Tag: hidden homelessness

Decade Challenge, AKA Still Homesick

On By The Homesick HomecomerLeave a comment

Yesterday, I found a picture of Gomez and me.

Someone took that picture a decade plus a few weeks ago at my boss’s Christmas party in 2009. We were smiling and hopeful. We were secure.

I was still an accountant.

It was a snapshot of life before.

Before Gomez’s immune system started to eat his joints, and before the million dollar pancreas incident; when we were able to afford whatever it would take to get him well because “medical care or groceries” wasn’t a choice we’d ever had to make.

Before Gomez got a second master’s degree; when Elroy still had a college fund.

Before one bad career decision made in good faith snowballed into 100 more bad decisions – each one with a worse outcome than the one before it.

Before my dad passed away.

Before we gave up the life and home we had made for ourselves because we trusted people when they gave us their word.

Before our spirits were bruised because we spent a year without a home of our own. When being “homeless” was an abstraction instead of something we had actually experienced.

Before I had ever experienced betrayal or carried around the leaden weight of grief; when I was able to tend to my mental health because I could afford to do it. When an appointment didn’t mean taking a half a day off work and trying to line up a driver for the hour-and-a-half trip because I was still able to drive and the therapist’s office was five minutes from my job.

When “back home” was a day trip destination instead of actually “home.”

Before epilepsy.

When “Everything will work out. It always does” was something I believed with all of my heart; when that phrase gave me enough hope to make it through the occasional rough day. Before it became a mantra that Gomez and I use daily when we discuss situations that we don’t have any real solutions for.

The 2010s simply broke me, but I keep scanning the horizon for brighter skies.

Overwhelmed and Wallering

On By The Homesick HomecomerLeave a comment

I have cried more in the past week than I have in the past decade and a half.

We spent a solid month tearing down wallpaper, scrubbing and sanding walls/trim/baseboards/door and window facings, tearing out carpet, painting (and painting and more painting), hauling boxes, and dealing with several expected-but-still-unexpected hiccups that come along with buying a house that was vacant for at least a year.  The work was exhausting. The “discoveries” were sometimes exciting and sometimes stressful. My evenings ended the same way my mornings began – with a dose of ibuprofen. There were nights when my hands ached so badly from the day’s tasks that I woke myself up crying. One afternoon, I had a panic attack about hot dogs. There were moments when I vowed we would never be able to move because we’d never get the house ready. And I definitely cried a little, but there was always some new task to focus my attention on, so the tears waited and multiplied.
I taught myself how to cut quarter round trim. Gomez and I learned how to use a pneumatic brad nailer. When he wasn’t busy making new friends, Elroy learned how to rip out carpet.
And then, one day, we realized we had done all we needed to do, that any work we haven’t finished yet can wait until evenings or weekends or snow days or school breaks. It was time to move.
The overwhelmed feeling and wallering punched me in the guts on our first night here. For the first time in a year, we ate supper off of our own plates and drank from our own cups. For the first time in a year, I was able to store all of my clothes in my own dresser, instead of in plastic, shoebox-sized totes. For the first time in a year, Elroy had his own room with his own furniture. For the first time in a year, we showered in our own shower. And as those realizations came into focus, I started to waller.
I wallered in gratitude, and I cried happy, thankful tears.
I am so grateful for the generosity that has been shown to me and mine. I’m grateful for the person who offered to let us park our camper on her land. I’m grateful for everyone who kept an eye out for homes for us. I’m grateful for everyone who checked in on us. I’m grateful for people who loaned us tools. I’m grateful for those who offered to come help work on the house. I’m grateful for those who offered to help us move, and for those who spent a hot Saturday morning carrying, loading, and unloading furniture. I’m grateful for our plumber/electrician who helped me and Gomez by doing jobs that we were out of our depth on. I’m grateful for our our neighbors’ warmth. I am grateful for every kindness that has been shown to us throughout this process.
Most of all, though, I am especially grateful for Gomez. Gomez stuck with me and saw me through the worst year of my life, even though he was having a tough year, too. He let me be sad when I couldn’t be anything else, listened to me when I needed to rage or complain about this or that, and stepped in and picked up the slack I wasn’t able to carry. He listened patiently and without judgment as I tried to process all of the upheaval I was feeling. He worked alongside me and indulged my crazy paint color ideas. He didn’t get angry with me when I threatened to poke his eye out with a yard stake. I am forever grateful for the stability and consistency that Gomez brings to my life.
I’m grateful for having our own space to spend time together in. This afternoon, Elroy told me and Gomez that his favorite time in the new house is the time we spend together in the family room after dinner. That’s my favorite time, too.

Backstory

On By The Homesick HomecomerLeave a comment

18 years ago, just a few weeks shy of my 21st birthday, I loaded what little furniture and few belongings I had into a moving truck and ran away from my hometown. I got married. I graduated from college. My husband and I bought a house and had a son. Last summer, we took the opportunity to move back to my hometown, a decision that kicked off a chain of highs and lows, warmth and isolation, contentedness and uncertainty.

This year has been, without a doubt, the most difficult year of my life. The highs have been mild, feeling like gentle knolls, while the lows feel like being at the bottom off a quicksand-filled canyon.

We have found ourselves (I’m in my late 30’s and my husband is in his early 40’s) completely starting over, except this time, we are starting over with an 11-year-old son. That raises the stakes quite a bit for us. Starting completely over was not part of our plan when we decided to move. I have spent most of our time here scared and ashamed while facing the realization that moving might turn out to be the worst mistake we have ever made.

We’ve spent the last year as a part of the nation’s “hidden homeless” population. We aren’t living in the street, but we don’t have secure housing of our own. This is due to myriad factors, but the current (read – nonexistent) real estate market in our little town has made it extremely difficult for us to find suitable housing that we can afford on teachers’ salaries. For me, almost all of the lows stem from not having a home to retreat to at the end of a difficult day at work. As an introvert, time alone is what resets my brain, but not having a home of our own means not having anywhere to be alone.

The highs are subtle, but somehow they’re enough to help me make it through the lows. The sunrises here can be breathtaking. The thunderstorms are spectacular if they don’t scare you into hiding in the basement. My husband and son are happily exploring the local fishing scene, and the fishing is good. The sense of community and the kindness of relative strangers have brought tears to my eyes more than once. Every now and then, I hear proof that a hint of my native, Appalachian accent has crept into my son’s own dialect.

And still, I feel lost and homesick for our old life in our old home.