Throughout the month of March we will be focusing specifically on women’s homelessness. Around 20% of our caseload are women, but that’s not necessarily because less women are homeless, moreover it is due to that fact that a lot of women’s homelessness is hidden. This month we will take a closer look at the complex needs of our female caseload and try to understand how best we can work towards a clearer understanding of this hugely vulnerable minority group, and how best to support them.
This piece of writing was submitted to us by an ex-rough sleeper well known to Simon on the Streets. Written from the view-point of her 17 year old self, it is a hard hitting and powerful expose of women’s homelessness.
‘My name is ‘Simone’ and I am a homeless woman surviving on the streets. Life is hard on the streets but it has a particular way of biting you if you are a woman; ways in which you are never able to forget.
In simple terms I feel I have disappeared as a woman. The woman I am today looks nothing like the woman I was many moons ago. I used to have thick, long wavy brown hair which was my pride and joy but when I caught lice the itching was insufferable; so I had to cut my hair really short. Having short hair is not so bad because I am not easily identified as a woman which helps avoid unwanted male attention which frequently turns violent. I don’t wear tight figure hugging clothes but baggy clothes to make me look bigger so that people will not see me as a lightweight and pushover. I never wear jogging bottoms as they can be easily pulled down and I always wear practical footwear as I need to be able to run. Without realising it I have slowly become androgynous in my appearance in order to disguise my sex. Through sheer necessity I have learnt how to fight and to act tough with a view to deterring people from getting too close. Clearly this has had a personal cost, as it has destroyed the very sense of me as a woman, not just as a person.
Staying clean is another big challenge and sometimes to my embarrassment I can’t always manage it. To me the height of luxury is a basin of clean water, soap and a little bit of privacy. On good days I can find it in supermarket toilets, just before closing time or first thing in the morning. Other times I just manage a quick freshen up. The worse time of course is when I have my period. Some days I don’t even have enough money for sanitary wear so I resort to stealing or improvising by using toilet paper. I will try and rinse out my underwear and get it dry again but this is not always possible. In the past when I have been caught short I have had to steal underwear from washing lines in simple desperation. I hate having my period because I get awful cramps and need to take painkillers but I don’t always have the money so instead I just endure. Once when I had become particularly emaciated my periods stopped. At first I was glad to see the back of them, as it was a relief but deep down I knew it wasn’t a real cause for celebration but a sign of my weakening health.
I got pregnant once and was paralysed with fear thinking of the responsibility a baby would bring. How could I think of looking after a child when I could barely look after myself? I didn’t know what to do. As it turned out I miscarried and it felt like a lucky escape but at the same time I knew I had lost something precious. It has become clear to me that all the time in the world will never erase that feeling of deep loss and that it will stay with me forever.
Public toilets are a god send to me. On many occasions I have used them as a temporary refuge and view them as a place of respite and safety. When I have needed to sleep or simply just needed to disappear from view for a while I have headed to the toilets. I check the cubicle the farthest from the entrance, slide home the lock and settle down on the floor for some rest. Although it provides only minimal comfort, to me it is everything. I am in my own space and temporarily free from abuse, objectification and judgement.
These days local authorities are choosing to lock public toilets at night because of vandalism which presents a huge headache for me. You see I don’t feel safe bedding down with a group of people I don’t know. In the past I have been robbed, harassed, beaten and sexually assaulted so many times that now I don’t trust anyone. So now I have to try and find alternative bolt holes known just to myself. Of course this is easier said than done.
Any safe place has to be isolated but close enough that I could scream for help if attacked. It has to be hidden as otherwise I could be a sitting target for some one’s fun and games. Generally it will be space just for one as the fewer people that know about it the better. It’s better to be alone and safe than sharing, even with another woman, as you never know who she is running from. Ironically, I miss the company of other women and the opportunity just to be one of the girls hanging out, having a chat, having a laugh or even just a cry. The loneliness goes deep.
In the past I did try and avoid selling sex but there really is no escape. I tried begging for a short while but quickly discovered that on occasions it might appear as if a guy has given me money but there was still the question of what I could do for him in return. It is simply assumed that I can be bought. If I refuse then I am regarded as being difficult for no good reason and should really be taught a lesson, to be put in my place. After all who am I to say no to him? It’s funny really, I can try and say no to sex but still be beaten and raped for being “un-cooperative” and then on the other hand I can sell myself for sex and still catch a beating for being a whore. Damned if I do damned if I don’t.
The sexist verbal abuse is clear in its meaning: I am a whore, slag, slut, bitch, dog and dirty tramp all of which I know means I am a failed woman, a non person, truly a non entity. In reality, I am every woman fallen on hard times and I could be you. It seems to be too easily and conveniently forgotten that I have a name; my name is ‘Simone’ and I am a homeless woman surviving on the streets.’