I swore, at some point, never to be homeless again. I've been homeless twice - not the kind everyone thinks of, sleeping on a park bench, but homeless nonetheless. I couch-surfed or slept on people's floors. I was blessed to have a network of people to stay with and a car, but having no permanent address or key is still very difficult, more than just logistically. I've written a little about this before, once in a list of bad days before the very worst day, and then the second worst day, happened.
We thought once Rebecca became a doctor that we were safe. And then something happened recently that brought back the fear of coming loose, possessions in once place, us in another, and I realized there is never a guarantee that you won't become homeless, no matter how hard you try (unless, maybe, you are the 1%?). A large percentage of Americans are one missed paycheck away from homelessness. We're better off than that now, but recently, we had a roof leak that lead to my closet molding. At first, it was just inconvenient, but Rebecca and I both have mold allergies and knew that it was probably a matter of time before we started reacting. I diligently informed the maintenance about this, about every other day for a week, until I woke up Saturday completely congested.
And having sneezing fits - debilitating ones. I spent the day exhausted, but didn't really put it together until Rebecca got home and started up too. We're allergic to our bedroom.
I called maintenance, again, to let them know, and called them again the next morning. No one was helpful, and no one came (it had been more than a week since the initial leak). One of them pointed out that if it was unsafe, we shouldn't go home to our apartment and should inform the office that we are withholding rent until the issue is resolved (he probably shouldn't have done that, but it wasn't an actual option since the cats were still there anyway).
And I sat down on the floor of the church multi-purpose room, where I had stepped to take the call, and sobbed, quietly. And thought of all of the things I would have to do - find a spot for the cats, figure out how to pack clothes out of a closet that kept me from breathing, stop the mail, contact the health department, figure out what to do with the contents of the refrigerator, start making calls to find out who had space for one or two more people, let my employer know not to mail any materials to me . . . I thought about the fact that I had no idea how long the homelessness would last this time, that I didn't want to move to a new apartment now just to move to our house in a few months, that I didn't know if I would ever feel safe in this apartment again now that we know that the leasing office doesn't care about us.
Some would say this is an overreaction. Those people haven't been in this situation. They haven't been homeless. They don't know that planning ahead and orchestrating everything might be the one way to end up with a home again after and all of your things still intact, if it's possible at all. They may not know what it is like to listen to an authority figure say one thing and know that it actually means that your health, your life aren't worth urgency, aren't worth a rush order, aren't even worth a phone call.
And readers, I know you think that I'm strong. Many of you have told me I'm brave. But you didn't see me crumpled into a puddle of tears on that church floor, trying to decide whether to go home or not. You didn't see me yell at the leasing office staff because I was so frustrated that a severe allergic reaction wasn't considered an emergency. I was less kind than I want to be. I extended less grace than I hope to.
Someone came today and sprayed the mold with bleach. I don't know if it will help, but I hope it will. It doesn't change the feeling that we don't belong in this building, and it's time to stop renting. I know that owning a home is difficult, and owning a historic home in need of TLC is more so, but at least it will be my decision when to call a mold abatement crew and which one. And we will also have more space to shift things into or other places to stay if one room is impacted.
And maybe that is where I am finding some of the joy of almost being a homeowner: in that it will be much harder to evict me, in that it will be harder for someone in charge to tell me I don't matter, in that I can then extend a welcome to others who are in a messy living situation.
Because we all have messes people don't see, and sometimes we don't ask for or receive help before they get worse.
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