Riches to Rags

I sat outside the food bank in my car. My phone redundant on the passenger seat because the bill hadn’t been paid. The weather grey, and the car park with gravel and holes gathering dirty rainwater. The scene was set. I recognised I had reached the bottom of the cliff, and this was who I was now.

I had struggled for awhile to keep everything afloat, my anxiety and sleepless nights hidden from my children. Finally I realised that I had no food in the house, And I had no way to get by. I had googled food banks in the local area a few times, and although I was aware of their existence, I’ve never visited one before. And in my 40 odd years, I’ve never had to use charities or rely on anybody else. If it wasn’t for having children, I still wouldn’t have reached out for help. But their basic needs outweighed my sense of pride. I didn’t tell them what I was doing, I read on the site the instructions of what I needed to provide. I sat in the waiting area amongst people that paced and fidgeted, signs of drug use, the facial scars, the tics, all of the signs that I’ve been taught to recognise in my previous work history. I wasn’t judging them, but I just reflected my sense of despair. I’m not a drug or alcohol user myself, my reasons for being there was simply because there was no money in the bank. I was welcomed into an office where I provided my identification as requested on the site, trying to maintain my dignity, acting as though this was merely a meeting. The warmth of the woman that spoke to me broke through my business like persona, and I began to sob. Big wrenching sobs, the miserable ones with the running nose and the gasps for oxygen . She passed me a box of tissues, closed the door which I imagine is unusual – owing to the security. And told me she would complete the form for me while I sat in the chair and cried. I gave her the details of the people that live with me; my children. No specific dietary needs, no allergies, did I have any specific needs like sanitary products and cleaning products, yes. I hadn’t even realised that was a possibility. She told me that she understood it was overwhelming, and that I could wait in my car for them to call me. So this is where the idea of documenting my story began. With no end, no epiphany , just an outlet. I sat in my car looking at the gloomy weather, crying into some cheap tissues and wondering what I’ve done so wrong. Was I feeling sorry for myself? Yes, absolutely. Did I see sitting outside of food bank needing this much help as failure? Yes, I did. As a mother, as a person, the scenario that I never in a million years pictured for myself, brought me such a deep sense of misery that was hard to compare to any other time in my life.

My name was called, and as I went to collect the boxes, a lady reached out to me who had bright pink hair. She told me I look like I needed a hug. I replied that I was okay, she told me she could recognise that this is my first time at the food bank. At that point I was wearing my sunglasses and desperately trying to retain my sense of control in front of people. She told me that she had just survived breast cancer, hence why she had died her hair pink. She struck me as a humble and kind human being. She told me that everyone fell on hard times, and that I shouldn’t be ashamed of asking for help. This is why places like this existed. I immediately felt the need to move into a role of offering her support. Asking if she was in pain, if she needed anything, when her boxes were ready, I loaded her car because she was still in pain from her operation. But it was clear despite her physical pain she was the stronger one, reassuring me that everything was going to be okay. The exchange left me filling bereft and confused. This woman was stronger than me, had survived cancer and was reassuring me. When I got home, I unloaded the boxes and told my children that I’d been shopping. They remarked on some of the unusual products, the different branding, but I told them I had just got what I could. They were excited by what I had brought into the house. Things that I would usually regard as luxuries and wouldn’t buy myself like bread rolls, snacks, and meat. The kids were excited to by what I brought back and this gave me the reassurance that I’d done the right thing and that had I persevered in an uncomfortable position with the payoff being my children with fed bellies, oblivious to my failings. 

If you’d met me a few years ago, it would be glaringly obvious that I had never visited a Foodbank in my life, nor that I would even know of their existence.