly held under section and was now a free man, albeit with some restrictions still in place. Intent on not reverting to my old lifestyle, I saw my relocation to Chelmsford as a potential reset. I stepped into the housing offices in Chelmsford and lodged my application for homelessness. The main reason I cited was that I couldn't return to Harlow due to several restraining orders against me. I spent about another week at the Linden Centre before being moved into emergency accommodation. Lampwick, sitting on Chancellor Road in spirited Southend-On-Sea, was my first stop, with expectations grand enough to make me chuckle retrospectively.

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Standing amidst the frosty embrace of Lampwick, I found myself tucked away in a room with a broken window - the silver lining was the presence of a sink, conveniently serving as my private vomit receptacle. You could just picture the cacophony whenever I shifted a bit on the so-called bed, strong enough to rattle the tranquility of the entire Southend-On-Sea. The surprise came in the form of a faulty lock; lightly leaning against my door would send it flinging open. The place was an outright disaster, far from being a decent human dwelling. While the owner was content rolling in the dough we provided through housing benefits for the motley bunch of rooms, any attention to rectifying issues was simply brushed under the carpet for future inconvenience. Continuous boiler breakdowns were an annoyance and don't get me started on the untimely electrical outages. Yet, after recently enduring a shared quarters with the oddest of oddballs, my gratitude for owning a room of my own emerged. However, a mere few days into my stay, a distressing incident of the ceiling collapsing on an unfortunate lady surfaced in the building. 

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At a glance, Lampwick seemed like a running joke. However, it served as a catalyst for laughter during my encounters with Deborah. It also provided her family with numerous opportunities to rush to my aid, something they never shied away from. Lampwick even enforced a child-like 10 p.m. curfew, locking its doors down nightly. Although it might have seemed unnecessary or condescending, truth be told, the location was the epicenter of drug activity in Southend-On-Sea. Perhaps this measure was their way of trying to shield us from the nocturnal activities, but it never really ceased the relentless influx of drugs in our living quarters.

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Under the roof of Lampwick, I stumbled upon something unfamiliar: the Severe Disability Premium. This was an additional stipend of roughly £10 daily, that I hadn't availed before. The reason, interestingly, was my previous living arrangement with another adult. This sudden influx of additional benefits coerced me back into the clutches of my vice, marijuana. The diminished timeframe ensured I quickly reacquainted myself with this old habit. Embedding with Southend-On-Sea's harsher side, I began engaging with dealers nestled just a couple of blocks away. My coping mechanism was masked under the guise of getting high, though, in retrospect, it most likely brewed up my underlying despair.

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My buddy, Benny Aitkens in Lampwick, had quite a rough history; raised in the system and separated from his siblings. I put my best foot forward to support him, but one day, he got overwhelmed. Benny missed his laundry slot because he overslept, and in the ensuing chaos, he threw a chair at a female staff member. They uprooted him on the spot; just a week before, another female staffer had been sharing explicit photos of herself with him, and you start to question when Benny's trust issues were cultivated. Violence is absolutely inexcusable, yet it's essential to comprehend the context before forming fixed opinions. I held back my judgment, and gifted him a good-sized portion of the benefit of doubt, even though I later paid a personal cost. I sincerely hope Benny finds his peace, especially facing a tumultuous childhood that comprised of a carousel of foster homes, a fate I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Remember, someone else has always gone through worse, someone else has endured more pain—just hold on to the promise, that there will be good days, too. Although admittedly, I often make it quite a challenge for these desirable days to unfold.

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My daily routine was uniquely dictated by the ebb and flow of the tides. There was a certain allure about venturing onto the mud flats during low tide, gathering a collection of shells that would eventually fill an entire suitcase. It wasn't a pursuit driven by joy or fun, instead the beach served as my sanctum. It was a serene escape, and often, a secluded spot for a quiet smoke. We all have our unique methods of coping, and mine was found in these moments of diversion. However, the respite is always fleeting - there's an inevitable return to reality awaiting at the end of every day.

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Regrettably, I ended up breaking my restraining order, sending messages to Jim Brown at Gatehouse arts- a slip-up that plunged me into even deeper trouble. A part of me genuinely felt prison life was easier compared to my living circumstances, I still couldn't fathom what the other half of me was thinking. As I was grappling with this, the demise of my beloved Nan dealt me a heavy blow. She battled dementia and unfortunately, found herself in a series of accidents, breaking a hip and then another. It was heartbreaking. Though the silver lining was that we all got a chance to say our last goodbyes, the pain of her loss still ran deep, catching us off guard. The police, with an intention to apprehend me, initially visited my Mum's place. On hearing this, I voluntarily made my way to Southend Police Station. The thought that haunted me most was missing my Nan's funeral, something I had experienced before with my other Nan. Expectedly, I assumed I would be charged and held in custody but, fortunately, I was granted police bail. This allowed me to attend the funeral and offer one last tribute to my Nan.

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Tasha, she had a way of drawing me into her complex world, and subsequently, pushing me towards the brown and rocks. She seemed driven partly by her own addiction and partly by a calculative intention to swindle me. My naivety made me an easy target for her deceptive dealings, leading her to view me more as a route to finance her own supply, with myself unwittingly purchasing imitation drugs. I was swayed under her influence, eyeing the prospect of the brown and rock as a likely escape from the turmoil that knotted my life, particularly my stressful housing situation.

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Unexpected outbursts and overreactions to minor issues became my daily routine. Things escalated when the proprietor of the hostel casually strolled into my room, quipped about a foul odour, and insinuated I was using drugs. This unfounded accusation triggered a volcano of anger within me. Although I'm naturally non-violent, my rage often manifests through unusually provocative language and an intimidating presence. Throughout my adulthood, I've managed to avoid physically harming anyone, and the confrontation with the hostel owner came scarily close to breaching that line. His constant surveillance and blame-shifting for the subpar living conditions, whilst he was the one receiving my housing benefit and neglecting necessary repairs, infuriated me. 

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However, a timely call from Chelmsford provided unexpected relief - I would be moving to the Oasis in Harlow. This shift was a welcome one, as I had stayed at the Oasis before, plus it brought me within closer reach of my supportive family network.

 

Transitioning from Southend-On-Sea to Harlow, I found myself in need of more than just a car - the accumulation of my possessions meant hiring a man with a van for the task. Coming back to Harlow felt surreal, yet on arrival at the Oasis, I was pleasantly surprised. They were operating at near maximum capacity, and I was lucky to secure one of their few private rooms outfitted with a double bed. A far cry from the cramped corridor rooms I was accustomed to – really just box rooms, one after the other, jam-packed with a bare minimum single bed, and a miniscule window. I would have made do in any case, but the spacious room was a welcome upgrade. Within no more than 48 hours of my arrival, I reestablished my weed supply, and let's face it, this occupied the majority of my waking hours. The days became a monotonous rhythm of waking up, rolling a joint, ensuring the rest of my day was infused with a high. However, I was grounding myself with frequent walks to alleviate the scent of the weed, but still occasionally indulged in a covert nighttime joint in my room.

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Meeting Deborah during this turbulent time proved to be a silver lining, providing a beacon of hope in my life. Our daily exchanges of messages became a comforting routine, igniting a spark of anticipation for our next encounter. More often than not, I would spend at least a weekly evening in Deborah's company, which served as my safe haven and respite from my situation.

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Just like any temporary shelter, there are people you'd be better off avoiding, but I, inevitably, tend to toe the line. I got acquainted with two young guys, Olly and Chris, and occasionally joined them for a smoke. Chris, a 17-year-old boy, hailed from Brentwood and was residing at the Oasis with his mother. A few years back, she received a hefty inheritance, but claimed to have spent it all, leading to an investigation by the Brentwood council. While this was ongoing, they had to be temporarily housed. Olly, another 17-year-old, was a product of a less than perfect family from Harlow. He was easily influenced by Chris, which proved as effective as trying to achieve a result from a futile endeavor. Both seemed to lack aspirations for a better life, always seeking out quick cash for their next fix. Unfortunately, this highlights a growing issue with our youth who, after finishing school, lack a clear path forward, often falling into a cycle of detrimental behavior. 

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Picture this, one day, pushing past the break of dawn, alongside Chris, I roused Olly from his sleep. In his room was a surprising guest from the night before - a young lady named Chelsie. Seemingly similar in age but lost in the journey of life, Chelsie resided near the Oasis and, over time, it had evolved into her informal youth club. Her constant presence became a familiar sight throughout my tenure there. Post his rendezvous with Chelsie, Olly appeared to be floating on air, although his euphoria wasn't destined to last. An impending downfall was on the horizon. With my front-row seat to his subsequent erratic behavior, these actions ended up singling his ticket to imprisonment, marking the end of our paths intertwining.

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One evening at The Oasis, fellow lodgers Olly and Chris made the precarious decision to front the cash for a cocaine purchase from another resident. This type of transaction, replete with nothing but verbal assurances, is notoriously risky in the drug trade. However, I was completely uninvolved and was only informed about the ins and outs after everything transpired. It turned out, the man used Chris and Olly’s money to enjoy a wild night out on his own dime.

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After an anticipatory night waiting for their cocaine, they felt the sharp sting of disappointment discovering it wasn't going to come. The next morning, Chris sought out the man responsible who invented a transparent lie about being burgled. Given that he'd stayed out most of the night, no one knew what time he arrived home. Even though Olly was the one who supplied the funds, I believe that Chris played a key role in pressuring him to act. Chances are, had Chris not been there, Olly might have perhaps reconsidered his decision and behaved more wisely.

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Despite the circumstances, Olly confronted the instigator. He heard him out first and then, overcome by anger, he reached for his hidden blade. He held it to the man's throat and declared, "In that case, buddy, I'm claiming your watch and cellphone as compensation for my troubles," and went on to do exactly that. Ironically, this entire event unfolded right within sight of a surveillance camera, which made Olly's actions indisputable. Although the man was, in my view, undeserving of full legal protection due to his instigative role, he immediately called the police. 

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When law enforcement arrived, Olly initially tried to escape, realizing the implication of his actions. However, the police located him hiding in a bush not too far from the scene within an hour. From where we stood, we could see Olly being taken into custody; he even waved to us from the patrol car. That moment marked the beginning of his incarceration.

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Clearly, a noticeable shift had overtaken the Oasis as its crowds began to thin, with noticeable absences like Olly rapidly making the difference felt. Interestingly, the very individual who tipped off the authorities about Olly vacated the premises in less than a day, no doubt fearful of any potential backlash. This individual was aware that he wasn't a victim - he had initiated the entire dilemma with a cocaine ruse. However, Olly crossed a line with his actions. I cannot condone his actions, but I do understand that his incredibly heightened anger, paired with the influence of narcotics that significantly affect a person's reasoning, resulted in this unfortunate event. Sadly, such mitigating factors are often overlooked by the courts, and it seemed inevitable that Olly would face dire consequences. The last snippet of information I received indicated that Olly had been remanded at the magistrates’, a gesture that hinted at a severe sentence awaiting him.

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It soon became apparent, following Olly's departure, that Chris had intentions to pursue Chelsie. However, Chris, in my opinion, was somewhat of a jerk. Neither did Chelsie reciprocate his advances, a move that earned her my respect and admiration. From that moment on, I found myself having a soft spot for her. Then entered James Digby, a native of Chelmsford who boasted about having a car and being a self-proclaimed dealer. Chelsie curiously welcomed James' company, which evidently upset Chris. Watching that unfold was indeed a sight to relish. 

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An unfamiliar side of Chris began to unfold - not the previously perceived tough and domineering figure, but displaying traits akin to those of a child, marked by immaturity. James, became notorious amongst the crowd for dishonest practices. He was selling a substance under the guise of marijuana that, at best, poorly imitated the genuine product. One might initially feel a vague semblance of a high, but this soon gave way to a nonreactive sensation, possibly an aftereffect of tolerance. His 'weed' was so dessicated it would disintegrate into dust within the packaging. I recall one incident where I consumed an entire gram of his product at once, out of desperation and curiosity, only to discover its worthlessness. This glaring discrepancy had not gone unnoticed amongst their clientele.

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One evening, I received a sudden request to switch rooms - quite a laughable situation, to be honest. As I recall, it was a Saturday night and a wedding celebration was underway in one of the facility's restaurants. A dynamic duo who had struck up a pleasant conversation apparently decided on a whimsical whim that they desired my room for the night. I'd wager confidently that neither the bedding nor the room itself would have had a proper cleaning - it seemed to be the standard modus operandi at The Oasis. Given the amount of stuff I had, the transfer process lasted for an excitingly long time, eventually winding up in a somewhat inferior room located near the bustling kitchens. Eventually, the pair decided against their room adventure - in retrospect, perhaps a discretion that was well in their favor.

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Meet Darren Yearsley, a man of many years, fresh out of prison and suddenly branded an 'old man'. Fortuitously, he found himself placed in emergency accommodation, a much-needed respite from the usual path that leads to a hostel. Some might argue there's little difference between the two, but let me assure you, tales of hostel nightmares abound. Picture being booted out at 9 a.m. and barred from re-entry until 6 p.m., a strategy ostensibly crafted to shove you into employment. Sounds like a far-fetched joke, right?

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Imagine stepping out of prison into a world that refuses to provide opportunities, and people who aren't enthusiastic about giving you a second chance - a common reality for many ex-cons. With pocket change that barely affords a cup of tea in the café where some suggest you spend your time, it's disheartening to face the world. One can't overlook the high likelihood of reoffending among former prisoners, but the understanding of the uphill task of starting afresh after serving a sentence is simply missing. 

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Add to that, the system's practice of placing released inmates back in their old haunts, familiar with dealers, thieves, and drug users. Here's a thought: does such a strategy contribute to the failure of previous offenders? Is our intention genuinely for their rehabilitation, or are we stuck in an act of false concern, conveniently labeling these individuals as 'beyond help'?

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Darren found himself at odds with James over some substandard cannabis that wasn't providing the desired high. What a spectacle they made in the parking lot that day - one I wish I hadn't missed. Darren, confronting James about his inferior product and the potential jeopardy it might place his monopoly in, initially approached James surprisingly calmly. James, however, was cornered. In a desperate attempt to maintain control over his perceived territory, he returned hostility with aggression. The scene intensified - James landed a punch on Darren, an elderly man, who instead of cowering, stood tall and dismissed it off as insignificant. Determined to exert dominance, James struck Darren again, this time hoping to knock him out cold. But alas, Darren was unyielding, absorbing the brute force James had to offer. When I returned later and saw the severity of Darren's swollen face, I knew straight away that caution was my only ally moving forward.

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Showing up at the magistrates court during my stay at the Oasis was a formidable experience. Nonetheless, I managed to avoid incarceration and instead received a suspended sentence. This upcoming trial became a significant source of anxiety for Deborah and me. You see, the choices I make and things I do often happen on autopilot, far beyond any sense of control. At such moments, I lack a clear comprehension of the potential outcomes. That's just the way I am. A profound haze of anger often clouds my vision, serving as a stark reminder of all my shortcomings and making me feel like I've failed in every conceivable way.

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When the call from the Chelmsford Housing Office came, I didn't hesitate. "A room in Wickford is free, Michael. Are you interested?" my affirmative response was immediate. With the packing waiting to be done, I realized my chapter at the Oasis was ending, a journey that had been an uphill battle. Anticipation colored my thoughts as I was about to step back into Wickford, a place that held a nostalgic allure from my Runwell days. On reaching, I found Gibraltar House in Wickford had undergone a transformation. The previous office premises, nestled over the bustling high street shops, were now revamped into a three-tiered emergency abode. My room was significantly spacious, dwarfing even the largest of spaces I'd occupied during my emergency housing days. To say everything was brand new would be an understatement—the still-packaged mattress and a pristine washing machine in my room bore testament to that. Overwhelmed yet thrilled, I knew I was in for an enjoyable Wickford stay. One minor hiccup was the morning ruckus from traffic, but it was a small compromise for the overall comfort I looked forward to embracing.

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An intriguing character I met at Gibraltar House was Julie, whose room was located across from mine. A mother to grown children, she had divorced her partner and, rather recklessly, burned through her divorce settlement. Now, with considerable wealth still intact, she was filing a homelessness application. One could argue that Julie was on the verge of becoming a thief, albeit not one to steal from individuals - she was a dedicated shoplifter. It goes without saying, of course, the cost of such actions is borne by consumers through price hikes in the store. On one memorable occasion, she snagged an alcoholic beverage from the local supermarket that harbored a hidden alarm. Supermarkets often employ these sneaky devices on items like steaks, invisible to the untrained eye. As Julie made her exit, the alarm sounded, sending her into a panic. Luckily for her, there wasn’t anyone around to give chase.

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Julie introduced me to a man named Mickey, he was in the process of separating from his wife with no assets to split up, he generously allowed her to retain their shared council house. Mickey had quite a reputation - having spent a significant portion of his life incarcerated, he was known for playing by his own rules. An instance that truly spoke volumes about his passionate, albeit misguided actions was when his son was assaulted; instinctively, Mickey went after the boy responsible. In addition, Mickey struggled with mental health issues, heavily medicated as he was, not to mention he suffered from severe, possibly exacerbated asthma. Whether his inability to walk 100 meters was somebody's clever ruse to procure extra disability allowance, was anybody's guess. All things considered, Mickey struck me as a man not to be crossed - his fiery temper coupled with his intimidating stature made him a formidable force. However, around Julie and I, a softer side of him emerged, endearingly referred to as 'Puppy Mick'. And just like that, we'd become an inseparable trio, spending most of our days together.

 

Residing next door to me was none other than Charlie, a known prescription drug abuser. Instead of following his prescribed dosage, he would accumulate his medication, only to consume it all at once in an attempt to get high. He was a draining presence, someone I wanted no part of. Charlie fled to America years ago, only to be kicked out due to minor missteps that ended with a Driving Under the Influence (DUI) incident. Despite working as a chef, he lost his way, got caught up in the whims of life, and ultimately lost everything. He left behind his children, and that added an additional layer of bitterness to his demeanor. To be honest, Charlie wasn't a figure that I took a particular liking to. I kept my distance, steering clear of his desperation as much as possible.

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Seeking stability and an engaging pastime, not to mention some extra income, I secured a role at USA Chicken in Wickford. The job was a weekend gig offering cash payments. Although permitted work was permitted and I wasn't required to pay tax, the cash pay appealed. Honestly, the sense of purpose the job provided, especially over the weekends, was a significant plus at this stage of my life. However, I must confess that the job wasn't particularly fulfilling. A considerable amount of time was spent idle, awaiting incoming calls or customers. I held on for around three weeks but decided I had had enough. Before making the leap, though, I arranged for another job—this time at Subway, where I was to become a sandwich artist, whatever that entailed.

 

There came a day when Deborah had some shocking news to share with me. Evidently, John Palmer had met a deadly fate, assassinated right in his very backyard. Now, I'd once mentioned to Deborah about my stay in Tenerife, even shared my harrowing experiences of people attempting to harm me. Yet, one chapter remained concealed from her - the Glover and Baxter episode. That was an omission on my part, and I admit it wasn't fair to her.

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In Wickford, my reliable source for quality cannabis was a guy named Mitch. His product was always top-notch - nothing like the low-grade stuff floating around these days. It sent me sailing high, clean and without any issues. Mitch, apart from being a dealer, was also an excellent conversationalist. Despite his young age, he had this intriguing vibe, though I couldn't shake the feeling he wasn't entirely aware of the road he was on. However, taking the moral high ground wasn't my style. Things have evolved over time in this game; it's no longer about being passive—it's survival of the fittest, and if you aren't ruthless, you're left out in the cold.

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Settling into my role at Subway was quite the whirlwind, with a sharp learning curve. Not only did I have to master the art of sandwich-making, but I was also required to familiarize myself with the closing procedures - an important aspect they wanted me to handle. Amidst the hustle and bustle of a food joint, ensuring pristine cleanliness during closing hours is crucial, alongside cash management, securing premises, preserving remaining food items and preparing for the next day's stock. What I genuinely enjoyed about my stint at Subway was the constant activity, which made time fly. However, dealing with a workforce predominantly younger than me came with its own set of challenges, and their lack of maturity was noticeable. Nonetheless, I didn't let that faze me. I wasn't there to make friends but to work, and thus, I chose to overlook the continuous remarks about my age.

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Among the regulars Mick befriended, was a man named Dan Ramsey, a con-man who barely eked out a living. Dan was essentially a professional panhandler who spent most of his time crafting scams while collecting for his liquor fund. One of his go-to schemes involved duplicating prescriptions to trick unsuspecting pharmacists. His lifestyle was one of constant escape, a willful blurring of reality. Dan's drunken antics eventually led to an embarrassing mishap, where he tripped over a low chain fence while walking his dog. Bloodied and disheveled, Dan spun a tale of an unfounded attack rather than admitting his intoxication. The truth remains - had he not been inebriated daily, he might have enjoyed a more fulfilling life. But the tragic mirage of such a life pulls you in. The daily pursuit of a high becomes routine, waking up with the singular goal of how to finance the next bottle. It's a cycle of despair and for many, an unequivocal reality.

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Charlie's journey was similar to mine, after being deported from America and estranged from his children. Like myself, he grappled with his reality, resorting to the misuse of prescription drugs as an escape. Keep in mind, Charlie was a skilled chef by training, though his profession was barely recognizable under the influence. Once, he was so intoxicated that he baked a pizza without removing the polystyrene disc from the bottom. It's a stark reminder of how drugs can totally alter lives; the fleeting pleasure they provide has a lifetime cost, changing one's core principles and perspective on life. 

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Charlie's addiction progressed to a terrifying extent. I once witnessed him in such a doped-up state that he was unable to speak coherently or control his movements. It was clear he needed help beyond what I could offer. The trained professionals had the potential to restore his life, but financial constraints left me doubting if he ever received the help he needed.

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When the calendar turned the page to August of 2015, I received a phone call that would change my life. The council notified me of a flat in a little place known as East Hanningfield, specifically 5 Catherine Close, that was now mine. Nestled in a serene village outside of Chelmsford, this locale would soon become my sanctuary. A sense of excitement and anticipation towards a brighter future bubbled within me. No longer bearing the label of a homeless person, I was eager to turn a new leaf, get my life back on track, and build a promising future. At least, that was the vision I had for my future.

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A Letter to Deborah by Michael Ezare Barrett

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In the quietest corners of Lindon we met,
Two wandering souls, in destiny's net.
Deborah, your eyes like stars in the night,
Guided my heart, turning darkness to light. 

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Through halls of Broomfield, your laughter did sing,
A melody of hope, to which my heart clings.
Against life's tempest, together we stood,
In shared strength and love, we understood. 

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From whispered words in shadowed halls,
To dreams we built behind these walls.
Your gentle touch, your warm embrace,
Brings peace to my heart, in every place. 

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With you, love blooms amid the trials,
Through stormy seas and endless miles.
Deborah, my anchor, my guiding light,
In your love, I find my might. 

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So here's to us, to feelings so true,
In every heartbeat, it's only you.
Deborah, my love, my eternal muse,
Together we'll conquer, together we'll choose.