Monday Morning Rambling
I once said to someone that people who live in cars drink less than people who live in houses. It was an outlandish statement, for the someone, but I was living in my car at the time and everything is relative.
Posing for the photo that appeared in the Echo newspaper in 2017
(Hard to believe it's 2021, already)
Now, I'm living in the lap of luxury in my small studio apartment (formerly known as a bed-sit) in Portobello, Dublin 8. Everything is relative. When you have slept in a car for eight hundred and forty nights, having a comfortable bed is a luxury. When I see homeless people sleeping in doorways, I think having a car is a luxury.
When I presented (which is a fancy way to describe being driven at high speed in an ambulance - hours from death) at Tallaght Hospital as a man living in a car on October 15th 2019 it didn't take long for the social welfare people to come see me, and ultimately provide me with my current home. Before that episode I hadn't looked for help. I considered myself a bit of a cosmopolitan vagabond, but the definition of a vagabond includes not having a home and I only had to think of the people who were sleeping in tents or shop doorways to realize I had a home. My home had four wheels, which can be very convenient for a home, and it provided me with a roof over my head. On rainy nights, I'd wrap myself up in two sleeping bags and a blanket - wearing all my clothes - and there was no sound more wonderful than the rain belting off the roof of my Honda. I was warm, comfortably stretched out in my makeshift bed feeling grateful and blessed.
One of the biggest advantages - yes, there are advantages - to living in a Honda was the fact that I didn't drink, sometimes for months at a time. Drinking is not really an option when you live in a car. When I moved into my apartment those months of continuous sobriety became a thing of the past. I had another item of luxury, a fridge, and one that was home to my favourite craft beers.
I haven't blogged for a while. I've missed it, but I was drinking too much and also for the last two years my brain has not been quite the same, not quite as sharp. Two years ago I would make trips along the M50 to locations I'd been countless times and struggle to know which exit I'd need to take.
I feel like writing again. I'm not sure what I want to write about, but that's not important. What is important, to me, is that I am writing. It's therapeutic and there's nothing quite like a little bit of therapy, and while I'm not laughing at that last comment I am certainly smiling.
Tomorrow I am going to write about Ben Greenfield and the subject of age reversal.