As I write this Dee is curled up asleep on the corner couch, tiny under her black coat, camouflaged in crocheted blankets and a licorice allsort of cushions, cigarettes scattered all over the floor. And when I look at her sleeping form she seems so peaceful. I’m reminded, with an unexpected pang, of the sleeping form of my eldest nephew. He is a child whose limbs barely contain his enthusiasm for life, who rushes headlong into the day, and who, with great passion, has the odd occasion to resist sleep. Many times I’ve watched his face after it has finally relaxed into that wildly battled nap, limbs tucked into a foetal ball, tucked under the arm of my sister.

I’ve tiptoed into their room to watch them sleep from the time he was first born when they were wrapped up in each other, falling in love and oblivious to my steps, and still do now he is almost three. There is something so intimate about being allowed to see someone sleep, about being allowed to witness the moments of vulnerability. Many times my girlfriends and I have talked about the first night you share a bed with a lover, and how hard it is to relax into a proper sleep. Because when we sleep we can’t maintain any facade. We drool, snore, talk and yes, fart. Ditto sleeping on airplanes, trains and in public places. Yet despite the drooly lack of social graces there is something in the vulnerability of a sleeping face that can make you fall wildly in love with the sleeper (hence the continued bedtime stalkery of said nephew – he is so moreishly delectable asleep).

So when Dee came in today and asked me if I minded her curling up on the couch and having a sleep I said I didn’t. Of course not. And now she lies there sleeping, and my heart is panging because I miss watching my nephew snooze. But also because in the curl of her form, I can see that she was once a little baby who tucked up to sleep under her mother’s arm, safe and close to a milky bosom. She was, is, someones baby girl. Someones sweet-smelling, tiny-toed, nuzzling baby girl. And today, watching her face that is ravaged with sores from her drug use, relaxed under glasses with one cracked lens, it makes you wonder what her story is. How on earth that baby ended up asleep on the Gatehouse couch?

Dee sleeps on the couch quite often but it touches me that she trusts me to sleep when its just me here with my camera. I’m becoming part of the fabric of Gatehouse. A regular. That trust means I am starting to get to a point where I can get her to tell me her story, which is, after all, the whole point of me being here; sharing these women’s stories. And maybe understanding how that baby girl became ruined by drugs, selling her sex on the street will give us, who walk past her and judge (and we all do) more compassion.

She has been taking photos of her own too she tells me. Photos of walls and trees. The walls and trees she walks into when she is “off her face”. She is a hilarious character but I confess when I first arrived here I found her behavior challenging. She is belligerent, clever, difficult and obnoxious. But to my great surprise I have warmed to her gradually over the weeks. In the beginning I actually hoped she wouldn’t want to be involved in the project because she rubbed me the wrong way, making me scratchy and irritated. All I saw was a challenge I wasn’t sure I wanted to take on. But she has worked her peculiar brand of magic on me. I now find her dear little heart and funny ways endearing, even through all her prickles. In return I think she quite likes me too. She lingered at closing today, showing me her shoes, and helping me hang some photos on the walls. And later, when I was walking home she called out her goodbye from her spot on the street corner. It took all my self control not to run across the road and tuck her little battered self under my arm.