We often hinder our own progress in life.
Walking with my head down, dragging my feet, I noticed that dry autumn leaves had stuck to my shoes. I sat down and slowly reached to brush them off.
I watched as the wind swirled around me, covering me even more. With cold hands, I wiped my face and felt the chill of the air. A great sorrow also weighed on my heart. Something I couldn’t shake off or wipe away, but simply had to feel until it dissipated on its own and time made me forget it.
But it lingered, and it was hard to shake off.
All that was left was to check my back pocket for the companion that had dragged me here—alcohol.
I knew it, but I never wanted to admit it.
I was alone, depressed, and in an inner pain that’s difficult to describe. Only the same poison that had harmed me could cure me.
As the saying goes: “The cure comes from the very poison that’s killing you.”
Alcohol was the only substance that made me numb, causing me to lose my sensitivity to pain and even to smile at my own misfortune.
The people walking by on the sidewalk looked at me with disdain and perhaps empathy, as it was clear I was going through a difficult time.
But it wasn’t about acknowledging my current situation, but rather how I could get out of it.
With my own hands, I destroyed my destiny. I could have been a graduate or simply a man achieving goals and building a good future. But what I was living was pure misery.
Even my loved ones distanced themselves because I wouldn’t listen to their advice. It seemed I was enjoying my downfall.
Under the influence, I started imagining my family, who would still be waiting for me. Or that I would get a stable job again, but it was all just a fantasy in which I sought to comfort myself.
Without a watch, the short autumn day seemed to get darker faster, making me realize I needed to head back to the shelter to grab a bed for the night. That’s pretty much how my days of homelessness went: short, sometimes with little moments of clarity before I passed out from drinking—a cycle that was quickly wearing me down. But I always held onto the hope that one day I’d get out of this and start over.
On my way back to the shelter, I walked down the main avenue only to disappear onto the train tracks. It was the most discreet shortcut, and along the way, I encountered familiar faces. Other homeless people were getting high or drunk, talking nonsense.
Every month, it felt like I was seeing fewer familiar faces and meeting new ones. It was like I was encountering people who had come to escape their families, society, and judgment. The vibe here was all about accepting wild behavior, but it didn’t really pay attention to what each person was going through. Some people had strong odors, and others were just dirty from sleeping outside so much.
But camaraderie was the only thing that united them, even though they all distrusted each other.
As I got closer to the shelter entrance, the groups were larger and the hustle and bustle more intense. Some were offering things, others were asking for them. I was just looking for the main door, but the line was long and filled with pointless conversations.
When would this difficult time end? When would I be able to smile with true happiness again? Or, when would I see my loved ones again?
Everything seemed to be slipping away from me. As if my point of no return had been reached.
All I can do is live one day at a time and hope that one day I’ll figure out where to begin.
For now, a place to rest would be nice. Tomorrow I’ll think of something better to do.
Thank you for reading.
My life has undergone a complete transformation, and I am putting the difficult memories I experienced into writing.
My desire is not only to share my experience but also to prevent you from going through the same situation. There are still many people out there who haven’t been able to find their way out, but I urge them never to give up.
As long as there is life, there is hope.
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