She looked up handing me a towel, a comb, a bottle of generic shampoo and a deodorant, indicating "the showers are to the left past the phone. Come back when you've finished."
Quickly I stripped, let the water slip down my body and soaped up my underarms and privates, barely wet my hair. While it might not have been the most thorough job in the world, I got the important parts and considered the job done. I jumped out into the cool room and put my jeans and shirt right back on, gathering my towel and other things together, going outside.
The woman looked up, registering my presence, then down again at her papers, gestured back to the showers and said: "Do it again."
"Why?"
"The time was too short. You couldn't have showered in that time."
"So I shower quickly."
"Go and take the shower over."
I stood dumbfounded. "Are you telling me that I'm lying? Why in the world would I lie to you? I took a shower."
She would not be budged.
"All right then," I said, rolling my eyes up, "I'll take it again." In the shower once again, I pulled the shower curtain into place, making the rings rattle along the bar.
"Are you really in there or are you just faking?" she called from the door.
Now things were getting weird. I could not get over this extraordinary person. What was her motivation to doubt my honesty? Was there a random fanaticism or was she out to get me for some reason in particular? I was too stunned to speak.
"We'll see," she said. And she came and opened the shower curtain, taking a full glance at my nudity, and stuck her hand in to see if the water was indeed running and it just wasn't me making water-like sounds. I was surprised that she didn't just wash me herself.
Ordeal over, I went upstairs to the bunk-room. There were an enormous number of beds.
Unfortunately, security necessitated that some illumination be on at all times, rotating by night around the huge room. The light that night was right over my bed; I barely slept at all.
The situation could not have thrown me back to my father and his money more than if the shelter personnel had dropped me off at my apartment in a taxi. The women in the room were noisy and as the security guards themselves had radios and were talking, one could hardly complain to them about the noise. Had I stayed there more than that night, I never would have slept.
I went home.
The cool sheets, the privacy and the feeling of my own apartment, even if paid for by my father were indescribable; a relief and yet a shame for I was bound like a baby in swaddling clothes to my father's money and his justice.
What had driven me to the shelter was mental illness. Lifelong, toxic interactions with my family constellation convinced me that total estrangement from them was the only thing that could help me escape its influence. That and exposure to 'consumers' like me could perhaps enable me to heal. The situation seemed ideal: freedom from my parents; free food; a bed; a clinic; perhaps friends. A safe haven; a home.
But the appearance belied the reality. Conditions as mentioned before -- noisy, inconsiderate girls, suspicious staff and security; glaring lights -- were not optimal ones for getting well. So I went home. I had left a negative living situation for one I had thought was better -- the shelter -- only to find it in fact worse. Back in my apartment I had turned full circle from the frying pan into the fire and into the pan once more.
Did I learn anything from my journey? Or had I just landed right where I started from? Had I at least come 'home?' Did I have one home, two homes or none at all?
Relaxed, comfortable, I was better off than I had thought myself to be. (Thought: what of people who had no place, parents, people -- no options -- to return to?) Even my link with my family with an apartment in which I lived with reasonable independence seemed to show promise. I was driven to find some other way toward recovery, which I had not yet found.