n April 2018, I moved into a hostel for young people who had no where left to go.
By: Eleanor Wait
Tags: Homelessness, Marriage, Homeless, America, Disability

n April 2018, I moved into a hostel for young people who had no where left to go. You can dress it up however you want to: ‘Sheltered accommodation‘ or ‘Just somewhere to stay till I get back on my feet’ but it seemed to me like an odd mix between a halfway house and homeless shelter. I knew even then, how lucky I was to have been offered a place there so quickly. The waiting list was long and so I didn’t take the chance for a little stability for granted.

Obviously it wasn’t my intention to ever end up in that situation and to begin untangling the decisions made which led me down that path would probably be emotionally traumatic and unnecessary. I’ve pinned blamed a multitude of circumstances from my visual impairment to my difficult relationships with certain family members but the odd flashes of anger and blame pointing never lasted long. They would float past my mind at 2:am when I couldn’t sleep but they were rarely dwelled on. I couldn’t see the point in figuring out why I was there. All I knew is that I had to get out.

It seems odd to say that I wasn’t in the biggest rush to get out. I had been to boarding schools for years before living there and so was used to the communal living aspect. Despite the difficulties of living there (like finding grinders in your washing or the constant aroma of cannabis) there was also this weird sense of freedom I gained from living there. I had nothing to lose and it felt like things could only really go up. I was prepared to wait tight until a flat or living situation came along that would really suit me but that takes time.

I hid my living situation from a lot of people for a long time. My whole world had become so complex that it was easier to cut ties with certain people than to try and explain my living situation. It was one of the first times that I really understood class divides. I had one friend in particular. Let’s call her Sophia. Sophia is one of the most socially ‘woke’ people I know. She is admirably so careful with the language she uses. Her worst fear seemed to be being misunderstood or to come across insensitive. I was walking with her one afternoon back from an event in Cardiff where she was working and I was volunteering. She had heard through the grapevine where I was living and I broached the subject by assuring her that I was safe (which wasn’t entirely a lie) and generally sugarcoating my experience of living there.

It was so abundantly clear to me that she just wouldn’t understand the situation I was in: Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t bought up in luxury. She isn’t so wrapped up in her own privilege that she couldn’t see the wood for the trees. She certainly had her own problems and injustices but I couldn’t find the words to make her sincerely understand the situation I was in, An underfunded hostel, in a small town, in the Welsh Valleys. While she was used to the city life which had more work and housing opportunities and a family wealthier than mine who could afford to take her in if needed. My family were supportive and did all they could to help me but they were just not in a position to take me in.

I had two saving graces in my entire homeless experience. One of which were the staff at the hostel I lived in. I still hold them dear to my heart. They were continually supportive of me through every anxiety attack, mood swing, and that one time when I drunkenly vomited, told them karma was coming to get me and then blacked out on their office floor. Surprisingly, I have some very fond memories from my time their and all of those memories are because of the staff.

My other saving grace was undoubtedly my then boyfriend, now husband. He may have lived over four thousand miles away in Indiana but the quick Skype calls and texts really did keep me going and were very often a great source of comfort to me – although sometimes it was a torment. Long distance relationships are nice but at some point, someone has to make a move. There needs to be an end date to the time difference battles and lonely moments.

I eventually realised that I had to make a choice between rebuilding my life in Wales or taking a giant leap of faith and jumping on a flight to America. Justin (my now husband) bought me a ticket as a Christmas/birthday present and when I boarded that flight, I did so with some doubt and anxiety. I had never lived with this man long term and I wasn’t just entering his home, but his two children’s.

I scraped together money and paid three months of rent to the hostel upfront to keep my room open certain that I would return home because I wasn’t about to become some 1950s American housewife with two kids and a husband. Leaving on a jet plane and not looking back to live out some American dream was something that happened in movies. But apparently sometimes life can be a little like a movie.

Within those three months I had married him and applied for a change in immigration status. I was packing school lunches and going to an arcade with my step-kids on a Sunday afternoon. I’m still adjusting to life here nearly 18 months later but I’ve always felt sure that I would have built something for myself in Wales some how.

Someone once told me that what I did was brave. I’ve heard multiple times that they couldn’t have just dropped everything and moved to another continent. I recognise that I was lucky, I had the support to do so. I also had a family who were willing to let me take such a big leap and who trusted me enough to support me every step of the way. I am under no illusions however that no matter what path I would have taken – whether to go to America or whether to stay at home – would have taken bravery. Either the bravery to jump head first into marriage and parenthood or the bravery to carve out your own space and go at it alone.