Solitude is a habit with me, a byproduct of anxiety and distrust that I haven’t really figured out how to get rid of. Since high school, I’ve used the internet as an adaptive tool to help me manage my isolation, but now that I’m in my early thirties, it isn’t as effective as it used to be. The friends who were once available on chat for hours and hours over the course of the day have differently structured lives than when they were finishing up their degrees and looking for full-time work—whereas I’m working from home, still sitting in front of the computer for eighteen hours a day, still just as available as I always was. I used to harangue myself into at least taking my laptop to coffee shops, but since my car got stolen and my damaged tendon started severely limiting the distance I can walk in a day, my already narrow world has shrunk considerably.
“Homeless people are not animals! Also, feed the damned animals, what is wrong with you?!”
I’ve decided not to write about my epic saga of homelessness or related adventures anymore, or at least not for a little while. While my finances are still terribly precarious, and my PTSD is still quite T, I am a much happier and healthier person than I was when I started this blog a year ago.
It’s easy to get stuck in past traumas. Hyper-vigilant people don’t necessarily stop hyper-vigilating just because they’ve reached safe harbor. Sometimes you have to locate your own off-switch and firmly instruct your brain that it’s time to think about other stuff now.
This is me, doing that. Or fixin’ to do it, as they say in Raleigh.
Before I leave the topic behind entirely, there are a handful of sentiments about homelessness that I need to get off my chest. These are things that I learned while I was homeless, the stuff that surprised me or took me off guard. Stuff that I wished folks understood about people like me, and stuff I wish my friends understood about the homeless people I encounter now.
Since the last time I updated here, I’ve moved to a new apartment.
Like all the moves I’ve made in the last year, it was in no way planned. Back in July, I took an upstairs room in a house owned by a woman three years younger than me, purchased for her by her parents. She lived in the basement apartment and rented out the three upstairs bedrooms. The ground floor was a shared space, containing the kitchen, living room, dining room, and access to the back deck.
The dollhouse I made a year ago to memorialize my many issues with housing.