There was always a bit before you left, or graduated, when you had to stand in front of all the residents and tell your story. I heard a lot of these while detoxing off valium, and cried my head off, such was the tragic lives of these people, I totally wasn’t thinking of my own, I was in that middling state between coming off drugs which for the main part of my life , was told by American paediatric doctors ( like for kids, you get me) were perfectly fine and acceptable for people with my anxious leanings. Then not so NICE came in with their no longer than two weeks directive to GPS and man I was FUCKED. I had to make shit up. I had to go to dirty doctors. I had to pretend to be the thing I actually was , which was fucked. I had to queue up with whores and such like, the sad housewife on sad housewife drugs.
And it was time for one of my housemates to move on. His tale was so awful and raw and painful and pretty much every decision he made in his crime filled life was wrong, but he didn’t half bang on, as all the get rich quick and use their own stash types did, about his bloody watches. Watches and cars, the formerly flash gits, that was the thing, a nice watch, a nice car. A babe, yeah maybe, but never as important as the bling,watches, car, threads ( curiously all top of the range sportswear, not suits) STUFF. You sell drugs, you get stuff to show off, not for babes, but for showing off more stuff to other drug dealers. My car does more things if you press the right buttons, my watch tells the time in every country in the world, my sports gear needs to be drycleaned, my trainers need to be baby wiped. F was born into a life of crime and knew fuck all else. I listened to his story and cried to the point of dehydration. One of the workers said its the valium wearning off , her emotions are all at the surface, but you know I lived with the guy and knew nothing about him. And after his talk he went into something more halfway. We still facebook from time to time. I remember he had a go at me for bringing negativity into the house. I remember when we got bedbugs and we had to hot wash all our clothing and all his flash sportswear shrunk. I remember our 5 quid a day eating vouchers while we were in b and bs waiting for our house to be exterminated. I remember at one b and b my minder T, a lovely beautiful caring girl , I thought she might chose to share her room with bling sportswear guy but shared it with me. We had an Indian summer, and we went to the beach, and she gave me her sleeping pills but I was wide awake, watching The Sleeping Bones on HBO and crying my head off as she snored the snore of the justifiably tired. There was no ventilation in the room save a window that opened an inch. In the morning we all went down to the buffet for instant coffee, orange squash, toast and individual portions of marmalade or marmite. Everyone filled their pockets which was do-able so long as they did not unnaturally bulge. I think we went to the beach that day. I did think, at that time, I could live with T forever, with her sleeping pills, with HBO, with individually portioned marmalade, with F and his sad tales of losing his posh watches and cars. Without good ventilation. It seemed possible in the getting off drugs time.
Now, most things feel if not impossible, not very likely.