Jordan Beaven

There’s something I’ve been trying to process lately, and honestly, I’m not sure I fully understand it myself yet.

I’m about to lose my home.

To some people that might just sound like losing a flat, but for me it was so much more than that. It was security. It was stability. It was something I worked incredibly hard to build after years of my life being anything but stable.

Before I ever got that flat, I had already experienced psychiatric hospitals, homelessness, hostels, and supported living. Getting my own place felt like a huge milestone. It felt like I had finally reached a point where I could start to rebuild my life.

For the first time in a long time, something felt like it was mine.

But life doesn’t always unfold the way you expect it to.

The trauma that happened in that space slowly took away the feeling of safety. A place that once represented independence and security started to feel like just a building instead of a home. And when you’re stuck in the system for a long time, the outside world doesn’t just pause and wait for you.

Things start slipping away.

Slowly at first. Then all at once.

Possessions disappear. Stability disappears. The life you once worked so hard to build starts to feel further and further away while you’re simply trying to survive day to day.

Eventually, you find yourself facing decisions you never thought you’d have to make. Decisions that feel less like choices and more like something the system quietly pushes you towards.

Giving up the one place that represented independence is one of those decisions.

And that’s where I find myself now.

What people often don’t see is the emotional toll that long-term hospitalisation can have on someone’s life outside of those hospital walls. It isn’t just about treatment or recovery. It’s about the slow erosion of the life you had before.

The routines that grounded you.

The belongings that made your space feel like home.

The independence that reminded you that you were still a person outside the system.

Over time, those things start to disappear.

And when they do, it can leave you questioning who you are without them.

Right now I feel angry, scared, frustrated, and completely exhausted. There’s a deep sadness sitting underneath all of it too. The kind of sadness that comes from realising that surviving something doesn’t always mean life magically gets better afterwards.

When I woke up after surviving my suicide attempt, I remember wishing for a better life. I believed that surviving meant I would eventually find a way to rebuild something meaningful again.

But when the very system that’s supposed to help you ends up leaving you feeling like you’ve lost the last piece of stability you had, it becomes incredibly hard to imagine what the future is supposed to look like.

Today I feel lost.

Not just in the sense of not knowing what happens next, but lost in the deeper sense of trying to figure out who I am now that so much of my life has changed.

Maybe writing this is part of trying to make sense of it all.

Maybe it’s just a way of acknowledging the grief that comes with losing something that meant so much.

Either way, today I’m allowing myself to sit with the truth of it:

Surviving doesn’t always mean you get to keep the life you built before.

Sometimes it means starting over in ways you never expected.