"...Houseless"

Today is my 14th anniversary of becoming Houseless. My wandering year. I could have prevented it but severe depression and not wanting to trouble loved ones sealed the deal. Many would have helped but they didn't know for most of that year. Perhaps like my brother's war experience this was something that had to happen. To force me to face hard realities. To finally be brave enough to live in this kind of world and function compassionately in it.

I lived this and survived. One finds that even on the street there are classes of suffering. I fell in among the still employed. I'm a performer indeed was still acting. So I performed the part of myself. No one for a long time realized what was happening.

I remember being cold and wet. To this day sudden movements sharp noises bright lights cause shudders. That, and you're always tired. You can't lay down no deep sleep. It's just too dangerous...crazies or cops. You squat in what space you can and cat nap. Old friends to whom I confided what happened let me shower, and sleep in the safety of their home. This every few weekends so I could keep some shreds of dignity.

We carried all we still owned with us. Those wheeled airport suitcases. I still have mine, two of them, in case I need them again. That's a common fear with Houseless Survivors ...we might have to go back out. This is why I never bought furniture or large heavy possessions.

My sister bless her. She got me my bedroom and dining room sets. She also hooked me up with TV cable, and such. For a time I was too fearful to get anything for myself. I was waiting and preparing for the next round. Though it's many years now I'm still preparing. Like my brother's war. Every night he went there. As I still dream the streets.

Eventually my sister and friends found out. One night I dosed behind a loading dock on Fulton Street. The next my dear sister Sylvia put me up in the Raddison across from the Waldorf Astoria. A Nigerian friend said such could only happen in the States. I imagine so.

Coming from the outside is like returning from an unpopular war. Nobody wants to hear from you. Most people became impatient. I even had second thoughts about posting any of this here. I sought counseling because I needed badly to speak about what had happened. However, I could find none.

Then I saw the truth of it. There were services for the Homeless, and those in danger of falling into it. However, the City, and State had 'no' budget for the few that return. They never expected any number of people to come back. The bureaucracy basically expected most if not all of us to stay that way. Even die that way. Those few that 'did' return were statistically invisible.

We are Invisible. We go about our lives now saying little or nothing about what for us was the most catastrophic event in our lives. Like our unwanted war veterans, we never speak of what we saw, and what we did to survive. Nothing more to say.