

### The Meaning of Home

Voices from the Streets

Anne Kidd

Copyright © 2016 Anne Kidd

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Disclaimer-note from the author

The stories and characters in this book are loosely based on composite figures and not representative of any individual person who I worked with over the three year period. Aspects of characters and events that happened whilst I was an outreach case manager have been changed to protect individuals. Given the awful things that happened in people's lives it has been important to protect their identities to avoid further pain or distress. I have given them different names and changed parts of their lives to ensure their anonymity.

Table of Contents

Introduction

PART ONE

Chapter 1

A paradigm shift

Chapter 2

Why Homelessness?

Chapter 3

Searching for meaning in the ordinary and in the everyday

Chapter 4

John's story

Chapter 5

My experience of home

Chapter 6

Defining home-less-ness and home

PART TWO

Chapter 7

Kraybill's definitions of home

'The First Home'

Chapter 8

Sally-bereft of the 'first home'-long term effects of childhood abuse

Brad-where did he belong?

A leaf in the wind

Chapter 9

The 'Second Home'

Cassie- sleeping out

Gary- sleeping out

John- jackets and pockets

Nestled in the hills

Chapter 10

'The Second Home' - a place of discomfort, loneliness, strangeness and fear

Mandy-Carting the past in bags

A letter box means home but only when you are ready

The street is often a 'Second Home'

Brad-when 'The Second Home' is not really home

Brad - barbeque chicken

Chapter 11

The 'Second Home'

Brad-a place of memories and a place to dream

Bearing witness-Brad's story

Sally-a house built on shifting sands.

Chapter 12

'The Third Home'

Gary-waiting under the sorry wall

Chapter 13

'The Third Home'-Robbie's 'home'

PART THREE

Chapter 14

Home - a connection to something meaningful

Leaving notes under the door

Home means finding out the truth- when a birth certificate is more than just a piece of paper

Chapter 15

Cassie and her mother-the enduring hold of primary relationships

Cassie-the overflowing slurpee and spring rolls

Chapter 16

Meeting Cassie's mother

Chapter 17

Knitting the threads

John-understanding his roots

John-meeting his brothers

Chapter 18

Ben-folding clothes

PART FOUR

Conclusions and goodbyes

Chapter 19

The anchor holds

Barry-bedbugs and bloody sores

Finding peace

Chapter 20

Lessons learned

Chapter 21

Saying goodbye the final time-always and forever

Acknowledgements and thanks

Bibliography

# Introduction

This book is a reflection of some my experiences as an outreach case manager working with homeless people in Melbourne Australia. It is confined to a three year period from early 2010 to 2012, although I have been working in the welfare field for over twenty years. I was compelled to write after starting to work with people who were experiencing and living a life of homelessness. I was profoundly affected by their courage and their ability to keep going in spite of repeated setbacks and terrible things happening to them. I want to bring their stories to light so that their voices can be heard. For too long they have suffered the stigma of being known and labeled as the homeless. But they are real people with amazing stories of hardship and survival. Many have been let down by their family and the system -they have not had it easy. Their stories deserve to be told and understood. Their lived experience of homelessness also prompted me to question and consider what home meant to me.

I soon realized that the meaning of home was not straight forward. It meant different things according to whatever was happening in my life at the time. For example, the idea of home changed according to my age, whether my parents were together, and then later, whether my children were living with me, or had flown the coup and were living somewhere else. Home was about relationships. I then considered home from a purely housing perspective as the homeless are without a home in the traditional sense of a house with four walls and a roof. Does home mean something physical and tangible, bricks and mortar, or is it something much broader? Is a house therefore a home or does it require something else before it can be called a home? I knew home could mean a spiritual connection to land and place. People will often say they feel at home in a particular setting, such as out in nature, or that they feel 'at home' with certain groups of people. The streets were also home to many people I worked with. And when an Australian citizen dies abroad, the overriding consideration and imperative of family members 'back home' is that the body must be brought home-the final resting place. Home has many nuanced meanings and means different things to different people.

This account and exploration of the meaning of home and homelessness that follows, weaves together and highlights the many varied meanings of home. It takes into consideration the meaning of home and homelessness from sociological and personal perspectives through the work that I did with people who were living and experiencing homelessness. These lived experiences and their stories, snapshots if you like, happened in time and space over a three year period. However, the experiences often spark a thought and my mind reminisces back to an earlier incident or a part of my own family history, helping me make sense of what home means. The stories are personal anecdotes that happened to me, overlaid by the experiences of the people I had the privilege of working with over a three year period. It is not linear as memories are often recalled at random and not sequentially. Stories are added to all the time and this was how I also learnt about the lives of the people I worked with. It was often a painful, slow process, just as my own understanding of significant incidents in my life evolved over time. These things can never be rushed. A connection is made and the sense of home and what it means becomes clearer to me, although sometimes it raised more questions.

I also hope to open up new vistas of understanding so that the idea of home is thought about in ways that might not have been considered before. More importantly, I hope the idea of home in relation to what I learnt through working with homeless people will help raise awareness of the plight of many of the most disadvantaged and marginalized in our society. For too long they have been misunderstood and in many cases maligned.

But this is only one perspective of home, as everyone's experience is unique to them. These stories are interrelated on many different levels but are fundamentally about me and my experience of home. After all, the word _me_ , is in ho _me_. The word pictures that follow are much more than fragments or threads, as they weave together the story that is about home and what it means to me.

I have also learnt a lot about myself and the people I have worked with in 'bearing witness' to their stories of abuse and trauma. Listening to their accounts of their lives has made me more appreciative and more grateful for my friends and family, the things that really matter. But above all, they have taught me to be more humble, patient, accepting and compassionate. This book is a testament to the courage and resilience of the people that I have worked with and is my way of giving back to them. I did not fully realize the impact the relationships had on me until much later, when I no longer had the opportunity to see or talk to the people I had grown so very fond of. I was certainly touched and emotionally affected by the experiences that we shared together. Even though I worked within the professional boundaries of my profession, I could not help but be deeply moved on a personal level. It was impossible not to be. It was a two way process. The relationships that we shared were based on two way transactions, a give and take, an intimacy and a learned understanding of someone else's foibles, habits and manner of speech developed over a three year period. They had given a lot of themselves within the relationship, but I had underestimated what I had also given. I had exposed myself to my own vulnerabilities and my deepest fears- that part of me that I so fiercely protect and the source of my sadness.

I hope these experiences and what I learnt over this time might be of some relevance to new social workers embarking on careers in the welfare field or social work students grappling with how to put theory into practice. I was often too deeply immersed in my work early in my career, and too busy 'doing' to really understand exactly what 'it' was that I was doing. I know I was 'helping' people because I wanted to make a difference in people's lives- but it is really about helping people to help themselves- only they can do that. Inadvertently, they were also 'helping' me to become a better person and to appreciate the importance of home. This was one of the most significant lessons that I learnt over the three years of working with people experiencing homelessness.

PART ONE

# Chapter 1

**A paradigm shift**

I started my career as a social worker in the early 1990s in child protection. I finally left after about ten years, utterly exhausted, both physically and mentally. I was scared at what I had done to myself. I was burnt out but it was the wakeup call that I needed, as I felt like I had pushed myself to breaking point. I drew a line in the sand where work was concerned and have never allowed myself to step over it, knowing my limit. I then changed paths and worked in adoption and permanent care followed by home based care supporting carers look after high risk adolescents. Before working with homeless adults I worked in a crisis accommodation centre for homeless young people in inner Melbourne. I loved working with young people although the long term housing options available then were fairly limited. It was frustrating not being able to access good long term housing for homeless young people who also had additional complex needs such as drug and alcohol, mental health issues and low self esteem due to sexual abuse. Many were unsupported and disconnected from family due to family violence. I became disillusioned that as a worker I could not offer better, safer outcomes for vulnerable young people. Those pathways and options were scarce and often had long waiting lists. Towards the end of 2009 I looked for a further change and challenge.

Back in 2010 many innovative homeless outreach services started in Melbourne, coinciding with 'Street to Home' (STH) programs being initiated across Australia. Such programs were designed to reduce homelessness in response to the Commonwealth government's 2008 White Paper, _The Road Home._ 'Street to Home' programs as they were known at the time, represented "a paradigm shift in the response to homelessness in Australia" (Kahn, 2011). The change or paradigm shift as seen in these new services and programs was a move away in part from the 'transitional' approach to assisting people who were homeless. Implicit in the policy changes and program changes generated by 'Street to Home' and Housing First initiatives, was the claim that people experiencing homelessness should no longer be moved through a continuum of transitional type housing interventions such as crisis, emergency and short term accommodation options before they are provided with permanent housing (Kahn, 2011). Ideally, as the research showed, to best end the cycle of homelessness, permanent housing should be provided first, as the first option.

It was therefore exciting to work in the area of homelessness at that time. I changed jobs and worked as an outreach case manager in inner Melbourne in a small community organization focused on reducing homelessness. The aim of the program that I worked in was to support people experiencing chronic long term homelessness access suitable, long term, permanent housing. However, in keeping with the paradigm shift, the difference would be that as outreach case managers, we would also continue to support people in maintaining their housing over a longer period of time. We were responsible for supporting the same eight or nine homeless people designated to each of us over a three year period. In effect, we developed close relationships with each person over this time frame given the nature of the work and our level of involvement and the intensity of the work. All the participants wanted to be part of the program because they wanted support to end their homelessness. They were committed to us being involved for a few years and understood that we would provide ongoing support after they were housed. We worked 9am to 5pm 5 days a week. Our primary role was to get permanent housing as quickly as possible, through public housing (Office of Housing) or long term community housing and support people with their needs and issues as they settled into a life 'off the streets'.

The program was based on extensive research of the homeless sector both in Australia and overseas. The program recognized that being housed was just the first step toward a life out of chronic homelessness and that there were in fact many other underlying issues in a person's life that needed to be addressed. It was often these other issues, if left unaddressed which continued to marginalize those experiencing homelessness and perpetuate the cycle of homelessness. Over time, we understood that the effects of homelessness were also the causes of ongoing homelessness. Being housed did not end severe mental illness or put an end to substance abuse disorders for example. Being housed did not automatically resolve long standing family issues or change disruptive patterns of behaviours or even make someone more responsible or accountable for their actions. Being housed was often the first step in many steps to a life out of homelessness and for many a life out of the 'homeless street drug sub culture'.

Most of our work was outreach, taking people to drug and alcohol appointments or medical, mental health appointments, visiting them where they staying or meeting up for coffee somewhere safe. We constantly sourced affordable white goods or accessed specialist services through the legal, justice system, depending on what people needed. We attended court, on far too many occasions for some, and visited people in both the male and female prisons and remand centres, advocating and liaising with lawyers. At other times we encouraged people to build on their strengths and positives and their skill base, by starting a work related course or an art course or basic computer course. We were 'the go to people', whilst providing corrective and positive relationships, sometimes for the first time in someone's life. Many of the participants had only ever experienced negative and abusive relationships.

There was a transitional period as the people we worked with moved out of and further away from a life of being homeless to a life of being housed and of having a home. This transitional period was different for each person we worked with. Unfortunately for some, the transition was very transitory and they were unable to maintain their housing, slipping back into past negative patterns and a life of homelessness.

Whilst the primary functions and tasks of our case management approach changed over time depending on the issues and stages of a person's journey out of homelessness or their recovery from trauma, the relationships remained constant throughout the three years. For example, as workers, we stayed and moved through the various stages of trauma recovery with the people we worked with. We continued to offer support once they were housed to sustain their tenancies long-term. We assisted and helped them to bridge the gap to social inclusion and to move out of the homeless sub -culture that often weighed them down and pulled them back. We helped to equip them with the necessary skills to build their own social networks and reconnect to the mainstream community. And when they were pulled back into familiar destructive patterns of behavior and lost their housing, we continued to support them and encourage them to have another go. And when they tested us to see if we would reject them like others had countless time in their lives, we stuck around.

# Chapter 2

**Why Homelessness?**

I was in my late fifties when I started working with people who had experienced long term homelessness. I was drawn to this area of work for a number of reasons. I thought that I had a reasonably broad, first hand understanding of the issues faced by people who were the most marginalized and disadvantaged within the community through the work that I had done over the years. In addition to working in child protection where things at home were not always good for children, I had worked in adoption (local, i.e. not overseas adoption) and permanent care (where children are permanently placed in foster care). I had assessed carers who wanted to look after children and couples who were applying to adopt children within Victoria, and worked in a refuge for homeless young people. All good reasons to think I had the necessary skills to work with the homeless.

And then it finally dawned on me why I had been drawn to the area of homelessness. What had been in front of me all along became even more obvious. Home. All the jobs I had been in were about home; children in homes, children in need of homes, couples wanting to provide a home for children, young people kicked out of home, children removed from home and parents not able to provide a safe home for their children. I supported parents to ensure their children were safe at home. And there was me the worker, my role as the go between, trying to find a 'home' for children and young people even though many had a home. The meaning of home suddenly became much more significant. Now it was the homeless and trying to find them a home. What did home mean to them?

I considered all this more carefully. Maybe I was working with people who were experiencing homelessness because there were specific lessons I needed to learn. Were there questions that I needed to answer? Perhaps I was subconsciously aware of this before I even started this work and that is why I ended up working in the area. I needed to work out what home meant to me, and more importantly, where did I belong? Could that be the lesson for me? I then knew it was no accident that I ended up working with the homeless.

Work defines who we are as a person. Work is not the sum total of what we are, but nevertheless, it is a part of who we are. There is a boundary between our private life and our working life but we do occupy both worlds. It is part of our identity. Work is, and certainly has been a big part of who I am. Similarly, for the people I worked with they had many parts to who they were. They also had questions they were grappling with just like me. For example, Sally a young woman I worked with, mentioned that she did not want to be known as "just a person". In the context of the discussion we were having at the time, she was saying she was more than just a person; she was also a mother. At that point, being a mother to her son, who was not in her care, was the most important thing to her. It helped define who she was as more than just a 'person'. It was a very poignant moment in our discussion but more importantly, it was a significant comment about who she really was. Her comment also helped me think about who I was. And that question popped up again. Why was I drawn to homelessness and what did home mean to me? There was really no escaping this.

I had been a front line worker always preferring to work 'hands on'. I enjoyed having direct contact with people. I have always seen myself as a doer or a foot soldier just quietly working in the background as unobtrusive as possible. I understood the early traumatic experiences faced by many children and young people within their families of origin and the lasting impact of these experiences on all facets of their life. This experience became even more relevant when working with people who had experienced long term homelessness. I had actually removed children from shocking situations as a mandated child protection worker and fought for children's safety and protection in court. Back then I had to learn quickly what 'good enough parenting' meant and what the effects of parental mental health, family violence and substance abuse was on a child. I saw what happened to children and young people who had been abused emotionally, physically and sexually and the devastating effects of neglect due to a parent's low functioning. Many of these issues had to be addressed whilst a child remained within the abusive 'not good enough' situation. I saw what happened to children and young people within a welfare system that tried to do the best with what resources were available, but when the best was often not good enough and even worse, was bad and abusive. Sometimes state intervention made things worse for families because of the sheer stress it added to a family system already in crisis.

I saw the effects of systems abuse on clients and workers in the field and learnt only too well what's ' dammed if you do and dammed if you don't' meant. Child protection workers were often criticized for not doing more for children and families. When they did remove children who were at immediate risk of harm they were often criticized for acting too hastily. Some children who were removed from parental care were moved far too many times within the foster care system. The stability that might have been lacking with their parents was compounded within a foster care system that was often unable to provide stable long term placements for them. Worse, many children were often physically and sexually abused within foster care or the residential care facilities that were provided by the state to keep them safe. I leant that there were no easy quick answers to complex intergenerational problems. There were certainly many good outcomes where interventions and supports made a difference and families were empowered and children remained safe. But in many cases, situations did not improve and the early childhood trauma, when left untreated, left indelible marks and lead to other serious problems as a child moved through adolescence into young adulthood. Young children who have been abused are often the silent victims- unheard and not believed. No wonder as adults many of these same children rarely talked about their past.

I saw the results of the devastating impact of childhood abuse and trauma on the body in many of the adults I worked with. The fear of closed doors could send shivers down their spine, or sleeping in a darkened room with no light could result in night terrors and years of restless, shallow sleep. Homelessness was often the end result of childhood trauma and abuse compounded by ongoing traumatic events throughout their life. Many experienced additional and more enduring problems.

I re read Alice Miller (2004) _The Body Never Lies_ with great sadness and a terrible recognition of how absolutely debilitating abuse can be when trapped within the body _._ Miller (1923-2010), a world renowned Swiss psychologist and therapist, believed that all instances of mental illness and addictions were caused by suppressed pain as a result of childhood trauma. In _The Body Never Lies,_ she explores how physical illness, psychosis and neurosis in adults is often the consequences of unacknowledged suffering and abuse suffered as children at the hands of their parents or perpetrators. Many of the adults I worked with suffered significant health and medical problems. Poor dental health was just the tip of the ice-berg. I saw the links between their early abuse and their current health and medical conditions. Many had experienced childhood maltreatment and suffered ongoing abuse and violence throughout their lived experience of homelessness, compounding the hurt.

Trauma happens as much in the body as the mind (Rothschild 2000). Babette Rothschild, a psychotherapist and also a trauma expert, focuses on the physiological aspects of trauma and how sensory memory of a traumatic event is encoded in the brain and the body. The physical pain that was experienced early in a child's development for example becomes trapped within the body, inscribed deep in the cells and memory. It never really goes away.

It was often this early trauma that provided part of the narrative of many of the people I had the privilege to work with. And tragically, it was also their pathway into homelessness.

# Chapter 3

**Searching for meaning in the ordinary and everyday**

This story is also very specific to Melbourne and its local landscape and reflects my love for this city and many of the buildings and places within it. As an outreach worker I was often walking the streets of Melbourne, especially the inner suburbs, looking for a particular person who I was working with, hoping they were safe and had not been beaten up or overdosed. Certain suburbs that I never normally frequented became familiar to me as I spent more time there. I was a middle aged woman on the periphery of a world unlike mine, a voyeur almost, wandering around, but always with a sense of purpose. I was sure I did not go unnoticed, just like the drug deals done out in the open. Or maybe it was because I felt so different that I thought I stood out. I constantly had my wits about me on the streets, quickly scanning scenes as I quietly moved through, relying on my peripheral vision to keep me safe. Watching, but careful not to be too obvious became an art form. I noticed things in that changing environment, such as body language and whether someone approaching appeared to be edgy and seemed like they were going to walk straight into me unless I moved to one side. But my attention was focused on whoever it was I was looking for at the time, wondering how they were and if I'd see them.

More broadly, this account of my searches on the streets of Melbourne, is also about a sense of belonging and search for meaning. I think a sense of home is also ultimately within each of us, as understanding what home means forms part of our search for meaning. The walking invariably brought me closer to the person I was looking for, but it also brought me closer to understanding what home meant to me. The walking allowed me time to reflect on what home on the streets was like in the absence of a place to live and a place to call home.

Robert Dessaix (2012) expands on this in _As I was Saying_ when he writes about why we sometimes travel. Often the need to leave home and travel the world, he points out, is so we can look at ourselves against a much vaster mirror of humanity. Leaving home acts as a magnifying glass, shedding light on who are we. It is often easier to achieve this away from home in another country as we wonder what it is like to be someone completely different from us. Dessaix is content to stay at 'home' and write because his sense of 'home' is deeply rooted. I think 'home' in this sense then is also about what is uniquely us as an individual; what defines us. It is also about making sense of our family history and why some things happened the way they did; unraveling the chain of events or the threads.

I didn't have to travel far to find a world that was so unlike mine. The world of the homeless person was just outside my door, down the road, around the corner, just minutes away. It was close by, for many years hidden and separated from me by my ignorance and lack of awareness and understanding. As I became more familiar with that world through the people I worked with my insights into my own life also illuminated why I was drawn to the work that I did. I think we often learn more about ourselves through our experiences with other people. I certainly leant much more about myself and home from the people I worked with.

And so I was often drawn to street scenes as I searched and went about my work as an outreach worker. I noticed signs of beauty in the ugliness of dirty back street lanes and the phlegm splattered footpaths. A quirky stencil of a stick figure on a bike might still be visible next to peeling billboards pasted onto the outer wall of a row of Victorian workers' cottages. A small green verge might appear next to an uneven broken footpath and a splendid solid building from a bygone era. Ornate Italianate or Victorian balustrades, wrought iron fences, bull nose verandahs and stain glass panels, remain unscathed in some suburbs adding character and detail to the streetscape. A rich tapestry of social and cultural history is housed within walls, family stories waiting to be told before it is too late for anyone to remember, or care- just distant memories. Old Edwardian and Victorian mansions with bright red, black or green doors stand defiant, often next to multi storey apartment blocks, concrete high rise car parks and freeways. Like non-assimilated fringe dwellers, they are overshadowed by avant-garde architecture and urban cool designs. Side by side yet different, they each stake a claim and a rightful place in the landscape, just like the homeless and the housed. In other places medium density housing and apartment blocks change the character and fabric of a community.

I also took more notice of people who passed by in that endless stream that is so familiar in a busy, frenetic metropolis like Melbourne. Rush hour seems to be all the time now, not just after 5 pm. as it was in the past. We seem to be more physically and spiritually disconnected from our immediate surroundings. Our minds and ears are plugged into a cyber world rather than the world that is happening around us in real time. There is much to miss when the world in front of us is blocked out in this way. Visual reminders have to now prod us out of this stupor, to keep us safe.

For example, I love the bright yellow and black logos painted on the side of some of Melbourne's trams and billboards of a rhinoceros riding a skateboard. Spike the Rhino became a minor Facebook celebrity. The weight of a moving tram is compared to that of exactly thirty rhinoceros. The caption reminds us to beware and be alert around trams to avoid being hit by the full force of a tram in motion. The rhino looks so cool poised precariously yet expertly on the board. Of all the animals to use on a Melbourne tram it had to be a rhinoceros. Even though they are instantly recognizable, they are foreign to this land and home of ours. At least people now take notice of the trams as they hurtle down the tracks. But there is so much more that we should be aware of without having to be reminded.

I was more conscious of people sleeping on the grass next to St Paul's Cathedral in winter for safety, or on a park bench in any one of Melbourne's most beautiful gardens, or huddling on top of layers of cardboard in the heritage tram shelters along St Kilda Road, a thin blanket covering them. I wondered who they were and what their stories were. How long had they been there and where would they go when the authorities would inevitably tell them to move on? Would it make a difference to know that they were decent and good people, maybe with families who worried about them or families who had no idea they were homeless or families who no longer cared? Did anyone really care what happened to them?

But it is the quiet dignity of the lonely figure wandering along the footpath with no home to go to that captures and holds my attention. I am intrigued with how two parallel worlds can exist side by side in the same suburb, even the same street; the world of someone who is homeless and the world of 'everybody else'. Does the homeless person and the 'everybody else' person who is housed, see the same things as they walk along the exact path? Does the 'everybody else' person notice and acknowledge the homeless person as they pass by? How would you even know that someone is homeless?

As an outreach worker I learnt to see people and the city and suburbs differently. I learnt to be more present and more aware as there can be a lot of negative energy on the streets. I recognized this as I immersed myself in my work out in the day to day world of people who are part of the homeless street sub-culture. Anger spills out easily, especially when people are owed money and they are chasing drugs. There can be an edge to the daily rhythm of life during week days. Sometimes I got a feeling that things were a bit different on the streets near where I worked -there is a subtle shift in the flow of things. The energy is just not the same. There can be a sense of foreboding. It is a nebulous concept but the change is there if you are attuned to the ebbs and flows of life on the streets. It starts first thing in the morning. Someone might walk past and knock over a wheelie-bin out of sheer frustration as their money might not have come through when they went down to the Automatic Teller Machine. A few minutes later you might see a couple walking along the footpath-the female will be way in front screaming and swearing at her partner who is coming up behind her. She doesn't bother to turn around as she can hear him. "Yeah fucking whatever", he yells out. He is not really interested in what she is saying anyway. He is over it, as they have likely been arguing since they got up. Besides, he has heard it all before. He just wants to get a coffee up at the crisis centre and have a smoke and be left in peace.

And then there might be a young male walking aggressively with purpose, swearing and cursing, constantly turning his head around looking for someone 'to have a go at'-doesn't matter who it is, as anyone is fair game. Best not look directly at him as you walk pass. An awareness of the broader environment was always important as it heightened and sharpened my senses. That attentiveness and alertness sometimes actually kept me safe.

As I walked and observed, I had plenty of time to reflect on my life and what home meant. My idea of home was so far removed from this life on the streets and the world of the person experiencing homelessness. Home means lots of things to me and is the perfect place to start understanding who I am. To me, home is a safe and special place where I can surround myself with personal objects such as books, pictures and photos- things that connect me to different emotions and places. Links to past memories and experiences are displayed with great care and love in my home, each item a story in itself, also acting as a reference point.

Years ago, I purchased the black and white ink drawing of Coliban Park, an historical house near Kyneton in country Victoria because I dreamt of one day owning and living in such a house. I was attracted to the understated elegance of the bay window with the small panes of glass. I bought the Alice in Wonderland inspired small print of an abandoned grandfather clock resting crookedly in a garden full of bright pink hollyhocks because it was quirky and because I hate listening to clocks tick and chime. I have an aversion to the silence of a house, especially at night time, being ruined by the mechanical and monotonous tick tock, tick tock. The hourly chime in the dead of night, only reminds me how long I have been awake, tossing and turning, waiting for the next hour to be marked off. The delightful print above my bed of the noiseless clock at rest is my token gesture to the glorious antique timepieces of yesteryear.

I purchased the colored print of a little girl standing in a green rowing boat with a long oar floating on a calm blue sea at the Salamanca Market in Hobart. Sitting inside the boat is a two storey pink house with red roof, or maybe it is a doll's house. It is called 'Overseas', reminding me that I can take 'home' with me wherever I go. The whimsical print by artist Sarah Millicent Elliott sang to me and drew me in to my inner world, the feeling, heart centre space, bringing such joy and happiness. Home is that place where I can close the door on the world and feel truly alone; it is blissful, quiet and peaceful. It is a scared place of my own. But home is much broader than this, it is also about social inclusion and community and being accepted.

Most of us began life with our family at home; nurtured and cared for. As Donald Winnicott (1960) the English paediatrician and psychoanalyst suggested, _Home is Where We Start From_. His statement is simple, yet profound, especially in the context of the people with whom I worked with over the years. Often the home where they started from as infants was not a safe place and many currently had no home at all. Some were removed from home at a young age and placed 'in care', never knowing how that happened or why.

The notion of home and what it means acts as a reference point to things that happen in our lives. I learnt that through the work that I had done with homeless people. For example, if 'home' during your childhood was a children's orphanage, or foster care, the idea of home as where you are supposed to live with your mother and father and siblings, suddenly takes on a completely different meaning.

For many children growing up in Australia during the 20th Century the idea of home suddenly took on a completely different connotation. As a reference point to what happened in their lives, spending time in state run institutional care, children's homes, orphanages or foster care often cast a long shadow. They became known as the Forgotten Australians. The 2004 Inquiry of the Senate Community Affairs References Committee estimated there were more than 500,000 children, many former wards of the state who experienced harsh treatment in the care system. On behalf of the Australian Parliament Prime Minister Rudd formally apologized to the Forgotten Australians and former Child Migrants in 2009. Unfortunately it also had to take a Royal Commission into Institutional Reponses to Child Sexual Abuse in Australia beginning in 2015 to highlight that dark stain in our nation's history.

Like the Stolen Generation many Forgotten Australians suffered abuse in state care. Even worse, they were often told lies or partial truths. The lies became their family history as they knew it until finally, often decades later, sometimes with the help of a support worker, or even by mistake, the truth was uncovered. Exposing lies resulted in utter devastation for some people.

# Chapter 4

**John's story**

I heard some terrible stories over the years. John's story was awful. His disbelief and anguish remains with me even now. It was not fair what happened to him as he was such a lovely man.

John was in his late sixties when I started working with him in 2010. He was a big man with unruly white hair and no front teeth, which made it hard to understand him. Over time, I got much better at knowing what he was saying, but early on I struggled. John liked wearing bright colors though they rarely matched. His shirt buttons barely did up as the fabric stretched across his ample belly, fast food and junk food his favorite meals. John was instantly recognizable as he always wore a green jacket and shuffled slowly along the footpath. John was quite childlike despite his age and was well known near where he lived in a male only rooming house given he spent hours sitting on the fence outside or walking the local streets. I was hoping to get John somewhere safer and more permanent to live as he was getting tired of the fights, the drug use and comings and goings of people in the rooming house where he had lived for a few months. At sixty five, it was also time to consider the next stage of his life. He had enough of moving and barely surviving and talked of 'retiring' somewhere, away from the 'riff raff', somewhere a bit quieter.

Not long after I met John he told me what happened the day of his mother's funeral. We developed a fortnightly routine where I'd drive him to Oakleigh where he'd get credit for his mobile, a few groceries and tobacco-the one in the yellow pouch, and two packets of papers. John liked the area because it was like stepping back in time, where old men sat quietly in groups in coffee shops and where specialist delicatessen shops could still be found selling every variety of dried beans, nuts, cheeses and sausage that you could imagine. John had a favorite tobacco shop that he visited. The owner knew him and was always very kind to him, never rushing him, greeting him with, "Hello Mr. John, how are you today? " John loved the attention and always answered "good as gold", beaming, resting his hands on his ample belly.

We always stopped and had a coffee outside a café in a one-way street, me a flat white, John a cappuccino with four sugars, smiling like a naughty child as he emptied each sachet into his cup slowly and carefully, watching me squirm at the amount he used. He enjoyed this ritual, stirring his coffee, sitting as if he had all the time in the world, rolling his cigarette with precision between his nicotine stained, podgy fingers, watching the passing cars. I also enjoyed our outings to Oakleigh over the years as I learnt a lot about John just sitting with him.

I clearly remember the day I asked him whether his mother was still alive. It was cold sitting outside the café and I was shivering. Even John looked cold in his green jacket and woolen beanie. "No she died of cancer. It was real sudden and she had to go to hospital. But she never came home", he said looking at me with his small kind blue eyes.

"Oh sorry to hear that, must have been awful, how old were you?"

"Fifteen abouts," he said, still looking at me, waiting.

"Must have been a hard thing for you to go through at fifteen", I asked.

"Yeah, do you know what happened at the funeral? My name was not on the list". The words hung, suspended in the cold air.

"What do you mean John, what list", I replied, looking at him.

"The list with the family names on it", John offered with authority.

I realized he must have been referring to the order of service. Though John had struggled with literacy problems all his life, he recognized his father's name and the names of his five siblings on the order of service. His name was missing.

"I kept checking to make sure where John was. But my name was not there. " John worked out that his name should have come last as he was the baby of the family. " I asked my old man. Where's my name?" John said, taking a long drag of his rollie, before continuing. "Do you know what he said?" looking at me, blue eyes misting.

"No, what did he say", me careful not to interrupt the flow and his thoughts.

"He told me I was adopted. I came from the babies' home that was why". John said that he was not really sure what that meant. It was a shock. He could not work out why his father had to be so mean to him at the funeral. "Why'd he say that?" John asked, without malice. John muddled through his confusion and grief on his own that day as his older siblings were too preoccupied supporting their father to worry about him. It seems that John's older siblings all mingled together, off to one side, ignoring him. There were no warm embraces, no strong arms to hold him tight. No one came forward.

"That's terrible John." What could I say? It was awful, and my heart ached for him. How could his adoptive father and siblings been so cruel?

"I remember yelling at my father, telling him I didn't understand......telling him over and over, she was my mother, she was my mother, she was kind to me, she loved me". Tears were rolling down his face now. John turned his face away from me, first wiping one of his cheeks with the back of his hand, then the other.

"That must have been awful for you John, I'm really sorry," I said quietly, taking a deep breath, fumbling for a tissue for him. It was heartbreaking to see him like this. I did not know what else to say. I felt terrible for him, shivering now as the wind whipped up, blowing tiny bits of tobacco off the table.

"Yeah, and they weren't even my real brothers and sisters either," he added. "My old man was always mean to me, called me names, told me I was dumb, couldn't spell. I don't think he liked me. He wasn't even my father. I ran away and never went back after that," he said with defiance. "But my mum, she loved me. She often told me not to take notice of what the old man said, 'cause she loved me and told me I was special". John's rollie was slowly burning down in his fingers. He carefully stubbed it out. "I loved her like she was my real mother," John murmured.

I waited a few moments. "What was her name John", I asked softly.

"Marie, it was Marie", he said, rubbing his hands together to keep warm.

That was the start of John wanting to find out about his real family-going backwards to the beginning and where he 'started' from. But John did not know how to do this. He had tried many times but always hit brick walls. I was able to help him with this over the next few years.

# Chapter 5

**My experience of home**

Deborah Luepnitz, (2005) also a psychoanalyst, in referring to the Winnicott title _Home is Where We Start From_ , points out that it is a challenge when working with people like John for whom 'home and its meanings have been so ruinous'. Most of the homeless men and women that I worked with had horrendous childhoods. Home as the 'first universe' was never the safe haven it is meant to be and often represented a place where you were beaten and abused. For others, home started as a happy place. Tragedy came later when family life changed due to divorce or death of a parent. Often the stability of home was lost, only to be replaced by uncertainty and a terrible feeling of nothing ever being the same again.

But not everyone who experiences such loss and suffering at an early age is affected to the point that they end up homeless. It is much more complex, dependent on a multitude of other factors such as personality, resilience, coping mechanisms, particular circumstances at any point in time, having family support, finances, health and employment.

For me, I think I was about nineteen when my father left the family home for good. This colored my view of home, or at least provided an outline that I later filled in as I made sense of that time and what my father's departure meant to me. My father's temporary absences and comings and goings during my teen years were something I just got used to. I remember that my confusion, hurt and anger came later, after he finally left. I am not sure what changed or what the catalyst was for my father to finally make a decision to leave.

My overriding memory is one of shock and not being good enough and how could he do this. Time has a way of healing hurt and anger, even altering perceptions. I think we sometimes only remember what we choose to and block out the rest, or that which is too painful to manage at the time. I also learnt that through the work I had done with homeless people. I am pretty sure I did this when my father told us he was leaving.

Nothing was ever the same again after my father finally left. It was the defining watershed of my late adolescence leaving a wake of mixed emotions. It took many years to sift through the residue of feelings that were left over. When I thought I had sorted everything out I realized there were still unresolved issues. For example, even though my father had not always been present during my teens, it was actually his final departure that had a bigger impact on me. The certainty of home, with a father who was supposed to always be there regardless of what happens, had been taken away. That belief no longer existed. I felt I had been abandoned by my father when he left us.

But the stability of home was only partially lost because my mother kept the home going through my father's absences. In a sense, she was what home represented to me as she was the constancy and the predictability of day to day life. I could not really rely on my father to always be home, but I could rely on my mother. She was always there-the anchor. I now understand and appreciate why I value the importance of dependability, consistency and reliability in my approach to my work. I know from experience that these principles are important as my mother modeled these attributes. Sometimes I could not do much more than this when faced with the challenges of working with people whose lives were often chaotic and unpredictable.

In assisting and supporting the people that I had the privilege to work with, I did in fact take into account starting from their home in a Winnicott sense. The first home was significant when mapping out and making sense of an individual's journey and how they had ended up experiencing homelessness. It was a necessary starting point in their narrative. In order to understand how anyone has arrived at a certain point in his or her life, we need to put together earlier events and the sequence in which things happened. Individuals often say too glibly that things just happened. In my view, more often than not, things do not just happen. There is usually a significant incident or chain of events that occurred in a person's life leading up to their current situation. I know that if my father had not left the family when he did my mother would more than likely not have sold the family home at that time. The loss represented my life with my family up until that point- us together. It was a marker on my life journey, but also a time for growth and maturity. Loss as a process does not have to be a bad thing. It was because of these events that the opportunity opened for me to move out and live in a share-house in inner Melbourne, closer to where I worked.

Home and what it meant took on a completely different meaning for me then. As a twenty year old, it became more expansive, whilst paradoxically narrowed to represent my mother and the importance of that bond and attachment to her. Home no longer meant the home or house of my childhood. Home no longer meant my parents as a married couple or living together as a family with my siblings.

# Chapter 6

**Defining home-less-ness and home**

We hear so much about homelessness in the media. Figures are quoted and short documentaries are made, sometimes about a homeless person down on their luck begging on the streets of Melbourne struggling with an addiction. But what is homelessness exactly? Breaking down the word home-less-ness suggests something is missing-without a home. It is less something.

Socially, homelessness has negative connotations. The person experiencing homelessness suffers from the stigma associated with not having a stable place to live. I heard this over and over again from the people I worked with. Often, if they met someone they would not tell that person they were homeless. How could they bring someone they just met for the first time home, if they had no stable place to live? How could they offer to make a friend a cup of tea or coffee in their rooming house when violent arguments often spilled out in the narrow hall way just outside their room? They said they felt judge by others. Some did not even tell their family that they were homeless. They were too ashamed. It was bad enough to be labeled 'the black sheep of the family' with no job, without them knowing they were also homeless. No wonder then that many remain socially isolated. Their voices, experiences and stories are largely unheard because of the shame attached to their situation.

But does homelessness just mean without a house and a house that is a home? Or is it more than that? We can live in a house but still be far away from home. We can stay somewhere but not feel at home, comfortable or even safe. Home is an emotively laden word and means different things to different people. Home is belonging to the land or people. It can be about a spiritual connection. Home is not only where we start from in a Winnicott sense, but home is also where the heart is. Home is a sense of place, comfort and space- a sense of belonging.

Homelessness conjures up many different things. I immediately think of the deinstitutionalization of the mental health facilities beginning post 1955 and into the 1960s and the disastrous effects this policy had on the mentally ill. There was widespread homelessness in many parts of the United States of America as patients from state psychiatric hospitals were discharged into the community. Deinstitutionalization became a visible phenomenon because large numbers of mentally ill patients were made homeless. They were very noticeable out on the streets. Deinstitutionalization in Australia came after similar movements in North America and Europe.

And closer to home, I can vaguely remember Sunbury and other state psychiatric institutions in Melbourne closing down and the relocation of people with intellectual disabilities into group houses within the community. The tragedy of the residents at Kew Cottages in Melbourne and the devastating fire of 1996 when nine men died are etched more clearly in my mind. The redevelopment of the site and the ensuing controversy lasted many years. The future of the cottages and the surrounding area where these men once lived became a political issue. There were conflicting views amongst the remaining residents of Kew Cottages about whether this was 'home'. There was even a push to retain the institution after the fire, as many believed that a community existed. It was this sense of community that was considered worth preserving- but not everybody agreed with this.

Academics and policy makers at the time also asked that question (what is home?) in the context of people with intellectual disabilities moving out of institutions into community houses. Could a community residential unit for example, be a home and look and feel homely? More importantly, the authors of _Making life good in the community:_ _When is a house a home_ (2008) highlighted the idea that 'home' is such an elusive and individual concept, and no one should impose their views of what 'home' means on others, especially the intellectually impaired. The authors of the publication pointed out that state built community group houses were not homes in the sense of being 'homely'. This could only come from the individual living in that space.

There are many myths, assumptions and misconceptions around the term homelessness and what a typically homeless person looks like. But really, there is no such thing as a typically homeless person. There are both the visible and the hidden homeless. There is the chronically homeless person, the rough sleeper, or someone who is experiencing temporary homelessness. Homelessness is also much broader. Globally, we now have to take into consideration parts of the population who have been made homeless as a result of war, famine, poverty and environmental or natural disasters. Dispossessed of their dignity and dispossessed of their ability to provide for their families, they have few choices. And what about people who arrive in Australian waters on leaking boats? Asylum seekers, refugees, illegal immigrants -are they not homeless too?

In major cities across the world and here in Melbourne, some homeless people sit on the city footpaths or find shelter in Church doorways or tram stops or under bridges at night time. They sleep in public toilet blocks at night time. Some families sleep in cars because the family home has been repossessed after the primary bread winner lost his or her job and they have nowhere else to go. Mothers with children sleep in cars because their temporary accommodation has ended and there are no immediate options available, especially if they want to remain in the same area where their children go to school. They are told by overstretched housing services that they can be temporarily housed on the other side of the city, but this will mean yet another change of school and yet another disruption for their children.

However, each 'homeless person' is first and foremost an individual, a person, with their own story to tell. Homelessness is not what or who they are. They are individuals, just like Mandy, Sally, Cassie, John, Gary, Ben, Brad, Robbie and Barry, the people who I worked with. They were experiencing and living 'homelessness' every day. Each of their separate journeys and stories had its origins back in time and followed a particular pathway, just like mine, until our journeys merged together to make this story. Our pathways in fact crossed over that three year period. Over the ensuing narrative I will share parts of their stories with you.

PART TWO

# Chapter 7

**Kraybill's definitions of home**

' **The First Home'**

As I immersed myself in my work I often wondered what these shared individual experiences had to say about me as a housed person. Ken Kraybill's (2009) simple, yet thought provoking way of looking at homelessness and the needs in all of us, resonates for me as it gets to the core of homelessness in a profound way because it relates to all of us, not just those who are home-less and experiencing homelessness. The gap between the homeless and those of us who are housed is not so great if we take into account his viewpoint. Housing is often just one part of a complex set of circumstances. Being housed for example, does not miraculously fix things straight away for someone who has experienced long term homelessness. I saw this over and over in the people I worked with. Being housed is not only about facilitating and bringing changes to the immediate circumstances of the person experiencing homelessness. Kraybill suggests it is also about change within. Housing is often just the start of this journey and one of the first steps. This journey often becomes a journey of self discovery for many, as real change begins within and starts with the self. Kraybill took this into account as his explanation of homelessness starts with the self.

Ken Kraybill is an American training specialist within the homeless sector and the area of self-care. His existential description of homelessness was used as part of the 2007 City of Sydney Homelessness Strategy. It is a different starting point from which to think about homelessness as it gets to the heart of the matter. More importantly for me, it helped me understand more about what home meant to me. For example, Kraybill describes how each of us resides in three homes, beginning with 'the self' as the ' _First Home'._

' _The First Home'_ is the home of our very being and identity and is characterized by the physical, mental, emotional and spiritual needs. Kraybill claims that we receive our first home at birth and early in our lives as others are given primary care-taking responsibility for our care. Gradually though, we claim more of this responsibility for ourselves. _'The First Home'_ also needs to be nurtured and maintained through intellectual stimulation, emotional support and behavioral regulation. We need to take time for reflection and develop a sense of purpose and meaning in connection to the outer world. ' _The Second Home'_ is the actual physical structure and place where we live and sleep and store our belongings. _'The Third Home'_ is the wider community in which we live. It is the place where we connect with other people.

All these needs are as important as each other. In an ideal world, these three worlds are interconnected. The person experiencing homelessness however, often feels separated and disconnected as they are not always socially included in the mainstream ' _Third Home'._ This is exactly how many of the people I worked with felt. They saw themselves as quite different to everyone else.

The person experiencing homelessness rarely has a _'Second Home'_ and their ' _First Home'_ is often an empty shell. I think of Mandy for instance, a young woman who continued to struggle with the loss of her mother. Mandy was referred to our program by a local drug and alcohol service. I knew from the referral and Mandy's drug and alcohol worker that Mandy's mother died in New South Wales in a tragic car accident when Mandy was fifteen. She still missed her terribly as she was her mother's little princess. It had always been just the two of them. She never knew her father as her mother never told her who he was and there was no name on her birth certificate. Mandy later told me that she was sure her mother was going to tell her one day. At her most vulnerable Mandy would cry and say her situation would have been much different if her mother was still alive. In all likelihood it most probably would have been. And that was the tragedy and her paradox. The inner baggage that weighed her down which she could never leave behind, made her feel so empty. The loss of her mother was a constant reminder of what had been taken from her, lost forever.

Mandy was tiny, about 162 centimeters and like a little sparrow, fine boned and delicate-flitting here and there. Mandy's straight blonde hair fell to her shoulders. Sometimes she wore it in pig tails or plaited it. She inhabited two worlds- that of the child, little princess that she often escaped to and the precarious life of the streets.

We were sitting in a café at the window bench in the western suburbs of Melbourne, up on stools, side by side, looking out on traffic and people passing by. It was a cold day in June 2011. I'd bumped into Mandy on one of my regular outings to find her. We were talking quietly about how she was and then...... there was nothing. She sat looking out the window in silence. Usually Mandy talked quickly in her high pitched voice, but not this day. I had never seen her like this before-she was very calm. Mandy did not even fill the space that was left with words as she usually did. I wondered whether there was nothing, because she felt she no longer had to pretend to me or cover up. Mandy knew I would continue to support her no matter how bad things were for her.

Mandy was avoidant of responsibility and things that were too painful and often created diversions in her life. The diversions and distractions involved other people and invariably always led to a crisis and drama. Mandy would do anything but confront her own fears. But this particular day in the café was different because there were no immediate dramas at the time. Well actually there was, but back where she'd been staying a few months previously. Mandy had fled instead of facing people and paying what she owed them. She was now staying temporarily with friends in order to get away from the trouble and lay low.

Then out of the blue, breaking the silence, still staring out the window, Mandy said, "My mum died on the 18th June. It's been nine years".

She'd never told me the date of the car accident. "Oh, sorry Mandy, I didn't realize it was about this time."

"I loved my mum," she said, turning her face to look at me, as if imploring me to ask more.

"What do you remember the most about her?"

"She was beautiful and kind and spoilt me," she said, her girlish voice quavering.

"Do you have any photos of her?"

"In one of my cases," she answered. I wondered which case and where the case was. "I still miss her ya know", Mandy said bravely, gulping.

"Of course, she was your mum".

Tears welled in her eyes now. I squeezed her hand, feeling her sadness, realizing the enormity of her loss and how alone she has been all these years. I felt heavy and numb.

It was as if Mandy was finally still enough to confront what she was too fearful to confront-the loss of her mother. I believed that she was also finally confronting herself and where her life was at, the little lost girl of the street. Herman (1992) explains that victims of chronic and repeated trauma, as Mandy was, may also lose the sense that they have any self at all. (Judith Herman is a leading author on the treatment of incest and traumatic stress. She distinguishes between single incident traumas and prolonged repeated traumas, described as complex post traumatic stress.) I wondered whether this was a loss of self that Mandy was feeling this day in the café. I also felt at a loss to know what else I could do to assist her to make things better for her. That June day was like a watershed moment in our relationship. I think she came to see me more as a pseudo mother figure. I certainly cared and worried about her knowing that she missed her mother. That concern also came with other responsibilities as I will explain later.

A firm foundation and a well cared for ' _First Home_ 'is required if we are to make the most of all these ' _homes'_. No wonder it was so hard for Mandy.

I believe that the ' _First Home'_ is the most important 'home' for everybody and especially for those who work as helpers. Unless we as workers or helpers nurture and sustain ourselves, we will not be much help as providers of care to others. ' _The First Home'_ as it relates to the people I worked with, like Mandy, was often not well nourished or cared for. Tragically, many had been disadvantaged from a young age as their parents or others who had been entrusted to provide the primary care-taking role had not fulfilled this. They had not been nurtured in a way where their physical and emotional needs were met. Often their basic needs were unable to be met because of poverty, parental substance abuse and or, family violence. They were left depleted. Some, like Mandy had spent years in state institutionalized care and foster care. Their sense of who they were had been eroded because of abuse and neglect. Because many had also not received appropriate modeling during their childhood and adolescence they did not always know how to care for those needs themselves. Those basic needs continued to be unmet throughout their life of homelessness. They were only reminded of what was never taught and therefore never learnt; basic skills in how to take care of oneself, when they were finally housed. The gap was only then noticed. As a result of this lack of basic skills, many felt a heightened sense of shame.

Sadly then, _"The First Home',_ the essence of our very being, was often bereft of care and attention in those I worked with. This became the focus of support, both directly and indirectly as it was more about connecting to people, knowing that someone else worried and cared about them. As I assisted individuals both practically and emotionally, hopefully their sense of self worth grew. But only small steps can be taken at a time. How could someone's sense of self change for example, after a lifetime of put downs that first started with a parent telling them on a daily basis that they were stupid? John's father frequently told him he was stupid and that he was a 'dope'. The put downs hurt John even more when he later found out that he was actually his adoptive father.

I remembered quite early in my support of Sally when I commented on how pretty she looked. I was not expecting the reaction I got. She was wearing a pale blue beanie and windcheater. The color suited her and on that particularly cold day she also looked really well. She looked happier than I had ever seen her. She seemed a bit taken aback and almost upset at what I had said. After quite a few moments she said that no one had ever told her she looked pretty before and did I really think she looked nice? She seemed surprised and not sure whether to believe me. I thought I might have said the wrong thing and maybe this was too much for her to hear or to accept at that point. Maybe it was at that stage. I then realized that being told something positive about your appearance and therefore yourself can be quite confronting when understood within the context of the self as _'the First Home'._ For Sally, the comment cut to the very centre of her being. Her sense of self worth was low and fragile despite a lot of bravado. The boldness and her generally feisty spirit was a front to protect her, or _'the First Home'._ Unfortunately, like many of the people I worked with, Sally did not know how to care for this part of herself. This would be a huge task for her to achieve in order for her to move forward in life.

I was very fortunate in that my ' _First Home'_ was well supported, rested and nourished. It certainly had not always been this way during my working life. However, I knew through my own personal experience and my own journey how vital it is to attend to one's own inner needs. Whilst we all need to be housed, fed and clothed, we also need to look after our physical, psychological, spiritual and emotional needs. I thought my own awareness of self would assist me in being more open, accepting and understanding of the needs of the people I worked with.

Self is important because it is ' _the First Home'_.

# Chapter 8

**Sally-bereft of the 'first home'-long term effects of childhood abuse**

When children are subject to chronic neglect and deprivation they suffer poor physical health and development. Children who are abused sometimes find different ways of coping and managing the pain and awful experiences that they are subjected to. In order to survive, mechanisms and processes within the mind kick in and take over.

Sally was subject to repeated sexual abuse by a family member from the age of about six to ten years of age. I did not know this until after I had been working with her for about a year. Sally was in her thirties and had been homeless for the past ten years. She was short and slightly built with untidy spiky red hair. She dyed her hair regularly so I was never quite sure what color it would be when I saw her. Sally was usually highly strung, hyper vigilant and jumpy. She attributed this to years of abuse from violent partners and other people connected to the homeless street sub-culture.

We were driving across to Williamstown in April 2011. She'd been back in Melbourne for about 8 months after laying low for a few months the previous year. Her life was fairly chaotic so I sometimes tried to get her away, even if it was just for an hour or so. Driving to a completely different area away from the dramas on the street helped relax and calm her. She had nowhere to go, other than stop and sit.

On this particular trip we were talking about our favorite books as children and how some children have imaginary play friends. "I think Anne of Green Gables would have to be my most loved book," I remarked, "along with the Far Away Tree."

"Anne of what- never heard of it. You only like that book because it has your name in it", she teased, somewhat perceptively. "Well I liked Peter and Wendy. It was my favorite book. I wish I still had it. I loved being Wendy Darling-she could fly you know," she reminisced. "Being able to pretend I could fly kept me sane as a kid".

"What do you mean?" I said.

Sally paused before adding, "I was abused by an uncle when I was little. I'd stay over at my cousin's place and that's when stuff happened". Sally was gazing out the car window. She seemed miles away.

I didn't say anything, just waited as I concentrated on the driving and the semi trailers heading to the docks, quietly bracing and preparing myself for what might follow.

"I hated going there because I knew what was gunna happen at night. He threatened me, telling me not to say anything, as no one would believe me, that it was my fault, I was bad. The bastard".

"Your uncle?" I clarified.

"Yeah the fat ugly bastard. If I saw him now I swear I'd kill him". Sally was twirling a piece of her short spiky hair in her fingers, tighter and tighter as she unraveled the details of what happened, slowly, like she was in a dream state.

As we rounded the corner near Science Works we passed a huge container ship gliding silently and effortlessly under the West Gate Bridge. It was a wonderful sight. I don't think Sally saw the ship even though she was looking out the window-she was somewhere else.

"I had to sleep on my own in the spare room when I stayed over. I wasn't allowed to sleep in my cousin's room. My aunt and uncle, they were strict. I had to sleep on my own because I wet the bed. Like I was being punished or something". Sally shifted slightly in her seat before she continued. "I'd hardly sleep. I'd lay really still, listening to all the creaks. I'd hardly breathe. The room was really dark except for a tiny bit of light showing under and around one side of the door. I'd just look at that light, hoping it didn't get any bigger. I'd pray, please God no, please, not tonight." She paused again.

I glanced over as she grimaced, sucking in her lips.

"Then the door would open slowly. Then close shut. Ever so quietly. He had a torch. He'd tell me it was okay, just making sure I was okay. You warm enough? Then he'd climb into bed next to me, squashing me. There was hardly any room. Scratchy beard, his smell, never forgot that, yuck. And then he'd fondle my private parts. Bastard. I was six the first time he did it". Sally said that she learnt to cut off from the terror by pretending to be Wendy the character in her favourite book. "I'd fly like Wendy and float above my body when my uncle did other awful things to me. I was Wendy and I watched what happened to me. It was weird. I was able to go somewhere else - not feel what was happening. But I'd watch me. Can't explain it really. Don't ever talk about it. It's in my head though. All the time".

Sally did everything within her power and control to survive the ordeal, even if it meant dissociating.

"I remember that I'd try to scream...... but nothing ever came out of my mouth. I think about what happened all the time. That's why I 'm so fucked in the head mate", she added. "The drugs stop me thinking too, blocks the pain".

"But the pain never really goes away does it," I offered quietly.

"Nah, that's the worst part-it sucks. Just how it is," said Sally.

"Did you ever tell your parents what happened? " I asked, not really sure what the story was with her family as she had never spoken about them.

"I eventually told mum when I was ten. She believed me, but that was the end of our family. She wanted to kill my uncle. I remember mum confronting him-my mum had balls. Dad refused to believe his brother could have done what I said. Mum and dad had huge screaming rows over it". Her parents separated and things were never the same again. "Mum was really angry at my dad for not believing me and angry with my aunt for siding with my uncle. Then she blamed herself -it affected her... she smothered me... became over protective. I couldn't stand it-it was too late though. I was angry with her then". Sally was pulling hard at her spiky hair now.

"Did your mum go to the Police?"

"Nah, my uncle said he didn't do nuthin and how could I prove anything. Mum said I'd have to go to the doctors and have tests done and stuff to prove what happened. But no way was that happening. No bloody way. I told mum I'd rather run away. I just wanted to forget about it", Sally was exhausted now, leaning her head against the car window.

Poor thing, enough, I thought.

"Me and mum,"a huge sigh punctuated her words, "were never the same again". Tears rolled down her face as she whispered, "she must have known something was going on, she must have known. I was only a child for god's sake. And dad, where was he? He was useless, gutless. He just left. What sort of dad does that huh. I think he was ashamed of me or something. I dunno."

I did not ask Sally any more questions that day in the car. I kept driving until she finally fell asleep in the warmth, spent of all emotion, her small body curled up on the car seat almost in the foetal position.

Children who have experienced trauma due to abuse by parents or caregivers or family friends like Sally have difficulties developing healthy attachments to other people and have poor peer relationships. They have problems in affect regulation and regulating emotional states-I refer to this behavior as being 'all over the place', laughing uncontrollably one minute, fighting with their friend's the next, refusing to talk to anyone, shutting themselves in their room and withdrawing from family and friends. Often the signs of abuse are there in the child's behavior. Unfortunately, the signs are ignored or the acting out behavior is not understood. Because a secure sense of connection with caring people is the foundation of healthy personality development, a child's basic sense of self is lost when this trust is shattered or violated (Herman, 1992). Children who have been sexually abused have a limited capacity to trust and have a reduced capacity for empathy and connectedness to others. This therefore makes it extremely hard for them to trust workers later in life.

Acutely traumatized young people and adults sometimes take years to establish a feeling of safety within helping relationships. Recovery can only happen once safety is established and when the person knows you will do them no harm. That is why I was always 'just there' for Sally. You cannot rush these things.

**Brad -where did he belong?**

Many people like Brad, who I worked with, go through life not knowing and not sure where they really belong or who they really are. This often has very little to do with their housing. I could understand this.

Brad was a gentle, quietly spoken, openly gay man in his late thirties and therefore quite vulnerable and an easy target. He was slim with thick light brown hair that lightened to a sandy color in the summer. Sometimes he would style his hair with a great deal of care and flair, somehow making it standup with the aid of lots of hair product. On these occasions he was clean shaven and neatly dressed. Other times his hair remained unwashed, uncombed and matted and he'd not bother to shave. He'd take comfort in a favorite oversized grey windcheater, cramming his hands in the pockets. He had a long nose, pointed chin and dark eyes, features that seemed even more pronounced when he was mentally unstable. Brad did not think other people accepted him for who he was; an openly gay man.

Brad did not always feel happy or secure within himself for other reasons. This was harder to remedy as I believe it was the root and core of his problems. He was often tormented by his inner world and demons he was unable to escape from. He refused to believe that his mental health and paranoia played a role in how he felt and behaved. He certainly did not think it had any bearing on what happened to him and flatly rejected medical, psychological or psychiatric intervention. That he was able to acknowledge his 'condition' and discuss his idiosyncrasies with me was one thing. Helping himself to make life a bit more bearable was another. It was as if his 'condition' was quite separate to everything else that happened to him and around him. Usually it was everybody else's fault when things went wrong, when he lost his part-time job for instance, or when he was abused on the tram for staring at someone, because he thought they were looking at him. I carefully and gently tried to point out on numerous occasions that his unconventional behavior and the precariousness of his current situation might have some direct correlation to his years of home-less-ness and the awful things that happened to him. He always remonstrated defiantly, saying how I dare say this. It had nothing to do with it-it was other people. He reminded me of a house of cards. The last thing I wanted to do was cause its collapse.

He struggled with knowing where he belonged in the world and had a view that the world had failed him dismally. Brad's sense of the injustices done against him was very real. As he often told me defiantly, "it is my reality and that is all I know". Other people were responsible for failing him over and over again even though he admitted that he was a poor judge of character and too trusting of people. Brad often expressed his anger and paranoia towards the generic "those" and "they" and "you" who took advantage of him over the years when he was talking to me. "You" made promises and then "you" would not keep them he would say angrily. "Not you personally Anne", he would add, always careful to distinguish me as separate to the rest of the "you" who did this to him. I was glad Brad did this because at times I did feel that I was part of the "you", as his feelings and rage were very real and quite palpable.

He had worked in the past, mostly sales in men's fashion and call centres. But inevitably, something happened and he would be asked to leave. It was always someone else's fault, never Brad's fault. Brad believed he was a good worker.

I asked him what happened to try and understand why he was not able to maintain work for more than a few months at a time.

"Other people had it out for me, they didn't like me. It was as simple as that", he explained.

"But what did you do? You must have said something or done something for them to get rid of you. Something must have happened", I asked, knowing that this was taking a risk. "They couldn't just get rid of you without a reason".

"I didn't do anything. I told you," Brad yelled. "They had it out for me. They didn't like me and wanted to get rid of me as soon as I started. They are all the same. You can't trust anyone," he insisted.

This malevolent view of the world was a constant and ongoing theme in Brad's discussions over many months of me catching up with him. This view permeated everything to the point where he could not move beyond this view. Brad even wanted to leave Australia and move to another country because he believed Australia had failed him.

"I am stuck -what can I do to get unstuck?" he asked me once in total exasperation. We were sitting in a local café not far from where I worked. I chose it because it was quiet and therefore a safe place to talk-no chance of anyone eavesdropping on our discussions and philosophical debates. I was always careful and mindful of our immediate surroundings when with Brad, because he was often unwell. His hair was matted and unwashed this particular day, and he was wearing a sloppy, hooded windcheater.

How am I going to answer this I thought looking at his desperate, pleading expression? I need to be careful. It was a wonderful invitation but even before I replied I knew Brad would not accept my response, especially today. He was very 'black and white' in his thinking. I knew this with certainty given the conversations we'd had over many months, but offered anyway, prefacing my response by saying, "You need to be open to what I am going to say given you have asked my opinion. Okay Brad, we have a deal?"

"Yes of course, I want to know, how to get unstuck, that is why I asked you", he implored.

My response was indeed not what he wanted to hear but he listened as I knew he would because he was always very polite and respectful of the relationship and what I said. Brad then dismissed it. "Well why did you ask me for my opinion? "I kindly pointed out, "If you are not going to consider it". And therein I added with emphasis, lay the issue. "I think that is part of why you get stuck. It is the black and white thinking and the rigidity. You are not always open to looking at things from someone else's point of view. You always think the other person is wrong and that you are right. What can I say-that's it, you asked me how to get unstuck and I have given you a suggestion", I finished, daring to smile, hoping I did not offend him.

Brad laughed then because he understood what I was trying to explain to him. Brad trusted that I would answer his questions truthfully too. He expected this from the relationship we had developed. He'd been critical of professionals not being honest with him in the past and not answering his direct questions. But it was also a huge responsibility for me, especially when he was not well. I was not a trained therapist or mental health worker but used every bit of my experience to remain grounded, consistent and supportive-an anchor for him.

His views were quite extreme at times and highlighted how unwell he was at any given time. But these views nevertheless gave his life meaning and helped him make sense of his world as he knew it. I was able to offer a different view when invited to do so and that view was always of a more positive and optimist outlook and was always grounded in reality. Sometimes listening was all that was required because the cardinal rule in supporting Brad and others who I worked with was always to do no harm. Do no harm, is the first rule when working with anyone who has suffered trauma. Offering a different view was more about opening up a dialogue for Brad when invited and safe to do so, to promote an exchange of ideas, certainly never to tell him that he was wrong.

Brad's negative world view was often a recurring theme that came up time and time again over the course of the three years that I supported him. Being housed in permanent housing made some difference to his situation, but he did not really like where he lived. His way of escaping what he perceived was the negativity of the environment around him was to get a job and move. Brad was unwilling to accommodate other people's ways within his immediate environment. He wanted to move to a place where things would be different. But how can we ever guarantee that where we move to is ever going to be the perfect place or even different? There is almost no way to guarantee this as it is impossible to control everything in our immediate environments. There is always going to be other people to consider, other factors to take into account. Brad found it difficult to accept that most people have to make compromises on a daily basis, whether this is due to noisy neighbors or lack of a backyard. I reminded Brad on many occasions that nothing is ever really perfect in life-it is what we make of it. I felt this was part of my mantra in what I had to offer Brad.

Many people who experience homelessness have significant mental health issues. They suffer from paranoia, schizophrenia and psychosis and post-traumatic stress disorders. And worse, there is often little relief from that inner turmoil because, like Brad, they refuse treatment. By refusing treatment or denying that they have a serious illness, situations are exacerbated. It is not as easy to trust others. They are misunderstood and easily taken advantage of, ridiculed and further ostracized from mainstream society. Home as a dwelling is also a symbol of the internal world inhabited by the homeless person. Their inner world is often not a safe haven. It is sometimes full of bad memories and demons that plague and persecute them.

Eric Harper (2007), a psychotherapist in the United Kingdom, describes what happens to the individual when they inhabit a dwelling that has been built with words of lies and hate and deception. Like most of the people I worked with they end up inhabiting a 'bad space' as a result of repeated negative experiences. They remain vulnerable to ongoing exploitation and abuse, even after they are housed. No wonder that their internal dwelling place has no solid foundations. They often feel like an outsider because there is a disruption in their relationship with the world. The inter-subjective bond is broken in terms of how they engage with the world, leaving them alone, isolated and afraid. I saw this in many of the people I worked with. They seemed to have almost been beaten down by their negative experiences. Often they did not expect other people to show them the same kindness or respect that most of us take for granted in our daily interactions. Why would they expect this when most of their experiences and interactions resulted in them being 'ripped off '? How could they trust that other people were going to do the right thing by them?

**A leaf in the wind**

"I feel like a leaf blowing in the wind", Barry said one day as we were sitting out the back of the office where I worked. Barry, who was in his late forties was slightly built, wiry and agile. He always wore his hair short and took pride in his appearance, with a knack for finding trendy, name brand clothing and caps from the local op shops. Barry also liked wearing his caps low over his eyes, so that he would have to lift his head slightly to look at me when he talked. Sometimes he didn't even bother to do this and averted his gaze completely. On the occasions when he did make eye contact, he'd often turn his head to one side and watch me intently and somewhat suspiciously. Barry was initially keen to have his Office of Housing Application completed so that he could get stable, long term housing. He had drifted from one rooming house to another since he was about eighteen years of age.

When I first started working with Barry I was confused as to where he was actually staying as he spent a lot of time at a friend's rooming house. Over many weeks of Barry popping in to see me at the office I was able to ascertain that he occasionally went back to his place, a local rooming house not far from where I worked-usually when he and his mate had a falling out.

"I'm trying to help him but I don't know why I bother as he never listens to me", Barry complained to me, adding," he just sits around all day. He never does anything to help himself. It's depressing". Barry was supposedly helping his friend Johnno who was having relationship problems and health issues. But Barry was also dealing with his own issues, including heroin addiction. I later wondered whether Johnno reminded Barry too much of himself and that's why he'd get annoyed and frustrated with him.

It was easy to imagine Barry being unable to offer much resistance to the blustery elements. There was nothing of him. Because he had no set path, he was blown in whatever direction the wind blew him, often changing way mid stream. This happened day after day. He had no purpose other than trying to get money to buy drugs. Barry's drug addiction seemed all consuming. It was also a focus of many discussions over the three years that I worked with him and as he got to trust me. His drug use kept him busy, relying on his street cunning, his ingenuity and calling on favors, people who owed him money. It led him to do things he was not proud of, although he never got caught for stealing in the time that I worked with him. But it was a draining existence, sapping him of energy, sometimes with little to show for his efforts other than a couple of xanax bought on the streets.

"I look forward to night time. It's a relief", he said one day with utter exhaustion. Night was a time of reprieve, and a respite from the chase.

Months after Barry told me he felt like a leaf in the wind, he'd finally put some structure into his week by attending a local drop in centre a few days a week to have coffee. It was a start. I remarked how positive this change was pointing out that he was now no longer like a leaf blowing in the wind.

He agreed. "I'm sick of feeling like a piece of garbage being blown around by the wind".

I quietly drew breath as I had misinterpreted what he had said earlier. No wonder he struggled to find a positive meaning and purpose to his day to day life if this was what he felt like, to be on the scrap heap, feeling like a bit of rubbish. How easy it was to miss vital clues and underestimate the significance of what Barry told me.

Barry often liked to visit the office to have long discussions about a range of topics from religion, the pros of buying street drugs versus seeing a doctor for prescribed medication, television dramas, the economy and 'other people' who he saw as being much different to him. This did not happen straight away though. Once he realized I posed no threat he relaxed and thankfully, after many months, was less guarded and more open. But it did not take much for him to revert back to his suspicious ways.

Barry was having one of his in-depth discussions with me over a cup of coffee in the office kitchen. He pointed out that he had little in common with the early morning commuters dressed for work heading off with purpose.

"I wish I had a job and a work routine and a partner and kids. I'm just not contributing to society. I'm a bloody drain", he said. He yearned for the trappings of what he saw as a normal life, not the sort of life or existence that he was living day to day. I think he knew how futile and soul destroying his life was. His day also started early in the morning as he set off, passing men in suits driving cars. The gulf between his world and theirs was enormous. The unspoken shame of what Barry's life had become debilitated him. He thought he had missed the boat and that it was too late for him, "I'm forty-five for God's sake".

I did not give up on Barry and offered him glimmers of hope and options and different ways of looking at things. I always encouraged him but he mostly rejected my more positive offerings and suggestions that small steps were needed. And that was his choice because I could understand how entrenched his lifestyle was. It would take a huge leap of faith on his behalf to envisage what his life could look like. Barry was not prepared to do this at the moment for fear of failure. Could I blame him for his self defeatist attitude? But he also recognized that time was running out for him and I think this scared him.

I annoyed him at times because I was not prepared to accept his excuses and his unwillingness to at least try. But I had to be careful because I did not want to be a constant reminder of his failings. I also had to be careful because I was easily sucked into believing Barry was being open about the extent of his drug use and how things were going for him. Often Barry focused on Johnno and his problems when things were really bad for him personally. Johnno then became the topic of conversation in our catch ups. He was the convenient diversion. Or was this really Barry externalizing his problems, to make it easier to talk about how bad he actually felt?

Barry also hated where he lived and complained endlessly about the other tenants. There was always a drama. Either someone had stolen his bike, or someone had smashed his window in and pinched what little he did have. There was never any peace in his life.

I felt I was being reproached when I suggested to Barry one day that perhaps he could consider doing a fork lift driving course as there was a vacancy starting the following week. The organizers were willing to hold the spot for me when I mentioned I had someone in mind. I knew Barry had worked in a factory about seven years ago, so it was work he was used to and could do. It was a sunny day and we were sitting outside at the back of his rooming house. "It might open up some possibilities for employment", I said with encouragement, thinking he would jump at the chance.

His response was not what I expected. "How could I possibly consider it", he said, "I'm struggling to live, barely getting through each day. It's hard enough just getting up," he mumbled, eyes lowered under the cap, staring at the ground. Besides, he added angrily with contempt, "what's the point, it won't come to anything. It's too late. Who is going to employ me anyway? I'm a druggie. Look at me. You've got no idea". He was much lower than I thought.

I had missed the mark completely. How simple and easy I made life sound. However, he was finally admitting how bad things were. This in itself was a good thing because he was not always as direct, often talking in riddles about how things were for him and how angry he was with Johnno. Sometimes he'd check me out from the corner of his eye to see if I was following what he was saying. I wondered whether Barry tried to bamboozle me deliberately with his endless diversions about Johnno and his problems. Maybe it was his paranoia or his own fear of failure. I was often second guessing him as he made out things were better than they really were and that he was coping and managing his drug use. But it was now out in the open. He was being honest with himself by saying things were bad. He was completely stuck, believing that it was too late for him to make changes. But what I found worse was his self loathing.

"Please don't refer to yourself as a druggie. I don't see you as a druggie, it has negative connotations. You are a person, not a druggie. You are not worthless", I said, slightly annoyed.

"Fair enough", Barry said looking at me directly now, also surprised at my unexpected outburst.

He could call himself whatever he liked of course, but the word druggie was a particular word I hated because it was socially derogatory and laden with negativity-it was offensive and a cheap throw away comment. It had nothing to do with who the individual was as a person and what they were going through. I was not prepared to accept Barry labeling himself and putting himself down in such a way. I also thought it was a cop out on his behalf, an excuse to give up.

Unlike me, when I left child protection, Barry did not have an escape plan that involved heading to the hills. The danger for Barry was being perilously close to an accidental overdose. Barry often teetered on the edge of that divide, between life and death. He recognized this explaining to me one day, "I know how much I need to take not to wake up again". I countered that the risk was he might accidentally take an overdose without meaning to. He knew this too. Barry thought he was quite an authority on drugs and medication given he self -medicated and had done so for years. "I know what works for me. A friend gave me some lexapro and I felt much better. I'd been feeling quite down and it helped", he remarked. He did not need a doctor to tell him what would help.

"Well wouldn't it be better if you went to the doctor and discussed this rather than buying stuff on the street. You never know what you are getting. It's like playing Russian roulette because certain medications work against each other. They could have an adverse effect, might make you aggressive or even more depressed. And besides," I added incredulously, "how did you know with certainty that it was lexapro that you took-what is one or two tablets going to do anyway? Feeling better might not have had anything to do with what you've taken," I explained, trying to point out how crazy this was.

Barry dismissed this-he was the expert on what worked for him. "What's the point? The doctors won't prescribe me medication. I have tried. They give it to other people but not to me", he said with contempt to demonstrate his point about doctors treating him differently because he was a heroin user.

I knew this was not right. "Well I can refer you to a doctor who works specifically with heroin users. He is a very understanding doctor and has been around a long time. Doesn't judge people. And I can come with you if this will help", I added, knowing that Barry could be helped if he was prepared to give it a go. He was not ready to trust a doctor because he was not quite ready to make that step. Barry was struggling to break away from the insidious pull of drug addiction and the homeless street sub culture and told me that was all he knew. He sometimes teetered on the brink of wanting a life away from heroin and street drugs but had no idea how to get there, quickly dismissing these thoughts. It was just too hard. He was committed in the moment when he said he wanted a different life, but actually making a long term commitment and sticking to a plan was too hard. I wondered whether Barry sometimes saw his drug use as a type of death sentence, a slow, drawn out process. He wore it like a shroud. Was it an excuse not to do anything about his situation? I worried that he accepted this in the absence of choosing hope, self belief, motivation and determination, even if it was only in small measures. But it is a hard thing to flee when you are surrounded by other users and drugs are too easy to get. And there is nowhere to go when it messes with your head, other than detox if you are ready and if you are lucky enough to get in straight away before you change your mind.

# Chapter 9

**The 'Second Home'**

Picture a person in the context of the ' _First Home' (_ as described by Kraybill) living within the physical structure of the ' _Second Home'._ The ' _Second Home'_ provides the necessary environment for meeting the needs of the _'First Home'._ It also provides the foundation and link to the ' _Third Home'._ There are endless combinations of building structures and types of residences. First, a foundation is constructed to provide stability and grounding for the dwelling. Walls and roof provide privacy, shelter and protection. The door shuts people out or is open and welcoming. Windows provide light and a view and connection to the outside world. Cottages, mansions, terraces, boarding houses, apartments, farm houses and studios house individuals. Bricks and mortar with a tiled roof or a timber and glass structure with a steel roof. Concrete, straw, mud or thatched. Termite riddled as my cottage in Upwey was, or state of the art design. Underground or sixteen floors up.

It was quite a revelation and privilege to witness the transformation of someone's personal space to that of 'home'. I remember in June 2010 when Sally first moved into her self contained bed-sit in the rooming house on her release from prison before her violent ex partner arrived back on the scene. She had a designated wall that she called her poet's corner. Sally put up poems and sayings on yellow post-it notes. Many of these writings depicted very personal struggles, whilst others were positive affirmations, reflecting Sally's hopes and dreams. I was touched reading them, as it showed a side she had not revealed before. My favorite was a Martin Luther King quote, 'Only in the darkness can you see the stars'. She needed a wall of her own and a private space where her internal world could be expressed and then shown- out in the open, at last.

I realized that writing and drawing also held the key to how she made sense of her past suffering and what she had learnt from those experiences. At various times over the 3 years I wrote letters to Sally as an additional way of engaging and trying to reach her, both in a literal and symbolic sense. I sometimes asked her questions or reflected on incidents that happened to her whilst I was supporting her. Sally did eventually write a letter. How could I ever forget? It was a farewell thank you letter.

**Cassie-sleeping out**

But when you are without a physical structure that is the 'S _econd Home',_ you are vulnerable and exposed to the elements. Imagine a snail or turtle without their shell. Imagine refugees or asylum seekers huddled on a leaky boat in the middle of the ocean. Imagine not having a 'S _econd Home'_ or a place to live and sleep _._ No place to store your belongings. Imagine sleeping out at night on top of cardboard with just a thin blanket or in a toilet block as Brad had down on countless occasions. I have seen many rough sleepers. It is an awful thing to see. I get a sinking feeling in my stomach seeing someone out in the elements on their own. How cold and dangerous it is and how vulnerable and exposed they are, huddled on the ground with no one else for company-no one to keep an eye out for them. No one should have to sleep out.

I brought a morning coffee to Cassie just as she was waking up after sleeping out at a local Church. One of my colleagues had noticed her on their way to work and let me know. Although I had been working with Cassie since January 2011, I'd only managed to see her a few times as she was hard to track down. Cassie was in her late twenties. She was of solid build and walked with a distinctive limp, dragging her left foot. This became more pronounced when she was substance affected or when she was tired. Cassie always made an effort with her appearance. This was difficult given she had nowhere stable to live and was transient often couch surfing or staying with acquaintances she had met that day. I later found out that she would drop into an Op Shop, choose some clothes, go into the change room and walk out with her 'new' set of clothes. When she was challenged by the Op Shop volunteers, she told them that the clothes had been donated in the first place so why should she have to pay for them.

The morning I saw her at the church she was cold and disheveled, aching from the hard surface of the wooden porch. She had nowhere else to go the night before. Her friend had promised she could stay with him. But at the last minute she said the plan fell through and he 'ditched her'. It was late and she was just too tired to keep walking. When she came across the Church she thought she would be as safe as she could be. There was a light on the verandah that provided some comfort. I can still remember how freezing it was that morning. It was the middle of a Melbourne winter in July 2011. I don't know how she managed to keep warm during the night let alone get any sleep. I had just left the comfort of my apartment and was reeling from the bitterness of the chilly air as I walked to work huddled under a warm coat and woolen beanie my breath visible in the thick fog. The take away coffee warmed Cassie's hands as she held it tightly. She was wrapped in a dirty old doona and had a thin blanket under her. Someone must have left these behind for just that purpose. I was uncomfortable within seconds of sitting down next to her. My leg went numb. The icy air was biting my nose. No way could I have survived sleeping on that surface in those conditions.

But Cassie didn't complain, other than saying, "Yes it was really cold. Sorry, I just need time to wake up properly. I must look terrible". Quiet dignity, as she smoothed down her hair.

I sat next to her talking softly in the still morning air, drinking my coffee before she left to have a shower at a local homeless service. My conversation was quite mundane. I felt maternal and protective yet absolutely useless knowing that she had slept out. I thought I hadn't done my job properly because this should not be happening. I insisted that she allow me to help her get crisis accommodation.

Even though she agreed to see me at the homeless service after her shower, she was not there when I returned with a bag of clothes and toiletries. I did not see her again until December 2011.

As Kraybill notes, the _'Second Home'_ like the ' _First Home',_ possesses important social, spiritual, mental, emotional and physical characteristics. It provides safety and protection from the outside elements and a private space in which to attend to hygiene, rest and nutrition needs. It is where we keep our possessions and where we welcome family and friends. Our home forms the basis of what Johnson and Wylie (2011) refer to as ontological security. Stable housing, or the ' _Second Home',_ provides our basic needs for safety, security and predictability. Home provides us with "a sense of order and certainty in our world". Cassie had none of this.

**Gary-sleeping out**

I also worried what Gary's life was like not having somewhere stable to live. I had no idea how he managed staying somewhere different every few nights, whether he worried where he was going to stay, how he managed to eat, keep his belongings, make plans. He was definitely a survivor, living it tough on the streets, at times sleeping rough. But he deserved more than a life of uncertainty staying with friends, or acquaintances he barely knew, or in boarding houses. Gary had also spent considerable periods of time in prison for drug related charges. However, I was hopeful and optimistic that one day he'd be ready to make an appointment so that I could complete a housing application for him. I had faith that eventually over time he'd get a roof over his head. I learnt through my work as 'a helper' that sometimes you do not actually have to do a lot because there is not always a lot that you can do for some people. Sometimes doing nothing, other than waiting, and holding faith, is in effect doing something.

**Jackets and pockets**

Home can also be a metaphor for other things. For example, John kept his money very close to his body. He always wore his green jacket with the inside pockets as this provided extra protection for his money and other special things given to him for safe keeping by Marie, his adoptive mother. The bright jacket was not just to keep John warm from the winter chills. He often wore the jacket even when it was hot. I learnt that his body in a physical sense was his home, like the ' _second home'._ John had been homeless and transient most of his life, ever since the funeral when he left home. He often slept rough. When you are not sleeping in a bed in a room in a house, your body offers you protection because it is all you have. Where do you put your money or keep your money when you sleep rough other than on your body? John never used a wallet. Instead, he would place his money ever so carefully under his jacket in the inside pocket or in the top pocket of one of the many colorful shirts he wore. He folded the notes carefully and neatly the same way. John always took his time doing this.

When we went shopping, his actions were always the same. He paid for his items in twenty dollar notes rather than smaller notes and coins because he had not mastered counting and was semi literate. He knew the color of the twenty dollar note though. If there was change, which invariably there was, he slowly and meticulously folded the smaller notes. He then opened his jacket and placed the money inside one of his pockets. Then he zipped up the jacket. His money was safe because it was close to his body. His body in this sense was his house, his top pocket acting like a secret hiding place for his valuables where most of us would hide things of value in a drawer or locked cupboard.

When I bought our coffees at John's favorite café in Oakleigh when we were shopping, he would show the same level of care and attention when I got my change. He always reminded me to put the change away there and then and make sure I zipped up my back pack properly before we started walking away from the counter. I had a habit of stuffing my change back into my purse and then putting my purse back in my pack as we walked along talking. I then clumsily zipped the pack up. But John would patiently stand still and wait for me to put my change away before moving. It was as if he was the big protective older brother and I was the careless younger sibling who needed to be shown what to do. I accepted that this was part of his inbuilt survival skills learnt over many years of sleeping rough. The checking and double checking was part of the ritual that had kept him safe over the years. But it also held such significance for me. I was always touched when he was insistent on me doing this properly, as it showed his caring side.

**Nestled in the hills**

In my late forties I lived in a small, olive green, fibro and timber cottage in Upwey Melbourne, at the foothills of the Dandenongs. That little cottage offered me a safe haven after years of working in the Child Protection field. I never realized how exhausting and taxing working with traumatized children and families was until I left Child Protection. Of course it was more than just a little house. It was my home, because it provided me with a place to be just me and to fully rest. At last, I no longer had to feel responsible for other people. I did not have to worry about the Child Protection workers who I supervised and how they were coping. It was as if a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I moved to the hills to escape the burden of responsibility and enjoy the solitude. And it was mine. The time spent living in the hills and tending my garden allowed me the opportunity to regain my strength after I left that draining and challenging profession. Working the earth with my bare hands helped to nourish my soul as I was able to be creative once again. It was good to feel the soil and get dirty no longer feeling encumbered by the mess and sadness of other people's lives. The cottage in Upwey was my refuge. It was a magical garden full of dry stone walls and narrow steep steps that went up and around the house. I spent hours outside in all weathers working the soil creating little cottage gardens out of virtually nothing.

I turned it into a cottage garden full of roses, hellebores, lavender, salvia, perennials and the soft Japanese windflowers. I planted a bank of silver birches (far too close together) further up the hill and my favorite Japanese maples in the shaded spots lower down. Who could not love the divinely rich reds and oranges of the Japanese maple? The feathery foliage of the maple is exquisite. In an area where full sun light baked the earth I planted a jacaranda tree, knowing how well they thrived in the dry South Australian heat. I longed for the day when the jacaranda would grow strong, and the pale purple flowers would blaze magnificently against a blue sky.

I certainly felt at home in the garden and the most happiest in that environment. In looking back it was as if I was on a sojourn from life as I was not really quite sure where I belonged. Even though this was many years ago now, I often imagine being back in the garden. I am there in an instant, back in that space in that special place working the soil. The perfumes from the flowers and the loud ringing call of the currawong evoke images of contentment, relaxation, creativity and peace- a safe haven. There is also something about the currawong's song that is at once both haunting and arresting. Whenever I hear it I am transported back in time to the late 1990s and Upwey.

My home now is where I am able to recover from the sadness and rigors of bearing witness. I'd never fully realized how draining it is to be totally focused and fully present for someone else. But the people I worked with deserved that full attention and care, especially when they were struggling with their own demons. It was an incredible privilege and honor to listen to their stories and share in some small way towards their recovery and healing. And in that process I was also learning much more about myself. It was their gift to me. I was able to replenish my energy levels within the stillness of my home and reflect on what I had been taught. I felt contained and comforted, amidst my treasures.

# Chapter 10

' **The Second Home' - a place of discomfort, loneliness, strangeness and fear**

**Carting the past in bags-Mandy's story**

The expression a 'bag-lady' usually evokes images of an older homeless woman living on the streets, carrying all her possessions with her in shopping bags because she has no place to keep them. She might be wearing a hat and a large, ill fitting coat and heavy flat shoes with laces that are far too long. The 'bag-lady' moves slowly and laboriously because she has nowhere specific to go and because her bags are heavy. She sways from left to right, right to left, steadily, rhythmically covering ground. She is a woman who carries her history around with her.

Mandy did a similar thing, although she was really too young at twenty four to be called a 'bag-lady'. She was a 'bag-girl', often leaving bags of clothes, photos, paper work and identification wherever she stayed rather than carrying them with her when she moved. I wondered whether this was because she thought she would be coming back, like the bird that comes back to its nest. Or was it the freedom of not being tied down by possessions? Maybe possessions held no intrinsic value to her? Or was it because she was just irresponsible and did not care what happened to her things. Perhaps leaving things behind gave her an excuse to go back when she found herself, yet again, without a place to live. I could never work it out. She tried hard to leave her things, that were also representative of her past, but it was not as easy as this. She had plenty of other baggage too that she could not rid herself of.

At twenty four years of age she was already a hardened survivor of the streets, often choosing to stay with acquaintances and people she had just met that same day. I found it hard to reconcile the two worlds given her age and the risks she took. The streets were familiar to her by now, her reality. I wondered whether the streets were a type of home, as she knew how things worked and what to do to get by, even though that life was dangerous and unpredictable.

Mandy often popped into the office where I worked with a bag of clothes and odds and ends such as little note books. She would jot down her list of 'to do things', perched on the edge of a seat, legs crossed, staring at the ceiling, biting her lip, as she tried to remember the things she needed to do. Sometimes she would ask me if I could take her to some address to pick up her clothes or photos. One day, she and I collected one of her suitcases that had been stored in somebody's shed. I was surprised it was still there and that no one had stolen it. She was very confident that it would be there given who owned the place. When I realized who Mandy was referring to I knew she was right. This person was like a father figure to her. He had also spent time in prison and had a reputation on the streets-people knew not to cross him. And sure enough, there it was, a big old blue case bound by strong packing twine. It was so heavy I could barely lift it. But Mandy insisted on lugging it herself even though she was only slightly built. She pulled it along the path to the car. She then heaved it up into the boot on her own. I was amazed that she had the strength to do this.

Mandy was like an excited school girl when she opened it. We brought the case back to the office as she waited for a friend to help her out with accommodation. She often used our spare office as a temporary home of sorts, a waiting room or transit lounge. She was happy as she tried on clothes that she had forgotten she had. Like playing dress ups. I closed the door so she could have some privacy and heard her singing and humming to herself and exclaiming at what she found. "Oh, I forgot I had this, cool... I love this," she squealed. It was as if she was being reunited with long lost friends.

Hope was one thing Mandy needed plenty of. Most of the time, Mandy never really knew what she was getting herself into. I was never sure if I would see her again as she lived close to the edge, like Sally and many of the other women who I had worked with over the years. She associated with some 'shady' characters; petty criminals and drug dealers, also known to live off the earnings of the girls who street sex worked. Mandy was everyone's little sister, the little princess and far too trusting. She also had a heroin addiction.

I remember with fondness how joyous she was that day in the office going through her belongings, and how happy I was to see that she could still embrace that inner child within, even if just fleetingly. She took some clothes out before leaving the case behind, this time at a friend's rooming house. But usually her possessions were left all over the place, never to be retrieved. I feared she would become a real 'bag-lady' if the cycle of homelessness and chaos was not broken.

Mandy had survived living on the streets in Kings Cross as a sixteen year old year old. After her mother died in the car accident Mandy was placed in residential care as there were no other family members and no extended family to look after her. She couldn't even go looking for her father as she had no idea who he was. Mandy wished her mother had told her something about her father before she died. That secret was buried forever. Grieving for her mother, feeling alone and frightened, life suddenly became a dark lonely place. It became a whole lot worse when she was repeatedly abused by a male carer who worked in the residential centre. Ashamed and missing her mother even more when no one believed her, she ran away. She felt she had nothing to lose. It was just her now - she had no one to rely on. Mandy ended up on the streets where she partnered a young man, already with a criminal history and a reputation as a vicious street fighter. That's when she first got into drugs. She told me drugs made life more bearable. Mandy started smoking marijuana and then developed a heroin addiction. She learnt too quickly to manipulate others with her girlish charm, sometimes borrowing money from more vulnerable women on the pretext of giving it back. But that never happened. The women were too frightened to make a scene and demand their money knowing Mandy's partner would intimidate them.

Now eight years later, Mandy lives totally in the moment, seemingly without any attachment to 'things'. She challenged my idea of home as my own small space where I have my special 'things' around me- photos, pictures, books-objects that hold meaning. Mandy had none of this. She did set herself up at one point and decorated her room, but she left, unable to sustain living within her own space, or being responsible for paying rent. Living on her own was too challenging and lonely.

**A letter box means home, but only when you are ready.**

Mandy had never lived by herself. She had stayed in rooming houses before but always with a partner, never on her own. She stayed with friends and acquaintances in their flats and couch surfed, but there were always other people around her. She was entrenched in the homeless street sub-culture at twenty four years of age, a revolving door of different places. Mandy often told me that life on the streets was her life for the time being, but she would like to have her own place, to give it a go.

"I reckon I could learn to look after myself if you helped me," she said when we were talking about her housing options.

When I was finally able to help her get her own room in a rooming house at the mid way point of the three years of working with her, she was excited. It was the first time she had decorated her own space. Her small room became a magical place full of stick on butterflies and stars, pink sheets, fairies with gossamer wings and soft toys. It was like a child's room. She loved it and loved the idea of it as a place of her own. But it did not work out for her. Mandy tried. She did not know any of the other residents and even though it was a quiet and stable rooming house, which I thought was a positive thing, it was almost too quiet for what she was used to. Mandy was finally on her own. Inside her room she was truly alone, faced with her own solitude for the first time since her mother died. She did not know what to do. She could not bear the loneliness as she was used to having people about her and things happening all the time, bright lights, noise and chaos. There was no drama once she closed her door. The walls and loneliness closed in and around her. It was too overwhelming. We talked about getting a pet but she was not ready. In reality, Mandy could barely look after herself.

Even though Mandy wanted her own place, she was unable to stay there by herself for any length of time. She often had friends stay over for days at a time even though this was not permitted under the rules of the rooming house. Unfortunately, Mandy's so called friends caused problems coming and going at all hours of the night and early morning. The other tenants complained. She would lend her key to friends and then not be able to get in herself. At these times Mandy would stand outside under her window and yell to whoever was in her room to let her in. Didn't matter what time of day or night it was. She had a distinctive high pitched voice that other residents came to hate. I lost count of the amount of lock changes they we covered for Mandy. Despite support and encouragement, she was also not at the point where she was able to accept responsibility for managing her finances. She was still dependent on other people. Unfortunately, part of that dependency also involved a reliance on heroin. It was this insidious pull that also trapped her and took precedence over the basic necessities of day to day life.

Being housed and being responsible for maintaining her housing was a huge change. But for Mandy it also represented a loss that she was not quite prepared to completely let go of. The loss of her previous lifestyle which she still clung to came at a cost. For example, letters and bills arrived. For the first time in her life she faced the reality of having to pay for electricity and gas. However, this was not a priority when other parts of her day to day life remained quite chaotic. Mandy was not ready to accept the responsibilities that came with being a tenant. Even being able to set up a payment plan for utilities was too difficult to do. Simple straight forward things were sometimes the hardest things to do, even with support and encouragement.

I literally and figuratively held this weight of expectation and responsibility in my hands one day. It would seem impossible that a huge pile of unopened mail could represent so much. But tragically for Mandy her overflowing letter box revealed so much. She lost her letter box key on more than one occasion and received replacement keys to only misplace the key again. Rather than report this or ask for help again, she just left it until there was no longer room to put anymore mail in the letter box. She then got into difficulty with her rent. Letters were sent advising of arrears and court hearings for other matters and overdue accounts. Meanwhile the mail overflowed and fell out of her letter box. Mandy eventually agreed to get another key and clear out the letter box after complaints from other residents.

I was with her as she shoved the mail into my outstretched hands, dropping letters as quickly as she thrust more onto the pile. As she stood next to the letter box in her customary short denim skirt, black tights and pink windcheater, I noticed there were registered mail notifications. It was too late to collect them now. I tied the pile of letters together so she could go through them more carefully, prioritizing the bills. I told her I would help her sort through the mail, but she was in no hurry, brushing this suggestion off.

"Yeah whenever, I'll get round to it. I can do it", she said defiantly. I actually used a bit of old ribbon and tied the letters together with a neat bow just like solicitors and lawyers did with their legal files and documents.

Mandy just ignored this part of her life and was unwilling to accept responsibility for the things that most people regard as important and worth 'mattering about'. But I also worked with a lot of people like Mandy who never opened their mail knowing it would be a bill-easy to ignore it if you didn't open it. Mandy was avoidant of so many things. The unopened letters were also a visual reminder of the chaos that engulfed her life. The pile of letters represented responsibility-but Mandy was not ready for this. I felt sad handing her back the bundle of letters knowing she would make excuses when I tried to offer to go through them with her. I also felt partly responsible for things not working out for her, believing I had set her up to fail.

"No Anne, I wanted to do this. I have to learn. I'm not a kid anymore", she said. At least she tried.

Change can be difficult and moving forward can be even harder given long-standing patterns of behavior and the entrenched lifestyle of the 'street drug sub-culture'. It can be really complicated. And it was not easy for Mandy given her life experiences. Even more difficult was watching from the side lines, unable to do much more than be there for her when she needed help and offer guidance. Change can only come from within when you are ready yourself. Little steps are often needed in overcoming homelessness, especially where the pull of the 'street drug sub-culture' is strong and all pervasive.

Mandy's Office of Housing Application was eventually approved in July 2011 but the waiting lists were long. She continued to stay with friends as she was reluctant to move into her own room again in a rooming house. It was hard keeping track of where she was staying as she burnt her bridges all too often and had to move on. Word got around quickly when she owed people money.

Most of the work that I did with Mandy over the remaining year and a half was on the streets in a particular suburb. I generally knew where to find her even when she had no mobile and went 'underground' to get away from people she owed money to. In this respect she was a lot like Sally. Other street people knew I was Mandy's worker and often complained to me when she 'ripped them off'. But Mandy usually told me herself when she was in trouble. At those times she went to a different suburb miles away, where she also knew people. I walked the streets hoping to bump into her or else waited near a particular spot where money and drugs were exchanged quite openly. Invariably I would find her, although not always. She was never really surprised when I found her and was always happy to see me. Sometimes she was even relieved to see me, especially when things were not going that well and her heroin addiction was out of control. If she was by herself I would insist she have something to eat. She usually ordered a toasted cheese sandwich and requested that the shop assistant cut the crusts off-just like a child. The crusts hurt her teeth and gums, despite numerous attempts to keep dentist appointments. The catch ups with Mandy were random but priceless because I at least knew she was okay.

I also noticed that my contacts with Mandy over the past eighteen months were generally superficial. It was difficult to have meaningful discussions with Mandy because she did not sit still long enough to engage in lengthy conversations and was usually pre occupied with more immediate things like meeting someone to get her heroin. But there was a change during the winter months of 2011. I am not sure if this was just the stage of our relationship or 'where she was at' at the time. I felt the rawness of her emotional vulnerability quite deeply during this period. It was as if the layers were being shed one by one. It was as if the gossamer wings that she enveloped herself in to avoid facing her fears were finally being discarded.

I knew some of her close acquaintances by name and had their contact numbers although not by choice. Mandy always introduced me if she was with a male friend, insisting that they know I was her worker and have their number.

"Let Anne know, it's okay, she knows everything anyway". It was like I was her safety blanket. I was the person who would know if anything happened to her. She also often said this when Transit Police picked her up for not having a ticket. I lost count of the amount of calls I had from Transit Police, Mandy's high pitched voice yelling in the background, "She's my worker, she'll tell you", as they tried to verify with me whether she was homeless or what her current address was. When debt collectors tracked her down via my work mobile number and kept hounding me I ended up telling them there was no way they would ever get their money and not to call me again. It was pointless and it became really annoying answering the calls.

Police pulled her over for driving an unlicensed car at 3 am in the morning with no lights on and without a license. When they called me the next day I found out that she had tearfully explained her predicament to them, that she had missed the last tram and had to get her friend home somehow. Her friend was not well enough to drive her car so Mandy decided she would. I realized that she likely used her manipulative charm and youthful looks when pulled over, as the Police officer told me that she was a terrible driver. Mandy in fact could not drive and had only had a few lessons years ago.

It was as if I was Mandy's 'get out of jail free card'. She gave my work number out freely whenever she was in a spot of bother saying, "call Anne, she is my worker, she knows everything that has happened to me". But of course I did not know everything about her life and it was not my role to fix her problems or smooth things over for her. It was a good ruse on her behalf and usually worked, getting her out of many a sticky situation. Mandy did not seem to mind that part of her life was an open book to me. It was a burden that I did not necessarily want because it felt like an extra responsibility knowing the dilemmas she found herself in. I often wondered whether it relieved her of her own responsibilities by off loading her problems onto me.

But Mandy also knew that if anything terrible happened to her, her close acquaintances would let me know. Despite what happened there were a few people looking out for her. There was a dark side to her life, given she mixed with known criminals and drug dealers. Mandy also left frantic messages on my work mobile in the middle of the night or early hours of the morning. She knew I turned my work mobile off after hours so the calls were pointless. But I realized that the calls were her safety device, her insurance, a way of letting me know what was happening. Sometimes the calls were garbled, just lots of noise and shouting, sometimes fighting and broken glass shattering the chaos. I dreaded listening to the voice messages as Mandy often sounded frightened. Sometimes the calls were more for the other person who might have been harassing her, so they were aware someone else knew what was happening, "Yeah, yeah, meet me where I told you to in 10 minutes right". Or "I'm on my way now, nearly there, see you in 5 minutes"- all a ploy, but a lifeline.

I constantly worried about Mandy. She engaged in street sex work to support her heroin addiction. I recall the time when her heroin use was significantly more problematic than usual. One afternoon I made the judgment call to stop and talk to her when she was engaged in street sex working. I was always mindful of her 'rights' when she was 'working'. She had a right as an adult to do what she wanted, but this often placed her in danger. It was never straight forward considering she often 'worked' close to the building where I worked. It was hard not to notice her and sometimes harder to ignore her when I needed to walk straight past her. However, I was always discrete and tried not to make the situation more problematic for her given the shame she felt.

On this particular afternoon it was distressing to see Mandy clearly so very unwell, sitting on the fence waiting for someone to stop. I could have just driven past and ignored her but I was worried for her knowing what else she was dealing with in her life at that time. I had not seen her for weeks. I stopped and because she knew my work car she came over and opened the door and sat down. She was sick. She had flu like symptoms and just wanted to go home to go to sleep but needed to do one job so she could buy some heroin. Then she could go home. She was worried about how she would feel the next day without a hit of heroin so was focused on just getting through these next few hours. She knew when she woke in the morning she would have pains and could not bear the thought of the cravings and hanging out. That she was able to tell me this was a huge thing.

I wanted to take her back to the flat where she was staying as this would have been the safest thing to do. But it was not safe there either because of who was staying there. This was also part of the problem and the mess she was in. I did not even have a drink I could give her as her mouth looked very dry. Instead, all I was able to do was to tell her that I, we, where I worked, cared about her and "please try and keep safe". I remember thinking at the time what a stupid, ridiculous thing to say to her as she was not able to guarantee her safety once she got into a stranger's car. Mandy had no pimp or minder keeping an eye on the car number plates as she closed the door. But she knew that I cared about her. Often this was all that I could offer her as her worker. It was not the time to have an in depth discussion about what she was doing as she already felt bad enough. It was hard to leave her there and drive away that day.

I hoped that knowing that she was cared about, gave her a sense of who she was as a person. She knew that as her worker, I was there for her. I acted as a compass if you like and was real and dependable and consistent, unlike many other parts of her life and people in her life. I was always honest with her, even when she did not want to hear it. I was an anchor point. I was able to do this for Mandy even though I felt so ineffectual at times. Acknowledging someone when they are at their most vulnerable rather than ignoring them can be a very powerful therapeutic act. For me it was more than just doing my job, it was about connecting to another human being in a non judgmental way and saying that they were valued for who they really were. But it was also difficult, because I wanted to do more for Mandy and make things better for her.

I was very fond of Mandy. She was one of the youngest I worked with. I felt for her not having any family knowing she was all she had. Her vulnerability and childlike qualities drew me in. I wanted to protect her and wished I could erase the awful things that had happened to her. Like Sally, I would sometimes take Mandy down to the beach away from the chaos of her life. This helped to calm and relax her as she was in a totally different space.

One day during the summer of 2012 I took her across to the Williamstown foreshore to buy fish and chips. She'd never been across the Westgate Bridge and could not remember the last time she'd eaten fish and chips out of paper. We sat on the grass in the park opposite the pier with our white parcels, Melbourne's Lego like skyline in the distance in front of us across the bay. Mandy didn't talk, just watched a young family sitting close by, their toddler trying to catch seagulls. Mandy smiled and laughed each time the birds flew off mesmerized by the toddler's wobbly determination to catch one of the birds. Mandy slowly un-wrapped her fish and chip parcel while looking about her and quietly ate some chips. She couldn't eat too much given she went for long periods without food. Mandy got full quickly but the food was secondary this day. She just sat in the sun soaking in the atmosphere watching the people about her. I wondered why she was so quiet, thinking there was something wrong until I realized that she was relaxed and actually enjoying herself. When was the last time she did this? Words were not necessary.

"Did you ever draw pictures out of the clouds?" Mandy asked me, looking up at the small fluffy puffs of clouds in the blue sky. "I remember when I was little laying in the grass looking up at the sky and making out I could see animals in the clouds. I loved doing that", she said. "It's nice here", she added, head back, eyes closed, stretching out her thin pockmarked legs, the result of infected sores.

"Yes, I love coming here", I agreed. I did not want to interrupt her thoughts. Mandy was happy to stay there for another twenty minutes, bathed in the warmth and freshness of the gentle sea breeze, miles from her life on the streets.

**The street is often a 'Second Home'**

For some people like Mandy who have experienced long term homelessness, the prospect of living in their own property on their own is daunting. Whilst they want to be safe and live in stable housing it is not always straight forward. It is much more complex when you start unpicking the issues. A factor that seems to act as an impediment for some people, is related to their sense of identity and how entrenched they are in the homeless sub-culture _._ The pull of the sub-culture can hinder someone's ability to make significant changes and move forward in life. The sub-culture provides many with a sense of belonging and camaraderie. Even though the friendships might be superficial there is often a common bond that ties them together. The common bond is that those experiencing long term homelessness all share something similar-homelessness is a lived experience.

In particular, I think of Mandy, the 'bag-girl', the child of the street. She knew many people on the 'street'. Wherever she went, people would yell out hello to her. She was everyone's little sister. She was vivacious and enjoyed the attention even though it was often fleeting. The sad reality is that people come and go on the streets and Mandy had attended far too many funerals over the years. She was inconsolable during the funeral service of one of her friends who had died of an overdose and staggered out of the church, before the service had finished.

I went along to support her and quietly followed her out, listening to her cries. " Oh my God that should have been me, that should have been me, I can't believe it". She collapsed into my arms, sobbing hysterically, knowing that it could have easily been her and any number of her friends. I never realized at the time that she could also have been crying for her mother. I think Mandy's loss went much deeper that day.

Life for Mandy continued to be precarious during the winter months of 2012 with little prospect of breaking the daily cycle of monotony. It can be extremely hard to move away from what is familiar and what provides a sense of connectedness even though it is not always safe. I have heard it said that the streets are like home for many people. It is often the only 'home' that they have. They know where they can get a shower and where they can have a good free meal once a day. Is that really living though? It requires a level of toughness to survive such an existence day in day out and I worried even more for Mandy at this time. Her usual bubbly, open nature was replaced by something quite different. She became edgy and harder. The child-like, little princess part of her persona became 'lost', revealing something I had never seen before.

Mandy asked if I could help her get some crisis accommodation in a female only facility. She'd had a falling out with a long time friend (George) and he'd finally asked her to leave. Mandy was very lucky as there was vacancy coming up in three days and she was prioritized because of her age and her situation. The vacancy was for six weeks with support around finding more long term housing. The referral process was lengthy and I advocated strongly for Mandy, even though I had some reservations as to whether she would be able to cope with the structure. But Mandy was still insistent on applying knowing that there was a 10.30 pm curfew.

"Are you sure you are going to be able to manage that?" I asked her. "It is quite strict compared to what you are used to. You will not be able to come and go as you please. It will be like staying at a youth refuge-remember how hard that was? There will be rules".

"I know Anne", she said. "You don't have to tell me, I know", she added annoyed and frustrated with me, flicking her pigtails and shaking her head. A staff member arranged to meet Mandy at 11.00 am the next morning (Friday) to complete the intake process and show her around. It was going to be a busy day for them as they were short staffed. The worker had rearranged appointments especially to fit Mandy in. Otherwise Mandy would have had to wait until Monday before she could move in. Mandy asked if I could drive her and agreed to meet me at 10.30 am the next morning.

Mandy arrived at the office at 11.20 am on the Friday morning with a few plastic bags, shoe laces undone, stuffing toast into her mouth whilst yelling into her mobile. I had just called staff to say it looks like she wasn't coming. "We have to get a move on as we are late. I'll just call them back to say you have arrived and we're on our way. We thought you might have changed your mind", I added.

"Why did you tell them I wasn't coming? What ya do that for? Course I was coming, I need somewhere to stay don't I. I told you", she said, rolling her eyes, pulling and scratching her hair.

"They were expecting you twenty minutes ago, that's all. But it's good you are here", I offered, sensing her annoyance and keen to get going.

"Huh, don't get your knickers in a knot. I'm late. Big deal, so what', Mandy said off handedly, clearly not caring that other people had put themselves out for her. Just before we drove off she quickly called someone on her mobile again and said," See you in two". She then insisted she give her friend something before we leave. Mandy jumped out of the car, grabbing her plastic bags before I managed to reverse out of the car park. "I won't be two secs Anne."

"We're running late for the meeting Mandy", I said, trying not to show my exasperation.

"I won't be long" she yelled, now off and running. By the time I reversed the car she was already fifty metres down the road. She scurried into the local crisis homeless service. I parked and waited for her to return. Five minutes later I was still waiting, wondering where she was and what she was doing. Then the realization-I had been duped. She never intended to follow through. I was annoyed with myself and annoyed and angry with her. Why didn't she just tell me? I then worried that she was doing this for me, trying to please me. But I did believe that Mandy wanted to make changes. She was ambivalent and so easily pulled in another direction. Mandy was not quite ready. One day she would be.

I went into the crisis service. Staff knew her well and said that she'd exchanged a few words with a male then walked through a side entrance and out the back gate-her escape route into a side street.

The homeless street sub-culture is about surviving day to day especially when drug use dictates the daily rhythm of living. Paradoxically, drug use often gives a sense of purpose to one's day. It provides a structure and a sense of predictability to the day. The task at hand is to get some money to go and score. It is the thrill of the chase, being on a mission. It is a relentless treadmill that also interferes with the ability to make wise choices and short term plans. Mandy could have had somewhere safe to stay that Friday but she had other things on her mind. Those things took precedence over everything else as she was just living in the moment.

**Brad -when 'The Second Home' is not really home**

Brad said that he would prefer to live on the streets than in rooming houses and shared crisis housing. He was sick of living with people he did not want to live with. He had absolutely no control over this and was unable to choose who he lived with. Often he had nothing in common with the other rooming house tenants other than being homeless and needing somewhere to stay. He was tired of the dishonesty of those he had to share with. But above all else, he was frightened of the violence.

Brad was scared of what might happen to him and what he would witness in the rooming houses, even though he tried to keep to himself. One day he hurriedly left the shared house he was staying in for the safety of a neighbor's house. He did not want to alarm the elderly couple who lived there when he knocked on their front door, but was terrified for his own safety when another male resident became aggressive over food that was supposedly missing from his locked room. I was relieved to hear that the couple, who had seen Brad around the neighborhood and spoken to him on many occasions, asked him in for a glass of water. Brad was overcome by their kind gesture. He returned to the share house when things were calmer, until the next incident. He had no real backup plan other than trying to move to another rooming house when a vacancy came up.

Brad had to share the same bathroom and toilet facilities with 5 other residents and their visitors on a daily basis. The idea of privacy was a luxury he longed for. One of the residents had no regard for others and left bloodied tissues and syringes around, despite the yellow container placed strategically on the wall over the bathroom sink. Home for Brad was tainted, tarnished by this other resident's lack of respect, responsibility and self-care. Brad did not like complaining to the manager of the shared house because he believed he was then singled out and ended up 'paying for it'. Following any complaint he was bombarded by loud bangs on his door late at night. He was always too frightened to open his door. Rubbish was dumped outside his door and disgusting notes with 'poofta' written on them were stuck under his door. Home suddenly became more of a nightmare for Brad.

Brad's options were limited until stable, long term housing came up through the Office of Housing. He constantly moved as he never felt safe. I visited Brad in rooming houses at countless different locations in Melbourne during the first year that I started working with him.

No one chooses to be homeless by choice. The chronically homeless do not have the same choices that most people have because they are so marginalized within our society, financially and socially. When things become so unbearable in rooming houses and you fear for your safety every day like Brad did, you do not have a lot of options available to you. Brad could not afford private rental, certainly not on the Newstart Allowance although he was desperate to work. I was grateful that I had options and was able to escape to the hills all those years ago to recuperate.

I was reminded of this when Brad was finally housed in an Office of Housing property in August 2011 after years without a stable, long term place to live. Having a permanent place to live was a major change in his circumstances. But he was not particularly happy about where he was living. It was a long way from his familiar social support networks, limited as they were. He hoped to move on at some point when he was able to get work. I had a sense that he might have felt like an interloper and that he was just passing through. His one bedroom flat was sparsely furnished by choice. Brad kindly refused my offers to get extra furniture after I managed to get a couch for him-the couch lasted two weeks in his flat.

**Brad-barbeque chicken**

Brad woke up one morning deciding he wanted to have barbeque chicken cooked on a proper barbeque. He bought the cheapest barbeque he could find and pulled the couch to bits, instant fuel for his barbeque, burning the arms and legs of the couch. I visited a few days after this and was surprised to see the couch cushions scattered on the floor and the wire frame and springs mangled and twisted on the lounge room floor.

When Brad told me what he had done I was incredulous, laughing uncontrollably, tears welling in my eyes. I could not believe he had done this. I thought he was mad, telling him he was crazy. "Who pulls a perfectly good couch to bits to burn for a barbeque?"

"Well it was bloody uncomfortable anyway. It gave me a sore back," he replied, adding that the wood gave off an awful smell when he burnt it and heaps of white smoke. He worried that the neighbors would complain about the stink he made.

"Oh my God, it was most probably toxic," I said, still with tears in my eyes. "I hope the chicken was worth it after all that. What did it taste like? "I was astounded that Brad had gone to so much effort.

"Well to be honest, it was pretty ordinary", he replied, still disappointed. We both laughed together then, me at the absurdity of it all and Brad because it hadn't been worth it, and because he liked me laughing at his antics. Brad was definitely different and unconventional in what he did.

Brad said that he did not want to get too comfortable because he was not going to be in his flat for long. "As soon as I get work and save some money I'm leaving," he insisted. And besides, "I have everything that I need- a bed and television". Brad didn't need a fridge, table or chairs and lived out of one room, his bedroom. I thought he was punishing himself and making life more difficult for himself. Didn't he want to make his flat his own special place with some basic comforts? But I had to remind myself that I had no right to impose my views because this is how he wanted to live.

# Chapter 11

**The 'Second Home'**

**Brad-a place of memories and a place to dream**

The ' _second home'_ is also a place where we dream and a place of memories. Gaston Bachelard's magical book, _The Poetics of Space_ (1994) is a philosophical exploration of space and the home as a place where you dream and where the dreamer is protected. Bachelard (1884-1962) was a French philosopher. His language is rich and joyous. Bachelard goes even further by claiming that the house' is one of the greatest powers of integration of the thoughts, memories and dreams of mankind'. The house is container, yet in Bachelard's exposition, the house also acts as 'the portal to metaphors of imagination'. The house is literally brought to life _in every sense of the word_ in this enchanting and magical exploration of home. I now look at the house in a completely different light thanks to Bachelard. He gives new meaning to the nooks and crannies in houses, the attic and drawers and cupboards. But I knew many of the people I worked with had not been protected at home even in their dreaming state.

Ironically, Brad secured housing in an area where he once lived as a child. As I drove him through the area not long after he moved into his flat he pointed out various places to me. The streets were also very familiar to me as I had lived and worked in the area many years before, although did not tell him this. It was like seeing things that were well-known to me for the first time but through his eyes. Brad talked about his early life. Bachelard's unique insights into what home represented resonated as Brad pointed out recognizable places. He showed me the factory where his mother worked and the Milk Bar that his family once owned and lived above. There was the kindergarten and then the local primary school, so many memories for him in the streets, places and spaces. He became quite animated as he remembered particular incidents and people who lived nearby. He was also haunted by memories he did not care to remember in too much detail.

The car journey with Brad through the suburbs down memory lane, reminded me again of how significant the house or home is and how much it can mean and represent. Despite the many house moves I have made over the course of my life, when I revisit earlier places where I once lived, I usually remember incidents that I had forgotten. Somehow family and personal memories never really seem to diminish-even the bad ones-they are usually buried within there somewhere. The difference for many of us though, is that we usually have a choice about moving and where we move to, unlike the homeless.

I recalled incidents that had happened at previous addresses where Brad had stayed over the time I had known him. I had my own memories of what happened at those places and we talked about some of the funny things that occurred. Some incidents were traumatic, but one in particular was quite bizarre. It was like walking onto a film set where everyone knew what role they were playing, except me.

"Remember that time when you were living over Diamond Creek way", I prompted as I drove down the familiar streets. I visited Brad when he was living in a share house with four other males. He had not been there that long and was already keen to find something else as the house was overcrowded and miles from public transport. I sat in the small kitchen while Brad made a cup of tea for both of us. I remember that he was relieved as he had just enough milk. One of the other tenants was sitting at the table opposite me not talking. Brad introduced me to the young man although he did not say anything. He didn't acknowledge me, but I said hello. He looked quite sleepy almost drowsy, as he slouched sideways on the kitchen chair, his back resting on the wall. He eventually stirred and went outside in the sun. Another tenant wandered around keeping a close eye on him. He was polite enough and chatted briefly as he walked through the small kitchen to the back yard. He seemed to be waiting for something, just hanging round. Whilst everyone was very calm I was not sure what was going on and did not say too much. There was not a lot of privacy. I was not about to ask Brad how he was going when these other tenants were hovering around, especially considering he did not really want to stay.

Brad made the tea and placed the two mugs on the table. "Not a bad day", I said holding the mug in my hands. Two ambulance officers appeared from the side driveway and walked into the back yard.

This was Brad's cue to explain that the lethargic young man, who was now lying on the grass in the sun, had taken a lot of tablets. "He does this quite often. He's not that well, " offered Brad, adding, "whoever happens to be at home when this happens, takes responsibility for calling the ambulance and waits".

"Oh right", I said, amazed at how accommodating everyone was. Brad said it so matter of fact. "Well that is a good thing then," I said. At least this prevented a tragedy and a scene.

No one panicked. They seemed to know what to do. The ambos were friendly and yelled out hello to Brad and myself sitting in the kitchen. They talked quietly to the young man. There was no trouble and after a few minutes he left with them in the ambulance.

Often these situations can play out much differently with dire consequences. I was relieved that it ended calmly without further incident. I was even more amazed that these young men, Brad included, with issues of his own, were so understanding and supportive of their fellow resident's illness. I had never witnessed anything like this before and hoped that the young man was also well supported by a community mental health service. Brad assured me that he was. I was also proud of Brad, because he accepted this young man's illness, without complaint or judgment. I wished that other people would be as accepting of him.

**Bearing witness-Brad's story**

When I worked with homeless people the time spent with them was fluid and was in-vivo, wherever they were. Often this was on the footpath, in a Café, at a park, in hospital, in prison, sitting on steps, over a slurpee, in the car, walking along the beach or in the doctor's surgery. The interactions, just like the space I occupied at those times were also varied, unpredictable and often quite intense. The duration of those exchanges was sometimes fleeting or protracted. The contacts would sometimes start and finish in the morning in a certain setting and then resume hours later somewhere else, often with a completely different set of problems to be addressed. The space constantly changed depending on what was happening in their lives at any given moment. I had to be flexible and was always prepared to make the most of any situation to assist the people that I worked with. Sometimes it was just to bear witness to what had happened in their life.

In the absence of the _second home_ , I was able to provide this for the people that I worked with on another level. I was able to provide a safe validating environment by listening to them share their stories, what Alice Miller (2004) refers to as being the enlightened witness or the therapeutic companion. As the enlightened witness I accompanied them on their journey which often started back in time, in their childhood. For many this involved facing the truth of their past and talking about it. I did not judge them and I did not flinch away in the face of their anger, pain and suffering. These memories were revealed and told in part, at various times over the three years. Painful little fragments were disclosed bit by bit. Their journeys and stories unfolded in the retelling of their memories. Often disclosures were made when the interactions were more casual and less purposeful. Because of this I was not always prepared and sometimes was caught off guard.

I vividly remember Brad telling a story of horrendous physical abuse at the hands of an uncle. It is still very clear in my mind even though this happened a few years ago now. Brad had disclosed the events very broadly early in my support of him. Often it happened this way, like disjointed narratives. I was told little bits until the gaps were filled in over a period of months or even years. I learnt to join the dots, as with Brad when he revealed the context of the beating in much more detail while we were sitting in a park. We often went to parks given it was less threatening sitting out in the open. It was a lovely sunny day, but the retelling of the violence perpetrated against him was terrible. I remember he was sitting cross legged and pigeons were scavenging for bread crumbs under the park benches. The lighter parts of his hair were glinting in the sun, his sharp feature silhouetted against the brightness of the day. I can still picture the block of flats nearby and the peeling paint on the window frames. I remember how I felt as I listened to him. I cannot repeat his story in full as it was too awful and was almost intolerable to hear.

"I never told you exactly what my uncle did, did I." Brad was barely able to say the words that led his uncle to inflict such pain. He was not able to look at me as the retelling involved bringing up his feelings of shame again. I was not looking directly at him either, as if to somehow make it easier for him and for me as well. I was looking at the motley pigeons thinking what a mess they make and why do people throw such huge amounts of stale bread out for them to eat. I think of the moldy bread and the yeast festering inside their little stomachs and how I wish they would just fly away so I would not have to look at them.

"My uncle aunt and cousins, Sammy and Paul, often came around for lunch. Mum would make the usual Sunday roast. I'd been to soccer practice that morning and was in the shower when he came in. I grabbed the shower curtain to cover myself as I was shocked. Neither of my parents would dream of barging in to the bathroom when we showered. I was very self conscious of my body, especially at sixteen. He told me I was a faggot and leered at me, calling me a 'pansy' and a 'poofta'. I yelled at him to get out but my parents did not hear me because the bathroom was upstairs and they had the music on downstairs. He said it again, you faggot. Keep away from the boys. Then he undid his belt and whacked me across my back as I crouched in the shower recess. I know what you are up to he said. And again, he hit me with his belt, again and again. Then he finally stopped before telling me to keep away from the boys. He then walked out. I could not believe what had happened. I was ashamed. I never went down to lunch. I told mum I was not feeling well."

I was not prepared for this. This was awful. "That's terrible Brad. Did you tell your mum or dad what happened? He had no right to do that to you", I said, looking at him, not quite understanding why his uncle would do such a thing.

"I couldn't", he said quietly.

I waited. The pigeons bobbed up and down, cooing, their pin prick heads bent over the bread their little beaks furiously peck pecking away at the crumbs. "Why?" I said, as I still didn't understand.

"Because they were ashamed of me, that's why", he said angrily.

"Oh, I'm sorry Brad", me now realizing that this was much more complex.

Brad shooed the birds away, tiny bits of grey fluffy down floated in the air. "They always suspected I was different. But when I told them that I was interested in other boys they hit the roof. Went ballistic. I'd only just told them a few days before my uncle and aunt came around for lunch. Summoned the courage at last to tell them. They must have been talking when I was at soccer. How else would he have known", he explained, recalling this as if it was only yesterday.

I felt awful. "What happened? What did you do? Did they eventually come around?" I had so many questions. Trying to put it all together and process what he was telling me at the same time. "Oh- I'm sorry Brad, shouldn't ask so many questions", my stomach churned at the injustice of it all.

"Yeah, well my parents were devout Catholics you know- wouldn't have helped me being gay, couldn't have that, not a son who was gay for God's sake", Brad added sarcastically. "The deal was I had to finish Year 10-then I was on my own. I had about eight weeks of school left. And that was it basically. See you later Brad". Brad shifted his weight, stretched his legs out and crossed his arms. It was out now. Topic finished for now.

We sat on the park bench a bit longer before leaving. I often walk nearby that same place and still think of that day years ago. But out of respect, I have never walked through the park since. I would prefer the memory of that day to stay there, on the same park bench.

I hoped that by listening and accompanying Brad on the road to his own truth (Miller, 2004), that I was at least providing some level of care. He was very brave and strong in being able to bear the unbearable in his life. I also shared the load that day and 'held' him in that terrible process.

**Sally-a house built on shifting sands.**

As the abused child grows into the adult survivor their intimate relationships are often based on a need for protection, care and rescue (Herman, 1992). For example, some women will seek out partners who represent a powerful authoritarian figure, someone who offers them a special caretaking relationship. This person is usually idealized, in the same way that children idealize the abusive parent. The person is also experienced as someone who is in total control of life and death. Just like the abusive parent. They are both the source of the pain and a source of relief, a source of threat, yet a source of hope (Bloom, 1999). Within this context I could understand why many of the women who I worked with wanted a father figure to rescue them and make things better. But their situations rarely improved given the type of partner they were drawn to.

This idealized person usually fails to live up to such high and unrealistic expectations due to the survivors past experiences and fears of abandonment or exploitation. It is often much worse, because many traumatized people tend to use highly abnormal and dangerous relationships as their idea of a normal relationship (Bloom, 1999). I saw this over and over again. Sally in particular, lived life close to the edge and became involved in highly volatile relationships with men, like Shane, who had been imprisoned for violent crimes. Her partners were often many years older than her, fulfilling the father figure, 'rescuer' she craved for. It was ironic that Sally's own father completely failed her and did not stay after she disclosed the sexual abuse. I'm sure Sally must have felt completely abandoned by him. Most of her relationships were based on control and fear, interspersed with intermittent periods of calm, even happiness.

I passed Sally and Shane on their way back from the supermarket one day. Shane was staying with Sally in her rooming house. They were an 'item'. I was on the tram and they were walking along the footpath when the plastic handle of the shopping bag Shane was carrying broke. I watched as Sally roared with laughter, nudging him as if to say "you idiot". Thankfully, he grinned at her. I was relieved to see them having fun, an innocent few moments of normalcy. But I also felt slightly sick in the stomach as I knew it was not always like this. I knew that Sally was on tenterhooks during the good times like this, waiting for the situation to blow up. It did not take much for the illusion of normalcy to shatter and her world once more became a dark and threatening place. Sally later told me that Shane called her a hopeless idiot when she accidently burnt the toast. He'd call her a slut if he thought she looked at another bloke the wrong way.

Shane also constantly checked her mobile phone to keep tabs of who she was in contact with. I was extremely careful when I texted her knowing he would read my messages. Most of the time Sally did not tell me how bad things were, but when the violence was at its worse, I sometimes became her escape route. Unless it was life or death, and emergency services her point of contact, Sally would call asking me to come straight away. We had a pre-arranged place not far from where she lived that she would run to and I and a colleague would pick her up. No amount of educating her on the cycle of domestic violence would convince her to leave Shane. She refused to get the Police involved if she could leave quickly, believing it would only make things worse. When Police did become involved they were also stymied in their efforts to protect her because she refused to take out an Intervention Order. When they did proceed to take one out an Interim Order on her behalf following a serious incident, she refused to have it enforced when the matter was heard at court.

Sally loved Shane and there was, as she called it, "a lot of water under the bridge- we go back a long way Anne". I often wondered whether he was the father of her son. As a worker it was difficult because I wanted her to be safe, but I would not collude with her. She understood this.

I dreaded Sally's phone calls asking for my help because I knew how distressed she would be and how powerless I was. I had to prepare myself emotionally as I could predict how the next few hours would pan out and the sorts of things I might hear. I and a colleague would sit in the car waiting for her to appear. Sally would run, crying and sobbing, constantly looking over her shoulder as we drove away. We'd take her somewhere quiet for a coffee, all the time listening to her replay the terror and abuse. Sally would eventually calm after I tried to soothe her with quiet encouraging words, "breathe deeply, you are safe now.. take a breath.. it's okay". In that brief moment it was okay, but things were far from being normal and safe. Sometimes I would sit in stunned silence, assaulted by Sally's descriptions of how she laid on the very edge of the bed the night before in fear of her life, dare not moving knowing that Shane had a wooden mallet within arm's reach.

And then I would go through Sally's safety options again, slowly, taking care not to overwhelm her. I was always consistent in my approach and what I said to her. I was like a broken record. I think Sally knew what I would say and was reassured to hear that she was not to blame and she was not hopeless but that she did not have to put up with this. I was the anchor that would hold her for a few minutes whilst her world was in turmoil. Sally needed to hear all this and I think she expected me to say the same things. It brought her back to earth and provided some normalcy. But I knew that one day Sally would be finally ready to leave, unable to take the abuse any longer. That one day could be any day.

My views are black and white when it comes to domestic violence. Being with a partner who abuses you is wrong and is no grounds for a relationship. Sally knew my views and that no one deserves to be treated this way. Some of her friends who had been in similar situations themselves also told her the same thing over and over although their language was much more colorful. Even they could not convince her to leave Shane. I assisted Sally through this period but always refused to drive her back to where he was staying. That was the agreement. If she chose to go back to him that was her choice, but I would not actively assist her. Helping Sally around this awful time when she was subjected to domestic violence was something I really struggled with, both professionally and emotionally. I constantly worried about what was happening to her. I was uncomfortable with my role and know that I could never work in the domestic violence field as an outreach worker. I could not abandon Sally when she was unsafe, but there was only so much I could do because she refused to go to a women's refuge. I could not protect her and could not guarantee I or any of my colleagues would be there straight away when she called. It was impossible. We worked nine to five. We did not work weekends.

I felt like I was there to pick up the pieces and that did not sit well with me, especially when I knew how bad things were and that it could all so easily be avoided. It was as if I was also trapped within the domestic violence cycle myself, even if it was vicariously. I was powerless, unable to prevent the abuse from occurring and not able to convince Sally to leave. And if I argued with her and told her she was crazy and stupid, and "what on earth are you doing?" (which I sometimes did when the situation was calmer) and that she could be injured or worse killed, I ran the risk of her not calling at all. Worse, I was reinforcing how bad Sally already felt, because she knew all this. We both walked a fine line. Professionally, I assisted her as best I could because I understood the theory behind such a relationship. More importantly, I was well supported by colleagues and the organization I worked with. Whilst it made things more bearable for me, it never made it easier.

This type of relationship that Sally was caught up in is referred to as trauma-bonding (Herman, 1992). It is a relationship based on terror, because normal attachment behavior becomes twisted into something that is quite cruel. Minor interpersonal conflicts provoked intense feelings of rage or anxiety as Sally perceived any slight disagreement with Shane as a repeat of a deliberate act of cruelty against her. It is even more difficult to overcome these distortions in the mind when there is lack of verbal and social skills to resolve minor conflict. Sally's conflict resolution often involved yelling, screaming and crying when Shane frustrated her. Neither of them was able to talk through their issues calmly or walk away to cool down. Shane was highly impulsive and reactive. He had a short fuse and snapped easily. He was extremely fit and strong as he worked out religiously, a habit left over from months spent in prison with nothing to do. Sally never had a chance when he lashed out.

Many of the other women that I worked with developed patterns of unstable and intense relationships similar to what Sally experienced with Shane. They were also at a greater risk of repeated victimization because they continued to get trapped within these dysfunctional, unhealthy relationships.

Sally eventually fled Melbourne again for regional Victoria towards the end of 2011 when she heard that Police had a warrant for Shane's arrest. He had a number of outstanding criminal matters and was likely to receive a jail sentence. In a way, this was also Sally's 'get out of jail free card' and she went to ground for a few months until she heard Shane was incarcerated. She then knew she was safe, for the time being. I remained in phone contact once she got a new mobile number, checking in periodically to make sure she was okay.

But where was home for Sally? I often wondered whether it was the home of her childhood before the awful things happened and that sense of safety changed. Or was it the fleeting moments with Shane when she felt happy and was able to laugh? So short lived. A house built on shifting sands.

# Chapter 12

' **The Third Home'**

**Gary-waiting under the sorry wall**

I realized I was good at waiting when I first started working with Gary in January 2010. He had no fixed address and no mobile. It was pointless giving Gary a mobile as I later found out through experience, as he always sold them for drugs. I would sometimes go for weeks without seeing Gary despite waiting hours for him in the hope that he would turn up. The pathway and key to finding him was based on patience and a certain amount of dogged determination.

I first had to immerse myself in Gary's world to get a sense of who he was. This was very hard in the early stages as I had limited information about what he did and where he went. Gary was known as a 'rough sleeper'. He had been referred to our service by Margie a social worker in the accident and emergency department of one of Melbourne's major hospitals. He sometimes dropped into the emergency department for minor ailments and was well known to some of the staff. Gary had been a frequent user of accident and emergency for many years. It was likely he felt more comfortable accessing a public hospital than a small surgery-and it was free. He would never be turned away. Gary was happy for Margie to refer him to our housing service. Margie had been trying for years to link Gary to other services but he was never interested or never followed through with the appointments. Hopefully this time it would be different. Gary signed consent forms, understanding that he would be getting a worker to help him get long term housing. Gary had never had an Office of Housing Application done, despite being homeless for years, so was not even on the list for public housing. He agreed for Margie to contact our service to arrange a catch up. Margie called me many times over a period of about eight weeks saying Gary was at the hospital and would like to meet me. I was often only twenty minutes away but even this was too long for Gary to wait and he would leave before I had arrived. I did not give up and finally the day came when I got a call from Margie that Gary was in accident and emergency and would wait for me. I was able to make it to the hospital in five minutes as I was nearby.

As I approached the waiting area of accident and emergency I noticed a disheveled gentleman wearing a red cap sitting quietly on his own. His jeans were grubby and his grey windcheater stained. Maybe this is Gary, I thought, as no one else looked like they had been sleeping rough. I spoke to the triage who knew I was not far away and confirmed that it was Gary.

I walked over to Gary hoping to get his attention before I sat down. He looked up momentarily. I smiled, "Gary? Hi I'm Anne, how you going? They said you would be here. Good to see you. Hurt your hand?"

He raised his eyebrows, turning his head slightly as I sat next to him, but not too close, as I did not want to invade his space. "Yeah". Gary tried to cover his bandaged hand with his good hand. He did not look at me.

"No good". I did not want to scare him off. "Thanks for waiting. Hope I didn't keep you long? Margie tells me you would like help in getting some housing", I added.

"Yeah". Nothing more.

I explained briefly about what I did and what I could do to help him get crisis accommodation and that we could do a housing application for long term housing. "Where are you staying at the moment?"

"With a mate, staying at his joint for a few days. Gunna meet him in twenty". Gary hunched forward, took his cap off and ran his good hand through his thick, unruly, grayish tinged hair. "I'm right for the moment", Gary muttered, pushing his cap back on his head.

"That's good. When you are stuck I can help you. Do you have a mobile?" I offered.

"Nah."

I handed him my card, explaining, "You can call me reverse charge anytime from a phone box, if you need help or want to catch up. I can come and meet you wherever, no problem. Where's a good place to catch up for you?" I asked hopefully.

"Down State Trustees", Gary said, again muttering, but getting fidgety. I knew from the referral that Gary collected part of his pension from the State Trustees office in the city three days a week. He never went at the same time, although it was always on a Monday, Wednesday and Friday. But that was a starting point. Gary did not want to make any firm plans to meet, instead reminding me I could find him "down State Trustees". I did not push him.

He then stood up, after only a few minutes, saying, "got a go". Gary looked at me momentarily, keen to get going.

I also stood up, but held back. I did not want to give the impression that I was going to walk off with him. "No worries Gary, nice to meet you. Thanks for waiting for me too. I'll make a start on your housing application if you like".

"Thanks".

And off he went, quietly and quickly, holding his bandaged hand awkwardly away from his body. Margie mentioned he had cut it on a broken bottle when he tripped on the footpath and fell to the ground. It was March, and I had finally met Gary.

But that was the last I saw of Gary for a few weeks. I waited hours for Gary around the corner from the State Trustees, sometimes up to two or three hours a couple of times a week with no luck. But one day, as I got off the tram, I bumped into Gary not far from the building. It was another short exchange as he was in a hurry to get his money.

The contact with Gary was random like this at the start of my involvement with him but worth every minute of the time spent waiting. Seeing him was a reward for my patience. Although I felt like I was looking for someone I could never find, I was prepared and happy to do this because I hoped to find Gary somewhere to live and was getting to know him, albeit very slowly, in the process. More importantly, he had to get to know me before he could trust me. He had no reason to trust me at this point because I had done nothing for him. The only way to get to know him was slowly, at his pace, because he was engrossed in his day to day existence. He did not readily take to the support I could offer, even though he wanted long term housing. He dictated the amount of contact he had with me, unless he was in prison, as happened later, when he became my captive audience. I accepted that this was how it was going to be.

If I was lucky when I was in the city, I would see Gary walking quickly with purpose, wearing his usual red cap, minding his own business, not taking too much notice of anybody else. His brown eyes were always on the lookout for bumpers, the darting surveillance of a seasoned street survivor. He took little steps but could cover distance with speed. His right foot turned slightly outward and he swung both arms across his body as if to propel himself along faster. Such concentrated effort and rapid forward action resulted in a body that was stooped, worn down almost. When he had been drinking his gait lost its usual rhythm and he slowed right down, often lurching sideways, staggering slightly. His body looked like it was going to tip over before he somehow summoned his senses and pulled himself up to his normal slightly hunched position. Because his walk was very familiar to me I became good at spotting him, even amongst a crowd.

Gary was in his forties, although looked much older and was quite thin-his clothes usually hung off him; it was all the walking, the drug use, the poor diet and accumulation of life on the streets. His wiry, grey flecked beard was matted, a resting place for crumbs and bits of tobacco. He always carried an old back pack. It was his only possession. I later found out that it was full of pens and business cards, cards that he had picked up from shops and drug and alcohol agencies that he dropped into on his daily travels. He had all the telecommunication companies covered. Despite not owning a mobile phone Gary had retail business cards from all the major telco carriers. He collected them like a bower bird collects bits of shiny blue tinsel and parts of plastic biros. Written on the back of the cards in large spidery print were mobile numbers with a name next to the number, such as CJ, or Davo. I was not sure of the broader significance of the cards, apart from keeping track of people Gary had met, his 'mates' phone numbers, a collage of where he had been and a reminder of who he might have spoken to. The cards might have been a statement about identity or a way of remaining connected to people and the world around him. He had loads of them. They must have meant something to Gary because he kept them and carried them with him.

But Gary was a man of very few words. It was strange to get to know someone's physicality and appearance in such detail before getting to know them more personally. But what could I do? I knew a bit about Gary from the referral and from what Margie told me. He had once been a successful self made business man-something to do with a tractor dealership up Swan Hill way in rural Victoria. He lost a lot of money when his business partner made some bad investments without his knowledge. Gary was the ideas man behind the business, never one for figures given he struggled at school and left before completing Year 10. Gary and his business partner had a falling out, leaving Gary broke and with huge debts. His marriage broke down. He lost his house and his confidence and was declared bankrupt. That's when he started drifting and became an itinerant worker up near the Murray River. A serious car accident left him with debilitating back pain, an acquired brain injury and an addiction to pain killers and alcohol. Then came the heroin, or as Gary later told me," my slide from grace luv, knew I should have kept away from the stuff". To feed his habit he became a petty thief and then a drug dealer.

Gary barely acknowledged me when he saw me. He was always on a mission when he collected his money. He would rush into the building and off he would go again, often accompanied by his most recent 'hangers on' keen to share in his spoils- single men, also unkempt, unshaved, probably his drinking buddies. Occasionally he would have a female with him. I never saw him with the same person more than once though. Sometimes, I had a can of coke ready, hoping this offering would entice him to talk to me. Gary was always appreciative, especially when it was hot. In return, he would mutter a few brief words, "hi luv, thanks for that. Have to go". It took many hours of waiting for Gary through a stifling late Melbourne summer before he even said my name. One day when he said," it's bloody hot Anne, can't stand it", I felt he was acknowledging me for the first time as a person and not just as a worker. I was happy, knowing I had passed some sort of test. I think he knew at this stage that I was going to stick around. Eventually Gary got used to me turning up asking how he was. The little grabs of attention extended to five and ten minute conversations. Not much more though.

I viewed time completely differently when it came to working with Gary as I usually had nothing to show for the hours spent waiting for him. Time was precious and a luxury that I never took for granted. I didn't feel it was wasted because even if I did not see Gary I held him in mind and wondered how he was going, as I did each time my son left Australia to work overseas. This reflective mental state in a Winnicott (1960) sense was important as I tried to understand Gary's reality, what his day to day world looked like. I was good at waiting and I was patient. I had passed that test many times. I knew that the waiting was forming the groundwork for a relationship with Gary. I also knew that many other workers would not have bothered to do what I did for Gary and would have given up. I was prepared to do something that had not been done before-wait. I was not sure what sort of relationship it would be but the waiting was necessary because I had to start somewhere. It was good training because after a few years of working with Gary, I was always left waiting for him. Gary never once waited for me, even if I was five minutes late, apart from that first meeting at the hospital.

There was some irony to where I often waited for Gary, sitting on a concrete bollard underneath a building at 620-640 Little Bourke Street. The building was used as part of the Melbourne City Council's Laneway Commissions in 2009 and included a large scale wall-text painting by the Canadian artist Cathy Busby, _Righting the Wrongs._ High up, on the outside of this building, are large scale printed words, excerpts from the 2008 landmark apologies to the Aboriginal peoples of Australia and the Indian residential schools in Canada, for policies of assimilation. The words, printed on adjacent walls, are easy to read from the street level because of their large-sign format. The background of each side of the Ocular Lab has been painted to approximate the skin-tones of Prime Minister Rudd and Prime Minister Harper as found in the media images that accompanied each speech.

SPEECH EXCERPTS

"The time has now come for the nation to turn a new page in Australia's history by righting the wrongs of the past and so moving forward with confidence to the future... For the pain and suffering and hurt of the Stolen Generations, their descendants and for their families left behind, we say sorry. To the mothers and fathers, the brothers and sisters for the breaking up of families and communities, we say sorry. And for the indignity and degradation thus inflicted on a proud people and a proud culture, we say sorry. We the Parliament of Australia respectfully request that this apology be received in the spirit in which it is offered as part of the healing of the nation".

Prime Minister Kevin Rudd, February 13, 2008.

As Gary's worker, I felt I was also trying to right the wrongs of the past in his life and the lives of others who were homeless. Some were of the Stolen Generation but many were also Forgotten Australian's, having spent all or part of their childhoods in orphanages and state institutional care. They had also suffered and been hurt. Their families had also broken up with many siblings separated from each other.

It was an interesting place to exhibit excerpts from such significant speeches. I was not sure whether the building was vacant at the time but there was evidence of rough sleepers in the boarded up doorways. The wind would swirl around grabbing rubbish and dust and dump it in piles at the foot of the dark, dank entrances. I felt ashamed sitting there, near the bits of discarded cardboard that were used as sleeping mats to provide some warmth for worn down bodies. The building with its grand text overlooked a sorry progression of the most marginalized people in the state as they'd trudge past up to the State Trustees building to collect their money.

But I learnt that nothing is ever black and white in life and never straight forward. It is an unfortunate reality that the state has to intervene in some people's lives for their own protection and security. Sometimes people take advantage of other's vulnerability using manipulation and coercion to take money that does not belong to them. Gary, for example, had no idea how to manage his finances- the car accident had affected him in other ways. He would more than likely spend his entire pension within a few hours on heroin and marijuana. I was sorry that things were not different for him and for the rough sleepers who had been forced to seek solace in dirty boarded up doorways on the streets of Melbourne. Gary had also been a rough sleeper on many occasions.

# Chapter 13

**The' Third Home'-Robbie's 'home'**

We all move in our own little worlds that are usually part of the wider community. This ' _third home'_ as described by Kraybill is evident in our interaction and interdependence with other people and organizations. The ' _third home_ ' is where we are connected to work, health services, education, transportation and politics. It is also about social inclusion. We all exist in these parallel worlds, existing in the 'here and now' in our local communities commuting to work or study, or caring for children or going about our daily business. We exist in time and space and in a place. Sometimes we interact with certain groups of people every day. There can be some predictability about parts of our daily interactions. Other times we have random interactions with different people who we might never see again or who we might only see occasionally. For most of us we have a fair idea about what we will be doing from day to day as our daily routines give us the structure to our lives. Most of us also have a purpose in life. When I think of my friends or family I have a reasonable idea of what sorts of things they might do on a week by week basis. I have some idea of what their world looks like in terms of their physical movements and social interactions.

When I started working with people who had no stable accommodation I had to learn what their day might look like in order to be able to find them. As the Melbourne based researchers at the time, Johnson, Gronda and Coutts (2008), point out, the world of people experiencing homelessness is "a world that has its own rhythm, pace and routines". Often I had to track them down by various means. My way was to place myself at some point in their day to day world once I knew what their routine was, just as I did with Gary. That often meant walking down or crossing the exact same footpath that they walked and accidentally bumping into them, a contrived coincidence of luck and good fortune. But this took lots of time, careful planning, patience and waiting.

Like Gary, Robbie was also difficult to find when I first started working with him in late 2011 as he had no mobile or fixed address. And he did not like dropping into the community agency where I worked, despite wanting stable housing. What I did know about Robbie at the start was limited to a few details about his family background and what lead him to become homeless. But I knew nothing about him as a person. Robbie was more than just what was written on a bit of paper. I was always more interested in the individual, a natural curiosity to know who they were. That also took time to find out because many of the people I worked with guarded and protected their inner demons, their Achilles heel or sadness from workers, emotions that were often buried under layers of hurt, rejection and put downs. I needed to gain Robbie's trust first to have any hope of getting to know him better. This is part of his story.

Robbie had two younger brothers and had spent his childhood in regional New South Wales. His mother was divorced and raised the boys on her own until Robbie was about fifteen. That was when she introduced them to her new partner, Stan, a local business man in his forties. He eventually moved in to the family home and asserted his authority over the boys. Robbie resented Stan's presence because it had always been just them and their mother, the four of them. Robbie especially hated how Stan treated their mother when he had been out drinking. He was verbally abusive when he came home and constantly put her down, complaining that she was too soft on the boys and they should pull their weight more around the house. Stan picked on Robbie for the slightest thing, even whacked him across the head a few times. But Robbie's mother refused to do anything about it, siding with Stan, never sticking up for Robbie like he tried to do for her. The worst thing was she even blamed Robbie for causing the problems. In the end Robbie got fed up with the constant arguments and at sixteen, half way through Year 10, left home. He made his way to Kings Cross. He had a lot of guts, as he later reminded me, as it was tough on the streets. He wasn't used to living it rough either and got in with the wrong crowd and ended up on heroin. But Robbie had a good youth worker who seemed to recognize that he was just a lost country kid at heart who had been let down by his mother and step father. The youth worker became Robbie's life line and supported him through the worst of his drug use, helping him to move down to Victoria when family friends eventually found out what had happened and offered to help him. Robbie stayed with them for over a year, grateful for their support. He tried to get clean but couldn't quite make it. Eventually they gave him an ultimatum, rehab or leave. Robbie left, and here he was, now twenty six years of age on the streets in Melbourne.

A Salvation Army outreach worker referred him to the agency where I worked as Robbie was desperate to get housing, realizing he needed support to beat his heroin addiction.

It was by chance one day that I found out that Robbie was visiting a resident I knew at a local rooming house. It was the first time I met Robbie. When I entered his mate's room, Robbie was eating a sandwich and seemed like he would much prefer to be talking with his friend than with me. Robbie was of medium height, with a crew cut. He was still fresh faced, not yet suffering the ravages of years of heavy drug use. He looked healthy and fit and so young. That was what struck me the most. I knew it was best to keep this catch up low key as he did not want to talk outside and was happy for his mate to be there. So I told him I was just passing through and thought I would say a quick hello. Robbie avoided looking at me. It was very early days and there would be plenty of time to get to know him. I reminded him that I could help him get accommodation or whatever else he felt he needed. My offer sounded so simple and straight forward but was obviously going to be much more complicated than this. Robbie needed to be actively involved and committed to getting housing and working with me. I was hoping that I could deliver on what I was saying. Robbie did not want to come with me to get crisis housing as he was planning on visiting a mate that same afternoon and did not want to be late. But we made a plan to meet up at a cafe in a week.

That was the last I saw of Robbie for a few weeks as he then went 'missing'. He did not front for our catch up. He was remanded because he had an outstanding warrant for drug related matters. Robbie did not get bail. I eventually tracked him down in the Melbourne Custody Centre. It was wonderful news because it had taken me days of phone calls to Police and hospitals to locate him. It was not uncommon for many of the people I worked with to go 'missing' and end up in hospital as a result of an overdose or serious assault. I often had to consider the worst because of the nature of the lives they lead. It was a relief to know Robbie was alive and okay. He was too young to succumb to a lifestyle that would end up consuming him. I felt a sense of maternal responsibility, to do whatever I could to help him beat his drug addiction before it took more of a hold over his life.

I rushed into the city. I knew that I had to go straight away as timing is sometimes everything when working with people who are chaotic and living by their wits. Windows of opportunity could close in a moment. I had learnt this through experience.

I saw Robbie in one of the visitor's boxes in the cells under the Melbourne Magistrates Court before he was whisked away to prison. Despite getting clearance I think I was still lucky to see him given I was not a legal representative. He was clearly exhausted given his appearance. Robbie looked terrible, almost unrecognizable from my previous catch up. He was no longer youthful and fresh faced. Robbie had not showered in days or changed his clothes. His skin was sallow and his pinned eyes darted feverishly. Rough stubble covered his jaw and there were some fresh 'pickings', a sure sign of ice use. I thought to myself, how is he going to get through this?

He was quite agitated as he frantically asked, "What's going to happen to me. You got and to get me out on bail".

As if I had a magic wand.

Robbie needed to get bail he kept imploring me, his eyes wide. "I won't be able to cope in prison", he said staring at me wildly.

I then realized his fear. It was not just his age. Prison would be like a forced detox for him and he was likely hanging out now. The 'cravings' were getting to him. Robbie knew what was ahead of him if he was not able to use soon. The gut wrenching intense pains were the worst thing he later told me.

Before I could say much more the guards opened the visitor's box and told Robbie he was going. "Where?" he yelled as they quickly helped him up from the chair and led him away hurriedly. The door shut and he was gone. That was it.

By the time I got clearance to visit Robbie in prison, he had been released following a court hearing that I did not know about. He had been in prison for a few days. I was only a few steps behind him but not close enough. I was used to this in my work as sometimes things worked out and other times opportunities to connect with people at critical periods like this were lost. It was frustrating because I wanted Robbie to know I was there for him and cared about him and had not forgotten him. Drugs were so insidious. I had seen too many people's lives destroyed by years of drug use and did not want this sort of life for Robbie. He was too young.

On the afternoon of Christmas Eve 2011, I was called to the Emergency Department of a Melbourne Hospital. I had been working with Robbie for only a few months but my name was already listed as a point of contact given the amount of emergency admissions he'd had. Once I got there, Robbie told me he had spent the previous night at another large hospital's Emergency Department due to a heroin overdose. He had discharged himself, but was now at this hospital following another incident. A passerby had called an ambulance after seeing him slumped on the footpath. Robbie looked quite disheveled complaining of a sore arm. X-rays revealed a broken collar bone. However it was not a recent injury. Medical staff assessed that it had occurred about two weeks earlier. Robbie could not recall how it happened and could not remember any incident other than being in a lot of pain. Something serious must have taken place to get such an injury. Surely Robbie would have remembered something happening? Maybe he had been in a fight or been assaulted, or fallen. But Robbie said he had no idea. Perhaps he knew but did not want to tell me what happened. I was worried that he had no recollection and even more concerned that he had not felt the pain until now. Maybe he had and he'd just put up with the constant throbbing without complaining. Did this mean he had been self medicating all this time? Or did it mean his drug use was so bad that the last few weeks were just a blur?

When Robbie's drug use was really bad, I'd 'call it' by saying" things are getting a bit out of control aren't they, you need to put the brakes on, you're killing yourself". And then I would remind him that I could take him to the doctor to get on methadone or look at detox. Usually he did not want to hear any of this, but it was often enough to jolt him back into the real world, even if it was momentarily. Robbie also knew when his drug use was out of control and when things were spiraling, "Yeah I know Anne." Robbie never covered up when he used drugs, just the extent of his use. I also told him on many occasions, "It's not my life, but I just worry about you Robbie". He knew I would not judge him and that I accepted him for who he was, regardless of his drug use. But it was hard to see him like this.

The Emergency waiting area where I sat with Robbie was very quiet that day and there were not many people in the cubicles waiting for follow up medical attention. We waited together a few hours for results of the tests. It was still only my fourth or fifth contact with Robbie and there were lots of things I wanted to ask. I had so many questions about his family and a housing application that I wanted to complete to help him get stable housing. I could not finish the application without vital information that only he could give me. But it did not seem the right time as he was clearly exhausted and quite sleepy. And timing is everything. Sometimes the 'sitting' is much more important than talking. Robbie needed the quietness of the waiting area and my silence to nurture and soothe him at this point, not intrusive questions, however important I thought they were.

Robbie only had with him the clothes that he was wearing and nothing else. No back pack, no wallet, no identification, no smokes. He wore a hospital gown over his jeans. Next to him on another chair were his tee shirt and windcheater. I folded these with care, in the same way that I used to fold my children's clothes, noticing how putrid they were. My heart ached at his predicament alone in Melbourne with no family, just acquaintances who he met on the streets. To me he was still a boy. He deserved care and attention. I wondered what it must have been like not to have any family support after he and his mother had been so close. I bought Robbie a sandwich and a drink and just kept sitting near him as he slept fitfully on and off. I watched him feeling quite protective of this young man whom I hardly knew, who was somehow surviving a life of homelessness. I sometimes found it hard not to get emotionally attached to the people I worked with, especially the young men. Maybe it was because I had boys of my own, albeit older than Robbie, that I felt this way. I could not bear to think of anything happening to my boys and me not being there for them.

I wanted Robbie's mother to be here for him, not just me, his worker. I was angry at Robbie's mother, because she had no idea how bad things were for him. Surely she cared about him and worried about him? By all accounts she had been there for Robbie until Stan came on the scene. Everything at home seemed fine up to that point. What went so horribly wrong? Robbie had done the right thing by his mother by standing up for her against Stan. Didn't she see this back then? He was only sixteen, just a boy. But I did not know the whole story and had not met Robbie's mother and had no idea what she thought or felt. I have a tendency to be over critical, a fault in being too quick to judge.

Robbie was discharged from hospital late in the afternoon. He needed a shower, a change of clothes and a good sleep. I drove Robbie to a crisis centre where we arranged accommodation and some food vouchers given it was coming up to the Christmas period and many agencies would be closed. But Robbie did not want to wait for the accommodation as he met an acquaintance in the waiting room. I insisted that I would drive Robbie once we knew where the accommodation was and it should not take too much longer. But without further discussion, Robbie and his new 'friend' left together. Initially I thought what on earth is he doing leaving after all he has been through these past few days? Perhaps his 'friend' had somewhere he could stay and it would be okay. In all likelihood the promise of alcohol and drugs and company was more immediate and promising than a room and a good sleep in a few hours. I had no idea what Robbie's plans were. Christmas Eve seemed just like any other day for him; maybe because it was.

Sadness engulfed me as I drove back to the office, thinking that Robbie was somehow missing out, that Christmas would be empty for him. To me Christmas meant family and being together, either coming home, or us all being 'home' together, wherever that was and whoever had offered to host Christmas that year. I felt I had failed Robbie, because there would be no nice home cooked Christmas meal for him, no welcome home.

Robbie was connected to the _'third home'_ as described by Kraybill because he frequented hospitals and other homeless organizations. He interacted with them on one level as a service user when in crisis and when needing urgent medical attention. They housed his needs and helped support him when he was in dire straits. But he was still on the periphery of the community he 'lived' in because he had no fixed address.

Like Mandy and Sally, Robbie was part of the homeless street sub-culture, a ' _third home'_ of sorts. He identified with this sub-culture. It became a way of life and gave purpose to his day. He knew people and had friends and acquaintances in Melbourne and the inner suburbs despite only being here for a few years. I got to know his regular haunts after many months of working with him. I often tracked him down on the other side of town (much to his surprise and annoyance). He would ask how I knew he was there, as if I had invaded his personal space and territory. I did not do this too often, only when I was really worried about him. I got a sense that Robbie did not want me to see what he got up to even though I had a fair idea. I respected this as I did not really want to watch him buying drugs on the streets and then go into a public toilet block to use.

But I learnt so much more about Robbie's world and the space that he occupied and what that space meant to him. I accompanied him one morning in March 2012 around the Melbourne central business district. He had been able to get a doctor's appointment that same morning in a city clinic to start methadone, but he had to wait a few hours for the scheduled appointment. Waiting also became a constant theme when working with Robbie- not just Gary.

Robbie knew the city well by now and seemed very much at home. It was ironic but a sad fact given his history of homelessness and sleeping rough in the city. The streets were his home because he spent so much time there. On this particular morning the city was such a thriving busy place with people hurrying everywhere; a cacophony of noise and activity. Yet there was an ease and sense of confidence as Robbie walked along the streets stopping to show me various things in the shop windows, things that took his eye and then a story about that particular object. He loved listening to the young busker playing classical music on an electric violin in the mall. The young musician must have only been about fifteen years of age but it was clear he was gifted. Robbie recognized this given he had learnt piano from a young age and had been classical trained. He stood in front of the young person for some time, listening intently and clapped enthusiastically when he finished his piece. Robbie then reached into his pocket and took out some coins. It was all he had. He placed these in the open violin case with some appreciative words about how much he enjoyed the young busker's playing. I was moved by his act of kindness and generosity when he had so little to give.

We had coke and a hamburger down one of the many Melbourne laneways. A little sparrow landed close by long enough for Robbie to give some crumbs.

The few hours spent waiting for the doctor's appointment that morning were priceless moments shared with Robbie. He seemed such a contradiction in terms. Even as I write this I think how trite this sounds. He evoked so many different emotions in me as he constantly surprised me. I admired his resilience, his ability to live in the moment and his thoughtfulness towards others. He was not demanding and never really asked for anything. Robbie had a deeper side to his nature and on this particular day showed me parts of Melbourne that he knew and experienced on a daily basis. Robbie was also happy and smiled in a way that I had never seen before. He laughed and talked to various people as he passed them. Robbie was telling me a lot about himself and his life and what interested him and what things caught his eye.

I linked these encounters to other similar incidents and special moments when with him, few that they were. The place he occupied in his world was beginning to take form. I learnt that it was really important to look for the truth in each person's relationship to the world and what is unique to their story. I was learning what his reality was like. He seemed comfortable in this milieu, or ' _third home'_ whilst remaining anonymous. He noticed things that others might have taken for granted. He identified that it was more important to celebrate who you are and the gifts that you have. I learnt a lot more about Robbie that day by just being with him; by watching and being truly present and seeing the world and his world, through his eyes. I had the best day.

It was also the last time I saw him. He'd usually keep in contact, calling me every few weeks reverse charge to let me know how he was and if he needed help or wanted to catch up. We'd made an agreement that he would at least let me know he was okay. But I never heard from him. He'd moved on from the rooming house where he been staying the last time I met him. I tried the local hospitals and the chemist where he had last collected his methadone to no avail. I checked out his regular haunts on the other side of the city but did not come across him. I waited a few more weeks hoping I would hear from him before contacting police in late April 2012 to register him as a missing person. It was four weeks since I last had contact. I left my name and number at countless homeless services and drop in centres in Melbourne.

It was strange that he did not call or send a message and I thought the worse. What if Robbie was laying in a laneway somewhere, or had accidentally overdosed, or been assaulted and left for dead? It was the dead ends and not knowing where he was and whether he was okay. Maybe Robbie had reconnected with the family friends in country Victoria, or called his mum and was now back home? I tried Robbie's previous youth worker in Kings Cross but he had moved on and the agency had no contact details for Robbie's mother or siblings. The worry and uncertainty of not knowing whether Robbie was alive or dead was something that I experienced on many occasions with the people I worked with. I felt a sense of responsibility to do all that I could because I knew there was no one else who was doing this for Robbie. I owed that much to him.

PART THREE

# Chapter 14

**Home - a connection to something meaningful**

I never realized how restorative those years of creating the garden and working the earth in Upwey were, until I left. In hindsight, it was exactly what I needed. I seemed to instinctively know what was good for me at that time in my life. I got to understand this in the quietness of self-reflection. Before, I rarely stopped and did this because the busyness of life took over. Looking back, I realize that it was also a time of mourning. My oldest son had left home a year before to attend university in another state. After two years of living in the hills, my youngest son also moved to be closer to university in Melbourne. What I did not want to admit at the time, I can now, fifteen years later. Time seems to do that. It softens the blow and puts things into context. The sorrow of my boys flying the coop was very real. Even though I had been preparing for the moves before they happened, I was not ready. I was caught unawares.

I missed their company, the little things, such as the epic trips to the indoor rock climbing centre in Altona when they and a few friends would pile into my old car, or the discussions on the pros and cons of why eating three apples for lunch five days a week was okay and why not wearing a school jumper for the whole of winter and just a short sleeve school shirt was worth winning a bet over. I never thought I would miss listening to Spider Bait, the Beastie Boys or Pearl Jam, or the sound of a hockey ball being hit repetitively against the side of the house, or even coming home to a sink full of dirty dishes after a day at work. I missed helping them get organized for one of their many three day hikes to the Victorian High Country or the Cathedral Ranges and staying together in the wonderful stone cottage down at Mole Creek in Tasmania. I missed buying them afternoon school treats knowing that all the jam donuts or hedgehog slice would be eaten in one sitting. Most of all, I just missed them being around, hearing their voices, knowing they were there. I was now alone, their childhood behind me.

That same heaviness of heart descended again without warning on the morning of Boxing Day 2012 when I found a bird's nest. The nest also triggered memories of Upwey and my boys' weddings. Their weddings, less than six months apart in 2012 had been a time of great celebration as I reflected with pride on the men my boys had become. They were both confident grounded and thoughtful, attentive towards their beautiful wives and their respective families, enjoying life. My nest was well and truly empty now.

As the year drew to an end I contemplated the two weddings in the context of home and what it meant to me. It was a time of reassessment, of taking stock of where I was headed, where I wanted to be in a few years time, my goals. My happiness for them was also overshadowed by mixed feelings and a sense of sadness. It was a loss, similar to what I felt all those years ago when I lived at Upwey. I felt ashamed and guilty to feel this way, believing I was no longer needed, my job as a mother now done, selfish thoughts at such a joyous time in their lives. It was their rite of passage, grown up children now fully embracing independence, the extra responsibilities and duties of new family unions and relationships, separate to me.

Christmas night 2012 had been quite windy. When I walked out on to my narrow verandah the next morning to survey the debris from the tall gum trees, I noticed a nest lying on the timber decking in the corner. Amongst the soft brown mass of twigs and fluffy white feathers, bright blue bits of plastic and cellophane glinted in the sun. The nest was quite large and misshapen, not like the perfect little sparrows' nests that I remembered finding as a child. Those treasures were always so exquisitely molded to the shape of the tiny birds' breast, soft and velvety smooth. This nest looked like it had been abandoned long ago given the state it was in. Maybe the wind had blown it from a higher place. I tenderly lifted up the light weight collection of bits that had once been carefully assembled for the arrival of a new family member. Closer inspection revealed small pieces of fabric and paper. Its occupants were well gone, but the nest, though in parts, was still there.

And then I made the connection that helped me more fully understand the feelings of loss and sadness that I had been struggling with the past few months and the role of my own 'home-nest' and the part I played in the lives of my sons. I too, was still here for them. It did not matter that I no longer lived in the home of their childhood. I had moved houses many times since then. I used to worry that they no longer had a family home to come back to with their old bedrooms and other familiar things all in the same place. I saw this as a failing on my part, that they no longer had this as a base. But I realized that a house could be destroyed very quickly and easily replaced. Relationships were far more important and worth hanging on to. Nothing could ever replace the strong connection and attachment I had to my boys. I would always be here for them, that safe foundation and anchor that acted as a reference point for them. I, as their home, would still be 'there' wherever that was, sharing their experiences, taking an interest in their lives and their work, worrying about them and their partners and supporting them. I had not lost anything. Nothing had been destroyed or taken away at all, just added to. That understanding and lightness carried me peacefully and joyfully into 2013.

Over time I also learnt how important family connectedness was to Gary. His story took me completely by surprise.

**Leaving notes under the door**

I wondered whether what I was doing, or not doing more to the point, was making any difference for Gary. After eight months I was slowly getting to know him over little grabs of conversation such as, "How are you going, would you like something to eat, a coffee"?

Usually he would be busy, adding, "gunna meet a friend". But sometimes Gary conceded, particularly if food was involved. "White bread luv, don't like the seeds and things, just plain". In between mouthfuls he'd reveal little bits about himself. He missed the country and picking oranges. He did not ask for much and made no demands other than my patience. I kept him up to date with his housing application encouraging him to come with me so we could organize crisis accommodation. He never wanted this as he said he knew what to do- he could go himself and get a room. "I just want somewhere that is long term, so I don't have to keep movin. Can you do that? Get me something of my own. That would be good luv".

After many more months of advocating for Gary, he was finally accepted into a brand new supported housing facility in inner Melbourne. He could stay there long term. No more moves. I was excited for him as he'd never had a chance like this before, not since he was first married when his business was going well and life was so much different. The place was still close enough to the area he was most familiar with. Gary was overwhelmed as he had been homeless for years now. This was the first time in ten years that he did not have to share a bathroom and the first time he had his own kitchen.

He tried hard to conceal his happiness when he first viewed his unit. Everything was pristine and all his- new furniture, linen, kitchen appliances, everything was provided. "Pretty good luv, not bad", he noted, impressed. Gary opened and shut every cupboard door with pride, gingerly stepped out onto the small balcony and smiled broadly not quite believing that the flat screen television mounted on the wall was also his. "Are you for real?"

It was a wonderful day. I still remember the date- the 12th October 2010.

Gary settled fairly quickly into life at the housing service and asked for my help to get back on methadone and get his teeth fixed and make contact with his estranged elderly parents still living in the country. He felt it would be easier to keep in contact with them now that he had a fixed address. Over the next few months after many attempts to arrange something, Gary had still not seen his parents. And I lost count of the dental appointments I made for Gary to which he never showed up. He started on the methadone program twice without success. But at least he started.

Gary was still difficult to get hold of when he was housed because he always left early in the morning or would spend days elsewhere. Gary had a life and routine out on the streets that did not change because he was finally housed. It was a life that had its own particular rhythm and involved catching up with 'drinking buddies', scoring heroin or buying dope and occasionally getting caught for shoplifting. I would try and get to the housing facility before 8.30 am but invariably missed him, sometimes just by minutes. Often I would go on public transport rather than take a work car because there was more chance I might just bump into him at the train station as he set off for the day. Wanting assistance and support did not equate into action. Gary would do things, in his time, it seemed, when he was ready. But at least now he had a safe base that he could come home to. I never really knew how important this base was for him until he was imprisoned.

I always left notes written on my agency business cards under Gary's door to say I had popped in to see him. The notes were really open invitations to give me a ring whenever he needed help. Those messages were often my only means of remaining connected to him other than through staff at the facility where he lived. Sometimes when I visited him I would see my business card from a few days before, still under the door. I would slide in another.

Besides me and the staff where he lived, Gary had no other supports other than his lawyer who had known him for years and represented him many times in court, mostly for drug related matters and shop theft. I always worried that what I offered was not enough. But perhaps this was all Gary could cope with at the time. He had still not reconnected with his family so I figured catching up with me was not high on his list either. He was still not prepared to put himself out for me. I did change my approach at a later stage in my work with him when I asked him to meet me half way between my work and where he lived, but at this point I was 'just there', visiting him and leaving notes.

But I felt I was working in a vacuum. There was little contact other than feedback from staff at the housing facility and even this was minimal as Gary did not engage with them either. I was the invisible worker who came two or three times a week to see how he was going and to leave a note and occasionally liaise with his lawyer. I did become disillusioned at this point but was still not prepared to give up on Gary.

On Gary's forty fifth birthday, I placed a greeting card under his door. On another occasion, after hearing from staff that he had put his name down to enroll in a Council of Adult Education computer course, I pushed a card saying 'Now is the right time' under his door. There was a time when there were three notes lined up under the door. No one had seen him for a few weeks. After some follow up I was able to ascertain that he in fact was in remand at the time. No wonder my notes were still there. I now had an opportunity to see him-he was a captive audience with nowhere to go. After twelve months of working with Gary the focus suddenly changed.

When I saw Gary in remand he gave me permission to go into his apartment to get some photos of his son. Up until that time I did not even know he had any children. Gary had a vacant expression as he mentioned his son. "Yeah Jack is in his twenties now. Haven't seen him for years. Don't want him to know his old man is a no hoper".

I waited for him to provide some more information, stunned at his revelation of himself as a no hoper. Does he think he is not deserving of a better life? Is this why he kept shunning my offers to connect? I wanted to challenge Gary, but he seemed too raw, cut to his very core. Not now I thought. "You must miss him", I offered.

Gary cleared his throat, not looking at me, "mmm...... yeah, like I said it's been a long time". He told me exactly where the photos were and asked me to choose three. He wanted to have something he loved to focus on to keep him going whilst in remand. "Gotta make some changes luv, can't keep comin back here. Gettin too old for this."

As I left the remand centre for the privacy of my car I was overwhelmed by a sense of grief, sadness and astonishment. Here was this man who I had barely got to know after a year and few months of chasing after him, finally revealing a huge part of his life. I ached that he thought himself as a no hoper. I certainly never saw him like this. And wanting to make changes-just to hear him say those words was worth the time spent waiting for him, looking and hoping. I sat in the car for ages before I drove away.

I did what Gary requested and on entering his unit for the first time since he had moved in, I noticed the birthday card and the other card I gave him sitting on the television cabinet. The place was a mess, but not the worst I had ever seen. There were literally piles of my business cards scattered on the kitchen table. Some were even stuck on the refrigerator. He must have kept all of them. Did I write all those notes? Did I visit him that many times? I was touched and deeply affected at the sight of all my cards. Perhaps there was a meaning to my visits after all. I felt relieved that I had remained consistent for all this time. Perhaps just knowing that I had not forgotten him was all Gary needed. Maybe the notes were a visual reminder to him that someone cared about him. And I did care. I cried in the privacy of his unit, standing amongst his things-the safe place that was his home. I now understood why he did not think anyone should bother about him because he hardly cared about himself. It no longer mattered that I had not been able to get him to the dentist.

During one of my many visits to prison over the next few months (Gary was transferred from remand to serve part of a suspended sentence for possession of drugs) Gary told me that he had lots of workers in the past but none had stuck by him, they had given up on him. He thanked me for sticking by him. His comments meant a lot. I knew through experience that consistency was important and that eventually there would be a shift or a change and Gary would be ready to take the next step. I knew that I had to 'stick by' Gary a bit longer as the evidence and research suggests that knowing that someone is there if you need them paradoxically makes you less likely to need them (Gronda 2009). The comment suggests that a low level of monitoring support such as I what I was doing for Gary gives people confidence in their ability to maintain their independence. Maybe Gary felt that way too. Gary knew if he was remanded or ended up going to court and getting a prison sentence that I would eventually find out and be there to support him. I did not have to tell him this. He knew this from all the notes and trusted I would be there.

I visited Gary in prison every fortnight, like clock -work during the first few months of 2011. He seemed to look forward to the visits as he had no other visitors. Even though he did not say much, I got the sense that he hated prison and kept a low profile keeping to himself. During one visit he unexpectedly opened up about his son Jack. I was not really prepared for any major revelations as we generally just chatted about what was happening in the news at the time and how he was feeling and what he planned to do when he got out. I never pried given he was a man of so few words and waited for him to tell me things when he was ready. We were sitting opposite each other at a table in the visitor's area. Gary leant forward in his chair, resting his hands on the table. We were talking about Swan Hill at the time as there was a drought and it was all on the news. Gary spent a lot of time up there. "I married Jack's mum up in Swan Hill. He was not mine ya know. I didn't know she was pregnant when I met her. Found out when she started to show. Knew it wasn't mine. Did the sums. The other bloke, the coward, left as soon as he knew. Bloody piss poor. Would have knocked his block off if I saw him. I did the right thing. Stood by her. Married her. She was a grand girl and Jack was a good lad."

"Wow", I was amazed and impressed that Gary had stuck by Jack's mum. I was trying to process what he just told me. "A lot of men would have just walked away. You must have really loved her to make that commitment. Jack was a lucky boy. Does he know?" I asked. All of sudden any preconceived ideas I might have had about Gary were swept away. I was ashamed that I had pre judged him. He was a man of integrity.

"He found out when everything went to shit with the business and the marriage. The missus moved away with Jack when I started to hit the bottle. Then the accident... everything went cactus. But I raised him as me own". Gary sat back in his chair now and crossed his arms. "Well... that's about it really", he offered, spent.

Gary had just told me more than he had ever told me in the year and a bit I had been working with him. He had also filled out since being in prison and no longer wore his trademark red cap. He shaved every day and even looked younger. It was a transformation and now he had opened up about his life. It was a huge thing and I was quiet for some minutes, absorbing the enormity of what he had disclosed. The silence was broken by the guard approaching us to tell us time was up. We both slowly stood up together. I extended my hand, "Thanks for telling me Gary-are you okay?" worried that the visit was now over and everything was so raw- that he would have to deal with his past on his own, yet again in such a cold, hostile environment.

But Gary smiled, "Yeah luv, right as rain. I'm a tough bugger". He walked off with the guard.

Gary's self contained apartment was still home while he was in prison. He had been able to continue to pay rent while he was incarcerated as he had money saved through Sate Trustees. On his release in March 2011 he continued to mix with friends and acquaintances he met on the streets because this was also the world he was familiar with and most comfortable. The big difference now was that he had spoken of change and dared to open up and share part of his story. But he was also working out who Gary was when he was not involved in crime and drug use and who Gary was when he was not in remand and prison. Gary's identity was so inextricably linked with the street sub culture. It was not an easy thing to turn his back on overnight but Jack's photos spurred him on.

Nothing much changed in Gary's circumstances over the next eighteen months that I worked with him. I continued to visit him at the housing facility and tried to arrange dental appointments that he never attended. Sometimes when he was home he came out with me to get a take away coffee. We would chat about the football, mostly his side, the Western Bulldogs. "Gotta support the doggies, they're from the Western suburbs luv". The contacts were always low-key. I encouraged him to make contact with his parents and his son but he was still not ready to do this.

Gary wanted to get on methadone first, get himself sorted. "I just need a bit more time".

"Your parents are getting on and Jack is getting older too you know", I reminded him.

"Yeah I know", he said, resigned to time slipping away.

**Home means finding out the truth- when a birth certificate is more than just a piece of paper**

It was February 2011 and John and I were sitting outside his favorite café in Oakleigh. As he poured each one of the four sugar sachets slowly into his coffee, he asked me, "You know how I told you I was adopted? Can you help me find my real family?"

"Yes, I remember. Well, we can try, we can give it a go", I said, realizing this had been playing on his mind. "We can call an organization that might be able to help you. You sure about this, because you might find out things that'll upset you- your parents for instance, they might not even be alive", I explained.

"Oh right, I didn't think of that", he said, looking at me sadly.

"But you never know. I just want to prepare you that's all. And you could even have brothers or sisters", I said hopefully, yet not wanting to disillusion him. "So what do you remember? Your adoptive father told you that you came from the babies' home. Do you know which one?" I asked, not thinking for one minute he would know.

"Yes, my mum, Marie, she wrote something on the paper she gave me", he said, reaching inside his green jacket. John pulled out a crumpled envelop and carefully and slowly opened it before handing it to me. Inside were two pieces of paper, equally as worn and creased. "These are my special documents", he said proudly. Marie had given them to him when she was still alive and told him never to lose them, as they were important. He had kept the envelop safe for the past fifty years. Written in beautiful flowing cursive on one piece of yellowed paper was 'The Mission to the Streets and Lanes, Darling Babies' Home'. I read this out. On the second, was a date, faded, but just readable- 3/1/1949.

I was speechless. " Maybe this is the day when you were adopted John-you would have been about three years old if you are sixty five this year," I said, overcome with emotion, amazed at what he had been carrying so close to his heart all these years. "Marie was so right John. These are very special. She did the right thing writing this down for you", I said "and you've done so well not to have lost them". I wanted to tell John how lucky he was that she did this. But this was hardly fair, because her death and the awful circumstances of finding out about his adoption severely affected him and reverberated painfully throughout his life. There was nothing lucky about that. Yet Marie had made sure his history went with him. "She must have known that one day you would want to find out the truth", I said, knowing how much he had loved her. "Let's make some calls back in the office where it is private. Is that okay? We can do that today if you like. We can do it together," I suggested, knowing this was now the start of John finding out the truth.

John nodded, smiling, as he carefully and meticulously folded each piece of paper, following the same creases. When this was done he tenderly placed them back in the envelope. He then smoothed the envelope with his pudgy hand before hiding it back inside his green jacket for safe keeping.

And that was all it took. One phone call later to a worker in a records department and John was beaming. The two pieces of paper held the key to the search for the truth. "They are going to send me my real birth certificate", he repeated with confidence, "I just have to sign something first, to give them permission. They are going to send something out to me," he added.

"That's great John. Hopefully it will not take too long. How do you feel?" I asked.

"Good as gold", he said, still smiling.

John's original birth certificate eventually arrived at my work address many weeks after he met the records worker. It was a slow process as first she had to apply for the records. Once they were ready to be released she supported him and even read each page to him. She then helped apply for his original birth certificate. The worker explained that it was important he have someone with him when he received his birth certificate. When I called to tell John him that the letter had arrived he came down straight away to see me. He'd even combed his hair for the occasion. "It's a big day today", he told my colleagues at work. His hands were shaking as he opened the letter and spread it out on the table before us.

"Wow, here it is. Your original birth certificate", I said quietly, quickly scanning the names, preparing myself before I read it out to John. I pointed to his parents' names-first his mother's name, Martha, and then his father's name, also John. His father's occupation was listed as cook. His mother was a seamstress. Then six siblings, David aged fifteen, Michael aged thirteen, Bruce aged ten, Doreen aged eight, Donald aged six and Martin aged four. I pointed to each name as I read it out as I knew John recognized letters and some words. He listened and looked intently, his arms folded in front of him in reverence. Then he moved his chubby hands.

With one hand holding his birth certificate, John pointed to his mother's name, pronouncing the word slowly and deliberately," Martha, my mother". His stained fingers moved to his father's name, "John, my father".

I had tears in my eyes, barely able to speak. John's birth certificate told its own story in a very powerful and poignant way. It was much more than a piece of paper.

The records worker was able to help John trace part of his family history over the next ten months. Unfortunately, both John's parents were deceased. However, he obtained their death certificates and with the worker's help, managed to eventually find three of his surviving siblings. They all lived in country Victoria. The worker wrote on John's behalf in late 2011 asking if they would like to meet their youngest brother. Records showed that John's father died of pneumonia not longer after John was born. Martha, John's mother, was left widowed and destitute with seven children to bring up on her own. Back in the 1940s there were no support agencies and no government benefits to help families like John's. John was placed in care at The Mission to Streets and Lanes and adopted not long after. He was three years of age. Only David, Michael and Bruce remained with their mother. She supplemented the family's meager income by taking in sewing and working in a laundry. She died before her fortieth birthday. Despite extensive searches it was not clear what happened to the youngest children, Doreen, Donald and Martin.

John now had lots more questions. He wanted to know what happened to Doreen, Donald and Martin and where his parent's were buried. More searching revealed that his parents were buried together at the Coburg Cemetery. In January 2012 I drove John out to visit his parents' graves. He was unusually quiet in the car, clutching the bright yellow and orange gerberas that he had especially chosen. "They are lovely flowers John", I remarked.

"Thanks. I want to make them happy- that I have found them. My real mum and dad", he said touchingly.

We'd arranged to meet an attendant who could show John exactly where his parents were buried. John followed, walking slowly in the heat along the steep path to the plot. The attendant stopped before quietly moving off, telling John that this was where his parents Martha and John were buried. Unfortunately, there was a broken headstone, but both names were still visible on the top half. The plot was surrounded by concrete trim and a low wrought iron fence with parts missing. But it looked cared for, just like the colorful flowers and bushes surrounding it. The hot breeze brushed my face as I watched John put his flowers in a jar and then place it on their grave. He filled the jar with bottled water that he had brought along especially. The bright yellow and orange gerberas were the perfect choice.

"There," he said, "I reckon they will like those". John stood back to admire the flowers.

"I'm sure they will John and I think they'll be so happy that you have found them and are visiting," I added, amazed that John was actually standing here in front of his parents' grave, parents he'd hardly known or even remembered. He'd been separated for so many years, by a lack of knowing what happened to his parents. I also moved off to one side under the shade of a tree watching John.

He walked around the plot touching the headstone where his parents' names were. "Anne, I've found my name, my name is here", he yelled excitedly. At the back of the grave, lying on the grass was the remaining bit of broken headstone, -'loved parents to David, Michael, Bruce, Doreen, Donald, Martin and John.' "My name is here", John sobbed.

I put my hand on his shoulder, also overcome with emotion, "Yes John, your name is here."

It was hard driving John back to the rooming house that afternoon.

# Chapter 15

**Cassie and her mother-the enduring hold of primary relationships**

I was constantly reminded of the affects the early formative relationships had on the people who I worked with. For Brad, his relationship with his abusive father always loomed. For Cassie, the relationship with her mother played a significant role in how she viewed the world and especially what was happening around her. These formative relationships, both positive and negative endured over the years and still held meaning for the people who I worked with. Brad's father was no longer alive yet his impact on Brad's life was still enormous.

Inadvertently, I also often symbolically represented someone significant in their life. For example, I was often symbolic of the 'good' or 'bad 'mother or the 'good' or 'bad' father, or maybe a brother or sister. For John, I wondered whether I represented 'the little sister'. But sometimes, I was caught unawares, like the time Cassie angrily told me that I reminded her of her mother. And I most probably did because her mother and I would have been roughly the same age and more than likely would have said the same thing that I said in response to the situation. I later realized this after meeting Cassie's mother. No wonder Cassie was so annoyed with me. Given what transpired Cassie's comment should have been my cue to retreat, but I didn't.

**Cassie- the overflowing slurpee and spring rolls**

It was a hot December day and Cassie asked if she could have a slurpee from the convenience store in Swanston Street where we had arranged to meet. I'd managed to see her three times in the last month and helped get her to a doctor given the terrible state of her foot. She was slightly substance affected and we were standing directly outside the 7-Eleven.

"Well I'm not sure, you don't look 100% and we need to get to the chemist", I insisted.

"I'm thirsty Anne, this won't take long, please, please", she begged.

I should have abandoned the catch up but she was determined to attend the chemist 200 metres along the road for her medication. The agency that I worked with had agreed to pay for her antibiotics. Cassie knew how important this was given her left foot was badly infected from a cut and she was in pain when she walked. She knew that the longer she left this the worse it would get. Her limp was even more accentuated as she tried hard not to put pressure on her bad foot. We were not far from the chemist and I thought that this would not take long. Maybe some sugar would help.

"Okay, but we need to be quick", I added, knowing that Cassie could also be manipulative and demanding when substance affected.

I paid for the slurpee and Cassie moved slowly over to the machine with her container. She awkwardly pulled the lever for the cola flavor whilst she talked about her mother. "My mother did not approve or cope when I first started using heroin at sixteen", Cassie told me. "She never listened to me either or believed what I told her, "Cassie said, looking at me whilst filling up her container. " I told her I had been sexually abused, but she did not believe me". She was not paying attention to what she was doing and the cola oozed over the side.

I suggested it was full enough, adding quietly, "let's talk about this outside where it's a bit more private".

Cassie seemed oblivious to the other people in the shop," No, you are not listening to me Anne. I'm trying to tell you something". She raised her voice as she swayed unsteadily. The brightly colored slurpee flavor overflowed down the sides.

"I am listening to you. Common on that's enough now, it's full. We need to go," I said firmly getting annoyed.

"No, I want this flavor," she said, moving the container to the raspberry and then the lime. There was no room and the lime was oozing over the side. The attendant was also clearly getting annoyed as Cassie continued to top up the overflowing slurpee with lime. It was still not enough. She kept filing it up as it overflowed into the tray and on to the floor. Was anything ever going to be enough for her I wondered? She was becoming agitated now, yelling at me, "You are not listening to me".

"I am listening," I told her, "but this is not the place to talk, we need to go outside and sit down... in private...you are making a mess".

That was it, the worst thing I could have said. "You're just like my mother", she screamed. Other people in the store were getting worried now and moved away, looking at her, frightened she was going to lash out at them. The shop attendant stayed behind the counter, glaring at both of us, sensing this was going to get out of hand. Cassie continued to tell me how she had been abused by an uncle and her mother did not believe her and now I was not listening to her. The tirade continued as spit dribbled down her chin. I grabbed the slurpee from her hands as she moved to another flavor and tried to usher her out the shop before the attendant called Police. Cassie did not like this. I didn't look at her. Once outside the shop she continued to scream at me, yelling that I was still not listening to her. I plonked the slurpee on the ground. I had reached my limit. I'd had enough. She picked it up and threw it across the footpath, the slimy colored mess spreading all over the place, creating a hazard for shoppers.

I departed hastily realizing what an absolute mess I had got myself into. I was mortified and just wanted to hide. I thought that someone might have a go at me, or that Cassie would chase me and hurl more abuse at me. I didn't think I could salvage anything from the situation as Cassie was too angry at me. I could not believe this was happening and right in the middle of the busiest footpath in the city. I should have at least tried to clean it up or apologized to the 7-Eleven staff member who was left to clean up inside the shop.

Whether I liked it or not I represented Cassie's mother at this point. It was too late. I went to the chemist and paid for Cassie's antibiotics, alerting them that she could be difficult in case she went there and continued her tirade. I did not wait to see what she did. I deliberated on whether I should pay for the antibiotics or just leave it given her behavior. However, if she did not get her antibiotics straight away her foot would get much worse. Cassie's health was a priority although she did not always care for herself.

I was sure I had made things worse and should have left when I saw she was substance affected. I did not know what substance she had taken and should have known better. She usually used heroin but sometimes she used ice and the affects were much worse. I became much better at picking up the signs. At her worse, like this particular day, she had enormous difficulty containing the challenging anti social parts of her behavior, spluttering and spilling out all over the place for everyone to see. It did not matter to her that she was in a public place and everyone could hear her. It worried me that she exposed herself in such a way and that other people witnessed her private distress. However, I soon learnt that Cassie often reacted and responded like this, even when not substance affected. But she could also be very pleasant and delightful, like the morning after she slept out on the church verandah. I made allowances, even allowing some 'spillage' later in my support of her when she was housed. It was unrealistic to expect that her anti social behaviors would completely disappear once she was housed, even though she tried hard to contain them.

I knew very little about Cassie other than what the community nurse had written in the referral to the agency I worked in. Cassie attended an inner Melbourne community health centre and had agreed to be referred as she had been homeless since she left home at seventeen. She'd struggled with a heroin addiction and there was reference to sexual abuse by a family friend. The community nurse queried a possible head injury given some of Cassie's behaviors, but had not been able to verify this. Cassie had been attending the health centre spasmodically for the past few years and was well known and liked by staff although at times could be difficult and challenging.

As I got to know her better I realized that her internal world must have been a terrible place. The drugs masked her pain but usually made things much worse. I just never knew when the awful parts were going to spill out and overflow. She was also unpredictable like the time she asked whether we could we go out for lunch. It was her Birthday and as a treat she asked if I could take her to a café.

"I love spring rolls Anne and prawn crackers. They are my favorites. My parents used to take me and my sisters to a Chinese Restaurant for special occasions when we were little", she said, smiling, remembering the better times. I was surprised at her request but agreed it was something we could do to celebrate her birthday.

I was even more surprised that Cassie actually kept the appointment. She was staying in temporary supported housing at the time and was waiting for me when I arrived to pick her up.

Cassie had taken extra special care with her appearance and wore makeup for the occasion. It didn't matter that she'd overdone the blue eye shadow or that her skirt was held together with a few safety pins and was far too short. The important thing was that she remembered and had gone to a lot of trouble. She pulled her hair into a pony tail whilst thanking me profusely for taking her out for lunch. We parked and as we walked towards the café she had chosen, she stopped to talk to a young man loitering on the footpath. I was immediately suspicious as she turned her back on me and spoke to him in hushed tones. Surely she would not do anything as blatantly obvious as buy drugs when with a worker? I couldn't believe it and hoped I was wrong as she quickly caught up to me.

"Sorry Anne. That was just one of my friends", she offered happily.

"Okay, are you ready then for some spring rolls", I said, trying to make light of what might have happened, determined to make this a positive experience for her. Cassie chose a window seat and as soon as we got the menus excused herself, saying she needed to go to the bathroom.

Cassie took ages. She was taking much longer than I thought she should. The waitress brought the obligatory prawn crackers. I couldn't wait any longer and ate a few. I started to worry when I heard strange noises coming from the bathroom at the back of the café. I investigated and knocked on the bathroom door telling Cassie to hurry up and was she okay. She was singing and could not hear me or else chose not to hear me. I sat down and waited some more, a knot forming in my stomach, realizing something bad was going to happen. I looked out the window and ate more than my share of the crackers. I just wished she would hurry up as I was starving and wanted to order. After all, this was her idea. The owners were getting anxious too and banged on the bathroom door. No luck. Thank fully there was only a few other diners and they got up to pay. The owners then locked the front door and allowed the remaining diners to leave via the back entrance. I also got up to leave as I'd had enough of Cassie's antics, realizing that she had likely bought drugs from her 'friend'.

Why did I think this would work? I was annoyed with myself for being so stupid to think that Cassie really wanted to go out for lunch with me. It was worth a try. Anything was worth a try once. But I felt foolish as I walked towards the front door, ready to abandon her.

However, the owners barred me from leaving and insisted that I sit down and wait for the police. They ushered me towards a seat at the small counter and called police. They shoved the phone into my hand as I explained what was happening to police and provided the café address. I sat down momentarily, but got up to go again. I hadn't ordered and they couldn't do this to me. But I couldn't get out as the door was definitely locked and they refused to unlock it for me. "You cannot keep me here", I insisted, feeling sick and angry that I was being detained against my will regardless of what Cassie was up to. I knew she was alright because I could hear her singing and talking to herself. I could not believe this was happening.

I called my manager, embarrassed at my predicament. She was outraged that they would not let me go and told me to just leave. " But I can't, they won't let me", I said, feeling pathetic. The owners refused to talk to her on the phone and sat stony faced, arms crossed, ignoring me, waiting for the police to arrive.

"I am on my way", my manager said. I had no choice but to sit and wait.

Thankfully, much to everyone's relief, two police women arrived within ten minutes. Cassie eventually responded to their knocks and requests to open the door. She appeared slightly disoriented and annoyed that they were there. They checked out her bag but couldn't find any evidence of drug use. I tried to ignore what was happening as I was sure she was going to blame me for calling them. It was clear Cassie had taken drugs of some sort as she was agitated and unsteady on her feet.

"You have spoilt my lunch", she told them," I'm having a special lunch for my birthday".

"No you go, you go", insisted the café owners, shooing us outside.

The two police women escorted Cassie out of the café. I thanked them as they asked for my name and work details. Cassie glared at them. "You have ruined my lunch", she told them again completely oblivious to the drama she had created. The police looked at her. Cassie slung her bag over her shoulder, turned and in a huff, walked unsteadily down the street. Her familiar gait was much more pronounced.

"Sorry about that. She'll be okay," I said. "I'm pretty sure she's taken something. Did you find anything?" I asked. I was angry and annoyed with her, not quite believing that this was actually happening. How could she do this and why did she ruin her own treat?

"No. She had plenty of time to get rid of anything. We know her well," one of them offered with understanding.

"Oh, well thanks for coming. It wasn't meant to turn out like this but appreciate you coming. I can't believe that they would not let me go." I watched Cassie as she headed down the street not at all surprised that they knew her.

I saw her about a week after this incident.

# Chapter 16

**Meeting Cassie's mother**

Cassie's mother sent a parcel for her birthday to my work address. I was surprised that Cassie had passed on my address to her. I had no idea whether they were in regular contact with each other given what Cassie had said about her mother.

When I was able to track Cassie down to give her the parcel, she smiled cheekily and with a girlish giggle said," We'll still have to have that lunch, won't we Anne?"

"I don't think so", I said, trying to downplay the absurdity of what happened and how stupid I'd felt. It had the potential to have been much worse. I did not want to give it any more attention as Cassie was the one who really missed out. She'd only hurt herself. "Your mum sent a present for you".

Cassie opened it with great excitement, tearing at the paper like a child. "Wow, I love this, look Anne", she yelled, pulling out a blue and purple top, holding it against herself, bending her head to admire it. "My favorite colors too. Mum knows my colors. And oh look, my son in his school uniform. He's made a card". Cassie read the card slowly and carefully, savoring each hand written word. "To mummy, love you, hope you are well. Kisses, hugs, Jake. Oh, that's so cute. Look Anne".

I was surprised, totally unaware that Cassie had a son." That's lovely Cassie. How old is Jake?" I said, looking at the photo of a little boy, standing to attention, arms by his side, long skinny legs and beaming smile, large floppy sun hat, no mistaking the resemblance to his mother. It was the smile, same as Cassie's. "I didn't know you had a son".

"Yeah Jake is eight. Lives with mum on an order", Cassie offered, holding up part of the top with her chin, as she inspected it more closely. "I'm not allowed to go to mum's house to see him. But you can go if you like. Mum would like to meet you," Cassie added. "I told her that you were helping me get somewhere to live".

"Oh right, that's good", I wasn't sure what to say, astounded by what she had told me. I'd had a pre conceived view about Cassie and her mother, thinking their relationship must have been strained. I knew so little.

"Mum brings Jake to the park on the weekends sometimes and we catch up". Cassie then put her hand over her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut like a child who has told a fib or done or said the wrong thing. "Sometimes I forget and mum gets annoyed with me", she quickly clarified. Cassie gave me her mother's phone number telling me it was okay to call her.

"Thank you. You sure?"

"Yeah, of course, "Cassie insisted. "She knows you are helping me. Mum looks after Jake. I'm lucky. He's not in foster care. I can't look after him. I know that. I don't have to worry knowing he is with my mum."

I did eventually visit Joan, Cassie's mother. She was a large middle aged woman, with a neat tight perm. She warmly welcomed me into her home, thanking me for helping her daughter. We sat on the couch overlooking her garden and chatted as if we had known each other for years. She showed me Jake's room and his swimming and basketball certificates, and countless photos of a happy, lively, little boy. She told me anecdotes about Cassie as a child-how she ran away from home when she was ten because she'd let the neighbors guinea pigs out of the cage to play with them. A stray dog chased down and attacked the neighbor's pets as Cassie was playing with them. She was traumatized as she tried in vain to save the little animals from the feral dog. Cassie's family found her a few hours later walking towards the train station, clutching a bag of clothes, still upset and crying.

Joan recalled the allegations Cassie made against a family friend when she was sixteen believing that was the start of ongoing problems. "It wasn't true", she insisted," Cassie would not let up though". Joan paused, smoothing the creases in her skirt and quickly changed the topic.

I did not challenge her or clarify what happened as I knew she did not believe Cassie back then. The damage had been done. Cassie had been struggling ever since, but somehow had maintained a relationship of sorts with her mother. I did not want to interfere or make things worse. I had my own views but this was not why I was there.

I had come to see Cassie's mother on Cassie's prompting, and to gain some insight and understanding about what had happened during the intervening years after she left home. I knew it was quite likely that Cassie had developed an acquired brain injury. I listened intently as Joan talked, wondering if I would get any clues. Cassie kept running away after she turned sixteen. Police would call Joan and her husband to say they had found Cassie and to come and collect her from the police station.

"I lost count of the number of times we were called", Joan said. "We'd pick her up and bring her home, but she'd just run again". Cassie eventually ended up in South Australia. They lost contact for a few years, "until the authorities called out of the blue and asked us if we could look after Cassie's baby boy. That was the first time we knew we had a grandson", Joan added. "Jake's been here since he was eighteen months old. Living with Cassie's two brothers and me. Cassie's dad died a few years ago".

"All that must have been a shock for you", I said.

"Well it was. Cassie had got herself into a spot of bother. We were told that her partner had been violent and was imprisoned. Cassie was in a drug rehabilitation centre and was in no fit state to care for a toddler. My husband was still alive then, so I went across and brought Jake back home to stay with us. Poor little mite. He was a scrawny little thing and cried the whole time. Took him a long time to settle. But he's done really well," she explained, smiling. "I just wished I could have done more for Cassie, but I couldn't. It was too hard with little Jake and looking after the family here in Melbourne".

"You did what you could", I said, realizing how difficult the situation was. She was not only a grandparent but she was Jake's main carer. "Did you get to see Cassie when you went over to South Australia?

Joan rubbed her hands together. "I did, but it was awful. I hadn't seen her in years and she looked terrible. She only saw Jake for a little while after giving birth before he was taken away. He was put in the special care nursery because he was withdrawing. Then he went into foster care. Cassie kept asking me how he was and begged me to look after him."

"Sounds like it was a very traumatic time for her and little Jake too", I offered, wondering how Cassie had coped with no family support.

"Well it was hard for her. She'd also been hospitalized with injuries. Her partner belted her when she was heavily pregnant. We did not know this at the start. No one told us of course, just that she was in rehab and they wanted us to look after the baby. We were only told the full story later on. I think he hit her so bad she became unconscious. And all the drinking and the drugs didn't help either". Joan put her hands up to her head, and patted down her perm, before bringing her hands together over her mouth. She was trying hard to compose herself but her eyes reflected her despair and anguish.

"I'm sorry Joan. That must have been hard for you, knowing what happened."

"Yes, it was. I don't know how I would have managed with little Jake, knowing the full story back then. He needed me. I wouldn't have coped if I knew exactly what Cassie had been through. It was bad enough knowing they had taken Jake straight off Cassie. The doctors later told me she had an ABI but I had no idea what that meant. I now know what it is and how this happened to my little girl. Apparently it was not the first time she had been hospitalized either. He's still in prison. Thank God. It was a miracle Jake was okay really," she offered.

Joan suddenly got up from the couch. "I'll make us a cup of tea. I'm glad you could come out. Cassie has told me a lot about you and what you are doing to help her".

I sat quietly. I did not need to respond. I watched Joan slowly prepare the tea, immersed in my own thoughts- the awful things that happen to some families and their children and the painful chain of events. Blame has no place here-just understanding and compassion. Life is really unfair sometimes.

# Chapter 17

**Knitting the threads**

Sally went through a phase where she would sometimes bring her knitting along to our catch ups. I thought it quite odd that she liked to knit as she was barely able to keep still most of the time. I also considered it a break- through that she made the time to come and sit in the office. Usually, her life was so chaotic and her drug use so bad that she kept away. One day as we were sitting in the office where I worked she asked if I could finish casting on for her. She was even happier for me to do the first few lines of the beanie she was knitting. As she watched me knit she remarked that knitting was relaxing. She looked quite settled in the armchair. I was certainly enjoying the rhythm of pushing the needle in, winding the pink wool over the needle and pulling the needle out again. Knitting helped her when she was stressed she said, as she did not have to think. Yes, I could understand that.

"I like doing the word puzzles too when I have to wait at the doctors. Love the old magazines they have, but most of the time the find a word is done", she confessed.

I knitted and listened while she talked. Was being occupied in such a way making it easier for Sally to discuss a topic with me? Would it have been too hard to disclose painful information if there was direct eye contact? I thought of Brad. She kept me occupied instead.

Sally reflected on an earlier time when she was a child visiting her grandmother in the country. She'd rarely talked about her past to me other than the abuse. This was the first time she'd opened up about other parts of her life. Her grandmother loved knitting and crocheting and they would often sit together for hours just like we were doing now. "She always had a plate of those iced vovo biscuits-loved them", she said, eyes widening. They shared a special bond as Sally often stayed with her during school holidays to give her parent's a break.

"Did you ever tell her about what happened with your uncle?" I asked.

"No. No way. Poor gran, I couldn't do that to her. It was just a safe place and I loved going there. I'd never think about the awful things that happened when I was there. Strange really", she said, watching me knit.

"What happened after you told your mum? You mentioned something about your family never being the same again?" I was curious as to what happened to her parents after she disclosed the abuse.

"Yeah they separated. I'm not really sure exactly what happened but I know they argued about my uncle and what he did. I remember that. Anyway my dad left. I think I was about eleven when he left. He just never came home. I used to get cards and presents from him for my birthdays and Christmas but I never saw him again. He never put an address on the parcels so I had no idea where he lived." Her memories and the familiar activity of knitting paved the way for the threads of her story to be picked up again this time in more detail.

"You must have missed him? Your dad, just going like that," I said.

"Sure, I loved my dad. I couldn't work it out. It was just a big mess really, "she said slowly, mesmerized by my knitting. Perhaps Sally was also knitting together her story? The details of this memory were knitted into her overall story-so many unanswered questions. Was she trying to pull something together to make it whole again, to give her life meaning? Sally looked at me. "Mum sort of lost it after that. She was never the same after I told her and smothered me. She became over protective and then completely lost it. She started drinking. I was angry at her. I was pissed off and blamed her for what happened. I needed her to be strong for me but she was a mess. I was the one who had to be the strong one", she added loudly.

I wondered about her grandmother and asked why she didn't go and stay with her.

"Because she died, just before my eleventh birthday", Sally said quietly, twirling some strands of her spiky hair in her fingers.

"Oh sorry Sally, that's really sad. What an awful time you had", I said, putting the knitting down in my lap now.

"Yeah tell me," she said, before continuing." I was lucky that I had good teachers at school and a welfare worker who helped me. But in the end it was just too hard at home with mum and I left. I stayed with my best friend and her family for a little while then moved to New South Wales to get completely away. Even got a job working in a cafe. Then I fell pregnant. Then things started to go wrong with me and the baby's father. DOCs (Department of Community Services) eventually took my son away from me after I ended up in hospital with a broken jaw. Most of it is just a big blur. And here I am, not yet thirty and in Melbourne and homeless. That's me. That's my story in a nutshell". Sally had rushed through the past ten years, skipping over her heroin addiction and string of violent partners, finally bringing parts of her story together for my benefit. "You can see why I am so fucked up, can't you Anne?"

It is important to look at significant incidents and experiences in the context of our life, just like Sally did. Each of those separate incidents experienced from infancy through childhood and young adulthood forms part of the jigsaw puzzle that is our life. Each piece forms part of the overall picture and gives sense and meaning to who we are. When things are seen in isolation of each other we often miss patterns and miss the significance of certain events or incidents. Sally was knitting her life together into some sort of coherent pattern that made sense to her. This is exactly what most of the other people I had been working with had been doing over the past few years. Just like John.

**John- understanding his roots**

Not long after John's sixty sixth birthday I sensed that he was getting much more tired. All of a sudden, he seemed physically worn down. He spent more time in his room at the rooming house. His unruly white hair had thinned too. Maybe I had missed the signs, but his life of homelessness had definitely taken a toll. He was also less talkative. The change coincided with his search for his roots and uncovering the truth of what happened to him, his parents and his siblings. John needed time to process the effects of the circumstances his mother found herself in when her husband died leaving her with seven children to look after. Knowing was one thing. I knew from my own experience with my father that it did not just stop there. I had to deal with how I felt when I'd pieced things together. I knew that John was grappling with this as he'd often ask me whether I thought any of his brothers would answer the letter the records worker sent and would want to see him.

"They'd remember what happened to me wouldn't they? Do you think they would remember when I was born? ", he'd implore me, searching for some recognition, some definitive answer, someone to tell him that of course his mother loved him, that she was absolutely distraught when he was placed in care. " It's been ages Anne. Maybe they don't want to see me", he'd say resigned, helpless, like the child who always misses out. It had been about six months since the records worker sent a letter to each one of his brothers. But I was hopeful that he'd hear soon and that the news would be good.

He now wanted out from the rooming house scene and started to distance himself from his previous life on the streets. John went through a transition period, avoiding potential trouble spots. He kept away from crisis services where he might encounter people experiencing homelessness and other problems such as drug and alcohol abuse. He no longer visited homeless food kitchens and kept more to himself.

Other changes became apparent, although were quite subtle. It began with his green jacket. Since I'd known him, he'd always worn a green or occasionally a red jacket over his colored shirts. I suggested he wash the green jacket on numerous occasions and joked that it would soon be able to walk out the door. Eventually, he did not wear his green jacket as often. I never saw the red jacket again either as he gave it away to a friend.

When I visited him in his rooming house one day I noticed the green jacket in the clothes basket ready for washing. I did not let this pass without comment, teasing him good naturedly. "John, I can't believe it, are you finally going to wash your jacket?"

John chuckled mischievously. "We'll see. Maybe." I thought the shedding of John's jacket which had part of his 'home' for many years was a significant step on his journey out of homelessness. It was like a watershed moment in his life.

John's move into an aged care hostel in mid 2012 was therefore timely on many fronts, as he was ready and it was what he needed. The shift gave him a new lease of life as he was now effectively set up for the rest of his life. He would be well looked after as staff were available to support and care for him. This was a huge weight off his shoulders, as I knew he worried about his chronic smokers cough. He smoked less although never completely gave up, even when the first few puffs left him spluttering and gasping for breath. His whole body shook when he coughed. I encouraged him to talk to his doctor and get a chest x-ray, worried he'd developed emphysema, but he just brushed this to one side. I think he was afraid of what they'd find.

John settled into his new surroundings and seemed more peaceful. The transition from his previous life of instability and uncertainty to the aged care hostel seemed a natural progression and the way it should be. He now loved where he lived. At sixty six years of age he was no longer without a permanent place to live. It was sad that it had taken this long to finally have a place to call home. John's self contained bed sit was small but homely. He'd framed his birth certificate and this took pride of place on his bedside table, next to a photo I'd taken of him at Coburg Cemetery in January, standing proudly by his parent's grave with his gerberas.

**John-meeting his brothers**

For John, this stage of his life also meant coming full circle; coming back to the beginning. It culminated in meeting his brothers for the first time since he was placed in Darling Babies Home sixty two years ago. The records worker had heard from each of John's brothers and arranged a reunion in Melbourne. She organized their train fares and accommodation in Melbourne given David and Michael were in their eighties and Bruce his late seventies. When John found out what had been planned he called in great excitement, asking me what he should wear. "The worker, Jane, she's going to pick me up and take me", he said. "We're going to meet for coffee in the city. I'm going to meet my brothers Anne". John could not disguise his happiness. Staff at the aged care hostel helped John mark the day on his calendar- June 11th, 2012. The day could not come quick enough for John.

I was at the hostel when Jane collected John. He was resplendent in his new red jumper, his white hair especially cut for the occasion. "Jane's going to take lots of photos Anne so you can see what my brothers look like". I had not seen John so animated. Jane assured John that his brothers were also looking forward to meeting him and had lots of questions. "Have they?" John said surprised and pleased. This reunion meant so much to John, but it also meant a lot to his older brothers too. I was overjoyed to know that John had siblings who cared about him.

I did not have to wait long to hear how the reunion went as John was at the office where I worked at 8.30 am the next morning to tell me.

As a worker, I occupied a special place in terms of hearing people's narratives. It was an ongoing process too, as the stories were never complete. Often those discontinuous narratives and memories held specific keys because it was in the putting together of the threads that meaning was revealed. This took time as these things can never be rushed. Insights, learning and revelations mean so much more when they are self realized. Like Ben's story.

# Chapter 18

**Ben-folding clothes**

I worried that Ben would be shackled in time, forever remembered as the seventeen year old on the video. Now, a decade later, as his support worker, I watched the recording of what he was like all those years ago. His defining fifteen minutes of fame. There he is, dominating the screen, untidy blonde hair falling over his eyes. His hand sweeps across his face pushing the strands away. Cheeky grin, loud voice, immortalized on film, clearly enjoying the attention of the camera trained on him. It follows his every move as he carefully folds and packs his bag of clothes ready to move on to a new squat.

Back in 1995 Ben and other homeless young people took part in a documentary meant to raise awareness of their plight. Nothing was glossed over. It was confronting because this was in our own backyard and not somewhere overseas; not a third world country, but here in Australia. Ben speaks directly to us the viewer, his head to one side, slightly cocky. I feel disconcerted because I did not know Ben back then. But now as I watch him, I feel as if I knew him then. That young man on the video is so familiar to me.

I am overwhelmed by a barrage of different emotions knowing what he had experienced and been through since then. It was a challenge supporting him as I often felt ineffectual. His heroin addiction was a daily driving force that constantly consumed him. My stomach tightens as the waves of sadness, frustration and helplessness roll over me. As hard as I tried as his worker, I struggled to hold back the maternal protectiveness that he triggered in me. I was mindful not to become too emotionally affected by him as I would not have been any help if I allowed my feelings to take over. I needed to be grounded, objective, strong, consistent, tough, reliable and dependable, to anchor him. A huge but necessary task as Ben's worker, yet invariably, I failed not to be touched. My Achilles' heel was my emotional vulnerability and the soft spot I held for him. I did wonder and was curious as to what it was about Ben that drew me in and elicited such strong responses. Maybe because I had boys of my own I felt a certain affinity and therefore extra responsibility towards him. My sons had left the nest years ago so my job as a mother looking after them in the family home was completed. I was still emotionally available for them and worried and cared about them, but it was different. They were now young men who were employed and managing very well day to day.

Because I acted as Ben's pseudo home base on an almost weekly basis for three years, I wondered whether caring for him in such a way was how I remained connected to that part of mothering that I loved and missed so much. Perhaps that was how I dealt with the grief and loss of sons moving away and forging their own pathways in the world. Ben was trying to move forward but sometimes he went in reverse and got stuck at the start. It was terrible watching and standing by trying to help at those times. It was never easy for him. Working with Ben was difficult, but much harder to walk in his shoes every day.

I attempted to make sense of my feelings in relation to Ben as I knew one of us, more than likely, would leave one day. I knew there was a chance that the program might not continue because it was a pilot and the funding was only for three years. Of course we all hoped it would get ongoing funding and we were confident it would given the early successes. Whilst I was preparing myself for that time just in case, the inevitable goodbye was too painful to think about. I stop my thoughts racing and turn to the screen, absorbed in what Ben is saying.

He tells us he did not want to go back to the youth refuge where he had stayed a few months ago because drugs were too easy to get in that area. He wanted to get away and decided to join forces with a mate who sometimes stayed at a squat in an outer suburb of Melbourne. The interviewer asks about his plans and whether he wants to work at some point. "Yeah, I want to be a mechanic coz I'm good with cars. My old man taught me how to fix cars. I could do that. Easy".

Parts of Ben's story are revealed as he is filmed in the abandoned building that he is now leaving. He does not tell us where the new place is, but is happy to chat about his life and life on the street and how he gets by. Up to a point, that is.

Born to young parents, Ben spent most of his childhood living with his paternal grandmother Betty. His father, Dave, was in and out of prison. "Nothing really bad though... not like he murdered anyone or anything". Cindy, his mother, could not cope with her partner being away as they had been going together since they were about fifteen years old. They'd been inseparable. Cindy's family did not care about her because they had too many other problems to deal with. Both her parents were alcoholics, struggling to manage day to day with their own inner demons, let alone feed and clothe six children. So Ben's dad and grandmother were all she had. There was just the four of them. Ben tells us that his mum "lost the plot... it was a mental thing" and she had a "sort of breakdown.. coz she missed dad when he was inside". His blue eyes drift off momentarily. Ben coughs and refocuses as he speaks directly to the camera, matter of fact. His mother was in and out of a psychiatric hospital and that was when he stayed with his grandmother up near Bendigo in rural Victoria. Ben liked it there as he used to 'muck' around with mates out in the bush after school. He tinkered with an old car that his dad used to work on as a young kid with his own father. The car never started, even after all those years spent fixing it. Ben's grandfather was dead, so it was just Ben and his grandmother- the two of them.

Ben's mum did not come home from hospital. Ben still does not know what happened to her and why she doesn't want to see him. He thinks he was about eight when he last had contact. "Can't really remember though" he tells us. His grandmother never said much despite him badgering her. In time he did not bother to ask anymore. His dad said even less when he asked about his mum. His dad went silent. Ben couldn't work out what happened. It didn't make sense. For most of the time it was just Ben and his grandmother, and his dad when he was out of prison on parole.

The interviewer asks Ben how he got on with his father given he did not see much of him growing up.

Ben is looking at the camera from the corner of his eye, suspicious. He shifts his feet. The grin is gone, replaced with wariness. "Pretty good, he was me old man. We used to work on the car together. Just him and me. The other kids didn't have dads that did that...my dad taught me heaps of things and we'd go out shooting for rabbits and stuff...". His voice trails off. He stops talking, punctuating the air with another sweep of his hair. I could tell this was taking a lot out of Ben. He bends, picks up his bag and moves closer to the camera saying he should get going as he is meeting his mate in a few hours and can't be late. He manages a 'thumbs up' and a slight nod in the direction of the interviewer.

"Yes, sure, okay. It's been good talking to you Ben. Hope everything works out for you". But the interviewer sounds disappointed. This is a missed opportunity to find out more. I know from the stories told to me by the people who I worked with that it does not always work this way. Stories come out slowly, bit by bit over time. Fragments are remembered and told often when you least expect. There is no set script, just lots of waiting and being ready to listen. Ben leaves. The camera follows him as he strides off with his pack hanging from his shoulder. Before you know he is gone. That's exactly how it is for so many homeless young people.

We now see the interviewer for the first time. He is middle aged with a receding hair line. He wears an open neck checked shirt and ironed jeans. His face is weathered, deep creases etched across his brow. Furrowed laughter lines soften his face, but his deep set eyes reveal a distant longing; a sadness. I wonder if he has teenagers. He reports the actual number of young people homeless in Australia at the time. But my mind is elsewhere, still thinking about Ben, as I know the truth about his mum and his dad. I sigh.

Ben kept a copy of the video joking that it showed he was a good actor and maybe he could get a job in a film one day. He was quite proud of his performance and was keen to put on the video so I could see for myself. I had been working with Ben for a few years before we watched the documentary together. At least here was proof of his acting experience. We sat in a small, windowless office where I worked. It was really a store room but there was just enough space to wheel in the television and perch ourselves on the edge of a table. It felt claustrophobic, but at least there was privacy. Ben was unusually quiet that day, his eyes riveted on the much younger version of himself. He had also told me his story in greater detail over the years I had known him.

As I sit next to Ben watching him on the screen I gasp inwardly, careful not to distract him. 'Oh my God...... nothing has changed'. It is not just his story that I know so well. It is his actions. He folds his clothes ever so carefully as a seventeen year old. He only had a few items of clothing then, so he took his time to fold them properly and put them in his pack. Now as a thirty four year old, he folds his clothes in exactly the same way, smoothing them out nice and flat. Then he folds one half back over the other. He makes sure there are no wrinkles on his tee shirt, focused on his job. When he is satisfied he doubles the tee shirt over on itself and with a little flourish pushes it neatly into his bag.

He seemed to have so little control of his life back then, even though he thought he could control everything and all would be okay. That youthful bravado masked his pain. Things remained buried under the neat pile of folded clothes. Ben was so young to be living on the streets and staying in squats and refuges. Now, years later, he still has no control over his life. Not really. He thinks he does. His aspirations back then are exactly the same as now, word for word. He still wants to be a mechanic. His boyish smile, his walk, his mannerisms, pushing the now thinning blond strands away from his eyes, the unfulfilled promises and the terrible demons he is running from; they are all there. Nothing has changed.

I wonder whether Ben will ever be able to move past this celluloid image that acts as such a strong visual reference point in his life. As his worker, I hold out hope that he will be able to establish a new and more positive outlook, one that does not forever hold him back. I have faith that he might see the world differently to how he is accustomed to looking at it. Ben just notices the chaos around him. He is constantly drawn to trouble and other people's problems. He is always hyper vigilant and talks loudly. Ben often shouts without even realizing, unable to adjust the volume control. He only has an on-or-off switch. Usually it is on full bore. Tightly strung like a coil. He is like a spinning top out of control. He is personable and a bit of a character. I like Ben a lot. Everyone likes Ben.

When things get really bad Ben pops in to see me at my workplace. He is homeless and I am supporting him to get permanent housing. Like a gust of wind he blows in. I always know when he is around as I usually hear him first. One day he arrives with his back pack. He has to move again from where he has been couch surfing as he has had a fight and owes his friends money. "Fucking bastards. Sorry Anne...... sorry, didn't mean to swear. They took my stuff. I was gunna pay them back this week. They wouldn't wait though and kicked me out... bastards".

As he talks and explains what happened he takes out various items of clothing from his bag. He must be looking for something. The clothes are in a small pile on the floor at his feet. Then he takes a tee shirt and folds it carefully. He puts it back inside his pack. The same movements and level of care as executed on the video. I am intrigued as I watch him. He does this with each piece. He can control how he folds his clothes. It gives him a sense of purpose. Folding clothes calms him and distracts him. This is Ben's way of organizing and sorting out his life. It is often accompanied by a painstakingly worded and written list of 'things to do', just like Mandy's list. Many of the things on Ben's list feature on previous lists he had written. He tries to contain the chaos in the only way he knows. To bring order he has to stop what he is doing. This is a big thing, as he is always busy, rushing off, going somewhere, spinning around. At least he stops when he comes to see me. Even if it is just for a only a few moments, it is still time-out, to sort things out, write things down and get back on track again. Ben's actions anchor him in the present but paradoxically they are also a throw back to his past life on screen. It happens before my eyes in two realities; here and now and back then.

I can understand why Ben turned to heroin as an adolescent and continued to struggle with his addiction into his thirties. Heroin was a quick fix band aid that helped to calm him, numb the pain. Plus folding clothes and making lists; even though all these things were only temporary measures.

I heard in stages over a period of time what Ben did not tell the interviewer back in 1995. Just after his fifteenth birthday Ben found out that his father had died in prison. Ben's grandmother had to break the news to him, that his father suffered a massive heart attack. He was in his forties and too young to die like that. Ben lost it. He punched a hole in his bedroom wall and started smoking dope heavily. But what he really needed was his father to come home like the old days and for them to fix the car together. It was as simple as that. He did not know where his mum was and now his old man was gone too. He ran away. Ben knew his grandmother was grieving too but did not know how to help the pain go away. Finally, Ben was placed in state residential care in the city. He hated the structure as he missed the freedom of being close to the bush. He loathed being told what to do. He ran away from there too and that is when things started going downhill real fast.

He got into trouble with the police. First it was just going to court for petty crime, nothing too serious. Then he got involved in dealing drugs and doing burglaries. He had a habit by that stage. By his late twenties things were completely out of hand and Ben landed in prison. Prison 'freaked' him out. He was surrounded by angry, frustrated men. Awful things happened to him inside that he was too ashamed to talk about. He thought he was tough, but he was just a kid. Hardened seasoned criminals tried to take him under their wing and corrupt him further. He learnt to play by a completely new set of rules in order to survive. His grandmother did not visit because it was too far away for her and by then she was quite frail. But really, it was too much for her. Ben had no one. That was the worst part. And then the bombshell that completely rocked his fragile world.

The authorities wrote a report for the parole board outlining his background, mistakenly thinking he knew what happened to his parents. They were wrong. That was when Ben finally found out what happened to Cindy. No one ever told him. He had to read it in a report. She committed suicide in a psychiatric facility in 1986. She tied sheets together and hung herself. No other details.

"How does that happen?" Ben asked. "Aren't they meant to look after you in places like that?" I wondered why Ben's father or grandmother didn't tell him the truth? Ben said he would have coped even though he was only eight years old then. They should have told him. He deserved to know. Ben flipped and spent the next few years taking his anger out on the world. The truth had been too late in coming.

I felt a sense of obligation to Ben's parents to make sure he was okay. They were no longer here, but I was, and I had a role to play in his life as his worker, no matter how limited that was at times. Even if it was just to worry and care about him, I was doing something. It was the least I could do. Everyone deserves to have someone worry about them and notice if they have not been around for a few days, like Robbie. Most of the people I worked with did not have a 'someone' who would know if they had been missing for a couple of weeks, let alone a few days. There would be no coverage in the tabloids, or any photo or description to ring Crime Stoppers if they went missing. How could they be missed when they were not noticed in the first place?

Ben taught me many things. But the most surprising lesson, because I was not fully prepared for the implications, was that it was okay to cry when you say goodbye. I try my best not to completely break down and dissolve into tears when I know that I might not see someone for a long time- or possibly ever again. Saying farewell to Ben when he left to go 'up bush' was extremely hard. In hindsight, the ending caught me off guard and affected me more than I thought.

He was definitely, "absolutely yes", leaving the city to work up at Shepparton and everything had been sorted. I remember that day so clearly. It was a Monday in September 2012. I arranged to catch up with Ben for the last time at 11.30 am in Box Hill in the Mall. I was not sure if he would be there because he was not always reliable. I also wondered whether the goodbye would be too difficult for him so better to avoid it completely. I arrived at the designated spot in plenty of time. I was anxious, uncertain, hoping I could convey what I really felt. I wanted to say so much. It is always the way with me. The words were carefully prepared in my head; about what am amazing journey he had been on the past few years of working with him and how strong and resilient he was and how optimistic I felt for his future. When I saw him approach loaded with his pack I was so happy that he made it. Yet my heart pounded as I knew this was really goodbye and I would more than likely never see him again. Ben was quiet and preoccupied sitting opposite me in the café. He mentioned he was meeting a mate who was travelling with him.

I recalled that lots had happened over the years of working with him.

"Yeah... I know" he said, a wry, embarrassed smile. Then he chuckled, avoiding eye contact, the familiar movement of his hand brushing the hair away from his eyes.

I hope it works out, I say, adding that he deserves a break and for things to go well for a change.

"Yeah. I reckon."

We sat in silence. It was not uncomfortable, more a gap of unspoken feelings and emotions. Overwhelming sadness engulfed me as he said he should get going. All of a sudden the past few years came together in that very moment. I wanted everything to be better for him and for him to be happy, but all I could think of was regrets and lost opportunities. I heard myself telling him that I wished I could have done more for him. He was surprised and adamant that everything was done and that it was okay. We got up from the table at the same time. I told him that I would never forget him. I hugged him briefly, abandoning my golden rule of no contact and firm boundaries, as a tear trickled. All those things that I had rehearsed and wanted to tell him seemed unimportant, unnecessary. They were just words. What mattered was now. He said he would never forget me either, adding "it's okay, don't cry".

I tried to smile as I said sorry and goodbye, turning to walk away. I took a deep breath as I managed a few steps, the tears came more freely. I looked around but I could not see Ben. When I got back to the car I just sat and cried for a long time.

PART FOUR

Conclusions and goodbyes

# Chapter 19

**The anchor holds**

Assisting and helping traumatized people can be demanding, raising the issue of vicarious trauma and its cumulative effects on the helper. Hearing stories of abuse and such sadness can be overwhelming especially when the stories come out when you least expect. The cumulative effects of working with and caring for people who have suffered or witnessed significant violence or abuse in their life can take its toll and creep up unexpectedly, unless safeguards are put in place.

I felt that I was in a still place within myself and thus better able to deal with some of these issues in the adults that I worked with. Being grounded was increasingly important if I was to help them deal with their psychological trauma, the chaos of their lives and their emotional disturbance. Those who suffer acute crisis or experience psychosis depend on the people around them to remain connected to themselves and the world around them. As a worker I was often the anchor point for those in need, especially at critical times of crisis, stress and distress. In effect, I helped to anchor them in the present. But in order to do this one has to be calm, both inwardly and outwardly and remain connected to the real world.

For example I was reminded of this when I drove Sally back to the place where she was staying. It was early June 2010, a clear, calm autumn day and not a breath of wind. Six months after I first started working with Sally she finally moved into her own place, a self contained bed -sit in a quiet rooming house in inner Melbourne. Sally had shifted from state to state and spent most of that time escaping violent partners. Prior to moving, Sally had spent a few months at the Dame Phyllis Frost Centre, the women's prison in Riding Boundary Road in Ravenhall. That was where I first met her. She had been referred to the agency where I worked by a prison worker in the hope of getting supported housing on her release.

Sally was not really clear what she had been in there for. "I got caught doing something stupid, should never have got time, but I was on a suspended sentence already. I was set up. Doesn't matter cause I'm out now-put that behind me. I just wanna get on with things".

I quickly learnt that Sally usually blamed others and refused to take personal responsibility for most things. Her deliberate vagueness was often a ploy to block me asking too many questions. But her sentence was probably drug related. She had been lucky enough to secure housing on her release from prison and was excited to be finally given an opportunity to turn her life around. One of the local community housing providers was willing to give Sally another chance, after she was evicted from one of their female only rooming houses a few years prior, for not paying rent and causing a disturbance.

She was now on a methadone program and trying hard to distance herself from her previous life of drugs and bad relationships. Sally did not want to go back to prison. She was even keen to start a computer course at the local Neighborhood House. But Sally had just heard that one of her previous partners had arrived in Melbourne from interstate. News travels fast. The news was enough to jeopardize any chance she had of making a go of it. "He must been avoiding a warrant", she said with some authority as I drove her through the inner Melbourne streets. She was worried he might find her and harass her for money or for a place to stay. He knew she would be somewhere in Melbourne as she had a child in foster care. She liked to stay close as she sometimes saw her son who was eight years old. Sally did not say much more, other than her ex had "a real bad temper. Believe me, you wouldn't want to cross him mate. He's the jealous type, if you know what I mean".

She was distracted and on edge during the car trip. There was a feeling of unease and disquiet as she checked people out walking along the footpath, turning her head round even after we had passed to try and get a better look. Sally sat forward in her seat, "Just making sure Anne, can you slow down a bit, hang on... It's okay", as we passed by another person innocently walking, minding their own business. Sally's nervousness and anxiety made me apprehensive.

I helped her carry some boxes up in the lift to her place in the rooming house. As we approached her front door a large male figure suddenly appeared from inside. I wondered how he got in as Sally had the only set of keys. The place was meant to be secure as there was also a separate key to the front door of the building. "Oh shit", Sally muttered under her breath as he lurched towards us menacingly. He wore a dirty blue singlet top and his cap was pulled down low over his eyes.

I stopped in my tracks long enough to register that this guy looks like he means business. In that instance I knew this was the ex partner she had talked about. He realized I was a worker as I often wore my work photo identification tag around my neck, especially when visiting rooming houses. He backed away quickly but in that split second I also noticed the glint of a knife in his hand. He deftly concealed it up his sleeve as if by magic. But I had seen it. It was enough for me. I knew what I had to do. Don't panic. I dropped the boxes.

Sally did not notice the knife as he half pushed her inside the door. She yelled at him as she tried to shrug him off. "What the hell? How'd ya get in? Ouch, ya hurting me", she screamed, as she desperately gestured to me to come inside.

I thought no way. I was thinking ahead. I made some excuse and said, "I'm just going down to get the rest of the boxes." The door shut. I ran towards the lift and my route to safety. I'd dialed 000 by the time I got to the lift and frantically pressed the down button. I could hear Sally screaming. It was awful leaving her there but I needed to be safe to help her. My own safety as a worker was paramount. All the training around worker safety kicked in. The years of working in child protection and being in similar situations paid off. This incident was scary, but I was always prepared for the worst possible scenario given the nature of the work. I had also been assaulted by someone I worked with a few years earlier, so I was not prepared to ever place myself in such a situation again. I knew instinctively what I had to do and just did it.

By some miracle Sally suddenly appeared, running toward me sobbing hysterically as the lift opened. She was distraught. We scrambled in, just the two of us, talking to Police on the mobile. She said that he had grabbed her by the throat and then pushed her against a wall. She was gasping for air through the sobs and in disbelief said, "I ducked under his arms and ran".

I tried to support her as I struggled to contain my own fears. I needed to be in control as much as I could as we were not completely safe. He could still appear behind us, from the other lift. It was clear-we ran. The adrenalin was pumping as I pushed her into the car as quickly as I could. I drove away. All the time we were both shaking. Sally was inconsolable. She was still reeling from the shock.

In all, the incident lasted a few minutes at the most. It happened so quickly, but it seemed like ages whilst we were in it. There was no time to think and no time to have second thoughts. No time to become paralyzed by fear. There was only enough time to make a decision and act and go with it. Flight or fight. Flight was definitely the safest response.

But Sally was angry and upset with me. "I can't believe you left me there. Why did you leave me?" she yelled, glaring at me, her face blotchy and tear stained. I explained as best I could that I'd be no use to either of us if I was hurt and bailed up in the flat with her and with no way to escape. "Well yeah, I suppose so, but still". She sort of got it. But she was still annoyed with me. Surely she hadn't been thinking of retaliating, expecting I would help her?

I drove Sally to the police station but she refused to make a statement so that police could take further action to protect her. She said that this would only make it worse. "You don't know what he will do, you have no idea. I know him. I know what he is capable of ", she sobbed fearfully. The police member and I tried to reassure her that an Intervention Order was the best thing, but she would not budge. Police were worried about her as it seemed her ex had an extensive criminal history. Sally's comment about him having a bad temper was definitely true. Sally took a card from a police woman who suggested if she changed her mind just call. Our hands were tied. We did what we could. And Sally did what she always did. She relied on her wits and 'street smarts' to get her through. She knew how things worked on the streets. There were different rules and ways of doing things, especially when you'd been in relationship with someone, or when you owed money and drug debts could not be paid back. The street sub-culture is a world where you don't 'dob' others in even if you have been beaten and abused. If you do, you get a bad name. The rules that Sally lived by did not keep her safe. She was always looking over her shoulder, even though she was trying to distance herself from this life. The sad reality was these awful things happened all too frequently in Sally's life. This was the norm as I quickly realized in trying to support her. Sally was a victim, trapped in dreadful circumstances. Violence, uncertainty and fear formed part of the fabric of her day to day life. It was also part of the drama that gave her life substance. As ludicrous as this was, incidents such as this added to the bravado and gave her something to talk and brag about on the streets. Like drugs, the dramas seemed to have an addictive quality; a tangled web Sally was caught up in.

I wished it wasn't this way for her and she could break free and make a go of it, away from a life that held her back. But Sally was a survivor. She was gutsy and resilient. Sally was always on the go and rarely stopped. I called her a pocket dynamo, a bit like Suzi Quatro. Sally liked me calling her this, even though I had to tell her who Suzi Quatro was.

Despite Sally's size and anxious demeanor there was another side to her. Things were never quite what they seemed. The truth was always somewhere in the middle. This adage served me well over the years and acted as my moral compass, even when the stories she spun me were convincing. I could hardly believe the things I heard about Sally. Initially I would say to my work colleagues, "that can't be true...she wouldn't do that". And then I would see the charge sheet and listen to the police prosecutor in court reading out the summary of what was alleged to have happened. Well, yes, I had to concede to myself that I could see her doing those things. I never made excuses or condoned what Sally did. I took into account her awful past and the terrible things that had happened to her. I always viewed everything in the context of the whole picture and that meant the here and now. I had to, to make sense of what happens in the homeless street sub-culture. In order to be able to help Sally I had to understand her past and the world she currently lived in and how it all worked. This meant not judging her. It also required a level of toughness in addition to honesty. She needed to be challenged on her terms and reminded that she was not above the law.

Sally's home was hers. That safe space belonged to her. Yet the rooming house was not the safe place it was meant to be. How could you trust anyone when your safety and privacy was violated? How could you trust anyone when someone could find out where you lived and break in to your place so easily and wait for you? Did you remain a victim or did you fight back?

Sally was too frightened to use the lift or go back to the rooming house after this incident and left Melbourne. She continued to pay her rent out of her benefits so she would not lose her place. She'd barely moved in. This in itself was a huge step forward. In the past she just didn't bother to pay her rent. "I can't go back, not now. I've got to get away, lay low for a bit, just for a few weeks". Sally paid her rent for two more weeks, but then cancelled her payments.

Sally often lay low over the three years that I knew her. She would also leave when she owed people money or when she came off methadone and used heroin almost daily. Sometimes I never knew whether she was even alive. I also lost count of the number of different mobile numbers she'd had. Mobiles were easily exchanged for drugs and Sally knew people would not be able to find her if she changed numbers. Sally did not surface again until September that first year.

**Barry-bedbugs and bloody sores**

As a worker I also did a lot of waiting and holding hope for the people I worked with. At certain times there was often not a lot more I could do. I remained committed to supporting the people I worked with understanding that change comes from within and only when people are ready-change can sometimes take years. The challenge was taking responsibility for doing everything possible as a worker to remain connected to the people I became so very fond of, especially when they became even more entrenched and stuck in their chaotic lifestyle. I felt it was even more important to remain connected during those bleak months to help them realize that I would not give up on them. Often, like Barry, they seemed to give up on themselves because it was just too hard.

Barry was sometimes quite reckless in regards to his self care especially when his drug use was more problematic than usual and his sense of self was low.

He arrived at the office in quite a mess one day. He had bloody sores all over him and looked terrible. I was taken aback when I saw him and wondered how many other people had recoiled when passing him. "What happened to you", I asked, worried that his nasty red sores looked infected.

"I fell asleep on Johnno's couch and got bitten all along my neck where it rested on the couch," he said with annoyance. "He's got bloody bed bugs, because he never cleans the place".

"Have you been to the doctors?" I asked, thinking that should have been the first thing he did.

"I've told you before. They just take one look at me and think a drug addict. They won't do anything," he added defiantly, looking out the corner of his eyes.

"Of course they will. You should be on antibiotics because of the infection. They will give you some cream or something to stop you itching", I insisted, adding I would come with him to support him if he was embarrassed. He'd tied hankies around the sores on his neck until they were soaked in blood from all his scratching. Blood soaked bandanas.

"They're even on my legs", he grumbled, pulling the cuffs of his jeans up to reveal more ugly red sores.

But rather than do anything to help, he seemed to wear his wounds with what I thought was perverse pride, a badge of honor almost, coming into the office a few times a week to see me to discuss the progress of his sores. Then I realized that this was also a means of self harm and self loathing.

Barry said he did not deserve much better, making the point, "see, no one would give me a job looking like this."

"But it doesn't have to be like this. They will probably clear really quickly with antibiotics and cream", I again insisted. "You don't want to get a blood infection".

It took weeks before Barry's sores healed properly. They left scars that would take even longer to fade, like the emotional scars inflicted by his abusive alcoholic father. But I refused to give up on Barry, even when he sabotaged his own progress.

Barry's public housing application was approved and he was eventually made an offer for permanent housing. He brought the Office of Housing letter in to show me late one afternoon. We sat out the back of the office in the fading afternoon sun as he had a smoke. I was excited for him, but Barry seemed indifferent. His attitude puzzled me as here at last was some positive news and his chance to have his own place.

"That's fantastic news Barry". I read the letter noticing that the one bedroom flat was in the local area.

"I don't deserve it. There are others worse off than me", Barry insisted, taking the letter from me. "I'd prefer to stay where I am. I've changed my mind," he said, shrugging his shoulders and looking away from me as he sucked in the smoke.

"You do deserve it. What makes you think you don't? You've had it tough, as much as the next person. Besides, you don't really like it at the rooming house. You keep complaining that too much stuff happens there. That's why you spend so much time down Johno's-to get away from the problems. But it's not much better there either. Look what happened. You got bitten by bed bugs." I was surprised and exasperated that he was thinking about refusing to accept the offer of secure, long term housing. Most people would jump at the chance. It was his choice. He was always complaining about where he lived. It just seemed like he didn't want things to get better. I couldn't work him out sometimes.

"Oh, it's not all that bad", he added. "Most of the time it's okay".

But I knew this was not the case.

"Barry, you do deserve a place of your own. I wish you could just believe that. At least have a think about it. There's no rush. It's your call. But it is a great opportunity for you. To finally have your own place", I replied, hoping he would reconsider. "At least have a look at the place before you make your mind up". Maybe he just needed time to get used to the idea.

"I told you. I've changed my mind," Barry yelled. He stared at me now, daring me to challenge him. "I want to stay where I am. I'm gunna call them and tell them I don't want it. Like you said, it's my call." Barry got up to leave. He flicked his butt before grinding it into the concrete with his shoe.

I noticed one of my colleagues standing near the back door watching us, making sure everything was okay. I remained seated and took a chance, hoping my comments wouldn't antagonize him further. "Okay. You don't have to get annoyed with me. I didn't send you the letter. It was Office of Housing. They are helping you because you wanted housing and they have finally got you a place."

He at least listened to me as he continued to pulverize his butt underfoot.

"You're right. You don't have to accept it. But they will most probably ask you why you don't want to accept it that's all." I wasn't sure why he was taking it out on me or why he even bothered to come in and tell me, if he was not going to accept it.

Barry walked off, muttering under his breath. "Whatever".

I breathed a sigh of relief as he left.

What could I do? Barry did not think he deserved to have his own place. Maybe he was scared to make changes. He was still caught up in the street drug sub-culture. Perhaps he couldn't envisage a life away from this and that is why he decided not to accept the offer of permanent housing. I think he desperately wanted to test the waters but was afraid. He was trapped in a world that was familiar to him even though it was chaotic, dangerous and dark. Another life beckoned but he couldn't quite make that step. At times like this I felt quite helpless not knowing what else I could do for Barry and the others I worked with. How could I help Barry to feel better about himself?

But I knew that Barry and the people I worked with needed to be able to do things for themselves and could only make changes with support and guidance, when they were ready. I also knew that change is never linear. It is incremental. Relapse is to be expected. Gains might only be small, but any gain, no matter how small, is huge in itself. Change is painful as it is often taken one slow step at a time. Sometimes people slide backwards before gaining momentum and moving forward once again. When they start again it is never quite back to the exact beginning point where they first started their journey. They have already moved some way along that journey that is in front of them. This belief also kept me going and propelled me along.

There can be a tension in holding this position for extended periods of time especially in the absence of anything happening for an individual. But these things were important as faith and hope were often all I had at times. I hoped for instance, that Sally, who once went missing for four long weeks without any contact, would surface, safe and well. I held out hope that each small step taken by Barry on a different pathway to what he was used to would give him faith to keep going forward. Often he took the fork in the road that inevitably led to negative outcomes, thus reinforcing his low sense of self. Dysfunctional patterns were repeated over and over again.

Barry did not believe he would or could ever address his heroin addiction because his father was an alcoholic. On many occasions he said he was just like his father, believing he inherited his addictive genes. I repeatedly told him that he was in fact not his father, he was his own person. I also told him he was his own worst enemy. But the shadow of his father always loomed large. Barry was often so busy fighting this that he had little energy left to tackle his own addiction.

Barry always seemed to take that same fork in the road out of habit, because it was familiar and it was what he knew, even though he knew the outcome would probably not be good. I had faith that he would take the different fork when he reached the next crossroad and not travel that same familiar route. I had faith that with practice and support, the different fork and pathway would lead him to a new way of doing things and hopefully to a life out of homelessness. This was my hope.

The resilience of the people I worked with, especially the strength of their inner spirit to survive abuse and trauma constantly amazed and inspired me. They were tough and courageous. Despite awful things happening to them on a constant basis, they bounced back. Human resilience reminds me of a bobbing cork top in an ocean swell. The cork bobs along as it is hammered by rough winds and then by waves that surge and break onto a jagged reef. But the little cork keeps bobbing up and down, staying afloat. It is swamped momentarily by huge waves but manages to stay upright even though it is so light and tiny. Similarly, the resilient person might get deflated and knocked down by bad things that happen to them, but they always get up again. They dust themselves off and start again. They have no time for extended or prolonged periods of self pity or blame. They just get on with things. I think this is one of the most admirable and inspiring qualities of the resilient person-that quiet, yet steadfast determination.

The resilience of workers within the community welfare field to remain energized and positive when faced with the constant hurdles and challenges is equally important. When things did not always go according to plan I remained optimistic and kept going. When faced with resistance, not only in the people that I worked with but sometimes in certain parts of the service sector, I pushed forward. When the people that I worked with became abusive or projected their feelings of rejection, frustration and annoyance onto me I understood this in the context of their past histories and experiences and did not take it personally. Such moments show how important it is to always look at the whole person, to see the good within and to see through and beyond the 'labels' and behaviors.

**Finding peace**

I developed a greater sense of peace and self acceptance through these experiences. I felt I was more able to 'sit' with the anxiety and challenges of working with people who had troubled lives, difficult behaviors and complex needs. But I needed to re charge my batteries to remain energized. I had certain activities such as attending a meditation group that became part of my weekly routine and grounded and sustained me. They were my anchor points during the three years.

Finding that still inner place did not just happen but was something that I had been working very hard at over many years. I needed a degree of self protection when working in the community welfare field and I think I had developed a good self-care regime. I had not always been good at this but I learnt to become a lot more selfish of my time in order to sustain myself. I had to, in order to remain resilient. I learnt to know what I needed through trial and error. As much as possible I surrounded myself with positive energy and friends who also had a shared interest in what was important and meaningful in life. Being surrounded by people who had a positive mindset was as critical for the people I worked with as it was for me as a helper. This became even more important as I immersed myself in my work with those who had experienced long term homelessness. Being positive and optimistic is absolutely crucial when working in the welfare field. I needed to constantly question and remain open so that my judgment was not clouded. I cut myself off from people who were too negative and cynical as they sapped my energy. And most importantly, I enjoyed the quietness of solitude.

Sometimes I attended St Michael's Uniting Church in Melbourne. Situated on the corner of Collins and Russell Street, it is a sacred place for me, a refuge from the noise of traffic and the hustle and bustle of the outside world. It also houses a city oasis called Mingary, The Quiet Place. This is a sanctuary of filtered light, smooth rock and trickling water where I'd take time to enjoy the calmness and regain strength.

Architecturally, St Michael's is one of the most beautiful and unique churches in Melbourne. I think it is the open cloisters on the side of the building that make it so distinctive. The soft colors of the polychrome hawthorn brickwork are a change from the city's dreary solid bluestone landscape. When I walk inside I always feel at home, protected and at peace. To me it is homely, as it has the air of being lived in, a church for the people. It is unpretentious. Perhaps it is the earthy tones of the carpet, almost the same shade as the walls that gives it this impression. Or maybe it's because there is no stark cold marble altar or stone statues or religious relics. I feel uplifted, enveloped in such understated splendor and warmth. The interior of St Michael's is womb like given its unusual semi circular design. I love the muted tones, the black cast iron pillars off set by the bright bold colors of the stained glass windows. The round design of the upstairs galleria is bordered by an ornately curved wrought iron balustrade with wooden finials. And there in the middle, seeming to ground everything together is the rich, dark brown timber of the organ's massive pipes.

But I am always drawn to the magnificent Bicentennial stained glass windows on the lower section. The windows symbolize man's internal struggles, uncertainties and fears. The sequence of nineteen windows tells of each person's journey and experience of aloneness and alienation. They depict the questioning along different pathways until finally an awareness of who we are and what we will become. The stories, told through the windows, are relevant to what I have experienced to some degree throughout my life. Ultimately for me, my life has to have a meaning and purpose otherwise there is emptiness and lack of direction. I did not think this was any different for the people I worked with.

# Chapter 20

**Lessons learned**

The program I worked for lost its ongoing funding and we had to finish in November 2012. It was unexpected- we were all confident that the funding would continue and just roll over as it had each year. But it did not happen. There was no time to put in place transition plans other than let key workers in other agencies know. There was just enough time to tell the people I had been working so closely with that the program was ending and I was leaving.

But the ending was too premature. I was not ready or prepared for the impact of finishing up so soon. The impending loss of the close connections and relationships was difficult to face. I wanted to cling on. I was not ready to let go. Not yet. I had learnt so much from the people I had grown so fond of.

John-taking notice

John more than anyone, helped me to appreciate and really take notice of what I saw. Because he was semi literate, he had compensated for this and adapted his skills accordingly. John was vigilant when it came to his surroundings and took notice of signage, even though he could barely read. He knew where he was in relation to landmarks such as particular buildings or parks. He memorized and recognized the numbers on the trams and knew the routes and where the trams went. When we were out driving, John could pick the make and model of most cars from their shape and by recognizing the badges and the familiar names of Ford, Holden and Honda. He'd read certain number plates out to me, spelling the letters and numbers, slowly and painstakingly just like a child practicing his reading. When I'd drive him to one of his various appointments and it was warm, he'd sit 'shot gun' in the front seat, his arm resting out the window providing me with a running commentary on other people's driving skills. The driving must have reminded him of his road trips over the years, like the time he lived out bush in Queensland, surviving off the land, shooting rabbits and selling them to the locals. He'd often reminisce about life on the road when we were out in the car.

"Where did you live then", I asked, curious to know what his life had been like and how he had managed forty odd years ago.

"In an old shed, with a mate", he said, matter of fact, "It was alright. I've been all over", he said proudly, "South Australia, Northern Territory. Done lots of fishing, odd jobs here and there. Went to prison. That's where I learnt to cook. Worked in the kitchen peeling potatoes". John suddenly swore at a driver who pulled in too close to our car, "got a watch the buggers".

It was like having a second pair of eyes when John was in the car. I'd miss these outings.

Gary-patience and persistence

I learnt more about patience over months of looking and waiting for Gary than anyone could ever possibly hope to teach me. Whenever I became disillusioned because it was hard to find Gary to connect with him, I reminded myself that this was the lesson I needed to learn- patience and not giving up. This approach helped me to control any anger and frustration or feeling that I was wasting my time. It would have been easy to blame Gary for not keeping appointments, to become negative, but it would not have helped either of us, especially me. I viewed my role as an assertive outreach worker as trying to engage Gary to support him as a test of my resolve. I was determined to see this through. Otherwise I would have given up on him and my job long ago. I also knew from the research that people who have experienced long tern homelessness sometimes take years to trust those in the helping profession. I am grateful to Gary for teaching me the importance of perseverance and that trust has to be earned.

Sally- doing nothing is doing something

I learnt through my work as 'a helper' that sometimes you do not actually have to do a lot because there is not always a lot that you can do for some people. Sometimes doing nothing, other than waiting as in Gary's case, and holding faith, is in effect doing something.

For example, one day out of total despair, when Sally's heroin use was out of control, I asked her what else I could do for her as nothing seemed to be working. I remember that we were sitting in a work car outside a café. I had convinced her that she needed to eat something. "When was the last time you ate", I asked her, worried at how thin she was.

"I dunno. One of those energy drink things this morning", she replied, not really caring. "I gotta call someone Anne. Can I use your phone? I need to get away. I can't stay here. I have to get away. Just for a few days," she said, starting to cry.

"Okay, but you have to try and eat something or drink something, just a little bit. You look awful. You need to put the brakes on", I said. It was my way of saying things are getting out of control.

"I know. I know Anne. I'm a mess. I know. Just let me call someone and I promise I'll eat something", she implored me. Her body was turned away from me and she was almost doubled over, leaning into the window sobbing loudly.

I handed her my mobile, saying, "I don't know what else I can do to help you Sally. What can I do? What do you want me to do? I'm worried about you." I felt helpless. I hated to see her like this.

Her response was unexpected. "Just be there. Just do what you 're doing". I could do that. At least it was something. Waiting and holding faith was also the right thing to do for Sally and Gary because who else was going to do this for them? Who was going to do this now?

Connection to something meaningful

John also taught me the significance of being connected to something meaningful. For John, discovering his connection to his lost family was a watershed moment in his life. When he stood in front of his parents' grave, he'd finally 'come home'. Gary's sense of home was his love for his step son. Robbie was connected to the streets of inner Melbourne as it gave his day to day life a certain rhythm and meaning. Mandy, the lost child of the street, the 'bag-girl', carted her past around in her suitcases. Those things inside also helped to keep her connected to her inner child.

By mid November reality set in and I knew that I would have to sever these relationships and say goodbye whilst there was still time.

# Chapter 21

**Saying goodbye the final time-always and forever**

Many of the people I worked with over that three year period of my life from 2010 to 2012 left an indelible mark. The goodbyes were the hardest part, like Ben's goodbye, knowing that I would likely never again see any of the amazing people who I had grown so very fond of.

Robbie

Robbie did eventually make contact in August 2012, five months after I last saw him. He left a voice message on my mobile after hours, but the contact details were blocked and I was not able to reply." Hi Anne, it's Robbie. Sorry I haven't called but letting you know I'm okay. All's good and don't worry. Catch ya". His voice sounded up-beat. I was so relieved to hear from him and let police know that he'd contacted. I wished I knew where he was and how he was going, but he'd left a message and that in itself was enough. There was no further word from Robbie before I finished up in November. I couldn't do anything else and besides, time had run out. Instead, I held on to the memories of my time with him; especially his kindness towards the young busker in the city, the visit in the cells and the utter desperation and terror in his eyes, knowing he would be 'hanging out' in prison and not being able to help him and his vulnerability as he slept fitfully in the hospital waiting room.

I wondered whether his mother tried to find him after he left home. Surely she must have worried about him given he was only sixteen. She must have missed him, her first born son. And what about Robbie's two younger brothers? It must have been awful when he left and even harder for Robbie to leave them. Maybe he did keep in contact with his mother and brothers after he left. I hoped so. Robbie's story is far from complete.

But Robbie had shared part of his life's journey with me while I was his worker. I'd felt privileged to walk part of it with him, like the wonderful day in the city when he seemed so happy. He'd given me so much more than I was able to offer him because he made no demands. He did not expect anything. I'd not been successful in getting long term housing for Robbie, or linking him to a drug and alcohol service, yet he had been open to me caring and worrying about him. He reminded me that positive outcomes sometimes cannot be quantifiably measured within the community welfare sector. You do not always immediately see the results of what happens when people like Robbie are able to make a connection to someone else and have meaningful relationships based on trust and respect.

Sally

Sally wrote me a letter. It was the first letter she ever wrote to me and she wrote it on our white board at work. I didn't know she had done it until a colleague pointed it out. Sprawled across the board in spidery child like writing was the following words-'Thank you for everything you have done for me over the past 3 years. I know it's been frustrating as well as good. Everything I've learnt I will take with me on my journey to a better life. Always and forever Sally. I'll always remember you'. She'd drawn a large heart at the bottom and a little smiling faced figure with spiky hair. Sally wrote this in June 2012, effectively ending her involvement with me six months before I had no choice but to finish. I was relieved that Sally made the decision to say goodbye on her terms as I was not sure if I could have coped with a face to face goodbye.

She kept a low profile for the next few months and neither I nor any of my colleagues saw her about the local area where she was staying. We heard rumors that she was using heroin daily and looked terrible. I did see her one last time just before the program ended. She'd been hospitalized due to a huge abscess on her neck and was in a bad way. I visited her in Accident and Emergency at a large Melbourne Hospital after getting a call from the hospital Social Worker.

Sally was embarrassed that I had to see her in her current state and was distraught that things had got so out of hand with her drug use. She cried when she saw me. "I can't believe I have done this Anne. What have I done to myself?"

As I looked at her tiny frame lying on the bed under the sheet I noticed how much weight she'd lost. I realized that she'd been injecting into her neck and the abscess was now infected.

"Look. I'm covered in them Anne and they are so sore", she sobbed, feeling sorry for herself. She uncovered the hospital gown to reveal another huge abscess under her arm. What could I say? Sally had not been looking after herself and had certainly not been using heroin safely, placing herself at further risk.

"You should have gone to the doctors and got on some antibiotics before things got worse", I offered, realizing that it was far too late for lectures. Sally had a very good doctor-he never judged her and was straight down the line. I know he would have also encouraged her to get back on methadone and discussed detox with her.

"I know, I know," she cried, realizing things could be far worse.

One of the Accident and Emergency doctors, with the help of a nurse, was now trying to put in an intravenous line but could not find a vein in Sally's arm. "You won't find one", she said annoyed with the doctor. I knew she was most probably right, but he persevered regardless. After twenty minutes of a concerted effort to find a vein and Sally crying and yelling out "you are hurting me", the intravenous drip of antibiotics was finally hooked up and Sally was only slightly less frustrated. Individual hospital staff members were doing their best for Sally but she was not being very grateful or cooperative.

"Hey, they are trying to help you", I told her, irritated by her behavior.

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry", she finally said, exhausted. I sat by her bed, listening to her cries of self admonishment. "This is a wake-up call Anne".

"Well, you know what your options are don't you? " I said, knowing that only Sally could answer this and only if she was serious about making some changes around her drug use. How bad did things have to get?

Sally turned her head away from me and closed her eyes. "Can you stay a bit longer Anne? I'm tired. You don't mind do you?" she said.

"Of course not. Just rest", I said, aware of how lucky she was, but how desperate things must have been these past few months to get to this point. Sally eventually told me to go, worried it was now after 5 pm.

"Thanks for coming Anne". The doctor assessed that Sally would be ready for discharge in the morning-the antibiotics would kick in quickly and she could be treated in the community with a further course of oral antibiotics. I told Sally I would pick her up in the morning at 9.00 am.

Sally discharged herself in the early hours of the morning. She was likely 'hanging out', needing to have a hit of heroin given her level of use prior to coming into hospital. I did not see her again- that was how it had been with Sally these past few years. She'd often just leave and I'd not see her again for a few months. Her heroin use took a strong hold at times. I'd often wonder what it would take for her to stop. She'd had countless wake-up calls, yet nothing changed. I could only hope that she would continue to re surface until she got to a point where she was ready to turn her back on the insidious clutches of heroin. Maybe she'd then be ready to think about finding her parents and have contact with her son. She'd not seen him for a few years. She told me she did not want him to see her at her worse.

I had also walked part of Sally's journey with her. It had been challenging and I had to toughen up to support her. Sally surprised me because despite her chaotic drug use she understood that her life was a journey- she had contemplated the bigger picture and she'd also allowed and wanted me to care and worry about her. I had faith that her indomitable spirit would keep her going on her journey to a better life-this was also her dream.

I wondered what home meant to Sally. Was it her early childhood with her parents? Was it the rare moments shared with Shane between the violence, when she was fleetingly happy? Was it her life on the streets, the acquaintances and 'friends' she met? Or was it something much deeper, something she was yet to experience but knew was within her sights, like the stars in the dark sky which kept her going?

Gary

Gary had been let down by workers most of his adult life. I felt like I was doing the same. In the end it became a rush to tell him our program was finishing because he was never home when I visited. Eventually, with only a few days left I bumped into Gary on the street not far from where he lived. I was so relieved to see him. "Oh Gary, I have been trying to find you to talk to you. I got some bad news the other week. Our program lost its funding and I have to finish up. I didn't want to leave a note under your door. I wanted to tell you in person", I quickly tumbled out the words. "It's a bit of a shock really." There, it was out now. I had said it. I was gutted. Telling him in person was harder than I thought because I had warmed to him over the years and cared about him. I'd spent so much time waiting and thinking about him too.

Gary looked at me directly. His brown eyes usually darted away, averting contact. But this time he looked at me. I smiled and thought he's such a gentle man. "Mmmm...what you gunna do" he said, still holding my gaze.

"Oh I will get work, not too worried at the moment, I just want to get through this next little bit. I'm sorry about this. I've known you a long time now. What's it been? Three years. Can't imagine not seeing you around the place." I felt like I was stumbling over my words again trying to keep it together.

"You're a bit of a terrier aren't you-just like the doggies. You don't give up do ya," he said, slightly grinning.

"Oh... I guess not...hope I was not too much in your face".

"Nah, luv, I needed a boot up me arse, backside-sorry about that luv. You got me me place. Never forget what you did for me. I've been a pain at times, but all good".

We walked together up to where he lived. "Walked this street plenty of times," I laughed.

"Yeah, I bet ya have".

We stopped outside the main doors to the housing complex. "Thanks luv, appreciate everything. Especially me telling ya what happened and all", Gary said, extending his hand.

"It's been a pleasure knowing you Gary. I'm sure you'll get to see Jack, but try and do it before you turn fifty". Gary chuckled. I shook his hand then touched his shoulder, "You are a good man Gary. Take care". I took a deep breath and smiled again. Gary nodded, turned and walked through the doors.

Gary had changed over the three years I'd got to know him. He was housed after years of being homeless and living rough. He was maintaining his housing, paying his rent and bills. He might still use drugs from time to time and mix with acquaintances he barely knew on the streets, but he had dared to face his past with honesty. He acknowledged openly where his life started to go off the rails and his role in it. He did not blame others and was not bitter. He recognized how important it was to him to father a child that was not his. Yet he also felt shame, believing he was not deserving because things had gone bad in his life and he'd 'stuffed up'. I think by accepting my presence and support, he finally came to accept the parts of himself that he was ashamed of. To do all this, Gary had to learn to trust again. He was learning to trust and believe in himself, that he was a good man. He showed great courage opening up to me and revealing the things that mattered to him. I felt optimistic that Gary would eventually make contact with Jack because the bond and connection he felt towards him had remained all these years, despite not having seen him. Jack was important to Gary, but he needed to tell him in person. He'd also need to tell him why he hadn't kept in contact or seen him. And that was going to be hard.

Mandy

Saying goodbye to Mandy affected me like Ben's goodbye. I arranged to meet her at a café at 10.30 am on the other side of the city, a place we had visited numerous times over the past twelve months. I wasn't confident she would be there. I was happy when I saw her sitting waiting for me, like an expectant child, eager to please.

"I didn't think you would make it. It's early," I said smiling at her.

"I told you I would be here," she added, twirling her pigtails, looking around.

"How are things going? You look well".

"Oh you know, up and down, just how it is", she said matter of fact.

"I brought one of your bags for you. It's in the car. George dropped it off at the office as he knew I was catching up with you before I left. Will you be able to manage it?" I said, realizing she had likely walked or caught a bus.

"Yeah, I'll be right".

"I can drop you off somewhere if you like", I offered, not exactly sure where she was staying.

"No, I'm waiting for someone", she said. "I wanted to see you first", she added, looking away, "I came here first, you know, before I did anything".

"Thanks Mandy". I appreciated her honesty and realized that this last catch up was important for her- she had made a real effort to keep this appointment and not get side tracked. Mandy didn't want anything to eat, just her favorite hot chocolate. She finished it quickly, before I'd finished my coffee and got up to go, fidgeting with her hair again. The car was not far away. As I opened the boot, Mandy screamed out," Shit it's huge, lucky it's got wheels on it Anne. Bloody hell. You should have told me it was big."

"George put most of your things from the smaller bags into this one", I explained as she unzipped it. Mandy had known George for a few years. He often helped her out if she was desperate and had nowhere to go. She'd also left a few bags behind in his rooming house and he was pleased I could take them to her. Mandy rummaged through the bag. I was sure she was going to tell me she didn't want it but she heaved it out of the boot.

I did not want Mandy to become a 'bag lady'. Returning one of her bags to her was the best thing that I could do. I was giving back something that belonged to her. It only seemed fair that I leave her with something that was hers and that she actually take it with her. In many ways it was the perfect goodbye. She gave me a hug and kissed me on the cheek as she thanked me for what I had done for her. I wished her all the best and told her I would miss her. "Keep safe Mandy. I hope things work out for you. You are a tough old thing". I could feel the tears welling as I managed to ask her whether she was okay with the bag.

"Yes, I'm fine. I can manage. Thanks Anne, see ya," she said, not looking at me, now intent on meeting her friend. She turned from me and walked across the car park. I watched as she pulled the big bag on wheels behind her. I sensed a level of determination in her actions as she carted her suitcase of things that connected her to her past and her inner child.

I didn't watch her for long. It was too hard, knowing I would not see her again, not knowing if she would be okay. She had been far too young when she lost her mother. She had no family, no one, other than acquaintances and friends she made on the street-relationships that were often fleeting and shallow. But somehow she managed and she'd survived. Despite supporting her for three years, she was still homeless. She had no home other than her precarious life on the streets. I felt I had failed Mandy. But she had tried. She tried living on her own in the rooming house. It might not have worked but she had given it a go. At least she'd know what to expect next time when she'd be ready to give it another try. Mandy had been able to talk about her mother's death and face her loss for the first time with a level of acceptance. At twenty four she was beginning to make sense of her life.

I sat in the car and cried, like I did when I said goodbye to Ben.

Barry

I never got to say goodbye to Barry. He stopped popping into the office after he declined the offer of secure housing. I sometimes passed him on the street but got the impression he was angry or annoyed with me. He was always polite and said hello but avoided eye contact. He'd keep moving quickly to avoid engaging in conversation. It was a relief just seeing him, knowing he was okay.

I'd never know what direction Barry would take; if he'd keep following the same path, or take a different route away from a life of heroin addiction and un-prescribed medication bought on the streets. I got the sense that he did not hold out much hope for his future or that things would, or could, ever be any different or better. He was clinging on tenaciously, surviving day to day in a world that was familiar to him. Barry was connected to the local community rooming house sub-culture where he lived. I admired his resilience as he had almost given up on himself many times during the few years I'd tried to support him. But he kept going.

Although he was estranged from his family (his mother and three sisters), his sense of identity was also inextricably linked to what he perceived as his dead father's failings. The ties that bind families can be very strong and real and Barry carried his father's past addictive behaviors and patterns like a shroud. I was sure Barry was still angry with his father. But I wondered whether he missed his father? Nothing is ever clear cut.

On the 3rd November 2013 as I was walking to my local supermarket, I noticed Barry on the other side of the street. I was so happy when I saw him. He wasn't wearing his trademark cap. He was walking with determination, his head high, eyes straight ahead. It was well over a year since I had last seen him. I smiled to myself, relieved he was still going, living proof of his resilience.

Brad

Brad asked if we could go to the Zoo for a final goodbye outing. He wanted to go by tram as he remembered doing this as a child with his parents. We had not been at the Zoo that long when I sensed he was tired and not that interested in seeing the animals or the exhibits. It was a very hot November day and he was unusually quiet. Even a rest and cold drink did not seem to revive his spirits or enthusiasm. He was relieved when I asked whether he was ready to go. While we sat waiting for the tram to return back into the city I remarked how far he had come on his journey and thanked him for sharing parts of his story with me. It was eerily quiet sitting at the tram stop less than fifty metres from the quaint Royal Park Train Station. I looked towards the vast grounds of The Royal Park Campus of the Royal Melbourne Hospital, not a breath of wind. Brad seemed lost in his own thoughts. There was no one else about, just us, the silence and the oppressive heat.

Before our scheduled stop to alight from the tram, Brad moved towards the door ready to get off. When I motioned that we had two stops to go, Brad said he was getting off and said, "see you later Anne".

I barely had time to say "goodbye", before a rush of people jumped on. The tram moved off. I wanted to get off and chase Brad, but in that split second realized it was best not to. He'd said goodbye in his own way. What was I going to say that I had not already said to Brad over the past three years?

Cassie

I also felt I had failed Cassie as her life was still a roller coaster when I finished up in November. I had not been able to help Cassie as much as I had hoped and wanted to. Her drug use was seriously out of control to the point that it affected most areas of her life. It affected her health and her behavior towards other people. She was abrasive, aggressive and dismissive when she was drug affected. I often think of her and worry how she is. I know she is tough and resilient and a survivor but that is no consolation to a life of homelessness.

I also felt that I had failed Cassie's mother. Joan and I were the same age and I could only imagine how difficult it had been for her over the years worrying about Cassie. She had tried supporting Cassie but in the end she had to prioritize Jake's needs over her daughter's. Cassie also understood this and was relieved to know that Jake was well looked after by her mother and not in foster care. I wondered whether this also let Cassie off the hook, knowing her mother was caring for Jake. Whatever Cassie did and whatever happened to her, she knew Jake was safe. Cassie didn't want to expose Jake to her lifestyle and her drug use so avoided seeing him until she was 'better'. I wondered how long this might take given she was not even at the point of considering making any changes. But the clock kept ticking and Jake would one day no longer be a child.

I also wondered what home meant to Cassie? Was it her son and knowing he was cared for and loved by his grandmother and uncles? Was this her link to a base of sorts, something real and tangible that helped to ground her in the world? It was a world far removed from her day to day existence. Nevertheless, it provided her with a sense of order and predictability as her mother regularly kept her updated on how Jake was going. Did this also keep her going, knowing he was okay?

John

I was relieved and happy to know that John would be well looked after and that he was loved by staff at the aged care hostel. The rooming house environment was no place for someone in their late sixties. John was passed having to deal with the dramas of drug deals gone wrong, where people owed each other money and constantly harassed each other for payment and where violence was too common place.

Saying goodbye to John was easier for me as he was housed and he'd never have to move again. He'd also gone back to the beginning of _where he started from_ and his narrative seemed more complete. John had been able to fill in the blanks in his life and knit together a more coherent whole. I think his sense of home and who he was, was also stronger after meeting his older brothers. Discovering his long lost family connection had imbued him with a sense of peace. In effect, John had 'come home'.

I also realized that I related differently to John compared to the other people I worked with. I think it was because I was closer in age to him. Sally, Mandy, Barry and Cassie lived life close to the edge and I constantly worried about them. Their lives were so precarious at times. But I saw more of myself and my situation in the working relationship I had developed with John. He made me think of my own mortality and the steps I needed to take to make sure my future was secure. Inadvertently, he also helped me consider what was important in life-family and friends. John challenged many of my strongly guarded traits and beliefs, especially my need to maintain my independence at all costs and be totally self -reliant. In caring about John and helping him to connect with his family, I realized that I sometimes push away those closest to me. I find it difficult to accept offers of help, preferring to manage on my own. I know it is okay to allow others to help, as this is how they show they care for me. But it is still difficult for me. I'm not sure if this is about self protection- to avoid being hurt, or being rejected, how I felt when my father finally left. Or is this what happens after years of caring for and helping others?

Like John, I was piecing together things that had happened in my life and questioning, looking back for instance and wondering why I had never heard the currawong's call until the mid 1990s. I must have heard that beautiful bird song before that time. Maybe I had, but just never really properly listened to it or taken notice. I am glad I heard it and feel privileged that John allowed me to listen to his story.

The goodbyes and all these experiences of working with people who had lived and were still living a life of homelessness helped me understand the complexities associated with the meaning of home. Home is not only a place to stay and a roof over your head. It signifies much more, as it is about connections; connections to other people or something that is meaningful.

For me, I also learned that home is still a tangible place with a front and back door, with windows that look out to slate and corrugated iron roof tops, chimneys, wires and antennas, and trees silhouetted against the open sky. At night I can watch the small ring tailed possums scurrying silently along the branches, almost within arm's length. I can open my windows to feel the stifling summer breeze or the freezing blast of a winter gale that rattles the venetian blinds. It is my own quiet space that belongs to me where I am safe and can be alone in my thoughts. I can be myself and paint the walls yellow to express how I feel without worrying what anyone else thinks.

My home is where I am able to recover from the sadness and rigors of bearing witness. I'd never fully realized how draining it can be to be totally focused and fully present for someone else. But the people I worked with deserved that full attention and care, especially when they were struggling with their own demons. It was an incredible privilege and honor to listen to their stories and share in some small way toward their recovery and healing. And in that process I was also learning much more about myself. It was their gift to me. I was able to replenish my energy levels within the stillness of my home and reflect on what I had been taught -contained and comforted, amidst my treasures.

But my home is not a complete fortress immune to the outside world. I hear neighbors fighting at 2.00 am in the morning, a young girl screaming and crying and doors banging. I am sometimes forced to breathe the sweetly sick smell of dope from the downstairs apartment as it rises up unwanted through the air vents to permeate my private sanctuary late in the evenings. And my own anxieties and feelings of guilt about wishing I could have been a better mother and more available to my boys when they were at high school instead of working myself into the ground sometimes creep up and threaten to ruin my happiness. I also wish I could be more demonstrative with my affections towards them. I recognize my failings and vow to try harder at expressing how I feel. But I do not allow the saboteur to gain a hold within my haven. Instead, I am filled with pride and love for the men my boys have become and all that I have.

Home is where I go from each morning and come back to at the end of the day. It is the anchor that provides the predictability amidst the busyness of every-day life. Home is also what I have left behind-the weather board home of my childhood, the Milk Bar where we lived in the 1960s, the homes of my grandparents, my termite riddled cottage at Upwey- fragments and memories. Home is the history of my family and my roots and where I came from, my English and Scottish forebears.

But it is more than just a place and container for memories of times past. It is about belonging and acceptance and connectedness to others. Home is my boys and family and friends-the unconditional love of others. This sense of home is invisible and intangible but it is very real and binds us together. Home is about relationships based on a shared understanding, where words are not always necessary. It is the familiarity of loved ones and the feeling of contentment and relief when you don't have to explain yourself. Home means laughter, babies and new beginnings, but tragedy, illness and the passing of family members. It is often about deep family secrets, misunderstandings, ingrained hurts and jealousies. Home pulls all these feelings together in the one word. No other word can encapsulate so much of what is important in life.

Home is also the one I will be going to. My home is on the market and I will be moving.

#

Thank you for reading my book. This is my first book. I am now working on my second book, _In Memory Of_ , about my great uncle who died in WW1 and specifically about my trip to Belgium in 2015 to visit his grave. The idea was sparked by the 'in memory of' plaques that are sometimes placed on garden seats in public places.

# Acknowledgement and thanks

Thanks to those who were there at the start and encouraged me to write about my work with those experiencing and living a life of homelessness. To my wonderful colleagues at the time, for your creativity, passion, dedication and belief in what we were doing, that it was going to make a difference in the lives of the people we worked with, I thank you. Special thanks to Ken Kraybill Senior Associate at the Center for Social Innovation and Director of Training for t3 (think, teach, transform) Needham, Massachusetts, United States of America for kind permission to use his Three Homes theoretical framework in my writing. Thank you to Sarah Millicent Elliott, creative oil painter and artist for your beautifully inspiring art work. Sarah's whimsical art work helped me look at 'home' from an existential point of view. Lee Kofman, a passionate and engaging writing mentor, author and teacher who set me on the right track and gave me the courage and confidence to find my writer's voice. Thanks to my fellow writers in Lee's writing group of 2012 at The Wheeler Centre in Melbourne, for your inspiration and constructive feedback. Nadine Davidoff, freelance editor, who grasped what it was that I wanted to do right from the first meeting and helped make it happen. This book could never have been completed without her expert guidance, support and belief in my writing. To family and friends, thank you for your ongoing support and patience over the years it took me to finish this.

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