Joules Humm has dedicated his left arm to his son, Jake. Every tattoo is a reference to him: his favourite numbers (one and three); his date of birth (13 October 1995); an image of the grim reaper alongside the words “Live now pay later”; a dragon koi, because Jake loved fishing; the musical notation for the chorus of his song Try Me. Then, tattooed along his forearm in script, is “Resilient J”, Jake’s rapper name.

Jake had so much potential and was beginning to turn his life around. He had been sober for almost two years after drinking excessively since he was 16. After years in flux – pinballing from supported accommodation in Brighton to homeless hostels, squats and friends’ sofas – he seemed to be on the verge of getting his own place. He was even beginning to make inroads into the music industry: in January 2018, he joined in a filmed session with the hugely successful singer-songwriter Rag’n’Bone Man. But in the end, Resilient J wasn’t quite resilient enough. After losing a close friend to suicide and witnessing another overdosing, he relapsed. A three-week drinking binge followed, before he killed himself on 29 August 2018. Jake was 22.

Suicide is the second-biggest killer of homeless people in the UK, and Brighton has one of the highest suicide rates in the country. The city is a transient place: great for holidaymakers and day trippers, but tough for many people growing up there. Austerity has rattled Brighton, producing a lack of secure employment and affordable housing, which has led to some of the highest rates of rough sleeping and homelessness outside London. Cuts have decimated social care and education, contributing to a mounting youth crisis and communities where one in three children are living in poverty. At the same time, the influx of wealthier people (often second-home owners) to the city has increased house prices.

Jake didn’t leave a suicide note. It is impossible to know exactly what was going through his mind at the end. But the more you look into this life, the more you see all these elements coming into play – transience, loneliness, cuts to social care and support groups, unregulated services and, ultimately, institutional failings.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Jake Humm (right) with his father Joules. Photograph: Courtesy of Joules Humm

We meet Jake’s father in a cafe on Brighton’s seafront, underneath the bandstand where Jake loved to hang out with friends. Joules is accompanied by Michelle Hunter, a project team leader at the YMCA DownsLink Group, which was supporting Jake at the time of his death. It is nine months since he died, and Joules is still staggering towards an understanding and acceptance of what happened. Jake was his only child, his fishing partner, his soulmate. And yet, as is so often the case, there were tensions; they bickered and, ultimately, couldn’t live with each other.

Hunter had known Jake for years. She says he adored his father, and tells us how she and Joules would work together, behind his back, to try to keep Jake’s life on track. She talks about Jake with huge affection and emotion. She is also, perhaps unsurprisingly, a little defensive.

He was one of our young people. Once you’ve come to us and we’re there, the door is always open Michelle Hunter, YMCA Downslink Group

Joules, a 48-year-old carpenter, says it is uncanny how much he and Jake had in common – the same hobbies, obsessions and weaknesses. It was Joules who introduced Jake to music (all sorts, from Led Zeppelin to Eminem), taught him how to fish and encouraged his tidiness, which later became a fixation. But there was more. Joules knew exactly how tough it could be for young people, men in particular, trying to make their way in Brighton. He had moved there from London as a young man. Like Jake, he was creative, funny and handsome. Like Jake, he had struggled to make ends meet, battled depression and alcoholism (he last drank eight years ago) and spent time sofa surfing and in temporary accommodation. There is little that Jake went through that his father didn’t understand. Joules says there were times when he, too, was suicidal.

Joules says he and his son always had a special bond. Jake’s parents split up when he was about four; Joules says he was denied custody because he was living in temporary accommodation. Four years later, when Joules was settled, Jake moved into a flat with him.

Q&A What is 'The empty doorway' - the Guardian series on people who died homeless? Show Hide 726 homeless people died in England and Wales in 2018, according to the latest ONS figures. Over the next few months, G2 and Guardian Cities will look behind this statistic to tell the stories of some of those who have died on Britain’s streets. We will tell not just the story of their death, but the story of their life – what they were like as kids, what their dreams were, their hobbies, what people loved about them, what was infuriating. We will also examine what went wrong with their lives, how it impacted on their loved ones, and if anything could have been done differently to prevent their deaths. As the series develops, we will invite politicians, charities and homelessness organisations to respond to the issues raised. We will also ask readers to offer their own stories and reflections on homelessness. We want the stories we tell to become the fulcrum of a debate about homelessness; to make a difference to a scourge that shames us all. It is time to stop just passing by.

In some ways, Jake was a natural leader. At the age of seven, he was a star of the local football team, Saltdean United. Joules says he showed a rare maturity. “If someone was not pulling their weight in a certain position, rather than stand up front for the glory, Jake would drop into that position.” But in other ways, he struggled. School didn’t know what to do with Jake. He was bright, good with words, but he couldn’t settle. He played truant, and was disruptive when he did turn up.

At the age of 14, he was being seen by the child and adolescent mental health services. Eventually, he was diagnosed with generalised anxiety disorder. He wasn’t violent or aggressive, but he was pig-headed. He would find daft, random ways of getting into trouble at school. Joules tells the story of the marrow. “He went into a biology classroom and he picked up a marrow that the year below were growing, and one of the kids said: ‘You can have it, Jake.’” When the teachers asked him to return it, he refused, telling them it was a gift. He was deliberately winding them up. But the game got out of hand. By the end of the day, it had become a perverse matter of principle. “Jake climbed up on the school roof and launched it across the playground so nobody could have it,” says Joules. “That’s when he got into trouble, because it could have hit somebody.”

It is such a mild act of rebellion, yet somehow it sums up Jake’s brooding sense of injustice, that all was not well with the world. On social media he would vent his anger at all that was wrong with society. He became a conspiracy theorist, convinced that the US government was behind the bombing of the twin towers.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Joules Humm has dedicated his left arm to tattooed references to his late son, Jake. Photograph: Peter Flude/The Guardian

He was 16, still at school and already drinking too much when he decided to leave home. Joules agreed it was the best thing. There were no dramas, he says; they just needed their own space. “The relationship didn’t break down, but both of us could see where it was going. Maybe it was an alpha-male thing. It wasn’t a case of me saying: ‘Jake, you’ve gotta go.’ It was kind of a mutual thing. It was quite calm; it wasn’t ugly.”

Jake moved into accommodation at the YMCA in Brighton, a supported hostel with space for up to 15 residents. Hunter remembers that the first time she saw him he was wearing his school uniform. He was drinking more and more heavily, and started as he meant to go on – with spirits. We ask Joules where he got the money. Joules smiles and says he doesn’t think the local Co-op would have been best pleased with his son. When Jake wasn’t drinking, he would become agitated. At times, he would self-harm.

Alcohol is strictly prohibited at the YMCA. Jake lasted almost a year with the charity before being evicted after a “number of incidents involving anti-social behaviour”. Hunter says there was no choice – he was breaking the rules and making it tough for others. She insists the YMCA continued to support him. “To us, he was one of our young people,” she says. “Once you’ve come to us and we’re there, the door is always open.” The door may have been open, but Jake was no longer allowed to sleep at the YMCA.

Jake Humm's death fills me with anger and despair – thousands like him are at risk Read more

After the YMCA, Jake’s living situation fell into chaos. He bounced around every kind of housing project throughout Brighton, Newhaven and further afield. He and Joules remained close, but they knew it wouldn’t work if he moved back in. Jake had admitted that there were numerous occasions when he was offered help and refused it.

In October 2016, as he turned 21, he decided to take himself in hand and checked into a 10-day detox programme in London. At the end of that month, Jake announced to his Facebook friends: “A new chapter in my life is on the horizon, a life without drink an drugs, no doubt my demons will wanna war but [it’s] a war I’m gonna win!!! bring on tomorrow!”

For a long time, it looked as if he was winning it. After kicking the booze, he got back into shape, took on voluntary work and strengthened his relationship with his father. Jake and Joules spent weeks together camped out on lakes, catching and posing with carp the size of pitbulls. For the first time in five years, Jake moved back in with the YMCA – this time into semi-independent accommodation, which he hoped would be a stepping stone towards independence. He also embarked on a period of ferocious creativity.

The music organisation AudioActive is based in an old warehouse in Brighton. It looks like any old ramshackle building, until you enter and discover a rabbit warren of recording studios. AudioActive helps young people express themselves through music, and this is where Jake created some of his best work. For almost two years after Jake became clean, he attended a weekly session called Room to Rant, which provided just that. He was one of half a dozen struggling young men who turned up to express their anger, frustration and talent through music. Jake was older than most of his fellow ranters, but younger than the youth workers who supported them. He ended up close to both groups.

In the video with Rag’n’Bone Man, Jake explained what Room to Rant had done for him. “There’s not enough places for young men to be able to express themselves and express their feelings. Whatever it is on your mind, you can come here and you’re not going to be judged for it,” he said. “You’re not going to have someone looking down their nose, like: ‘Oh, you’re weak, or you’re vulnerable,’ because we’re not. We just have trouble sometimes with life.”

Tom Hines, AudioActive’s project manager, leads us to a studio where we meet four of Jake’s friends. Olly and Rob are regular ranters, while Ed Hallwood and Jon Clark are AudioActive mentors. Olly and Rob have also been homeless. Rob, clad head to toe in sportswear, is buzzing with restless energy. He rocks from one subject to another: his dramatic weight loss; the occasion he was battered by a police officer, leaving him with a classic boxer’s nose; AudioActive’s amazing equipment. Olly is quiet and still.

Play Video 1:15 Jake Humm explains the importance of the Room to Rant programme to Rag'n'Bone Man – video

Both boys talk about the horrors of hostel life and a welfare system they feel has let them down. “Hostels are shitholes,” Olly says. “I’ve got friends who were really fucked up by them. There are not people looking out for you the way they should be, and there’s drugs everywhere. I’ve had friends kicked out of the same shitty hostels for small reasons without a place to go.” Perhaps the hostels can’t win – after all, Jake felt hard done by when he was evicted for drinking. The one thing the boys seem uneasy talking about is Jake. After they leave, Hines tells us that Jake’s friends haven’t come to terms with his death, that it is still raw.

Hines and his fellow mentors talk about Jake with love, admiration and pain. It feels like a group therapy session. Hines says Jake was like an older brother to the ranters: they listened to him, because he had been through it all. “He was happy to tell young people the dangers of drink and drugs. When I was about to do my job, I’d find he’d jump in and do it for me.”

All three men agree he was the most talented rapper at AudioActive. “It was as if everything else in his week was funnelled into those two hours,” Clark says. “He’d turn up and have three or four new things he’d done. He’d do one and we’d all be gobsmacked, and do the next one and the next one, and it seemed like he was writing every night and this was his forum. This was his place to go and make it happen.”

One of the reasons we couldn’t get funding is we couldn’t measure our impact. Unfortunately, we kind of can now Tom Hines, AudioActive

The word they use again and again is “fierce” – not about Jake, but about his music. Jake didn’t run away from reality, or soften and sanitise, or big himself up in his lyrics. He rapped about addiction, homelessness, mental health, friendship, love. He was political, but not in an ideological way. “He would walk down the high street and analyse all the forces at work,” Clark says.

They knew he was struggling at times – all the young men at Room to Rant were. There was even one occasion when he stood at the door screaming that he was sick of life and wanted out. But moments later, they say, he was smiling, anticipating a big future for himself. After all, he was Resilient J.

Yes, he rapped about feeling desperate, Hines says, but rappers tend to rap in character. “I’ve talked to thousands of rappers, and you can’t just take the lyrics at face value. They’re often stories, they’re often metaphorical. People say all sorts of things about death, and sometimes it’s just the best rhyme for that scheme.” Hines says it is the most difficult part of his job – distinguishing between the rapper in character and the cry for help from the individual.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Jake Humm (left) pictured with Rag’n’Bone Man in 2018 . Photograph: Image supplied by Joules Humm

Hallwood says that, of all the people who attended Room to Rant, Jake was the one he worried about least, because he was so sure he was destined for success. He talks about the last time he saw him – at the final Room to Rant session. “I didn’t have Jake as a Facebook friend, but it didn’t matter, because I had in my mind that next time I see Jake he’s gonna be on a viral YouTube video, or on a poster bill next to his favourite rappers.”

Did anything happen towards the end of his life that may have made him fall off the wagon? The room goes quiet. “This is really important,” Hines says eventually. “We ran out of funding. Room to Rant had to close.” The grant, provided by Brighton and Hove clinical commissioning group, was for £5,000 – enough to run Room to Rant for a year. “One of the reasons we couldn’t get funding is we couldn’t measure our impact,” Hines says. “Unfortunately, we kind of can now, because another young man quickly ended up in jail and Jake lost a support network. There was a real sense of loss there.”

How did Jake feel about Room to Rant ending? “He wasn’t happy about it,” Hines says. “No one was,” adds Clark. “Brighton can be a very difficult city to make real friends,” Hallwood says. “Especially for young people. You can find a lot of people who will happily drink with you, happily snort coke with you. You’ll feel like friends because you’re opening up while on drugs, but very few of them will actually put their hand on your shoulder and go: ‘Are you all right?’” That is why Room to Rant was so special for Jake and the others. “They were together a couple of years,” Hines says. “That’s a long time. When a group of young men really open up in front of each other, it makes them very close.”

In her tiny office in a building called Norman Shaw North, near the Houses of Parliament, Caroline Lucas, the Green party MP for Brighton Pavilion, burns with contained rage. She says Brighton and Hove city council has been devastated by the loss of more than £100m in core government grants since 2010. A report published last November by the housing charity Shelter revealed that Brighton and Hove had the second-highest rate of homelessness in Britain outside London, with 4,317 people registered homeless – one in 67 of the population. In 2017, Brighton and Hove recorded 178 street homeless people, second only to Westminster among England’s local authorities.

It was hardly a surprise that taking housing benefit away from under-21s led to more young people being on the streets Caroline Lucas, MP

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Green Party MP for Brighton Pavilion Caroline Lucas. Photograph: Clodagh Kilcoyne/Reuters

Last year, there was a dramatic fall, to 64. But these figures were controversial – the council admitted it had changed the way it reached its total of street homeless people, and the figures were collated on a snowy November night when many homeless people were thought to have taken refuge indoors. Meanwhile, data published by the Office for National Statistics showed that, between 2013 and 2017, there were an estimated 48 homeless deaths in Brighton – among the 10 highest figures for local authorities in England and Wales.

Lucas believes the homelessness crisis is a shocking but inevitable consequence of government policy. If you refuse to build council homes, sell off the remaining stock and strip young people of housing benefit, she asks, what else can you expect? “It was hardly a surprise that taking housing benefit away from under-21s led to more young people being on the streets. It’s a callous disregard. The government is content to see that as the collateral damage of its economic ideology.”

Lucas is alarmed by the rates of homelessness and suicide in Brighton and is urging the council to hold an inquiry. The problem, she says, is that so much of the data is confidential. Without access to data, it is virtually impossible to find exactly where people have been failed. She has also been distressed by her own impotence. In January 2017, the Greens on the council proposed a 24/7, year-round shelter to ensure that nobody had to sleep on the streets: a simple enough plan with obvious benefits. But they were told it wasn’t possible. “We were told there just wasn’t the money for it,” says Lucas. “We proposed using council-owned buildings, at least to get a temporary roof over people’s heads. But, actually, the more you learn, the more complex it is in the sense that there isn’t a cost-free option, because people have got to be safe, and to make places safe costs money.”

At the inquest into Jake’s death in January 2019, the coroner, Veronica Hamilton-Deeley, considered Jake’s relapse. She heard evidence about the suicide of his friend four months before he died and said it would have reminded him of another suicide (that of his step-sister, years earlier) and led to a rapid downward spiral. “This would have been history repeating itself for him,” said Hamilton-Deeley. “This instability would have played a huge part. It’s very hard to cope with everything and your own struggles when you’re low.” She concluded that he had killed himself, that it was “an impulsive act” and that he “obviously had the support around him”.

Yet his social media posts suggest his suicide was anything but impulsive. He documented his final three weeks in unsparing detail, telling his friends he was back on the booze and this time determined to drink himself to death. Jake seemed to revel in his relapse. He announced it enthusiastically to his Instagram followers on 9 August 2018, with a picture of bottles of Coke and spirits and a Marilyn Monroe CD resting on top of his coffee table, captioned with the hashtags #relapse and #dontdothingsbyhalves. His inner battles spilled out on to his social media timelines, revealing shifts in mood from hope to despair. Five days into his binge, he posted on Facebook a list of all the drink and drugs he had consumed, while expressing confusion at still being alive with a laughing emoji.

Over the next couple of days, the breezy take on his self-destruction was replaced with scathing rebukes of psychiatry and therapy, and a desperate lament for the perceived lack of support he had received. Jake ended the post by saying he hoped the alcohol “puts me in my grave in the next few days”. Days later, Jake seemed to have changed his mind again when he posted a picture of the empty bottles resting on his bed and announced he had sobered up. He even recorded himself pouring a bottle of Jack Daniel’s down a toilet. Now it was all about the future. “Watch this space next 2 years are gonna be a madness, focused an driven be ready when I call on u ... I see something new, I see another way out,” he wrote. This renewed optimism was short-lived, however: he relapsed again four days later.

However anguished they were, these posts often went unliked and uncommented on. He became nostalgic for his childhood. He recalled his days at Saltdean United, including the occasion he almost scored a brilliant overhead kick in a new pair of boots (“Best years of my life so far thank u everyone that was apart of the team and the mums and dads that showed their support even in the pissing down rain”).

On 26 August, he wrote a bleak and tender poem – one that echoes so much of what people have told us about him.

My heart is pure,

My mind distorts

My souls of course,

The systems flawed

I don’t live like society

An abide by the law,

Never believed in

The Lies you bought

Never agreed with how

Schools taught

I see the world for what it is

Now my eyes are so sore

On 29 August, the day Jake killed himself, he talked with friends on his feed about meeting up for a chat and buying a new Panic! At the Disco album, but his desolation was evident. Then he posted this:

Laying on my floor

With a bottle full of brandy ...

I just want to be dead,

Coz I’ve got nothing left

Nothing to hold on to

Everything’s been said

I’ve got a girl in my bed

But I don’t even care

But I do I’m just scared.

By now, he seemed exhausted, terrified and desperately lonely. “All I want is real love. In these days it seems impossible,” he wrote. He asked his father for money in a Facebook post, told him how much he adored him, then hanged himself. Joules was away that day and didn’t see the post.

When the police came to inform Joules of his son’s death, he says he told them why they were there. “For a long time, deep down, it was my deepest, darkest fear. That’s why I knew when they came to the door.” Since that day, Joules has constantly interrogated himself about his role in his son’s suicide. “The hardest thing for me, even now, is to not beat myself up about it,” Joules says, his voice breaking. “You don’t need to,” Hunter says gently. “I like to think, deep down, that I did everything possible,” Joules says. “He did,” Hunter says to us. “But that does not stop me from kicking myself every day,” Joules adds.

Jake’s body was discovered after other residents in the YMCA-run house in which he was living complained of smelly drains. “If you remember last year, we had a heatwave,” Joules says. “And I think the rest is pretty self-explanatory.”

It was Hunter who discovered Jake, after he had been dead for two days. “And there’s my guilt,” she says. She is in tears; it is Joules’s turn to comfort her.

The room in which Jake died is a little more than 200 metres from where we are seated with Joules and Hunter at the bandstand on the beach. We walk up to Bedford Square. It is the first time Joules has visited the building – a Regency townhouse – since Jake died there. Hunter points to the top floor, where Jake’s room was. Joules looks up and breaks down. He walks away, weeping.

Play Video 3:49 Jake Humm raps over a photo montage made by friends for his funeral – video

So many of Jake’s social posts in his final three weeks read like cries for help that went unheard. Yet throughout this time, he was living in semi-independent YMCA accommodation and was seen by Pavilions, the Brighton-based treatment centre for drug and alcohol abuse. Jake’s care co-ordinator at Pavilions, Paula Hinks, told the inquest that, during an appointment in August last year, he had said he was enjoying drinking and had no intention of giving up.

We ask Pavilions if it was also aware of his suicidal thoughts, whether it shared information about his relapse with support staff at the YMCA and whether it considered sectioning Jake under the Mental Health Act. Pavilions tells us it does not share any information regarding the treatment and care of its service users because it is confidential.

Hunter’s concern and affection for Jake could not be more apparent. Yet there is still a question mark about whether the YMCA did all it could do to protect him from himself when he was at his most vulnerable. Was Bedford Square sufficiently staffed to monitor Jake’s fatal three-week binge?

Shortly after meeting Joules and Hunter, we receive an email from the YMCA DownsLink Group saying it would like to help in any way possible. We ask how many staff work at Bedford Square and whether they are residential. But the return email is surprisingly unhelpful. “My understanding is that the article is about Jake’s story and we want to keep it focused on him, therefore we don’t think the questions regarding our staffing and services etc are necessary,” says a manager at the YMCA DownsLink Group.

We ask the YMCA whether it knew that Jake was drinking and suicidal. “We were aware that Jake had started using alcohol again in the weeks before his death,” the YMCA tells us. “Staff were supporting him to access specialist mental health and substance misuse services. Jake also expressed suicidal thoughts and we therefore agreed a ‘safe plan’ with him on 17 August.” When we ask what Jake’s safe plan involved, the YMCA does not respond. It does, though, quote the coroner’s findings that Jake “obviously had the support around him”.

When Jake committed to things, he gave 150%, including his death. He meant what he did, as hard as that is to say Joules Humm

The YMCA describes itself as “the largest provider of safe, supported accommodation for young people in England and Wales”, offering more than 9,100 beds, “which includes everything from emergency accommodation through to supported longer-term housing and youth hostels”. Although the YMCA is regulated by the Charity Commission and the Regulator of Social Housing, much of the support offered in its accommodation is unregulated. The semi-independent home in Bedford Square, where Jake died, is self-regulating because it provides support rather than “personal care”. This means that its support is neither monitored by the Care Quality Commission nor Ofsted, despite the fact that residents may be as young as 16.

We ask Brighton and Hove city council if it is considering an inquiry into Jake’s death. The council quotes the coroner’s verdict, saying: “We do not see any basis for conducting a further inquiry into these circumstances. We had no involvement in the care he received from the YMCA DownsLink Group in the period leading up to his death, and have no comment to make on it.”

Homeless deaths: share your tributes Read more

However, the YMCA tells us it conducted an internal review after Jake’s death. We ask if the review considered whether the YMCA should have had Jake sectioned or moved into supported accommodation, whether they had seen Jake enough in the weeks leading up to his death and whether it was satisfactory that he had been left for at least two days despite being a known suicide risk. The YMCA did not answer these questions, but it did say: “Our review concluded that there were no errors or omissions in the service we provided, despite the sad outcome. However, we did identify some changes we could make, such as, for example, introducing a ligature risk assessment whereby potential ligature points could be identified and promptly removed if a resident was deemed to be at risk of suicide or self-harm.”

For Caroline Lucas, self-regulation is simply not good enough. “Whenever you’ve got institutions that are unregulated, then you’re putting people at risk, because mistakes happen. Interventions should have happened and they didn’t, and risk factors should have been recognised and they weren’t.”

It has been just over a year since Jake’s death. At AudioActive, they are continuing to feel the fallout. The project manager, Tom Hines, says his job has changed – much of it now is about safeguarding. He worries that he is nannying too many of the youngsters he works with. “It’s made my life a bit harder – I probably bother kids more than I should do.” One piece of good news is that they have managed to find the funds to relaunch Room to Rant, partly through donations made at Jake’s funeral, including £500 from Rag’n’Bone Man.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Jake with a catch from one of the fishing trips he and Joules enjoyed together. Photograph: Provided by the Humm Family

As for Joules, he seems to be in a more profound state of shock than he was when we first met him three months ago. Recently, he had to talk one of Jake’s friends out of killing himself. Over the past week, he says two more young people have died through suicide in Brighton. Both of them knew Jake. He still believes that, ultimately, his son was determined to kill himself. “When Jake committed to things, he gave 150%, including his death. He meant what he did, as hard as that is to say.”

He says he misses his son so much, and a day doesn’t pass without a what-if. Often, when he is out fishing on the lake by himself, he will tear into Jake for his stupidity, for leaving him in the lurch. “I swear at him a lot,” Joules says. “I’m not angry with him. I’ll be sitting there thinking about things we did, and it just hits you, and I’ll be like: ‘Yeah, you little bastard, we won’t be doing that again, will we?’”

Nowadays, he says, it feels as if he has got an extended family – father to none and father to all. So many of Jake’s friends turn to him for advice, but he is in no state to carry their load. He has got enough baggage of his own. “To be honest, I’m struggling,” he says.

In the UK and Ireland, Samaritans can be contacted on 116 123 or by emailing jo@samaritans.org or jo@samaritans.ie. In the US, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 1-800-273-8255. In Australia, the crisis support service Lifeline is 13 11 14. Other international suicide helplines can be found at befrienders.org

If you are worried about becoming homeless, contact the housing department of your local authority to fill in a homeless application. You can use the gov.uk website to find your local council

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