Mental Health Week: I’m 54, Educated, and Homeless

I am embarrassed by the fact that I am homeless.

I never wanted it to be this way but technically I don’t have a place to live. I do have a fixed address, with an extremely abusive, octogenarian woman whom I call “Mom”. I pay rent. I get yelled at for no reason. I try an spend as much time as I can away from home. Sometimes I cry because I have no privacy here. My door is a sheet hung over an open frame and I get yelled at through that anyhow. Right now I am typing this at a coffee shop. On days I can’t afford coffee, I go to the library and type.

I receive money from the government because I am disabled. The last time I saw a diagnosis, it was “Complex PTSD and Severe Neglect.” I am a neglected 54 year old. I fill my days with appointments, writing, performing and AA meetings. I want to work. The last time I tried to go to a job, I was crying at my desk by mid morning. That was the second last job at which I worked.

I quit that job.

I perform doing stand up comedy from time to time. On stage is one of the few places I feel real. Where I feel safe. Where I can function and where I am not afraid.

I write. I wrote a short story that I am very proud of. It won several awards and was published. I wrote a short play. I have a small amount of money and I function well.

Just not enough money to afford rent.

I am doing better because of therapy. I see a therapist weekly and I go to a group bi-weekly. I don’t treat my C-PTSD with alcohol any more. I am doing better. Much better.

I can’t afford to move. I look for places on a regular basis.

A few years ago, I lived in “affordable housing” with roommates. It was geared to income housing. I had my own room and it was nice. Then a using Heroin addict moved into the house. One day, I saw him outside my third floor window, looking in at me. He had actually climbed the house. I didn’t feel safe. I reported this and was told they could do nothing. Another morning I woke up and went to the bathroom and there was blood spray all over the walls and ceiling. I reported that and was told again that they could do nothing. A few months later another roommate killed himself. I ran away to where I live now with my mom.

The cheapest apartments I see cost a minimum of nine hundred dollars a month, which is way beyond my budget. I have messaged people about shared roommate situations (as you can imagine I am jumpy about those) and have gotten no reply. I am on the wait list for ‘affordable housing’. The waiting list for that is ten years minimum. I am in year two.

I just want a secure, safe place to live.