I’ve been in residential housing for a month now, and it’s a strange kind of in‑between place. Not unsafe, not dramatic — just quiet, awkward, and full of routines that don’t feel like mine. My flatmate and I barely speak. We cross paths at meds time, nod politely, and then disappear back into our own corners of the house.
I’ve realised how much I rely on my room. It’s the only space that feels like me. My door stays closed, not out of rudeness, but because it’s the one boundary I can control. When she tried to come into my room early on, something in me tightened. I’ve lived too many years without safety to let anyone cross that line now.
I’ve got an ‘office’ in the garage, so I can do my blog and write my autobiography. So far, so good.
They say this place is meant to help me become “normal.” But I’ve never been normal. I’ve been surviving, rebuilding, reinventing — for sixty years.
So I’m writing again. Poetry. Reflections. Pieces of truth that don’t fit into neat boxes.
I want to read Russell Brand’s Recovery. I’ve been to AA before. I’m over a year free of alcohol.
All I know is: I’m here, I’m breathing, and I’m still myself — even in a place that doesn’t quite know what to do with someone like me.