John (name changed) is aged somewhere in his 40’s. We don’t know how old exactly because he won’t tell us. Small and ever-so skinny, his presentation is, compared to normal standards, much to be desired. Dirty. Smelly. Dishevelled. His behaviour can be erratic and loud. Sometimes confrontational and anti-social. There are times when, I imagine, he really doesn’t do himself any favours, and then on hearing his story it’s also not a big surprise. His bed is some random bush or doorway of a city who prides itself on its motto of ‘ Where everyone matters’.

What he has told us though is enough to remind me that people are not always what they seem. He tells his story between gulps of cheap sherry and sobbing tears that encapsulate his pain. It goes something like this.

John was rejected by his parents when he was just a few weeks old. He grew up in a children’s home where for years he was silently abused. On leaving care at 16 he had no where else to go so enrolled into the army. After several years he finds himself on the front line of battle covered in blood and bits of brain, cradling his dying best friend who had just been shot through the head. In his last breaths of life his friend gave John the chain from around his neck to take home to give to his mother with the message that she was the last thought on his mind as he passed from this life into another.

John was discharged from the army as he (unsurprisingly) lost it. Post Traumatic Stress disorder wasn’t recognised back then. Today, the man in front of me is displaying all the behaviours of someone who is severely struggling to come to terms with the harshness of life’s events. Trauma leaks from him. It’s as if someone or something has finally pushed over that final domino and sent the stack, and a man, crumbling to the ground. He refuses our offers of support to find him somewhere to sleep for the night, his perceived reason being that no-one wants to help him. I wonder how anyone can help him?

Drink and self harm are his coping mechanisms. As we listen to the jumbled words trying to find their place, the dark stains on his jeans confirm that he’s pissed himself again. John tries to hide the indignity of this while, unembarrassed, we explain that it’s really not an issue in order to minimise his shame. He also dares show us the deep wounds on his arms and then quickly recoils, unsure of how we will respond.

‘All I want is to be loved’!

We struggle to contain our own tears that rise as he keeps on. A friendly hello to a passing stranger is ignored. Not once or twice, but about five times. Eyes fixed, heads down. Strangers in a hurry to get home from work. I sense the fear of the unknown in others that John’s ‘hello’ invokes. Walking on by seems uncomfortably easy. I wonder if I would just walk on by if I wasn’t there in a professional capacity?

We leave John, knowing that this is going to be a long journey. We have a lot to do to earn his trust and build a relationship with him that will ensure he gets access to support if he wants it. John sits with his guitar strapped wonkily to his back, our parting promise being that next time he will give us a song! A small smile flickers across his face and I think I see the tiniest spark of hope behind the sadness in his eyes. As we walk on and stop to chat to another street-dweller, the distant shattering of a sherry bottle is heard. Peeking under the subway we nervously watch John’s wobbly bow-legs stop and negotiate the steps down towards ‘home’.

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