Opening Doors

Opening Doors

Yesterday I went to the launch of a project I helped with called Opening Doors.  I’ve shared the website in the past but in case you missed it.  Home – Opening Doors

I met an advocate there, who deals with people who may be in crisis situations and they become her clients. Example: Couple about to take a newborn baby home where they are living in a brother’s garage. They already have a 4-year-old who is in preschool and because I asked questions, you would imagine they could just move into a room inside the house, so what’s the issue?  They already have three generations living inside the house, twenty people so, no they are stuck in the garage. The top number one question they would get asked. Are you on the public housing list?

Anyone who is on that list, asks when will they get a home?  How long is a piece of string? That is a list you need to be on, but it doesn’t guarantee you will get anything.

So, the significance of one’s home is even more important to anyone with a disability.  It’s a place to be safe, to keep one’s precious things, to build important memories, to regroup at the end of the day, to replenish energy, to sleep. Then to get up the next day ready to fight another day.

So, in short, keeping this in mind,

·         Brain injury: 47 years

·         Moved out of home at 19 years

·         Moved lots until 30 years

·         Diagnosis of ABI at 34 years

·         Since treatment at 30 years, onset of severe disability where I can no longer work and need care.

·         Have moved: 4 times!

Keeping in the back of your mind, I had a boyfriend, sorry I thought I had a boyfriend when I first developed my disability. I digress or context done.

As I mentioned my situation to the advocate, how many times I’d had to move since my disability and while in comparison to her clients with the new born baby, I had told a friend that finding decent housemates since my disability had been like getting my heart, soul and wallet robbed by complete strangers. A friend had bitched to me when he had his disability, he had, had to give up his awesome housemates and he couldn’t understand why I had not been more empathetic towards him.

So, I pointed out, while I’d moved four fucking times and had lived by myself for seven years or more, renting. His family bought him a fucking house!  Now admittedly his house is in the outer suburbs, he owned the house. No renting.

and now 10-15 years later, he’s moved into an apartment in Abbotsford where he can walk to the city and he still thinks I should be all empathetic towards his plight.

Sound bitchy don’t I?  Yeah, the inner bitch comes out occasionally.

The Ex

The Ex

There are days I have plenty of sad topics to cover but I like to find a positive from a negative. Take my ex-boyfriend. No really, take him!

I will liken him to Wentworth Miller (actor).  Are you familiar with him?  I’ll help, Prison Break.  Full body tattoos, yeah!!!! Deep breath and Gay. Yep, ladies can’t have him. He’s into guys, which is fine. I used to have a picture of him on a pinboard. C’mon, we all did. It’s nice to dream.

But gay?  Gay!  We’re fine. The other team scores another one but my ex, I digress, poster on my pinboard and my stepdaughter (yeah, it was brief, at the time I had a step-daughter.)

She asked her dad if the photo was of him?  He looked at me and I smiled a little and shook my head. Now, I thought we had been together about four years, but apparently, we had not been. I guess because he sent mixed messages. I like provincial furniture and decorations. He suggested if I could save some money, we could have a trip to France.

Me, now?  So, I can have another fucking holiday to the most romantic place in the world with a so-called boyfriend who didn’t have the same ideas for our relationship that I did.  FUCK NO!  Thank you.

Let’s Be Friends

Lets be Friends

So that is to say, when I was diagnosed, I did have a boyfriend. But all the boxes were ticked for it’s not a forever thing.

• I’m a Nona, he wouldn’t let me feed him.
• He would not sleep over (No, there was no sex) I’m fine with as he was not ‘fit’.

*Fit – The term I picked up from living with two British Geezers for a month, to describe someone as ‘Sexy’. They flicked through a magazine to point out all the pictures; “Fit! Fit! Fit! Not Fit!” Hilarious.

Fit

Not Fit

 

And we’re back.

And he was working, but had some crazy idea that he was the ‘Hero’ in every scenario. He had moved back home at 37. You get me, right?

Oh, good lord. Guys just have that deer in the headlight look, don’t they?

What are we doing? Is this working?

Fine! I’ll rip the band-aid off.

“Let’s be friends!”

We remained friends for some years, which was more what we had been anyway. But…..

Judgement – Part 2

 

Judgement – Part 2

On a more humorous front and when I do so call “Judgement” I do it with subtlety. This is a watch and learn teaching moment. But in reading form.

About ten years ago, I was on a train on a Saturday morning with my then boyfriend, going to Preston to the markets. Saturday morning’s I set the standard if we were going, we would have to be there by 10am and out of there by 11am.

After that time, it was pointless being there because it is full of bargain hunters who try to get that last-minute special. My plan is to get there, hit it hard, then get the hell out of there and get home.

When I do the market, it’s generally vegies, meat, fresh pasta, rice, nuts, passata, meat, coffee/fresh biscuits, deli olives, cheese, fresh bread and did I mention meat? If I don’t spend at least $100 and stock up my fridge and freezer, I’ve wasted my time. Remember, I’m making my Nona proud.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My boyfriend hated going because he couldn’t work out where everything was and he had the job of pushing the shopping trolley (which you could easily wheel it behind you on its two wheels) but he was a little too tall and because literally five minutes after we got there he would need to use the bathroom. He had the ‘bladder like a sieve’. I mentioned his sense of direction, I would walk behind him and call out directions like a military Sargent, “Left” or “Right” when it was necessary for him to change directions.

I always found it quite humorous although he obviously hated being micromanaged as men do. However, I used to make our adventures so he would cope better.

Usually I would have to convince the boyfriend to return to the Preston Markets, which we would generally go once a month and I did this by way of his pocket. As it’s the language that directly speaks to men. “We can go to the supermarket and spend $200 or we can go to the Market and spend only $100, so we would go to the markets.

I would go to the supermarket weekly to get the groceries and he would refund me. I digress, oh my God, went way out of left field on this on. Kinda feel like the judgement part” is the punch line.

On the train journey there, we went five or six stops from home in Clifton Hill at the time, we encountered all kinds of people. People going to work, people going home, people going home from clubbing the night before. The really seedy types who looked like they had slept in their clothes on a park bench in the city, who looked a little worse for wear for their efforts.

One morning, a guy in his 20’s walked down the train isle towards us, who fitted into the latter category. T-shirt (dirty), jeans (dirty), messy hair and runners. As he headed in our direction, I turned my head slightly towards my right (where my boyfriend was seated) and muttered “haircut and belt.” He had seen him coming, also and made a little noise.

See? Subtle! (bitchy, sure) but subtle. And not every bit of commentary is for public consumption.