Another day, another dialysis session and yet another sterling BBC3 documentary on iPlayer. No-one was eating junk food or recounting their SAS days, admittedly, but it was incredibly thought-provoking nonetheless and it left me feeling reflective. And pretty terrified.
The program was about young people who are "secretly" homelessness: unable to live at home for whatever reason, they are sleeping on friends' sofas or in hostels, only one perilous step away from being on the streets. No permanent address = no job; no job = no income, and no income means no money to pay rent for that pivotal proof of residency, so it is a vicious cycle.
My terror did not devolve from the thought that it could be me. The reality is I am unlikely ever to find myself in that situation. I have good relations with all my family, and I know they would put me up were I in need of a bed. I am well educated and have experience in the work place, and whilst the job market is volatile, I work in a sector that enjoys relative security and recruits pretty much continuously (the kids won't teach themselves how to glue macaroni). But the documentary jack-hammered upon a nerve. One poor lad had been working as a roofer before he developed a medical condition that meant he had to stop. He required an operation, but without a permanent dwelling the surgeons were reluctant to go ahead for fear he would have nowhere suitable in which to recover. He ended up sleeping in a park.
My health was the death knell for my own burgeoning career. I was forced to give up my very first proper adult job at a PR agency as I descended back into kidney failure, and when I emerged on the other side I was so shocked and exhausted by my new dialysis regime that I only went back sporadically for a few months before stopping altogether. It is something I regret to this day, but it seemed like the right decision at the time and it was only feasible because of one person: my Dad.
Without my Dad's financial support, I don't know where I would be now. Not in London, almost certainly; not living in a nice house with Maisy. Not a day goes by when I do not offer up my silent thanks that my Dad can help me pay my rent and bills, and is now also paying for me to do a Masters degree so I can catch up with my friends and get myself sorted with a proper career. Most days, I thank him out loud as well. Watching these young people struggle so horrendously rammed home to me just how lucky I am; it also made me wonder about all those other unfortunate souls for whom illness curtails their job and forces them into austerity. It is enough, after all, to have to contend with the onset of illness without having to worry about how you're going to pay your electricity bill.
I am so very glad I have been able to go back to work - even if it is just a part-time job, even if I do moan about it incessantly. I am a little bit proud that I earn my own money. But I am not yet in a position to be able to entirely support myself, so more than anything I am supremely thankful to have a father who is willing - and able - to help me out. Of course, I feel guilty and useless and scrounging too, and the only way I can justify my position is with the knowledge that one day I shall be completely financially independent and it will be me bank-rolling my parents. Until I get there, I have a roof over my head, my family around me and change in my pocket for snacks from M&S. To try and claim I need any more than that is balls-out ludicrous.
The program was about young people who are "secretly" homelessness: unable to live at home for whatever reason, they are sleeping on friends' sofas or in hostels, only one perilous step away from being on the streets. No permanent address = no job; no job = no income, and no income means no money to pay rent for that pivotal proof of residency, so it is a vicious cycle.
My terror did not devolve from the thought that it could be me. The reality is I am unlikely ever to find myself in that situation. I have good relations with all my family, and I know they would put me up were I in need of a bed. I am well educated and have experience in the work place, and whilst the job market is volatile, I work in a sector that enjoys relative security and recruits pretty much continuously (the kids won't teach themselves how to glue macaroni). But the documentary jack-hammered upon a nerve. One poor lad had been working as a roofer before he developed a medical condition that meant he had to stop. He required an operation, but without a permanent dwelling the surgeons were reluctant to go ahead for fear he would have nowhere suitable in which to recover. He ended up sleeping in a park.
My health was the death knell for my own burgeoning career. I was forced to give up my very first proper adult job at a PR agency as I descended back into kidney failure, and when I emerged on the other side I was so shocked and exhausted by my new dialysis regime that I only went back sporadically for a few months before stopping altogether. It is something I regret to this day, but it seemed like the right decision at the time and it was only feasible because of one person: my Dad.
Without my Dad's financial support, I don't know where I would be now. Not in London, almost certainly; not living in a nice house with Maisy. Not a day goes by when I do not offer up my silent thanks that my Dad can help me pay my rent and bills, and is now also paying for me to do a Masters degree so I can catch up with my friends and get myself sorted with a proper career. Most days, I thank him out loud as well. Watching these young people struggle so horrendously rammed home to me just how lucky I am; it also made me wonder about all those other unfortunate souls for whom illness curtails their job and forces them into austerity. It is enough, after all, to have to contend with the onset of illness without having to worry about how you're going to pay your electricity bill.
I am so very glad I have been able to go back to work - even if it is just a part-time job, even if I do moan about it incessantly. I am a little bit proud that I earn my own money. But I am not yet in a position to be able to entirely support myself, so more than anything I am supremely thankful to have a father who is willing - and able - to help me out. Of course, I feel guilty and useless and scrounging too, and the only way I can justify my position is with the knowledge that one day I shall be completely financially independent and it will be me bank-rolling my parents. Until I get there, I have a roof over my head, my family around me and change in my pocket for snacks from M&S. To try and claim I need any more than that is balls-out ludicrous.
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